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Chapter Text

The sun was 'setting' on a dismal grey day. Presumably setting at least, an onlooker might think, because far in the west, a marginally brighter spot low on the cloud covered horizon marked the only indicator that the night had not yet officially fallen. The dull ashen light barely showed a long train of wagons and footsore dwarves walking through the scrubby bushes and tall grass on the eaves of the Greenwood.

"D'you think they know we're coming? The miners?" Bulfi whispered to the king, his voice pitched low. The last thing they needed was to give the group any new worries. The warriors on the outside of the group were already wary from repeated orc attacks, and what they would find when they arrived... remained to be seen. The old advisor worried about everything, but Thrain thought he wasn't wrong in this. Not at all. He thanked Mahal every day that the old dwarf had made it out. Just the thought of surviving without him sent a chill up his spine.

"I sent a raven," the king said, repeating his answer to the question he had given easily a dozen times before. "Surely it got through..." Bulfi's grim face reflected his own. They had no word in response. Mahal's own fires, the king thought sourly, what am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do?

"Well, I suppose we'll see soon enough," was Bulfi's response. He glanced around at the distant, brassy cries of a tiny pebble, furious at, well, everything. The state of the world. I can't blame you, child, Thrain thought. I feel the same, the very same. He only hoped the sound didn't set the other children crying; such a noise would be like catnip to the orcs that occasionally hunted these lands from the Grey Mountains to the north.

They had been on the road for weeks from the ruin of Khazad-Dûm. No time to gather more than the bare necessities; pure luck they had any more than the clothes on their backs, really. Thrain's father had run into the depths to face that... thing... that had killed his grandfather. Needless to say, and to the shock of no-one, he had not returned. Thrain himself had taken the sensible route, though it made him heartsick. Instead of going with his father into a heroic death, he chose pragmatism. He rallied what dwarves he could find on the first deep, soldiers, civilians, everyone in the great city he passed. He put people to work to amass what food and materiel could be gathered, arm and call up the soldiers on duty, and arrange their hurried departure. Departure. He snorted in miserable amusement, making Bulfi glance over before turning his gaze back to his own sore feet. Flight, more like. Rout, if he was honest. Right now he was too tired and heartsick to feel shame, but he knew he would one day.

The distant mountain loomed on the horizon as it had the previous day, and the day before that. It thrust up from the land below like a fist; mirroring the fury and rebellion against the recent events in Thrain's own heart. Imaginings of revenge and such impossibilities aside, though, they had to arrive before they could plan anything. Even dwarves could only move so fast.

Despite being the king he'd already given up his own seat on the royal wagon to a pregnant dam. He was far too young to be king, but that was his title, despite feeling regal as the muck beneath the wheels of the wagons. Old Bulfi had made the same gesture, though Thrain wished he hadn't. Children were the most important, yes, but without his advisor's guidance he would be so lost he might make an even worse muddle than he had. Mahal grant that the dams bear safely once they reached refuge; it was hard enough for their women to bear when home and safe, and this... Mahal grant that they even survived.

Thrain was a dwarf surviving on hope. He hoped that the mining colony was still there, ahead in the distant mountain lingering on the horizon. He hoped that they wouldn't think this was an attacking host. He hoped that the elves of that bloody great forest wouldn't take exception to the tattered remnants of three of the great clans of the dwarves staggering past their doorstep. Most of all, he hoped that the mountain ahead was a place of safety. Erebor, the elves called it. The mountain ahead was all they had left.

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Thorin had never paid much mind to sunlight. He certainly wasn't like one of the deep-downers, where they started spewing and staggering in the sun. Unless things were very bright indeed he only had to squint a bit when outside. A childhood spent hunting and roaming made sure of that. Still, like all his kin, he wasn't that fond of the sun; it was too bright outside, the sky too high, the colors too gaudy for dwarves who were born of the grey stone and dark places in the mountain depths. In spite of all that... Thorin had to admit he had never been anywhere in his long life of traveling where the sunlight looked like it did in the Shire.

The Shire's version of sunlight seemed almost a thick, honeyish liquid; it oozed and pooled itself around everything it fell upon, giving a lustrous glow to even the most commonplace items and scenes. Despite the fair amount of time he had lived here by now it was always surprising. He would walk to work in the morning towards the smithy and the fog would rise from Hobbiton's gravel roads, the dew would shimmer on the absurdly lush grass to either side, and he would feel as though he were lost in some strange storyland. The sun would cause the hanging mists to shimmer golden, reminding him of his childhood as a tiny pebble in Erebor, transfixed by the sight of the great lamps hung behind the waterfall on the third deep glowing through the spray.

In the late afternoons he would close the forge and walk home. The Hill would be awash in rivers of sunlight, with each passing bee and butterfly limned lovingly with rich light against the absurdly bright palette of colors, and even the customary squint could not hide the beauty of the sun-kissed Shire. The giant pin-oak atop the Hill would shiver in the gentle breeze, its leaves rustling and seeming to flow like a green river in the light of the sun. The whole Hill seemed cloaked in gold.

The best light was ahead, though, when he came inside into the welcome dimness of the smial. He admired the sunlight; aesthetically, he had to admit it was beautiful, even though as a dwarf it wasn't made for his kind nor their tastes. Once he was out of the brightness of the day, though, he could see the real treasure. The light of the smile that waited for him here - that was truly blinding. His eyes took it in even as his heart had to squint at the brightness of it, even as his soul rejoiced. This was a treasure made only for him. Truly, the light of the Shire was like nowhere else.

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Bilbo held his arms out so that the two attendants (whose names he could barely remember) could drape yet another garment over him. He should be excited, he knew; his wedding day should always be a time of joy. He found himself instead awash in melancholy. There was the expected part, of course - he had no parents to celebrate this moment with. One of the many regrets he had as he interred them was that they would never see him marry, never meet his husband (if husband there was to be... or wife, who knew?), never meet the people and family who would one day be so close to him. Not, he remonstrated with himself, that he had ever expected to marry, but even so. Even so.

No, this melancholy was only partly that. Much of it was also that this day would be so different than anything he had imagined. All hobbits of a certain social class looked forward to their wedding with a strong set of expectations; Bilbo (for all he had prided himself for years as a free thinker) was discovering day by day just how much he himself had shared these same expectations. Needless to say, almost none of them were being met. There were no flowers here; no bouquets had been prepared, no wreaths and bunting hung, no grandstand built beneath the giant tree that saw the festivals of the whole Westfarthing beneath it's heavy boughs. Here there was only lamp-lit stone, drafty hallways, bright metal, shining jewels, and cloth. Acres and acres and acres of bloody cloth... most of it apparently intended to be worn on his person. Bilbo tried to maintain a stoic face, but sourly reflected that when the two were done dressing him that he would be no more than a traveling hillock of fabric, gems, and precious metals, with only eyes, ears, and feet to show the hobbit hidden within!

Strangest of all was the date. Bilbo was keen to marry Thorin, and had been for months; that was never the problem. The issue was that the date was not only entirely unhobbitish, but also an unpleasant reminder that he wasn't simply marrying Thorin the astonishingly attractive and (mostly) charming dwarf, he was marrying Thorin II Oakenshield, unquestioned King Under the Mountain, Lord of the Longbeard, Broadbeam, and Firebeard clans of the dwarves. Marrying a king came with tradition, and if the dwarves had nothing else, my goodness did they have tradition. Every garment he was being practically entombed in had a meaning, explained to him at great length; every piece of jewelry - and here they came with what looked like half the treasury, sweet Lady of Leaves preserve us - was meant to symbolize something or other. Most traditional of all, however, was the date. All royal marriages had been, were, and would forevermore be (must be!) on Durin's Day, the final moon of Autumn. It was the only possible day for a King to marry.

No hobbit would ever marry at such a time.

Marriages were done in the Shire from the vernal equinox to the summer solstice for young couples, though in the past few hundred years marriages from the summer solstice until the weeks before the fall equinox - 'harvest marriages' as they were known - were considered acceptable for 'mature' or second marriages, and Bilbo was undoubtedly in the first category, though not the latter. A harvest wedding would have been fine. Just before winter, though? When nothing grew? When the harvest had been fully gathered in and the earth was cold and unfruitful? The worst possible omen for a marriage, really. Tongues would be wagging all over the Shire. That same Shire which Bilbo had to remind himself was half a world away, which would likely never hear of his marriage nor care if they did, and which was full of people who undoubtedly thought him mad as a sheep with five legs already. Despite all this - and he acknowledged all of it - some things took a great deal of looking past.

Still... still. Thoughts of Thorin made him smile in spite of himself, provoking a hum of satisfaction from the attendants who clearly suspected where his thoughts had wandered. He had explained his concerns months ago, in the height of summer, and Thorin had understood. Seemed to do so, anyway. Of course he was helpless to change it, the dwarf had explained, and Bilbo had believed him. He'd seen for himself what happened when tradition was even bent, let alone broken, and a dwarven meltdown wasn't pretty. He knew it wasn't as though Bilbo and his culture were being dismissed exactly, no matter how much his petty side would like to claim such; it was just very, very difficult to argue with ten thousand years of custom. And heavy, Bilbo snorted as he shifted from foot to foot to try and balance the massive gold chain being draped over one shoulder with the unfamiliar weight of the consort's tiara around his brow. Afterwards in that discussion, though, when Thorin had wrapped him in his arms and whispered "what can be done to avert such an ill omen?", well, that was a quite pleasant memory, and work had already begun on the garden he had been promised in turn.

Best of all, at the end of it, he would be married to Thorin. When Thorin had initially proposed from a bed Bilbo had feared he might never arise from, Bilbo's response was 'I would marry you in a pig wallow and live among the briars if it could be with you'. He had meant it. He still did. And there would be feasting, at least, and revelry. Sighing again, he took a tentative step forward, balancing the enormous load as best he could. Manageable, he supposed. Alright, Bilbo, he thought, eyeing Dori and Balin in their fancy armor, come to collect him. Let's go get married.

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Bilbo stared down into the box, completely at a loss for words. "Well?" came Dis' growling voice from where she stood, shifting from foot to foot. "Will it do?" Thorin stood nearby, glaring at her, at Bilbo, and seemingly at the world in general.

