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Episode Two – Melodies of the Heart

May 11^th, 3, Fourth Age – Eastern Edge of the Old Forest

“Papa, look!” Isumbras cried excitedly. “We got you all the mushrooms!”

Bilbo turned to see his two eldest sons rushing toward him, the faunts’ shirts pulled out from their trousers and full of golden Chanterelles, meaty Porcinis, and honeycomb-shaped Morels. Their feet, hands, and trousers were caked with dirt but they were positively gleeful because of the edible treasures that they had managed to gather.

“We picked all of these that we could find,” Isengrim told Bilbo proudly. “But we didn’t even touch one of the Deadly Galerinas.”

Thank Yavanna for that – one such incident had been bad enough. Hobbits loved mushrooms, but not all mushrooms were good for eating. Deadly Galerinas were one such variety that Hobbits steered clear of, because, though they would not actually kill a Hobbit as they would Men, they induced vomiting, fever, nausea, and severe cramps. Two full days of travel had been lost when Melilot, in the split second that Bilbo’s back was turned to keep Frodo from falling off the boulder that he had decided to scale, had picked one and promptly popped it into her mouth, mistaking it for another type of mushroom that had grown in the woods of Buckland.

Meli, having heard Grim’s pointed statement, stuck her tongue out at her brother petulantly. She and her sisters, Bella Rose and Celandine, were filling a basket with inky blackberries – Bilbo had learned quickly that it was best to give his faunts something to do while the ponies rested; else they get themselves into mischief of the kind that would terrify parents across all of Arda. Frodo and Samwise had the all-important task of collecting as many of the strange, spherical lavender rocks that were littered around the trees as they could – Bilbo had no idea what they were, but the boys liked to roll them together and listen to them ‘clink’. Meriadoc and Peregrin were crawling around in circles, chasing the butterflies from one flower to another.

“I’m very glad,” Bilbo replied, grabbing three small, empty sacks from the wagon. “Bring them over here and separate them out into these. I’ll cook them up properly once we get to Rivendell.”

“Are we nearly there?” Meli asked.

“We’ve been traveling for ever so long, Papa,” Bella Rose added. “We only got to stay with the Faeries for three days.”

It had been incredibly lovely, resting in the Faerie Vale for a bit before moving on. The Lord of the Green Fae had healed Bilbo’s head, had blessed the fauntlings with True Health, which would prevent any ordinary sickness from ever touching them again, and had given Bilbo a tiny key, fit inside a rectangular locket, that would unlock any door with the assurance that Bilbo would need it in the future. Bilbo had found that last gesture to be rather ominous, actually, as thoughtful as the gift was.

“Just about an hour and a half more and we’ll arrive in the Valley,” Bilbo promised them. “And then we can sleep in real beds again.”

“I don’t wanna sleep,” Bras wrinkled his nose in distaste. “All we’ve done is sleep for so long. I wanna play with the Elves!”

“And learn how to use our bows!” Grim exclaimed eagerly.

“And take a real bath,” Cela chimed in. “Can the Elves fix my dresses, Papa? The bottom of this one’s all messed up and my others are coming apart.”

“Yes, I’m sure they will,” Bilbo assured.

Actually, the Lord Elrond would probably take one look at the haggard appearance of Bilbo and the faunts – Hobbit clothing was decidedly not meant for travel through the Wildes, especially not the children’s clothing, and so their attire was quite ragged by that time – and order new, much better apparel made at once. Bilbo strongly suspected that it had only been Gandalf’s magic that kept Bilbo’s clothes from falling apart during the Quest, which would explain why Dori’d had to make Bilbo new things to wear once they arrived in Esgaroth, as the Wizard had been separated from the Company for some time by that point. Those clothes had lasted well and Bilbo would probably have still had them, had they not been infected by Mordor’s black magic.

Bilbo would have to divine a way to pay his uncle back, as Elrond was sure to refuse any gold that Bilbo offered to him.

“Speaking of baths, boys, you’re absolutely filthy. Go scrub your hands and feet off in the stream, but stay in the shallows,” Bilbo instructed Grim and Bras, passing them each a small chunk of soap. “Don’t you set one toe in the deeper water, understood?”

“Yes, Papa,” they chorused, scampering toward the little, lazy stream where the ponies and Bryony were drinking.

“The basket’s full, Papa,” Bella Rose announced, hefting the woven container up.

“So it is. Excellent work, sweetlings,” Bilbo praised. “You three go rinse off your hands too, they must be quite sticky by now, and then we’ll head out.”

Keeping one eye on the five older faunts, Bilbo packed the wagon back up and settled Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pip inside on the goose-down mattress, as well as about three dozen of the rocks that Frodo and Sam simply refused to part with – they would keep his little ones occupied, at least. He whistled sharply and the five ponies came trotting over to him eagerly, nudging his hands with their noses, looking for affectionate pats; Bryony, the stubborn goat, gave Bilbo a baleful look before slowly sauntering toward him as well. Bilbo hitched Lapis and Peridot to the wagon – the ponies were on a rotation to pull it – and tied the other three, Diamond, Emerald, and Ruby, and the goat to the side so that they would not wander as they traveled.

The rest of Bilbo’s little ones finished cleaning up and skipped back to the wagon, letting Bilbo lift them, one by one, through the open shutters and into the covered cart. There were lanterns in two of the corners which illuminated the space, allowing the faunts to see as they played with their toys or looked at the pictures in the books. Bilbo had firmly instructed them not to touch the lanterns and, so far, they had not once disobeyed him.

Once the fauntlings were all safely inside, Bilbo climbed up onto the driver’s seat and flicked the reins to get the ponies moving. He moved Sting closer so that he could grasp it with ease should he need to. They were getting ready to leave the shelter of the Old Forest and while they were very near to Rivendell, anything could be lurking in the few miles between the forest’s edge and the Valley’s entrance.

“Papa,” Meli requested after a minute. “Tell us a story about your Dwarves.”

Bilbo would have much rather spoken about the Elves they were about to see, but he was hardly surprised by the request. Meli preferred to hear exciting stories about Bilbo and the only exciting stories Bilbo had been a part of, and that were suitable for little ears, featured the Company heavily. It was just that… well, over the month that they had been traveling to Rivendell, his fauntlings had begun to wonder why they were not heading to Erebor instead. They had, because of Bilbo’s Kindred Bonds, Kin Ties to the Dwarrow there – just as they had Kin Ties to Elrond, his children, and his ward – and, more importantly, they could sense that Bilbo had found his Melodies in two of them. The more they heard Bilbo speak of the Dwarves, the more that they realized how much Bilbo missed and loved them, and the more they wanted to go to Erebor.

And Bilbo did miss his Dwarves. He missed Balin’s unremitting acumen and the guiding affection that had made Bilbo realize just how wonderful having an older brother could be. He missed how Dori had fussed over him, even because of the slightest things. He missed Ori and Bombur’s gentleness, their excitement to learn that Bilbo had talents which matched their own Crafts very well, and how ferocious they could be when defending kith and kin. He missed Bifur’s patience, the many hours that he had spent teaching Bilbo Iglishmêk, and Bofur’s joviality, the jokes that had made Bilbo laugh as he had not since before the deaths of his parents. He missed Óin and Glóin’s gruff, but so real, fondness for him. He missed Nori’s slyness and absolute loyalty. He missed Fíli and Kíli, those brilliant, amazing boys who had decided that Bilbo was perfect from the very start, they who were so exuberant and so full of life, who had stood by him even when no one else would.

Thorin and Dwalin… Bilbo missed them most of all. He wished, oh how he wished, but… it was simply not going to happen.

So, Bilbo had evaded his faunts’ questioning as best as he could… he was not looking forward to explaining why they could not go further East past Rivendell. He did not want to expose his fauntlings to the heartache that avarice and malice could cause, not yet.

“Far to the East, there is situated a great forest,” Bilbo began, and his fauntlings stilled in anticipation, for they all adored his stories. “In times long gone, it was hailed as the Greenwood, a place magical and full of never-ending light, but then came the Darkness and it transformed the forest into the Mirkwood and hardened the hearts of the Elves who call it home. It is not a place that any Hobbit would willingly choose to go into, but fate decreed that I and my companions would.”

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May 11^th, 3, Fourth Age – Rivendell

Rivendell was lovely, Thorin could admit, if only to himself, and he could understand why Bilbo enjoyed the Elven city so much, but he was utterly uninterested in sightseeing at that time. The same dark-haired Elf who had seen to the Company’s needs on their visit during the Quest led them into a large, airy space that served as a sort of study, where Lord Elrond and his daughter were waiting.

“I must admit that I am surprised to see you, Your Majesty,” the Lord Elrond admitted freely, not bothering with the usual pleasantries. “I did not believe that you would ever willingly travel to this Valley again.”

Thorin considered the Elven Lord before him and was not surprised to discover that the other appeared tense with worry, his fingers fluttering nervously at his sides – if Thorin did not have an Elven daughter-in-law, a rather beloved Elven daughter-in law, he might not noticed the almost imperceptible movements. Actually, the Elf looked as if he had not slept or eaten in some time, he was pale and thinner than Thorin remembered him being. Thorin could hardly hold the Elf’s agitation against him; Thorin, too, had been agonizing over Bilbo for weeks.

“Is he here?” Thorin questioned simply, choosing to forgo any kind of greeting. Behind him, he heard Balin sigh, just a bit, at Thorin’s impropriety.

Elrond closed his eyes briefly and then exhaled, “He is not.”

He did not bother to deny that Bilbo was alive and neither did he attempt to feign ignorance regarding whom Thorin was speaking of. He also did not look as if he were remorseful for the deception that he had helped perpetuate, either.

“He should have been here before now,” Dori fretted, wringing his hands. “Our Raven relayed to us that he was traveling upon the Green Path with a group of nine children and he should have come to no harm on such a road.”

“The Green Path? Then there is a chance that the Green Fae convinced him to rest with them for a few days,” Elrond stated, his words a breath of sheer relief. “They will have been horrified at the loss of their Mother’s sons and daughters and would have sought to care for the few that are left, especially if he was with children – the Fae adore children.”

“Can you not See ‘im?” Dwalin spoke gruffly, his arms crossed over his chest, not nearly as relived as Elrond seemed to be. “I know that our Tauriel cannot, cause she had not the chance to grow close enough to ‘im, but yer ‘is uncle.”

“I know that he is alive, through his Kin Tie to me, but my Sight is being blocked. The Sight of all Elves is being blocked by Black Magic,” Elrond said, shaking his head. “We did not See the fall of the Shire and nor can any of us See Bilbo. I had feared him captured and have had scouts searching for him for weeks now, as does the Lady Galadriel. Most of what we know of the attack came at the expense of Gandalf’s good health. It is a comfort to know that he made it to the Green Path, that he is not a prisoner.”

“Tharkûn has been injured?” Kíli asked, his eyes wide in surprise. Thorin could hardly fault his nephew’s obvious astonishment – the Grey Istari had always seemed rather invulnerable to him as well.

“Badly, though he will heal,” Elrond confirmed. “He fell from one of the Great Eagles over a hundred feet before another caught him. The Eagle who dropped him perished.”

“No mortal weapon can bring down one of the Giant Eagles of Manwë Súlimo,” Fíli protested with a deep frown.

“The weapon was not mortal, but a spear of Black Fire,” Elrond said. “Mithrandir suffered burns across his chest, back, and shoulders as well as three broken ribs from the fall. He is to be sequestered in Lothlórien until he has healed.”

“At least he did not die before any could reach him,” Thorin commented pointedly.

“I agreed to that scheme because Bilbo needed the peace of his homeland to heal from the damage that the Ring wrought and the only way he could get such was if as many people as possible could be convinced that he had fallen,” the Lord Elrond revealed with a slight grimace, but there was no note of apology in his voice. “My nephew’s health and happiness will always come before earning the goodwill of foreign kings, always.” Damn, him, Thorin could hardly argue against that. “I knew that the deception could never be permanent – one way or another, the truth would have come to light.” He nodded toward Tauriel, apparently having perceived how the Company had come to know the truth. “We… we thought we were prepared for that to happen. But nothing could have prepared us for this.”

