From Shire Snow to Mountain Stone

by GwynMandoJeti_ElvenGuardian

Summary:

Foxglove and Bilbo Baggins young fox shifters flee the Shire in the depths of the Fell Winter after losing their parents to the Fell wolves. They ran into the House of Ur and House of Ri both of whom were dwarf wolf shifters who were fleeing their homes. As they travel Bilbo and Foxglove were adopted into the House of Ri. The small mixed pack was summoned to Erebor.

Chapter 1

The world was a canvas of frigid white and biting wind, a winter so fierce it earned the dread moniker of ‘Fell’. Every breath was a shard of ice, every shadow a potential predator. Through this desolate landscape, two small forms, hobbits hidden in their fox forms, darted with desperate speed.

Foxglove was a blur of ghostly white fur against the snow, her albino coat a stark, almost ethereal presence as her small paws, tipped with surprisingly sharp claws, found purchase on the icy crust. Her ears, finely pointed and twitching with frantic alertness, strained for any sound beyond the howling wind. Beside her, a flash of russet, Bilbo, her brother, matched her frantic pace, his broad, flat hobbit feet, usually bare and comfortable in the Shire’s warm earth, now transformed into compact, furred pads that worked tirelessly through the drifts. Whimpers, choked by the bitter cold, escaped their muzzles, more for the scene they’d left behind than the exhaustion that clawed at their small bodies.

Their parents, brave and resolute, had stayed. Stayed to hold back the initial wave of Fell wolves, gaunt and monstrous, that had burst from the shadowed woods, their eyes gleaming with unnatural hunger. The memory of their mother’s final, defiant snarl, their father’s desperate, heart-wrenching command to RUN, was a fresh wound, driving their tiny forms onward. They ran not just from the fell wolves, but from the unbearable silence of a home ripped apart by them.

Days bled into a blur of icy wind and gnawing hunger. They scavenged what little they could, gnawed on frozen roots, and huddled together for warmth in shallow snow caves, their shared fear a cold comfort. But their hobbit resilience, mixed with the innate cunning of their fox forms, kept them moving. They were small, yes, but their senses were sharp, their movements deceptively quick.

On the fifth day of their desperate flight, as the meager pre-dawn light struggled to break through a sky the color of old bruises, Foxglove’s sensitive nose twitched. A scent. Not of fell wolves, not of cold death, but something else. Smoke, faint but distinct, overlaid with the metallic tang of dwarf-iron and a faint, musky scent she couldn't quite place. Curious, and driven by the faint hope of warmth, she nudged Bilbo. Together, they crept forward, their white and russet forms nearly invisible against the snow-draped trees.

Through a sparse thicket of frost-laden pines, they saw it. A small, haphazard camp, nestled against a cluster of ancient boulders. A fire, carefully banked, sent lazy plumes of smoke into the frigid air. Around it, huddled forms. Not fell wolves. Dwarves. But not like any dwarves they had heard of in the Shire. These dwarves were…different.

One, a massive male, black and charcoal hair rippling beneath his thick winter cloak, was tending the fire with surprising gentleness, his movements economical. This was Bifur, clan head of the House of Ur, his form radiating a quiet strength. Beside him, a brown hair-colored male, Bombur’s brother Bofur, was trying to coax a spark from a damp piece of tinder, muttering good-naturedly to himself. And then there were the others. A large, cinnamon-colored hair male, Bombur, was huddled protectively over a heap of furs, from which came the unmistakable sounds of whimpering pups. Beside him, a female dwarf Alaris, her caramel hair a rich contrast against the snow, was meticulously checking the pups, in wolf form radiating a fierce maternal warmth. Eight pups, tiny bundles of fur, nestled together, their small wolf-puppy forms shivering despite the furs.

Foxglove and Bilbo exchanged a glance. Other shifters. It was a rare enough thing to encounter, especially so far from settled lands. Their fox forms, whilst small, were not common even amongst hobbits who did possess the gift of shifting. Caution warred with a desperate yearning for company.

It was Bilbo who made the first move, a soft, questioning whine that was more fox than hobbit. Bifur’s head snapped up, his keen dark eyes, even in his dwarf form, immediately locking onto their position. He let out a low growl, a warning, and in an instant, Bofur and Bombur were on their feet, their tawny and cinnamon wolf forms bristling, hackles raised. Alaris, though still attending her pups, was a coiled spring of readiness.

“Wait,” Bofur rumbled, his wolf form giving his voice a surprising resonance. “They’re small. And…they’re shifters too.”

Foxglove, taking courage from Bofur’s less aggressive stance, took a cautious step forward, then another. Her white fur matted and worn. Bilbo, more hesitant, followed, his russet coat was twice as dull as Foxglove's. They shifted, a ripple of fur and bone, shrinking slightly, their faces elongating from fox muzzles to Hobbit-like features, though still retaining the pointed ears and sharp eyes.

“Please,” Foxglove’s voice was hoarse from disuse and cold. “We mean no harm. We… we are fleeing.”

Bombur’s wolf-form softened marginally as he took in their pitiful state, the raw grief in their eyes. Alaris shifted, her caramel-colored hair and pale skin now visible, though she still wore pelts that hinted at her wolf nature. “Fleeing what, little ones?” she asked, her voice surprisingly gentle for a dwarf.

Bilbo, ever the more practical, finally spoke. “Fell wolves. From the Shire. They… they took our parents.”

A heavy silence descended. The dwarves of the Ur clan heard of the Fell Winter, a brutal season that spared no one, not even the resilient folk of the Shire. Bifur, still in his dwarf form, let out a soft huff, a sound of sympathy rather than threat. He nudged a large log closer to the fire, an unspoken invitation. Slowly, hesitantly, Foxglove and Bilbo approached the warmth.
As they thawed, sipping at hot, spiced water offered by Alaris, the dwarves shared their own plight. Bombur, his cinnamon wolf-shifter form now a comforting presence beside his mate, explained, “We were in the Blue Mountains. The local lord… he started taxing shifters. Especially those with large families.” His eyes went to his eight sleeping pups. “Insisted they were a ‘drain on resources’ if they didn’t contribute by a certain age. It was either pay exorbitant taxes we couldn’t afford, or… or have them taken. So we ran.” He shifted back, his dwarven face etched with worry. “We aim for the East. Where there is no tax on pups.”

Bofur nodded, his tawny wolf form stretched lazily by the fire. “Aye. Though Bifur here, he’s thinking of something even further. Somewhere we can truly be free.” Bifur, now in his wolf form, gave a short, affirmative bark. His gaze, however, seemed to search the distance, seeking something beyond the immediate horizon.
----
As dawn fully broke, painting the sky in frigid hues, the composite group set off. The hobbit-fox shifters, small and agile, often scouted ahead, their keen senses invaluable. The dwarves, powerful in their wolf forms, broke trail through the deeper snow, their strength pushing them onwards. Alaris, with Bombur’s help, fashioned a crude, yet effective, sled to carry the eight pups, her instincts overriding her dwarven pride in her determination to protect her young.

They had been traveling for two days, a strange, disparate pack united by hardship, when Foxglove, ranging ahead, suddenly froze. Her albino fur bristled, and a low, guttural growl escaped her throat. Bilbo, right beside her, caught the scent a moment later. Wolves. But not the same Fell wolves, their scent was different, cleaner, but still predatory. And something else. Dwarf.
Before they could fully react, three figures emerged from the swirling snow, their forms shifting from dwarf to wolf with practiced ease. One, tall and sleek, her fur a stunning silver-white, led the way. This was Dori, her light green eyes sharp and assessing. Behind her, a lean female with vivid red fur, Nori, moved with quiet aggression, scanning the periphery. And the youngest, a male whose reddish-brown fur was ruffled by the wind, Ori, looked both exhausted and relieved.

Initial tension was palpable. The Ur clan dwarves bristled, their large wolf forms radiating warning. Dori, however, seeing the small hobbit-fox shifters cowering slightly behind Bombur, lowered her head, a sign of non-aggression.

“We mean no harm,” Dori stated, her voice clear even in her wolf form. “We heard a pack. Thought it might be… trouble.” She flickered her gaze to the hobbit-foxes. “And you are far from home, little ones.”

Bilbo, ever cautious, stayed hidden behind Bombur’s leg, but Foxglove, drawn by Dori’s silver-white magnificence that reminded her of her own fur, stepped forward slightly. “We were fleeing. From Fell wolves. And you?”

Dori’s expression darkened even in her wolf form. She shifted, her silver-white hair flowing around her as she returned to her dwarven shape. “Ered Luin is no longer safe for us either. A noble, a Lord Grimfang, sought to force me into a marriage. For the honor of the house of Ri, he claimed. But it was to control our clan. To control Ori’s future.” She gestured to her younger brother, who was now shifting back to his dwarven form, his reddish-brown hair a shade darker than his wolf fur. “He threatened to deny Ori his education, to make him work in the mines if I refused. I could not allow it. So we fled. To try and make our way to Erebor.”

Nori, in her red wolf form, let out a frustrated growl. “Erebor is a long way. And Lord Grimfang isn’t known for giving up a chase easily.”

A shared understanding passed between the two groups. Forced flight, injustice, the endless winter. An unlikely alliance was forged in the freezing wilderness. Bifur approached Dori, his black and gray wolf form communicating a silent offer of protection and shared journey. Dori, sensing the unspoken strength and honor in the Ur clan head, nodded, accepting.

The journey became a brutal odyssey. The combined group, larger now, was slower, but stronger. Dori and Nori, keen hunters, helped supplement their dwindling provisions. Bombur and Alaris remained fiercely protective of their pups, creating a moving shield around them. Ori, surprisingly observant, found sheltered nooks for them to rest, and even managed to identify edible (if frozen) roots. Bilbo and Foxglove, their small fox forms often exhausted, occasionally rode on the backs of the larger dwarves in wolf form, their light weight barely noticeable. Their acute senses for distant threats, however, often saved the entire group.

Chapter 2

One evening, as they were hunkering down in a precarious overhang, Foxglove’s ears suddenly flattened against her head. “Riders!” she yelped, shifting to bear her hobbit face, her voice a reedy whisper. “Dwarves! From the Ered Luin!”

Panic flared around the pack. Lord Grimfang’s men. They had been pursued.

“Shift!” Bifur roared, his voice a gravelly growl even in dwarven form. “Protect the pups!”

The dwarves transformed in a rush of fur and bone, becoming a formidable wall of wolf-shifter power. Dori led Nori and Ori while Bifur led Bofur and Bombur, their combined wolf forms a terrifying spectacle of muscle and tooth. Alaris, roaring a challenge, gathered her pups closer, her caramel fur bristling.

The pursuers, dwarven riders on shaggy ponies, were caught off guard by the sheer number and ferocity of the shifter pack. They were trained guards, yes, but not against a full pack of enraged dwarf-wolf shifters, they were only expecting the Ri family. The air filled with snarls, the clang of steel against tooth, and the terrified whinnies of ponies. The shifters, moving as one, were a whirlwind of fur and fury, striking swift and hard, aiming to disable rather than kill, unless they had to.

In the chaos, Bilbo, still in his russet fox form, displayed a surprising flash of courage. He darted between the legs of a charging pony, causing it to stumble, throwing its rider. Foxglove, a streak of white lightning, snapped at the heels of another, distracting it long enough for Nori to disarm the dwarf atop it.

The skirmish was short but sharp. The guards, unaccustomed to such overwhelming resistance, quickly broke rank and fled, leaving behind scattered weapons and a few injured ponies some fallen dwarves. The pack had done it. They had bought themselves time.

Shifting back, panting but victorious, the dwarves looked at the hobbit-foxes with a newfound respect. “You two,” Bofur chuckled, clapping Bilbo on the back (who was in fox form, and nearly flattened by the gesture), “you’re a pair of brave little rascals, aren’t you?”

Dori looked at Foxglove, her light green eyes eyes warm. “Your senses saved us. You are more than just small.”

The chill wind gnawed at their bruised bodies, carrying the scent of recent battle: dust, iron, and a faint, lingering tang of fear. The sun, a pale, indifferent disk, offered little warmth to the desolate, corpse-strewn field where Lord Grimfang’s ill-fated expedition had met its end.

Bifur and Bofur, their movements stiff with aches from the skirmish, worked methodically. They had hitched the less injured ponies to the makeshift sled. Inside, nestled amongst cloaks and furs, Alaris's litter of dwarf pups shivered, their small bodies trembling despite Bilbo's gentle ministrations. Bombur, groaning softly, lay beside them in wolf form, offering what little warmth he could. The little whimpers, like tiny, broken bird-songs, were the only sound that truly tore at Bilbo’s hobbit-heart as he stroked a velvety ear.

Nearby, Ori, his wool clothes smudged with grime, moved with a quiet purpose. He was methodically stripping weapons from the fallen dwarven warriors, piling swords, axes, and daggers onto a growing mound. He met Alaris's worried gaze, his brow furrowed with concern for her terrified litter. "For supplies, if needed," he murmured, nodding towards the weapons, "we can sell them for a better way to carry the pups…" His voice trailed off, picturing a sturdy cart, better shielded from the elements.

Foxglove, now that battle had passed and her adrenaline fled, clung tightly to Dori’s side, her small face pressed into her rough tunic, finding what little practical solace she could in her solid, comforting presence. Dori, typically the most fastidious, allowed her to cling, her own exhaustion etched deep around her eyes.

Nori, however, was a whirlwind of focused energy, her tough hands delving into the pockets and pouches of the fallen. She moved with a grim efficiency, searching for anything useful, any scrap of intelligence that might aid their desperate flight from their persuers. She ignored the cold, the fear, the exhaustion, driven by a singular purpose: survival.

A sudden, sharp exclamation broke the grim quiet. Nori straightened up, a parchment clutched in her hand. It was a sturdy, well-preserved map. Her eyes, usually so sharp and cunning, were alight with a fierce, renewed determination. She stomped over to where Bifur and Dori were securing the sled, unfolding the map with a flourish.

"Here!" she declared, her finger, grimy from digging, stabbed at a marked spot. "We are here. Tharbad. Settlement of Men. If we follow this path," she traced a winding line with her finger, "we can go through the Gap of Rohan and then go north to Erebor!"

A collective sigh, part exhaustion, part relief, rippled through the small company. The path ahead was long, fraught with danger, but at last, they had a path. Erebor. The name hung in the cold air, a beacon of home and hope, pulling them forward from the grim desolation of the battlefield.

The biting wind whipped around them as the company drew near to Tharbad, a collection of tired shoulders and weary feet. The heavy snow had made their journey agonizingly slow, and the precious dwarf pups, all eight of them, were growing restless and cold even tucked deep within the furs of the sled. A wagon was no longer a luxury; it was a desperate necessity.
As they trudged within sight of the distant city lights, Nori pulled Bifur and Dori aside. Bofur joined them, his usually cheerful face etched with concern. Their voices dropped to a low, urgent murmur, barely audible over the wind’s howl. "We need a wagon," Nori whispered, his eyes glinting with a familiar mischief. "And gold enough to buy one outright. Dwarven-made weapons, high quality as ours are, they’ll fetch a fine price in any market."

Bofur nodded, "Aye, a few axes, perhaps some of my better pick-heads… more than enough for a good, sturdy cart and some fresh ponies."

Bifur grunted his agreement, a hand instinctively going to the axe at his belt. Dori, ever the pragmatist, considered the risks but saw the undeniable logic. Their current pace was unsustainable, and the pups were suffering. "Very well," she conceded, "but do not be long. And no trouble."

With a nod, Nori and Bofur detached themselves from the main group. Their figures, hunched against the wind, stumbled into the deepening twilight, heading towards the distant glow of Tharbad.

Left behind, the rest of the company huddled together. Foxglove and Bilbo, bundled in thick blankets, were carefully packed into the sled with the eight squirming dwarf pups, their tiny whines occasionally piercing the cold air. Bombur, a mountain of warmth, curled protectively around one side of the sled, his gentle snores a comforting rhythm. Alaris and Ori settled on the other side, their cloaks drawn tight. Bifur stood guard, his axe loosely held, his eyes scanning the snow-laden landscape, while Dori, ever vigilant, paced a small perimeter, her back to the chilling wind, her gaze fixed on the disappearing trail of Nori and Bofur. The hours crawled by, marked only by the shifting of the pups and the increasing bite of the cold. The distant lights of Tharbad seemed to mock their waiting, growing brighter as night fully descended.

Just as the waiting truly began to fray nerves, a new sound pierced the silence. Not the whisper of wind, nor the crackle of ice, but the unmistakable creak and rumble of wheels, drawing steadily closer. Dori shot to her feet, her hand going to her dagger.

Then, out of the swirling gloom, two figures emerged, silhouetted against the dim light, followed by the hulking form of a covered wagon. Nori and Bofur, utterly exhausted, stumbled alongside, pulling on the reins of two new, sturdy ponies hitched to the front.

Bofur, despite his obvious weariness, giving them a tired smile "Come on!" he shouted, his voice hoarse but ecstatic. "We got this for a steal! A fine wagon, and two good ponies! Let's get the pups inside!"

Relief washed over the group. Slowly, carefully, they began the task of transferring the tiny dwarf pups from the sled to the warm, enclosed space of the wagon. One by one, the eight little bundles of fur were tucked into blankets inside, their sleepy chirps echoing from within. While Ori and Bombur worked to hitch their other ponies in front of the fresh ponies, ensuring a full team for the journey ahead, Dori and Alaris gently lifted Foxglove and Bilbo.

"There you go, little ones," Dori murmured, helping Foxglove settle onto a pile of furs within the wagon. Bilbo, shivering but smiling weakly, was next. Alaris crawled in after them, tucking blankets around them both. "Rest now," Dori said, her voice soft but firm, looking at their relieved faces. "We will watch from the outside." With a final comfortable adjustment of their blankets, Alaris crawled out again, taking her place beside Dori, their combined gazes fixed on the road ahead, ready to resume their watch as the journey was about to begin anew.

Chapter 3

The rumble of the wagon wheels over the uneven terrain was a constant companion, yet for the weary travellers, it was a welcome balm. Within its sturdy, canvas-covered confines, warmth and relative safety were a precious commodity. For the dwarf pups, huddled together under a thick blanket, it was a mobile cradle, shielding them from the biting wind and the ever-present dangers of the road.

Alaris, was often inside, her strong, calloused hands never far from the small, sleeping forms. But she wasn't the only one. The pack had fallen into a rhythm, trading places at the wagon's side, ensuring a constant presence for the young ones.

Among the occupants, two forms were even more carefully guarded: Foxglove and Bilbo. They were not dwarves, nor were they the common creatures of the road. Their fur once a vibrant testament to their species, was now dull and matted, their bodies pathetically thin. Dori, ever observant, and Alaris, with her deep understanding of suffering, had seen their ribs protruding starkly beneath their coats. After giving their rations to Alaris to feed the pups. After collapsing a day from the Gap of Rohan from that day on from exhaustion from their hunts and no food, Foxglove and Bilbo were almost forbidden to set a paw outside the wagon, lest they expend what little energy they had left. Foxglove’s reddish-pink eyes, usually bright with curiosity, were now dimmed with a profound exhaustion and the gnawing ache of hunger. Bilbo’s green eyes, equally beautiful, held the same weary dimness.

When the company paused to establish hunting parties, Ori, with his quiet, scholarly nature, was often left behind to watch over the wagon and its precious cargo. This arrangement allowed Alaris, who had been cooped up for hours tending to the pups and the ailing Foxglove and Bilbo, to stretch out her legs and join the others in the hunt, her movements as swift and sure as any male dwarf.

They had just crossed into the verdant plains of the Gap of Rohan, the land stretching wide and open before them, when the distant thrum of hooves grew into an undeniable thunder. Moments later, a large party of Rohirrim warriors, their golden hair flying and their spears glinting in the pale sun, galloped up to them. Their horses, magnificent beasts, snorted and pawed the ground, surrounding the lone wagon like a golden wave.

Bifur, who had been driving, brought the ponies to a halt with a gentle tug of the reins. He dismounted hesitantly, his axe still strapped to his back, and bowed respectfully to the leader, a grim-faced man with a braided beard. Words were exchanged, Bifur’s deep voice carrying across the quiet air as he explained their journey, their purpose, their simple desire to pass through these lands.

Inside the wagon, a different sort of communication was taking place. Alaris, half-hidden by the canvas flap, held a finger to her lips, her gaze sweeping over the wide-eyed dwarf pups and the unnaturally still forms of Foxglove and Bilbo. Her silent command was clear: remain quiet. The pups, sensing the tension, nestled deeper into their blankets, while Foxglove and Bilbo, too weak to protest, merely blinked their dim eyes.

Outside, a wall of dwarven fortitude had formed. Bombur, his bulk reassuringly solid, stood shoulder to shoulder with the lean, fierce figures of Dori and Nori. Bofur, normally cheerfull was watching the men closely, completed the defensive line, all of them effectively blocking the wagon’s entrance. Behind them, within the wagon's interior, Ori stood stiffly, a hand resting near his sling, ready for any command.

The leader of the Rohirrim, after a lengthy exchange and a careful scrutiny of their faces and gear, finally nodded. He offered advice about the road ahead, cautioning them about certain routes and suggesting others, before giving a curt dismissal. With a final, shared nod among his warriors, he wheeled his horse around, and the entire party galloped away as swiftly as they had arrived, leaving only the scent of horse and a cloud of dust.

A collective sigh of relief seemed to pass through the dwarven pack. Bifur, without a word, climbed back onto the driver’s seat. He had just flicked the reins, urging the ponies forward once more, when a sharp, clear raven’s call pierced the air above them. It was unlike any common crow’s caw, a distinct, almost knowing cry. Dori running to join sitting beside Bifur in the front while the others shifted to run in wolf form along side the wagon.

Dori’s head shot up from her spot next to Bifur, her eyes immediately scanning the sky. As if drawn by an invisible thread, a large, intelligent raven broke from the clouds, spiralling down with surprising speed. It landed with a soft thud on Dori’s outstretched arm, its dark eyes bright and piercing, a tiny, rolled parchment tied neatly to its leg.

Dori’s fingers, calloused from years of toil and weeks of travel, carefully unfolded the parchment. The script was elegant, regal, unfamiliar yet undeniably important. Her lips moved, forming the words slowly, tracing their meaning in her mind. The wagon lurched, but Dori barely noticed, her focus absolute.

A quiet gasp escaped her lips, barely a whisper carried on the wind. “Nori!”

Before the name had fully faded into the vastness of the land, Nori materialized beside her, a shadow detaching itself from the rear of the wagon. Her movements were fluid, silent, her hand already extended, anticipating the reason for her summons. She took the letter from her hands, her keen eyes devouring the script in moments where Dori had taken minutes.

Her breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that spoke volumes as she read aloud. “King Thorin of Erebor is calling us… The House of Ri of the line of Durin.” Her voice, usually a low conspiratorial murmur, was laced with an almost disbelieving awe. “We are being recognized by him after all these years. He said he sent out a contingent of warriors to meet us and help us on our journey. They are meeting us at the south end of Greenwood.” Nori sucked in another breath, her eyes wide, fixed on a point beyond the horizon as if she could already see the Lonely Mountain. “King Thorin is meeting us himself there. He left his brother and sister in charge at Erebor.”

