Work Text:
“Thorin!” cried Bilbo from the front hall. “You’ll never guess—oh, come to the table, would you? We’ve got birthday presents! Come—hang on, let me fetch a scone.”
By the time Thorin appeared in the kitchen with a half-darned sock in his hand and no color in his face, the scone was long gone. “Birthday presents?” he croaked.
“Yes,” said Bilbo, shepherding the crumbs at the corners of his mouth inside with his finger. “For both of us! Now, here”—he turned one of the parcels over. “This one’s yours, and…”
“It’s,” said Thorin, “your birthday.”
Bilbo looked up at him. “Hm? Oh! No, darling, oh dear, have I not—oh, sit down, you clot,” he said with a great deal of love in his voice. Thorin sat. “You’ve not missed my birthday. Hobbits do it the other way round.” As Thorin wilted with relief, Bilbo set about unwrapping his own gift, an apple-sized lump wrapped in green cloth and bound with ribbon. “We give the presents. My second cousin gave us these. Gilly. Have you met Gilly yet? She’s doing gifts early and then having her party on Highday. I suppose we’re meant to turn up, if we’ve both got one. Clever thing! She won’t have had to send out invitations this way. Peony’s not six months old; I’m sure she’s got both hands full. Better things to do, certainly, than write letters. Goodness, look at that!”
Gilly had gifted Bilbo a simple inkwell of green glass, and when he held it up in the sunbeam coming from the kitchen window, it glowed with a vibrant emerald light. Thorin leant his chin on his good hand and admired Bilbo’s face in the sun.
“It’ll do to write the thank-you note with,” muttered Bilbo. “I could hardly go and use another for it—speaking of!” He gestured with his new inkwell at Thorin’s unopened gift, which was a little larger than Bilbo’s and wrapped in deep red. “Go on, go on!”
Thorin grinned as he braced the parcel against the table with his left hand and picked at the knot with his right. “Speaking of,” he echoed. “You think I’m getting an inkwell too?”
“Oh, no''—as Bilbo spoke, he fluttered the inkwell about before setting it on the table with a neat little clink. “Speaking of letters! I’ve sent for that Northfarthing cheese you like. Herugar gave Otho a fine soft cheese for his thirty-first, you know, and Otho put it in a corner and ignored it for a fortnight. Always open your gifts. Don’t you laugh at me!” he demanded. “It makes sense!”
Thorin disobeyed brazenly.
The ribbon, it turned out, was knotted as hard as a pebble. No trouble for Bilbo when he had opened his, tiny and nimble as his fingers were, but Thorin was hunched forward in his efforts to loosen it with his thumbnail. Bilbo frowned. “Would you like me to get that bit?”
“No, I’ve got”—Thorin brought the knot up to his mouth and pried it apart with his teeth. “I’ve got the impression that this is a significant moment. For me. Or for hobbits.”
“It is,” sighed Bilbo. “It’s...oh, dear Thorin, she’s given you a birthday present. You’ll be in the fold now.”
What tumbled out of the cloth was a collection of roughly whittled figures, one much larger than the rest. As Thorin turned this one over to examine, Bilbo’s eyes skittered over the tabletop and his face slackened, like the flame of a candle going out. “Oh,” he said.
“Look at that,” whispered Thorin.
The largest of the wooden figures was carved into the semblance of a duck, with uneven grooves representing its feathers and features, and the underside of its long body was shorn flat so that, when placed upright on the table, it appeared to be gliding through the water. Or wiggling precariously atop it. The other figures were ducklings, rendered with some less detail. Two of them, when placed in the wake of their mother, sat primly askew. The third tipped over.
“Well, it’s…” began Bilbo. He wet his lips and cleared his throat. “Well. It’s a mathom, then. Not—not so uncommon!” After a moment of stiff silence, he rapped his fingertips against the table. “One less thing to...well. As it is.”
“These were done by the hand of a child,” Thorin interjected softly.
Bilbo’s shoulders sank. His eyes rose and met Thorin’s, for a breath, and then he looked down at the figures and cleared his throat again. “Yes,” he mumbled at last. “Ponto, I suspect. She did say he’s taken an interest in whittling.”
Thorin examined the mother duck with gentle fingertips. Her surface was ragged to the touch, emergent splinters catching on the skin of his shivering left hand. “Ponto. How old is he?”
“Oh, does it matter?” Bilbo’s chair scraped bitterly over the tile as he stood and disappeared into the parlour. “Whether it’s Ponto, or Porto, or the baby, or the chickens…” His agitated voice floated from room to room as his agitated feet carried him in turns closer to and away from the table where Thorin sat.
“Bilbo!”
“…and to think,” cried Bilbo’s voice amid the thumps and thunks of shelf-bound paraphernalia being picked up and hastily dusted on one’s sleeve, “that I kissed her cheek for it! Kissed her! I ought to have bit her nose off, is what…”
“Bilbo!” repeated Thorin once his husband reappeared in the kitchen. He twisted in his chair and grasped its wooden back. “What in earth’s the matter? You were overjoyed just a moment ago.”
“I was! Because I thought she’d—for heaven’s sake—your first birthday present! And it’s…” Bilbo gestured toward the ducks with a moan of disgust.
Thorin frowned at his ducks and then back at Bilbo. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing,” sighed Bilbo, sails now windless, finally returning to the seat across from Thorin, “nothing’s wrong. It’s only that…your first, you know, you ought to have been given something nice.”
“I can’t think of anything nicer than this!”
“Oh, don’t, there’s no need to put on…” Bilbo trailed off with a weary flap of his hand. “Nobody will think less of you, I promise; it’s a rotten thing she’s done.”
“What rotten thing?” Thorin, looking down, considered his ducks again. “Ducks? Is it the ducks? Do ducks…mean insult among hobbits?”
Bilbo shook his head where it rested in his hand. “No, nothing like that. Only…well, it’s just not a very good present,” he mumbled, “and I can’t imagine anyone being pleased with it.”
“Well, you needn’t imagine,” said Thorin. “I think they’re charming. And they’re handmade, at that!”
“Not by anybody with skill, though.”
“No, just the opposite!” Thorin gently rolled the duckling that could not sit upright between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. “Of all the things this Ponto will make in his life, these are among the first. Is that not a precious gift?”
“Oh, I suppose.” Bilbo fixed a tender look upon Thorin. “I’m glad you like it, in any case.”
“I do. Can we put them on the parlour mantel?” asked Thorin hopefully. “Perhaps not this one,” he amended, regarding the duckling in his hand. “It can’t sit up. But the rest would look very sweet, I think.”
It would have taken a harder heart than the one beating inside Bilbo Baggins to deny Thorin’s wooden ducks a little home over the fireplace. They nested at the base of a candlestick, the two sitting ducklings and their mother, and the third Thorin tucked for safekeeping in his smallest breast pocket.
Bilbo departed for Posco and Gilly’s smial the following day with a scowl and a cottage pie. Bracing the pie in its hot ceramic trough with one hand, he groped with the other for the knob and hauled the door shut behind him. It was a good few steps down the gate before he realised: a rustle in the hedge to his left when he’d opened the door, a flash of incongruous brown, a breath—
“Mister Greenhand,” he called, “is something wrong?”