“How did the Orcs get into the Shire?” Thorin demanded.

“They are not Orcs, not truly,” Elrond answered tiredly. “They are the Urak-Hai, a crossbreed of Orc and Goblin that is capable of moving in daylight. They were created by… by a very powerful being raping the earth with the darkest of magics. Even now, the land around Isengard is screaming in agony, just as the earth of the Shire weeps over the loss of its people.”

“Isengard,” Balin repeated slowly. “You don’t mean… Saruman? Saruman created the foul beasts?”

“The White Wizard has betrayed the White Council,” Elrond confirmed with regret. “Though we did not know it at the time, he had forged an alliance with Sauron and was most displeased by the Dark Lord’s death. In retrospect, Saruman’s unyielding insistence that Bilbo go with him to Isengard in the aftermath of Mount Doom’s erupting was suspicious, but the rest of us simply could not have imagined…” Elrond trailed off with a deep sigh. “And now the gentlest and purest of the Valar’s children has paid the ultimate price for our ignorance.”

“But how did they get into the Shire?” Dwalin insisted on knowing. “Even if they are not Orcs, they are still Dark Creatures and should have been repelled by the Green Magic as long as the Baggins line existed.”

“Aye,” Bofur agreed. “Bilbo told all of us this.”

“The night that the Shire fell, there was a very rare kind of new moon that Elves call Thaurmôr,” Elrond told them. “It gave Saruman the strength to create a window in the Shire’s shielding with Black Magic, a window that five hundred of his Urak-Hai could invade through. It lasted not more than four hours… but that was all the time that the Urak-Hai needed to complete the task their master had given them. In just four short hours, they slaughtered over fifteen thousand Hobbits.”

With limited Green Magic at their disposal and next to no fighting ability, the Hobbits would not have stood a chance against a few dozen Urak-Hai. That Bilbo had survived the genocide of his people was a miracle beyond reckoning, Thorin realized. Divine intervention was the only explanation.

“Do you mean to take Bilbo back with you to Erebor?” the Lady Arwen questioned urgently and unexpectedly, her voice comparable to the chiming of silver bells in the wind.

It was the first time that Thorin had heard Bilbo’s only younger Elven cousin say a single word. Though he had seen glimpses of her during his first visit to Rivendell, mostly at the side of the Lord Elrond’s ward, Estel, as they chatted with Bilbo in Rivendell’s gardens, she had avoided the strangers in her father’s house diligently. Bilbo had later told them that Arwen was very young for an Elf, one of the youngest – only fifty and just recently come of age, if Thorin’s calculations were correct – and was quite shy of those whom she did not know well, partly because she had lost her mother at only seven years of age. Evidently, her fear for Bilbo had overcome her shyness and induced her to speak.

“That was our hope, that we could beg his forgiveness and convince him to return to the Mountain,” Thorin answered carefully, aware that the Elves of Rivendell might object quite strenuously to this plan.

They had planned to spend the better part of an entire year doing so, too, if Bilbo had needed the time in order to trust his estranged husbands again. Though they were already married, Thorin and Dwalin had planned to court their Hobbit properly, as they should have done before.

“Bilbo must go with you,” Arwen declared, gazing intently at Thorin. “His soul will have been severely wounded by the abrupt loss of so many of his Kin Ties; this could kill him.”

Thorin felt his blood chill in his veins, “Kill him?”

“Hobbits need Kin Ties or Kindred Bonds to survive,” Elrond explained. “In normal circumstance, they would need proximity to their Kin or Kindred, touch, to thrive but could manage distance for some time, if needed. But the loss of so many relatives at once will have caused great spiritual damage to Bilbo and he will need continual closeness to as many of his family members as possible, for many years to come, in order to keep his soul from fading away. He could, theoretically, stay here, in Rivendell, as the Kin Ties he has to me, my children, and Estel would sustain his life, but this would not heal the damage already done. He would be, effectively, a prisoner, unable to ever leave the Valley – no matter how much time went by.”

“Being with us would heal him?” Ori inquired politely, because Ori was quite incapable of being rude to anyone, even Elves.

“You are his Kindred, the bonds he forged with you were bonds of choice, made because he loved you, and such bonds are more powerful than those we are born with,” Elrond illuminated. “The bond I shared with his mother, my sister, was stronger than that I have with him, even though I love him no less than I still love her.”

“More importantly,” Arwen added. “Your King and his Prince Consort are his Melodies, his Bonds of Song, and he needs them to be happy.”

“As for the children,” Lord Elrond continued. “They need to remain with Bilbo.”

“Of course,” Thorin acquiesced, “I will not separate him from what remains of his people.”

“You had better not,” Lord Elrond remarked, “Considering the incontrovertible fact that they will die should you do so. Fauntlings require Nurture Bonds to live, deep connections to at least one adult Hobbit whom they see as their parent. If Bilbo is traveling with only children then he must have formed such bonds with them instinctually. It is, the word in Westron is ‘adoption’, but it is more profound than that. Bilbo wrote to tell us that he had taken in his cousins’ faunts when their parents drowned, Bella Rose and Frodo Baggins, and they will almost certainly account for two of the children whom your Raven spotted. As for the others, I imagine that they must have been the children of relatives or close friends.”

“If my Prince Consort has claimed the children as his own, then they shall be henceforth known as Princes and Princesses of Erebor,” Thorin proclaimed firmly.

Elrond almost looked as if he approved, “Hobbits living in a mountain will need certain amenities to thrive.”

“Then they shall have them, every single one,” Thorin swore.

“And more,” Dwalin promised.

The dark-haired Elf who had received them returned then, looking harried, “My Lord, your nephew has been spotted by our Silverbirds exiting the Old Forest. They have also noticed a small band of Urak-Hai marching from the north that will intercept the Ringbearer before he can get here.”

Thorin stiffened in alarm.

“Not if we intercept him first,” Elrond returned immediately. “Have as many of the Silvergreen Archers as you can prepared to ride out in ten minutes, Lindir.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“We’re coming too,” Thorin asserted, with no room for argument in his tone. He would not wait here while foul creatures bore down upon his husband, he could not.

“Yes, I rather thought that you might,” Elrond returned wryly. “Let us go, then, your husband needs his Dwarves.”

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May 11^th, 3, Fourth Age – Dalath Celevon

“What are those flowers called, Papa?” Bella Rose asked, her head resting on his shoulder, one arm around him and the other pointing at the blooms that were blossoming all around in the plain that they were driving through.

“They are called Silver Bells, sweetling,” Bilbo conveyed. “They can ease muscle soreness and tension headaches if you bathe in water infused with them or drink tea brewed from their petals. They also taste rather nice when baked into cakes or candied with honey glaze.”

“Can we stop and pick some?” Cela petitioned, “I love candied petals.”

They were only about thirty minutes away from Rivendell’s borders and the attack that Bilbo had feared might come had not. Still, though, he was uneasy with the idea of dallying – there was danger to his faunts lurking somewhere, Bilbo had been sensing it since before they departed the Shire, and he would be much happier once his little ones were safe in the Valley, behind the Lord Elrond’s protective magics.

“Let’s get to Rivendell first and maybe in a few days we can come back out here and gather some,” Bilbo compromised. “These plains are not technically part of Rivendell, but it would still be polite to ask the Lord Elrond if picking the Silver Bells is allowed.”

It was best to inculcate good manners into fauntlings as soon as possible. Valar forbid that his children ever behave like his Dwarrows routinely did – though there was little chance of such conduct ever being witnessed by little eyes in the Valley of Imladris, unless, of course, Glorfindel stopped by for a visit. Apparently, dieing and being sent back to Arda by Manwë was cause enough to relinquish one’s sense of decorum almost entirely. If there ever was an Elf whom all Dwarves would like, it was Glorfindel.

“I’m so excited,” Bras declared, bouncing on the mattress. “Will there be cake in Rivendell?”

Bilbo chuckled lightly, “I’m sure there will be. My cousin, Arwen, makes the most delectable sponge cakes with strawberry cream and my uncle’s right hand, Lindir, can prepare the most delectable chilled strawberry and blueberry soups, which are perfect for Tea on hot summer days.”

“Oh, goodie,” Grim cheered. “I love berry soups. They’re the best kinds of soup.”

Well, Bilbo was rather partial to heartier stews himself, like the cheesy potato and venison soup his mother had liked to prepare on cold nights or Bombur’s creamy fish chowder, but he could understand his son’s bias for the sweeter soups. Bilbo’d had quite a sweet tooth himself as a fauntling.

“Can you make soup out of blackberries?” Meli questioned, nibbling on one of the last pieces of Lembas Bread.

“My mother taught me how to make sweet blackberry soup paired with buttermilk custards,” Bilbo replied.

It was one of his best Tea – the meal, not the beverage – recipes, actually, his fourth best, to be precise. His best Tea recipe was lemon blueberry cake with blueberry cream, followed by his lemon lavender buttermilk scones and his rose petal tea cakes. Before he had made his intention to remain a bachelor known, because Bagginses married for love and Bilbo had believed, back then, that he was simply not capable of loving anyone as deeply as his parents had loved one another, Bilbo had received upwards of a dozen marriage proposals based on his skill in the kitchen alone.

Other applications for his hand had been rooted in the talents that he had developed at the knees of both of his parents – weaving had also been taught to him by Belladonna, Bungo had seen to it that Bilbo knew how to paint and sing, and they both had imparted everything that they knew about gardening and green life to him. Combined with the fact that Bilbo had been the single richest gentlehobbit in Hobbiton, well, needless to say, there had been an abundance of bonding requests.

“That sounds so yummy,” Meli said. “Can we make that with the berries we picked, Papa?”

“Certainly, dear heart,” Bilbo answered. “And some pies and tarts too.”

“Will your uncle teach us Elf language?” Grim spoke, “Cause I think I would like to know Elf language, if I’m to be an Elf archer.”

“The Elven languages are called Sindarin and Quenya and I’m sure that my uncle will be happy to see to it that you study them, I started learning both when I was your age, Grim,” Bilbo responded. “And you’ll be Hobbit archers, my dear.”

He could not ever let them forget that, first and foremost, they were Hobbits and Yavanna’s children. All that Bilbo’s parents had taught him, he would teach his fauntlings too.

“Can we learn Dwarf language too?” Bella Rose chimed in.

“I… I’m afraid that only a Dwarf would be able to teach you Khuzdûl and Iglishmêk,” Bilbo managed to say. “And there shan’t be any Dwarrow in Rivendell.”

“Well, then let’s go to Erebor, after we see your uncle and we learn Elfish,” Bella Rose suggested innocently. “So we can meet your Dwarf-kin, Papa, and learn how to speak like Dwarves.”

“Sweetling, I’m sorry, but that’s just not possible-” Bilbo was cut off by the sound of Elven war horns ringing out only a short distance away. “Oh, no.”

A flash of gold made Bilbo look North, and he saw his uncle, the Lord Elrond in full armor, cutting down one of the Orcish creatures, just like those that had invaded the Shire, on top of a nearby hill with extreme prejudice. More Elves appeared from over the hill, forming a boundary between Bilbo and what, he assumed, had to be more of the foul beasts.

Bilbo pulled the wagon to a halt, the ponies whinnying unhappily, and turned to the faunts, “Stay in here and keep quiet, no matter what you hear, my dear ones.”

He closed the shutters of the wagon firmly and took up Amdir, notching an arrow into the bow. From overhead came black, flying monsters carrying more of the Orcish creatures on their backs. Bilbo climbed to the top of the wagon and let the arrow fly at one of them, piercing the monster in its neck and sending it to plunge down into the field of flowers, killing the creature riding upon it too as it impacted with the earth. More of the flying monsters made it past the Elven archers and with them came the strange Orcs, several of whom jumped down off of their mounts quite close to the wagon. Bilbo sent another arrow through the eye of one of them, the projectile stabbing through to its brain and killing it before being recalled into Bilbo’s quiver via Elven magic.