Bifur, who had been listening with an intensity that belied his usual stoicism, looked at them, a dawning realization slowly spreading across his face. His eyes narrowing with a sudden, startling clarity they now had three of the royal family with them. From the back of the wagon, Bofur, Bombur, and Alaris, leaned in closer, their faces etched with a mixture of weariness and nascent hope. The very name ‘King Thorin’ was a beacon in their mad dash from the Blue Mountains and Ered Luin.

Dori carefully took the parchment back, her fingers tracing the royal seal before folding it with precise movements. She tucked it deep into a hidden pocket in her tunic, a gesture that spoke of both reverence and a new, burgeoning sense of purpose.

Ori, ever the quiet scribe, finally spoke up, his voice barely above a murmur, filled with both concern and the eagerness of a scholar. “Dori, should I write a response? We need to warn them about all of us.” He gestured vaguely at their extended company. “It’s not just us, the House of Ur is fleeing with us, their plight about being taxed for their pups. Plus Foxglove and Bilbo… we can’t leave them behind. Our little hobbit foxes, our family.”

Dori paused, her hand going to her own pocket, not the one where the letter lay, but another, smaller one. She fished out two tiny, intricately carved beads, no bigger than a thumbnail. She had been working on them for several nights, stealing moments during her watch, her fingers deft even in the dim light of dying embers. One was a reddish pink, smooth and cool to the touch, with a tiny, silver fox etched within its depths. The other, a soft green, bore a second fox etched within as well, both bearing the marks of the House of Ri.

She held them up, letting the faint light catch their facets. “These were for them,” she said softly, her gaze sweeping over Ori, then Nori, then Bifur. “To give to Bilbo and Foxglove. To signify them as kin to the House of Ri. Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and Alaris couldn’t take them in, not with Bombur and Alaris’s eight pups to worry about, and already so many mouths to feed.” A faint, loving smile touched her lips. “But Nori and I… and Ori… we’ve seen how close our little hobbits have gotten to us. They are ours, as much as any dwarf of the House of Ri. We will tell King Thorin that our family is large, and it extends beyond blood.”

The raven on the rail ruffled its feathers, letting out a single, soft caw, as if in agreement. The road ahead was long, fraught with the dangers of Greenwood, and the weight of their expanded family was considerable. But for the first time in weeks, the air in the small caravan was thick not just with weariness, but with a fragile, burgeoning hope. King Thorin had called. And the House of Ri, along with all those they held dear, would answer.
----------
The flickering firelight cast long, dancing shadows across the small camp, illuminating Ori’s intent face as his quill scratched diligently across a roll of parchment. It was a report for King Thorin, detailing their unusual journey and the rest of the pack with them that had joined them from the Blue Mountains and the Shire. Beside him, Dori, meticulous and steadfast, had a different focus. Her light green eyes, usually so sharp, held a soft, dreamy quality as she thought, ‘Tonight, tonight those hobbit kits were going to be a part of the house of Ri.’

Bilbo Baggins and young Foxglove, small and still fragile from the harrowing ‘Fell Winter’ that had stolen their parents and left them adrift, huddled closer to the warmth, their eyes dim with a mixture of apprehension and exhausted hope.

As the last vestiges of twilight bled from the sky, painting the western horizon in hues of bruised purple and dying orange, the pack gathered. The crackling fire was their central hearth. Dori, Nori, and Ori stood before it, while Bilbo and Foxglove, looking impossibly small from no meals, were guided gently to positions opposite them. Bofur and Bifur, solid and comforting presences, stood on either side as quiet witnesses. From the open back of the wagon, where Bombur and Alaris sat as watchful guardians, came the soft whimpers of the sleeping pups nestled between them, their faint snores a testament to the night’s calm.

Dori’s gaze settled on the two young hobbits, her light green eyes brimming with an emotion so profound it threatened to spill over. Ori, usually the most outwardly composed of the siblings, fidgeted in his spot, his hands clenching and unclenching. Nori, ever the silent one, had her fingers twitching, a subtle yearning to reach out already apparent.

A hush fell over the small clearing, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl. Dori took a slow, deep breath, her voice wavering slightly as she began, “We know you lost your parents all those months ago to the Fell Winter, we do not want to replace them or make you forget them. We wish for you both to be our siblings. In the house of Ri.”

Bilbo and Foxglove’s eyes, already wide, widened further for a second, then crumpled. Before Dori had even finished speaking, Foxglove, with a surprising amount of strength born of desperate need in her weakened state, dashed forward, slamming into Dori’s waist, her small arms wrapping as far as she can reach. Simultaneously, Bilbo, equally overwhelmed, crashed into Ori, burying his face into the soft fabric of Ori’s tunic. Nori, without a moment’s hesitation, wrapped his long arms around both Bilbo and Ori, pulling them all into a tight, encompassing embrace. Tears flowed freely from all five of them, a release of fear, grief, and an overwhelming surge of belonging.

Slowly, reluctantly, Foxglove and Bilbo pulled away, their faces tear-streaked but glowing with a new kind of light. Dori, her own eyes now glistening, gently reached for Foxglove’s wonderfully curly white hair, beginning to plait it with practiced, loving hands. Into the finished braid, she wove a small, intricate bead, glinting softly in the firelight. When she finished with Foxglove, she moved over to Bilbo, carefully gathering his own unruly russet curls, braiding them with the same tenderness, adding an identical bead to his as she murmured, “You are now both of the house of Ri.” Bofur and Bifur cheered loudly before being scolded half heartedly by Alaris as the pups whimpered making them all laugh quietly. They piled together by the wagon with Bilbo and Foxglove in the fox forms in the middle of the Ri family as they fell asleep.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Not gonna lie. This one was hard to write and do. I cried... hard doing this one. One of the longer chapters I suppose but man... The emotional tears.. ugh

In the morning Bilbo and Foxglove were carefully and quickly put into the wagon with Alaris while the others shifted to wolf forms around the wagon. Bofur hopped into the drivers seat Bifur sitting beside him. while Dori moved to the front of the wagon leading them towards the Greenwood. Bombur padded behind the wagon in his wolf form. Nori was on the right of the wagon with Ori on the left. They came at last to the Greenwood as scents slammed into Foxglove and Bilbo's noses of multiple dwarves and wolves on the wind towards them. Ori hopped up onto the drivers seat beside Bofur and pointed "Look! There they are!" Dori, Nori and Ori strode forward standing in front of the wagon as the dwarves and wolves parted to reveal a tall dwarf black hair with a few silver streaks and piercing blue eyes standing in front of them.

Dori, Nori and Ori bowed to the leader "King Thorin, the house of Ri is here at your summons. Along with the house of Ur. As spoken of in our message to you."
King Thorin nodded slowly his voice warm but firm "Welcome, House of Ri and House of Ur. You will be welcomed into Erebor. May we see the Ur family pups? We brought Oin the royal healer along in case he was needed for any injuries."

Dori froze slightly as her voice dropped her face looking down "No injuries.. but.."

Nori clenched her fists her voice sharp "Our younger adopted siblings. we tried to keep them fed but with the Fell Winter.. over by the Blue Mountains and Ered Luin.."

Ori fiddled with his mittens "Our mad run from there to here we couldn't get enough food for all of us and they wanted to ensure that Bombur and Alaris's pups were fed. Are severely malnourished.."

King Thorin stiffened as he took in their words before turning to his troops "Bring out food water anything that can be spared. There are pups in that wagon that need to be fed!" The troops scrambled through their bags two white haired dwarves came through one carrying a med bag and the other holding the parchment Ori had sent ahead of them. While a tall dwarf with dual axes strapped to his back moved to stand beside King Thorin.

Inside the wagon, Bilbo’s heart hammered against his ribs, a mixture of fear and the gnawing ache of hunger. Foxglove, curled beside him, was trembling, her small frame almost vibrating. Alaris held Bilbo’s hand gently, her thumb stroking his knuckles, a silent reassurance amidst the sudden tension.

King Thorin’s voice, a deep resonance that carried authority and a surprising note of anguish, cut through the quiet. “Bring out food, water, anything that can be spared. There are pups in that wagon that need to be fed!”

The command was electrifying. The orderly ranks of dwarves and wolves dissolved into a flurry of motion. Backpacks were unslung, pouches opened, and the scent of hardtack, dried fruit, and preserved meats suddenly filled the air, agonizingly close yet still out of reach for the occupants of the wagon. Their stomachs, long accustomed to emptiness, cramped in protest.
Two white-haired dwarves, distinctive even from this distance, pushed through the milling crowd. One, with a broad, kind face and a long, white beard curling on the sides, clutched a leather medical bag – Oin, the royal healer. The other, equally white-bearded but with a more weathered, watchful expression, held a rolled parchment. This was Balin, the King’s advisor, confirming Ori’s earlier message.

Dori, Nori, and Ori, remaining rooted before the wagon, watched the commotion with a mixture of relief and raw pain. Their faces, usually composed, now openly pleaded for their younger siblings.

Oin approached first, his brow furrowed with concern. He didn’t look at the adults but directly at the wagon, his keen eyes trying to penetrate the wagon. Balin followed, his gaze sweeping over the House of Ri, then to the wagon, a slow understanding dawning in his eyes as he recalled the details of Ori’s frantic missive.

“Dori, Nori, Ori,” Balin’s voice was low, filled with solemnity. “The message spoke of hardship, but… this. We had hoped…” He trailed off, his gaze lingering on the wagon, then turning to Oin, a silent plea in his eyes.

Oin simply nodded, moving closer. “Forgive me, my King, but I must see to these pups. Their condition cannot wait.”

Thorin waved a hand, immediate and absolute. “Go, Oin. See to them. And Gloin, with you.” He gestured to another stout dwarf with a magnificent red beard, who immediately detached himself from the group bringing food and hurried forward.

Inside the wagon, Bilbo pressed himself against Alaris’s side, suddenly shy under the scrutiny. Foxglove whimpered, a tiny, distressed sound. The combined scents of many new dwarves, food, and the overwhelming scent of wolf-forms — so many wolf-forms! — were dizzying. Ori, seeing the healer approach, quickly ran in front of them his arms spread out his whole frame trembling.

“Wait, Ori!” Alaris’s soft voice came from inside, her hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Let them decide when they want to be seen.” She knew the overwhelming fear and shyness that could cripple the young hobbits, particularly ones so vulnerable.

A murmur went through the assembled dwarves. King Thorin’s piercing blue eyes fixed on the wagon, a new intensity in their depths. This was not just a matter of healing, but of respect, of understanding the trauma.

Oin, surprisingly, agreed. “She is right, Master Ori. The young ones must feel safe.” His kind eyes scanning the wagon’s interior, then shifted his gaze to the assembled food. “Bring it here, near the wagon. And fetch water – clean, fresh water, not from a flask.”

Dwarves scrambled to obey, placing bundles and water skins on the ground directly outside the wagon. The smells of bread, cheese, and roasted meat became almost unbearable for Bilbo and Foxglove. Foxglove let out another small whimper, her little hands twitching frantically.

Alaris looked at the two hobbits, her gaze soft. “It’s alright, little ones. It’s safe. Food is here.” She gently nudged Bilbo forward, then Foxglove. “Just a little peek, perhaps?”
Bilbo, his curiosity battling with his fear, slowly leaned forward, peering between the gap in the canvas. His eyes widened at the sight of the food, then flickered to the mass of dwarves, still a daunting number, but no longer seeming quite so menacing. His eyes met Oin’s, who offered a small, reassuring nod, his expression gentle.

“It’s alright, little ones,” Oin rumbled, his voice surprisingly soft. “There is plenty for all.” He then turned to Dori, Nori, and Ori, his voice dropping to a more professional tone, yet still tinged with empathy. “Tell me everything. How long has it been this bad? What have they been able to eat?”

As the House of Ri began to recount their harrowing tale, the dwarf with the twin axes, Dwalin, exchanged a look with Balin, a grim concern settling on their faces. Oin and Gloin listened intently, their expressions growing graver with each word. The grim reality of the 'fell winter' and the desperate flight from the Blue Mountains was laid bare, a testament to the hardship they had endured, the house of Ri's flight from Ered Luin and the lengths to which Dori, Nori, and Ori had gone to try and save their adopted siblings. The journey had been long, the food scarce, and the sacrifice evident in their own gaunt faces. The House of Ur's plight because of the greed of the Blue Mountains.

Thorin stood silent, listening to the tale of hardship and selflessness, his posture stiff, his jaw clenched. A flicker of something akin to pain, or perhaps righteous anger, passed through his eyes. The welcome to Erebor just moments earlier had been formal, a matter of bringing long hidden line of Durin home. Now, it was deeply personal, imbued with the raw, desperate survival of precious young lives. And he knew, deep in his heart, that this was just the beginning of their shared story.

The stopped wagon was a small island of hushed tension within the bustling camp. Inside, a single, threadbare blanket was draped around the tiny waists of Bilbo and Foxglove. Bilbo leaned heavily against Foxglove, finding solace in her familiar presence, who in turn leaned just as heavily against him. Their heads, disproportionately large on their slender necks, barely reached each other’s shoulders. Alaris knelt before them, her expression a careful mask of concern as she offered small bits of food, carefully acquired from the dwarves outside. The children, despite their evident hunger, struggled to eat. A single dried berry, a crumb of hardtack, were difficult to swallow. They stopped a few times, their tiny hands shaking, the effort of chewing and even swallowing was clearly immense.

Alaris watched them, her heart aching. Their selflessness, their insistence on ensuring Bombur and her own pups were fed before themselves, had left them skeletal. Ribs were painfully prominent beneath their skin, and their spines, like sharp ridges, pressed against their thin clothing. She knew they were fading, and the longer the examination was delayed, the more precarious their situation became.

Before they could completely falter, Alaris gently intervened. "Can Oin look at you both now?" she asked, her voice soft, designed to soothe rather than demand. "I will stay right here. I promise. Would you like Dori here too?"

Bilbo and Foxglove, their eyes large and shadowed, nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly. It was all the permission Alaris needed. She inhaled sharply, then raised her voice, letting it carry beyond the wagon’s canvas walls. "Dori! Bilbo and Foxglove would like us to be present while Oin examines them!"

The response was immediate and fierce. Dori, who had been lingering just outside, her heart heavy with every word of the recounted tale, bolted towards the wagon. Nori and Ori, equally anxious, were right on her heels. Oin, ever methodical but now with an uncharacteristic urgency, followed, his medical bag clutched in his hand.

Dori reached the wagon first, her hand hovering over the latch. She took a deep, fortifying breath, then slowly, carefully, opened the wagon's latch. The canvas flap parted, allowing the light to flood in and Oin to see Bilbo and Foxglove fully for the first time without the obstruction of the wagon's interior or the shadows that had previously softened their harsh reality.

Oin's grip on his bag loosened, the leather straps slipping through his fingers until it dropped to the ground with a soft thud, a sound that seemed deafening in the sudden stillness. His kind gray eyes, usually twinkling with amusement or narrowed in concentration, widened in profound shock as he took in Bilbo and Foxglove's frames. The sight was worse than he could have imagined. Their ribs were starkly showing, a bony cage beneath their thin shirts. Their spines were sticking out with alarming prominence, visible even through the blanket that tried in vain to conceal their fragility. The reason was clear, stark, and utterly heart-breaking: their unwavering insistence at making sure Bombur and Alaris's pups were fed instead of themselves.

Oin stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the children, a profound disbelief turning his features ashen. Slowly, he shifted his gaze, looking from the children to Dori, then to Alaris, his expression one of complete, utter shock. He didn't need to ask; the truth was written on their faces.

Dori, who had bravely held herself together through the entire recounting, could no longer maintain her composure. She looked away, her eyes finally, irrevocably filling with tears that spilled over and tracked glistening paths down her cheeks. Alaris, already battling her own emotional torrent, made no attempt to hide her grief; her tears were streaming down her face, a silent testament to the suffering she had witnessed, to the choices these tiny ones had made.

Breaking from his frozen state, Oin slowly and carefully reached towards Bilbo. His touch was exquisitely gentle, as if the slightest pressure might cause the child to shatter. His trembling hands ran down Bilbo's back and then softly, oh so softly, over the sharp ridge of his ribs. He then moved to Foxglove, his hands still trembling as he leaned closer. "May I touch you, Foxglove?" he asked, his voice a low, rough whisper.

Foxglove, her eyes still huge and distant, nodded. He gently touched her back and sides, his fingers almost flinching over the prominent ribs beneath his touch. Without a word, he reached beside them, snatching up a thicker, softer blanket, and carefully, meticulously, wrapped them both in its comforting folds, cocooning their small, vulnerable forms.

His voice, when he finally spoke again, was raw, thick with emotion and a desperate ache. He looked at them, truly saw them, and the words were simple, yet carried the weight of a heavy, unspoken truth: "Fine no injuries… besides needing food."

Oin stumbled back from the wagon, his whole frame trembling with a sight that struck him deeper than any wound. His eyes were fixed on the small, almost painfully frail forms of Foxglove and Bilbo, huddled within the shadows of the canvas. They were so small.

He rounded on Nori, who was fidgeting beside him, her gaze fixed on the dust, refusing to meet his gaze. “How old?” Oin’s voice was a guttural rasp, barely a whisper.

Nori swallowed, her emerald green eyes closing shut as if to block out the unspoken accusation. The cheerful crackle of the camp’s fire seemed to dim, the sudden, profound silence swallowing all other sounds. Ori bit hard into his worn mittens, the memory of that quiet night, weeks ago, when Bilbo had confessed their ages, biting into him now with fresh, agonizing clarity.

Her voice, when it came, was a bare whisper, cracking with strain. “Hobbits… come of age at thirty-three. Bilbo and Foxglove are thirty-one…”

Dead, complete silence descended upon the camp, heavier than any winter frost. Nori’s words hung in the still air, a devastating accusation. King Thorin and the contingent of dwarves who had accompanied him to meet the lost House of Ri line of Durin paled in unison. Their gazes, previously fixed on the strange, elongated wagon, snapped back to Oin, then to the silent figures of Nori and Ori. Then, with a slow, creeping horror, they turned back to the wagon, staring, truly staring, at the enormity of what lay within. Ten. Ten pups lay in that cramped space. Two of them, almost out of the childhood by their own reckoning, had sacrificed their very sustenance for the other eight.

Ori dropped to the ground, a choked sob tearing from his throat. “I tried,” he choked out, his voice thick with tears, “On the nights we had more food, I tried to get them to eat. But one look at Bombur and Alaris’s eight pups, those plump, ravenous little things, and they just… they handed over their rations to Alaris. Every time. My nadadiths… my nadadiths…”

Bofur, uncharacteristically somber, had taken off his beloved hat, his hands twisting it into a tight knot. “We tried,” he murmured, his gaze distant, “But they were and are so stubborn. They ranged all over, even when we were dead on our feet from hunting, looking for berries, roots, even small game for Bombur to cook with while we were tired. Eventually, they collapsed, just as we hit the Gap of Rohan. Alaris made them stay in the wagon after that. Said they’d done enough.”

King Thorin, his face a mask of grim realization, looked from the wagon to Oin, then back to the closed flap. Slowly, painstakingly, he walked towards it, his hands almost hesitant as he reached for the canvas. He pulled it open.

Inside, nestled against the broad, comforting form of Alaris, were Bilbo and Foxglove, curled into each other, their faces hollowed and drawn even in sleep, their breaths shallow. Around them, oblivious in their slumber, were Bombur and Alaris’s eight dwarf pups, plump and content, sleeping soundly under a pile of blankets. Thorin’s eyes locked first with Alaris, then with Dori, who sat protectively beside her, a hand gently running through Bilbo’s russet curls. Dori met Thorin’s gaze, her own eyes haunted tearstains on her face, speaking volumes of the fear she held for her youngest, dearest siblings.

King Thorin’s voice, usually a thunderous rumble, was a low, steady current, imbued with the solemn weight of an oath. “We will see you and your whole family safely to Erebor,” he vowed, his gaze encompassing every sleeping form. “The House of Ur will be treated as family as well for their unwavering bond with the House of Ri.”

At his words, Alaris relaxed, a deep, shuddering breath escaping her. She gently tightened her embrace on Foxglove, pulling the tiny Hobbit closer into the warmth of her arms, while Dori, a silent tear tracing a path down her cheek, gathered Bilbo securely into hers. The silent camp, filled moments before with horror, now settled into a quiet resolve, the enormity of the sacrifice understood, and a new, unbreakable bond forged in its wake.

King Thorin pulled away from the wagon, the images of Bilbo and Foxglove’s tiny, emaciated frames, their eyes too wide and too old, seared into his mind’s eye. The silence of the stopping point, a desolate stretch of rocky ground beneath a bruised twilight sky, was heavy, broken only by the soft huffing of the ponies and the distant, mournful cry of a bird. He looked at shattered Nori, who stood uselessly by the wagon wheel, her face streaked with dust and tears, and Ori, still sitting on the ground several paces away, a small, desolate huddle of grief, whimpering softly.

Bombur was leaning against the wagon, his massive frame a picture of utter defeat, his forehead resting against the rough wood, eyes closed tight as if to block out the very world. Bofur stood near him, still clutching his hat, his hands white from how hard he was holding it, the feather in its band drooping like his own spirit. Bifur, ever the dwarf of few words, stood still and tense, his axe clutched tight, his gaze fixed on the wagon as if daring any further harm to approach.

The air was thick with unspoken horrors, the scent of fear and stale sweat clinging to them all. Thorin, despite the tremor in his own hands, forced himself to breathe, to be the King they needed. He turned to Balin, his voice a low rumble, but firm. "Balin, send word to my sister and brother. Have additional rooms of the royal quarters set up and ready, specifically for the House of Ur and Ri. Ensure they are warm, quiet, and provisioned with the finest, most easily digestible foods. Soft blankets. Healers on standby, but no more than one or two at a time to begin. They need peace."

Balin, his face etched with sorrow but his eyes snapping to attention at the command, nodded once, sharply. "It will be done, King Thorin." He turned, already moving towards their scouts to dispatch the fastest riders.

"Dwalin," Thorin continued, his gaze sweeping to his cousin, whose usual belligerence was replaced by a grim, silent watchfulness. "See to it that rams are attached to the wagon to give these ponies a rest. They've done well." The ponies, already unhitched, were being covered with light packs. "We rest here for one night. In the morning, we move towards Erebor. There is no more time to lose."

Dwalin grunted his assent, a low, guttural sound that was his equivalent of a solemn promise. He strode away, barking orders to a few of the other dwarves, his presence a solid anchor in the swirling unease.

With the practicalities set in motion, Thorin allowed himself to confront the emotional wreckage. He strode over to still, quiet Nori, resting his hand on her shoulder for a moment. Her body was stiff under his touch, trembling minutely. "Nori," he said, his voice softer, "you've done well getting your nadadiths here. We will help you now. You're not alone."

Nori's shoulders dropped at his words, the last of her rigid control shattering. A choked sob escaped her, and she slumped forward, burying her face in her hands. Thorin allowed her a moment, then moved over to Ori. He knelt beside the young dwarf, gently putting his hand on Ori's trembling back. Ori flinched, then leaned into the contact, his small body wracked with silent sobs.