"Do?" the hobbit replied faintly. In the velvet-lined box lay a crown, and oh, such a crown! It was based around the angular designs so beloved by the dwarves, short bladed walls rising about the central space and enameled the same green as the granite of Erebor. Simple enough, though the gold showed through in both decorative lines and seams like gold veins. Shocking in a dwarven crown, though, was the flowers. Wrapping around the base, as though growing on a vine or braided into a wreath, were flowers. Exactly the same ones a hobbit might choose, at that.

As if in a daze, Bilbo touched each of them in turn... hyacinth and oak, speaking of majesty and rank, the gladiolus of strength next to the rosemary of wisdom. Each flower was made in such a way Bilbo was afraid to touch it, fearing to damage the delicate petals. Each time his fingers met cold enameled metal was a slight surprise. Turning it round to the back, Bilbo spotted a red rose beside an acorn, and just like that he was teary.

"Give it back," Thorin said shortly. "He hates it. He's crying, Dis; what have you done?" It was all Bilbo could do to shake his head vehemently, swallowing the thickness in his throat so he could speak.

"It's... beautiful," Bilbo choked out, "I love it." Dis scowled and whirled on Thorin, smacking him in the shoulder, though the hobbit could see the flush on her face. "It's a masterwork. I see why Thorin wanted you to make it, and it will be an honor to wear it, Dis, really."

"Think nothing of it," she grumped, still glaring at Thorin, but the flush on her cheeks grew stronger. "All know my brother is handy with a hammer, but he's useless with a burin and jeweler's tools." By this point Bilbo was learning the social rules of dwarven interaction, so he knew better than to offer any form of direct trade.

Face like a thundercloud, Thorin bustled forward. "Don't feel you need to save her feelings," he muttered. "If you don't like it..."

"Oh Thorin, don't be ridiculous," Bilbo sighed. "It's magnificent and you know it." He didn't mind a bit of jealousy from his husband; dwarves were known for it. But this was his bloody sister! Speaking of dwarven ways, time to test his knowledge of social protocols. "I'll cherish it, and I'm in your debt." With that, the matter was closed according to the dwarves. Later, when Bilbo happened to mention "Dis... I just realized, you never told me what your favorite foods were!" both dwarves seemed to take it as a normal topic of hobbity conversation. Soon she would find out the benefits of a grateful hobbit.

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"What am I supposed to see?" Legolas peered curiously into the dark water, wondering idly what made the lake so dark. It wasn't peat, not this far up, nor were there trees to drop leaves into it.

"Well, I don't know if you'll see anything," Gimli admitted. "But this is where Durin looked into the waters and saw the crown of stars. It's said that he..." Legolas peered closer, seeing something shimmering in the water. Suddenly, as if snapping into focus, he saw their two silhouettes - Gimli standing sturdy and straight as always, his own bent form peering into the water. Stars ringed Gimli's head like a coronet shining in the deep. With a sudden flash of starlight, scenes poured pell-mell through his mind; walls, unfamiliar rooms, Gimli as an ancient dwarf with a circlet and yet young and hale, flashes of faces known and unknown, and suddenly, looming up like a mountain, a dwarf larger than any dwarf ought to be staring right at him and... laughing? With an almost physical snapping sensation, he fell backwards onto his behind. "Wha' the hell are ye doin'?" Gimli demanded, whirling to help him up. His accent always got stronger when he was upset, the elf knew.

"I saw..." he began, then stopped. "I don't know what I saw."

"Did ye no see stars?" Gimli demanded. "I saw them clear as day, Durin's crown, but I dinnae expect ye to go flingin' backwards like tha'!" Effortlessly levering the elf upright with one tree-thick arm, he peered at him closely. "What did ye see? If it's not some great Elvish secret, o' course," he grinned impishly. The teasing, familiar and welcome, brought Legolas firmly back to reality.

"It was... I saw a great deal," he said slowly, looking briefly aside and blushing slightly as Gimli dusted off the elf's dusty backside for him. Some familiarities were still as yet unfamiliar... though unfamiliar did not mean unwelcome. "I saw you as an old dwarf, very old," he said, trying to pick through the rush of half-seen images. "And yet you were young, maybe younger than now, at the same time?" A snort of disbelief was his reward for this statement. Typical, Legolas supposed; he might have responded the same. "Places... so very many places, rooms and palaces and halls, some dwarven and some elven, none I'd seen before. In the end I saw... I saw..." His mind shied away from the titanic laughing form, blazing with power. "I think I may have seen Aulë?" There had been a very real sense that Aulë had seen him in return, but his mind shied away from that thought and what it implied.

"You... you saw Mahal?!" Gimli demanded, aghast. "From lookin' in Kheled-Zaram?!"

"I... maybe? He was... laughing," Legolas said. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was. "But mostly it was you in all those places... with me." He was no Galadriel, to know the mysteries of Lorien or Irmo. He wasn't entirely comfortable having a vision of, well, anything really. Gimli interrupted his musing with a touch.

"Aye?" Gimli said softly, reaching out one massive hand to draw him closer. "I suppose He would be laughin', to see such a giant tree of an elf a-peerin' at Him through His own lake." Gimli grinned, then his smile turned softer. "Well... good to know we'll na' be apart."

"No," Legolas responded, setting aside his concerns and tracing the new braid in his hair with a smile of his own. Long fingers toyed with the bead at the end, drawing Gimli's eyes. "My heart feels we never will." No matter where the future took them - and if the stars of Durin were true guides, they would wander far indeed - they were together. At the end of the day, that was the part that mattered.

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(Author's Note: this is a companion piece to tomorrow's, Family)

Thorin glanced over at Bilbo where he stood chopping vegetables. "You mentioned your mother earlier," he said gently, still remembering the look that had crossed Bilbo's face. "You've mentioned her before. I assume you two were... quite close."

Bilbo glanced up, knife suddenly silent. A flash of surprise went across his face, seeming almost hurt, before he smiled. Thankfully it was a soft smile, as Thorin was beginning to feel as though he had overstepped. "Yes," the hobbit murmured, "you might say that."

"I'd be honored to hear about her if... you wish to speak." Thorin hated how awkward he felt at times like these. He could address an army with absolute confidence, but somehow speaking with a person about things like this... it was different in some indefinable yet horrible way. "Or we could speak of something else," he heard his mouth continue without him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at himself.

Bilbo's chuckle was very, very welcome, although his first statement made Thorin draw back in shock. "She would have loved you," Bilbo said, eyes twinkling. "She loved everything new and different and unfamiliar, most especially other cultures and other perspectives. She would have been so fascinated at the idea that you were a king, and even more that you were a dwarf, with a language and a culture and a history that she'd never been told about." A wistful look crossed his face. "She was so strong, my mum."

"Ah," Thorin replied, nodding. "So that's where you get all that from." Bilbo laughed out loud at this, flinging a scrap of potato at him and making him duck and laugh. "Ghivashel, it sounds like you."

"I wish I were more like her," Bilbo admitted, face a bit sad. "I've had to rediscover what any of that was like. I assure you, Belladonna Took-Baggins never forgot any of it for a moment. She was the wind and the fire; my father was the tree, for sure. He was staid, and solid, and stable, and she whirled around him with whatever she could pick up." He gave a soft chuckle. "Everyone who met her adored her. Any interest I might have in adventures came from her, I assure you."

"I am glad it did," Thorin murmured, stealing a kiss as he passed by. "For it was adventure that brought you to me."

"I'd say it was rather the other way round," Bilbo replied pertly, offering up a sunny grin. "Now come lay these potatoes in the dish while I prepare the sauce, or we'll die of starvation before the food cooks."

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(Author's Note: this is a continuation of the same scene from Day 6, Mother)

Later, after the roast and potatoes had been served and duly enjoyed, the washing up done, and the evening drinks poured, Bilbo surprised himself by saying "You asked earlier about my family."

Thorin nodded, a cautious expression on his face. Bilbo had been able to tell that the dwarf wasn't certain of his reception with any such question, yet asked them anyway. He loved him more with each passing moment for such thoughtless courage. "I did. My apologies if..." Thorin began, but Bilbo leaned over from where he sat and pecked him on the cheek, causing a flush to rise and the flow of words to cease rather abruptly.

"No apologies needed, silly thing," the hobbit chuckled. "I was only surprised because you so rarely mention your own family. Fili and Kili I know, of course, and they themselves have told me of their mother though you have been startlingly reticent on the subject. Tell me of your mother. I feel I barely know anything about you beyond what I've seen." This was the sort of social bagatelle that everyone in Hobbiton knew how to interpret, and it was Bilbo's startling ill-fortune that the recipient of this statement took it literally. Nodding once, Thorin squared his shoulders and began.

"My family was not as yours. In my childhood, the center of my family was always my grandfather Thror, not my father Thrain. As king, he was... well, you've seen how the dwarves treat their kings. I am told that he was kind to my father and my cousins when they were young. He was... otherwise by the time I was small." Thorin's face had become cold and remote and Bilbo wasn't sure whether to hug him, change the subject, or punch himself in the face for such a clearly ill-advised question. "He was mad. I see that now. I felt that, in my own way, when the gold took... took..." He shuddered and Bilbo resolved the matter by throwing his arms around Thorin before he even thought about it.

"Forget I asked," Bilbo said. "You are past all that now, my love, and I am here, and you are here, and none of those problems are here with us." Thorin smiled over at him, still with a hint of that distance in his eyes.

"No, it is right that you know. You were right to ask. I am not proud of the history of my close family, but if you are to be tied to me, you should know of these things. My grandfather was gold-sick before ever the dragon thought of us at all. Losing the mountain... unhinged him completely. He was raving as we fled, shouting curses at all of us as we carried him away from the ruin of our home." Thorin sipped his wine, hesitating for a moment, and Bilbo ached for the pain in his eyes. "He left us all one night. Slipped away with only a retainer from where we all slept in Dunland. He and Nár went to the gates of Moria, Khazad-Dûm, the original kingdom of our people, lost these thousand years to orcs and evil, and we were told he went inside alone. His head was flung from the gate by orcs not a day later."

"Thorin..." Bilbo shuddered, the image clear in his mind. "That's terrible. I'm so sorry."

"That event began the War of Dwarves and Orcs. Stupid name, but it was a stupid war that never should have started." Thorin glanced down, mouth a tight line. "My grandfather's madness and hubris embroiled us all in a vendetta that slew far, far too many. The orcs died by the legion, but so what? Dwarves died too, good dwarves, for whom there was no reward possible to claim. Even if we killed every orc in the entire world, still we could not return. Durin's Bane was still there."