A third creature lunged at Bilbo menacingly – and Bilbo had no time to use either his bow or to draw Sting out from her sheath – before collapsing to the ground, a Dwarven axe embedded in its back. An axe he recognized, actually, because Dwalin went nowhere without both Grasper and Keeper strapped to his back.

To Bilbo’s shock, he looked up to see that the whole of the Company, astride rams, and Tauriel, and Sigrid were rushing furiously toward him and the creatures that surrounded him, weapons at the ready. And behind them was a whole host of Dwarven soldiers bearing Erebor’s crest on their breastplates, intent upon bearing down on the Orcish creatures, who looked as caught off-guard as Bilbo felt. What were Dwarves, especially Bilbo’s Dwarves, doing here?

Bilbo let loose another arrow, striking through a white-handprint marked throat, the stain making for a very convenient target. By the Stars of Varda Elbereth, Thorin and Dwalin were racing to reach him and they looked so angry.

Well, what had Bilbo expected? For them to be happy to discover him alive, to learn that he had convinced the White Council to lie to them? Of course they would be livid to have been so deceived, to have been fooled by the Grey Wizard himself. They were probably only coming to his aide now because their honor demanded it of them. As far as they were concerned, Bilbo had betrayed them, had abandoned them – it should not have hurt so much to see them so irate with him, but it did.

The Dwarves and the Orcish creatures met, steel clashing with iron. Bilbo found himself forced to hold back his arrows, because he would not risk hitting one of Kindred accidentally. He could not draw Sting and join the fray, either, because there was simply no way that he could leave his faunts unprotected in the wagon.

Kíli broke from the fight and steered his ram over to Bilbo, his countenance full of the joy that Bilbo would have liked to have seen from his husbands, “Hullo, Mister Boggins!”

“Kíli, down!” Bilbo screamed as one of the strange Orc rushed the lad with the intent of lopping his head off. Kíli barely dodged the blade and was only saved from a second swipe by Tauriel’s quick work with her bow. Panic continued to course through Bilbo’s veins – that had been much too close.

The rest of the Orcish creatures and the flying monsters were dispatched quickly by the Dwarves and Elves, not a single one escaping. Bilbo leapt down from the wagon and marched straight over to Kíli in an alarm-fueled huff.

“What in the Green Lady’s name did you think you were doing!” Bilbo shouted at the younger of his Dwarven nephews, his heart still hammering in his chest. “You don’t look away from your opponent in the heat of the battle, you don’t allow yourself to get distracted. Of all the foolish, reckless things to do! You could have been killed, Kíli!”

“Sorry,” Kíli replied, grinning wildly at him and not looking or sounding very repentant at all.

“Papa, why are you shouting?” Bras asked.

Bilbo whirled around to see that Bras, Grim, and Meli had exited the wagon completely, while Bella Rose and Cela were hanging out of the window, their eyes lit up with curiosity.

“I told you to stay in the wagon,” Bilbo cried in exasperation and threw his hands up in the air, his patience a mere sliver at that point.

“But, the wagon’s boring,” Meli rejoined, rocking back and forth on her feet. “Everything interesting is out here.”

“Are those Orcs?” Grim asked, pointing to the felled bodies.

“No, they’re Urak-Hai,” Ori told them helpfully. “Orcs are generally smaller and not quite as intelligent.”

Bilbo contemplated tearing his hair out in frustration but settled for releasing a deep, long-suffering sigh instead.

“Let’s get you and your fauntlings to Rivendell,” Bilbo’s uncle approached him and laid a consoling hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Tea and rest await you there. You’re all safe now.”

Bilbo let his uncle’s steady calm settle his own nerves and he nodded sharply, allowing Elrond to take control, “Fauntlings, get back in the wagon.”

“But what are those?” Meli inquired, gazing intently at the rams. “Are they like goats?”

“They’re rams,” Balin explained to her. “They live in mountains, primarily.”

“Can we ride on the rams?” Bras asked, his eyes eagerly tracking the animals that were not native to the lands of the Shire and therefore exotic enough to be thrilling to the faunt.

Bilbo opened his mouth to say that, no, they most certainly could not ride on the rams after they had so blatantly disobeyed him, but Fíli spoke up first, “Course, you can, Idadinùdoy.”

Bilbo decided that his sanity probably could not handle any temper tantrums at that moment – unlike Bella Rose, Frodo, and Sam, his other faunts were quite capable of throwing spectacular tantrums if they did not get their way – and let it go, “Fine.”

Celandine and Bella Rose scrambled out of the wagon, eager to ride on the rams too. Bilbo barely managed to climb back up into the driver’s seat to stop Frodo and Sam from doing the same, “No sirs, you’re too little to be riding on anything.” The boys pouted but sat back with Merry and Pippin, who looked rather frightened still. Bilbo pulled his two littlest into his lap, where they clung to him for comfort, “There now, dear ones, it’s alright.”

“We can lash the boys to us, to provide more stability, Nadadith,” Dori offered carefully, his tone gentle, probably because he could sense that Bilbo was very close to throwing a tantrum himself, “If the little ones truly wish to ride on the rams with us.”

Bilbo wondered if Dori even realized that he was eyeing Bilbo’s frayed clothing with something akin to horror.

Frodo tugged at Bilbo’s collar and said insistently, “Rams, Papa.”

“Yes, alright, you may ride the rams,” Bilbo conceded and Frodo and Sam eagerly hopped from the wagon into Dori and Balin’s arms. If the two had to ride with anyone, Bilbo would have picked the two most reasonable of his Dwarven brothers.

This still left him with a problem, because Bilbo now had his arms full of trembling faunts and could hardly drive the wagon in such a state. Bofur and Nori solved this dilemma for him, climbing up onto the seat on either side of him, sandwiching him between them protectively – evidently they were still worried about more Urak-Hai approaching, no matter what Elrond had said – as Nori took up the reins.

Bras and Grim were riding with Fíli and Kíli, Bella Rose with Ori on his black-coated ram, Cela was with Glóin, and Meli sat in front of Bifur, swinging her legs excitedly. Óin and Thorin flanked those riding with the faunts on the left, while Bombur and Dwalin took up parallel positions on the right. The rest of the Dwarves and Elves surrounded them and the wagon, with Elrond leading the pack of them – which surprised Bilbo immensely because he never thought that the day would come when Thorin would willingly allow an Elf to lead him anywhere.

As they traveled, Thorin and Dwalin cast furtive looks back and forth to each other repeatedly, but they never once looked back at Bilbo. Despite himself, Bilbo felt his heart sink and he pulled Merry and Pippin close, burying his face in their ash blonde and strawberry curls and squeezing his eyes shut tightly to prevent tears from escaping them.

“Nadad,” Bofur spoke softly, causing Bilbo to look up at him blearily. His normally jovial brother looked terribly serious then. “I’m so sorry, for everything. We can’t change the past, but we can protect you now, now and in the future, you and the little ones.”

“We can and will,” Nori swore. “You can rest in the wagon, if you want. You look terrible.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” Bilbo returned, not sure if he was referring to their offer of protection or Nori’s suggestion that he take a nap. He wanted, so very badly, to believe that his Dwarves wanted him again, but… well, he simply could not.

Eventually, Merry gained the courage to peek out at Bofur and was utterly delighted by the silly faces that the Dwarf made for him, so much so that it drew Pippin’s interest too and both of them were swiftly giggling in delight, the terror of earlier forgotten. They arrived in the Valley in what seemed to Bilbo like hardly any time at all, and it was probably because being pressed close to two of his Kindred for the first time in years was absolutely wonderful. It was going to hurt so badly to lose them again.

They crossed over the bridge, which Bilbo was going to have to keep the fauntlings well away from – why did Elves and Dwarves think it was appropriate to build elevated walkways without railings – and approached the entrance to Elrond’s manor, where Arwen and Lindir were waiting for them. Bilbo breathed out a sigh of relief and felt much of his anxiety trickle away.

They were safe.

Bilbo handed Merry over to Lindir and Pippin to Arwen, when the Elves reached for the faunts, and then hopped down off the wagon after Nori. He took three steps forward toward the doors, swayed without warning, and then promptly lost consciousness.

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

May 12^th, 3, Fourth Age – Rivendell

Bilbo woke to discover a state of affairs that left him feeling rather bewildered. The Company was slumbering on the floor in piles all around the soft bed that he was resting on, except for Thorin and Dwalin, who were slumped against the bed on their knees and were either gripping Bilbo’s hand or had an arm swung over his waist protectively. Judging by the low level of natural light in the airy bedroom, which he belatedly recognized as his, it was just after dawn.

The doors to the bedroom opened silently and Arwen swept in to smile gently at him, “Good morn, Gwedeir.” Bilbo’s cousin carefully stepped over and around the Dwarves, “Ada offered them all rooms of their own, but I think, perhaps, you frightened them too badly when you collapsed yesterday afternoon. They know that you need closeness to them to heal and so they insisted upon sleeping here last night. Your dear fauntlings are in the room next door – they were a bit scared when you fainted, but Ada managed to convince them that you were just very sleepy from traveling.”

Bilbo blinked at her in confusion, “I don’t understand.”

Bilbo’s words, soft though they were, caused Dwalin to stir at his side. The Dwarf groggily lifted his head and then his eyes widened when he realized that Bilbo was alert.

“Bilbo!” he exclaimed in his deep, rumbling voice, loudly enough to wake everyone else up too. “Thank Mahal, we were so worried!”

Arwen covered her smile with her hand, mirth and a ‘see, what did I tell you’ dancing in her eyes.

“You… were?” Bilbo managed to say. “But… you were angry with me.”

Thorin flinched and Dwalin’s gaze fell.

“I’m hungry,” Fíli declared loudly then. “Who else is hungry? Everyone? Great, let’s all go find breakfast somewhere that’s decidedly not here.”

And then he began to physically push as many of the others as he could reach out of the bedroom. The rest of the Company apparently cottoned on to what he was trying to do as their faces lit with understanding and they began to file out willingly, until only Arwen was left in the room with Bilbo and his husbands. Bilbo’s Elven cousin sent both Thorin and Dwalin severe looks – and Bilbo had not realized that Arwen was capable of being stern – before flowing gracefully back out into the hall and shutting the doors firmly behind her, before Bilbo could beg her to stay.

“Are you hungry?” Dwalin pressed, his words heavy with worry. “Cause, this can wait a few minutes more so that you can eat… or Thorin and I can talk while you eat.”

“No, no, I’m fine, for now,” Bilbo responded hesitantly, less due to his lack of hunger, because he was fairly ravenous, truth be told, and more due to the fact that he knew with utter certainty that if he ate anything right then, he would likely throw it back up because of nerves. More bemused and, well, afraid than anything, Bilbo continued diffidently, “I would rather like to be dressed, though.”

He was in a nightshirt and underwear, and someone had obviously bathed him while he had been sleeping because he felt cleaner than he had in a month, but he would much prefer to be in actual clothes. He felt… exposed like this.

Dwarves had very little shame when it came to their bodies, moving about in various states of dress, undress, or full-blown nudity as they pleased. Bilbo had grown used to this during the Quest, had even come to understand it – Dwarrow simply saw no reason to be ashamed of their most natural state – but he was a Baggins, and Bagginses, like all gentlehobbits, were raised to find comfort in propriety. Gentlehobbits were, had been, of the opinion that no one but one’s spouse or spouse had any business seeing one unclothed.