"It's going to be ok, Ori," Thorin murmured, his voice a balm. "Your nadadiths will suffer no more. There will be good food, warm beds, and peace. There will be healing. We will see to it."
He waited until Ori's breathing steadied slightly, then stood up, looking at the wagon again. The two rams, stout and strong, were already being led towards the wagon, their powerful frames a stark contrast to the small, exhausted ponies now grazing nearby. The dwarves moved about the camp, setting up their tents in grim silence, building a fire whose flames seemed to devour the encroaching shadows.

Inside the wagon, Bilbo and Foxglove, two adopted hobbit fox kits of the house of Ri, lay wrapped in thick blankets, their future resting precariously on the journey that lay ahead.

Chapter 5

The biting wind whipped around the small, makeshift camp, making the embers of the dying fire dance and casting long, shifting shadows. Under a sky studded with stars like chips of ice, King Thorin sat, stoic and brooding, his broad hands resting on his knees. Beside him, Dori’s knitting needles clicked a monotonous rhythm, a familiar comfort against the vast quiet of the night. Across from them, Bifur, his simple, honest face etched with the lines of recent hardship, using a small knife whittled on spare twig.

The watch was a shared burden, but tonight, it had become a confessional. The silence, punctuated only by the wind and Dori’s needles, had been heavy. It was Bifur who first broke it, his voice rough but steady.

“The Blue Mountains… they were not always so. But the Lord… his greed was a sickness, not just for coin, but for the very future of our lines.” He cleared his throat, staring into the weak flames. “He laid down decrees… monstrous ones. A forced tax on pups, he called it. A levy on potential joys, on the very continuation of our kin. If you could not pay, or if he simply… desired, your young were forfeit to his chosen ‘caretakers’.”

Dori’s needles stilled, a soft click the only sound. Thorin’s knuckles, already white, tightened further.

Bifur’s gaze drifted, lost in memory. “Bofur and Bombur, my cousins… and Alaris Bombur's mate. Bombur and Alaris had eight. Eight bright, noisy, wonderful pups. And they were going to be taken. To be scattered. So it was decided. Our Ur family, our collective kin, would flee. Those eight pups, a testament to our strength and hope, a desperate attempt to keep them together, under one roof, even if that roof was the open sky. We fled. Under the cloak of moonless nights, we made our way, a weary, desperate exodus to the outskirts of the Shire.”

He paused, a profound sorrow settling on his features. “It was there we found them. Bilbo and Foxglove. Two small, wild creatures, their eyes still wide with the echoes of horror. The fell wolves, they said. From the north. They’d swept through the Shire, faster than any could react. Their parents… gone. Orphaned. We took them in, as best we could. Till House of Ri joined us.”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by a soft sigh from Dori. She laid her knitting aside, her hands smoothing the rough fabric of her tunic.

“We heard the stories of the Ur family’s flight even in Ered Luin,” Dori began, her voice softer than Bifur’s, but with an underlying steel. “We thought ourselves safe, cloaked in the old ways, the last bastion of what we thought was honor. But the rot had spread. My younger brother, Ori… he has a scholar’s heart, a mind meant for books and lore, not the dark. He yearned for the academies, for the ancient texts.”

Her gaze met Thorin’s, and for a moment, he saw the impossible choice laid bare in her eyes. “But the price… the price for his continued education, for avoiding the mines, the crushing drudgery and dust that awaited the less fortunate… was laid at my feet. A marriage. To a crude, aging merchant-dwarf named Lord Grimfang whose coffers were deep, but whose soul was as shallow as a puddle. A sacrifice, they called it. For the good of the family. For Ori’s future.”

Dori inhaled slowly, her breath fogging in the cold. “My heart clawed at my ribs. I looked at Ori, so young, so full of quiet brilliance, and I knew. No power on earth would force my little brother into such a fate, nor would I condemn myself to a life of misery to appease their avarice. So, like Bifur’s kin, we fled. Ori, Nori, and I. A whispered plan, a desperate dash under the cover of night, through the dark, hungry maw of the tunnels that once offered comfort, but now felt like a prison.”

Thorin’s face was a mask of cold fury. His jaw was clenched so tight his muscles corded in his neck. A low, guttural growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound like grinding stone. The very notion of dwarves, their own kin, turning on each other, extorting the vulnerable, forcing such monstrous choices upon their families… it was an affront to everything he held sacred. He had heard whispers of the corruption in other settlements, the slow erosion of ancient honor, but to hear it recounted so starkly, by those who had suffered it firsthand, ignited a blaze in his eyes.
He looked from Dori’s drawn face to Bifur’s weary one. These were not cowards. These were dwarves who had faced an unconscionable choice and, at great peril to their very houses, refused to surrender. They had not bowed. They had not broken. They had fled to him.

“The very foundations of our kin are eroding elsewhere,” Thorin said, his voice rough, laced with a barely suppressed rage. “Cowards and sycophants bend their knees to coin and false lords. But you…” He paused, his gaze sweeping over them both. “You showed true dwarven spirit. You refused to bend, refused to break. You sought refuge with those who still remember honor, with those who will build anew, stronger than before.”

He pushed himself to his feet, his stance radiating an unshakeable resolve. “Here, there will be no such extortion. No forced marriages, no levied pups, no choices between dignity and decay. Your families, the Ur family and the Ri family, will find new roots. Protection. A new life awaits you with me, and with our kin, under the Mountain. A life where honor is not sold, but earned. Where the young are cherished, not bartered.”

The air, once heavy with shared sorrow, now hummed with a fragile but potent hope. Dori picked up her needles, but this time, the rhythm was less monotonous, more deliberate. Bifur offered Thorin a small, grateful nod, a silent vow of loyalty in his eyes. The night passed slowly still, but for the three dwarves on watch, the darkness was no longer just a cloak for their past hardships, but a canvas for a future they were determined to forge. Their gazes fixed on the horizon, but their minds already building castles in the air.
-----
Morning broke through the clouds, painting the eastern sky in gradients of soft grey and pale rose. Inside the wagon, the light filtered gently through a crack in the canvas, rousing Foxglove from a fitful, dream-laden sleep. Her eyes, heavy with exhaustion, fluttered open. The first thing she registered was warmth, a steady, comforting presence wrapped around her. Alaris.
Her head rested on Alaris’s shoulder, her friend’s arm a secure anchor around her waist. Below them, on the worn wooden floor of the wagon, the dwarven pups, impossibly small bundles of fur who had consumed so much of their meager rations, tumbled and squeaked. They rolled over each other, a playful, chaotic heap, oblivious to the quiet weariness that pervaded the air.

Nearby, Nori, usually the most silent of their adoptive family, sat with her brother, Bilbo, cradled in her arms. A low, soft hum vibrated from Nori’s chest, a lullaby without words, as Bilbo, his little hand surprisingly strong despite his frailness, gently tugged on the closest braid he could reach in Nori's dark red hair.

Foxglove’s throat felt as if it were packed with sand. "Are we...?" The single word emerged as a raw, painful croak.

Alaris nodded, her gaze tender as she looked down at Foxglove. "We made it. To the southern edge of the Greenwood." Her voice was a balm, soothing the ragged edges of Foxglove’s anxiety. "Remember Oin, the royal healer, from last night?"

Foxglove went quiet, the name sparking a flicker of memory – a gruff, kind voice, the sensation of calloused fingers on her skin. She shivered, whispering, "The dwarf who touched my back and ribs?" A wave of phantom pain, sharp and familiar, lanced through her midsection.

Alaris nodded again, her thumb stroking gently through Foxglove's tangled hair. Then, softly, she began to hum. It was a simple, repetitive melody, one Foxglove had come to know intimately, the tune Alaris always used to ease the restless dwarf pups into sleep. The familiar notes settled over Foxglove like a warm blanket, a promise of safety. She snuggled deeper into Alaris's embrace, the hum a physical comfort against the gnawing emptiness within her.

A soft scrape of wood announced the opening of the wagon door. Ori, his usually cheerful face etched with concern, crawled inside, carefully stepping around the wriggling dwarf pups who paused their play to give him curious sniffs. He knelt by Nori, holding two wooden bowls, their contents steaming faintly. "For Foxglove and Bilbo," he murmured, his voice hushed. "I'll feed Bilbo, Nori. Go and stretch out in wolf form. You look stiff."

Ori set down the bowls, then gently took Bilbo from Nori's arms. Nori, her muscles protesting with every movement, staggered to her feet. With a grateful, tired nod, she stepped out of the wagon, her form blurring as she transformed, a large, lean wolf now stretching out in the crisp morning air.

Ori returned his attention to Bilbo, cradling the small hobbit in his arms. He picked up one of the bowls, a thin, nourishing broth, and began to feed Bilbo slowly, patiently, a tiny spoonful at a time. Alaris did the same for Foxglove, her touch feather-light, her movements deliberate, never pushing, just offering the warm sustenance. Ori had tears rolling down his face, silent tracks through the dust on his cheeks, as Bilbo, with surprising determination, slowly ate each spoonful. In return, Bilbo's small hands, still trembling from weakness, clutched at Ori's tunic, holding on as if his life depended on it.

Outside the wagon, a cacophony of voices began to rise, the sounds of a camp stirring to life. Orders were given, punctuated by a deep, rumbling voice that Foxglove knew she was supposed to remember, a voice that carried authority and power. But her mind, dulled by the echoing pain of hunger and the lingering exhaustion, couldn't place it. All she could feel was the emptiness, the deep ache in her stomach and bones, a constant reminder of the weeks spent giving away her and Bilbo's own meager rations, ensuring Alaris could feed the dwarf pups. The warm broth, slowly trickling down her throat, was a small, blessed miracle, a first step on a long, arduous path back to strength.

The sharp tang of pine needles did little to cut through the tightness in Nori’s chest. Her fur bristled, every hair on her spine standing on end as she stalked away from the hushed cluster of dwarves, shame a bitter taste in her mouth at not being able to protect their younger siblings. She just needed to be away. But before her paws could carry her far, a monumental shadow fell over her.

She stumbled, her small red frame jolting. Dwalin. His wolf form was massive, a dark brown behemoth that dwarfed even the stoutest dwarf. Yet, as she glanced up, his piercing blue eyes were gentle, holding a sliver of uncertainty that mirrored her own turmoil. She pulled away, a growl catching in her throat, but Dwalin was unyielding. He nudged her shoulder firmly with his muzzle, a gentle pressure that wasn't aggressive but left no room for argument. Slowly, deliberately, he herded her back towards the group she had tried to flee.

Her head lowered to the ground, ears flattened against her skull. A low tremor began in her legs, spreading through her body. She was caught trying to flee, exposed, her emotions raw. Over his broad shoulder, she could see Dori, his shoulders slumped, speaking quietly with Balin. Balin’s voice, a steady balm, was gentle and kind even from this distance. Both their gazes were fixed on the covered wagon, a heavy, silent presence in the clearing.

A deep thrumming sound, the call for movement, echoed through the pack. The dwarves shifted, taking up their positions. Nori, still trembling, padded at Dwalin’s side, feeling his warmth a comforting anchor in her distress. The wagon groaned, its wheels stirring from the earth, and began to roll. Dwarves and dwarf wolves walked around it, a protective circle. Oin, ever practical, was already settled beside Bifur on the wagon driver's seat, his medical kit likely within reach.
--
The miles unwound slowly, the forests and hills blurring into a rhythm as they headed towards Erebor. Nori found a strange comfort in the steady pace, the familiar scent of her kin surrounding her. She watched King Thorin, a figure of silent strength, as he walked in front of the main group. But he didn’t just lead; he wove through the pack, his keen eyes checking on the others, a silent leader tending to his pack.

Once in a while, Nori caught him walking behind the wagon, his massive, dark form a shadow against the dwindling light. His eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, were focused with a signal-minded intensity on the wagon. Not hostile, but considering, thoughtful, and almost desperate. Within its shadowed interior lay Alaris, Ori, the dwarven pups, as well as Bilbo and Foxglove, the House of Ri’s newest members. They were so thin, so weak, from not eating, from giving away every scrap of their meager rations to ensure the little ones, were fed. Thorin’s ears flicked, constantly listening for any noise from within, any update on the two young hobbits whose selfless act weighed so heavily on his kingly heart. The quiet journey was a testament to their sacrifice, a silent prayer for their recovery etched into every mile they travelled.

The ground beneath their hardened boots was a blur, each stride a testament to their unwavering purpose. The pack didn't stop, didn't dare to. They were a compact, grim-faced unit, driven by a singular, desperate focus: Erebor. Home. Days bled into nights, the landscape the green of the Greenwood on their left the endless flat lands on their right.

They emerged from the path, onto the edge of the Greenwood's main road, a wide, well-trodden path that spoke of regular passage. And there, a sight that brought them to a sudden, jarring halt: elves. Tall, lithe figures on silken-maned horses, their forms dappled by the sunlight filtering through the canopy, their faces calm, almost ethereal.

A collective growl rumbled through the dwarven pack, a low, guttural warning born of ancient grudges and suspicion. Axes were gripped tighter, hands instinctively reaching for sword hilts. But King Thorin did not hesitate. He moved, effortlessly, to stand in front of the group, his imposing figure a bulwark between his weary kin and the unexpected forest sentinels.
"Legolas!" he called out, his voice sharp and clear, cutting through the sudden tension.

One of the elves, taller than the rest, with hair like spun sunlight and eyes the color of a summer sky, slid gracefully from his horse. His movements were fluid, silent, his bow already unstrung and resting lightly in his hand. He approached, not with the typical elvish arrogance, but with a surprising blend of caution and familiarity.

They met a few paces from the dwarf line, speaking in hushed tones, the rapid, low murmur of their voices lost to the anxious ears of the dwarves. Thorin’s initial rigidity began to ease, the tension in his shoulders visibly softening as he listened to the elf. A few moments later, Thorin gestured to the wagon, a heavily laden, canvas-covered cart pulled by the rams, which had been the heart of their agonizingly slow pace.

At the sight of the wagon, Legolas's composure faltered. His posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing. He spoke, a sharp question, and Thorin responded with a weary nod. Without another word, the elf turned back to his horse, pulling a few water skins from his saddle and handing them over to King Thorin. They walked together, silently, towards the wagon.

Thorin reached the back, unfastened the canvas flap, and peered inside. The air was thick with the scent of travel and the faint, sweet smell of milk. He handed the water skins in, and from the dim interior, two figures, Ori and Alaris, reached out to take them.

It was then that Legolas stumbled back, a gasp of horror escaping him. His piercing blue gaze had fallen upon the wagon's occupants. Nestled securely in Ori's arms was a tiny, russet curl-headed hobbit, its eyes wide and curious. And in Alaris's arms, nestled against her, was another, almost impossibly small, white haired hobbit, a little girl. Bilbo and Foxglove. Two tiny, fragile hobbit frames, so impossibly small and vulnerable amidst the hardened dwarves.

The elf spun to face King Thorin, his face a mask of shock and dismay, his hands tightening further on his bow till his knuckles were white. Thorin's own face, already etched with the tales from their new families journey, dropped further. He knew this conversation would be difficult, but necessary.

"They are part of the House of Ri, Legolas," Thorin began, his voice low, gravelly with exhaustion and a deep, ingrained sorrow. "And their journey... it has been one of desperation." He recounted the tale, the weight of each word a burden on his tongue. The desperate escape from the Blue Mountains for the Ur family, when their home had began forcing taxes on those who had two more pups or have them ripped away, and the Ered Luin for the Ri family, driven out an impossible choice laid at the feet of Dori. "These children," Thorin continued, glancing back at the wagon, "Bilbo and Foxglove, they are hobbits, orphaned from the attack of the fell wolves in the Shire, and the fell winter that stole their parents. They joined the House of Ri on the road, driven by circumstance and shared hardship."

Legolas's eyes flickered from Thorin to the wagon, then back again, a silent, horrified question in their depths.

"They... they gave their own rations," Thorin said, his voice laced with an almost reverent awe and sadness, "selflessly, to Alaris, the mother of the eight dwarf pups. So that they might be fed, so that the youngest might survive." He paused, letting the magnitude of the hobbits' sacrifice sink in.

"I sent out a summoning message to the House of Ri to come to Erebor, to bring this of the line of Durin home," Thorin explained, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the mountain. "Their responding letter, detailing the small pack's circumstances – their numbers, their vulnerability, their... additions – prompted me and a small group to meet them here, at the southern end of the Greenwood. To escort them to Erebor, where they might finally be safe."

Legolas's hands remained locked on his bow, his knuckles stark white against the grey wood. His jaw was clenched, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The horror on his face slowly morphed into something akin to righteous fury, his elven sensibilities clearly affronted by the sheer brutality of what these children, these hobbits, had endured.

King Thorin, seeing the storm brewing in the elf's eyes, reached over. His hand, calloused and strong, settled gently but firmly on Legolas’s arm. The touch was unexpected, a bridge between two leaders, two races, two very different perspectives. Slowly, the rigid tension in Legolas's body began to dissipate. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze softening, shifting from anger to a profound, understanding sorrow. He nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, acknowledging the weight of Thorin's words, the immense suffering that had brought the others to this point.

Behind them, the other elves, who had been observing the quiet, intense exchange, began to stir. A red-haired elf, with eyes like emeralds, walked through the group, her movements graceful and purposeful. She approached Balin, who stood near Dori, his expression a mixture of fatigue and stoic resolve.

"Forgive my intrusion, Master Dwarf," the red-haired elf said, her voice soft, melodic, yet edged with concern. "But... what, precisely, is in the wagon?"

Balin sighed, a long, weary exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of the entire journey. He glanced towards the cart, then back at the curious, albeit respectful, elf. "My Lady Tauriel," he began, his voice gravelly, "It is.. the youngest of the Ur line, as well as two adopted members of the house of Ri."

Legolas looked at the ancient, weathered wagon for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the closed canvas flap. Then, his bright eyes met Thorin’s. "We travel with you, if you wish," he stated, his voice clear and resonant. "Not as a slight on your abilities to protect the wagon, King Thorin. Rather, a shared duty to protect the young and innocent. A matter of kindred spirit, perhaps, across races."

King Thorin, who had been observing the elf with a guarded expression, paused for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. The raw vulnerability of the two small hobbits inside weighed heavily on his mind, a sharp counterpoint to the usual hardened resolve he presented. He saw no weakness in the elf's offer, only a practical, if unexpected, alliance borne of common purpose. After a moment, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. "As you say, then, Prince Legolas Greenleaf. Their protection is paramount."

Legolas wasted no time. He nodded once in acknowledgment to Thorin, then split from the group, moving with the silent grace of his people. He dispatched three of his elves, sending them back towards his father's domain. His instructions were concise: inform King Thranduil that Legolas and Lady Tauriel would be late in returning to their palace. Furthermore, the message was to inquire if his father had any additional information or specific lore regarding hobbits that could be given to King Thorin and the company's healers to aid in their recovery. The request was unusual, highlighting the unique and fragile nature of their small charges.

With the elves dispatched, Legolas rejoined Thorin, his expression resolute. King Thorin gestured for the group to begin walking again, and the company resumed its slow, steady march. Tauriel, ever observant, fell into step beside Balin, her horse falling in beside her. A few paces behind them, Dori walked, his gaze frequently flicking towards the wagon, her brow creased with a worry that had not lessened since the hobbits conditions had been found. Legolas, meanwhile, walked beside King Thorin, his own magnificent horse pacing calmly beside him, the elf’s presence a new, unexpected, yet strangely comforting addition to the Dwarven company.

Chapter 6

Inside the wagon, the world was a quieter, gentler place, filled with the soft creak of wheels and the murmur of worried whispers. Foxglove and Bilbo were slowly being fed the broth once more by Ori and Alaris. Foxglove, her small hand clenching Alaris’s tunic so tightly her tiny knuckles were white, struggled with the guilt that gnawed at her. A few tears, silent and hot, slid down her face as Alaris continued to feed her gently, a spoonful at a time.

When there was a pause in the feeding, a moment of quiet, Foxglove’s whisper was barely audible, thick with shame. "I'm sorry… we thought we were doing the right thing making sure your pups were fed…" Her voice trailed off, her eyes, usually so bright, shadowed with remorse.

Bilbo’s voice, rough and cracked from disuse and emotion, followed hers, equally laden with regret. "We wanted to help... that seemed like the only way we knew how." He, too, felt the deep ache of having caused distress, of having been misunderstood, even in their desperate act of kindness.

Alaris, her heart aching for the two small creatures, gently put the bowl down. She moved her hand, stroking Foxglove’s cheek softly, her touch a balm. "Oh, little one," she murmured, her voice warm and soothing, "it’s not your fault, my brave one. Your heart is too full of kindness. We appreciate what you did for my pups, truly, and they are thriving because of your love. But never, never at the expense of your own health. You must be cared for, too. You both have hearts of gold, and that is a rare and precious thing."

Ori, his own eyes glistening, gently set his spoon and bowl aside. He couldn't bear to look at Bilbo's drawn face for another second without showing the depth of his own pain. He almost folded himself around Bilbo’s small frame, shaking with a mixture of overwhelming relief and tender concern. "Nadadith," he choked out, thick with emotion. "You two… we are going to spoil you… so much. Dori will never allow either of you out of her sight for months… even years after this. We’ll fatten you up on plum cake that Bombur boasts about and make sure you’re warm and safe always. Just... just rest now."

A profound silence filled the wagon, broken only by the soft, rhythmic creak of the wheels and the occasional sniffle from the hobbits. It was a silence of understanding, of immense sorrow for past suffering, and of an unwavering promise for a future filled with warmth, safety, and a love that knew no bounds.

King Thorin set a steady pace with the dwarves, never wavering as the group that escorted the House of Ri and Ur to their new home ate the miles till Dale could be seen in the distance and beyond that Erebor. King Thorin sucked in a breath as he took in the sight of his home. Though he was only gone for a few weeks waiting for them at the southern end of the Greenwood, the familiar silhouette of the Lonely Mountain, crowned by the setting sun, stirred a profound sense of belonging within him. He looked back to see Dwalin weaving his way through the group, a gruff but reassuring presence, encouraging the troops with a nod here and a clap on the shoulder there.

Dori, ever the diligent caregiver, had slipped away from Balin for a moment, walking at the back and leaning inside the large wagon. He was talking quietly with Ori and Alaris, who were inside with the pups and the hobbits, a small, enclosed world of gentle concern amidst the rumbling journey.

Suddenly, the huge horn of Erebor sounded from above the gates, a deep, resonant blast that vibrated through the very ground. It triggered the horns of Dale to be sounded in response – a beautiful, melodious harmony that heralded their return home. The combined sound, ancient and welcoming, seemed to wrap around them, chasing away the weariness of the road.
Foxglove jolted in Alaris’s arms at the sound of the horns, letting out a soft whine, her small body trembling slightly. Alaris shushed her softly, stroking her white hair. "It's alright, little one. Just a big welcome."

Oin, seated a few paces ahead in a supply cart, turned in his seat, his kind, grizzled face looking back at them. "It's alright, little ones. Erebor and Dale are just welcoming us back home."

Bilbo, nestled between the soft bundles, his cheeks still a little pale from the journey, whispered, curiosity heavy in his tired voice, "Horns?"

Oin laughed lightly, the sound a comforting rumble. "Yes, large ones. The horn of Erebor was carved out of a large animal's tusk that wraps around the wielder. The horns of Dale are long, large sounding instruments used to alert the surrounding areas if needed. Mainly if one of the Kings has come home."