From the rhododendrons on his left rose a battered brown hat, and Holman Greenhand was under it. “Begging your pardon,” mumbled the gardener. “Good morning to you, sir.”
“Good-morning. Are you alright?”
“Right as a radish I am, sir, and I hope you’ll forgive me for ducking like that when you came out. It didn’t half spook me. Thought it were your dwarf, I did.”
“Thorin?” said Bilbo. “Don’t tell me he’s done aught to frighten you.”
“That he hasn’t, Mister Baggins, to be sure, he’s nothing short of a perfect gentlehob—er, dwarf—only I don’t fancy crossing paths with him on my own. I’ve not a clue what to say when I see him.”
Bilbo’s hands tightened around the dish. “Well—‘hello’ would be a good start.”
“Aye, that it would, aye,” conceded Mister Greenhand, “but what next? Suppose he comes in with talk of stones and metals and whatnot, or those terrible stories of strange creatures in foreign parts—the sword fights, and all—I’m simply not up to it.”
“I doubt he’d expect you to be!” Bilbo snapped. “For fig’s sake, Greenhand, he knows what hobbits are like! He’s married to one!”
“And a fine one, sir, I daresay,” agreed Mister Greenhand hastily, “but, begging your pardon, and you must understand, sir—a quite—quite unusual one.”
“The only reasonable one for miles around, it seems,” muttered Bilbo, and with a baleful glare he clenched his jaw and bustled off without bothering to say goodbye.
Peony had just finished lunch when Bilbo arrived. Upon Gilly’s answering the door, Bilbo took the baby and Gilly took the pie. Ponto had followed his father to the haymaking that morning, and Porto had followed Ponto; it was just Gilly with the chickens and the baby, then, which was well enough for the dressing-down Bilbo intended for her.
He got straight to the point at the kitchen table, gently patting Peony as she burped over his shoulder. “What did you mean by giving my husband a cast-off from Ponto’s woodworking practice?”
“What? I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Gilly absently. She spooned portions of cottage pie into shallow porcelain bowls and slid one to Bilbo. “Thought I’d better give him something, if I’m inviting him to the party, and I don’t see why I couldn’t invite him if I’m inviting you.”
“But it was his first birthday present, Gilly. From anyone here.”
“Anyone? Good gracious, he hasn’t even had one from you?”
“It’s not the same,” insisted Bilbo with a jab of his fork, “and you know it!” He filled his mouth with mashed potato and, putting his fork down, resumed his sporadic rhythm on Peony. “Just think if—er, who’s coming up?—just imagine old Bodo Proudfoot giving little Peony a set of candlesticks next week for his birthday.”
“But Thorin’s a dwarf. Dwarves don’t go in for all that, do they?”
“What does it matter whether he ‘goes in for it,’ Gilly? Can’t you just—oh, I don’t know, can’t you treat him like anyone else?”
Gilly sighed. “But he’s not like anyone else, dear. How does one pick a present for a dwarf? I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to start.”
“Well, you could at least make an effort.”
“If I promise to make an effort,” Gilly said testily, “will you promise not to scare the young ones at the party with stories of trolls and dragons?”
“They like those stories!”
“Not when it’s bedtime and they’re meant to be asleep, they don’t.”
“Fine,” growled Bilbo.
Peony squealed in his arms.
“We could go to Erebor for the dwarven new year,” he blurted that night.
Thorin raised his head from where it had been dozing on Bilbo’s shoulder. “What?”
“If you want. There’s still time, isn’t there? To tell Dís and the boys to stay put, that we can come.”
“But my foot—”
“We’ll drive! It’ll be slower going, making our way round with a cart, but plenty of—”
“But we’ve only just settled back in! Weren’t you afraid of the Ess-Bees staging a coup?”
“Yes, they might, but I’ve—I—I can put documentation together,” said Bilbo quickly, “I can—as long as we’re back by next summer. It’ll be just fine.”
Turning his body toward Bilbo’s, Thorin shook his head. “I’d still rather stay for this one and then try next year for the mountain. And I like Hobbiton. It shall be no hardship for me to spend a changing of the year here. Did you not say it would be a joy to watch the leaves turn?”
“Alright, yes, I did, and it is, but…” Bilbo sucked distractedly on his lip. “The company you keep is more important, isn’t it?”
“I’ll have the most important company with me either way.”
“A handful of us, maybe,” said Bilbo, “but what about after stepping outside? What about picnicking in the fresh air? Wouldn’t you like to be greeted on the path?”
After a moment, Thorin looked up at Bilbo with a raised eyebrow. “Are you suggesting a nine-week cart trip so that we can have friendlier neighbours for one day in October?” he asked slowly.
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds silly. Don’t put it like that.”
Thorin fell back onto his pillow, laughing. “Forget I said anything,” he teased, not without warmth. “It’s a brilliant idea. Think how much exercise the ponies will get—ptff.”
Bilbo had taken one of the thick locks of hair draped across the pillow and tossed it over Thorin’s face. Thorin sputtered against it and grabbed the first bit of Bilbo his flailing hand met, which happened to be an ear. “Must you antagonise me,” he laughed when Bilbo emitted a cry of mock outrage, “even at my most helpful and supportive?”
Bilbo’s pillow took the brunt of force in the ensuing tussle, being used as both a bludgeon and a shield. They did not settle down again until they had exhausted themselves.
“It is your holiday, after all,” sighed Bilbo some time afterward. He had drawn Thorin close in his arms to tidy up the tangles in his hair. “I want you to spend it surrounded by people who appreciate you. Even passers-by.”
“Hulwulê, I was a king. I’ve had plenty of honour already.”
“But acceptance, at least,” said Bilbo. “You ought to still have that.” Silently, he worked through a cluster of Thorin’s curls with both hands. “You might have had a warmer welcome if we’d stopped in Tuckborough,” he finally muttered. “They’d like you there, I think.”
“The hobbits here will like me,” said Thorin. “Maybe. In time. Some of them.” He was still for a moment and then shook his head. “They mean no harm. It’s far from the worst reception I’ve had.”
“I’m trying to make it warmer, you know.”
“I know.” The apple of Thorin’s cheek pushed into Bilbo’s shoulder as he smiled and rubbed the tip of his nose into Bilbo’s chest. “And I thank you.”
“They’re making it ruddy difficult,” added Bilbo. “The gardener’s terrified that you’ll regale him with stories of orc-slaying, soon as look at him.”
Thorin chuckled. “You’re an uncommonly open-minded hobbit, I think. I’m only just beginning to realise it.”
“Don’t let them hear you say that. They’ll tell you off for insulting me.”
“Oh, I do apologise.”
“You can’t make friends with respectable ones by riding with them across country. You’ll need a much different tack.”
“What does one discuss with respectable hobbits, anyhow?” asked Thorin with a sniff.
Bilbo hummed. “Well,” he tried, “there’s always the weather and the flora. Can’t go wrong with news of your garden.”
“Oh, I should regale old Greenhand with news of our garden, should I?”