The Company had been insulted by Bilbo’s refusal to bathe or undress in their presence in the beginning, thinking that he thought himself better than them. One too many snide comments had resulted in Bilbo snapping at Glóin, who had been unfortunate enough to make the remark under his breath that sparked Bilbo’s ire, that he was a Baggins and Bagginses married for love, gave themselves only to their loves, thank you very much, as per the traditions of his people and was Bilbo going around insulting Mahal’s children by insisting that they behave like Hobbits, no, he was not, so Glóin could shut it. It was at this point, of course, that the Company had come to the realization that Bilbo had never had intercourse in his life – which Fíli and Kíli had found utterly tragic – and things had eased somewhat, because saving oneself for marriage was, apparently, a very honorable thing to do, even if very few Dwarrow did so.

“The Lord Elrond has provided clothing for you,” Thorin related, his tone betraying nothing, as Bilbo slipped out of the bed, his head spinning a bit still. “It’s waiting for you in the bathroom.”

Well, Thorin and Dwalin did not sound livid, at least, but, at the same time, they certainly did not look or sound happy either.

Bilbo scurried into the bathroom, where clothing was, indeed, waiting for him. Fashioned of silk in pale silver and a purple so light that it only just could be called purple at all, the clothing would mark him as the Lord Elrond’s kin – the brocade of leaves and vines and Silverbirds was not merely pretty decoration but his uncle’s beatific crest, the symbol of his Grace, repeated over and over across the fabric of the overcoat and stamped across the heart of Bilbo’s tunic. Only close relatives could wear the crest of an Elf.

Beautiful though they were, the clearly Elven-style attire still made him wince internally – his husbands would not like seeing him dressed in such garb; they had been sullen and cantankerous when Bilbo had worn such, to honor his uncle and his cousins in their home, on their first visit to Rivendell. That was why he had left the sturdier, Elfish clothes behind when the Company had departed from the Valley. But, there was nothing for it, so on the clothes would go.

It did not take long for Bilbo to dress, though he purposely took his time pulling on the thick silk clothing and then brushing his wild curls in an attempt to tame them. He felt… slightly better, to be wearing proper attire once more, almost as if he had pulled on a kind of armor. Still, he would have preferred to hide in the bathroom for the remainder of his life, at that point, or at least until Thorin and Dwalin had grown fed up with waiting for him and left.

‘Get a grip, Bilbo Baggins,’ Bilbo chided himself fiercely. ‘You walked through the Mordor and riddled with the last of the Great Drakes. You can face your husbands now, no matter what they wish to say.’

Though dubious regarding his own conviction, Bilbo took a deep breath and then exited the bathroom, stepping out toward Thorin and Dwalin timorously, halting when he was only a few short feet away. He crossed his arms over his chest and gripped his own coat-sleeves to hide the fact that his hands were trembling.

“You… you said that you wanted to talk?” Bilbo stammered, when neither of his Dwarves showed any inclination of speaking. Apparently, they seemed utterly content to just stare at Bilbo with an intensity that made him shiver, as if they were parched and could only be satisfied by drinking in the sight of him. Bilbo was not sure what to make of the behavior.

They regained themselves and it was Dwalin who marveled, “Seein’ you standin’ there, hearin’ yer voice – ‘tis a miracle, Bilbo. We’ve known fer months that you were alive, but…”

“How did you know?” Bilbo inquired.

“Tauriel and Kíli were wed,” Dwalin explained.

Oh, oh. Bilbo was an idiot of the highest order. It was not that he had forgotten that Elves, like Hobbits, created bonds with their spouses, family members, and very close friends… it was just that he had, in fact, forgotten. Or maybe deliberately ignored this knowledge, which was, perhaps, worse.

“So… you decided to leave Erebor to… why did you leave Erebor?” Bilbo asked.

“To beg for your forgiveness,” Thorin declared, as he and Dwalin sunk to their knees as if they were a single entity, “And to beg you to consent to come back to the Mountain.”

Bilbo stared, quite unable to speak then even if his life had depended on it.

“Bilbo,” Thorin forged on. “When we woke from our madness and realized what we had done to you… there are not words to describe how much we despised ourselves. We had already made plans to come for you when Gandalf arrived in Erebor… when he told us that you were dead… we might as well have been dead too. Because we knew, knew that we only had ourselves to blame for losing you. You deserved none of the violence that we meted out, nor were the cruel words that we spoke to you, that day on the ramparts and after the Battle, warranted. We were such fools.”

“We should’ve fought harder against the gold, should’ve been stronger,” Dwalin said. “You were right, Bilbo, so very right to act as you did and we should’ve listened to our hearts instead of the whisperin’s of the treasure. We’re sorry, we’re so, so sorry, for everythin’. We… we betrayed you and hurt you and there may be nothin’ that can ever make up fer what we did, but we are beggin’ you to give us the chance to try.”

As he stood, gaping, he noticed – and how in the seven hells had he not noticed before that moment – that Thorin and Dwalin still wore the half of their marriage beads that symbolized him in their hair. His heart swelled in his chest even as it wept.

Slowly and with such a myriad of powerful emotions churning inside of him like a hurricane that he could hardly identify one out of the lot of them, Bilbo walked over to his husbands and knelt down to be at their level, his knees sinking into the thick woolen carpet that lined the floor. There were so many things that he could have said, could have yelled even, and since his mind was reeling, he settled for allowing his heart to speak for him.

“I love you. There is nothing in all of Arda or Valinor that is powerful enough to destroy my love for you both, but… you allowed gold to matter more to you than me, your husband,” Bilbo’s voice broke and he had to swallow. “You stopped being the Dwarrow that I love and became… the words you spoke, the gleam in your eyes… they were so reminiscent of the Dragon that, during those days before the Battle, I considered the possibility more than once that Smaug had infected you from beyond the grave! Despite that, when Gandalf warned me to not return to the Mountain after I gave the Arkenstone to Bard, I insisted that I would never have cause to fear you, was adamant that the faith I had in you was not misplaced – you proved me wrong on both counts.”

Thorin screwed his eyes shut almost involuntarily, his countenance stricken with misery, and Dwalin balked, his indigo eyes cast down in ignominy. Despite the anger, despite the fear, Bilbo wanted to hold them, wanted to protect them even from his own tumultuous feelings. But he could not, because they had to hear this, they had to know what their actions had wrought in him, if there was any chance of their Heart-harmony healing, they had to know.

“I want, more than anything, to go with you to Erebor and pretend that none of that ever happened,” Bilbo whispered, and his husbands’ gazes returned to him as tears spilled over the rims of his eyes and began to trail down his cheeks, “But I’m terrified. I couldn’t compete with the gold before and if you fall under its thrall again… I won’t survive being cast away a second time. I barely survived it the first time; I wouldn’t have if Gandalf had not been there to stop me.”

“Stop you from what?” Dwalin asked, his voice thick with his own choked back tears. “Gayadê, what did you try to do?”

“I thought that you weren’t coming back,” Bilbo admitted, not looking at either of his husbands. “I found Belladonna growing wild and tried to ingest it. Gandalf caught me and put a stop to it – he was quite furious about it, actually.”

“Deadly Nightshade,” Thorin’s voice was dull. “Oh, Bilbo.”

“I threw a bit of a tantrum after that,” Bilbo told them softly, wryly, “That’s how we figured out what the Ring truly was – I pitched it into a fire in a pique.”

“When you destroyed the Ring and killed Sauron,” Thorin relayed, “The Arkenstone lost all of its dark power.”

“We realized that we couldn’t remember anythin’ bout the Dwarf who supposedly found the stone for Thrór and, fer the first time, began to question why,” Dwalin added. “The stone exacerbated the weakness fer gold in the line of Durin, drove Thrór utterly mad, and it’s what brought Smaug to Erebor in the first place.”

“It didn’t affect Fíli or Kíli, because they clung to Sigrid and Tauriel and were, thus, protected,” Bilbo stated, his words infused with pain. “Despite everything, you didn’t really want me.”

“No,” Thorin’s tone was absolute. “Ghivashel, that is not true. We… we were arrogant and foolish. When we first laid eyes on you, when we realized what you were to us, our first instinct was not to rejoice but to question the will of Mahal because you were not a Dwarf, as we had expected you to be. Even still, when you took insult to the things we said and did, we were angry with you instead of ourselves, as we should have been. Later, when peace settled between us, we sought to change you, to alter you to fit Dwarven standards instead of cherishing you for the Hobbit that you are, as we ought to have. We spurned your customs and beliefs and took light of what you needed as one of Yavanna’s children. Mahal punished us for that… a punishment that you bore the brunt of.”

“Fíli and Kíli never once denied their Ones or wished for ‘em to be anythin’ but who they are,” Dwalin spoke. “Prejudice and unwarranted pride are foreign to our nephews; their hearts are too pure for such things.”

“We destroyed the Arkenstone,” Thorin revealed, causing Bilbo to start in shock. Cautiously, tenderly, Thorin reached out to cup the right side of Bilbo’s face and wipe away the tears there, and Bilbo let him. “It’s gone forevermore, Lukhudel, and in the very moment that you destroyed the Ring, the madness faded, the shroud over our minds and hearts was torn away. You freed us, you freed all of Erebor, and I swear to you that neither of us has felt any kind of pull toward gold or gems since that day. Our minds are our own and we shall die before forsaking you again, Madtithbirzul. If time is what you need to trust us again, then, please, give us that time. Come home to Erebor and let us prove to you that you have nothing to fear, not from us, not ever again.”

“Mâzyung Zu,” Dwalin gently lifted Bilbo’s left hand and kissed it.

“The Orcish creatures, the Urak-Hai, they’re after me,” Bilbo informed them, because he had to. “You’ll be putting Erebor at risk if you bring me back with you.”

“Erebor would be at risk either way,” Dwalin countered, almost impetuously. “At any rate, you and the little ones will be safer in the Mountain, and it’s flanked by Dale, which provides still greater protection.”

“Okay,” Bilbo agreed softly. “Okay.”

Thorin and Dwalin slumped slightly in relief, such joy evident in their faces that it made Bilbo’s soul sing despite its grievous wounds. In that instant, all Bilbo wanted was for his Dwarves to wrap him up in their arms and shield him from the devastation that he had been running from for the past month. In a few minutes, they would have to leave the bedroom and face the others, Bilbo would have to put on a cheerful face and be a father, because his faunts would need him to, but right then… Bilbo just wanted to be held.

He was not sure how to ask them, not after all that had transpired between them, but, in the end, he did not have to. Bilbo was barely leaning forward toward them before he found himself tucked between them, his husbands peppering his face and hair with kisses as they cradled him. Between one breath and the next, Bilbo found himself weeping uncontrollably into Dwalin’s shoulder, clinging with one hand to the soft tunic that Dwalin was wearing while Bilbo’s other hand gripped one of Thorin’s tightly to his chest.

To his astonishment, they were sobbing too, clutching him as if they feared that he would vanish at any moment.

“The Shire’s gone, they’re gone and it’s my fault,” Bilbo confessed after a few minutes. “They slaughtered my people to get to me, to take me to their master. I as good as killed my entire race.”

“T’was not your fault,” Dwalin opposed at once, “You are not to be held accountable fer the malice of other people, Laslel.”

“Place the blame where it belongs, at Saruman’s feet,” Thorin told him.

Bilbo felt himself pale dramatically and he leaned back to look at their faces, his voice devoid of emotion, “Saruman? The White Wizard? He did this?”

A strange rage, hot and bright, swelled up inside of his heart and threatened to consume him utterly and without warning. For one of the Istari to fall to darkness was unprecedented – for they were Maiar chosen to take the form of Wizards because of their fierce and unyielding love and loyalty to the Valar – and an abhorrence. A betrayal of this kind was as horrifying as the treason Sauron had committed when he pledged his allegiance to Morgoth, was nearly as devastating as Melkor’s abandoning of the rest of the Ainur. And then for Saruman to all but wipe out one of the Valar’s children… such an atrocity had never before been perpetrated in all of Arda’s history.