Bilbo’s eyes widened slightly, a small smile touching his lips. "I'd like to see them."

Oin grinned, a crinkle appearing around his eyes. "You will, lad, but only when you both get stronger to walk long distances. Dori will have my beard if you don't heal."

Foxglove, recovering from her fright, giggled, a tiny, breathy sound. "We can't have that."

Oin shook his head, a twinkle in his eyes. "No, that wouldn't be good now, would it? A dwarf without his beard is like a dwarf without his axe." He winked at them, then turned back, shouting a cheerful word to Gloin up ahead.

Inside the wagon, Bilbo leaned his head against Ori’s chest, feeling the gentle thrum of the wagon beneath them. The image of a dwarf with a horn carved from a tusk, so large it wrapped around him, filled his mind, pushing away the last vestiges of travel sickness. Foxglove snuggled closer, her tiny hands kneading Alaris's tunic, her earlier fright forgotten in the warmth and comfort. Ori, ever observant, drew a quick sketch in his small notebook arms still around Bilbo, capturing Oin's animated expression and the imagined grandeur of the horns, even as the real sound of the welcoming blasts began to fade, replaced by the excited chatter of the approaching towns.

The path widened, becoming a well-maintained road that led directly into the bustling streets of Dale. The city, rebuilt and thriving, was a sight to behold – vibrant banners fluttered from tall buildings, the smell of freshly baked bread and hot metal mingled in the air. People spilled out of shops and homes, waving and cheering as the royal escort passed, their faces alight with joy at the return of King Thorin and the arrival of the new House. Thorin, walking tall at the head, offered a rare, genuine smile, a nod here, a wave there, basking in the warmth of his neighbor people's welcome.

They passed through Dale in a slow procession, the cheers accompanying them like an honor guard, until the great gates of Erebor, massive and imposing, loomed before them. Carved with intricate Dwarvish designs, they were even more magnificent up close. The Mountain itself seemed to hum with life, a silent, powerful presence. Guard dwarves, their mail gleaming, stood at attention, then snapped into a smart salute as Thorin approached.

As the column began its measured advance towards the gates of the mountain, a wave of profound relief washed over Thorin. He was home. And with him, he brought not just the House of Ri and Ur the pups, but also two small hobbits newest members of the House of Ri, new, unexpected additions to the great halls beneath the mountain. He knew their journey was far from over, but the hardest part was behind them. The horns had sounded. The welcome was complete. Now, the real work of home-making began.

Chapter 7

The massive, iron-bound gates of Erebor, etched with ancient runes that seemed to hum with forgotten power, rose like an unassailable mountain even before the mountain itself. When the weary column of dwarves, dust-caked and travel-worn from their march from the southern edges of the Greenwood, finally approached, the ground beneath their boots began to subtly vibrate. A low rumble, deep and resonant, emanated from within the stone. Slowly, majestically, the colossal doors, each one a testament to dwarven craftsmanship and resilience, began to swing inward. Not with a groan of old hinges, but with a smooth, silent grace that defied their immense weight.

Through the widening gap, bathed in the cool, echoing light of the mountain's interior, emerged King Thorin Oakenshield. His silhouette was broad and regal, his dark hair and beard impeccably braided, a circlet of silver resting on his brow. He carried himself with the quiet authority of one born to command, yet his eyes, blue as the lake in the mountain, held a flicker of anticipation. He scanned the entryway, and a subtle softening touched his stern features as his gaze landed on those waiting for him.

Standing foremost in the grand entrance hall, where intricate carvings adorned every column and the air itself seemed to hum with the essence of stone and gold, was his sister, Dis. She was his mirror in many ways, her black hair braided with silver rings, though her eyes were a warm, earthy brown, contrasting with his own a deep blue. Her stance was proud, but her hands fiddled subtly with the cuffs of her tunic, betraying a sister's impatience. Bolted to her side were her two sons, Fili and Kili. Fili, the elder, inherited his father's bright, golden hair but the Durin blue eyes, currently wide with undisguised curiosity but more grounded then his younger sibling. Kili, younger and full of energy, possessed his mother’s dark hair and brown eyes, equally brimming with an almost boundless eagerness.

Behind Dis, but still very much a part of the familial tableau, stood Vili. Dis's mate, Vili was a curious study – a lower-class dwarf, distinguished by his honey-colored beard and kind, crinkling eyes. He had, against all expectations, seamlessly slotted himself into the royal family, a natural fit, much to the initial dismay of Thorin’s late grandfather, Thrór, who had viewed the match with no small amount of aristocratic disdain. Yet, Vili’s quiet strength and unwavering devotion had proven him more than worthy, carving his own indelible place. On the other side of Dis, a stark contrast to Vili's warmth, stood Frerin, Thorin’s younger brother, his golden hair and blue eyes a clear genetic link to the Line of Durin, a quiet smile playing on his lips.

As Thorin’s boots touched the polished stone of the hall, Dis strode forward, her initial composure cracking. She offered a swift, almost perfunctory bow, then, with a joyful cry that echoed lightly in the vast space, she threw her arms around her brother. "Nadad," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion, "welcome home." Even though they had been separated for only a few weeks, the embrace was fierce, born of deep affection and the shared burdens of their line.

Thorin crushed her to him, burying his face in her hair. "Thank you, nadadith," he whispered back, his own voice rough with relief. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "Are the rooms ready?"

Dis nodded, a flash of her usual efficiency returning. "Yes. When we received your message, I felt the urgency hidden in your words and rushed to get everything prepared for them."
Thorin nodded, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes, before he gently released Dis to greet Frerin with a firm clasp of forearms. Before he could utter more than a few words, he was almost immediately bowled over by his nephews. Fili, with a whoop of delight, launched himself at his uncle’s torso, followed swiftly by Kili. King Thorin, for all his stern bearing, stumbled back with a surprised grunt, then wrapped his arms around the two boisterous lads, a soft, rich laugh escaping his lips.

He heard Dwalin, his loyal captain of the guard, behind him, his booming voice directing the weary men who had traveled with them. "See to the House of Ri and Ur! Stable the ponies, feed the men, and let them rest and recover from this march. They have earned it!"

As Dwalin’s voice faded into the background, Thorin released his nephews, his eyes drawn past them, past the newly arrived dwarves, to the large, covered wagon drawn by two the rams that was just pulling into the entrance. The laughter faded from his face, replaced by a profound weariness, a shadow of dismay.

Frerin, ever perceptive, caught the shift in his brother's expression. "Nadad," he said, his voice quiet, concerned, "How bad is it?"

Thorin let out a long, heavy sigh, the dismay etched deeply on his features. "The hobbits," he began, his voice low, "they need to be relocated as soon as possible to ensure their continued recovery. I'll explain more once they are safely tucked into the new home, with the Ri's. And the House of Ur… and their pups… they need to be placed into their new den so they can rest in comfort, not in that wagon." He paused, raking a hand through his beard. "We'll announce the House of Ri's joining the line of Durin in a few days. Best to let them settle without too much immediate fanfare, given their ordeal." His gaze fixed on the wagon, a decision made. "See to it, Frerin. You need to speak to Bifur the head of the family. I will guide the Ri's myself."

The low, echoing thrum of Erebor’s heart seemed to vibrate through the very stone beneath Thorin’s boots, a sound that should have been a comfort, a triumph. Instead, it felt weighty, a solemn counterpoint to the quiet urgency of their arrival. After Thorin instructed Frerin on the precise pathways through the lower halls, outlining the quickest routes to the designated family quarters up in the Royal Wing, he split off from his brother. Frerin, ever dependable when he wasn't being mischievous, gave a short, firm nod, his face serious, and turned to gather the other members of their extended family, Vili falling in silently beside him.

Thorin glanced at Dis, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes that conveyed a world of unspoken burdens. Her answering gaze was sharp with concern, a silent question he couldn’t answer aloud. Then, he turned and walked towards the large, enclosed wagon they’d carefully wheeled into the mountain’s entrance, almost dragging his feet. Each step felt heavy, burdened not by fatigue but by the precious, fragile cargo it contained.

Dis watched him, her brow furrowed, a silent worry etched on her face until he reached the back of the wagon. With a quiet click, he unlatched the heavy wooden door, opening it slowly. Inside, bathed in the soft glow of the lanterns hanging just within the cavern, were eight dwarven pups from the house of Ur, their eyes wide and curious as they looked at him. Beside them, tucked into a corner, sat Alaris, Bombur’s mate, still holding Foxglove. The hobbit-lass was hidden deep within a thick blanket, only the faintest shock of white hair peeking out, startlingly pale against the dark wool.

King Thorin then looked over to Ori, whose small frame was hunched, clutching Bilbo tightly to his chest. Bilbo, too, was swaddled in a blanket, his russet hair was grimy and plastered to his head as well as against the fabric. Thorin swallowed, his voice dropping to a gentle, quiet tone, barely above a whisper in the vastness of the hall.

“We are inside Erebor now. My brother Frerin and brother-in-law Vili will lead the Ur family to their rooms. They are well-appointed and comfortable,” he paused, making eye contact with each of the curious pups before turning back to Ori. “While I will take the Ri family to their rooms.”

Ori looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, his voice cracking with a raw vulnerability that tore at Thorin’s heart. “The Ur family… won’t be separated from us, will they?” The fear of a potential loss a break in their tightly knit unit, was palpable in his trembling question.

King Thorin shook his head immediately, his gaze softening further. “No, lad, never. We have rooms in the Royal Wing open for them as well. Rooms that connect, should you wish to visit each other. I know how bonded the two houses are. We don’t want to separate you, not after all this.”

Relief washed over Ori’s face, so profound it seemed to momentarily weaken his knees. He nodded, a jerky motion, and staggered to his feet, still clutching Bilbo. “Thank you… just thank you, your Majesty…”

King Thorin reached out his arms slowly, a deliberate, non-threatening gesture. “Here, let me carry Bilbo for you.”

Ori hesitated for only a moment, the ingrained dwarven deference warring with his fierce protectiveness. But the exhaustion won, and with a soft sigh, he gently handed Bilbo over to the king. King Thorin cradled Bilbo into him, the hobbit’s small frame heartbreakingly thin, even with all their careful efforts to feed him broth over the past days. The malnutrition was evident in every delicate bone. Thorin held him close, providing a warmth and solidity that Ori, now free, could only dream of. Ori gratefully jumped out of the wagon, standing beside his king, his body trembling at seeing his little brother so thin.

Alaris came next, carefully handing Foxglove to Dis, who had immediately stepped closer, her arms already open in welcome. Dis’s eyes widened as she took the tiny hobbit lass into her arms, truly seeing Foxglove’s face for the first time – the sunken look, the fragility of her small form. Dis gasped, a soft, heartbroken sound, her own heart breaking for the suffering these small creatures had endured. Alaris jumped down from the wagon, turning to see several new, kind dwarven faces coming forward, ready to help carry her pups for her and Bombur, who was already waiting anxiously among them.

King Thorin looked over at Dori and Nori. Dori’s face was grimmer than ever, her jaw tight, while Nori was a coiled spring, barely moments from snapping at the slightest provocation. Ori, beside them, was fighting a losing battle against the tears welling in his eyes. Thorin knew they were at their breaking point, their protective instincts screaming to take their siblings to safety themselves, but their own exhaustion made it a near impossibility.

Speaking gently, his voice still low and comforting, Thorin addressed them. “Come with us. Allow us to carry your siblings for you. It’s the least we can do, after what you have all endured… what they have endured.”

Dori, surprisingly, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, resignation and profound relief warring in her eyes. And so, King Thorin, with Bilbo cradled carefully in his arms, and Dis, holding the fragile Foxglove as if she were made of spun glass, led the way. Dori, Nori, and a trembling but grateful Ori followed, their steps leading them deeper into the mountain, towards safety and healing for the hobbits, and for all of them as well.

The great halls of Erebor, usually echoing with the steady rhythm of dwarven industry and the occasional boisterous song, were hushed now, save for the soft scuff of boots on polished stone. Thorin, strode with a quiet intensity, one arm cradling the impossibly light form of Bilbo Baggins against his armored chest. Beside him, Dis, his sister and the Mountain’s Princess, moved with equal grace, the smaller, white-haired hobbit Foxglove tucked carefully into the crook of her chest. Dori, Nori, and Ori of the Ri family trailed respectfully behind, their faces etched with a blend of exhaustion and quiet relief.

They ascended higher and higher, the air growing warmer, the sounds of the bustling city fading further below. As they approached the royal family quarters, a new set of guards, armor freshly polished and impeccably armed, stood at attention. Upon seeing their King and Princess, they straightened even further, their expressions shifting from stoic vigilance to profound deference. Dis inclined her head subtly towards the grand, oak doors that stood slightly ajar, revealing glimmers of light from within. The guards, understanding the silent command, moved swiftly and quietly, pushing the heavy doors inward to allow their passage, then closed them with a barely perceptible click, sealing the Ri family within a cocoon of privacy.

Thorin and Dis continued their silent procession through an antechamber, rich tapestries and polished wood gleaming softly in the lamplight, until they reached the threshold of the bedchambers. Dori, Nori, and Ori paused just inside the sitting area, giving their king and princess space.

Within the first chamber, a pair of beds had been prepared. They were dwarven beds, certainly, but specially crafted, lower to the ground than any Thorin was accustomed to, the frames built to accommodate the smaller stature of hobbits. Thorin moved to the closest, gently kneeling beside it to carefully place Bilbo Baggins onto the soft mattress. The hobbit stirred faintly, a soft sigh escaping his lips, but remained deep in slumber. Dis mirrored his actions, settling Foxglove on the other side of Bilbo, the two small forms now nestled side-by-side. Going on her past experiences with her boys about when both were ill laying them side-by-side was comfort to them even if they couldn't tell.

Together, their movements slow and deliberate, they began to remove the travelling blankets that had been wrapped around the hobbits. As the layers peeled back, revealing the slender limbs beneath, Dori, Nori, and Ori, who had quietly positioned themselves on a nearby second bed, watched with bated breath.

Dis sucked in a sharp breath. The sight of Foxglove’s delicate, almost skeletal frame, so shockingly thin, made her hands tremble. Her eyes welled, but she blinked them back, refusing the tears. With an immense effort of will, she gently lifted the hobbit just enough to pull the plush bedclothes over her, tucking them snugly around her. Thorin, his jaw tight, did the same for Bilbo, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he drew the heavy blankets up to the hobbit’s chin.

They then stepped back, silent witnesses to the disturbing fragility of the sleeping hobbits, now cocooned in warmth and comfort that had clearly been absent for far too long. Dis turned her gaze from the small, still forms to Thorin, her eyes clouded with a mixture of grief and fierce protectiveness. Her voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, ragged with suppressed emotion.
"Please explain…"

Dori, who had been sitting with her silvery white head bowed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, drew a shaky breath. She was quiet for a long moment, gathering her strength, before lifting her gaze to meet Dis’s.

"It started in Ered Luin, Princess," Dori began, her voice soft but steady, recounting the tale of despair and desperate choices. "Our Lord, a harsh man, had taken an interest in Ori’s… talents. He offered to send him to an academy, a prestigious one, for his education. But the price… the price was my hand in marriage. To him. And if I refused… Ori would be sent to the mines. To the deepest, most dangerous seams, to pay off my defiance and our family’s perceived ‘slight against him if I refused’."

Thorin’s fists, which had been resting at his sides, clenched. He had heard this part before, but it did nothing to lessen the cold rage that coiled in his gut. Dori continued, her voice gaining a quiet strength as the memories flooded her. "We fled. Nori, Ori, and I. We ran as far and as fast as our legs could carry us. We found the Ur family on the road, already travelling, already… trying to survive. They already had Bilbo and Foxglove with them. They were newly orphaned, their parents gone, taken from them because of Fell wolves that attacked the Shire during the Fell Winter."

A pained look crossed Dori’s face, and she paused, swallowing hard. "The journey was… hard. Food was scarce, even while we were hunting. We were all hungry. But they… those two. The hobbits. Alaris and Bombur’s pups were so small, struggling… Bilbo and Foxglove, they would give up their own meagre rations. Their tiny portions of bread, a few dried berries… they’d press them into Alaris's hands for the smallest pups. They would rather starve themselves than see those little ones suffer."

Thorin's knuckles were white, his jaw set. He remembered seeing the rounded pups in the wagon the relief in Alaris's eyes that were also carrying the weight of regret, guilt and fear.
"They hunted, Princess," Dori went on, pain lacing her words. "Tiny things. Squirrels, rabbits… anything they could catch in their small fox forms. And they would scavenge. Berries, roots, anything edible they could find in the dirt or under a bush. They always found something. Always. For everyone else, never for themselves first. They kept us going as much as we kept them."
Dis listened, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the sleeping children. Each word was a fresh wound, painting a picture of unimaginable hardship endured by two innocent, self-sacrificing souls. The silence that followed Dori’s quiet recounting was heavy, thick with sorrow and a burgeoning anger that promised to shake the very foundations of the Mountain.

Nori sprang to her feet, the rich velvet carpets of the royal quarters doing little to muffle the frantic pacing of her boots. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, knuckles white, as if she could wring the truth out of the very air. "We tried so hard to feed them. All of us did," she gasped, her voice raw, a thread of agony running through every syllable. "Bifur and Bofur would distract them with tales or songs, anything to keep the little ones from hearing the hungry cries. But Bilbo or Foxglove… they had ears sharper than any elf to a pup's whine. They’d hear it, and immediately, without a second’s thought, their own meager rations would be pressed into Alaris’s reluctant hands."

Nori shuddered, a full-body tremor that spoke of weeks of suppressed terror and profound helplessness. "Alaris would only eat it after the hobbits gave her pleading glances, those wide, innocent eyes begging her to take it, to please keep her pups alive. We caught Alaris many times crying herself sick in wolf form, wrapped around her pups as they suckled. Bombur, bless his gentle heart, would always be there, murmuring comforts, trying to soothe her from her tears. The hobbits were always asleep when she cried, they never knew the burden they placed on her."
Nori trailed off, a fresh wave of despair washing over her. "We tried to stop them," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, "but they were so stubborn. Like two small, unyielding pebbles. 'Pups carry the future,' Bilbo would say, his voice so small, so firm. 'Our parents would be proud of us giving the pups food,' Foxglove would add, her eyes shining with fierce conviction." The thought was a dagger to Nori’s heart. "We watched helpless as Bilbo and Foxglove’s frames grew smaller and smaller… every day they dwindled."

Ori, who had been sitting rigid by Dori, listening with a haunted expression, finally moved. His own face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. "It was a few weeks before we received the message from you, Your Majesty, the one telling us to meet you at the designated point," his voice cracked, the sound like dry branches snapping. "By then, we just… we couldn’t bear it anymore. We agreed to take the hobbits into our family. The night before we met up with Your Majesty, we did the adoption ceremony with Bofur and Bifur witnessing." A faint, terrible smile touched Ori’s lips. "It was one of the few nights they had the strength enough to stand for more than a few minutes. We braided their hair, tiny, thin braids, and we gave them beads. Beads Dori carved out of a beautiful pink-red stone for Foxglove and a soft emerald for Bilbo. Two stones that we took from our old home in Ered Luin, it was almost Mahal's will we had them. Both bear a tiny, intricate carving of a fox for their shifter forms, and the proud mark of the House of Ri on them." He gestured vaguely towards the magnificent four-poster bed where the two hobbits lay, almost lost in the vastness of the royal bedding, looking utterly, heartbreakingly fragile.

Dori, who had been listening with increasing agony, finally broke. She folded over on herself, sinking to the plush carpet, burying her hands in her hair, her shoulders shaking violently. "They are so good, Your Majesty," she sobbed, her voice muffled against her knees, "Both of them. Please… help them. Please let them stay. I know they aren't dwarrow but please.. don't make us let them go." Her plea was raw, desperate.

Chapter 8

King Thorin stood stiff, a statue carved from granite, his whole body locked at the foot of the bed where Bilbo and Foxglove lay, mercifully, safe and sound, though alarmingly still and small beneath the heavy blankets. His face was unreadable, hearing the depth of Dori's raw emotions hitting him like the force of a rock slide. Dis, however, needed no prompting. Her face a mask of grief and fierce protectiveness, she strode over to where Dori was crumpled on the carpet, gathering the distraught dwarf into her arms, holding her firmly as Dori finally broke apart, dissolving into wrenching sobs within the protective embrace, the heart-wrenching sounds echoing in the opulent silence of the Ri family chambers.

The heavy silence in The Ri family chambers was broken only by the quiet, broken sobs that seemed to vibrate through the very air. King Thorin, a figure usually defined by unyielding strength, finally moved. His gaze, softer than anyone in Erebor usually saw it, fell on Nori, who stood trembling, Ori huddled beside her, his entire small frame shaking with a grief too profound for his years. Slowly, with a tenderness that only was shown for family or the little ones, Thorin brought their heads to rest on his broad shoulders.

Across the richly carpeted floor, Dis was a grounding presence, holding the still crying Dori close. Dis murmured soothing words, her hand stroking Dori's back as if to smooth away the sharp edges of her heartbroken sobs. The air, thick with unspoken pain, slowly began to lighten as Thorin’s deep voice, a low rumble of comfort, filled the space.

"We will help you," he whispered, his voice resonating with a quiet strength that promised unwavering protection. "All of you. The house of Ur as well. None of you will suffer anymore." He paused, a corner of his lips twitching faintly. "Oin will most likely oversee Bilbo and Foxglove personally, so be prepared to see him in your chambers frequently."

Nori, head still pressed against Thorin's shoulder, nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment of the care that was being poured over them. Thorin continued, his words painting a picture of a future free from fear. "Ori, you will join our academy to continue your education – no conditions, no restraints. Once Bilbo and Foxglove recover, they will join you." Thorin felt Ori bury his face further into his shoulder, nodding frantically against his coat, the relief a palpable tremor through the young dwarf.

Dis, still cradling Dori, gently ran her hand down the older dwarf's back. "You're among family now," she murmured, her voice a balm. "We look after each other now. You're not alone anymore."

Dori gave a small, shuddering breath, her sobs subsiding into quiet gasps. "Thank you…" she whispered, the words barely audible.

A small, genuine laugh escaped Thorin, a sound rarely heard outside moments of great victory or profound joy. "First of all," he said, pulling back slightly to look at Nori and Ori, a hint of his usual sternness failing to mask the warmth in his eyes and his voice, "enough of this Your Majesty nonsense, unless it's for court-related duties."

Ori let a small giggle escape, a fragile sound of innocence returning, as he wrapped his arms tightly around Thorin's torso. Nori snorted lightly against Thorin's neck, a familiar, wry gesture that was pure Nori. Dis smiled faintly, a gentle light in her eyes, her hand still a steady comfort on Dori's back.

"What are your skills, Dori?" Dis asked, her tone conversational, steering the conversation towards a future that was not just about recovery, but purpose. Dori shuddered, the question momentarily pulling her back to a painful past, but then she straightened a little. "Tailor, Dis," she said, her voice still a little hoarse. "Once my clothes were sought after by the lords in Ered Luin, but then with the pressure and a few whispered words, the demand for my wares dwindled." The last words were almost too quiet to hear, laced with the bitter taste of betrayal and loss.
Dis's smile grew, a knowing, determined glint in her eyes. "Well, we can't have that happen now, can we?" she said softly, but with an underlying steel. "Once you all have recovered, would you like to take up your Craft again?"