"Durin's... Bane?" Bilbo said, hating to ask but curious nonetheless.

"We don't know what it is, but some great evil came up from the depths long ago," Thorin sighed. "It slew dwarves by the hundreds by itself. We have only records of fire and darkness that walk with it, but it remains. While it is there, we cannot return. Legend says Durin himself will come one last time to lead us back, but..." he shrugged. "At any rate, my brother Frerin died in the last battle. My father lost his own wits. My mother..." he stopped, tears running down his cheeks.

"Oh Thorin... Lady of the Green, I'm so terribly sorry," Bilbo said, cradling him as best he could. "None of that is your fault, though. So your mother died in that battle along with your brother? I didn't even know you had a brother," Bilbo murmured.

"No," Thorin snorted, "she wasn't there. We try our best to keep our women off the battlefield if we may. There are too few already. No, my father took my brother against her wishes. She was pregnant and about to bear... a fourth child would be," he grimaced and shrugged. "The best omen. Dwarves are not very fertile. My mother knew my father had to go, he was the king, but my brother... he was far too young, just a pebble practically. Far too young. My mother died in childbirth as my brother died to orcs. My sister has never forgiven our father, and likely never will; I cannot say for certain she does not blame me as well, in part, though I was only the heir."

Bilbo's mouth set firmly at the very idea. "If she is anything like the dwarf I understand her to be from her sons, she is far too sensible for such a thing," he said sternly. "And I will hear no self-recriminations from you, my dear. None of that coil is your fault, and none of it is anything you should bear the blame for. You, yourself, Thorin Oakenshield, were the one to take a mountain and a home back from a dragon, and you did not cause a tragedy in so doing. You, Thorin Oakenshield, are a hero to your people, and if your family has sinned, well, to me you have redeemed it." He kissed Thorin on the tip of his nose, something that always made the dwarf snort and grin. Thankfully, it produced the desired effect. "I shan't be argued with on this!" he said, wagging a finger somewhat ridiculously.

"I shall not, then," Thorin said softly. Oh why must he look at me like that, Bilbo thought. Just when I think I must love him sufficiently already he makes it even worse. Drat the dwarf! Fine. If he hadn't had a supportive, loving family up until now, he would have one going forward. Belladonna Took's memory demanded it.

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Fili thought Thorin had seemed fine at the funeral. Surprisingly so, in fact. He was stoic and silent, but then... that was generally Thorin's manner in public. He was surprised. Bilbo had been the linchpin of the whole mountain, and the outpouring of grief from even the common dwarves would have been considered noteworthy for a revered king. He himself was getting through somehow - he knew that he would weep at some point, but he was the Heir, and there were Things To Do. It was the way the family of Durin handled such things. But to see even the poorest streets draped in the grey granite color of mourning, all noise muted, practically every dwarf walking hooded and silent... the hobbit had been loved, and likely more deeply than any non-dwarf ever known.

The ceremony had been as elaborate as they could make it. Bilbo would have made fun of them for how much pomp and gold there was, but Fili and Balin could only show the hobbit honor as dwarves showed it. Balin was barely holding on through the ceremony itself, a grim reminder of just how ancient he was. Once the last of the straggling mourners had trooped by, though, and the hall was empty other than the family and the tiny wooden coffin (the only insistence Bilbo had had - he must lie in wood, even if he was to be in the stone) left sitting on the stone viewing pier, Fili walked over to Thorin and put his hand on his uncle's back for comfort. It was like touching a piece of stone.

"Uncle?" Fili said softly. "The whole mountain is in mourning. We all grieve with you." There was no response. Thorin simply sat like a statue, staring at the small wooden box. They stood for a while. Fili glanced up and saw the cleaners peering round the edge of the door, and a dwarf with the cap of a mason who was almost certain to be the one tasked with preparing an appropriate sarcophagus and tomb. "The sculptor is here, uncle." There was no indication Thorin had heard him at all. For the first time, Thorin looked old, Fili realized. Not aged and distinguished, but worn and tired and beaten, as though his life had ended with Bilbo's. In a way, Fili suspected that was the case. He had occasionally wished when younger to hear the Call, but he was old enough now to know what having a One meant if they were lost. He couldn't imagine Thorin's grief right now. "Uncle?"

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Deep in the polished basalt halls of the fortress of Kalilzumur King Ghurzum had had enough already, and the day had only barely begun. Not a good omen, he fumed, not at all, not at all. His chief advisor crept in, as though he wouldn't notice. Ghurzum fought back an irritated sigh. Puk always hunched down like that with bad news. Aggravating. "What?" he demanded curtly, barely glancing over from the ore projections in his hand. When an answer wasn't forthcoming immediately, he looked up, glared, and expanded on the topic at hand. "I said what now, damn it?" A thought occurred to him and he wished it hadn't. "And if it's another bloody request for another bloody shipment of bloody anything at all for those mole-shaggers over in Shahzurad, tell them to go suck Mahal's hairy sack! I swear, it's like they think starting a new colony involves stealing my whole kingdom bit by tiny bit and having it shipped by cart three days to the south!" Puk hunched a bit more but that was all. Still no response. Worse and worse. "Bones of the Mountain! Spit it out, Puk."

"There's been a message." Bloody useful. Why did he have advisors at all, the Stiffbeard king wondered sourly. He held out his hand imperiously, snatching the small scroll as soon as it was in view. Puk was a good dwarf for all his problems; he knew this. Phenomenal at logistics, could plan pretty much anything and make it work, but by Mahal's glowing hammer he couldn't explain how to flow downhill to bloody water.

Unrolling the parchment, Ghurzum squinted at it. The extreme angularity of the runes said it was from the Longbeards, which was already a bad sign. All respect to Durin, but he needed to hurry up and come back from the Halls because without him the whole clan was a short, sharp shower of shit and no more. Ever since they'd been run out of Khazad-Dûm it had been one damn thing after another. Whole lot of them couldn't find their own asses with both hands and a map from what he could tell. Even so, as he deciphered the message he could feel his blood boiling. "They what?!" he demanded furiously, making Puk (who was only beginning to uncurl) crunch into a small package again. "The filth," he shouted.

Puk didn't even pretend not to have read it. "What..." Puk muttered, clearing his throat and repeating himself a little more loudly. "What response do you wish to give? Will we send soldiers, or...?" he trailed off, fingers twining around each other.

"Aye," Ghurzum ground out. A king of a clan beheaded? His mouth filled with coins and his head flung out a gate by an orc? Thrór might not have been Ghurzum's idea of a perfect king for sure - mad as a rat in a mercury seep, for one thing - but no. That was irrelevant now. This was an insult that couldn't be borne. How such a thing came to be would have to be determined, but for now, they marched. He was already thinking of how to make this happen quickly. "Ready a thousand footmen, and a hundred on goats. We march for Dunland in a week at the latest. All the seven clans will come, and the Stiffbeards will do their duty. We'll not be found wanting." Puk nodded. Ghurzum could tell he agreed from his face, though it mattered not. All the clans - all dwarves - had a duty to respond to an insult like this. This 'Azog' would be brought down along with the whole bloody race of orcs, if it came to that, and Ghurzum felt it might. A thought struck him and made him smile; it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Send a message and tell Shahzurad to send a hundred dwarves too, and properly armored at that; time they finally pulled their weight, isn't it?" His snickering chased the aged advisor down the hall.

Chapter Text

Mur was a baker. For over a century, her family's ovens had produced loaves of good bread for the neighborhood; a neighborhood which, while not particularly wealthy, was home to everyone she knew. In all the city of Gabilgathol, she was sure - had been sure - there might be neighborhoods, bakeries, friends as good as the ones she had, but none better.

Then the world had ended.

Now she sat, filthy and exhausted, on a plain rock for a stool in the squalid camp they had set up for the survivors in the days after It Happened. None of them knew what 'It' was, or what had brought It about, but the night before had been lit by flashes off in the distance, far to the northwest, and in the morning... in the morning... Her thoughts shied away from it. The far off roaring of the sea - a sea which hadn't been there a week ago - told the story. She had woken to screaming and watched in shock and horror as the stone of the wall itself changed in front of her. The clear, pale cream of the unusual basalt that formed the Blue Mountain range rippled before her eyes, becoming the murky grey of limestone, the crumbly whiteness of chalk... and the crashing sound of the city collapsing, as the stone would no longer bear up under the weight of constructions which had lasted for millennia.

Less than a third of the city had made it to the surface alive. The soldiers were doing what they could, along with a horde of masons and salvagers, but the king and court were dead - the palace was nought but ruins, and the 'safety' of being deep in the structure had been doom to all who lived there. The Broadbeams were leaderless, homeless, and (increasingly) hopeless.

As she sat, aching from helping with the soup kitchens where they were serving the last of the food they had scavenged, a whisper began in the camp. Far off, there were horns; what now, she wondered, too tired to feel frightened. They were doomed already, so an army would be as good a way to die as any. She wondered idly if it would be orcs, men, elves...?

Out of the forest came the tramp of feet. A host of dwarven soldiers, each carrying a huge sack on their back, made her leap to her feet in spite of how tired she was. Over them, the stars of Durin flapped on a dark blue field, a banner that she never thought to see. The Longbeards, the whisper around her said; the Longbeards have come. Sinking back down again, she began to cry, feeling stupid but unable to help herself. Mahal, she thought, can we possibly live through this?

Chapter Text

Bilbo loved the Feast of Sun-Return; he always had, even as a faunt. The winter cold was beginning to set in, yes, but it was still new enough and cellars were still full enough that it was exciting rather than worrisome. The evergreens hung on all available surfaces made everything look festive and bright, and the candles and bonfires to welcome back the newborn sun in the darkest night were a joyful presence. Needless to say, the dwarves had their own take on the festival - living beneath the mountains, the seasons were not as relevant and it was always light in the kingdoms below with their seemingly infinite lamps.

What made the dwarven version of the feast worthy was that for the only time in the year, Thorin (and even more joyfully, Bilbo) didn't have to wear crowns and robes, all the regalia and pomp of their position getting in the way of any normal interaction.... no, for the three days of the feast, they were just treated as normal people, and it was so terribly pleasant the hobbit could barely wait each year. They were still protected, of course; wouldn't do to have royalty subjected to the common brawling, for example, but even so! Free to wear regular clothes outside the royal quarters! Being able to serve himself his food! Being able to go visiting like a normal person! Oh, it was everything he had never thought to value and didn't realize how much he would miss, all at once! Thorin gave amazing and deeply thoughtful gifts, but if Bilbo was being honest, he found the freedom to just be a plain hobbit for a bit to be the most joyous of all.