“It’s only the first thing that came to mind, you ungrateful lout. See if I vouch for you again!”
“Which are the big fluffy purple ones? Hyacinth? Hydrangea?”
“Those are my very special alliums,” said Bilbo, “and I know you know that because I still remember you digging them up.”
“Well, they’re alliums!” Thorin protested, though he was grinning. “What’s the good of an allium you can’t eat?”
“You’re never going to win Hobbiton over like that. Listen to you.”
Instead of arguing further, Thorin pressed his face into Bilbo’s skin and blew a loud raspberry.
Highday was bright and cloudless, and the late afternoon carried with it a warm breeze across the Party Field as Posco and his helpers peppered it with tables and benches. Along with most of his own friends and several young lads promised tuppence each, he had accepted Bilbo’s help but awkwardly declined Thorin’s. This was well enough, as it involved a great deal of walking and carrying and, as the shadows stretched on and the sunlight turned golden, a throng of guests to be welcomed.
It was a quiet affair, as hobbit parties go. Catering was arranged for four or five dozen. A handful of guests arrived with their own contributions, including a reprised cottage pie from Bilbo, and the youngsters who had assisted Posco earlier roasted sausages over one of the torches that had been erected around the Field. And, of course, a quintet of talented volunteers played jig after reel after ballad—nearly all of them nearly in tune.
Thorin grinned and pointed his nose towards the dancing crowd. “Go on,” he said to Bilbo.
“I don’t need to,” said Bilbo with a shake of his head.
“But you want to,” Thorin objected, “and it’ll be great fun for you. Go and dance.”
Bilbo’s face worked fluidly over several expressions: yearning, frustration, resignation. Finally he sighed, “I’ll feel just rotten leaving you alone here.”
Thorin, never in his life a prolific dancer, had given it up altogether after being skewered through the foot upon Ravenhill. Depending on whether it was a Cane Day or a Sitting Day, he might mill about and cheer Bilbo on from the outskirts, but today—despite the warm weather—was a Sitting Day.
“Bilbo, I don’t mind being alone. I’ve got beef and potatoes,” Thorin reassured him, “and I shall have another mug of ale when it comes around. I’ll be fine.”
Bilbo kneaded his lip between his teeth. “I won’t be long. I’ll keep an eye on you, you know. In case you need rescuing.”
“Rescuing!” Thorin laughed.
“Oh, spiders’ webs. Forest dungeons,” offered Bilbo with a coy shrug. “Awkward conversations.” He folded one leg atop the seat of the bench and sat on his foot so that he now had to reach up to wrap his arms around Thorin’s shoulders.
Thorin prodded Bilbo’s nose with his own. “My champion. My valiant darling.” His hair enshrouded their faces in a dark curtain as he bent his head. Surrounded as they were by partygoers, their kiss was utterly private.
“More likely,” he murmured, “that I should be left to my own devices until you return. I shall only eat and smoke and dream of you.”
In the end, he spent very little of the party alone. Bilbo had not been gone more than a few minutes before Thorin reached down the table for a slice of bread and, in doing so, realised that one of the many children present had clambered next to him onto the bench and was examining his cane.
Though it was not as extravagant as one might expect for a retired king of a great dwarven city, it was still one of his finer ones, which was why he had chosen it for the party. Its body, a pale column of oak, was inlaid with patterns down the sides, and the handle was of polished black stone in the semblance of a raven’s head. It was the raven that had captured the child’s attention; he had grasped the cane’s collar and was scratching the dark, gleaming gems of the raven’s eyes with a tiny fingernail.
“Please do take care with that,” said Thorin gently. “It’s my cane. It’s very important to me. I use it to walk.”
“It’s bird,” replied the child. He glanced up at Thorin for a moment before returning to the raven’s head, grasping its beak in his little fist. “Iss a…iss bird.”
“That it is. It’s my favourite kind of bird.” Thorin hooked a steadying finger over the cane’s shaft. “Can you tell what kind?”
“Duck,” said the child decisively.
“That’s very close,” said Thorin.
The child considered. “No chicken,” he added.
“That’s very true. It’s not a chicken.”
“Peck,” added the child with a wiggle of his arm. “A-peck-peck.” The raven’s head dipped and wobbled in his grip.
“Goodness!” exclaimed Thorin. “You’re awfully well-versed in birds. That’s just what they do.”
“Yah,” agreed the child. The raven, being perhaps too heavy for him, slipped from his hand; Thorin supported it with his steady hand but leant it forward, twisting it idly as living birds twist their heads. The child reached to touch it again, and Thorin touched the tip of its beak lightly to the child’s nose; the child squealed wordlessly in surprise and delight.
“I see you’ve been pecked,” declared Thorin, and he thumped the foot of the cane on the ground so as to bob the raven’s head. It elicited a sputtering, bubbling laugh from the child. “What a friendly little bird.”
The child clumsily patted the top of the raven’s head. “Goo duck,” he praised. Thorin touched its beak to the child’s nose again.
It was some time before he tired of Thorin’s cane. He fed it several things, first cubes of roast potato clutched between his fingers, then a piece of sweet roll, and then a leaf from a salad. Each of these the raven touched its beak to, but the only mark it left was a divot in the sweet roll.
He himself, being a growing hobbit, put away a truly impressive deal of food. Thorin would later recall to Bilbo that in the time it had taken him to eat a custard tart, the child vanished a slice of cake as large as his head and several cherry tomatoes besides.
“You’ve got a bit of gravy there,” remarked Thorin. His small companion was midway through a serving of steak pie. “Would it be alright if I cleaned that up?”
The child unlatched himself from the pie and sat with commendable patience whilst Thorin wiped down his chin. He then planted his feet on the seat of the bench and stood, grasping another napkin from the table. Carefully, he raised it in both arms and patted Thorin’s face.
“I keen it,” he explained.
“You’re cleaning my face too?” asked Thorin. The child nodded. “That’s very helpful. Thank you.” After a moment, he added, “But I’m afraid my beard won’t come off with wiping. It grows out of my face, you see.” To demonstrate, he pinched a bit of beard on his cheek and tugged.
The child observed with slack-mouthed concentration and reached up to touch it for himself. The napkin fell to the grass below. His grip was smaller, so it caught fewer hairs and was a bit painful, but his pull was light.
“That’s stuck,” he concluded.
“It’s stuck fast,” agreed Thorin. “I don’t think even a rampaging bull could pull it off me.”
The child considered this. “An…an’ no chicken,” he added.
“I think you’re right. Not even a chicken.”
Even as he said this, the child’s tiny fingers wandered into Thorin’s beard again and scrubbed over his cheeks.
“I suppose this must be your first time seeing someone with a beard,” he observed. “Does it feel funny?”
“Mm-hm,” said the child. “That’s hair.”
“It is hair,” said Thorin. “It’s only a little hair, for a dwarf. Most others have much longer beards, and those feel quite different. My grandfather had a fine, long beard. Soft as lamb’s wool.”
The child, giving Thorin’s beard another tug and a few firm pats, slowed his hand. “A dwuff,” he repeated.