Dori nodded slowly, hope blossoming timidly in her chest. "Please…"

Dis rested her head against Dori softly, a gesture of profound affection and solidarity. "Don't worry," she promised. "It'll happen. But first, rest and recover." The quiet chambers, once filled with despair, now hummed with the promise of healing, the unbreakable bond of family, and the slow, steady return of hope.

A reedy, heart-wrenching whine sliced through the quiet of the Ri family quarters, a sound so small yet so laden with distress that it instantly shattered the calm. Nori and Ori, who had been leaning against Thorin, taking in his comfort, released their grips simultaneously, their faces tightening with concern. Across the room, Dori released Dis, her own face already a mask of urgent worry.

Before anyone else could react, Dori was already moving. Her usual stately gait abandoned, she launched into a mad dash towards the elaborate dwarven bed where Bilbo and Foxglove lay nestled amongst a mountain of blankets and pillows. She collapsed beside the bed with a soft thud, her eyes, wide and searching, sweeping over the two small forms, trying to discern which one had uttered the cry. Bilbo stirred, a soft whimper escaping him, but it was Foxglove who let out another, small, choked whine, her tiny body trembling beneath the covers.

Dori’s focus locked onto her. With a speed that belied her years, she scrambled to Foxglove’s side of the bed, dropping to her knees. Her stern features softened into an expression of profound tenderness as she rested her head near Foxglove’s, whispering words only the small hobbit could hear. Her large, calloused hand, usually so adept with needles and thread, moved with impossible gentleness, running through Foxglove’s soft, white hair, soothing a silent fear.

Nori and Ori were right behind her, a blur of motion. They knelt beside Bilbo, their own faces creased with worry, though their touch was surprisingly light as they began to murmur reassurances. Bilbo’s face was scrunched up, a tiny frown marring his brow as he reached out with small, uncoordinated hands, seeking comfort. Ori taking his small hands gently holding them as Nori rested her head by Bilbo's.

Thorin and Dis moved slower, a silent, weighty presence compared to the nimble dwarves. They watched the scene unfold, a small family unit soothing two young hobbits in their sleeping distress. There was a raw, beautiful intimacy to it, a quiet display of love that Thorin found himself absorbing. Dis reached over and gripped Thorin’s arm, her fingers tightening, her own gaze fixed on Dori, Nori, and Ori as they poured their boundless affection into comforting the two hobbits on the bed. Thorin laid his hand over hers gently, a silent acknowledgement of the profound bond they were witnessing.

The quiet spell was broken by a soft, insistent knock on the intricately carved door to the Ri family quarters. Dis released Thorin’s arm to go answer it, her brow furrowing slightly at the interruption, leaving Thorin standing over the family, a quiet, solid presence for them all.

Dis returned a moment later, Oin in tow, his satchel clanking faintly. Trailing after him, moving with a grace that seemed to defy the solid dwarven architecture, were Legolas and Tauriel. Both elves had their arms full of rolled scrolls, their expressions serene but watchful.

Tauriel moved first, laying her scrolls carefully on the bedside table before kneeling beside Ori, her gaze already assessing Bilbo. Legolas handed the scrolls in his arms over to Oin, his movements as fluid as river water, before moving quietly to kneel beside Dori, his bright elven eyes meeting her tired ones with a shared understanding.

Oin, ever the pragmatist, spoke quietly to Thorin, his voice rough but kind. "Legolas and Tauriel have been given ambassadorship to us by King Thranduil, as well as any need to help heal the little ones on his behalf. A repayment, he says, for smuggling out the Gems of Lasgalen that your grandfather denied him before he and your father marched off to Moria."

A flicker of an old memory passed through Thorin’s eyes, softening them. He remembered that night, years ago, after Thror had, with typical stubbornness, denied the elf-king the precious gems. Thorin’s honor, even then, had felt insulted on Thranduil’s behalf. And so, between his siblings as well as Dwalin and Balin, he had smuggled himself out of Erebor and trekked into Greenwood, a secret, risky journey to hand over the gems to their rightful owners. It had been an act of quiet defiance and unexpected justice. He shook himself out of the memories as Oin continued, "If needed, King Thranduil will come personally to help as well."

Thorin nodded, a rare, almost imperceptible relaxation smoothing the tension from his shoulders. He watched as Legolas and Tauriel, their voices like a soft breeze through leaves, both began to chant in Sindarin, a low, resonant healing chant that filled the chamber with an ancient energy. The air around Bilbo and Foxglove seemed to shimmer faintly, a gentle, unseen force settling over them, coaxing their exhausted bodies to recover faster, to spring back quicker from their unseen sorrow and malnutrion. The whines faded into soft snores, and a fragile peace settled over the room, held within the silent strength of dwarves and the quiet magic of elves.

The soft snores of Bilbo and the faint, rhythmic breathing of Foxglove filled the chamber, a testament to the powerful incantation Legolas had just completed for a restorative and healing sleep. The Elven prince, for his part, had sagged against the rough-hewn stone wall, the coolness seeping through his tunic, a silent anchor against the weariness that now settled upon him. His blue eyed gaze, usually sharp and bright, was shadowed as he looked up at Thorin, who stood grim and watchful over the two small, sleeping forms.

"My father," Legolas began, his voice a low, resonant murmur, "received word from Lord Elrond in Rivendell. Between the forces of Rivendell and the Rangers of the North, the Shire was protected. Not many hobbits were lost to the fell wolves that plagued the land, a blessing many thought impossible during that dreadful winter." He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "However… Mithrandir was most distressed at finding Bungo and Belladonna's bodies in the snow. Torn apart, still in their fox forms, by the fell wolves."

Thorin froze, his broad shoulders tensing, the air in the chamber suddenly thick with unspoken dread. A gasp escaped Dis beside him, her hand flying to her mouth. The Shire, that quiet, idyllic land Bilbo and Foxglove spoke of with Ori who told Thorin during the nights they walked side-by-side during the march from the southern tip of the Greenwood where they met the fleeing House of Ur and Ri such simple fondness, had not fallen. It was saved, but… Thorin let out a slow, controlled breath, the relief for the Shire’s safety quickly overshadowed by the chilling implications of Legolas’s words. Dis, ever quick to grasp the unspoken, voiced the question that hung heavy between them. "Bungo and Belladonna?" she whispered, her eyes wide with dawning horror.

Legolas met her gaze, his own filled with somber confirmation. “Baggins… Bilbo and Foxglove's parents.”

A cold disbelief settled upon Thorin's face as he looked from Legolas to Dis, then down at the peaceful faces of the children the house off Ri had come to cherish. They were orphans he knew this, utterly and tragically so. To hear the actual news was devastating Dori, who had been tending to the sleeping Foxglove, gently laid her arm over the small hobbit's body, nuzzling her white hair with a soft, protective sound, as if to shield her from the echoed grief.

Tauriel, who had been kneeling opposite of Legolas, her gaze fixed on the quiet scene, looked up at Thorin. "King Thranduil already sent word to Mithrandir," she whispered, her voice soft but clear. "Telling him of the hobbits in your care. I believe you will have a visitor to your mountain soon."

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture of deep weariness and immense burden. He held it for a long moment, the weight of the news settling heavily upon him. Then, he released it, his eyes opening, clear and resolute.

"We will still care for them," he stated, his voice a low rumble that filled the quiet chamber, brooking no argument. "As well as informing Tharkun when he arrives that Bilbo and Foxglove have been adopted into the House of Ri line of Durin, by Dori, Nori, and Ori, after their own flight from Ered Luin. We will tell the whole tale to Tharkun, sparing nothing, holding no lies from him." His gaze swept over the sleeping hobbits, a fierce protectiveness hardening his features. "Bilbo and Foxglove may be hobbits, but they are our hobbits now. We will provide them anything and everything they need."

A silent agreement settled over the dwarves and elves in the chamber. The loss was great, the sorrow profound, but in the heart of Erebor, a new bond was forged, unbreakable and true. Come what may, these two small hobbits had found their home.

The air in the Ri's private chambers hummed with a delicate tension, a mixture of hope and lingering dread. Golden light from a brazier flickered across the ancient stone walls, illuminating the faces of those gathered.

Legolas and Tauriel nodded together, their movements synchronized, a testament to years of fighting side-by-side. "The incantation will help Bilbo and Foxglove's bodies heal," Legolas's voice was clear and precise, "so they can eat without harming them further. Their natural healing is too slow for the trauma they endured."

Thorin nodded, a weary weight that clung to many in the mountain fell from him slightly. He was grateful for their relations to the Greenwood, relations that were undeniably better than his grandfather's time, even if Thranduil still got on his nerves every once in a while. But the Elves had come, bringing their unique skills, their magic, their long-held knowledge, to aid his people and their allies.

Dis stood up from her chair, pacing the room slowly, her steps hushed on the thick rugs. Her mind was a whirlwind, sifting through all the information they had painstakingly gathered. The thought of Dori, Nori, and Ori having to go through the trauma of retelling their journey again to Tharkun was a relentless, gnawing anxiety. If only to spare them the pain of having to relive it, as they already had once at the meeting place with Thorin, then again with her, baring the raw wounds of their ordeal. The thought alone was a fresh wound, knowing the horrors those three, along with Bilbo and Foxglove, had endured in that desolate, forgotten place.

A side door, one leading to the newly assigned quarters for the Company and their families, opened quietly. Bofur and Bifur walked in, their faces etched with the deep lines of exhaustion but brightened by an unmistakable relief in their eyes. Bofur clutched his worn hat in his hands.

"Bombur and Alaris have the pups in the nursery den," Bofur announced, his voice raspy but warm. "Resting among the many blankets and pillows. They're all settled." He bowed deeply, his brow furrowed with earnest gratitude. "Thank you, Your Majesties."

Thorin waved his hand lightly, soft smile touching his lips. "I'm glad. Is everything in your rooms set up alright for your House? Are all your kin accounted for and comfortable?"
Bifur nodding replied "Yes, Bombur almost cried, he did, at seeing the kitchen and all the food in the pantries. He spoke of creating a meal for you and your family as a thank you for taking us in, for giving us a home again."

Dis, who had softened, watching the two weary dwarves, a tenderness rarely seen touching her stern features, stepped forward. "We accept his invitation," she said, her voice gentle, "but please, Bifur and Bofur tell Bombur to rest and recover first. No need to rush on his account. There is time now, for all of us."

Bofur's tired face broke into a wide, genuine smile, and he nodded, a profound sense of peace settling over him. "We will tell him. Thank you again, Your Majesties. Truly." With another bow, he and Bifur quietly took their leave, heading to their own well-earned rest, the promise of warmth and safety finally a reality.

Chapter 9

Two days unfolded in Erebor, a cycle of quiet recovery and industrious integration for the weary travelers finally settled within its grand halls. In the Ri family chambers, a soft, hushed light filtered through the crystalline windows, illuminating the restful forms of Bilbo and Foxglove, curled deep in the plush featherbed. Both were still frail, their journey having taken a severe toll, but under Oin’s careful supervision, the subtle rounding of their cheeks and the faint returning flush to their skin offered reassuring signs of progress. Each broth, rich with nutrients and dwarven earthiness, was prepared with their delicate state in mind, gently coaxing them back to health.

While Bilbo and Foxglove mended, the rest of their pack eased into the rhythm of the mountain. Thorin, Dis and their household had welcomed them with open arms, providing not just shelter but a sense of belonging that began to knit the fragmented group back together.

Dori, ever the pragmatic and nurturing soul, found her hands itching for purpose beyond the quiet vigil by the bedside. The sight of Bilbo and Foxglove’s shredded, mud-caked garments, discarded in a heap outside their chambers, had sparked an idea. It was a distraction, yes, from the gnawing worry over her youngest siblings’ slow recovery, but also a deeply practical one. Their clothes were irrevocably ruined. Approaching Dís, who, despite her court duties, always made time for the well-being of her kin, Dori requested bolts of fine cloth – soft wools for warmth, lighter linens for comfort. Dís, understanding the unspoken need for her cousin to channel her anxieties into useful work, readily agreed, offering materials of the highest quality. Dori then set herself up in a quiet corner of the Ri chambers, her needles flying, cutting and stitching patterns for new vests, shirts and trousers for Bilbo and dresses as well as shirts and trousers for Foxglove when she worked with her hands each stitch a silent prayer for their speedy return to full health.

Nori, however, found herself drawn to a different kind of pursuit. Erebor was a labyrinth of secrets and wonders, and she, with her natural curiosity and knack for observation, began to explore it with relish. Her reports back to Thorin, delivered with a casual air that belied the sharp intellect behind them, were remarkably detailed – not just of the city's layout and its people, but of whispers in the market, the flow of goods, and the subtle shifts in the court’s mood. Thorin, a king always in need of reliable eyes and ears, found himself increasingly impressed. He had been considering the need for a formal spymaster, someone to manage intelligence and security within his kingdom. Nori seemed the ideal candidate. When he tentatively broached the subject, Nori’s eyes gleamed with an almost mischievous delight. She agreed wholeheartedly, the challenge invigorating her.

This, however, brought her into direct conflict with Dori. "Nori! Do you not understand the dangers such a post entails?" Dori exclaimed, her voice laced with rare frustration. "You've only just recovered from our journey here, and now you leap into a role fraught with peril!"

Nori, though, put her foot down, her gaze resolute. "Dori, listen to me. Thorin risked everything from the approval of his council to our peoples accepting of his choice, to help save Bilbo and Foxglove. To bring us home. If this is how I can repay him, how I can ensure the safety of this place, and of them," she gestured subtly towards the sleeping forms, "then I will do it. There will be no more arguments on the matter." Dori, seeing the unyielding determination in her sister's eyes, could only sigh, though the worry in her heart remained.

Ori, meanwhile, threw himself into the grand Archives and the Academy during the day. He devoured ancient texts, studied the intricacies of dwarven engineering, and practiced his calligraphy with renewed zeal. But every evening, without fail, he would take his place beside Bilbo and Foxglove’s bed, a small, worn volume of maps or a newly sketched diagram in his hand. In a soft, soothing voice, he would recount his day’s discoveries – the grandeur of the Hall of Thráin, the ingenious mechanics of Erebor’s gates, the layout of the old mining tunnels, intricate details of dwarven history. He spoke as if they were awake and listening intently, weaving tales of the mountain, hoping that the sound of his voice, the warmth of his presence, would somehow aid their journey back to consciousness.

Bofur and Bifur, helped with Bombur and Alaris's pups while getting used to the mountain. Bifur nervously created a russet-furred fox playing with a white-furred fox something to keep their friends with them in their chambers. Bombur, when he wasn’t doting on his and Alaris’s eight boisterous pups – a task Alaris, with welcome relief, shared with Dís whenever the princess was free from court duties – could always be found in the sprawling Ur family kitchens. The scents of rich stews, freshly baked bread, and sweet pastries wafted from his domain, filling the halls with the comforting aroma of home. Each night, he prepared a feast not just for the Ur household, but for all the recovering members of the pack, a culinary embrace that promised warmth and strength.

And so, as Bilbo and Foxglove lay cocooned in their chamber, slowly regaining their vitality, the world around them continued to turn, each of their companions finding their own way to heal, to contribute, and to hold vigil for the two quiet forms at the heart of their new, fragile peace in the heart of Erebor.

The third morning dawned with a peculiar weight, the sun, though bright, seemed unable to dispel the palpable tension clinging to the very air. A hush had fallen over the usually bustling gates of Erebor, broken only by the distant echo of hammers from deep within the mountain. All eyes, it seemed, were fixed on the lone, gray figure astride a sturdy, equally grey horse, now halted before the colossal, rune-etched gates. Tharkun had arrived.

With a low, grinding groan that vibrated through the stone, the massive gates of Erebor began to part, revealing a cavernous maw of light and shadow within. Tharkun dismounted with the quiet grace of a seasoned traveler, his worn, grey robes blending almost seamlessly with the morning mist still clinging to the peaks. His staff, gnarled and ancient, found the stone threshold with a rhythmic tap-tap-tap, a steady cadence that seemed to mark his claim on the very ground he trod. His horse, weary but well-kept, was gently led away by a waiting stablehand, its soft nicker fading as it was guided towards the warmth and comfort of the mountain’s subterranean stables.

Tharkun, meanwhile, was ushered deeper into Erebor's heart. The journey from the gates to the throne room felt strangely elongated, punctuated by the echoing tap-tap-tap of his staff. He passed guards standing silent and rigid, their gazes curious but respectful. Finally, he stood at the arched entrance of the throne room, a grand chamber carved from the mountain's living rock.

Within, King Thorin Oakenshield sat on his carved throne, presiding over a minor dispute between two quarrelsome prospectors. His brow was furrowed, his expression one of weary patience. Then, his gaze flickered towards the doorway. His eyes, sharp as a dwarven axe, narrowed as they found the tall, cloaked figure. The argument between the prospectors faded into an incoherent mumble as Thorin’s attention snapped away.

He rose slowly from his seat, the heavy rustle of his robes filling the sudden silence. Balin, ever vigilant, moved instinctively to his side. "Court is dismissed," Thorin's voice boomed, cutting through the stunned quiet. There was an edge to his tone, a mix of command and an unreadable tension.

Thorin strode across the polished stone floor, his gait purposeful, his eyes fixed on Tharkun. As he approached, he saw the faint tremor in the old wizard's hand, gripping his staff so tightly that his knuckles were white, leaning heavily on it as if for support. Thorin stopped directly before him, his gaze intense. "Tharkun."

Tharkun let out a long, slow breath, as if releasing a burden he had carried for days. His voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly soft, devoid of its usual booming authority. "Bilbo and Foxglove?"

Thorin's chest seemed to expand for a moment, a subtle release of his own pent-up anxiety. He made a small, reassuring gesture with his hand. "Follow me. I'll show you where they are resting. We've been taking good care of them."

He turned and led Tharkun through the labyrinthine halls of Erebor, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the staff now softened by the rich tapestries and the muffled sounds of the mountain dwarf-hold. They ascended through ever more finely carved passages, leaving the noise of the lower levels behind, until they reached the more private, quieter Royal quarters where, Thorin assured him, Bilbo and Foxglove were safely sleeping.

They arrived at a set of grand but unostentatious doors. Thorin pushed them open quietly. Inside, Dori sat diligently by a warm fire, her nimble fingers working on what appeared to be new, smaller garments, clearly sized for the hobbits. She looked up, her expression softening as she saw Thorin, then widened slightly at the sight of Tharkun. She paused for a moment, bowing her head briefly to both King and Wizard, a gesture of quiet respect, before her hands, without missing a beat, returned to her sewing.

Thorin led Tharkun further into the room, towards a large, comfortable bed tucked away in a quiet alcove. There, nestled amongst furs and soft blankets, lay two small figures. Bilbo, his russet curls seeming to pop against the white pillow, and Foxglove, her white hair blending in with the white pillow . Thankfully, they were not as gaunt as they had been when the House of Ur and Ri had first arrived at Erebor's gates, but their faces were still a little too hollow, their cheeks not quite as plump as they should be. They were still not completely healthy.

Tharkun left Thorin's side, his steps unnaturally slow, as if each movement required immense effort. He walked over to the bed and carefully sat on the chair beside it. His large hand, surprisingly gentle, moved to rest lightly on Bilbo's head for a moment, his fingers brushing through the soft hobbit hair. Then his hand slid over to Foxglove's, stroking her forehead for a brief instant. He looked up at Thorin, his blue eyes clouded with a depth of emotion Thorin had rarely seen in the wizard. "Please, tell me how they came to be here."

Thorin let out a long breath then began his tale. He spoke of the desperate flight of the House of Ur from the Blue Mountains, driven out by the cruel new tax levied on families with more than three pups – a tax designed to force them into the mines, or face the unbearable choice of having their children taken from them. He spoke of the parallel flight of the House of Ri from Ered Luin, of Dori's impossible choice, being forced into a marriage with the loathsome Lord Grimfang for the sake of Ori's continued education, or Ori too would be forced into the mines. Thorin paused for just a second, his gaze softening as he looked at the two sleeping hobbits. Then he continued, recounting how Bilbo and Foxglove had unexpectedly joined them, after their parents, Bungo and Belladonna, had told them to run from the fell wolves that had descended upon the Shire. He described the chance encounter, how the two hobbit children had found the weary, desperate remnants of the House of Ur and the House of Ri. He spoke of their small, extraordinary sacrifices – giving up their own meagre rations to make sure Bombur and Alaris's numerous pups were fed, ensuring the youngest, most vulnerable members of their combined company survived. And he spoke of their persistence, their surprising courage in hunting for any small game they could find, diligently foraging for every edible berry and root, contributing far more than their size suggested. Thorin ended his tale with the quiet, profound act: Dori, Nori, and Ori inducting Bilbo and Foxglove into the House of Ri as family, claiming them as their own. A declaration that Thorin himself, King Under the Mountain, had honored.

After Thorin finished, a soft sigh escaped Tharkun's lips, a sound of immense relief. Then, to Thorin's surprise, a quiet chuckle began to rumble in his chest, growing softer as he turned to look at the sleeping figures of Bilbo and Foxglove. "Ah, Belladonna, my dear," he murmured, his voice thick with affection and pride, "you would be so proud of your children. Adventuring so far, defying all expectations, and finding a new home and family." He shifted his gaze slightly, as if addressing an unseen presence. "Bungo, you would be proud as well. Your children took your lessons to heart, of putting others before yourself, of finding courage in the face of fear."

Tharkun visibly relaxed, the tension sliding from his powerful frame. He turned his gaze back to Thorin, his blue eyes now clear and filled with a rare warmth. "You do not have to worry, King Thorin. I will not take them from their new family. I just wanted to make sure they were safe and sound."

Thorin felt an immediate, profound release, the knot of tension in his shoulders finally dropping. A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "We will provide anything and everything they need," he vowed, his voice firm with absolute sincerity, "for they are now of Erebor, and of the House of Ri."

Balin spoke up from where he stood by Thorin's side, his voice a low, earnest rumble. "Is there anything you can tell us about how the hobbits live? What they need? We wish to make sure they are properly cared for. We have some scrolls from Thranduil as well as what Bilbo and Foxglove told Dori during their journey here. Ori wrote everything down, but we do not want to miss anything in order to help them." He gestured towards the bed where Bilbo and Foxglove still lay, pale but thankfully resting after their ordeal.

Tharkun, seated on a low chair beside Bilbo's side, let out a slow breath, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. His eyes, ancient and wise, twinkled as he looked at the eager faces of the Dwarrow. "Hobbits are simple, honest creatures, Master Balin. Home, Family, Love, and Food are all they truly need. They are remarkably resilient, yet surprisingly fragile in their simple contentment." He paused, his gaze drifting to the window that looked out onto the grey, unyielding stone of the Mountain. "However, with them being children of Yavanna, where they are happiest, where they truly flourish, is in their gardens. So, if you wish to see them truly thrive here in the mountain – not just survive, but thrive – give them a garden."