Which made Thorin's behavior as they entered the Great Feasting Hall that much more unusual when they walked in and Thorin immediately grabbed his arm and tried to turn him around.

"What... Thorin! Let go! What has gotten into you?" Bilbo said crossly, snatching back his arm. A suspicion crossed his mind, but... "Is Dain here?"

"No," Thorin groaned, "worse." This was news to Bilbo. Fairly alarming news, at that. Worse? Dain was capable - more than - of causing chaos up to and including setting fire to the dining hall, so Bilbo had to take this seriously.

"Tell me," he sighed. "What's going on?" A roar erupted from the hall in whose doorway they stood, and for the first time Bilbo saw an unfamiliar dwarf waving a tankard the size of a hobbit's entire head over his enormous set of unkempt, greying braids. This dwarf looked, quite frankly, like trouble. He was larger than Dwalin, even, and twice as disreputable. Broken teeth, crooked nose, the scars of many battles (and brawls, looking at his knuckles), his mouth gaped in a grin with his eyes shut like some sort of parody of the concept of drunken comedy. "Oh. Who's that? Is he the problem?"

"Yes," Thorin said, scowling. "It's the Poet." As he said that, the dwarf stood with the tremendous solemnity only the deeply drunk can muster. Grinning at a dwarf standing near the stage, he placed his hand over his heart, swigged the remainder of whatever was in that giant tankard and paused for a moment while the crowd seemed to hold its breath. A torrent of Khuzdul poured from his lips, sounding (as always) to Bilbo as though the dwarf was gargling with a mouthful of pebbles, but the roar of the crowd's approval was so loud it was almost a physical presence. The dwarf he'd been gazing at seemed to try to laugh along, though he was glowing crimson and soon slunk away. Thorin snorted and grinned in spite of himself, Bilbo could tell, because he immediately scowled and looked quite cross.

"The... Poet," Bilbo repeated slowly. "Right. What sort of poetry does he write, then? I mean, I rather like poems myself, although..." A dubious look cast towards the stage finished the sentence for him. Just as well, he supposed, because the dwarf had looked over and seen them framed in the door.

"The King! And his wee Kinglet!" came an astonishingly stentorian voice ringing over the crowd. A slightly uncomfortable silence fell, and Bilbo wondered if this was going to be considered a bridge too far, even for the period of faux-normality. Dwarves had a very constrained concept of lèse-majesté, he had found, but when it was crossed... Bilbo saw the guards look up from where they stood and hoped something terrible wasn't about to happen. Instead, another rumbling, rattling stream of words followed as the enormous dwarf smiled beatifically, belched, and tried to bow, ending up falling on his nose. The crowd's roar was the loudest yet, though Bilbo barely noticed as a flaming-cheeked Thorin physically dragged him back out of the room and down the hall.

It took Bilbo substantially more than three days to get a translation of what had been said. By the second day, he assumed it must be quite scurrilous, but every attempt was thwarted. Finally, by deploying the secret weapon of threats AND biscuits, he got the weakest member of the family to crack - Kili, of course. That night as they prepared for bed, Bilbo glanced up at Thorin where he was removing his breeches. "So, tell me Thorin," he said guilelessly, "how exactly did the Poet know how 'oversized' you were? Something you need to confess?" It is with the greatest regret that the scribe must inform his readers that history does not record the remainder of this conversation.

Chapter Text

Mur was exhausted.  Footsore and weary, she squinted up at the glaring sun and cursed to herself under her breath.  The Longbeards had offered them not only food, but refuge; so much, so good.  The only problem was that the refuge they offered was in Khazad-Dûm, forever to the east.  Sighing, she shouldered her pack and ignored how it chafed against the blisters she had developed days ago.  Dwarves were used to struggle.

The journey had been interminable.  Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar - also destroyed - had been the twin kingdoms of the Broadbeams and Firebeards for time out of mind, since the Firstborn awoke in the dawn of time beneath the mountains.  Mur had been told that there were similar caravans of Firebeards making their way and she idly wondered if they would see them ere they arrived at the triple peaks of their distant Longbeard kin.

She had never been this far from home.

Chapter Text

Sometimes Bilbo despaired of himself. He had tried to be the perfect gentlehobbit as a tween; first to please his father (his mother was another story), then to honor his father's memory. He had prided himself on his social skills. That in itself was hardly praiseworthy, but the flow of social interactions seemed to benefit everyone, so he felt that he was forgiven a small sense of pride when he navigated a particularly tricky corner with difficult people and everyone left smiling.

The dwarves had been quite an eye-opener. Not only had he been dragged along on their adventure by the maelstrom they seemed to produce at all turns (not entirely that, a tiny voice whispered) but there were also an entirely new set of social signals, things to say and not say, things that must (and must not) be said, to the point where he could hardly tell in some conversations whether he was following or not.

It was his particular misfortune that the dwarf who was the most of a stickler for dwarven social protocol was the one he was most interested in conversing with... although the reverse seemed emphatically not to be so. Thorin, king of a realm Bilbo had never heard of, lord of a vast network of people Bilbo had never met, was like a figure from one of the tales he had read has a faunt. He was also as approachable as a prickle-bush, and about as forgiving of even the smallest faux-pas.

There were so very many differences apparent between the dwarves and hobbits! My goodness, he thought, one would find it easier to catalog the similarities, as those could fit on a pair of hands with fingers left over. They were built different physically; even the weakest of the dwarves was as strong as two burly hobbits, as best Bilbo could tell. They enjoyed things that hobbits found off-putting, like hard work and being deep in the earth. Their conversation was often obscure and political, focusing closely on topics Bilbo had always been raised to avoid, while seeming to find normal social niceties to be alarmingly forward. Really, he despaired of it.

One of the most unusual interactions with Thorin had to be when Bilbo asked Bofur (always the friendliest of the lot, if not the kindest) if he had some scissors or shears, as his hair was growing too long. You'd have thought he had asked Bofur to stab him! Honestly! Such a fuss, and in the middle of it Thorin arrives like some sort of angry king of legend and drags Bilbo away!

"Who has shamed you?" was the king's fierce demand, as though that made a lick of sense. "I will kill them myself; you shall not cut your hair, your honor is not besmirched."

"My... what?" Bilbo was utterly lost, and more than slightly flabbergasted by the kerfuffle which he could still hear in the distance. "Honor? Thorin, my hair is too long; it's getting in my eyes, that's all. I always have to trim it since it grows so quickly," he said with a nervous chuckle - such statements were verging on personal sharing, which was frowned upon with someone as distant as the king was... er, had been... really, Bilbo didn't know what was going on at all.

"Too... long?" For his part, Thorin seemed to share Bilbo's confusion. Not for the first time, it was becoming clear they weren't having the same conversation at all, despite speaking to each other in what was supposed to be the same language. "So... nobody has... bothered you?" The emphasis placed on 'bothered' brought unwelcome thoughts to Bilbo's mind, but he pushed them away. Surely he didn't mean anything of the sort.

"No, heavens no," the hobbit chuckled, taking refuge in a blanket denial. "Nothing of the sort, I just get tired of flipping my curls out of my eyes. Besides, if it gets but so long, I'll turn into a dustmop. You have no idea how much trouble it can be to clean twigs and such out of an unruly pile of curls, since your hair is so lovely and straight." He smiled, wondering at the source of the blush he could see spreading like a crimson stain across Thorin's cheeks. The dwarves seemed to like braids, since they all had them. Bilbo wasn't keen to have braids, but who would see him out in the woods, and perhaps this was an opportunity to show the dwarves he was willing to learn their cultural ways. Smiling confidently, he turned to face Thorin directly. "Well, perhaps you could braid my hair back for me, then?"

He was not prepared for Thorin to faint at all.

Chapter Text

Thorin sat in a hall which was still more than half an unshaped cavern, perched on what could only charitably be called a throne. He cast a hooded glance over the dwarves filling the two sides of the room, though there was a very clear path between them. Behind him, he could hear Dwalin growl and he knew without looking around that his friend (and Captain of the Guard) was demonstrating maximum threat. An exciting way to start an already tense meeting to be sure.

"I won't bore you with a bunch of protocol," he said bluntly, ignoring Balin's sigh. "We've all got work that needs doing, and plenty of it." He paused, eyeing the dwarves in front of the two groups. For their part they paused glaring at each other to swivel an eye around at him. "This nonsense will stop, from this moment forward. As King, I, Thorin II called Oakenshield, heir and undisputed ruler of the line of Durin, say this. The feud between the Kurruk and Muri clans is ended. Any blood shed shall be deemed a criminal act henceforth."

"It is heard and recorded," Balin's clear voice echoed before the chamber erupted in furious shouts.

"You have overstepped your authority," one of the dwarves shouted in a gravelly voice. "'Twas never given to the king to rule so."

The leader of the other clan, a dwarrowdam almost as big as Dwalin, opened her mouth before realizing she would be agreeing with a Muri. She settled for glaring fiercely at everyone in range, including Thorin.

"Durin II ended the feud between the family of Mur and the family of Kerim among the deep five during the orc attack," Balin said in stentorian tones, clearly audible even over the hubbub of shouting voices. "Durin IV ended the feud between the clans of Pir and Goluz to oppose the forces of Gundabad goblins."

"You'll not..." the Muri leader shouted before Thorin stood abruptly. Surprisingly, silence fell.

"I have and will," Thorin said in a harsh tone. "We must build a home before we starve, you dolt. We are in more danger now than the Longbeards ever were from orc or goblin armies while safe behind the gates of Khazad-Dûm! We all must work together! There's neither the time nor the resources to have you lot running around like children sniping at each other; every set of hands must work together. I have spoken." He glared at the old dwarf who stood for long moments before finally looking down. Glancing over, he caught the eyes of the Kurruk matriarch who snorted and scowled, but finally nodded once. With a gesture, her entire clan of children, grandchildren, neices, nephews, and assorted hangers on swept out, leaving the Muris grumbling to each other. They followed after a bit, shaking their heads and muttering.

"I wasn't sure you could pull that off," Balin whispered with a dubious look. Thorin cut his eyes over at the old dwarf. A tiny smile crossed his face, seeming out of place with the fierceness still visible in his eyes.

