Chapter Text
It was decided that the group would leave with the dwarven delegates who were on their way to Mirkwood, a few weeks after the initial conversation with Gandalf. Preparations were made easily, and the true reason behind Thorin’s intentions to mend his and Bilbo’s relationship remained carefully guarded, as it was meant to.
They left Erebor early in the morning, when the sun’s first rays were just touching the ramparts. Thorin and Dís, along with the other members of Thorin’s Company, were there to give them a proper farewell, watching them until they had disappeared down the path. Dís fussed until the very end, making sure her boys were bundled up in their furs and armor, that their blades were sharpened, that their packs were full.
“I’m a grown dwarf, mother,” Fíli groaned, head tossed back as Dís tightened the straps on his armor.
“Yes, a grown dwarf who doesn’t know how to do a buckle up properly,” she retorted sharply, pinching his cheek as the others laughed.
It was a surprisingly easy journey, compared to the other times the company had traversed the roads. The permeating cold that was more of a nuisance than a threat—cold enough that it was uncomfortable and required furs, but didn’t bring the fear of losing toes.
The Woodland Realm was shockingly bright and much less spider-infested compared to the last time the company visited, and pleasantly lacked elven arrows aimed at them. Since their visit was anticipated, Prince Legolas and Tauriel met them on the path, courteous and welcoming. The delegates found it easy to return the warm sentiments, but the brothers and Dwalin had great difficulty to not let their prejudices show. Thorin and Balin had threatened bodily harm on all of them if they did anything that could jeopardize the peaceful mission.
Prince Legolas himself showed them to their rooms, ordering baths and foods to be prepared for them. Dwalin still watched the elf distrustfully, but the intensity of his glare lessened when a veritable feast was laid out for them. There was meat and proper bread, not just the thin, unsatisfying things the elves enjoyed, and green leafy things were nowhere to be found. Kíli and Ori could have wept with relief.
The party destined for the Shire only spent a single night, while the envoys remained to continue negotiating on trade agreements with King Thranduil. The elven king met with them before they left, to give Kíli and Fíli the proper greeting they deserved as royalty. The exchange was short and impersonal, but the dwarves expected nothing less. The tense atmosphere unsettled everyone, and it was shocking that no fights broke out.
The company left the Woodland Realm with full supply packs and rested ponies. Tauriel and Legolas escorted them to the edge of the forests, wraiths amongst the trees. Kíli had to scan the foliage before he saw a flash of silver and brown. Dwalin was obviously tense and uncomfortable, always scanning the area for elves or spiders. It wasn’t until they were a good few leagues away that the warrior allowed himself to relax, reverting back to his normal guarded and wary expression.
Beorn the Skinshifter allowed them to spend the night, if only because he was in high spirits, thanks to the disappearance of the last traces of orc from his land. He rumbled happily about a tribe of skinshifters he’d heard about in the Harad that were crossing into Gondor soon, and his plans to meet them. Ori and the others happily congratulated him, and filled him in on the various happenings of their kingdom and its regrowth.
The skinshifter, in his bear form, followed the company when they left. He kept his distance, as to not startle the ponies, and let out a ferocious roar when he decided to leave them to the rest of their journey, warning the wolves and other predators in the area to flee.
The Shire was covered in a thick blanket of snow when the party arrived. Not many hobbits were around, and those that were rushed past without sparing a glance. Fíli attempted to stop one of these hobbits, to assure that they were headed in the right direction, but the hobbitess had given him a single frantic glance before hurrying on her way, leaving the dwarf confused and wary. The panicked atmosphere, added with the fact that there were Rangers patrolling the roads in the Shire, unnerved them all.
“Why are there so many Rangers?” Ori finally voiced the question that plagued their thoughts.
“Not sure,” Fíli grunted, brow furrowed as he watched yet another pair of towering men pass on their horses. He spurred his pony on down the path.
And when they reached Bag End, everything crumbled.
Kíli fought valiantly to hold back his tears, and the other three politely ignored it, their own grief clouding their thoughts. Ori did reach out a consoling hand, grasping his shoulder and whispering gentle words to him. Fíli had explained to Dwalin in a low voice what had happened, and the eldest dwarf was deeply saddened by Bilbo’s reaction, but reluctantly admitted he knew something like this would happen. The dwarves shouldn’t have expected a warm greeting when they had been so cruel to him before.