“Yes, indeed,” said Thorin. “I am a dwarf.”
The child stilled, and all at once his face exploded with the exuberance of discovery. “IT’S DWUFF!” he exclaimed with a frail puff of air against Thorin’s face. Abruptly, he hopped to the ground, tipped over, righted himself, and hurried into the forest of swaying skirts and trousered knees. His voice squeaked on: “It’s dwuff! Mummy! Mummy, it’s dwuff!”
Thorin barely had a moment to worry he’d scared him before the little thing returned towing a grown hobbit—presumably his mother—dressed in a fine blue frock and bearing flowers in her chestnut hair. Upon seeing Thorin, she turned her face down to thank her son and spent several moments smoothing her skirt and picking at the hems of her sleeves. She did not approach Thorin until the child tugged at her skirt and pointed at him, and even then she seemed to do so with great reluctance, clearing her throat and flexing her interlaced fingers.
She met his eyes long enough to ask, “Are you…Thorin Oakenshield?” and then her gaze fell to the ground. “Silly question, I suppose, you being the only dwarf I’ve invited. Though I suppose other dwarves could appear without invitation if they wanted. Not—not that I would expect your kin to do so! I’ve heard nothing but nice things about you. And your family. Oh, please, please don’t take offence.”
“Peace, madam,” said Thorin gently. “I am indeed Thorin Oakenshield, and I take no offence, nor do I see much reason to. Ask my husband about dwarves and he’ll tell you we’re notorious for showing up uninvited.”
This succeeded in punching an encouraging, if nervous, gasp of laughter from the hobbit mother.
“Now, when you say ‘you’ve invited’ —would I be right in wishing you a happy birthday?”
“You would,” she said, pinching restlessly at her skirt. “I’m—I’m Gilly Baggins.”
“Oh, I see!” Thorin turned to the child. “Then you must be…”
“This is Porto,” supplied Gilly.
“Poto,” said Porto, whose attention was now largely on a beetle crawling down the bench.
“Well,” said Thorin, “it’s very lovely to meet you, Porto.”
“Thanky.”
Gilly drew a breath. “I’ve been meaning to—er, that is—Bilbo dropped by the other day and we had a talk about—things—and I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it’s been a weight on my mind since—my giving you those ducks, I mean.”
“Oh! Yes! The ducks!” exclaimed Thorin, levering himself to his feet. Gilly’s eyes widened; though he leant heavily against his cane, he stood nearly a foot taller than she did. “Mrs. Baggins,” he began, “I cannot begin to thank you properly, nor express how it touched my heart.”
Gilly’s mouth, poised on the edge of apology, fell open and stayed that way. Two hobbit girls, one trailing ribbons in her fist, rampaged through the grass between them and were gone. “I’m—I—pardon?” stammered Gilly.
“Marriage is not as common among dwarves as it seems to be among hobbits,” explained Thorin, “and children are even rarer. To receive an artefact of the very outset of somebody’s journey into craftsmanship”—he shook his head—“I have not been honored this way since my nephews were very young.”
“Oh.” Gilly blinked. “So you—you did like it?” she ventured.
“I loved it. I understand Bilbo had his problems with it, but”—another cluster of faunts chased one another past the table by which Thorin and Gilly stood; Thorin spared them a brief, wistful glance. “I suppose it’s a different culture than I’m used to. Before I came to Hobbiton I doubt I could have conceived of a life like this, where children are commonplace.”
“And you’re not—you’re not bothered by the lack of skill?”
“Well, it’s one matter for something to be poorly done for lack of care. But a child’s craft is completely different—like unpolished gems, raw ores—its technical flaws are inextricable from its beauty. It signifies the very beginning of a person. To a dwarf, that’s a rare thing.”
Peony blinked again, several times and rapidly. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Well. I. Well. Thank you. I mean—you’re welcome. I mean,” she stammered. “I mean—I never—well—oh, goodness, I’m sure Ponto would love to hear that. I ought to fetch him. Would that be alright? Only he gets discouraged so easily. He’s only just starting out, really, with the carving.”
“That would be wonderful, Mrs. Baggins. I’d love to meet him.”
Ponto had the same tawny hair as his younger brother, though considerably neater, and the sort of slouching, squirming gait emblematic of children anticipating a reprimand that they themselves believe they deserve.
“Mum said to tell you she’s been laidway. Er. Waylaid,” he mumbled. “She’s talking with Missus Proudfoot. But she told me go and find you.”
Thorin nodded. “Ponto, yes?”
“Aye, sir.”
“You were the one who carved the figures I received for your mother’s birthday.”
Ponto met his eyes long enough to nod. “Aye, sir. Only if I’d knew she wanted to use them for a gift, I might have taken a bit more care. I hope I did them alright.”
“As I was telling your mother,” said Thorin seriously, “I’m honored to have received them. They live on the mantel in our parlour room now—well, most of them.” He retrieved from his breast pocket the duckling that could not sit upright. “This one has a bit of trouble sitting with its siblings,” he said.
Ponto drew close to examine it, face pinching in consternation. “Oh. That one,” he mumbled.
“It’s very well done,” said Thorin. “All it would need to stay up is a bit of work underneath. But I thought I might ask your permission before doing anything.”
“Mine?”
“It is your creation. I’d be loath to make a change to it that you did not agree with.”
“Oh,” said Ponto. “Well—yes, of course. It was just, I had trouble with the bottoms of the other two babies. And I didn’t know what to do about the last. Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry! You demonstrate fine skill already. Anticipating the bounds of one’s ability at the time is itself a kind of mastery.” Thorin unfolded the smallest knife he carried and, holding the duckling fast against the table, set to work gently flattening its underside. “I think you’re very good,” he continued. “You ought to keep going with the carving, if you enjoy it.”
“I do, I like it lots. Not very good yet, though, I don’t think. Begging your pardon. It still don’t—doesn’t come out looking like it’s s’posed to, as I want it to.”
“Ah, yes,” said Thorin as he put his knife away. “A struggle every craftsman faces at one time or another, and only once you’ve mastered your art shall you begin to put that struggle to rest. But mastery takes many years; we must, in the meantime, find things to love in our imperfect work.” He scooted forward on the bench and bent towards Ponto with the duckling cradled in the fingertips of his hand. “See,” he explained as Ponto leant down to inspect it. “I’ve not altered any part but the bottom, so the rest is all your work. The silhouette is undeniably that of a duck—you’ve succeeded in cutting the beak—bill, rather—I’ve always considered the differences between birds to be subtle, sometimes inscrutable, and you’ve succeeded in making its duckness unambiguous. This goes for the other three as well, now. The body of the big duck in particular is very gracefully shaped. I also noticed you used the grain of the wood to give the impression of plumage; that’s very clever. Who do you receive instruction from, if I may ask?”
“Mister Proudfoot,” said Ponto, with a little smile now kindling in his face. “And my da, a bit. But mostly Mister Proudfoot. He had me do the grain like that.”
“He must be a very fine teacher.”
“I like him. He don’t shout, or—and he gets you finding yourself doing things you wouldn’t think you could do, if you take my meaning.”