"Neither was I," he confessed. Dwalin cursed as the other two snickered. "But we've a home to build, and now maybe there will be dwarves left alive to live in it when it's done."

Chapter Text

Bilbo was aware - had been aware - that there were all sorts of conversations going on in the mountain to which he in particular was not privy. Periodically someone would go to speak to (i.e., shout at) Thorin where he wandered amongst the piles of gold, for example. Often the hobbit came around corners to find a small huddle of dwarves muttering together, and they always stopped and stared as he went by. It had only gotten worse since Thorin had given him this ridiculous armor.

One night, things seemed to come to a head. He approached the main dining area to overhear "... well, with all due respect Lord Balin, this has gotten ridiculous." Coming from, of all dwarves, Dori! Bilbo hated to eavesdrop but found himself melting into the shadows nearby all the same. "Even in the Blue Mountains, for things to have gone this far without..."

"Yes, Dori, I know, I know," Balin groaned. "I don't think anyone foresaw the shirt." There was a pause, as though Balin were thinking. "You know a dwarf his whole lifetime, and still he can surprise you."

"The point remains," Dori continued in a just-so tone of voice, "we know none of the information necessary for the next steps. Also," he paused, 'there's the matter of the Mastery." None of this left Bilbo any the wiser, but Balin's response was lost to the ages as Nori's hand landed on the hobbit's shoulder from a patch of darker shadow that Bilbo would have sworn couldn't contain a dwarf.

"Well, hello, Bilbo," he said loudly, practically dragging him into the room and leaving the other two staring in surprise. "We wondered where you'd got to. Dangerous place, shouldn't wander too far in here." His cocked eyebrow brought a flush to Bilbo's face. Bad enough to eavesdrop but even worse to be caught!

"Yes indeed," Balin said with a smile as false as a cat's promise. Dori sat nearby as focused on Bilbo as though he were the only thing in the room. Odd. "Bilbo... I just realized we know hardly anything about your life in the Shire! We saw your lovely home, of course," making all of Bilbo's social sensors turn to point due trouble, "but tell me, what did you do for a living?"

"I beg your pardon," Bilbo said by habit before remembering where he was. Perhaps that wasn't quite as rude a question among dwarves. He reminded himself forcefully that he wasn't in the Shire at the moment. As though the bare cold stone walls and floors didn't give that away! "As a rule, gentlehobbits don't talk about such things, I must say," he continued, provoking a wince from Dori and Balin both.

"Understood, my apologies if I was inappropriate," Balin faux-chuckled. Really, Bilbo thought, he might try a little harder. Even a faunt wouldn't be fooled! "What I mean is... do you make things? What was your craft? Metal, wood, stone? Gems? Were you a merchant?" This was entirely too much.

"Wha... you... what?" Bilbo spluttered. "You think I'm some sort of tradesman? I fear there is some sort of confusion going on. Perhaps I should leave you to your discussion." He drew himself up. The nerve!

Dori sighed and leaned in. "You are not a dwarf, and we are not hobbits," the old dwarf said primly, reminding Bilbo yet again that the rules might be different here. "Our intention is not to offend, but to learn, Bilbo. All dwarves have a craft. I am a tailor, as is Nori. Bifur and Bofur are miners, Bombur a tinker, the princes are a gemcutter and weaponsmith respectively, and so forth. It is how we..." here his eyes cut to Balin, whose expression spoke of worry. "... how we understand the nature of those around us."

"Oh," Bilbo said blankly, glancing from face to face. "Er... well..." He racked his brain. "I spent much of the day gardening and cooking, if that helps. Quite social, don't you know, always running about," he chuckled and realized he was laughing alone. Honestly, everyone looked so focused! This was a very strange conversation. "Perhaps you could say I was a cook." Balin was already shaking his head.

"That's a task, not a true craft," he said, provoking a snort of disgust from Bilbo. The hobbit would have argued but Balin was pressing on. "What do you make? Anything durable, anything that lasts."

"Had a lot of books in his house," Nori said while staring at the wall, acting completely disinterested in the whole goings on. "Papers on the desk showed a nice hand, though far too Elvish."

"You went through my papers!" Bilbo shouted. "Nori!"

"A scribe!" Balin announced with a beaming smile. Dori nodded, face a picture of satisfaction. "Did you write for others?"

"Well, I suppose I occasionally wrote a letter for someone or read mail to others without their letters, but..." Bilbo said to universal smiles. "I did compose a book for the children of silly tales from the Shire, but I hardly think..."

Ori, who had wandered in midway through the discussion, looked over. "You wrote a new book?" He said with eyebrows raised. "By yourself?"

"Preserving the lore of his people," Balin said. "Very clear. That's settled." Dori nodded, his face a picture of satisfaction. The whole group broke up at once, leaving Bilbo more confused than ever. As Nori stood to leave, though, he seemed startled to find a hobbit at his elbow.

"Let's talk about the propriety of going through someone else's desk and things, shall we?" Bilbo said, a steely smile not making the dwarf feel comfortable. It was a smile that would have fit perfectly on Thorin.

"Oh yes, you'll do just fine," Nori laughed, leaving Bilbo flummoxed. Curse the dwarves for their confusing ways!

Chapter Text

"The things I let them talk me into," Bilbo grumbled as he fought his way down the hallway, swathed in a robe two sizes too big. It was for the children. Of course. Dwarven pebbles were as spoiled as faunts, he had discovered, and the idea of playing dress-up as the Lord of Trade on Durin's Day was something he wouldn't do for any other group.

"The who?" He had asked. Foolishly. This had resulted in a long, rambling, completely impenetrable discourse from Balin, Thorin, Fili, Kili, and Ori about the 'helpers' of Mahal, who were some sort of additional spirits or beings that everyone knew. Everyone, as usual, except Bilbo. Lord of Trade, Lady of Metals, Lord of Caves, Lady of Mushrooms, on and on and on, a baffling array of beings that went some way to explaining all the odd little shrines he kept seeing tucked away in various corners of Erebor and no way at all towards explaining anything relevant to the situation at hand. Finally, after much ado, it was explained that the Lord of Trade was the supposed inventor of commerce, that every Durin's Day he would appear and trade the first crafts of the pebbles for gold coins, and that he was always depicted as beardless (so a child), wearing odd boots, and 'foreign' clothes - which Bilbo imagined meant 'dressed like a merchant'. Here, they had him wearing an old Blacklock robe unearthed from Lady alone knew where, tiny panels of decorative leather sewn all over the heavy felted wool of it. It weighed a ton.

Rather than leaping into the room as he was told he ought, he felt he barely stumbled in, but the pebbles were too excited to notice. Dance, he thought; right. There was a single drum playing a sprightly rhythm so he could do this. There was a silly little dance he had to do. Luckily for both him and the dwarves he had a good memory for dances. Shire upbringing good for something. Mercy, it was hot in here! The lights were awfully bright too. His head was swimming! Perhaps he just... just...

***

Bilbo came to and the immediate astringent smell of herbs and that peculiar cloying incense Oin used told him he was in the infirmary before he even opened his eyes. Memory was very patchy but he had a sense there was something he was supposed to do. The pebbles! His eyes flew open only to see Balin, Thorin, Fili, Kili, and Oin peering down at him like vultures. He jumped and gave a little shriek, which in turn seemed to push them back a bit. "Oh no, the pebbles, Thorin I'm so sorry, I've made a mess of it!" Thorin shook his head with an odd expression.

"No, azyungel, you did... very well," he said, in an even odder tone of voice. "It's all done."

"Done?" Now Bilbo was very confused indeed. Hadn't he passed out before...?

"You were the Lord of Trade," Kili said in an awed tone of voice. "How did you do it?"

"I... what?" Oin shook his head and clucked dramatically, but Bilbo was even more confused than ever. As the story unfolded, Bilbo had apparently fallen on the floor, then leapt up and completed the dance. He had then traded all the toys for coins along with telling Kili to go get the items he was 'owed'. Turns out Kili had made items for the Lord of Trade as a wee pebble in the Blue Mountains. Because the dwarves were so stretched there, those years no one could afford the mummery and ceremony. Even so, he had saved them as mementoes. He never thought they would be delivered; he was far too old to participate in the ceremony. Even in his woozy state, Bilbo saw that the poor lad was tearing up as he produced the handful of gold he had been given before tucking it safely away. As if that weren't enough, according to Thorin, Bilbo had then gone over Gloin's books, corrected the accounting in three places despite it being done in both Longbeard code and Khuzdul, and given advice to all present before leaving. When he exited the main hall the final time, he had collapsed and thus been brought here.

"Advice?" Bilbo said weakly. "I... I don't remember any of that."

"Gloin is scared of you now," Fili said with a grin. Preposterous, Bilbo thought, before feeling that perhaps he was a little scared of himself now. Never again.

"What advice did I give?" He asked. Thorin's flush and determined look away told him that was a topic for another less-crowded room. "Nevermind, perhaps I might get up? I find myself a bit hungry."

Chapter Text

Bilbo had never really considered all the unusual bits of Erebor because they were always distracted the whole time he was there the first time, and besides that, well, as a hobbit they were all unusual bits. Now that Thorin was well enough to move around (though not well enough to work, Oin had stressed to the pair of them enough that Bilbo was ready to throttle the doctor himself, let alone how Thorin had been glaring!) he was getting what he considered 'the tour'. There were many lovely things, though a fair number of the previously lovely things were currently broken, in ruins, or otherwise discommoded by 175 years of draconic habitation.

"And this is the Royal Forge," Thorin was saying - as distinct, Bilbo assumed, from the Great Forge, the Second Forge, the Daily Forge, and several others barely worth mentioning - "where only those of us of the royal house may work on personal projects."

"You have your own forge," Bilbo murmured, hoping he sounded impressed instead of bored. Something unusual caught his eye. "Thorin," he asked, interrupting what was almost certain to be another endless lecture about metalwork, "why are the columns in the royal forge shaped like trees?"

"Ah," Thorin said, smiling. "They are to symbolize Yavun, wife of Mahal. She made the..."

"Yes, the trees and flowers and animals, we of the Shire hold her in the highest regard." Bilbo finished the sentence. "I was just surprised to see them here."

"Well," Thorin said a bit gruffly, "they support the forge of Durin, in the same way that Javun supports Mahal. She is his strength; without her, he would crumble. It reminds me of you." He blushed and looked down, then blushed harder when Bilbo kissed him. "What was that for?" He asked with a tiny smile. "Not that I'm complaining."