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged brief glances that were chock full of concern, far more perceptive than Bilbo wanted them to be. His Dwarven lumps were always discerning in the moments that Bilbo did not wish for them to be – other times they could be as oblivious as the stone that they were hewn from.

Dwalin spoke carefully, “Aye, but you need not worry ‘bout him, Ukradel. The White Council is makin’ plans to take him down.”

“We must concern ourselves with safeguarding what remains of Yavanna’s sons and daughters,” Thorin reminded him bluntly – subtlety, it seemed, was not a part of the vast repertoire of talents that Dwarrow possessed.

But mentioning Bilbo’s children did the trick, regardless. As much as the fire burning in him wished it, Bilbo could not go after Saruman, not without also placing the fauntlings that he so loved at risk; he was the only thing keeping them alive, after all, and if he should perish before they reached their tweens… then the last light of Yavanna’s firstborn would die with him. Protecting them was both his solemn responsibility and his paramount privilege.

“I claimed them, with my heart and soul via Green Magic,” Bilbo illuminated. “They are mine; as much as they would have been had I sired them. The Nurture Bonds are the most sacred of the natural defensives that Hobbits have – they cannot be broken, except in death. You aren’t just getting me, you’ll be getting nine faunts who will look at you and see two more fathers, because they can sense that you’re my Melodies.”

“We will protect you all,” Thorin swore intensely, “You and the children; we will keep you safe, Khajmel. Helping you raise them will be an honor that we do not deserve.”

“I’ve been tryin’ to convince this royal lump to adopt for near a century now,” Dwalin said. “I was hopin’ that you’d be on my side once Erebor was reclaimed and that we could wear him down, since his worries ‘bout it not bein’ safe enough would no longer be valid.”

“They won’t… they’re not dwarflings,” Bilbo conveyed. “Even raised amongst Dwarrows, there will be things that they will never be able to do simply because they are not children of Mahal – develop stone sense, for example, or grow any larger than, well, me, and I’m one of the tallest Hobbits in our history – and there will be things that they do instinctually, that they must do, that may be difficult for non-Hobbits to understand.”

“Difficult, but not impossible,” Thorin declared. “There may have never been Princes and Princesses of Erebor such as them before, but, regardless, they will be given every honor and every aspect of them shall be cherished. They will want for nothing.”

“Princes and Princesses,” Bilbo’s eyes widened and he protested, “But, they’re not of the line of Durin.”

“The Elves, even while they perpetuated the falsehood of your death, hailed you as Ernil uin Glaur,” Dwalin said with a shrug, “And even if they had not, yer a Melhekith Hurmâl of Erebor and you have claimed the faunts as yers in a way that is the equivalent of the Dwarven tradition of adoptin’ a child and becomin’ their Shomakhâl Abanaz U Barukaz, guardian of stone and of axe. That makes ‘em royalty basically by default.”

“Oh,” Bilbo worried at his lower lip. “Are you angry with me, because I asked the Elves and Gandalf to lie to you?”

“Did you do it to punish us?” Thorin replied, no censure in his voice.

“I… I don’t know. Maybe,” Bilbo confessed. “I knew that the sickness was gone, but I was too scared to hope that… that it was the only reason you didn’t want me anymore. And… I was angry. I tried to convince myself that if I could just get back to Bag End all of the fear and hurt and resentment, which was threatening to consume me back then, would bleed away. I think… I think that even if I had tried to go to Erebor nothing good would have come of it. The Ring, carrying it, was… a burden, one that did not ease even after I destroyed it. Even now, with my soul as wounded as it is from the loss of my people, I’m healthier than I was back then. A lot of the time between me departing Erebor up until some of my more persistent relations forced me to let them back into my life is hazy – I can remember it if I try hard enough, but it almost hurts to do so.”

“Would that we had not been callous fools and been at yer side, Gayadê,” Dwalin murmured mournfully. “Perhaps the Ring could not have harmed you so.”

“If we are angry, then it is with ourselves, not with you,” Thorin answered Bilbo’s question, one large thumb stroking his cheek with almost a kind of reverence. “Even a thousand years of apologies will not be enough to rectify the wrongs we committed against you.”

“I don’t need a thousand years or as many apologies as you could fit into such a span of time,” Bilbo insisted. “I just need you to promise me that you’ll never leave me again and for you keep that promise.”

“I swear it,” Thorin rejoined without hesitation.

Dwalin squeezed Bilbo’s fingers gently, “As do I.”

Bilbo dared to believe them.

“We… we have some things that belong to you, things we took in the name of false justice that we should very much like to return to you now,” Thorin proclaimed, pulling a small pouch of purple silk out from beneath his shirt and pulling the cord that it hung from over his head. Dwalin copied him quickly, gesturing for Bilbo to cup his hands together.

Bilbo complied and Thorin and Dwalin tipped the pouches upside down, spilling two dozen sparkling beads into Bilbo’s palms – Mithril and colored diamonds all fixed with the Royal Mark of Erebor. Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat in his chest.

His marriage beads.

Hobbits exchanged rings, usually of ornate silver, during a ceremony to symbolize their wedded bliss – this was the final step of the courtship traditions in the Shire, traditions that were much simpler than Dwarven ones – but Dwarves wore beads fashioned for them by whichever family held the higher rank amongst the people. Usually, this meant that Dwarves had to wait until after their child had met their One or Ones to have the beads created, but Thrain, as the Heir Apparent of Erebor with only the King Under the Mountain outranking him, had not needed to do any such thing. The beads were woven into hair in private following a wedding ceremony and before the consummation of the marriage – the act was perceived by Mahal’s sons and daughters to be nearly as intimate as sex.

Bilbo’s hands trembled almost violently, joy and terror at war within him. ‘Calm down,’ he ordered himself, ‘Calm down right now or they’ll notice and be upset.’ To his dismay, his body seemed to have no inclination at all to obey this edict.

“Bilbo?” Thorin steadied the Hobbit’s hands, perceiving what Bilbo had not wanted either him or Dwalin to. “Bilbo, what’s wrong?”

“You said-” Bilbo cut himself off, trying to quell the panic, trying to forget the words spoken on the day that he had been cast out.

‘I revoke your right to wear our beads and braids. I revoke your right to touch Mithril and should you ever in the presence of a Dwarf after this day, know that you will lose your hands.’

Well, there they were, the words, not quite as easily forgotten as Bilbo would have preferred them to be.

Thorin inhaled sharply in understanding, “Oh, Ghivashel.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo blurted out, ashamed at his reaction to getting something that he had so badly wished for in his heart for years. He had missed his beads, missed what they symbolized, with a fervor that he had not imagined would surface when the beads had been first gifted to him. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Thorin objected. “This is my fault.”

“Our fault,” Dwalin interjected.

“Can… can you braid them in?” Bilbo requested, swallowing the burst of fear as best as he could. “Please?”

“Yes,” Dwalin assured hastily, “Of course we can.”

Bilbo was settled in between his two Dwarven husbands as they gently tamed the red gold curls that framed his face into six slim, ornate braids, plucking beads from his palms to weave in as they needed them. It took a good half-hour, the braiding, and Bilbo suspected that his Melodies were drawing the process out on purpose, because it had not taken half that amount of time when they had braided his hair in Lake-town, but the time, and conversation, helped to soothe him.

“You’ve been cutting your hair,” Thorin noted as his fingers moved through Bilbo’s locks nimbly, and it was a question.

“I didn’t have a reason not to,” Bilbo acknowledged. “I won’t, anymore.”

“You don’t have to alter yerself for us,” Dwalin repeated the earlier sentiment.

“Well, then, I won’t do it for you,” Bilbo lied, shivering ever so slightly when Dwalin’s fingers brushed the tip of his ear. “I’ll do it to stop Balin and Dori from having coronaries. I saw how pale Dori got when he caught sight of my clothes; I didn’t think that anyone was capable of fussing more than my Uncle Elrond, but Dori manages to do so admirably. And the last time I tried to cut my hair in his presence, Balin subjected me to a four hour long lecture about the sanctity of my wayward curls.”

Thorin chuckled, “Balin has always had a gift for lectures and details. There is a reason that he writes my speeches and is the Chief Advisor to the Throne.”

“Dori will probably have a full wardrobe waitin’ for you in Erebor,” Dwalin added, his voice just a shade smug. “He may have even already sent a Raven to the Tailor’s Guild with detailed instructions ‘bout every single article of clothin’ he’s decided that you need.”

“Is Dori in charge of the Tailor’s Guild, then?” Bilbo asked.

“Dori is the Guildmaster of Erebor, is the one that all of the Guild Chiefs must report to and it is he who settles any disputes that may arise between the guilds, and he is also, like most of the Company, a High Lord of Erebor,” Thorin revealed. “The High Lords and Ladies make up the Golden Council, while the regular Lords and Ladies compose the Silver Council.”

“Most?” Bilbo questioned.

“Fíli, as my heir, is a member of the Mithril Council, as is his wife, Sigrid, me, Dwalin, and, if you so desire it, you,” Thorin stated. “Fíli is also the Chief of the Jeweler’s Guild, a position that he will hold until the Crown falls to him, and Chief Ambassador to Dale, while Sigrid, much to Bard’s dismay, leads the Shieldmaidens – an alliance of Dwarrowdams and Women who came to the conclusion that allowing males to fight for them was archaic and foolish, as so many of us were so easily blinded by the lure of gold – and assists my sister in managing the Royal Household.”

“Bard disagrees with her?”

“Bard agrees wholeheartedly,” Dwalin replied, twisting a group of curls intricately. “He just ain’t very happy ‘bout Sigrid puttin’ herself at risk by standin’ as the division’s leader. There are some in Erebor and Dale who are opposed to either females doin’ battle, or the alliance between Dwarves and Men, or both. Not many of ‘em, but enough. Change can be a fearful thing.”

“Is Tauriel a Shieldmaiden too?” Bilbo wanted to know.

“She and Kíli lead the Carven Stone Archers together,” Thorin responded, as he placed another bead in Bilbo’s hair. “They are the elite of the Archer’s Division. Most of the time, this involves running through the forest on what Kíli calls ‘scouting missions’ or assisting Nori or hunting for rare herbs that Tauriel is very good at spotting, which Óin insists are invaluable. Tauriel is also a Healer and Kíli is the Chief of the Silversmith’s Guild.”

“That’s so much responsibility,” Bilbo murmured in mild disapproval. “They’re boys, Thorin.”

“They’re the future leaders of Erebor,” Thorin corrected, though not unkindly. “One day, Fíli will be King Under the Mountain and Kíli shall be his brother’s most trusted advisor. They have borne the weight of their duties well, even if they do completely ignore tradition and protocol at times.”

“Kíli eloped with Tauriel,” Dwalin explained, when he noticed Bilbo’s confusion.

“Well, so did we,” Bilbo pointed out.

“We were about to face a Dragon,” Thorin muttered, sounding fairly annoyed with their nephew. “Kíli just got fed up with waiting for the majority of the Silver Council to come around to the idea of him marrying an Elf and decided to force them to accept it.”

“… and this surprised you?” Bilbo inquired wryly.

Dwalin snorted in amusement, “Probably shouldn’t have.”

“What about the rest of the Company?” Bilbo wondered. “What have they been doing?”

“Ori is the Master Scribe of Erebor and runs the Mekebel, the Great Library. He’s also bein’ courted by a Crystal Carver named Bín. He’s a good lad and utterly devoted to Ori, though Dori and Nori hate ‘im on principle.” Dwalin said. “Bombur is the Master of the Kitchens and the Keeper of the Keys fer the food stores and granaries. His wife, Rínalí, is Chief of the Architect’s Guild and is pregnant with their seventh bairn. Bofur is the Chief of the Miner’s Guild – he and Nori finally got their acts together and are officially courtin’ – and Bifur is the Chief of the Woodworker’s Guild. Bo and Bif also run a toy shop situated the Western Quarter of Erebor’s Royal Bazaar, the Toy Treasury, and Bifur’s daughter, Rannvá, makes the loveliest plush animals for the store.”