Thorin stiffened, his broad shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly as his thoughts raced. 'My grandmother's gardens!' The words echoed in his mind like a forgotten melody. 'They are bare after her passing, desolate and overgrown with dust, and grandfather forbid anyone going inside after… after.' A pang of sorrow, mixed with a sudden, startling hope, shot through him. Could those once vibrant terraces, now echoing with silence and memory, truly be brought back to life by the touch of these small, gentle folk? It was a flicker of light in a long-dark corner of his heart. The idea, so simple, yet so profound, settled upon him like a revelation.

Balin, ever observant, saw that Thorin had stiffened for a moment, a rare, vulnerable expression crossing his King's face only to seen around kin, before the doors to the bed chambers opened behind them. Dis strode in, her eyes scanning the room, her brow furrowed with concern. She paused, seeing Tharkun sitting so close to Bilbo and Foxglove's beds. A wave of fear, quick and sharp, washed across her face – the terrifying prospect that the Istari had come to reclaim their charges, to remove these children from the family who had grown to love them. Balin, sensing her unspoken dread, quickly intervened, his voice calm but firm. "Do not worry, Dis. Tharkun simply wished to see how they were. He is not going to remove Bilbo and Foxglove from the mountain after hearing they have new family bonds with Dori, Nori, and Ori."

Dis sagged in relief, the tension draining from her shoulders like water. Her hand went to her chest, as if to steady a wildly beating heart. A grateful smile, tremulous but genuine, touched her lips as she looked at Tharkun, who merely offered a gentle nod. She then moved swiftly to the adjacent room where Dori was sitting, her face still streaked with tears. As Dis relayed the news, a quiet, almost guttural sob of overwhelming relief could be heard from Dori, a sound that spoke of a burden lifted, a fear finally laid to rest. The hobbits were staying, and there was hope, now, for gardens within the stone heart of the mountain, a place for them to truly call home.

Bilbo lay still on one bed, his normally expressive face pale and devoid of its usual cheer. Beside him, Foxglove, equally still, seemed too fragile for the bustling world. Thorin Oakenshield had been rigid, watching, but now, as the enigmatic Tharkun straightened from his vigil over the hobbits, a subtle relaxation smoothed the lines of his brow.

"If permitted," Tharkun’s voice was a low, resonant rumble, "I would like to stay a few days. They should wake by tonight, if not tomorrow, and be hungry. I recognize the healing magic of the elves that lay on them; it is powerful but gentle."

Thorin nodded, a breath escaping him. "We will have your rooms prepared for your stay. Your counsel has already been invaluable."

Just then, the heavy oak door creaked open, and Dori stepped into the rooms, her always meticulous braids slightly askew, her eyes red-rimmed. Dis whose own face was etched with worry for Dori at her side, had her arm wrapped around Dori’s shoulders, offering silent support. "Thank you, Tharkun," Dori’s voice cracked, raw with emotion. "Thank you. I… I love Bilbo and Foxglove like they were my blood siblings. I know Nori and Ori feel the same." Her gaze flickered to the still forms, a fresh welling of tears threatening.

Tharkun offered a small, gentle smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at Dori. "You have no need to fear, good Dori. The Lady Yavanna is most gracious with her children." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the anxious dwarven faces in the room – Thorin, Dis, Dori, and through the open door, the glimpse of Nori and Ori hovering anxiously at the door. "There is one thing I feel I must tell you before you are alarmed in the coming years for them. As they have not hit their coming of age yet, their forms are still… adaptable. When they do, however…"
The dwarrow in the room froze. The very air seemed to thicken, every dwarf holding their breath, waiting for Tharkun to continue.

The suspense was unbearable.

"There is a special gift that the Lady Yavanna granted her children," Tharkun finally resumed, his voice softer, almost reverent. "Hobbits, while secretive in their ways and culture, hold family dear to their hearts. Deeply so. The oldest hobbit in their records is the current Thain of the Shire, at one hundred and thirty years old."

Dori paled slightly, the faint flush of hope draining from her face. One hundred and thirty years? Most dwarves lived twice as long, often more! Her thoughts spiraled, calculating decades, generations, of their lives stretching far beyond the fleeting span of her beloved hobbits. They would grow old and wither while she, Nori, and Ori would be in their prime. The thought was a sharp, painful jab to her heart. How could they bear to lose them so soon, after all they had shared, after fighting side-by-side? Her spiraling thoughts, however, halted abruptly at Tharkun’s next words, uttered with a knowing gravity. "The Gift hobbits were given was this: if they had family bonds outside of their own race, genuine, heart-deep bonds of kin, their bodies would gently change to match the race they lived with, adapting their lifespan and even, subtly, their physical form. The only ones they cannot do that with are Elves, for their lives are too ethereal, too intertwined with the very fabric of Arda."

Dori stared, her mouth slightly agape. The implications hit her like a physical blow, a stunning, glorious revelation. Her voice was a mere croak. "So… so they have the potential to live as long as we do?"

Tharkun nodded, his smile widening, the wisdom in his eyes profound. "Yes. If their bond to you, to the line of Durin, to the dwarrow, is as strong as you claim, then by the time they are truly come of age, their forms will adapt. They will be your kin, not just by heart, but by longevity."

Dori’s legs gave out, and she sagged to the ground, though Dis, ever watchful, ensured she didn’t hurt herself on the way down. A controlled fall. She simply sat there, staring at her hobbit siblings, their small, still forms on the bed. The weight of sorrow lifted, replaced by an overwhelming, joyous realization. Bilbo and Foxglove. Her clever, brave, infuriating, beloved hobbits. They wouldn't just be around for a few more decades. They would be around for a long, long time. For generations. Part of their lineage, their family, forever. The thought filled her with a profound, almost dizzying sense of peace. Mahal's wife, The Lady Yavanna, indeed was gracious.

Chapter 10

The joyful air, a quiet hum of contentment that filled the chambers, brought about by the Lady Yavanna’s gift for their hobbits to live as long as they do, was broken by Foxglove letting out a tiny, almost imperceptible whine. Her little face scrunched up, a tiny frown forming, which triggered Bilbo’s arm to twitch from where it lay beneath his head. The dwarrow in the room, ever watchful, jumped a little at Foxglove’s soft noise, their heads snapping towards the bed.

Bilbo, sensing her discomfort even in his slumber, rolled from his back to face Foxglove, his brow furrowed in a sleepy frown. Just as he was about to murmur a question, his stomach let out a rather loud, protesting growl. It was less a rumble and more a full-bodied ROAR, echoing in the quiet room.

Dori’s eyes went wide at the sound, disbelief clear on her face. She had never heard such a noise from a living creature. Foxglove, startled by the unexpected cacophony, opened her eyes slowly, blinking owlishly before letting out a soft groan. "Bilbo… you sound like you have a dragon in your belly….” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Bilbo twitched his nose, a wave of mortification washing over him. He buried his face into the pillow, a muffled groan escaping him. "Hush, Foxglove… you can be just as bad.." As if on cue, just as the words left his lips, Foxglove’s own stomach produced a sound that could only be described as a deep, resonant ROAR, agreeing wholeheartedly with his assessment. Foxglove’s eyes widened, and she clapped her small hands over her stomach, a hot blush creeping up her cheeks.

From her spot on the floor beside Dis, Dori, who had been struggling to contain her mirth, finally burst into peals of laughter. Her infectious giggles triggered a chain reaction, and soon, the rest of the room erupted, a symphony of chuckles and booming laughter at the hobbits’ comical reactions to their stomachs’ protests. Even Thorin let out a low rumble of amusement from where he stood.

Foxglove slowly sat up from the bed, rubbing her eyes gently, her blush still prominent. She shot a half-hearted glare at Bilbo, who was still attempting to hide under the pillow. Then, her gaze swept around the familiar faces in the room, lingering on a tall, familiar figure by the side of the bed. "Gandalf?" she whispered, her voice tinged with wonder and a hint of disbelief.
Dis smiled, the last of her tension visibly dropping off her shoulders as she said the name, spoken so softly, was like a jolt of strong coffee to Bilbo. He snapped his eyes wide open and sat up quickly, abandoning his pillow, his gaze locking onto the wizard. "Gandalf!" he exclaimed, his voice much louder than Foxglove’s whisper, a mixture of surprise and profound relief.
Gandalf smiled at them, his eyes crinkling at the corners, soft with affection. "Now, now," he said, his voice a comforting rumble. "I’m happy to see you both safe and sound, but let’s have you eat first. I daresay they heard your stomachs in Mirkwood."

Dori, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye, stumbled to her feet. With a tenderness that belied her usual boisterousness, she sat on the edge of the bed, gently pulling the two hobbits into her arms, holding them firmly against her for a moment. It was a silent, powerful embrace of love and relief. Then, she released them, a signal for Nori and Ori, who were quick to follow, each carefully picking up a hobbit from the bed and holding them close to their broad chests, a quiet comfort for the smaller folk. The others watched the hobbits, awake and hungry, now smiling and hugging their adopted dwarrow-siblings firmly. Thorin, still leaning against the wall behind him, felt a profound wash of relief flood through him as he saw the hobbits were not only awake, but by the sound of it, wonderfully, gloriously hungry. It meant they were truly well.

The side door leading to the Ur family's quarters burst open with a sudden thump, revealing Bofur and Bombur, both standing wide-eyed and looking utterly shocked. Bofur was the first to speak, his voice bubbling with uncontainable laughter, "W-we could hear that through the stone walls!"

Bilbo let out a low groan, an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck, and buried his face deeper into Nori’s neck. Nori, in turn, let out an amused snort, a tremor of laughter running through her lean frame. Beside them, Foxglove’s cheeks burned an even deeper crimson, and she practically vanished, hiding her face completely in Ori’s soft, knitted scarf that hung around his neck.
Bombur waved a dismissive hand, a wide, inviting smile already stretching across his face. "Come on! Alaris and I have been cooking since we were able to dive into our new kitchen!" His eyes sparkled with culinary pride.

Dori, ever the sensible one, gently took Nori and Ori by the arm, leading them towards the open side door. Thorin, with his rare, soft smile, followed close behind, accompanied by his sister Dis, Balin, and the towering figure of Gandalf.

They stepped through the doorway and into a warm, inviting space. The first sight that greeted them was Bifur, in his majestic wolf form, laying calmly on the floor. All eight Ur pups, miniature bundles of fur and energy, were joyfully piled onto his back and sides, scrambling over him as if he were a living mountain. Alaris watched the playful scene from her chair in the corner, a gentle smile on her face.

Her gaze shifted as the newcomers entered, and her smile widened, a clear wave of relief washing over her features as she spotted Bilbo and Foxglove, both looking much more awake. "Oh, Bilbo. Foxglove. That was you?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Bombur let out a hearty laugh, confirming, "Yes, it was!"

Alaris let out a sigh of genuine relief, pushing herself up from her chair. "Well, come along then!" she urged, leading them towards a magnificent table that dominated the centre of the room. It was already groaning under the weight of an incredible spread of food, steam rising from various dishes, and the aroma of roasted meats and fresh-baked bread filling the air.

Nori, ever careful, gently lowered Bilbo into a chair by the table, then settled herself beside him. Ori did the same for Foxglove, ensuring she was comfortable before taking his own seat. Dis surveyed the bountiful table for a moment, her eyes shining with appreciation, then turned to Bombur. "May we join you?" she asked, though her smile indicated it was more of a formality.

Bombur beamed, waving his hands expansively. "Of course! Please, please! I have more in the kitchen if needed."

Dis nodded, a plan forming in her mind. She excused herself from the room, leaving to send word to the guards at the main doors, instructing them to summon Vili and her sons, Fili and Kili, as well as Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, and Frerin. It didn't take long. A short while later, the rest of the dwarf Dis had summoned for arrived, their eyes widening at the sight and scent of the feast. They quickly found seats around the large table. Bifur, with a final, careful wriggle, slid the playful pups off his back. He shifted back into his dwarf form with a shake, ready to join the meal. The young pups, a little disappointed but still full of energy, were left in the other room for the time being, allowing Alaris to eat her fill before she herself would shift into her wolf form, better able to feed and tend to them in the privacy of their den.

The air was thick with the rich aroma of roasted meats, hearty stews, and freshly baked bread. Yet, for a moment, all conversation had hushed, replaced by the symphony of hurried eating. Bilbo and Foxglove, were utterly consumed by the task before them. Plates piled high with everything and anything within reach, they barely chewed, simply swallowed, each mouthful disappearing with a speed that defied logic. Their faces, once drawn and pale, were now flushed with exertion and a profound, primal satisfaction. They ate as if the food might vanish, as if this feast might be a fleeting dream.

Beside them Nori and Ori watched, their own plates forgotten. The relief on their faces was palpable, etched deep into their features. Across from them Dori, ever the worrier, let out a soft sigh, her shoulders relaxing from a long-held tension. Nori simply nodded, a rare, unstrained smile playing on her lips. Ori, usually quiet, whispered, "Finally," as if the word itself was a prayer.

Alaris, seated near them, had a distinct shine in her eyes. Tears of relief, hot and unbidden, threatened to escape, and she blinked rapidly to keep them at bay. Her mind drifted back to the harrowing journey, to the days when the hobbits, small and already suffering, had offered their meager rations without a second thought so that her own little wolf-pups might survive. To see Bilbo and Foxglove devouring food with such ferocity, to know they were safe and nourishing themselves, was a balm to her soul. The memory of their selfless act, juxtaposed with their current desperate hunger, was almost too much to bear.

Bofur’s face held a gentle, understanding smile as he watched, a warmth radiating from him that seemed to match the hall's roaring fire. Bifur, beside him, too offered a rare, wide smile, to his shared joy.

Oin, ever the healer, fixed his gaze on the hobbits. His eyes, usually sharp with diagnostic intent, now held deep relief. He’d seen them only a few days ago, gaunt and weary, their exhaustion painted starkly on their bone-thin frames. His worries about their malnutrition, a gnawing fear that had accompanied his healing efforts, were now fading away, dissolving in front of his eyes with every rapid gulp and torn piece of bread. He felt like he could finally breathe.

Balin, Thorin, and Dis, who had also seen the hobbits in their weakened state mere days prior, watched in a shared awe. There was a flicker of sorrow in Thorin’s eyes for a moment, a brief memory of the frail, near-broken state in which these courageous beings had arrived. Dis, beside him, reached out and gently touched his arm, understanding. Balin simply shook his head, a mixture of wonder and profound contentment on his face. That flicker of sorrow was quickly chased away by the overwhelming joy at seeing them truly eating. Finally eating.

Fili and Kili, sprawled in their seats across from the hobbits, wore identical shocked expressions. They’d heard the whispered tales from their amad telling their adad, seen the exhaustion, but the sheer, unadulterated passion with which Bilbo and Foxglove consumed their meal was a revelation. It spoke volumes more than any story. Vili, leaning against Dis, shifted his arm around her shoulders for a moment, a quiet gesture of shared emotion and comfort.

Frerin, resting his head on his hand, watched the spectacle with a relaxed, knowing smile on his face. He'd seen many warriors eat after battle, but never with such desperate, beautiful hunger. It was a testament to the journey, to the survival, and to the simple, profound miracle of coming home to a hot meal.

The last crumbs of Bombur’s feast had been lovingly scraped from plates, the lingering scent of roasted meats and sweet pastries still thick in the air. A chorus of contented sighs filled the grand hall as bellies, dwarven and hobbit alike, swelled to a pleasing roundness. Praise for Bombur, the genius behind the culinary masterpiece, echoed around the table.
Dis leaned over, her voice a low murmur to Thorin, but her eyes, wide and pleading, spoke volumes. "Bombur and his mate Alaris," she mouthed, then gestured subtly towards the impressive Dwarf. "Royal Chefs."

Thorin chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through the table. He'd seen that look from Dis before. He turned to Bombur and Alaris, opening his mouth to formally extend the offer. But before a single word could pass his lips, Bombur, his face beaming with the joy of a true artist appreciated, and Alaris, her usually reserved expression bright with anticipation, answered in unison, their voices ringing with genuine enthusiasm. "We'd be honored."

Bofur let out a whoop of unadulterated joy, nearly toppling his chair backward. Alaris, a soft smile gracing her lips, didn't wait. Pushing her chair back with a scrape, she moved swiftly, waiting till she was in the same room as her pups shifted into her caramel-colored wolf form her pups were waiting, tiny muzzles already twitching with hunger, and now, finally, they would have a feast worthy from their mother after so long on the road.

At another end of the table, Bilbo and Foxglove, their small hobbit frames nestled comfortably against Nori and Ori, were deep in a food-induced slumber, soft snores punctuating the contented buzz of conversation asleep once more. But, their bellies were gloriously full, their eyelids heavy. Gently, with practiced ease, Nori and Ori pulled their hobbit siblings from their chairs, shifting them onto their laps, allowing the sleepy duo to lean up against their chests, arms wrapped protectively around them.

Thorin’s gaze then settled on Bofur, who was practically bouncing in his seat. "What is your Craft, Bofur?" Thorin asked, his voice laced with genuine interest.

Bofur grinned, a wide, infectious smile. "Toymaker and Miner!" he declared, puffing out his chest. "Though the mining was dangerous in the Blue Mountains, because of so many collaspses and high demand from the nobles of the settlement. We, Bifur and I, prefer making toys."

As if on cue, Bifur, quiet as ever, reached into his rugged coat and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden toy. It was a marvel: two foxes, one russet and the other a stark white, frozen mid-leap, chasing a tiny, delicate butterfly. They were mounted on a small, round platform, gleaming with a soft polish. Bifur held it out, his eyes glinting. "It was during one of the good days," he explained, his voice a low rumble, "before they began giving their rations to Alaris. The sun was out, and they were playing with Bombur and Alaris's pups."

Fili and Kili, eyes alight with curiosity, practically sprang from their seats, swarming around the table to stand on either side of Bifur. He pressed a small button on the bottom of the platform, and with a soft click, the foxes sprang to life, jumping up and down paws patting at the butterfly just out of reach with delightful realism. Fili and Kili's eyes widened to saucers, utterly captivated by the whimsical movement. Thorin watched, a rare, impressed smile gracing his own lips.

Dori, ever composed, smiled for a moment, watching the youthful wonder. "As I told Dis, though you were in the room as well," she began, turning her attention back to the King, "I'm a tailor. My wares were highly sought after in Ered Luin by all the nobles in Ered Luin. I believe it was what Grimfang's unwanted attention on me and my kin."

Thorin looked intrigued, clearly appreciating the mention of a highly practical and respected trade. It was then that Frerin, ever the opportunist, spoke up, his voice deceptively casual. "You know, Thorin, our last majordomo retired, and we haven't hired a new one..."

Dori’s eyes widened, her composure briefly faltering as the implication of Frerin’s words slowly dawned on her. Dis, quick as a hawk, seized the moment. She grinned, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Dori's even family, which is perfect! She can still do her Craft when not being Majordomo for us."

Dori's eyes widened further, her thoughts racing, a whirlwind of responsibilities and new duties. Beside her, Nori's quiet voice cut through the clamor of her doubts, calm and steady. "Dori, I know you can do this. You've been taking care of us for years after amad returned to the stone. And then on the journey, you instantly shifted your care to include the Ur's, Bilbo, and Foxglove. You weren't even phased by the changes. You adapted.”

Dori swallowed, a nervous lump in her throat, before finally nodding, a determined set to her jaw. "I accept."

Thorin smiled, a genuine, warm expression. "Great. You're family, so you'll be privy to our family secrets as well as the entire Royal floor. We'll go over the details tomorrow when you're free." The evening, begun with a feast, was quickly solidifying into a foundation for a new beginning, in a home where skill, care, and kinship intertwined.

The last crumbs of the evening meal had been brushed away, and the comforting scent of roast meat and warm bread still lingered in the air of Thorin’s grand hall. Bombur, ever the picture of quiet domesticity, slowly stood from the table, a placid smile on his face, and began to gather the plates. The clink of porcelain was soft, almost a lullaby after the boisterous conversation that had filled the space moments before.

Fili and Kili, usually quick to dash off to their next adventure, scrambled to follow his lead, their youthful energy reined in by a newfound sense of purpose. They carefully stacked plates and bowls, their brows furrowed in concentration, before carrying them to the kitchen. Bofur, with his ever-present grin and a ready chuckle, joined them, taking the heavier platters with a grunt of good-natured effort, his arms laden with the remnants of the feast.

As the table slowly cleared, Bifur, who had been quietly observing the boys’ clumsy yet earnest efforts, reached out his hand. He carefully picked up the two playing foxes figurine he had shown the boys earlier – a charming, intricately carved piece of wood that captured the lively spirit of the creatures. He placed it gently on the now clean table, right in the middle, a small, still point of beauty.

Thorin, who had been lost in thought, studying the patterns on the ceiling, seemed drawn by the small piece. He reached across the smooth wood, his calloused fingers gently picking up the figurine. He turned it over and over, examining it with utmost care, his brow furrowed in a thoughtful expression that was rarely seen. It wasn't the meticulous scrutiny of a master craftsman, but something deeper, a quiet admiration for the artistry.

"Bifur?" Thorin finally murmured, his voice softer than usual. "Bofur? Can you make more of toys like these? Not just of foxes but of other creatures or people? What other toys can you two make?" His gaze lifted to meet Bifur’s, then tracked towards the kitchen where Bofur’s cheerful humming could still be heard. There was a spark in Thorin’s eyes, a hint of an idea taking root.
Bifur looked at the figurine thoughtfully, tracing the line of a carved tail with his thumb. He ran his calloused hands through his beard, his eyes, dark and intelligent, staring at the miniature foxes. He grunted, a sound that, to those who knew him, conveyed a wealth of consideration and skilled assessment. He nodded slowly, a decisive movement.

Just then, Bofur stepped through the doorway of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a clean cloth, his customary grin beaming. "What's that, Thorin?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the emptier hall.

Thorin held up the fox figurine. "I was just asking Bifur if you two could make more of these. And other things. What other toys can you make?"

Bofur’s eyes lit up. "Oh, we should be able to, Thorin! We just need supplies, and a bit of time for plans and blueprints. Bifur’s got a head full of designs he’s been chipping away at. Though, the one toy we were going to begin making, once we got settled, were soft toys. Like we had seen in the towns of men for the kids." He gestured vaguely with his cloth, his enthusiasm evident.
Dis, who had been sitting quietly, observing the exchange with a keen eye, looked at Bofur for a moment, a flicker of memory in her own gaze.

Almost on cue, Fili and Kili stumbled back in from the kitchen, their eyes wide with surprise and glee at Bofur’s words. Fili, always the more articulate of the two, asked excitedly, "Soft toys? Like we had seen in Dale? I believe King Baldor had created something for his sister's daughter for when she was born. A cloth doll." He paused, lost in the memory of the bustling human market.

Dis’s expression softened. She remembered it well. The small, simple cloth doll, with its stitched smile and yarn hair, the young girl carried around promising to give to Bard's children or hers when they grew up. It was a humble thing, but full of warmth and comfort.

Bofur nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "That's the sort! I just need to see one up close, get a good look at the stitching and the stuffing, before adding a proper dwarrow spin on the cloth toys. Make them stronger, you know. Last longer through the years and the rough-and-tumble of pebbles." He puffed out his chest slightly, proud of the idea of creating something both beautiful and enduring.

Gloin, who had been listening intently from his place at the table, a hand resting on his magnificent red beard, grinned broadly. "Gimli would love one! If my lovely wife would make sure he doesn't tear it to pieces the first day!" he rumbled, earning a soft snort from his old friend.