"No reason," Bilbo hummed with a fond expression. "But tell me more about the Royal Forge. I think I like it here."

Chapter Text

Bilbo tagged along beside Thorin. The king had insisted that he must come, as his intended, but the hobbit felt as out of place as a songbird in a rookery. The nature of dwarven protocol also put him near Dain's General Raggar, an arrangement which ensured that he would get a steady supply of sneers and sidelong glances although no words were spoken once the column began to form.

All the dwarves around him were silent as they moved through the halls, always downwards, the grim procession picking its way with care around piles of rubble and collapsed columns, through archways which had been hastily shored up and which Bilbo eyed with trepidation. Only the scuff and tread of dwarven boots punctuated the stillness, along with the creaking of the biers carrying the bodies being borne along with them. This was the first collection of dwarven dead from the battle to be properly interred, though the hobbit suspected it was to be the first of many. He had no idea why Thorin wanted him to attend; he hated funerals. Anything for him, though, he supposed.

When they reached the deeps, a great archway yawned before them with fragments of shattered door still hanging from the hinges. Oh, Bilbo thought. The dragon. Right. I'm sure some of the dwarves were buried with gold, so...

They passed through into a scene of both horror and sadness. Bones were strewn everywhere, tombs burst open by draconic claws to fetch out the items within and the remnants of the inhabitants were flung everywhere. The dwarves seemed unconcerned on the surface, though he saw many faces flinch or flush at seeing the mess; this, he resolved, would soon be set right, or as right as possible.

In the center of a ring of halls was a circle of stone biers like low tables. One body was set on each and an ancient dwarf who looked to be little more than hair and wrinkles produced a sound no living mouth should have been able to make by the hobbit's reckoning - so deep he felt it vibrate in his bones, just one long tone going on for a moment before other voices began a chant. And such a chant! He had expected Khuzdul but this was just... sound. Somehow it meant something, but he didn't know what. What he did know was that it made him weep. Tears poured down his face and sadness pooled in his bones, images of a dead Thorin, dead Fili and Kili, dead Balin, dead everyone, his parents, his friends, the whole world was awash in sorrow and grief. Something wet hit him from above, and he looked around with wonder to see that condensation was forming on every surface, running down the stalactites above and trickling down the walls.

The song lasted for a timeless period. Likely minutes, Bilbo thought, but it felt like days and years of grieving compressed into however long, as though he had been through the death and mourning of his parents again since the song began. It didn't end, it just... faded, one by one the voices slid away until it seemed that the song was still there, hovering, just out of hearing range, but the dwarves were silent. Without a word, they turned and left. Once outside the broken gate of the tombs, the dwarves began to speak in low voices and ended the silence that had ruled the event until now.

"Thorin," he whispered as they went up the stairs, "what on earth was that?"

"The sorrow of the dwarves," was the unsmiling reply. Thorin looked haunted, and Bilbo knew instinctively that he was feeling as though every dwarf that died was his fault. "The weeping of the mountain."

"You..." the hobbit began, only to be interrupted by (of all living beings) General Raggar.

Casting a weighing glance at Bilbo, the dwarf mumbled "Perhaps I've been mistaken, my king." Bilbo could have fallen over, though Thorin inflated in a way that was borderline comical. For his part, Bilbo felt he could have been knocked over with a feather. Raggar was still speaking, gesturing broadly in the hobbit's direction. "I saw him in the song. He wept with the mountain. I suppose there's rock in there after all." Thorin drew Bilbo closer without a word, but the look of pride on his face said enough to make Bilbo blush; perhaps this wasn't going to be quite as hopeless as he sometimes feared.

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"This is a bit more of an event than usual, I'm afraid," Bilbo said as he moved through the kitchen. Dwarves ran in all directions, many moving items to be prepped for cooking back and forth from Erebor's massive pantries. Nobody here batted an eye at the sight of the Lord Consort in the kitchens; while the staff of the Common Halls would have been shocked, the royal kitchens were more than used to the hobbit passing through, either talking to Bombur and the other chefs or just puttering about on his own. "We have the Ironfist delegation up from the Orocarni, and I've heard they're very particular about the way their meat is prepared." Bombur and Gurda Knife-Hand both nodded, eyeing each other in a rivalry Bilbo suspected would outlive him entirely.

"They are," Gurda said gruffly, tucking her beard more tightly into the apron she wore. "I've cooked for them before in the 'Hills."

"While I haven't cooked for the Ironfists, actually..." Bombur said loudly, and they were off. BIlbo sighed. This was all part of dealing with dwarves; it seemed every single person he knew or even met had a list of friends, enemies, and most of all grudges that stretched on for ridiculous lengths. He went into the butchery area and stopped in the door.

There were several pigs trussed up and very clearly the slaughter had just taken place. The floor was awash in blood, the troughs put under them to collect it unable to contain the splashes from their death throes. Patches of the deep crimson looked almost black in the uncertain light of the torches here. Bilbo had seen pigs slaughtered before but somehow the sight of the blood made him woozy. Flashes of Thorin lying on the bloody snow, the battle, the dead lying in all directions. The black patches were like the blood of the orcs. He heard a strange rushing sound in his ears and the room was swimming in front of him. Thorin could have died, he thought dumbly. He was dying. He was dead. Fili was dead. Kili was dead. Bilbo was dead. Everyone was dead. There was nothing but blood and horror. Darkness came as a blessing. The squabbling cooks were shocked at the sight of the hobbit slumping down between them, but Bilbo was out cold.

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Bilbo's second year in Erebor was full of all sorts of learning. The first year was - with Thorin trapped in his uneasy sickbed and all the reconstruction of basic functions - what Bilbo had been raised to describe as "a wash" and what the more earthy members of the Shire would refer to as "shite too hot to grow aught". A memory of Gaffer Chubb was curling his lips as he passed through the Upper Market. His thoughts were interrupted by a small pebble, who held a... something... out to him with both hands.

"For you," the child squeaked, with mum bowing behind. Good Lady of Trees, the poor thing was shaking! Using his new knowledge and hoping he was reading the signs right, Bilbo accepted the strange bundle of dark felted cloth and smiled.

"Why thank you, young sir," he said, praying again that his understanding of dwarven gendered dress was correct. Ah, and Mum's beams behind the boy indicated he was correct. "It's, er, lovely."

"Happy Feast to you, Lord," the mum said, corralling up her child with ease of long practice. "Wouldn't rest but he'd made you one." She smiled down at the boy fondly, and then - with the abruptness Bilbo had come to realize wasn't meant to be rude at all, but was just the dwarven way - nodded once and off they strode.

"You are both too kind," Bilbo called after them with a slightly bewildered smile. A flip of a hand indicated he'd been heard, and then they were gone. Eyeing the odd object he sighed and put it in the basket. All the dwarves thought him mad to do his own shopping but he had to get out of the royal halls occasionally or go mad. When he got back, he'd ask Thorin what the thing was.

+++

Thorin turned the odd, irregular thing over in his hands. What looked like legs of felt stuck out in odd directions, and odd floppy bits that could be anything. Shiny bits of glass slag made eyes, but they were stuck on wherever and with no rhyme nor reason. Bilbo thought it a bit disturbing, to be honest, though Thorin had a wistful smile. "What, er, what is it?" The hobbit asked, having explained the story of its origin to his husband.

"A binakhrâm," he replied, as though that explained anything. "A Nameless Thing. There's a story behind it, though I'm no scribe. Long ago when the world was young and the moon unstained, one of the deep-down Scouts in Gabilgathol took one of the Nameless Things that occasionally pass in the deepest places as a pet, or perhaps it took him as one. They worked together for many years, and those who saw it said that it had no symmetry nor shape save that which hurt the eye, and yet it guarded him fiercely and loved him as best it could." He set the cloth toy down and stroked it with a gentle fingertip. "It did not like the other dwarves, and would rarely come into the places where it might be seen by others, but it was honored by the whole of the Broadbeam clan for its devotion. It returned to the deeps when he died, taking his body with it, and those who saw it said the sorrow of the Nameless haunted them for the rest of their lives." He sighed, glancing up at Bilbo. "These toys are given and made for the Deepwinter Feast. They are a sign of devotion found in unexpected places, and enduring support." His soft smile was ruinously handsome. "All here know and love the Consort, and his efforts on our behalf."

Bilbo could feel himself flushing; he hadn't recognized the compliment but now it was being rather... well. "That's... terribly kind," he said weakly. "And a lovely story." He hoped his life with Thorin wouldn't be commemorated with small stuffed felt hobbits, but being enwrapped in a set of dwarven arms was sufficient distraction that the thought was allowed to fade.

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Looking around, the environment was utterly unfamiliar. Hm, Gror thought. Not a good sign. A sigh like an earthquake filled the room, and he looked over at a giant figure that resembled a dwarf, but was far too big and far too... everything... to be real. Whoops. Definitely not a good sign. Behind the figure, the shape of an anvil meant the room must be a forge, but it looked odd, wisps of vision of other furniture, columns, and the like all coming and going with each glance around. The sights before him didn't match the things he saw out of the corners of his eyes. Bugger. He must be dead.

"Mahal," he said, bowing his head as much as he ever did.

"Gror son of Fror," came the rumbling reply, like a spoilheap falling down a cliff. "Do you know where you are?"

"I... yes," Gror admitted. "I was hoping that pain in my head was nothing to worry about. Seems like that must have been a bad guess." He snorted and Mahal snorted back, an interaction that he could have had with any of his mining team and very, very odd to have with his Creator. "Assumin' these are the Halls, then. How can I be useful?"

"Ah, there's the mark of my children," the giant form smiled. "Well asked. You'll find the Halls are run like most dwarven cities, just... bigger. Miners are always welcome. You'll find the mineral deposits a lot more common here and the ores richer than usual, but that's my gift to you all." Mahal paused here, slight smile fading to a look of puzzlement. "I see you are bonded. I don't see your One. I'm assuming you married a non-dwarf." The eyebrows indicated this was an unpopular choice, though there wasn't any disgust in the massive face.

"Aaaaye," Gror admitted, not sure how to begin to explain the situation. "My One wasn't a dwarf, for sure." He really hoped that Klûk could be admitted to the Halls, so he didn't rely on sarcasm as he normally would.