“We’ll need to find an inn soon,” Ori said worriedly, glancing at the sliver of sun that remained above the hills. “The rooms will fill up quickly, with all of these merchants around. And whatever these Men are here to hunt will no doubt be out.” The others agreed, and started down the path again.
***
Frodo groaned in frustration, seeing that the sun was already setting.
He had been running to the post office for Missus Gamgee, and ended up getting sidetracked by the fantastical wares that the merchants sold in the town. The colors were vibrant and the jewelry glowed, and by the time Frodo was able to tear himself away he was very much late. There was no way he would be able to make it back to her before night came and the wolves were out. He would have to flag down a Ranger to take him back, and Missus Gamgee and Uncle Bilbo would be even more furious.
Rushing down the already emptied road, Frodo studiously tried not to look at the Brandywine River, a thrill of fear already running up his spine at being in close proximity to it. He knew the monstrous fish that dwelled there wouldn’t be able to reach the road, but they could easily drag a full-grown hobbit if they were a few steps away.
Movement and voices drew his attention, though, from the exact area he was ignoring. Four ponies stood restlessly by the roadside, one of their riders creeping close to the water, talking to his companions in a gravelly tone. The language they spoke was foreign, something Frodo had never heard from a hobbit or Man.
Frodo hesitated, unsure if he should step in. Uncle Bilbo had warned him to always be careful with talking to strangers, especially ones with weapons. And he could clearly see these weapons, from the bow and quiver strapped to a shoulder and an axe peeking out from another’s cloak.
But as the person drew nearer to the riverbank, to where a monster could easily grasp him, Frodo blurted out, “You really shouldn’t get that close.”
All four of them whipped around, hands rising to their weapons. Frodo inhaled sharply, taking a cautionary step back. The golden-haired one was the first to relax, saying something to the others that made them release their weapons. They all seemed relieved to see it was a hobbitling, and not a threat.
“Any why is that, little one?” the golden one asked kindly, surprisingly in the Common Tongue.
“Because if one of the fish get you, you won’t be able to get out.” Frodo felt himself flush as the ones on ponies chuckled, sharing amused looks. The one who had been at the river’s edge, who had strange yet fascinating tattoos on his head, wasn’t laughing and stared at him hard.
“What do you mean by that, boy?” he growled, voice heavily accented.
Frodo didn’t respond, knowing that they wouldn’t believe him unless he had proof. Holding his breath and hoping his heart wouldn’t hammer out of his chest. He picked up a rock from the ground, brushing snow off of it. The travellers watched in curiosity as the young hobbit got as close as he dared to the river’s edge, and threw the rock with all of his might into the Brandywine.
They yelped and swore in surprise, blurting out a few curses in their strange language as the water foamed up, one of the monstrous fish mistaking the rock for a bird or frog and thrashing to get at it. When it realized nothing was there, it let out a reptilian hiss, diving back beneath the black waves, a fin momentarily sticking out of the water.
“Great Mahal,” the one with ginger hair breathed, face pale even in the darkness.
“Is that why there are all these Men and Rangers patrolling?” the black haired one asked, seemingly deeply disturbed.
“No, they’re here because of the Winter Wolves and orcs,” Frodo told them, seeing the shock on their faces. “They said they would help get rid of the fish in springtime, when the other things are gone.”
“You are very knowledgeable about these things, little one,” the ginger one replied, attempting to sound cheerful.
“Everyone in the Shire knows about the wolves,” Frodo shrugged. “They come every winter. My uncle helps the Rangers with getting rid of them.”
Frodo glanced nervously at the moon as it crept its way higher in the sky. He was acutely aware that the forest had gone deathly quiet, no rabbits rustling in the undergrowth or birds taking flight. If they weren’t out already, the wolves would be on the hunt soon.
“—home?”
Frodo blinked, realizing that he’d missed a question. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“I asked if you needed an escort home,” the dark-haired one asked. “It sounds dangerous for a hobbitling to be out alone.”