“Glóin is the Master of the Royal Treasury and Óin is Master over all of the Healers,” Thorin continued. “Glóin’s wife, Gélaní, is my sister’s lady-in-waiting and their son, Gimli, is a member of the Guard and one of the most skilled; I’m promoting him to Captain once we return to the Mountain. He traveled here with us, so you shall get to meet him. Nori is our Spymaster, leader of the Shadow Shields, and he owns a tavern, which he had the audacity to name Dragonsbreath, that his youngest sister, Rannvá’s wife, Florís, manages with frightening efficiency.”

“Shadow Shields?”

“Erebor’s spy network,” Thorin clarified.

Bilbo blinked, “So, when you said that Kíli and Tauriel help Nori as archers, you meant…” Bilbo trailed off purposely, quite sure that he did not actually want his suspicions to be confirmed. “And the two of you have been doing… king things?”

Thorin sounded extremely amused, the clot, “Yes, lots of king things. Dwalin is the Master of the Captains of the Royal Guard.”

“And, technically, I’m in charge of the Spymaster too, but Nori, the git, and his Shadow Shields have this irritatin’ habit of askin’ fer forgiveness and not permission,” Dwalin scowled mildly.

“Yes, that rather sounds like Nori,” Bilbo remarked with a slight smirk. “Did Dori ever open the tea shop that he spoke of during the Quest?”

“He did, though the older of his two sisters runs the place,” Dwalin stated. “It’s a pretty little shop in the Southern quarter of Erebor’s Royal Bazaar. The Silver-Winged Raven, he’s called it.”

“Morís, Óin’s wife?” Bilbo said.

“Aye,” Dwalin picked up the last of the beads. “Dori’s teas are quite popular and the shop is the only place to buy Ori’s knitwear, which is the finest in the kingdom. Dori and Balin were wed two autumns ago, as well.”

Thorin finished braiding Bilbo’s hair only a few seconds before Dwalin did. It was amazing, how comforting the slight weight of the beads was. Thorin kissed Bilbo’s cheek, his soft beard tickling him, “There.”

Dwalin finished too and then rose and retrieved a flat, oaken chest from the pile of things that the Company had dumped in Bilbo’s bedroom, carrying it over to Bilbo and setting it before him, “These are yers too, Laslel.”

Bilbo unlatched the chest and lifted the lid, expecting – hoping – to see the pair of Mithril and Everbright Steel daggers and the Mithril coat that had been given to him as wedding gifts by his Melodies. And these were, in fact, inside the trunk, but they were not the only things that had been packed into it.

For a solid few minutes, Bilbo could only gape at the contents of the chest.

There was a full tea set of solid silver, etched with violets and studded with blue emeralds, a golden music box with jacinth scattered across it in whorls, a case of silver and ruby writing quills, and an ornate flute of platinum inlaid with streaking flecks of lapis lazuli on the top. Beneath these were a trio of gold-bound books, a bouquet of platinum and golden violets, lavender stalks, and roses, three coats of the softest, finest silk that Bilbo had ever felt, and two hooded cloaks of thick fur in gold and silver. And at the very bottom was an elaborate shield of Mithril edged with red, blue, and purple diamonds and a Mithril-tipped axe of Everbright Steel with a Golden Oak handle embedded with dark green emeralds.

Understanding slowly crept in, “Are these… are these for me?”

“They are,” Thorin verified, sounding a bit nervous. “There are more, but they were either too large to carry with us or were items that could have been damaged during travel. There are three Gifting Days a year, according to the Dwarven calendar. Balin spoke of them to you, did he not?”

Bilbo just nodded, overwhelmed. There were seven major festivals that Dwarrow celebrated, plus Durin’s Day. On Durin’s Day and during the Festival of the Forges and on the morn of the Festival of Hunt, Dwarves presented their family with gifts. Expensive, beautiful gifts for Durin’s Day, homemade gifts of a Dwarf’s craft on Forge Day, and gifts of meats or furs or something from a kill on Hunt Day.

“You’ve missed several of them,” Thorin supplied.

“You thought that I was dead,” and it was definitely a question, even if the phrasing had been a bit off.

“Aye,” Dwalin agreed softly. “And Dwarrow do not grieve lightly.”

They had crafted all of those beautiful and excessively valuable things for him, despite believing that he was lost to them forever, because… oh, oh.

Bilbo’s breath hitched and he felt as if he had something stuck in his throat as he spoke, “You missed me.”

“Of course we did, Bilbo,” Thorin responded earnestly, “Every minute of every day.”

“It was as if a piece of our hearts had been cut away,” Dwalin intoned solemnly.

Bilbo covered his face with his hands, guilt flooding into him. He had been so sure, had he not? Sure that staying away, that him playing dead, was best for everyone, that Thorin and Dwalin would prefer it that way. Maybe, things would have been okay, had he listened to Galadriel’s advice and gone to Erebor. Possibly, it would have been more painful initially, but, perhaps, he would have recovered from the Ring faster at his husbands’ sides.

Tears escaped his eyes again and he whispered somberly, “I’m sorry.”

Gently, Dwalin tugged his hands away, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m rather sure that’s not entirely true,” Bilbo countered. “When I took the Arkenstone and gave it to Bard, I knew that you would hurt by it and I did it anyway. I promised to never willingly grieve you and I broke that promise.”

“We broke our promises to you first,” Thorin uttered decisively. “If you desire our forgiveness, then you have it, Bilbo, but know that we have long considered you to be blameless in regards to what transpired before the Battle.”

“The gifts are beautiful,” Bilbo spoke softly, almost shyly. “And far more than I deserve, Fy Alawon.”

Dwalin and Thorin beamed at him, delighted, and Dwalin replied intently, “You deserve every beautiful thing in all of Arda.”

Bilbo eyed his husbands with suspicion as a memory from a more naïve period of their time together struck him, “You didn’t really make me a hundred golden roses to wear, right?”

“No,” Thorin responded, almost ruefully. “You can’t wear them; we made them, gold and platinum, to adorn the walls of your Craft Room, so that even during winter you could have a garden.”

Bilbo opened his mouth and then shut it again, reorganizing his thoughts before sighing fondly, “You know, if someone had told me the night that we met that the two of you are, in reality, such romantic saps, I would have thought them utterly and irreversibly mad. Do you have any idea how much I love the two of you?”

“We can make you a hundred roses to wear, if you like,” Dwalin offered.

“Er,” Bilbo patted Dwalin’s arm affectionately, “That may be a tad excessive, my darling.”

“You are small,” Thorin agreed thoughtfully. “You might collapse under the weight… unless we make them very tiny.”

“I’m not small,” Bilbo protested, wrinkling his nose, remembering too late that Thorin found this particular habit of his rather adorable.

Thorin’s smile turned besotted, “Smaller than Dwarves, I meant.”

A thought struck Bilbo then, “I… I have something of yours too. I didn’t mean to take it; in fact, I rather forgot that I even had it until after I’d already left Erebor. Where are my clothes, the ones that I was wearing yesterday, I mean?”

Bilbo dearly hoped that his uncle had not thrown them away or sent them to be washed.

“They’re inside the cupboard there,” Dwalin rejoined, easing Bilbo’s worry. “Yer uncle didn’t want to do anythin’ with ‘em until he knew what your wishes were.”

Bilbo stood and moved over to the wardrobe, opening it and noting that, along with his worn-out garb, there were several other sturdy outfits waiting for him, most of them travel garb lined with lambswool. There was even an Elven Cloak, with a broach of green leaf veined with silver, which Bilbo knew had a powerful camouflaging magic sewn into every strand. Clearly, Bilbo’s uncle had anticipated that his nephew would not be remaining in his house for very long, since he had liberally stocked the armoire with such articles.

Bilbo picked up his exhausted coat, which looked rather pitiful next to the fine Elven-made clothing, and rummaged through the inner pocket, grabbing the thick parchment folded inside. He carried it over to Thorin and held it out.

“The map,” Thorin realized, his eyes wide as he accepted it. “I assumed that it was lost during the fight with the Dragon, when I finally thought of it again.”

“I carried it with me to Mordor,” Bilbo said, sotto voce, “It was… a comfort, during the journey South. A reminder of why I had to destroy the Ring… the only one that I had.”

And then he was being held once more, held lovingly in the embrace of the two Dwarrow that he loved more he could even fully comprehend, their warmth seeping past his skin, into his heart and soul. Bilbo was not sure how long they sat there – clinging to each other in their own private world – but eventually there sounded a tentative knock on the doors of the bedroom and reality intruded.

One of the doors opened and Balin peered around it carefully, his caution morphing into a soft smile when he caught sight of them, “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but the wee ones have awoken and are demanding to see you, Bilbo.”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo rejoined, lifting his head from Thorin’s shoulder. He stood, his husbands rising with him, their hands remaining on his upper and lower back possessively. “I’m surprised that they’ve only just woken.”

“They were up rather late last night,” Balin admitted. “It took some time to get them settled. Ori finally managed it, actually, by telling them stories. They were not very pleased when you fainted, laddie.”

Judging from the look on Balin’s face, the faunts were not the only ones disconcerted by Bilbo’s collapse.

“I’m fine now,” Bilbo told him.

“And I’m very grateful for that,” Balin pulled Bilbo into a tight hug. “But, perhaps, the next time that Nori suggests that you should lie down, you consider listening, hmm?”

“Yes, Balin,” Bilbo replied dutifully.

“Everyone’s out in the main garden,” Balin revealed, as he slowly released Bilbo. “There’s plenty of food waiting for you, as I’m sure that you must be quite hungry by now. The little ones said that you haven’t eaten since midday yesterday.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Bilbo confessed, though he had rather forgotten about his hunger until Balin had mentioned it.

“Come along then,” Balin instructed. “It won’t do for you to faint again from hunger.”

Fíli and Kíli were waiting for them out in the spacious hallway and when they caught sight of the beads in Bilbo’s hair and the grip that Thorin and Dwalin had on his hands, wide, delighted grins fairly spilt their faces in half.

“Oh, thank Mahal,” Fíli praised, filching Bilbo from his husbands in a quick motion so that he could squeeze his Hobbit uncle snugly. “You two lumps managed to not muck it up.”

“Fíli, my dear,” Bilbo choked out against his nephew’s chest as his husbands sputtered indignantly, “I’m exceedingly glad to see you again, but I do rather need to breathe.”

“Sorry, Idadith,” Fíli lessened his grip and then gently knocked his forehead against Bilbo’s, a Dwarven expression of affection reserved for beloved family members. “Our new cousins are utterly adorable, by the way, and very clever. The older boys managed to convince the Elf-attendants that Hobbit will wilt like flowers if they don’t get cakes for breakfast.”

Bilbo sighed heavily, “Grim and Bras are scamps, but they mean no harm. They convinced the Faeries in the Old Forest to let them try Rose Mead; let me tell you what a fun night that was.”

Fíli laughed and passed him over to Kíli, who glomped him eagerly.

“I am sorry about yesterday,” Kíli said sheepishly, into Bilbo’s shoulder, after planting a smacking, bristly kiss on Bilbo’s cheek. “It was stupid of me to get distracted; it’s just that I, we all, missed you something awful.”

“I missed you too,” Bilbo pressed a kiss to Kíli’s temple and tugged at his beard, which was finally growing in, fondly, “But you’re still in trouble.”

“Yes, Idadith,” Kíli agreed happily. “By the way, your goat doesn’t like me at all. She tried to head but me and, when I dodged her, tried to eat my clothes.”

“I’m rather certain that Bryony doesn’t like anyone very much, little raven,” Bilbo returned, shrugging his shoulders.

“The babes still need milk, don’t they?” Balin asked. “I imagine the goat is a good source of it.”

“Milk?” Bilbo echoed, tilting his head in confusion. “They’re much too little, still, to drink milk, Balin. It would hurt their stomachs and make them ill.”