“Oh, I do. I’ve had teachers like that.” Thorin moved his cane out of the way as Ponto sat on the bench next to him and reached for a sweet roll.
Since Peony had arrived at the party with her family, she had been handed off from minder to minder in intervals as each of them in succession found most convenient, occasionally coming back to doze in her mother’s arms or the bassinet Posco had situated in a quiet corner. At the moment, her minder happened to be Bilbo; they had just been conferring on the subject of dirty and clean napkins at the edge of the field, and Bilbo now carried her back into the heart of the gathering and then froze, staring.
Thorin was surrounded by hobbits.
“We wear boots all the time,” he was explaining to a cluster of faunts seated on the grass. “They’re not for injured feet specifically.”
“But what’s the cane for, then?” asked Prickle Banks.
“Well—it’s for my injured foot,” conceded Thorin. “But I wore boots even before I injured it. I’ve worn them my whole life.”
“A likely story!” scoffed Prickle. “You’re the only dwarf I’ve ever seen with boots, and that’s a fact.”
“He’s the only dwarf you’ve ever seen at all,” Ponto reminded her.
“I’ve got some relatives coming for our new year,” added Thorin diplomatically. “So you’ll all have a better idea of dwarves come autumn.”
Falco, the young Chubb-Baggins boy, politely raised his hand. “New year is in—it—the new years is—is in the winter,” he pointed out.
“Oh, yes! The middle of winter,” explained Thorin, “has the hobbits’ new year. And I’m very much looking forward to celebrating that one. But the one that I celebrated when I was little, the one that dwarves have, is at the very end of autumn, and our new year starts right about the time winter does.”
“How many days?” asked Ponto.
“Just the one. Well, we celebrate for a week or so, but it’s just the one day in the calendar.”
“Hang on,” interjected Odo Proudfoot. “The weeks wouldn’t come out, then. You’d have an odd one.”
“Well, the calendar looks a bit different every year. We go by the moon.” He had been packing his pipe whilst he talked, and now, bracing the firesteel in his left hand against his knee, he lit it with a scrape of his tinderbox. The hobbits watched the whole process with fascination.
“Fancy that,” Odo finally said. “Sparks, tame in your hand!”
Posco held out his own pipe, very hastily packed. “Would you do mine?”
Pivoting toward him, Thorin did.
“How does it work, then?” asked Posco in between puffs.
“Well, it’s…quite similar to matches,” guessed Thorin.
“I want a smoke,” piped up Ponto.
“I’m sorry, lad,” said his father, “but you’re out of luck there.”
“Well, can I have a mouthful of your whiskey?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then can I have a pet rabbit?”
Posco was silent for a moment. “We’ll discuss it,” he finally said.
“I met a wizard who drove a sleigh drawn by rabbits,” Thorin commented. All young eyes turned to him. He frowned at his pipe. “Or were they hares?”
“Does Gandalf ride a rabbit sleigh?” cried one of the girls.
“”Did you get to ride it?” cried a boy.
“Mum, can we make a chicken sleigh?”
Amid the uproar, Thorin managed to explain that no, it was not Gandalf; no, he did not get to ride it; no, he did not get to pet them, either; yes, it was a terrifically fast sleigh and it bought his company time when they were being chased by orcs.
“What’s orcs?” asked Gerda Boffin.
“They’re horrible beasts with fangs the size of your arm,” answered Prickle. “And they eat little hobbits.”
“They do not!” cried Gilly and Thorin in unison.
“No-o,” added Bilbo from the back of the crowd, “but—.” Abruptly, he clamped his mouth shut and stared mildly into the distance as he bounced Peony, unwilling to meet any of the children’s expectant stares.
“But what?” demanded Prickle.
“I can’t say,” said Bilbo. “I made a promise not to scare the young ones.”
Deafening outrage from the children. Bilbo, having received a decidedly unimpressed look from Gilly, ducked out of the gathering soon afterwards for his own safety.
It had been dark for hours when Thorin and Bilbo returned to Bag End. The amended duckling was reunited with its family on the mantel, and the raven cane was reunited with its thicket of brethren. Bilbo left the cottage pie dish in the washbasin, stripped down to his shirtsleeves, climbed into Thorin’s lap, and snogged him silly.
“You had a good time, then?” gasped Thorin at his first chance to breathe. Bilbo laid kisses over his beard at the edge of his jaw and did not answer.
“How did you do that?” he asked instead. “I thought—heaven knows I know you’re good company, but when—Posco wouldn’t even look you in the eye this afternoon, and there you were tonight, lighting his pipe!”
“If you’re getting jealous again,” Thorin whispered into Bilbo’s neck, “I could light yours several times before morning.”
Bilbo flicked his temple.
“Ow,” Thorin whispered.
“Be serious, now. What happened?”
“Not very much. Your cousin tracked me down and tried to apologise.”
Bilbo pulled back. “Gilly did? I wonder what changed her mind.”
“You, I think. I’m afraid I cut her off with my thanks. And then I had a chat with Ponto, and he hailed down Odo, and they sort of accumulated.”
“Look at you,” laughed Bilbo, “first-naming Mister Proudfoot.”
Thorin, despite his posturing, only lit his husband’s pipe once that night. It was a warm Shire summer, after all. They instead lounged in bed with the window open and the covers half-off; Bilbo combed Thorin’s hair with his fingers, and Thorin scratched the tops of Bilbo’s feet.
“I don’t know why I was so surprised,” mused Bilbo. “You being good with children, I mean.”
“Am I good with children?” Thorin mumbled. He was halfway to sleep then, as Bilbo playing with his hair often brought him, so Bilbo spoke softly.
“I should say so. But you helped your sister raise the boys, didn’t you?”
“Doesn’t mean I’m good, only lucky. And look how they turned out. Uncontrollable.”
“One of them became a king, Thorin.”
Thorin yawned. “Well,” he said. “There is that, I suppose.”
On the first morning of October, Bilbo plodded half-awake into the kitchen to boil water for tea. He wandered into the pantry for an apple, shivered, took two bites, and then lodged it in his mouth whilst he tied closed his dressing gown. He doubled back to the bedroom, purloined a comb, and settled himself at the kitchen table to groom his feet and wait for the kettle to warm. And then he yelped, because lying upon the kitchen table was Kíli.
“Have a care,” grumbled the intruder. “Some of us are sleeping.”
Bilbo peeled his hand away from where he had clapped it to his mouth. “When did you get in?” he whispered.
“Mm. Late last night…oi. Oi!”
“Off,” said Bilbo, who had thrown his arms about Kíli’s ankles and was tugging with his whole weight. “Boots, dirty boots, off my table, boots off my nice clean table please!” After Kíli had grunted a nominal protest and sat himself up, legs dangling over the edge of the tabletop like a faunt, Bilbo sighed, “Now, let me get a look at you! Is it just me, or are you taller?”
“Well, I stopped growing when I was fifty-five,” said Kíli, and snorted when Bilbo embraced him, but returned the embrace all the same. “So I think it’s just you.”
“But why, for heaven’s sake, why were you sleeping on the table?”