"Well." Mahal grumbled, eyes flicking to the anvil as if in thought. "What are we talking about? Elf? Man? I can't do anything with men, I'll tell you now - even if I wanted to let one in, Námo wouldn't let me, and such an action would cause a fuss with my Father." Heavy brows drew down fiercely. "You can be sure, that's not an acceptable situation." Gror winced; not only did Mahal look fearsome, but he might be looking at an eternity of separation from his One which was... not on. As much as it rankled his character, he felt compelled to speak from the heart.

"No Lord, neither of those. His name is Klûk. He's a... well, I don't know what he is, but we're bonded, see? He's my heart. I'd suffer to face the time ahead without him." Mahal nodded distractedly, still puzzling over the 'neither of those'.

"I don't like riddles, child," the Vala said. "There's an easy way to see, I suppose." A mirror appeared, enormous, somehow both towering over them and tiny compared to Mahal and the anvil at the same time. Mahal's eyebrows went up. Slightly, but they went up, Gror saw it. He seemed startled, and this was now the best day in his entire life... assuming he could get Klûk in here somehow. The mirror fogged and cleared to reveal a mass of writhing black tendrils racing through tunnels, flowing faster than a horse could gallop over obstructions and pouring through tiny holes like oily black water. "That can't be..." he grumbled, only for Gror's voice to interrupt.

"That's him," Gror said proudly. "Prob'ly on his way here, if he can find it. Always said he could find me anywhere." Mahal stared - stared! - at Gror before turning back to the mirror. "If you could let him in when he gets here, I'll vouch for his behavior. I just want to be with him again."

"You... took as your mate one of the Void children." Mahal sounded floored. This was officially almost the best day of Gror's... well, not life exactly, considering the circumstances, but ever. It got even better when Mahal said "I will consider this request. It... he?... will have to speak with me directly, though."

"Aye, Lord, aye, no worries at all," Gror said, unable to keep from beaming like a pebble. "He's no trouble, I promise. Can't hardly imagine mining without him, and he..." Mahal's eyes were on him and some power of the Vala seemed to compel Gror to say things he wouldn't. "He completes me," he heard himself say. "He saved my life, not once, but over and over, and whatever his kind feel for love, he feels for me. I miss him like a drowning man misses breath." The compulsion left him. Gror worked his mouth and tongue for a moment, looking up at Mahal's poleaxed expression. "Bit unfair, that, Lord. Didn't expect it."

Chapter Text

"It's obvious enough," Dis said with a raised eyebrow. "Though I'm not sure why you care."

"I..." Bilbo sat back, nonplussed. "Well, I don't want to offend anyone, surely that's clear enough. In the Shire..." Dis' bark of laughter cut him off.

"You aren't in the Shire, my soon-to-be Lord Consort," she snorted. "And you'll annoy far more people trying to figure out what's in their pants than not in a dwarven kingdom, not that it's any big secret. Look," she sighed, "if you use 'he' for everyone, it's fine; Khuzdul doesn't have all that nonsense that Sindarin and the Southron tongues do where words shift around, so that's how we use Westron as well. There's two 'genders' here, as you call it; dwarf and non-dwarf." She grinned. "Though you yourself are a bit of a crossed category on the last one, mind."

Chapter Text

"These must have hurt," Bilbo said as he traced the elaborate designs on Thorin's chest and back. The dwarf shivered at the gentle touch but smiled, eyes half-lidded and relaxed as Bilbo saw him only in their chambers.

"Yes, they did," he said quietly, as if it were of no moment. Ridiculous dwarf, Bilbo thought fondly.

"Why on earth..." Bilbo stopped and waved his other hand, incapable of expressing the tangle of questions in his mind. Why do such a thing? What was the point? Was there even a point?

"We all have our reasons," Thorin sighed, looking away. "Each dwarf has their own markings, their own signs that are special to them. This," he gestured at the spiral of runes on his chest, barely visible beneath the pelt of white-flecked dark hair, "is a prayer of protection. My back is a copy of the gates of Khazad-Dûm, as it was for my father, and his father, all the way back to Thrain I who fled the coming of the darkness."

"The... gates?" Bilbo said, imagining the giant sprawling symbol he had seen many times. He supposed in a way it did resemble a door, but... his mind boggled at the amount of pain Thorin must have endured to have that graved into his flesh with a burin and ink. "Why?"

Thorin opened his eyes fully, pinning Bilbo with a serious look. "Even if I never live to pass through those portals again, they are with me. Always. They are our birthright, and Fili will bear them in turn after me, until Durin comes again to lead us back. If that is what it takes." Heavy lids closed again, leaving Bilbo even more puzzled than before. The longer he lived with dwarves, the odder he found them in some ways.

Chapter Text

"I have an announcement," Bofur said, standing and waving a tankard while ignoring Bilbo's frantic and furious attempts to pull him back down. "It has come to my attention that..."

"Bofur, stop, stop," Bilbo said loudly. He wished he had never started drinking with them. He especially wished that his treacherous mouth hadn't mentioned his birthday. The rest of the Laketown inn they were in ignored their corner table - aside, of course, from the constant glances for being dwarves and a hobbit - but Bofur smiled serenely and continued, stepping - oh Green Lady of Leaves! - up onto the table itself.

"It has come to my attention," he repeated, looking around at the dwarves who were all grinning up at him, "that today, September 22, is in fact the birthday of our very own," for a moment Bilbo's heart stopped as he could almost hear the word burglar, but instead heard "hobbit, Bilbo Baggins! A round for Bilbo!" Raucous cheering greeted this announcement, and tankards of the decidedly substandard ale appeared in front of Bilbo as if by magic. Thorin looked pensive, but smiled upon catching Bilbo's eye, an expression the hobbit had rarely seen in the previous months. And here sat Bilbo with nothing to give anyone. Blast.

"I... yes... oh good heavens... thank you, yes, thank you all, too kind, too kind," he said miserably, dodging the flagons that were appearing as if by magic before him. "I regret... oh dear, no, please, no more, I can't drink all of this... I regret that I cannot... do not... have gifts for you all, being as we are on this journey, but I assure you, when we have arrived and the dragon has been seen off, I shall have lovely things for each and every one of you." He smiled around nervously. The previous rough good humor seemed to have drained away; every face was shocked, with the exception of a red-faced and seemingly angry Thorin. Ah. Now there was a familiar face. "I'm... sorry?" He continued. "Surely, you know... I mean, we've all been on the same journey, there was nowhere to buy anything, and I hardly think Laketown..." The faces only grew more shocked. What did they expect?

"Bilbo," Balin said gently, his face having returned to a normal expression, "what do gifts mean in the Shire? And what does that have to do with birthdays?" Bilbo did his best to ignore the whispers and focused on Balin.

"Mean?" Bilbo said in puzzlement. "Why... simply that you are my friends, of course, and we hobbits like to receive gifts," there was a general inhalation at this statement, "and so we give them as often as possible. And specifically, as Bofur so helpfully pointed out," it was his turn to glare here, scorching Bofur's face he hoped, "it is my birthday, and on my birthday of course I'm obliged to provide gifts for all who come to my party at the very least. But since I'm traveling, as we all know, I am forced to apologize again for the rudeness." he continued, still scowling at Bofur, "I regret that I haven't anything appropriate to give right at the moment, circumstances being as they are."

"Ah," Balin said, smiling beatifically while cutting a watchful eye at Thorin. "I thought it might be as much. You see, we dwarves do not give gifts in such a manner. Merely a cultural misunderstanding, that's all."

"Well, now I'm afraid I'm a bit confused. What do they mean to dwarves?" Bilbo said. As Fili and Kili each began to whisper in the ear closest to them from either side, Bilbo turned white, then pink, then crimson as the dawn. "Oh! Oh my! Oh dear! Oh no!" Across the table, Thorin still looked a bit put out for some reason, but the crisis seemed to have passed.

Chapter Text

Bilbo peered at the soldier who had just accosted him so familiarly, wondering why on earth some random dwarf would... his face cleared and he sighed. Of course.

"Nori," he said with a small smile, "I should have known, I suppose. I didn't recognize you in all that armor. Bit out of character for you, isn't it? Trying out for the guard?" Sharp black eyes peered back at him from inside the helm.

"I needed this, so on it went," came the completely unhelpful response. "When I don't need it, back it goes. Do you ever take off your armor?" Bilbo blinked several times, not quite sure what to make of the question. He wasn't even wearing the mail shirt Thorin had given him, and that was the only armor he owned.

"I... beg your pardon?" The hobbit responded weakly. "I don't think I own any beyond..." Nori's laugh was quiet but made Bilbo feel off-step somehow, as though he had fallen into some sort of social trap. Well, these dwarves were japesters, he knew.

"You wear your armor every day," Nori said with a grin that was more vulpine than friendly. "I have never seen you out of it. Your armor is Respectability, and What Is Done, and you carry a spear called Social Disapproval and a sword in your mouth," he said. In a tone, the hobbit noted faintly, that indicated these were normal social commonplaces as opposed to quite possibly the rudest, most intrusive thing he'd ever had said to him in ages! "I can tell when it pinches you, but like any good warrior, you bear it well." Nori gave an elaborate shrug and sketched a bow that was more the idea of the thing than the thing itself, vanishing into the crowd and leaving Bilbo standing with his mouth hanging open. The nerve!

Chapter Text

Mur sighed as she served out the stew, helpers (mostly pebbles) running around with the tireless energy of the young bringing back empty bowls, washing them for the next round, and generally getting underfoot. The group had been straggling along for what seemed forever before she finally told the Longbeards that they needed to stop and rest since nobody else seemed inclined to do so. They were tired, oh yes. She could just see the way the other Broadbeams were stumbling along staring at the ground to see that! But the bloody Longbeards apparently felt it was appropriate to march this exhausted and frightened group of refugees along like a bloody army. Ridiculous.

She had sorted out the food situation as best she could. While the Children of Durin were content to live on cram indefinitely, she was able to assure them that the children of Azaghal were not. Once they got a group of hunters out looking for game and she could turn some of the onions and potatoes the refugees had brought into a stew, even the Longbeards decided that maybe stopping every few days for a proper rest and some actual food wasn't a bad idea. Idiots.

Later, once all the fires were properly banked and the kitchen packed away for the night, she heard a sound she hadn't expected at all off in the distance: music. One of the soldiers must have brought a flute, and one of the Broadbeams had brought a fiddle from the ruin of their city. The sound chilled her because it made her remember how much she had loved to dance when... She stopped and hung her head for a moment. No, she thought. Time for bed.