“If Hobbit babes can’t drink milk, then what, exactly, do they drink?” Fíli questioned slowly.

“Flower Nectar, little lion,” Bilbo answered plainly. “Ground up flowers – most commonly roses, or lavender, or lilies, or violets, or sunflowers, though other flowers can be used too – and smashed honeycomb makes a powder that is mixed with warm water to create the drink. Fauntlings consume it on a daily basis until they are at least four, sometimes as late as seven, and can only start eating solid foods after their second birthdays, and then only sparingly. Adults can drink it too, but it’s very, very sweet and not many can tolerate it.”

“I told you that the drink the Elves made for the little ones smelled like flowers,” Kíli nudged his brother. “Tauriel said the scent was identical to the Silver Bells.”

“I spent nearly every winter of my childhood here in Rivendell,” Bilbo remarked, rocking back on his heels a bit. “And my parents basically lived here for the first five years after I was born – to teach all four of my feuding grandparents a lesson. Apparently, I favored the Silver Bell Flower Nectar that my uncle made – my mother told me that Uncle Elrond added sundrops into it, which is why I’m so tall, for a Hobbit.”

“If Hobbit babes do not drink milk as the children of other races do, then why’d you bring the goat with you?” Dwalin wondered.

“Well, I couldn’t leave her all by herself in the Shire. She was a pampered thing owned by a cousin of mine and never would have survived on her own,” Bilbo told him, looking back toward his husbands.

Both of their faces morphed into something very tender and full of devotion as Thorin spoke, “Your heart is a wonder, Ghivashel.”

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

The rest of the Company, the fauntlings, Elrond, Arwen, Tauriel, and Sigrid were, as Balin had said, in the Celebsant. Various Elven attendants were scattered about, ostensibly to see to whatever needs the Lady Arwen and their Lord’s guests might have, though they seemed more interested in watching the Dwarves suspiciously than anything else. Edging the garden, were Dwarven guards, none of whom Bilbo recognized, and they, in turn, were scrutinizing the attendants charily.

Old habits, it seemed, did, in fact, die hard.

Melilot caught sight of Bilbo first and it was her cheerful cry of “Papa!” that spurred the others faunts to run or toddle or crawl as quickly as they could, scrambling out of laps or down from trees, over to him. Bilbo went down on one knee to catch Grim and Bras, who reached him first – and nearly knocked him down with the force of their exuberance to see him.

“Papa!” Grim announced, sounding very pleased with himself, “We haven’t broke nothing while you was sleeping!”

“And we used our table manners and we made your Dwarves use them too, else they would get no dessert,” Bras added, proudly.

“They taught us a song to sing during dinner,” Cela revealed, squeezing in-between her brothers. “And it’s about you, Papa!”

“Yeah,” Grim agreed. “It’s called, ‘That’s What Bilbo Baggins Hates’!”

Bilbo let loose a sigh of exasperation, tinged with a hint of fondness, “Of course they did.”

He shot the Dwarves lounging on the grass, who were beaming at him and the faunts in golden amusement, unreserved relief, and no small amount of affection, a look that only served to make them smile wider.

“Uncle Elrond said that you had to sleep because you were very tired from traveling, Papa,” Bella Rose said, her tiny hands on her hips and her tone scolding. “You need to sleep more, so you don’t fall down again.”

“No,” Frodo proclaimed resolutely, nuzzling at Bilbo’s chest. “No, no, no, Papa.”

“Papa,” Sam breathed out, his green, green like a misty forest, eyes wide as he clung to Bilbo. “No fall.”

“I’m sorry, dear hearts, it shan’t happen again,” Bilbo promised. At least, it would not occur where his little ones could witness it. “But, everything’s alright now.”

“Papa,” Meli inquired curiously from where she hung over Bilbo’s shoulder. “Why do you have shinies in your hair?”

“They’re marriage beads, sweetling,” Bilbo explained. “You met Fy Alawon, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” Meli replied, pouting a bit. “They were too busy staring at you yesterday.”

“And we are both very sorry for that,” Thorin spoke up, as he and Dwalin moved to kneel in the grass beside Bilbo. “We did not mean to ignore any of you, Habân.”

“We missed yer Papa very much,” Dwalin contributed gently. “And were worried about him.”

“Do you love him?” Bella Rose asked.

“Yes,” Thorin responded at once.

“So very much,” Dwalin said at the exact same time.

With a smile, Bella Rose reached out and touched their faces. Deep in Bilbo’s soul, he felt his daughter’s inherited bonds with his husbands settle. They were not true Nurture Bonds, they could not be, as neither Thorin nor Dwalin were Hobbits, but they were strong and permanent.

“Hello, Tadau,” Bella Rose looked at Thorin and then swiveled her gaze to Dwalin, “Hello, Dadi. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Does this mean that we’re going to Erebor?” Cela questioned, excitedly.

“Yes,” Bilbo told her. “We’re going to Erebor.”

Bilbo’s brothers and nephews lost the ability to contain themselves upon hearing that decisive declaration, breaking into raucous cheering that startled the Elven attendants, which delighted the Dwarven guards, in turn. Bofur and Nori reached him first, squeezing Bilbo tight and lifting him slightly off the ground in their jollity. That hug ended only for Bilbo to be pulled into another, fairly squished between Bifur and Bombur.

“Zu Arukh Kanon Ashafukh Nudûdizu Udu Khidu Ai,” Bifur mumbled into his ear as his cousin chattered against Bilbo’s cheek about all of the new recipes that he wished for Bilbo to try.

Óin pried the Urs off of Bilbo so that he could give the Hobbit an embrace of his own, “As soon as you’ve eaten, laddie, yer gettin’ a medical examination. Yer smaller than you should be.”

Bilbo did not get the chance to put up even a token protest before Óin was passing him off to Glóin who was sniffling as he held Bilbo, “Thank Mahal, this family has been missing its Kurdu for too long, Nadadith.”

Bilbo, already heartened by his brothers’ obvious glee that he would be returning with them – a part of him had feared that they would not want him, that they would believe him not good enough for them after everything he had done – felt tears well up in his eyes at Glóin’s gruff but affectionate comment.

Fortunately, Dori had a handkerchief ready for him when he and Ori took their turn holding him with care.

“There now,” Dori told him, as he gently dabbed at Bilbo’s moist eyes with the silk square of fabric, “Everything will be alright.”

Despite everything that had happened, Bilbo believed him without hesitation.

“You’re going to love the library,” Ori promised eagerly. “There are more books than you can count, Nadad.”

“Are you really a king, Tadau?” Bilbo heard Bras ask in the midst of the hullabaloo, as the faunt tugged on Thorin’s sleeve.

“I really am,” Thorin replied. “Just as your Papa and Dwalin are really my Prince Consorts – and as you and your siblings are really Princes and Princesses of Erebor.”

“We are?” Bras considered that and then, “If I’m a Prince, can I make it a rule that we have to eat cake for breakfast?”

“No,” Bilbo said pointedly before Thorin could answer, because his husband had a look of pure indulgence on his face. “No cakes until Luncheon, Bras.”

“Aw,” Bras whined and then perked up. “Can I at least ban asparagus, because asparagus is gross?”

“What’s asparagus?” Dwalin questioned.

“It’s a kind of vegetable,” Bilbo told him, inwardly sighing at the reminder of what a Dwarven diet typically consisted of. Meat, ale, meat, sweets, meat, potatoes, bread, and, oh, surprise, surprise, more meat. “An extremely nutritious one.”

“By nutrisheous, Papa means gross,” Bras declared solemnly, prompting Bilbo to look skyward.

“Are you going to teach us to talk like Dwarves?” Grim wanted to know. “Papa said that only Dwarves could teach us.”

Bilbo stiffened, a bit, but Dwalin put a soothing hand on his back, stroking his fingers down Bilbo’s spine even as Thorin agreed, “Of course. You shall have the finest teachers in Arda.”

“And we can be archers in Erebor?” Meli asked. “Yavanna wants us to be archers.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at Bilbo and Bilbo signed, ‘Later,’ to him in swift Iglishmêk. Bilbo did not wish to speak of such things in front of those whom he did not personally know and trust.

“Certainly, if the Amadel wishes it,” Thorin told Meli.

“Can I wear shinies in my hair, like Papa?” Cela inquired of Dori. “They’re pretty.”

Dori looked thrilled by the request, “Absolutely, you shall have beads to match every dress you own, little lamb.”

“All my dresses got ruined in the woods,” Cela relayed sadly.

“Then we’ll just have to make you and your sister’s new ones, a whole year’s worth of pretty dresses fit for Princesses of Erebor,” Dori assured her, patting her head, “Made of fines silks and crushed velvets and bright satins and soft wools. What’s your favorite color?”

“Rainbow,” Celandine announced primly.

“Er, sweetling,” Bilbo began, “That’s not actually a-”

“Excellent choice,” Dori praised and Bilbo decided that discretion was obviously the better part of valor and so he was decidedly not going to try to intervene in Dori’s plans to expand his daughters’ wardrobes.

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

It was not until very late that evening, after the little ones were all sleeping peacefully and dreaming sweet dreams, that more serious conversation was able to be held. Dwalin certainly did not mind, for it seemed like Bilbo had desperately needed the tranquility of that late morning and afternoon after the emotional turbulence that dawn had brought with it.

Watching Bilbo interact with the fauntlings had been strange in all of the best ways. Bilbo was a natural when it came to handling children; for all that he had off-handedly remarked during the Quest that he had not the faintest idea of how to be a parent, he was a marvelous one – patient and selfless. And the children, Mahal, the children were perfect. Both extremely similar to and nothing like Dwarven children, the fauntlings were beams of sunlight encased within tiny bodies. Watching them was like watching the personifications of spring dance around.

They were just like their Papa, really.

Dwalin still could not believe that he and Thorin had their beloved Burglar back. That Bilbo still loved them, despite everything that they had said and done, and was willing to give them a chance to prove themselves. He was broken, a bit, but no less beautiful in the minds of his husbands – who would see him healed, whatever it took. Bilbo faith in them had been shattered, but he wanted to trust Dwalin and Thorin again, was willing to let them build his confidence in them back up.

He was allowing them to hold him, too – and, by Mahal, how wonderful it was to hold Bilbo again – he was letting Dwalin hold him protectively on his lap as Thorin massaged circles into Bilbo’s calves and ankles. The Company was settled inside of the same study that they had first been led to upon their arrival, gathered close together as the Lord Elrond explained to Bilbo what they already knew and several things that they did not.

“How in the seven hells did Saruman even manage to conjure Black Fire?” Bilbo demanded to know, abandoning his perch and standing abruptly, to Dwalin’s mild chagrin. “Such magic should have been beyond his abilities as a Wizard!”

Elrond inclined his head in acknowledgement, “Yes, it should have been. Saruman has… been ritually sacrificing individuals of power and… consuming their hearts to increase his own. It is why I forbid Elladan, Elrohir, and Estel from leaving Lothlórien to help search for you.”

Everything was very, very quiet for a long few moments.

“I don’t understand,” Ori spoke up carefully.

“Elladan and Elrohir, in addition to having the Grace of Elves, together slew a Sea-Serpent, Lhornphylax, the greatest of Morgoth’s Fish-Dragons and, in doing so, became greater in spirit, through conquest, than Morgoth,” Bilbo explained and then cast a fearful glance toward Dwalin. “Dwalin, by killing Smaug, the last of the Great Drakes, has done the same. Estel is one of the Dúnedain and is precious to the Eldar.”

“Like you are?” Glóin questioned.

“Yes,” Elrond answered before Bilbo could. “Estel is the direct descendant of one who defeated Sauron in a particular combat a very, very long time ago. As such a descendant, Estel carries his ancestor’s victory within him and, so, Saruman desires him greatly – for Sauron was, at the height of his power, even greater than the one who took him as his apprentice – desires him almost as much as he desires Bilbo. If he should consume Bilbo’s heart, he would gain enough power to take control of the Drakes that remain in Middle Earth.”