Oin, ever the pragmatist and healer, nodded from his place beside Gloin. "And not just for our own kin, Gloin. Think of the bairns who get sick and have to stay in the healing halls. They have some comfort for them while they rest and recovery instead of just laying between the times their families visit. Something soft to hold onto in their fright." He tapped his ear horn, then added, a touch of concern in his voice, "Though, the toys would have to be washed often, being held by ill pebbles."

Bofur waved his hand dismissively, his grin unperturbed. "Bah! If we get the stitching just right, and use the strong fibres we can spin here under the mountain, the toys wouldn’t be destroyed after a rough washin! They'll be good as new every time!" His confidence was infectious, and around the table, the dwarrow began to imagine a future where the halls of Erebor, once silent and empty, would be filled not just with the clatter of hammers and the hum of industry, but also with the soft comfort of dwarrow-made toys, bringing warmth and joy to the young, and solace to the ailing. Thorin, still holding the small fox figurine, looked at the faces of his kin, a quiet satisfaction growing in his heart.

Thorin gently set down the playing foxes figurine onto the polished oak table in front of him, the intricate carvings of the two creatures forever caught in a joyful tumble. He tapped his finger on the smooth wood, resting his head on his hand, his brow furrowed in thought. His mind replayed the last several hours, specifically Gandalf’s rather lengthy, yet surprisingly informative, dissertation on his new hobbit kin. Their peculiar habits, their love for comfort, their need for a garden to thrive, the Gift his Lord Mahal's Wife have given his new kin – it was a lot to take in, especially for someone who had only ever known the unwavering stone and gleaming gems of Erebor.

“We should send invitations to Dale and Greenwood for the announcement of the House of Ri rejoining the Line of Durin, which will be taking place in three days,” Dis’s voice cut through his contemplation, her tone practical and firm. She sat opposite him, already making a mental list.

Thorin nodded, his gaze drifting to Bombur, who had settled comfortably at the table with them, sitting contently his eyes fixated on where Alaris was with their pups feeding them a full meal. The spot where Alaris usually sat was conspicuously empty, a subtle reminder of her current, vital task. Nearby, Bofur spoke quietly with Oin, their conversation a low murmur about the soft toys Bofur and Bifur planned to create, going into more detail about the specific sizes that would be permitted into the healing halls for any future sick bairns. Bifur, picture of stillness, was simply relaxing at the table after a full, satisfying meal, a faint smile playing on his lips. Thorin spared a quick glance over to where Alaris had disappeared around the corner, a soft, contented growl audible as she fed her pups in her wolf form.

From his place by Dwalin, Balin cleared his throat. “As well as announcing the House of Ur ascending into Lordship for their careful watch and their reward for escorting our Kin from the Blue Mountains to Erebor.”

Bifur, who had been almost dozing, snapped his head up, looking at Thorin, startled. “Your Majesty! You don’t have to!” he exclaimed, his voice a surprised croak.

Frerin, ever quick with a grin, clapped Bifur on the shoulder beside him. “Balin is right, Bifur. You and your house earned lordship for bringing our kin home.”

Bifur let out a sigh, a mix of overwhelmed protest and quiet pride, but nodded in acceptance, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

Nori shifted the sleeping Bilbo more comfortably on her lap at her spot at the table, the small hobbit utterly oblivious in his slumber. She glanced at Foxglove, who was currently curled up in Ori’s lap just besides her, Foxglove’s sleeping face buried deep into Ori’s impossibly long, soft scarf. “You think Bilbo and Foxglove will be ready for that?” Nori asked, her voice softer than usual. “It’s going to be a lot for them.”

Dori, who had been relaxed in her chair, straightened immediately at the thought of the hobbits being overwhelmed. Her protective instincts, always strong, flared at the prospect of the small ones being uncomfortable.

Thorin waved a reassuring hand, his earlier thoughts about hobbit comfort returning to the forefront. “We’ll have them be there for a little bit, keeping them close to us, of course. And if they get uncomfortable, even for a moment, we’ll take them straight back to your quarters. So they can calm down if needed. Their comfort comes first over appearances, always.”
A collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the company. The weight of future responsibilities hung in the air, but so too did the warmth of kinship and a shared understanding of their new, precious charges.

The echoes of momentous decisions still hummed in the air of the Ur family quarters, though the grand discussions had finally drawn to a close. The flickering lamplight cast long, dancing shadows across the carved stone walls, illuminating the faces of the weary but content dwarves. Tonight had marked a seismic shift for Erebor: the joyous, long-awaited rejoining of the House of Ri to the venerable line of Durin, a wound finally healed after generations. For their crucial role in this reunification, the House of Ur had been elevated to a noble house, a richly deserved reward for their unwavering loyalty and ingenuity. And, on a lighter, yet equally significant note, Bifur and Bofur had laid out their ambitious plans for a new industry – toymaking – a concept that, while foreign to the traditional crafts of the Lonely Mountain, promised joy and innovation.

Dis and Vili, their faces softened by paternal affection, had already risen from the table, Fili and Kili nestled soundly in their arms, both boys sleeping with the unburdened ease of the young. Gloin and Oin had bid their goodnights mere moments before, heading to their own chambers with a shared, satisfied sigh. Dwalin and Balin followed close behind, their usual gruffness softened by the evening's successes.

Dori slowly stood from the heavy oak table, her gaze falling on Nori and Ori, who mirrored her movement. Bilbo lay asleep in Nori’s arms, a trusting weight, while Ori carefully adjusted Foxglove, her head still resting gently against his shoulder, both hobbit children thankfully deep in slumber, their bellies finally full after the long, lean journey to Erebor.

"I believe it is time for us to take our nadadiths to bed," Dori murmured, her voice a low, comforting rumble. "This way they can rest properly. Thorin, I'll meet you in the morning if that's alright with you?"

Thorin a relaxed smile gracing his lips, nodded, rising from the table. He came around the heavy wood, moving with a silent grace, and opened the side door that connected the two quarters. Dori heard Thorin’s whispered words to Dis and Vili about seeing them in the morning as they vanished through the doors into the halls heading to their chambers. Frerin, ever the conversationalist, remained behind, engaged in a low discussion with Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur, ensuring their chambers were set up to their liking once more. Dori led the way down the softly lit corridor, Nori still carefully cradling Bilbo, and Ori, with a protective arm around Foxglove. The quiet rhythmic sounds of their footsteps were the only interruption to the stillness. All three dwarves felt a profound sense of peace settle over them, a stark contrast to the anxieties of the past weeks.They walked together until the corridor branched, and Nori and Ori split off, heading towards the younger ones’ room, while Dori continued to the shared chambers where she, Nori, and Ori would sleep.

Entering the hobbits' room, bathed in the soft glow of a night lamp, Nori approached the bed she had earlier carried Bilbo from, with practiced gentleness, she lowered Bilbo onto the mattress, the hobbit barely stirring. Nori carefully pulled the blankets up, tucking him in, then paused. Her calloused finger reached out and gently touched the soft green bead woven into Bilbo's curls, Dori's hard work etched into the bead.

Across the room, Ori echoed the ritual. He carefully placed Foxglove in the other bed, her white curls a pale halo against the dark pillow. He tucked her in with equal tenderness, his hand gently running through her soft hair once before pulling away.

For a long moment, Nori and Ori simply stood, watching their hobbit siblings sleep. No longer small and gaunt from the hardships of their journey, their faces were relaxed, their breathing even, their small forms finally filled out with the good food and safety of Erebor. The sight brought a profound, almost aching relief to their hearts.

With relaxed smiles on their faces, the two siblings left the room, pulling the door almost silently shut behind them. The momentous decisions of Erebor could wait until morning. For now, there was only the quiet peace of knowing their little charges were safe, sound, and finally, truly home. They headed to their own beds, the day's weight lifted, ready for a well-deserved rest.

Chapter 11

The soft, golden glow of lamplight, filtered through unseen openings, painted the stone walls of their chamber with a comforting warmth. Foxglove stretched, a languid arch of her back, as she pushed off the plush, dwarven blankets. The wool was surprisingly soft, yet heavy, a testament to dwarven craftsmanship. A contented sigh escaped her lips as she looked over to see Bilbo still lost in the embrace of sleep.

He was a comforting lump in the middle of his dwarven bed, his russet curls peeking out from under the covers like a tiny, wild thicket. A lone, soft green bead from Dori caught the lamp light, glinting like a miniature star amidst his hair. Foxglove's fingers instinctively went to her own braid, tracing the smooth, cool surface of the reddish-pink stone—a twin to Bilbo's, a token of shared family, braided tightly into her own white hair. A wide, soft smile bloomed on her face.

Slipping out of bed, her bare feet silent on the cool stone floor, she padded towards the heavy wooden door. It creaked softly as she pushed on it, revealing an antechamber bathed in the same gentle lamplight. Several sturdy dwarven chairs were arranged around a low table, and a plush couch invited repose. The hearth, still a warm heart of embers, pulsed with a gentle heat. Foxglove, ever practical, headed straight for it, stoking it carefully with a small iron poker until a shower of sparks danced upwards, then added a few fresh logs. The wood caught quickly, sending a crackling warmth through the room.

Her curiosity, that ever-present hobbit trait, tugged at her. Where else did these chambers lead? She moved deeper into the quarters, her eyes bright with discovery. And then she found it – the kitchen. A little squeal of delight escaped her lips. It was surprisingly spacious for a dwarven dwelling, well-stocked and evidently well-used.

She practically ran to the pantry, her eyes widening at the treasures within. There were eggs, bacon, various rounds of cheese, and sacks of potatoes. But what truly made her heart sing were the spices – a small collection of earthenware jars filled with familiar aromas. Nutmeg, cinnamon, a pinch of something peppery, and a certain blend that instantly transported her back to the Shire. These were the spices her Ma used for their special "scrambled egg surprise" – a hearty, savory breakfast dish reserved for birthdays and holidays.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Foxglove quickly washed her hands at the stone sink. She cracked a dozen eggs into a large bowl, their yolks a vibrant yellow, and began beating them vigorously with a whisk. Next, she laid out strips of bacon in a large iron frying pan. While the bacon sizzled, filling the kitchen with an irresistible aroma, she washed the potatoes, grabbing a knife. She began cubing them with swift, practiced movements, a tiny, mischievous giggle escaping her as she snuck a few small, raw pieces into her mouth. The bacon, now crisp and golden, was flipped one last time. She washed the potato cubes again, setting them aside.

Just then, a soft shuffle, then a familiar groan, sounded from the doorway connecting their bedroom to the antechamber. Bilbo stumbled out, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a knuckle. "Foxglove?" His voice was thick with sleep. Then his gaze fell upon the bounty laid out on the kitchen counters – the beaten eggs, the sizzling bacon, the waiting potatoes and spices. A small, endearing smile spread across his face, chasing the last vestiges of sleep away. "Ah," he said, his voice now clearer, "sharing one of Ma's meals with our new family?"

Foxglove nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling. "Yes! I already have the eggs ready. I couldn't remember if Ma added the spices into the eggs now or when everything was all together."

Bilbo chuckled, walking up to stand beside her. "Into the eggs," he corrected softly, his voice warm with shared memory. And then, seamlessly, he slipped into helping her. As the bacon finished cooking, Foxglove pulled the crisp strips out of the pan. Bilbo, meanwhile, poured the beaten eggs and cheese mixture into the still-hot frying pan, reaching for the spice jars. He sprinkled a generous amount of various spices over the bubbling eggs, then used a wooden ladle to mix the spices in, swirling them until the color of the eggs deepened slightly.
Foxglove quickly chopped the now-cooled bacon into smaller pieces, watching as the eggs began to set. She slowly dropped the bacon bits into the eggs, followed by the potato cubes, stirring gently to combine everything. They let the mixture set and the potatoes begin to soften in the warmth.

A mischievous glint entered Foxglove's eyes. She snuck over to the heavy wooden doors leading to where their dwarven siblings slept, opening the door with practiced silence. She opened it a crack, then pushed open the door that led to the Ur family chambers. Bilbo, stirring the eggs with a knowing grin, watched her go, chuckling softly to himself. He knew precisely what she was doing and began cooking more, knowing a hobbit breakfast would be popular amongst their newly expanded family.

Foxglove hid her mouth behind her hand, stifling a giggle, as she made her way to the main door of their quarters. She opened it a crack, peering out. Two dwarven guards, stoic as statues, stood just outside. Her small hand waved, a delicate, almost impish beckoning to the closest one.

The dwarf, a stern-faced individual with a formidable beard, blinked, then softened slightly, intrigued by the tiny hobbit lass. He came closer and bent down a little, his massive frame looming, so she could whisper in his ear. "Can you go knock on the doors of King Thorin and his family, Masters Dwalin and Balin, and Masters Oin and Gloin, please?"

The guard, all but melted by her earnest sweetness and the sheer unexpectedness of the request from such a tiny, polite creature, nodded curtly. "Aye, lass," he rumbled, and turned to carry out her unusual command.

Foxglove ducked back inside, a triumphant giggle bubbling from her as she practically skipped back to Bilbo in the kitchen. The rich, savory aroma of their Ma's special breakfast now filled the entire antechamber, promising a truly grand start to their day in Erebor.

The rich, savory aroma had already woven itself through the chambers, a comforting promise in the cool morning air. Foxglove had just made it to Bilbo's side, a small, nimble hand expertly flipping crispy bacon in a sizzling pan, to continue helping with the grand breakfast feast. The kitchen, usually a quiet domain, was alive with the gentle hiss and pop of cooking, the clinking on pans, and the soft murmur of their planning.

Just then, the door to where Dori, Nori, and Ori were sleeping, which had been ajar, opened further. Dori emerged, one hand still deftly finishing a braid in her magnificent silvery hair, freezing at the sight of the hobbit siblings bustling about. The delicious aroma, a symphony of sizzling bacon, potatoes browning to golden perfection, and eggs fluffy with butter and herbs, filled the chamber, making her stomach rumble audibly. Dori strode over, a playful eyebrow raised. "Oh, you beat me awake, did you?"

Foxglove giggled, a bright, cheerful sound, as she ran over to Dori, wrapping her arms around the Dwarf’s sturdy torso making Dori reciprocate gently of course. "Mhm! We've been up for ages!"

Right behind Dori, Nori stumbled out, her hair already impeccably styled, dragging a still-yawning Ori who rubbed his eyes sleepily. Nori’s eyes widened, first at the sight of the hobbits, then at the sheer volume of food being prepared. Before she could comment, the door to the Ur chambers opened again to reveal Bofur, cheerfully leading Bifur and Bombur, with the elegant Alaris trailing behind them, the eight of fluffy pups tumbling at her heels, their tiny noses twitching at the scent.

Bombur’s eyes, already wide, grew even wider at the smell. He looked from the hobbits to the overflowing pans in the kitchen. "Say now. Is that one of those breakfast meals your amad cooks for you both on special occasions?"

Bilbo, turning from the stove, carefully removed the first, smaller batch of the egg, bacon, and potato mixture onto a large warmed platter, then added the second, much larger patch to the frying pan. He nodded, a proud smile on his face. "Yes, Bombur! Foxglove started it this morning, and we worked together to finish it."

Just as he spoke, a decisive, reverberating knock echoed from the main doors of the dwelling. Foxglove, ever eager, scampered over to the doors with Nori following closely after her. She pulled them open wide, revealing the proud and regal figures of King Thorin Oakenshield, flanked by his formidable sister Dís and her husband Vili, who carried their sleepy sons, Fili and Kili, in their arms. Behind them stood Frerin, Óin, Glóin, and his wife Mizi, with their young son Gimli peeking curiously from behind his mother’s leg, as well as the stoic Dwalin and the wise Balin.
Foxglove's grin widened even further. She waved them in with an enthusiastic sweep of her arm. "Please! Come in! Right this way!"

They trailed in after her, the grand dwarrow filling the antechamber, with Nori gently shutting the door behind them. King Thorin, his usual stern expression softened by a hint of curiosity and the tantalizing aroma, gave a small smile. "Now, lass, what did you ask the guards to bring us here for so early in the morning?"

Foxglove beamed up at him, her earnest reddish-pink eyes shining. "My brother and I wanted to cook breakfast for you as a thank you, King Thorin. A thank you for accepting us into your mountain. Not just as hobbits, but as the adopted siblings of Dori, Nori, and Ori."
Bilbo continued from his place by the stove, flipping the last of the mixture. "We know we're a bit odd, being so small and all, but we appreciate it all the same. So us making this meal is our way of showing our immense gratitude."
King Thorin's expression softened considerably as he looked between the two enthusiastic hobbits, then to Dori, Nori, and Ori, who nodded their agreement. "Thank you for the breakfast invitation," he said, his voice deeper but warmer than usual. "We appreciate it, truly."

They all walked towards a long, sturdy table, similar to the one in the Ur family quarters, which Dori had, with her usual efficiency, already set out with plates for everyone. Bombur, practically vibrating with hunger and anticipation, walked over to the kitchen. "Would you like me to carry the platters, Bilbo? They look heavy."

Bilbo grinned, relief flooding his face. "Please? I'm afraid I overfilled them, just a little."

Bombur carefully took the brimming platters from the counter, his large hands surprisingly gentle, and carried them to the table, placing them reverently in the middle. Just as he did, Ori, now fully awake and helpful, handed out utensils to everyone with a polite, if still slightly sleepy, bow. Bilbo and Foxglove sat nearest to the kitchen, then waved to them, their faces alight with pride and hospitality. "Please, dig in! There's plenty for everyone!"

The aroma of savory herbs and perfectly cooked eggs hung heavy in the air, a testament to the skill of the Hobbit cooks. Frerin was the first to reach across the table, his muscular arm extending past the gleaming tankards and bread baskets. He served himself a generous portion of the fluffy, golden egg mixture onto his plate, the steam rising invitingly. Bombur, ever quick to follow a good example, was right behind him, his own plate soon piled high. This action seemed to be the silent signal, and a flurry of hands descended, everyone eager to claim their share of the delectable breakfast.

Bombur, fork already poised, took the first bite into the eggs. A hush fell over the table as he chewed, his eyes going wide with each passing moment. "My word!" he finally boomed, his voice full of stunned delight. "Bilbo and Foxglove, your amad was a genius!" The others around the table chimed in as well, a chorus of appreciative murmurs, contented sighs, and satisfied hums filling the room.

Bilbo and Foxglove, warmth blooming in their chests, smiled at each other. Their mother’s recipes were always a hit, but seeing the Dwarrow – notorious for their hearty appetites and high standards – enjoying them so thoroughly was a special kind of joy. They finally piled up their own plates, eager to partake in the masterpiece.

As the breakfast continued, Fili, Kili, and Gimli were already taking seconds, their plates replenished with more of the egg mixture. They spoke quietly together, their low voices buzzing with fervent whispers about the incredible flavors, clearly planning their next culinary adventure.

Bombur, having consumed a truly impressive amount, leaned back with a satisfied groan, then turned his gaze to Bilbo. "Now," he began, a thoughtful look on his face, "you were talking about something that was a mix of sweet bread and bacon before we met up with King Thorin?" His eyes brightened with anticipation.

Bilbo grinned mischievously, a twinkle in his eyes. "Cinnamon bacon bread rolls?" he offered, his tone almost a question, but filled with knowing delight.

Foxglove laughed, a clear, bell-like sound. "Oh, those are amazing on fall mornings with cider! Nothing quite like them."

Bombur leaned in, utterly captivated, clearly eager to learn. Bilbo, enjoying the rapt attention, began his explanation. "You take bread – usually a softer kind, like a brioche or a good white loaf – and flatten it out. Not paper-thin, but well-pressed. Then you spread melted butter mixed with brown sugar all over it, really get it into every corner. After that, you put cooked bacon on top, crispy but not burnt. Then you roll it all up, tight, so it looks like a little bedroll." He paused for dramatic effect. "Then, you cut it into smaller pieces, about an inch thick, putting each piece on its side, like small scrolls, and then you bake it."

Fili and Kili, who had stopped their quiet discussion to listen, were now all but drooling at the description. They looked at Dis and Vili, their eyes wide and pleading, silent petitions evident in their expressions. The rest of the table burst into laughter at the boys’ transparent desires.

Bilbo smiled, enjoying the effect his words had. "We can certainly make them one morning. But you have to give us time, okay? We need to make sure we have the ingredients for them. Good bacon, the right kind of bread, plenty of cinnamon and brown sugar..."

Fili and Kili nodded quickly, their smiles beaming from ear to ear, already picturing the delightful breakfast to come. The promise of future culinary adventures hung in the air, almost as tempting as the lingering scent of the eggs.

After the plates and platters were emptied Bilbo and Foxglove stood and began to gather the plates but was stopped by Dori with a gentle hand on their shoulders "You cooked breakfast, let us clean up." Foxglove grinned as she gently put the plates in her hand down while Nori and Ori picked up the plates Bofur picked up platters. Alaris gently pushed her chair back as her pups began whining hunger evident in their whines. Alaris walked away from the table her pups following her as she shifted to her wolf form laying in front of the fireplace her pups beginning to feed.

Notes:

Hehe Cinnamon Rolls with bacon.. yes the dwarrow would LOVE that for breakfast!

Chapter 12

Three days passed quickly, yet felt like an age to the eager residents of Erebor. The Mountain hummed with a resonant buzz of anticipation, a thousand whispered tales mingling with boisterous shouts of welcome. Rumors flew faster than any Raven, detailing the newest arrivals who had stirred the ancient stone heart of the kingdom.

The most prominent were, of course, the House of Ri, a long-lost line of Durin, finally, truly home after centuries. They were greeted with a reverence bordering on awe. Closely associated were the House of Ur, hardy mountaineers and close as kin, who had seen the Ri safely through their arduous journey across Middle-earth. Their deeds were sung in the halls, and their elevation was much anticipated.

The true mystery, however, revolved around the two small hobbits. Foxglove and Bilbo. They were only ever seen in the company of the House of Ri members, usually within the hushed grandeur of the Royal Wing of the palace. One guard, a grizzled veteran named Borin, had spoken of that very morning of Foxglove’s gentle demeanor, her politeness, how she asked him to summon the other members of the royal family rather than demanded. Such kindness was rare, and soon, guards from all shifts were taking rotations to catch a glimpse of the newest, smallest inhabitants of the Mountain.

Now, the day for the grand ceremonies had arrived.

Dori stood in front of Foxglove, her calloused fingers deftly weaving strands of Foxglove’s hair, securing the sturdy yet soft fabric of the dwarven-style clothes she had meticulously crafted for the hobbit. The air was thick with the scent of polished stone and something akin to a nervous excitement. Today was not just the joyous reunification of the scattered line of Durin; it was also the ceremony for the elevation of the House of Ur, a recognition of their unwavering loyalty and service.

Across the room, Nori, ever the efficient one, was helping Bilbo with his own outfit, making sure it fit just right – not too tight, not too loose. Foxglove felt Dori re-braiding a section of her hair, being extra careful with the small, reddish-pink bead, a gift Dori herself had crafted and threaded onto one of the braids. Foxglove glanced over and saw Nori’s nimble fingers doing much the same for Bilbo, undoing and re-braiding a section of Bilbo's own hair, a soft green bead waiting patiently in Ori's hand as he stood by Nori, ready to hand it over.