“Oh, we didn’t want to wake you.”
“But I’ve a spare room just off the front hall!”
Frowning, Kíli raised his head. “Have you?”
Bilbo pointed. “It’s just—goodness, if you were on the table, where’d the others put themselves?”
The others, being only Dís and Fíli, had commandeered the parlour settee (a belated courting gift from Thorin). Fíli slept with his head pillowed on his mother’s stomach and his legs draped at the knees over the settee’s arm; as soon as Kíli entered the room, he walked over and kicked his brother’s feet.
“Oh, no,” admonished Bilbo as he batted Kili’s boots down, “no, let them sleep!”
But the damage was done. The technical king of Erebor spat out a sapphire-studded braid that had been soaking in his mouth and grumbled, “Think I’ll join you on the floor next time. Forgot how Amad kicks.”
“You were eating your beard in your sleep again, weren’t you?” said Kíli with a grin.
“I don’t remember. You’ll have to ask me two minutes ago.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Bilbo, “he was on the table.”
“Bilbo!” wailed Fíli, still audibly bleary, but jubilant. “Uncle Bilbo!” He swung his legs to the floor, and the rest of him followed.
“Behold,” narrated Kíli. “The king!”
“I name you faithless,” Fíli said from the floor, “defamer and usurper.”
“Amad’s gonna kill you for abusing your station once she’s awake.”
“I am awake,” grumbled Dís. “Fíli, you can’t condemn people to death in the Shire. It’s outside your jurisdiction.”
Bilbo tilted himself in Kíli’s direction. “Has he actually had anyone put to death?” he murmured.
“I’ll tell you what he’s put to death,” said Kíli. “That blue orchid you had delivered for his coronation. It’s so dry I fear it’ll burst into flames any day now.”
Fili let out a great, wounded gasp. “Tale-teller!” he cried.
“Virgil?” Bilbo cried back. He looked down at Fíli. “You killed Virgil?” In spite of his distress, he reached down and, bending backwards with the weight, hauled Fíli off the floor.
“Virgil died unexpectedly in the night,” grunted Fíli. “I had little to do with it.”
“We think he overwatered it,” added Dís. “It’s nice to see you again, Bilbo.”
“Oh, Dís, I do hope you slept alright. We wouldn’t have minded at all being woken up to see you.”
“No, it’s alright. I’d rather have an invitation before I start knocking about someone else’s home.”
Bilbo sighed. “Now why,” he asked the boys, “couldn’t you have inherited that?”
A faint, sleep-heavy voice floated into the parlour. “Bilbooo.”
“We had an invitation, for all we knew,” said Kíli. “You just weren’t there for it.”
“Bilboooo,” called Thorin again. “C’you do me a cup of tea?”
“Morning, brother!” Dís called. There was a silence, into which the kettle in the kitchen hissed and squeaked; a terrific, asymmetric racket then tumbled forth as Thorin Oakenshield lurched out of bed and careened through the hall with his cane. In his haste, he abandoned it with a clatter upon reaching the threshold of the room and instead hopped one-footed, laughing, into his sister’s arms.
The first breakfast of the morning was hastily prepared, as Bilbo insisted that food be put into the guests in as short an order as possible. Smoked ham, roast potatoes, fried bread, fluffy scones with blackcurrant preserves, coffee, breakfast tea, apple juice, eggs, sausage, bacon, Northfarthing cheese, spice cake left over from the previous night: a modest but sincere spread. There was also peppermint tea, though this was mostly for Thorin, because he had enthusiastically knocked his forehead against those of his nephews in rapid succession and gone quite dizzy because of it.
“The entourage is back at the inn,” Dís explained over the table. “But when we found out how close we were, the boys and I thought we’d push on.”
“That’s where my crown is,” said Fíli through a mouthful of spice cake. “Thought it’d be safer there.”
Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “Oh, the crown is safe, then. Well, thank goodness, that’s the important thing.”
“I’ll take that seriously,” Fíli replied calmly, “if you can name one dangerous thing we could possibly have run into on our way here.”
“Angry cow,” said Bilbo.
“Lobelia,” said Thorin at the same time.
“You could have tripped over your own feet and then, without the crown to protect your head, struck it on a rock and died,” added Kíli, “and then I’d be the king.”
“You can’t be the king. You’re married to an elf. It’s conflicting interests.”
“It’s diplomacy.”
“Oh, don’t argue now,” chided Dís. “You’ll rattle your uncle’s fragile little head.”
“It’s not fragile,” Thorin protested. “It’s those heavy crowns your sons are always wearing. They’ve grown reinforced skulls.”
“Mm—speaking of,” said Fili, “don’t go round telling the residents I’m a king, alright? I’d treasure a bit of anonymity for the holiday.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that,” said Thorin. “Everybody knows. But! You’ll be pleased to learn that practically nobody cares.”
Fíli’s face fell. “No. What? You stuff it,” he added with a look toward Kíli, who had erupted into smug honks of laughter. “If they don’t care about me being king, they certainly don’t care about you being prince!”
“As far as they’re concerned,” Thorin continued, “dwarves are just kings sometimes. It happens often but not always.”
“Oh, I see!” exclaimed Kíli. “But I’ll be the first prince they’ve met. And Amad will be the first princess. And Thorin was the first king and the first dwarf altogether. But no firsts for Fíli.” He grinned at his brother. “Aw. Poor Fíli.”
Fíli plundered a handful of bacon from Kíli’s plate, including a particularly crispy piece which Kíli seemed to have been saving, and stuffed it all into his mouth at once.
“Hey. Hey hey no! Amad!” yelped Kíli. “Amad, Fíli took my bacon!”
“Durin’s beard, it’s too early,” groaned Dís. “Come on. You’re nearly a hundred, both of you.”
“Fíli’s closer,” said Kíli.
“Boys, please,” said Thorin. “My poor, fragile head.”
Bilbo turned to Dís. “How do you and Balin get anything done?”
“I think you’d be surprised,” said Dís. “Fíli’s quite capable when he gets down to it. And when they’re not egging each other on.”
“As I understand it,” ventured Thorin, “Tauriel is something of a neutralising force?”
“Oh, aye. I did ask her to come with us, but logistics got a bit complicated.”
“Oh, what a boon that could have been,” sighed Bilbo. He turned to Fíli and Kíli. “You do know this is the most exposure Hobbiton will have ever had to dwarves, don’t you? An awful lot’s riding on this visit going well.”
“Well, we’ve brought only the most Balin-like of guards, if that reassures you,” said Fíli, muffled as his speech was by his full mouth. Crumbs of bacon pattered onto his plate as he spoke.
“It does not,” said Bilbo. “Swallow your bacon.”
“It’s not even his,” Kíli whispered plaintively.
Thorin nudged Bilbo’s foot with his own. “It’ll be fine,” he murmured with a smile. “They’re only larking.”
“I know,” Bilbo murmured back to him. “Oh, I know, it’s just…it’s precarious right now, you and everyone. What do we do if something happens that sets us back?”
“Nothing will happen. Not with the stranglehold I’ve got on the copperware market.”