Dwalin stiffened in his seat. He could handle the thought of someone wanting to sacrifice him, people had been trying to kill him, in a variety of ways for a myriad of reasons, since he had been but a dwarfling. But the idea of someone wanting to eat Bilbo’s heart was infuriating.

“I threw a trinket into a pit of lava,” Bilbo huffed.

“You banished the Dark Lord from Arda for evermore,” the Lord Elrond countered.

Bilbo sighed, “He wasn’t seeking revenge when he sent his Urak-Hai into the Shire.”

“No,” Elrond placed a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “He had always planned to destroy your people in whatever way he could, Gwathelion. Hobbits cannot be corrupted like Elves, Dwarves, and Men – it is why the Ring could not gain dominion over your heart no matter how hard it tried to do so – and, as long as Hobbits exist in Middle Earth, there exists a formidable enemy against the dark.”

“My people were not fighters,” Bilbo protested. “Many of them didn’t even know what an Orc was until…”

“They were in the Beginning,” Elrond reminded gently. “And they had the potential to be so again. They still do.”

“There will be no more Hobbits born in Arda,” Bilbo announced bitterly. “Saruman has seen to that, Uncle. A month ago my children were cousins who could have wed if they had so chosen, but they cannot now. Blood is not the only thing that defines what a relative is for Hobbits. The moment that the Nurture Bonds between the faunts and I were formed, my magic burned out that which they had inherited from their parents at birth. They are siblings as far as Green Magic is concerned – Yavanna would never permit them to… to have children together. The ten of us… we’re it, forever.”

“Not necessarily,” Elrond denied. “There was a time when Hobbits did not bear their children at all; they grew them in their Mother’s green earth as they, themselves, had been grown.”

“That knowledge was lost before the Shire was ever settled,” Bilbo said with a frown.

“Knowledge lost can be found again,” Elrond insisted, drawing from his robes a small, shimmering box of Ithildin, a precious metal-like substance that mirrored only starlight and moonlight when used as an ink. Dwalin had heard tales of it being used to fashion armor and weapons, had heard how the metal was not quite as strong as Mithril but far more magical, glimmering like the stars, but he had dismissed these tales as mere myths until then. “If one only dares to seek it out.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, “Is that-?”

“It is,” Elrond agreed, his voice kind but firm. “She entrusted it to me, but I do believe that it is past time for her son to reclaim it.”

“I… I had not even thought to ask for it,” Bilbo murmured, his voice thick and his body trembling. Dwalin stood immediately to steady him, Thorin placing a reaffirming hand on Bilbo’s arm, as well.

“What, exactly, is it?” Bofur inquired, casting the box a dubious look.

“It’s a spell, an Unearthing Spell,” Bilbo explained, claiming the box with all due care. “It will awaken my High Green Magic.”

“But… didn’t you say that doin’ so was forbidden, laddie?” Óin reminded carefully.

“The Thain, no matter his position, never truly had the right to deny any of his people access to a gift from Yavanna,” Elrond responded. “It was a travesty, even if done in the name of protection.”

“He meant well,” Bilbo sighed. “The death of his son broke a part of him. Hobbits are not meant to outlive their children. And the thing was… well, no one had the heart, or the desire, to really argue with him when he created the law or to oppose what he did in the aftermath.”

Bilbo opened the Ithildin box in a spark of purple, green, and gold magic to reveal what was protected inside. Dwalin had been expecting a book or maybe a scroll, he had not been expecting…

“It looks like a kind of glowing gem,” Thorin commented, tilting his head in confusion. “A gem carved to appear as a leaf.”

It did. The spell – because, apparently, the word had different connotations when Hobbits were concerned – had facets just like any cut gem would and it had a radiance of bright green, which was startling against the gold satin that it was nestled in.

“It’s a seed,” Bilbo corrected. “A seed meant to unearth the full potential of a Hobbit’s Green Magic. This is the only one left, because only a practitioner of High Green Magic could create more of them. Mother said that Uncle Hildifons favored cherry trees and so do I, actually. Cherry is the tree that symbolizes heart and compassion.”

“Yer uncle made this?” Dwalin asked.

Bilbo nodded, “For my mother, though she never used it because she did not wish to challenge her father. The spell, it’s quite possibly the only hope my people have of not fading from Arda, now. I have to unearth my magic.”

He sounded as if he was pleading. Pleading for them to understand, Dwalin realized.

“It’ll afford you greater protection?” Dwalin questioned.

“Among other, more important, things, yes, it will,” Bilbo confirmed.

“Then you must,” Thorin determined grimly.

Bilbo bit his lip and then remarked hesitantly, “You could try sounding a bit less like you want to punch something, you know.”

There it was – the snark that Dwalin had so adored. Even if it was a few shades too timid, it was nice to hear it again. Bilbo had a smart mouth and a quick mind, and Dwalin loved them desperately.

Thorin trailed his fingers down Bilbo’s cheek, even as he reached to grip Dwalin’s wrist with his other hand, “I’ve just discovered that both of my husbands are in danger of having their hearts torn out and eaten by the most dangerous psychopath in Arda. I’m allowed to be upset by this, Ghivashel. You unearthing your magic is no distressing thing, it is a natural part of you that you never should have been denied. What must be done?”

“My heart and soul must merge with the Unearthing Spell on the dawn of Mid-year’s Day, between First and Second Lithe,” Bilbo revealed, as if reciting a long ago learned lesson, “Which falls on June the twenty-second.”

“Should we wait here until that date, then?” Dori asked. “So that you may gain access to your magic in a place that you know?”

“Hobbits have always unearthed their magic in forests that have some type of connection to them, most commonly the Old Forest in more, relatively, recent times,” Bilbo told them, shaking his head. “Unearthing my magic here, in Rivendell, could hurt both me and the magic that protects the Valley. My people called the forests on both the western and eastern sides of the Misty Mountains home during our wandering days; it would be far better to unearth my magic in one of those.”

“We can reach the eastern forest in thirty-one days,” Thorin announced. “But we would have to leave here no later than the twentieth of this month. Or, we can rest here longer and you can unearth your magic in the western forest.”

“It took longer than that last time,” Bilbo noted. “Even with the Eagles helping us along to the Carrock.”

“Ori discovered maps in the Great Library that led to an ancient tunnel system through the Misty Mountains,” Balin explained. “It cuts the travel time fairly in half, although the passage can only be opened at either end by a direct descendant of Durin.”

“It’s how we got here so quickly,” Kíli offered up.

“Well done, Ori,” Bilbo praised.

Ori blushed and grinned, “There are many secret treasures in the Great Library. I do believe that it shall take the rest of life to discover them all.”

“As glad as I would be to have you remain here for a time,” Elrond spoke up. “The sooner you reach Erebor, the better. The faunts need the stability of a true home and I would not have you traveling once the days begin to shorten come the autumn. Many Orcs fell with the Dark Lord, but those that survived have begun to breed again.”

“Will they be hunting us too?” Bilbo wondered.

“I am unsure whether or not they are aware of your survival. If not, I would prefer that we keep them in the dark until you are safe in the Lonely Mountain. Saruman will not divulge the information to them, as he will not wish to have to contend with them seeking their revenge for you destroying Sauron,” Elrond said. “If they are, somehow, aware… there was a price on your head before we concealed your fate, Gwathelion, and no passage of time will sway Orcs to let loose their desire for vengeance.”

“They’ll never touch him,” Dwalin swore lowly.

“Nor will their thirst for retribution ever be satisfied,” Thorin vowed.

“Aye!” the Company chorused.

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May 13^th, 3, Fourth Age – Rivendell

“This… this is Mithril,” Thorin declared, his voice laced with astonishment, as he gazed upon the gifts that Yavanna had sent to Bilbo and the faunts through the enchanted cherry tree. “Granted, it’s tinted green, but there’s no doubt that it’s Mithril.”

Bilbo blinked in surprise, “Oh, well, the Green Lady is the Stone King’s wife.”

“Zigrel,” Bifur barked, looking suitably impressed.

“Indeed,” Balin nearly choked out.

“The runes,” Óin asked. “Are they Greentongue, laddie?”

“A variety of protective and affection runes wound about the Baggins Family Rune,” Bilbo confirmed. “They’re all laced with High Green Magic too.” Bilbo hesitated a bit, “I’m fairly certain that the walking stick has Khuzdûl on it, as well.”

“Oh?” Fíli looked over Bilbo’s shoulder nosily and down at the staff in Bilbo’s hands, before grinning widely. “Yep, that’s definitely Khuzdûl.”

“Right,” Bilbo said, wanting very badly to ask what the runes meant and at the same time terrified to do so.

Thorin and Dwalin were not going to harm him, were not going to allow anyone else to harm him, either. He knew that, but still…

‘I revoke your right to speak Khuzdûl and should you ever in the presence of a Dwarf after this day, know that you will lose your tongue.’

“They are the runes that mean Ghivashel and Gayadê,” Thorin explained, his eyes both grieved by and understanding of Bilbo’s reluctance.

“I suppose as signs go,” Bilbo quipped lightly. “This one is far from subtle.”

Hobbitish and Dwarven, mixed together on a gift fashioned with Yavanna’s Grace and Mahal’s sacred metal. The Valar, or at least two of them, wanted Bilbo to be with his husbands. A Hobbit with his Dwarves, the first such alliance since Briallan was taken from the earth for Durin – on no other occasion had Yavanna given one of her children to her husband’s.

Galadriel had told Bilbo, while he was recovering in Lothlórien after destroying the Ring, that this spoke of a great shared destiny. At the time, Bilbo had been convinced that destiny was done with him – he had stung spiders, riddled with a dragon, distracted the beast so that Dwalin could kill it, saved the line of Durin from Azog the Defiler during an unprecedented battle encompassing five armies, and vanquished Sauron – he was sure that he had no other roles left to play.

Now, Bilbo was not nearly so certain.

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Translations (Khuzdûl)

• Barufel – The Greatest of Families
• Baruk Bavonaz Dohyaraz Ra Gimlaz – Axe of the Crown, Anvil, and Stars; Alternatively, called the King’s Axe
• Nadad – Brother
• Nadadith – Little Brother
• Idad – Uncle
• Idadith – Little Uncle
• Murkhidad – Shield Uncle
• Idadinùdoy – Uncle-Son, (Term for Male Cousin)
• Idadnathith – Uncle-Daughter, (Term for Female Cousin)
• Gayadê – My Joy
• Laslel – Rose of all Roses
• Ukradel – Greatest Heart of all Hearts
• Ghivashel – Beloved
• Lukhudel – Light of all Lights
• Khajmel – Gift of all Gifts
• Madtithbirzul – Little Golden Heart
• Mâzyung Zu – We Love You
• Melhekith Hurmâl – Prince Consort
• Shomakhâl Abanaz U Barukaz – Guardian of Stone and of Axe
• Habân – Gems, (I felt like Dwarves would totally call their small children this)
• Zu Arukh Kanon Ashafukh Nudûdizu Udu Khidu Ai – You need never doubt your brothers from now on
• Kurdu - Heart
• Amadel – Great Mother; Mother of All Mothers
• Mekebel – Great Library
• Zigrel – Great Magic

Translations (Sindarin)

• Ernil uin Glaur – Prince of Golden Light
• Amdir – Hope, (The name of the bow that Elrond gives Bilbo)
• Thaurmôr – Abominable Dark
• Dalath Celevon – Plains of Silver, (Land between the Green Path and Rivendell)
• Gwedeir – Bond Brother, (there isn’t a Sindarin word for cousin, so I improvised)
• Ada – Daddy
• Celebsant – Silver Garden
• Gwathelion – Sister-Son, (Nephew)

Translations (Greentongue – Based on Welsh)

• Fy Alawon – My Melodies
• Tadau – Father
• Dadi – Dad

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The End