“Oh no, you don’t have to,” Frodo hurried to say, feeling like he should to put up a resistance. It would be rude to jump so quickly on an offer that could have just been an obligated offer that was insincere. “I’m just going to the inn, I can find a Ranger to take me.”
The ginger dwarf laughed. “That’s where we were headed, too.”
“Or at least trying to,” the dark haired one joked. “We have no idea where we’re going. You wouldn’t mind showing us poor, lost travellers the way, would you?”
“Kíli, don’t push him,” the fair-haired dwarf admonished him, raising a playfully reproving eyebrow. “If the little’un doesn’t want to come with us, he doesn’t have to.”
“But we will take yeh to the nearest Man, so yeh don’t get snatched up,” the oldest dwarf cut in, drawing surprised looks from all of his companions. Hearing the gruff warrior say something that was kind to someone outside of his family was nearly unheard of.
Though it did make sense: dwarven children were still a treasured rarity in their community, drawing out protective feelings from almost all of the adult dwarves, which reached out towards any young being. Even Kíli and Fíli, who were still young and didn’t particularly care for children, felt that urge to defend children such as this little hobbitling.
Frodo only hesitated for a moment before deciding. “If it isn’t too much of a bother, I think I’d like to go with you,” he mumbled.
“It’s no bother at all,” the ginger dwarf laughed, scooting back on saddle. “Here, you can sit up here with me—there’s enough room.”
The hobbitling took a step towards him before burly arms lifted him up, drawing a cry of surprise. The tattood dwarf silently made sure he was seated securely before climbing onto his own pony. Frodo stuttered out a thank you, which earned a grunt and a softened expression that only lasted a moment.
“So, what is your name, little one?” the one he rode with asked.
“Frodo,” he answered. Out of habit, he left off his surname—almost all of the hobbits in the Shire knew who he was, and he figured that the visitors would have no need for it.
“Ori, brother of Dori, at your service,” he responded, bowing his head in greeting.
“Fíli, sons of Dís, at your service,” another broke in, grinning widely and bobbing his head. “The old grouch is Dwalin—“ the dwarf in question growled warningly—“and that’s my brother Kíli.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Frodo said politely. He idly wondered if the dwarves Uncle Bilbo went on his adventure with were like these ones.
Even though Uncle Bilbo would share his stories freely with his nephew and other hobbitlings, he refused to go into detail about what the dwarves were like or what their names were. When Frodo had asked about them, Uncle Bilbo’s eyes would go distant as he told Frodo that their names weren’t important, that all of their names would just get confusing for the younger children. Frodo didn’t believe him, but the pained look his uncle wore stopped him from pressing.
The dwarves chattered happily amongst each other, occasionally switching to Khuzdul to say something inappropriate. Frodo watched and listened eagerly, intrigued by such foreign mannerisms and words. Ori seemed to harbor similar feelings towards Frodo and hobbits, asking about life in the Shire, what they did for celebrations, and so on. Frodo answered the questions to the best of his ability, glad that the dwarf asked things that were easy to answer.
Unknown to the hobbitling, the brothers and Dwalin were continuously glancing over at him, fascinated by him.
“He’s so small,” Kíli whispered in awe to his brother, using their native tongue. He’d never seen such a small, delicate little creature in his how existence. When he had arrived at the Shire the first time, to reclaim Erebor, he’d been so focused on reaching their destination that he’d easily looked over the hobbitlings. The thoughts of Bilbo’s rejection slid to the edges of his mind in the face of a tiny, intelligent child.
The inn Missus Gamgee worked at and owned was homely and warm, much like her. The rooms were cheap and clean, and a good majority of them were for Tallfolk, making it popular with the merchants. In the wintertime, it was always bustling, the merchants always needing a place for ale and comfortable beds. The building was on the edge of the market, and all of the windows glowed brightly, illuminating the festive scenes inside.
A shivering stableman rushed up as the dwarves dismounted, taking the ponies and leading them to the stables, accepting a few copper coins as payment.
Inside the inn was hot and boisterous, Men getting drunk after a long day’s work and maids ladened with pints expertly weaving through the crowds. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, and candles were lit on the walls to keep everything alight.