Bilbo rolled his eyes, snickering despite himself.
“Copperware?” Dís asked. Turning to Thorin, she set her fork down atop her potatoes. “You’ve been selling copper?”
“He’s sold two pots and a ladle,” explained Bilbo.
“And they love them,” Thorin added. “Give it another few months. We’ll be snowed under with commissions.”
Bilbo snorted, impaling a thick slice of ham on his fork. “You say ‘we’ like I contribute anything of value to the project.”
“Pastries for the coppersmith,” said Thorin, “is a noble and worthy appointment.”
Dís looked gently between them and shook her head, smiling, and turned back to her plate.
“What?” asked Kíli.
Opening her mouth, Dís glanced again at her brother.
“Bilbo knows,” he said.
“Thorin used to sell lattens of tin and copper to men,” she told Kíli. “Before we settled in the Blue Mountains.” Offering Thorin another quick glance, she added, “You said you hated it more than anything else. More than coal mining.”
“Still do. Down with alloys,” said Thorin as he chopped up his bacon. “Least, down with alloys when I’m the one forging them.”
“So is it safe to say you no longer consider them friends or alloys?” asked Fíli mildly.
The rest of the table went silent and regarded him with revulsion (from Thorin), exasperation (from Dís), and delight (from Bilbo and Kíli alike).
“Anyway,” Thorin said to Dís, “we can afford pure copper now.”
“Ex-cuse me!” cried Fíli at the same time Kíli began to shout and Bilbo released a long, loud snort of laughter.
“All hail!” roared Kíli. “All hail!”
“Does he do this when he’s holding court?” Bilbo giggled to Dís.
“No one can stop him,” said Dís with a distinctly exaggerated air of mourning. “He’s the king.”
“You have to be pleased with it!” Kíli was shouting gleefully to Thorin. “He’s the king!”
“I was king first!” laughed Thorin. “I was king first! You’re not allowed to outstrip me!”
Fíli leaned peacefully back in his chair and took a deep drink of his coffee.
Ponies came after breakfast laden with the royal luggage. Two guards accompanied them, though they politely declined Bilbo’s invitation to elevenses, and Fíli dismissed them to attend to their own devices.
The three guests carried their own goods inside; Thorin navigated them to their rooms, and Bilbo periodically dove between the boys and the wall to protect it from bumps and scrapes, but neither Thorin nor Bilbo were obliged by the others to lift a single package, save one large bundle wrapped in twine and silk that Kíli dropped in Bilbo’s hands with a wink. When pressed for explanation, he would only say, “The wood-elves send their regards.”
Though Bag End would harbour no display comparable to a dwarven hall, they decorated it all the same. Garlands were hung, silver threads that joined together delicate white stones and crystals, and mirrors engraved with runes were carefully unpacked and polished. Many candles were unwrapped and placed about the smial, and many of Bilbo’s own appeared beside them.
It being a Sitting Day, Thorin only polished mirrors with his sister, whom he and Bilbo had chivvied into having a lie-down in front of the hearth. Bilbo and the boys bustled in and out of the room where they rested to unspool garlands and unbind clusters of candles, and to chat.
“You ought to brace yourselves,” advised Bilbo. “You’re going to be of great interest to the faunts.”
Thorin nodded. “The Banks girl is convinced that dwarves only wear boots when we’ve injured feet. So if a faunt comes up to you and asks after the state of your feet, that’ll be why.”
Fíli and Kíli exchanged looks between each other and their mother, and all three seemed to come to a silent resolution together.
“And Hamfast Gamgee will want to have a look at your tinderboxes,” Bilbo continued in the meanwhile. “He’s taken quite an interest.”
Thorin grinned. “We shall make a dwarf of him yet.”
“Which you’re not to repeat in front of his parents,” Bilbo pointed out.
“Even though it’s true,” returned Thorin.
“What we ought to do, really, is have Gandalf come and set off some fireworks. He’d love those.”
“How’s he do around a forge?” asked Fíli.
“Hasn’t seen one at work yet, I don’t think,” said Thorin. “Holman keeps him busy.”
“Gardener,” Bilbo explained to the others. “He’ll be by today to plant some bulbs, but we’d best introduce you one at a time, so as not to overwhelm him.”
“I’ll go first,” said Fíli. “I’m sure to underwhelm him, what with his already having met a king and all.”
“No,” said Thorin from the sofa, “let me go first.”
“You’re the king he’s already met, though.”
“Exactly. So he’ll know just what to expect.”
“Don’t,” Bilbo said to Fíli, “let him near Holman before the rest of you say hello. He’s after gossip.”
“I like to know how people are doing,” explained Thorin with wide, innocent eyes.
“He likes to know who’s arguing with who.”
“Well, it’s for your sake, really,” Thorin protested. “Supposing you invited Rufus Burrows to lunch without knowing about that horrible thing he said about Amethyst Hornblower, and people thought you were taking his side.”
Bilbo looked up sharply. “What horrible thing?” Then, regaining himself, he shook his head. “Nope, no, I’m not doing that.”
“What horrible thing?” asked Kíli.
Grinning, Thorin twisted toward Kili and slung his arm over the back of the sofa. “Well,” he began.
Dís and Bilbo sat bundled in coats and scarves that afternoon on the crest of the hill over Bag End and pieced from an assortment of nuts and dried fruits. Thorin was away for the afternoon, looking after Gilly’s lot, but Fíli and Kíli were just round the back. A sparrow rested on one of their discarded training staffs and mouthed at its feathers. Down Bagshot Row, two members of the travelling royal guard sat and smoked with their backs against a crooked tree, chatting with Holman as leaves descended gently around them.
“I was worried, you know,” she murmured. “About him here. Not him with you, I mean. But I’ve always understood hobbits to be, largely, an insular folk.”
Bilbo nodded. “They are. No, I was worried too. It was rough going for a while. ‘Til only recently, in fact—it was the faunts that did it. Or rather, Thorin with the faunts. I do wish I’d known about dwarves and children sooner,” he said, slipping an almond into his mouth. “I could have put something together. The whole town cleaved right to him once they found out.”
Dís frowned. “Dwarves and children? What about dwarves and children?”
“Well, you know, the value of children’s craft and all that.”
“What value?” asked Dís blankly. She then raised her head, and a look of comprehension washed over her. “Thorin got gooey over some youngling’s creation, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he—what? Now hang on,” demanded Bilbo, because Dís was now leant back with the force of her laughter. “Dís!” She met his eye briefly, and then she turned away to snort into her fist. Bilbo simply sat with his mouth open in alarm. “Dís, do dwarves not revere children’s work?”
“No! No,” gasped Dís. “Well, a pa-harent might, but—don’t tell me that’s what the whole town thinks. Oh, M’al’s balls, is that why the sweet lady offered me that cross-stitch?”
Cradling his face in his hands, Bilbo shook his head. “What—I don’t know, what sweet lady?”
“Sapph—Sapphire? Buffin. Buffett.”
“Sapphira Boffin gave you Gerda’s first cross-stitch,” he moaned, and that set Dís right off again.
“Everything alright?” came Fíli’s voice. “Amad’s making wounded animal noises.”