"Mistress Mur?" She looked over to the sight of one of the Longbeard soldiers... Pim was his name, she knew by now. He'd been more helpful than most, if she was honest. He was very attentive, attentive to the point that she suspected he might want more than friendship. There's nothing left, she could have told him. I'm empty. Go find someone else who is still alive. I'm just a corpse too stubborn to lay down. "Care to dance?" He smiled, and oh he was handsome in the torchlight, wasn't he just? His dark beard was braided nicely, though dusty from the march; she was no treat of cleanliness herself, she knew. She smiled and shook her head, as though at a joke, and turned away. He could do better. "My apologies then," she heard behind her.

"It's kind of you to ask," she said, before she could control her mouth. "Only the serving took it out of me, you see," she babbled, cursing herself for a fool. "I'm just headed for some rest." With a bounce and a hop, he was suddenly beside her and smiling over.

"Of course," he said, relieved at what he thought he heard. "Then I'll bid you goodnight, and hope your dreams are pleasant." Ach, she thought sourly, though part of her was flattered enough to raise a flush on her face. I'll dream of the stewpot, my lad, not of you. But that was a lie. In her dreams, she danced.

Chapter Text

Bilbo smiled across the couch at Thorin. The hobbit was lying down, his feet scandalously propped in Thorin's lap, and the magic of powerful dwarven hands was once again making itself known. "Oh that feels so nice," he sighed. They had been speaking of dwarven history over dinner, so he fought to remember the thread of what they were talking about before he was completely distracted by firm fingers pressing into his soles. "I've heard you speak of your ancestors being forced out of Mo... Khazad... Khazad-dim?" He tried.

"Dûm," Thorin corrected his pronunciation with a shy grin. "Yes." He paused, face falling a bit. "Though perhaps call it Moria with strange dwarves. They might sneer, but it won't risk offence at an outsider knowing even that much of our language." A gusty sigh accompanied this, making Bilbo arch an eyebrow. "Some of our kin are quite ridiculous, in case you hadn't noticed yet."

"I... might have done," Bilbo admitted with a wicked grin. "There doesn't seem to be much indecision in dwarf society... no matter how ridiculous the conclusion might have been." Thorin snorted, ducking his head to hide a grin.

"But enough of that," the dwarf said, beginning to card his fingertips through the hair atop Bilbo's feet in an utterly inappropriate manner. As usual with inappropriate things, it felt amazing. "Tell me of your ancestors. Have your people always lived in the Shire, there in western Eriador?"

"No," Bilbo admitted after an involuntary groan. "No we haven't." He stopped and winced as Thorin found a tangle, then sighed again when the stroking resumed. "We came from... oh, that's lovely... from somewhere else, though nobody remembers where and we weren't exactly literate at the time, I'm sad to say," he murmured. "Our oldest stories tell of a land between a river and a forest that went on forever, but whether that was real or not, who can say at this point. The Time of Troubles started. Of course, we have no way of knowing what that was, whether it was a drought or a flood or a war or what, but the three clans of the hobbits all passed west over the mountains - presumably the Misty Mountains - and settled there at the invitation of the Great King in the North. We've been there ever since."

"How long ago was this?" Thorin asked, brows raised. "Your ancestors may well have known, or at least met, my own."

"Long ago," Bilbo said with a grin. "Almost one thousand, four hundred years ago." Thorin whooped with laughter, making the hobbit eye him. "What's so funny?"

"Long ago?" Thorin choked out, still laughing. "Bilbo, the fall of Khazad-Dûm was only a thousand years ago, more or less," he replied. "That's modern history, as far as any dwarf is concerned."

"Well pardon me very much, Lord Forever-Memory," Bilbo grumped. Despite himself, he couldn't be but so angry with someone making his feet feel like that, though. "It's a far off long time to us hobbits."

"What it tells me is this," Thorin said more soberly. "Both of our peoples lost their ancestral home at roughly the same time. Both of them have prospered in their new homes, as well. I am glad that you found a good place to settle, Bilbo Baggins of the Hobbits," he whispered, pressing - oh Green Lady - pressing a kiss to Bilbo's toes. "You are precious to me, and all that you are kin to is precious as well." There wasn't much to be said in response to that but a kiss, so Bilbo made it happen, and the rest of the night was spent exchanging similar pleasantries.

Chapter Text

Mur's life was a never-ending parade of surprises. Her early life had been so normal - whatever that meant in these uncertain times. Seeing the city that had housed her family since the foundations of the world collapse like sand was only the beginning; the journey from familiar lands to the east, the fighting, the struggles, the tears... she didn't have words for any of it. Some things, though, she was sure of.

"Be blessed by Mahal," the scribe said with a kindly smile, "and may there always be joy in your marriage." Beside her, Pim stood like a rock. Like a rock, that is, for someone who wasn't holding his hand and feeling him vibrating like a bell struck with a hammer. She took the bead her aunt had made her and braided it into a strand of his thick, lovely hair, and oh, the look he gave her curled her toes in her boots. How she ended up with such a handsome One she'd never know - for that matter, how she had a One at all! Not as though courting had been high on her list in Gabilgathol.

"There will be," Pim whispered. "Every moment with you is joy." Mahal grant that they live forever, that she could always remember him like this!

Chapter Text

Mur groaned as she shut the door behind herself, then turned... and stopped. The candles were lit, there was a kettle warming; who was here? "Who's there?" she said, surprising herself with how rough her voice sounded. Get a grip, old woman, she cursed. No stranger would light your way and heat your tea-water. A smiling face came into view and she crowed. "Gudrun! What are you doing here?"

"What, a girl can't come to see her own amad?" Her daughter laughed, hugging Mur where she stood. She looked radiant, new gold beads shining in her hair and beard, fancy rings on both thumbs (the latest - in Mur's opinion, very stupid - style). Even so she was a picture. Ah you'd be proud, me Pim, she thought as she usually did when seeing their children.

"Of course, of course," Mur said with a raised eyebrow. "Being as you have a husband and a pebble of your own to boss about, still shouldn't expect you to forget to come and boss your old mum about as well," she grinned, collapsing with a sigh into one of the carved chairs. The candles on the table flickered in the gust of moving air.

"Boss about!" Gudrun scoffed, tossing her head to make her beads clink. "Try to be nice to some folk and see how they treat you..." She set a cup of tea in front of her mother and kissed her on the cheek.

"Never doubt my love for you, daughter of mine," Mur laughed, "whether you spoil me or no." In truth, all her children pampered her to what she once would have thought a ridiculous degree. It had only gotten worse in the ten years since Pim died. Her eldest son, Bim, had carved most of the furniture in not only the house but also her bakery cafe and the tavern she owned; her next son, Kullû, ran the tavern, and cooked half her meals better than she might cook them herself. And Gudrun... she smiled softly at the girl as she moved through the house and into the kitchen, talking thirteen to the dozen. Two sons and a daughter were a blessing most dwarves prayed for.

Later, as the tea was wrapping up and the cakes Gudrun had brought from the kitchen had been eaten, her daughter finally took a deep breath. Hm, Mur thought. Now for the plunge, I take it. Hope it's good. "So..." Gudrun said softly, "it turns out that me and Sarn are expecting again." She smiled as Mur felt like her heart would burst. The old dwarf leapt up and hugged her daughter fiercely.

"May Mahal carve your pebble out of purest mithril," she said, choking up as she changed the traditional blessing, finally ending it the normal way "perfect in every way." Gudrun blushed but grinned, each of them as delighted as the other. Who would have thought the destruction of one home, a home she would never have left on her own, would lead her to a home of such richness somewhere else? Life was strange, Mur thought. Strange but full of unexpected blessings.

Chapter Text

Bilbo sat beneath the spreading branches of a young oak. The huge green leaves - surprisingly large for such a young tree - cast a dappled shadow over him as he turned his face to catch the breeze. Around him, the sweet hints from the tiny plot of shade-loving flowers (and anyone who thought finding shade lovers that would grow around an oak was easy would get the sharp side of his tongue soon enough) as he sat on the split-log bench. He smiled out into the afternoon, watching Hugo Proudfoot once again try to wrangle his cow over to the milking stool, a daily occurrence and a good show for all that.

"Tell me, do you remember, Thorin," he said softly, squinting into the glare of the sunlight, "do you remember coming to get me those years ago? All the others were inside, and you came in like you were coming into a ballroom, not the smial of a total stranger. Do you remember how strange I seemed to you? You all were very strange to me, as I've told you so very many times - strange and odd and somewhat terrifying, with all your weapons and odd names and curious customs." He stopped to light his pipe, coughing at the roughness of the first draw before the Old Toby had reasserted the smoothness he expected from it.

"Do you remember hugging me on that giant stone? I don't recall the name of it, though you might, but that was the high point of the trip for me. I can admit that to you now, my dear, though I'd have rather died than said so at the time." He chuckled, waving the pipe's stem for emphasis. "Oh yes, and those awful elven halls! Remember those? Green Lady of Leaves, you looked like a drowned rat in that dungeon by the time I found you. To say nothing of us all almost drowning soon thereafter! I'd reckon we each looked worse than the next to anyone not crawling out of a barrel!" He laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of the whole episode.

"Oh Thorin," he sighed, "Do you remember all the unpleasantness at the mountain? I certainly do. Not that I don't forgive you for it," he said with a wag of his head, mouth a grim line. "But it was a bit much to take. Surely you must know that. Even so... I still preferred that to what happened next." The corners of his mouth turned down. The wind played around him as he sat, blowing a leaf along the empty bench beside him. Nothing more was said.

Chapter Text

The long train of dwarves stretched behind him, off into the distance. He grunted. Damn fools had brought practically the whole mountain with them, though he had told them over and over that it was a waste of time. He knew at least half of them had ideas they were moving into a palace. Even his father and mother seemed to think so, though at least they hadn't come with this group. Nothing could be further from the truth! Especially after all this time. He wondered as he climbed the broken stairs how much - how little, more like - would be left that he remembered of the ephemera.

Still, there were proprieties to be observed. At the top, just inside the carved door, he stopped. The gates were long since shattered, of course - it was only a gaping hole, the only flooring that made of raw stone, bird and bat shit. He heaved a deep sigh. Stretching out one hand, he pushed his awareness deep into the stone. That, at least, was as familiar as his own clothes. Ah.

"Hello, my old friend, my love," Durin whispered to Barazinbar, his beloved mountain. "We've come home at last."