A bell rang when Dwalin pushed the door open, alerting the innkeeper of a new customer. Missus Gamgee flew to the counter, face flushed with exertion but a cheery grin on it, her matronly dress flowing around her.
“Good evening, master dwarves,” she greeted them. “Five beds, dwarf-sized? We have a few rooms availa—Frodo!”
Her voice reached a screeching level at the sight of the young hobbit, making the dwarves and a few patrons wince. “By the Valar, boy, where were you? I was about to send out the Rangers for yeh! Don’t frighten me so, m’ old heart can’t take these scares anymore!”
“Sorry, Missus Gamgee,” Frodo said meekly, shuffling his bare feet on the floor, handing her the extra coins from paying for messengers.
“It’s our fault, dear lady,” Fíli broke in, taking a step forward and smiling charmingly. Mrs. Gamgee looked up at him, taken aback. “Me and my companions were hopelessly lost, and this little one agreed to help us find our way to the nearest inn. I apologize for putting him in danger; it was never our intention. We weren’t aware of the wolves, until he told us about them.”
Mrs. Gamgee’s face softened, her hand smoothing through Frodo’s ringlets of hair. “Aye, not many do know about the winter wolves. The Shire’s too much of an isolated place for it t’be common knowledge. You have nothing to apologize for, master dwarf. I should be thankin’ yeh for watching little Frodo and makin’ sure he didn’t get himself into any trouble.”
“It was no trouble, madam hobbit,” Kíli joined in, bowing slightly. “We are at your service.”
Mrs. Gamgee tittered, waving one of her serving girls over. “Tillya, go clean up the hobbit-sized room and set the room for four, there’s a dear.” She turned and accepted the coin offered to her by Ori. “Until your rooms are ready, you’re welcome to some hot stew and ale. Just sit anywhere, dears, one of my ladies will bring you food. Frodo, go into the kitchen and get yourself some, too, before yer uncle comes.” Frodo nodded, peeking up at the dwarves.
Ori smiled down at the boy. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Frodo.”
“We’ll be in Hobbiton for the next couple of days,” Kíli remarked, crouching slightly. “We might run into each other.” He winked broadly at the young hobbit, who gave him a shy grin.
The hot stew and cool ale was a welcomed luxury to the dwarves, after travelling and having the disastrous meeting with Bilbo. They talked in low voices about what they were going to do, how they were going to fix their relations with the hobbit. And more importantly, Fíli and Kíli thought silently, how they were going to get their burglar back to Erebor to talk to Thorin.
While they discussed their options in Khuzdul, Frodo sat near the kitchen, eating a bowl of stew. The chef had slipped him some sweetcakes, winking broadly at the hobbitling and whispering loudly not to tell Mrs. Gamgee. The young hobbit gave him a smile and thanked him profusely before going back to his table, hiding the treats from the missus’ sight while he nibbled on them.
“We just need time,” Ori stressed. “Time to talk to Master Baggins, to regain his trust.”
“But how long will it take?” Fíli argued. “This Bilbo is so different than the one we know. For all we know, the Bilbo we know could never come back. Then what?”
“Then we return to Erebor,” Dwalin rumbled. “I doubt Thorin will give up so easily. Maybe if we get sent back he’ll get off his lazy arse and come here himself.” That startled a laugh out of Ori, but the morose atmosphere soon returned.
Fíli sighed, running a hand over his ragged face and tugging at his beard. “We’ll go back tomorrow, after breakfast,” he decided. “We’ll try to speak with him again, and if that doesn’t work, then we shall return later. I think—“
The heavy doors swung open, bringing with it a gust of freezing air, snowflakes and cloaked figure. He was dressed in the most peculiar clothing the dwarves had ever seen a hobbit wear (which his feet easily identified him as). It was armor, something that the warriors and scribe never expected to see on a peace-loving hobbit. Especially some that was as fine as this: thin, carefully crafted, darkened to blend with his cloak and the shadows. The blade was sheathed in a fine casing—one that was decorated with Elvish designs, matching the pommel of the blade that had been seared into the company’s memories.
Bilbo shed the hood of his cloak, running his fingers through his messy hair to rid it of the pesky snow.