Bilbo looked up with a cringe at Fíli, whose face was visible behind the nearby hedge from the nose up.
“Fíli,” laughed Dís, “gem, do you remember when your brother was just starting out with filigree? And he gave a piece he’d made to Thorin?”
“And we came to you upset because Uncle Thorin was crying?” asked Fíli.
“That’s the one!”
“What about it?”
Moaning again, Bilbo tipped over and lay curled up on the blanket.
The package that Bilbo had received from Kíli contained a handful of finely bound, freshly inked books of tengwar script, mostly in a language that was unknown to him. This was the Silvan tongue, Thranduil’s note explained, and though it has fallen out of use in the wider world, its legacy may yet be of interest to scholars.
Kíli’s voice was audible through the open window of the study when Bilbo entered to stow the books there—Kíli’s voice, and the voices of at least two faunts besides.
“Elbows nice and high for the strike across…yep, just let your sword follow, and then…no, now, you’ve got to keep your wrists straight when you thrust the blade forward, it’s important, that…stance nice and strong, look at Hilda there, look at that, there’s nothing can tip this one over!…No, I’m afraid I can’t myself, my feet are still healing, you see…oof, ouch, alright…well, on our way here we met a terrible army of snakes, and snakes go for the feet, you know…yes, now I’ve got to wear these awful, clunky boots for the whole holiday…no, you don’t want to see them, they’re oozing a yellow slime and…”
A chorus of young voices shrill with disgust and outrage eclipsed Kíli’s. Bilbo smothered his laughter with the back of his hand.
“Would you accept an apology from me on his behalf?” asked Thorin. “Or shall I drag him in by the ear?”
Bilbo turned. There leant Thorin in the doorway, smile on his face, house cane dangling from his fingers. “To be quite honest,” said Bilbo, “I want to see how far he manages to take it.”
“Prickle shall become insufferable,” said Thorin with a shake of his head. His gaze landed on the Silvan books, which Bilbo had dropped on the desk by the window. “Ooh, what are those?”
“Those are books, dear.”
Thorin stumped forth with a roll of his eyes. “I could never have guessed.”
“From the Elvenking.”
Thorin halted and wrinkled his nose. Bilbo reached up with a chuckle and smeared the pad of his thumb over it until the wrinkles disappeared. He then paused, narrowed his eyes, and bounced his thumb against Thorin’s nose a few more times. “Why is this sticky?” he muttered.
“We introduced Peony to strawberry jam today.”
“Oh, I see.” Bilbo leaned back and surveyed the rest of Thorin, whose shirt was indeed overrun with reddish patches and flecks. He looked up again at Thorin’s face; it betrayed no discontent, no frustration. In fact, it seemed to glow with the gentle happiness of a day well-spent.
Dinner happened in fits and starts. Bilbo and Thorin buttered toast in the light of the setting sun; Dís returned to Bag End at dusk with Fíli and smoked trout; Kíli tumbled in trailing moonlight and soil. Apples, cheese, roasted veg. Mugs of cider and pipes of Old Toby. They lit some of the candles they’d set out, and the flames glinted in the mirrors and hanging gems. Thorin asked blithely after the state of Kíli’s snake wound.
“As you might have heard rumour of,” answered Kíli, “it’s been oozing a yellow slime.”
Fíli’s face contorted and he let several cubes of squash drop from his slackened mouth.
“Was this a snake bite, then?” asked Dís.
“Stab wound,” said Kíli. “The snakes had little javelins.”
Bilbo choked around his pipe.
“How would they even use them?” asked Fíli. “We might as well get our story straight now, if you’ve already gone off and given it.”
Kíli shrugged. “It all happened so fast. I’m sorry.”
When Bilbo had caught his breath, he snuck a glance at Thorin. It was not so difficult to imagine him fifty, sixty, seventy years ago, sitting at a table like this one in Ered Luin, attending to his tiny nephews’ accounts of the day’s exploits. Or giving patient instruction in the use of a sword, as Kíli had done that afternoon.
“Do you miss it at all,” he asked later on, “the boys being little?”
Thorin ruffled out his hair, which he had just freed from its clasps, and sat heavily on the side of the bed. “Not at all. Those were still thin days. Our livelihood didn’t recover until Fíli was nearly of age.”
“But if—if you’d been prosperous when they were born,” Bilbo said.
Thorin looked over his shoulder at him with a curious tilt of his brow.
“If you’d—well, if you’d been happier then,” stammered Bilbo. “And your—you’d had a home you really considered home. Then.”
“Then I’d miss it sorely, I suppose,” said Thorin. “But children are always a joy to bring up. The trouble only comes when you don’t know whether you’ll have what you need to do it properly.” Once under the covers, he curled up on his side facing Bilbo, as he did when his shoulder pained him.
Bilbo leaned forward, hugging his blanketed legs, chin on his knees. He stared at the far wall and the framed charcoal sketch of his parents that hung there. “Well,” he said carefully. “You do now.”
No breath could be heard in the silence.
Finally, Thorin lifted his head. “What?”
“You do. I—we do. If we—if we wanted. To have one. Then we have everything we’d need to bring them up as they should be. Brought up.”
Thorin lowered his head again, but his gaze remained fixed on Bilbo, lips barely parted, expression soft. “Are you asking…”
“No, not—well, I’m just…letting you know,” said Bilbo as he restlessly wound his fingers together, “that I know we’re getting on a bit, but—it’s not as though you’ve missed your chance. To have one of your own.”
“Our own,” murmured Thorin.
“Our own. If you’ve ever—well.” Bilbo blew a deliberate breath through his pursed lips. “I’d never considered it before, what with not even wanting to marry, while I was still—but I’ve been considering it, these past few months. The idea of it. And.” He sank under the bedclothes and turned his body toward Thorin, though he still did not meet his eyes. “Raising a child with you,” he mumbled. “That would be a high honor, I think—oh, goodness!”
Thorin had scooted forth until he had Bilbo wrapped tightly in his arms and was laughing into his shoulder. “If my heart had its way, at this moment,” he said, “we would take in two dozen hobbitlings forthwith.”
“Well,” laughed Bilbo, “perhaps only a dozen to start with.”
“And I will name one of them Thrór.”
“Then we’d best name one Bungo, as well, to even things out.”
“Hmm. I suppose they ought to have suitable hobbit names, if we’re to set them up for decent social lives.” Thorin gave it a moment of thought. “Rhubarb.”
Bilbo squinted. “What?”
“Rhubarb. For a boy.”
“What sort of a silly name is Rhubarb?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t it the done thing to name hobbit children after plants?”
“Oh, such lovely and fragrant plants as the Porto or the Gruffo?”
“I think if there were a Gruffo flower, its blooms would be quite magnificent.”
“You shall have to ask him,” remarked Bilbo through a yawn. “Ask him. ‘Gruffo, if you were a flower, what would you look like?’”
“If there were a Bilbo flower, it would be round and thick with petals, like a peony.”
“I think if I were a flower, I’d grow big seed pods that you could hit people with.”
Such matters of great import did they discuss late into the night.