The main door opened quietly, and Dis slipped inside, a warm smile gracing her lips. "Everyone ready?" she asked, her voice a warm, steadying murmur.

Foxglove bit her lip, a flicker of apprehension in her wide eyes, but nodded, careful not to disturb Dori’s diligent work. Dis walked across the room, her elegant stride purposeful, and gently gripped Foxglove’s hands. "It’s going to be okay, lass. Thorin already said, a few times since the dinner in the Ur chambers, that you and Bilbo were going to be with us the whole time. And if you both became uncomfortable, you will be fine to be escorted back to the Ri family chambers to calm down. No questions asked."

Bilbo let out a shaky sigh from across the room. "We don't want it to be seen as a weakness though."

Nori rolled her eyes for a moment, a flash of her usual irreverence. "Don't you worry about that, Master Baggins. Being spymaster for Thorin comes with perks. I spread rumors through the networks about you both being nervous around large crowds. This is going to be a packed event, after all. The hall will be filled to the brim."

Bilbo nodded, a slight easing of tension in his shoulders. Dis released Foxglove’s hands and moved to open the door, revealing the rest of the royal family waiting outside. King Thorin stood in front of the group, his regal presence commanding. He walked over to Foxglove and Bilbo, gently putting his hands on their shoulders, his piercing blue eyes fixed on them. "Remember," he rumbled, his voice deep but gentle, "if you become uncomfortable, tell us. Stay by us, and if anyone says anything untoward to you, inform us immediately."

Foxglove nodded, swallowing hard. Thorin stepped back, and a quiet sense of gravity settled over them. Dori gently took Foxglove’s hand, her grip firm and comforting, as Thorin then led them towards the grand ceremonial hall. Bilbo walked beside Nori, her arm around his shoulders in a surprisingly protective gesture, while Ori walked beside Bilbo, his smaller hand gripping Bilbo’s in a simple, reassuring gesture.

The grand, intricately carved doors of the ceremonial hall loomed before them, taller than any tree. With a synchronized heave, the guards swung them open, revealing a breathtaking vista of light and sound. Foxglove’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat, at the sight of so many dwarrow – hundreds, thousands – standing below the raised platform where King Thorin and his family now led them. A murmur, like the distant rumble of thunder, filled the vast cavern, and a thousand eyes turned to their small procession.

The air thrummed with a palpable anticipation, a deep hum that vibrated from the very stone of Erebor itself. Dori, ever the steady anchor, gently squeezed Foxglove’s hand, a silent reassurance as they descended the small, carved stairs onto the platform. Below them, an ocean of dwarrow faces stretched into the cavernous hall, their anticipation a tangible force.
King Thorin lead them down the stairs to stand at the center of the platform, a formidable figure in his ceremonial robes. Flanking him with solemn dignity were Balin and Dwalin, while Dis and Frerin stood on either side of the King, their expressions a mix of pride and gravity. Opposite Balin and Dwalin, Oin and Gloin stood, their gazes sweeping over the assembled kin. To the side, Bifur, Bofur, and a beaming Bombur stood, his wife Alaris radiating contentment beside him, Nori nearby. Earlier, Dori had privately noted Alaris's calm demeanor, knowing their eight rambunctious pups were safe in their chambers, under the careful watch of two nannies Dis had sworn by for their fierce, unwavering protection of her own children. The nannies had agreed without hesitation the day before when they had met Alaris, Bombur, and their lively brood.

Thorin stepped forward, his expression regal. His normally warm, gentle voice, usually reserved for family, deepened and rose, echoing over the vast hall, filling every corner with its power. "Welcome, Dwarrow of Erebor, to this momentous occasion! At long last, the Line of Durin has finally, after all these years," he paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, "been reunited!"
He turned, his hand extended in a gesture of invitation towards Dori, Nori, and Ori. A ripple of quiet awe went through the assembly as the three Ri siblings stepped forward. They released Foxglove and Bilbo as they did so, their faces etched with a profound reverence. When they stood before the King, they bowed deeply, their foreheads nearly brushing the polished stone.
"Raise your heads, Dori, Nori, and Ori," Thorin commanded, his voice gentling slightly as they complied. "Welcome to the Line of Durin, from the main branch. Your loyalty, your unwavering spirit, and your dedication to family have forever honored our lineage. Let it be known!"

A wave of cheer and applause washed over the hall. Dori, Nori, and Ori stepped back, their faces alight with a humble pride, to stand once more with Foxglove and Bilbo.

Thorin then glanced over to a specific group, the House of Ur, his hand extending in invitation again. "And this, the venerable House of Ur," Thorin declared, his voice resonating with gratitude, "a family driven out from their home, escaping from unfair taxes and persecution, met up with our kin and helped them come home. A noble and honor-filled task! For this, we, the Line of Durin, elevate them to nobles. As our eternal thanks for bringing them safely home, aiding in the return of our people!"

Cheers of applause and appreciation roared from the assembled dwarrow, a thunderous sound that shook the very foundations of the mountain. Foxglove jumped, startled, as the stones beneath her feet vibrated with the force of the jubilation. She gripped Dori’s hand tightly, glancing nervously around. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother, Ori, jumping as well, and Nori, with practiced ease, wrap her arm around his shoulder, whispering quietly in his ear. Bilbo, too, visibly relaxed as Nori's comforting presence enveloped Bilbo.

Thorin then raised his hand, signaling the dwarrow to quiet down. Slowly, the immense hall silenced, the echoes of the cheers fading into a respectful hush. Once the quiet was absolute, Thorin turned, his gaze falling upon Foxglove and Bilbo. His hand extended to them, and for a fleeting second, his face gentled, a small, encouraging smile playing on his lips. Dori, understanding the silent cue, released Foxglove’s hand with a soft, encouraging nudge.

Foxglove’s heart hammered a rhythm against her ribs, but she took a deep breath, feeling her brother walking steadily beside her. Their shoulders brushed as they moved together, a united, if bewildered, front, to stand in front of King Thorin.

Thorin turned to face the vast crowds again, his voice regaining its kingly formality, yet with an undercurrent of something deeply personal. "I know of the rumors and questions spreading through the mountain," he began, his gaze sweeping over the faces, "and it is time for them to be addressed. This," he gestured to the two small figures beside him, "is Foxglove and Bilbo Baggins. Hobbits who fled the Fell Winter that struck the Shire. They journeyed here with the others, braving the wilds, hunting, foraging, and helping tirelessly to bring our kin home."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd, quickly replaced by a pin-drop silence as Thorin continued, his voice gaining a new, profound weight. "They also, much to the dismay of the others who felt they needed their own strength, handed over their rations to help Lady Alaris and Lord Bombur’s eight pups stay fed and strong during the long journey."

A collective gasp, then a hushed awe fell over the crowd as they stared, truly seeing the hobbits who stood in front of Thorin, their small stature belying such a significant act of self-sacrifice.
"And then," Thorin’s voice boomed, cutting through the silence, "the night before the contingent I led to escort them home to Erebor, Lady Dori, Lady Nori, and Lord Ori informed me of the ceremony they did, with Lord Bifur and Lord Bofur witnessing; of the House of Ri bringing them into their family through adoption! Therefore, I say to you, welcome, Dwarrow of Erebor, Bilbo and Foxglove Baggins of the House of Ri, of the Line of Durin!"

The ensuing roar of approval was deafening, a triumphant sound that began in the front ranks and swelled to encompass the entire ceremonial hall. The very stones of Erebor seemed to hum with jubilation as the dwarrow welcomed their newest kin, their newest nobles, into the heart of the mountain. Foxglove felt the tremor not just in her feet, but in her very soul, a sense of belonging blooming warm and bright within her. The cheers died down as Thorin raised his hands once more "Now that the ceremony is over let the feast of welcoming begin!"

Chapter 13

Two years flew by during that time. Foxglove and Bilbo grew to love their new home within the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Erebor, with its echoing halls and intricate carvings, had transformed from a place of refuge into a cherished sanctuary. King Thorin, true to his word, had welcomed them not just as guests, but as family.

One crisp morning, Thorin and his family had led them to a grand, cavernous chamber deep within the mountain – their grandmother’s gardens. The sight that met their eyes was both wondrous and poignant. Once a vibrant tapestry of stone-grown flora, now it lay mostly dormant, a testament to time and sorrow. Thorin, with a quiet solemnity, explained how the gardens had come to such a state after his grandmother’s death, a beloved space that had faded without her nurturing touch. He showed them where all the supplies she had used to keep her gardens intact were stored – an array of curious tools, light-emitting crystals designed to mimic sunlight, and peculiar soils.

Bilbo and Foxglove had bounced with excitement as they looked around the gardens, their eyes wide with wonder at the scale and potential. Thorin, amused by their enthusiasm, let them run around the vast room, their excited voices echoing as they spoke to each other, wondering if the tricks their father taught them – the delicate touch of a Hobbit’s hands, their innate connection to growing things – could be used to help bring back the beloved gardens. Fili and Kili, ever their devoted shadows, chased after them, following them everywhere within the sprawling, quiet expanse.

When it came to Bilbo and Foxglove's coming of age birthday, the royal wing of the palace was brimming with a barely contained excitement. The day before, King Thorin had spoken with the council, a rare decree that they were not to summon him and his family unless they were truly needed. Bilbo and Foxglove, though caught up in their garden projects, were curious as their dwarrow family spoke in hushed whispers of excitement as they passed them in the halls. Even Dori and Dis were speaking animatedly together in front of the Ri family doors, their usual composure replaced by a bubbling anticipation.

When the noon hour bell sounded, its deep resonance echoing through the mountain, Bilbo and Foxglove were taken from the gardens by Fili and Kili. They were practically hauled to the Ri family chambers, quickly told with urgent smiles, "Quickly wash up and change!" Foxglove and Bilbo, though bewildered, did as prompted, their curiosity piqued. Before they could even fully process what was happening, they were dragged towards Thorin and his family chambers. Fili knocked on the door quickly, a rapid tattoo, and the heavy doors swung open, allowing Foxglove and Bilbo to enter just before Fili and Kili.

The minute they stepped into the chambers, the gathered dwarrow – a formidable collection of beards and muscle – yelled in unison, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Foxglove jumped, startled by the sudden roar, while Bilbo took a bewildered step back, nearly tripping over his own feet. The dwarrow laughed, a rich, rumbling sound, and swarmed them. Balin and Dwalin, twin pillars of strength, hugged Bilbo in a crushing embrace. Oin and Gloin, equally enthusiastic, hugged Foxglove, Mizi and Gimli joining them on either side of Oin and Gloin, making Foxglove feel like she was trapped in a rather large dwarrow huddle, but she loved it nonetheless, giggling into Gloin’s beard. Then they were passed to Bombur, Bifur, and Bofur, who enveloped them in a fragrant cloud of pipe-smoke and warmth. Alaris, ever graceful, snuck in a gentle hug before moving to sit near her pups, watching with a fond smile. Fili and Kili hugged them next, squeezing them tight, before Vili and Dis hugged them firmly, their sisterly and motherly affection radiating.

After releasing them from the affectionate gauntlet, Thorin and Frerin moved closer, a quiet solemnity settling over their faces. Thorin hugged Foxglove first, a powerful yet gentle embrace that made her feel safe, before moving to Bilbo. Foxglove watched as Frerin hugged Bilbo, squeezing him with such enthusiasm that Bilbo let out an huff of sound, a sound of protest quickly turning into a laugh.

The minute Foxglove felt Frerin’s arms around her, a jolt of electricity shot through her, vibrant and undeniable. A gasp came from her brother across the room, and she knew instantly that he had felt the same. Frerin’s hold gentled almost instantly, but he raised his hand to cup the back of her head, drawing her closer into his shoulder as a profound hush fell upon the entire party. The laughter died, and the only sound was the soft crackle of the hearth fire.

Foxglove’s mind raced, a whirlwind of confusion and dawning understanding. She knew something had changed, profoundly and irrevocably, but she didn’t fully grasp it till Dis spoke up, her voice a cracked whisper, "Thorin? Frerin?"

Thorin’s voice, when it came, was hushed with reverence, echoing through the silent chamber. "Bilbo is my One…"

And Frerin, his gaze fixed on Foxglove, his voice equally profound, echoed him, "Foxglove is my One…"

The others sucked in a collective breath, a sharp intake of air that filled the sudden void of sound. All eyes turned to Dori, who had paled dramatically, staring at Bilbo and Foxglove as if seeing them for the first time. Balin, ever the pragmatist, whispered, "Both? Durin’s beard…"

Ori, his eyes wide with wonder, his voice a hushed whisper, added, "Like in the old legends of Durin the First and his wife… the legends spoke of his wife being of the earth, not stone like the dwarrow…"

The implications hung in the air, a momentous discovery that promised to reshape not just four lives, but perhaps the destiny of Erebor itself.

The air in the grand hall of Erebor had been thick with unspoken tension, a palpable unease that had settled over the assembled dwarves like a gathering storm cloud. Thorin and Frerin, usually paragons of dwarven stoicism, were clinging to Bilbo and Foxglove like barnacles to a ship's hull, their faces etched with a mixture of disbelief and fierce protectiveness. It was Dori, always the practical one, who finally broke the spell. She shook herself, a rustle of her fine silks, and her voice, clear and resonant, cut through the quiet apprehension.
"Let's worry about this after their coming of age party."

The words were a trigger, a magical incantation that banished the lingering shadows. Suddenly, the quiet murmurs swelled into joyous shouts, instruments that had been momentarily silent burst into spontaneous melodies, and the rich scent of roasting meats and sweet pastries, momentarily forgotten, wafted from the kitchens. The party, which had paused in deference to the sudden emotional upheaval, truly began anew.

But Thorin and Frerin remained stubbornly attached, their grip on Bilbo and Foxglove’s arms unyielding. It was Nori, ever perceptive and surprisingly gentle for all her rough edges, who intervened. With a disarming smile and a quiet word, she managed to pry Bilbo and Foxglove away from their formidable admirers. Thorin and Frerin, however, were not to be deterred. They followed, their expressions a comical blend of suspicion and profound disappointment, as Nori expertly guided the hobbits to a plush, oversized couch. They didn't quite cling anymore, but they hovered, like protective shadows, refusing to let the hobbit pair out of their sights.

Bilbo and Foxglove, still slightly dazed by the intensity of the situation they’d just navigated, were quickly overwhelmed, though pleasantly so, by the sheer warmth of dwarven celebration. Bilbo and Foxglove had, over their years in Erebor, embraced much of dwarven culture, and the tradition of receiving presents on special occasions, given with such heartfelt generosity, was one they cherished.

While they graciously accepted the deluge of gifts, a low, intense murmur reached their ears from just behind the couch. Thorin and Frerin were speaking quietly together, their heads bent, their eyes occasionally darting towards the hobbits. "Courting gifts," Bilbo heard Frerin whisper, "Must be significant." Thorin rumbled agreement, "Something to show our intent." Their voices were earnest, almost frantic, as they bounced ideas back and forth. A moment later, Dori, looking both amused and stern, joined them, pulling the two princes further into a corner. As the head of the House of Ri, her words were undoubtedly weighty, and the brothers listened with rapt attention, their earlier desperation replaced by a focused, determined glint in their eyes.
Unaware of the intense strategizing happening just out of earshot, Bilbo and Foxglove eagerly turned their attention to the bounty before them. They took turns opening each gift, their faces alight with genuine pleasure, offering profuse thanks and compliments to each giver.

Ori, ever the learning scribe, presented Bilbo with a beautifully bound, leather-covered journal, its pages thick and cream-coloured, perfect for recording adventures. "For your journeys, Bilbo." he said, shyly.

Bofur and Bifur, with their usual cheerful demeanor, offered a pair of intricately carved, handcrafted pipes, polished to a rich sheen, each distinct yet clearly a pair. "Made just for you both," Bofur beamed, "For quiet evenings by the fire."

Alaris, a skilled cook herself, handed over her and Bombur's gift: a set of gleaming, heavy-bottomed copper pans. "No more burnt breakfasts!" she chuckled, "These will serve you well in any kitchen."

From Balin, thoughtful and wise, came a collection of translated texts from the library of Erebor – ancient dwarven poems, histories, and even a few culinary scrolls, all rendered into Westron, complete with Balin's neat annotations. "Knowledge is a gift that always keeps," he smiled gently.

Dwalin, surprisingly delicate in his presentation, offered two small, perfectly balanced twin daggers, their hilts wrapped in dark leather, their blades gleaming dully. "For self-defence," he grunted, "May you never need them, but always have them."

Oin, with a twinkle in his eye, bestowed upon them small pouches of seeds he had personally found in Dale – exotic flowering plants and hardy herbs, promising vibrant colours and new flavours for their garden.

Dis and Vili, regal and practical, presented them with new, incredibly soft fur coats, tailored to hobbit size and lined with warm fleece, perfect for the chill of the Lonely Mountain or for walking to Dale.

Fili and Kili, brimming with youthful pride, unveiled their gift. They had worked with Bofur and Bifur in secret, and from beneath a cloth, they revealed a pair of roughly carved but undeniably charming bookends, shaped like the head of a fox, capturing the animal's intelligent gaze. "For your bookcases!" Kili exclaimed, "To keep your stories safe!"

Nori, always full of surprises, came forward with a gift that made both hobbits gasp. With patient, meticulous hands, he had hand-stitched two sets of supple leather armour – light, flexible, and perfectly scaled for a hobbit, yet clearly dwarven in its robust construction. They were practical, beautiful, and utterly unexpected.

Dori, having finished her urgent consultation with the bothers, returned, her own gift in hand. She presented them with new, vibrant dwarven clothes, rich in colour and exquisitely tailored. As Bilbo and Foxglove held up the garments, the woven patterns seemed to catch the light, matching their eyes with delight.

Finally, Gloin, a master gem-cutter and the mountain's master of coin, gave them the most personal gift yet: two hobbit-sized rings, delicate yet sturdy, each holding a gem that perfectly mirrored the distinct colour of each hobbit's eyes – Bilbo’s a warm green, Foxglove’s a reddish-pink stone. Imprinted subtly on the inner band of each ring was the unmistakable stamp of the House of Ri. "A small token of our family's esteem," Gloin rumbled, a rare soft look in his eyes.

Just as the last gift was unwrapped, a booming voice cut through the revelry, laden with the promise of more feasting. Bombur, his face flushed from the heat of the kitchens, emerged, wiping his hands on his apron. "Lunch is ready! Come, come! Let's feast in celebration for our beloved hobbits coming of age!"

A collective cheer erupted, and the dwarves, along with Bilbo and Foxglove, began to make their way towards the enormous dining table. It stretched the length of the hall, completely covered in an unimaginable array of dishes – roasted meats, mountains of root vegetables, freshly baked breads, and an assortment of pies and tarts. The tantalizing aroma filled the air, a testament to Bombur's diligent work all morning long, in preparation for this momentous day. The party, it seemed, was truly just beginning.

The rich aroma of roasted meat and warm bread filled the royal family quarters, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls, adding to the cozy warmth that settled around the long, laden table.

As Foxglove sat beside Bilbo, a comfortable presence at her side, she felt the familiar warmth creep up her neck and cheeks. Frerin’s gaze, steady and direct from across the table, was the cause. She focused on her plate, a delicious stew, and listened intently as Bilbo, ever the enthusiast, spoke excitedly with Ori about their continued academics in the schools. Ori, patient and scholarly, nodded, interjecting thoughtful comments with just much excitement. Further down the table, Fili and Kili were a whirlwind of youthful energy, their voices a duet of booming excitement as they planned details for an upcoming party. Dis and Vili, shared a quiet, contented conversation with Dori, who sat across from them, smiles gracing their faces.
Foxglove, ever observant, tilted her head slightly. Next to Dori, Balin sat, their shoulders brushing. It was subtle, easily missed in the general hubbub, but Foxglove’s inner fox ears seemed to prick and flick towards their closeness. She watched as Balin would occasionally glance at Dori, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes, as if making sure she was still sitting there, a silent anchor in his periphery.

Her gaze drifted further. Nori, usually the a co-conspirator with Bofur for bets, was uncharacteristically quiet, though a faint, thoughtful smile played on her lips as she listened to Bofur and Bifur. The two brothers were deep in conversation, animatedly discussing the toy workshop and the few apprentices they had recently taken on. Then, Foxglove’s attention snapped to Nori’s chair. Dwalin’s arm was draped across the back of it, his hand resting near Nori’s arm, not quite touching, yet remarkably close, a silent, powerful presence.

Foxglove’s eyes widened. She leaned towards Bilbo, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “Bilbo! Look at Dori and Nori!” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the general din.
Bilbo, momentarily startled from his discussion with Ori, nodded slightly, his eyes glancing in their directions. He continued talking for a few more seconds, finishing his sentence about the journal's intricate Dwarvish binding, before a slow, dawning smile began to spread across his face. Just then, Ori’s attention was pulled away by Bofur, who, in a loud, friendly bellow, asked to borrow him one day for sketching blueprints for wooden toys. As Ori turned, Bilbo leaned closer to Foxglove.

“Do you think…” he began, his whisper mimicking hers.

Foxglove nodded, her own smile widening. “Yes! I think they are Ones as well.” The concept of Dwarrow Ones, their profound and destined bonds, had been explained to them by Ori just recently, while they’d been sitting at this very table. Now, they understood it better than ever.

The soft, steady knock that then sounded on the doors to the royal family quarters momentarily silenced the table. Thorin’s shoulders, which had been relaxed with the weight of contentment, fell slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He rose from the table, his eyes on the doors, and walked towards them. The entire table fell silent, every eye following his broad form.

He opened the doors to find Legolas and Tauriel standing there, their faces going from sheepish to a slightly panicked look at being late. Thorin, however, relaxed completely, a genuine smile replacing the earlier tension. He waved them in.

Legolas leaned closer to him as he stepped inside. “Sorry we’re late, Ada wouldn’t let us go till we had the gifts just right.”

Thorin snorted lightly, a familiar amusement in his eyes, as he guided them back towards the table. “No worries. I’m so used to how Thranduil is during meetings, it doesn’t surprise me.”
Legolas and Tauriel followed him, their arms hidden behind their backs, a slight, almost imperceptible bounce in their steps. Thorin gestured for them to go ahead towards Foxglove and Bilbo. They quickly walked over while Foxglove and Bilbo, caught up in the surprise, slowly rose from their chairs.

Tauriel and Legolas knelt in front of them, a serene smile on Tauriel’s face. “Gifts from your friends in the Greenwood,” she said, her voice soft and melodious. Then, in a flourish, they pulled their presents from behind their backs: two beautiful bows and quivers, handcrafted from the rich wood of the Greenwood, each one a work of art.

Foxglove gently took the bow offered to her, her fingers tracing the smooth wood, before her gaze fell upon the string. She gasped, leaning closer. “Is that…”

Legolas smiled, a rare, gentle expression. “It’s braided string of my and Tauriel’s hair. We can’t always be there to protect you, but in this way, we’re always with you.”

Bilbo’s smile widened, his eyes twinkling with genuine emotion. “Thank you, both of you. And please, pass our thanks to Thranduil when you see him.”

Legolas nodded, his gaze warm. Just then, Bofur and Bifur, ever practical, grabbed two more chairs from the corner of the room while the others shuffled their own chairs around, making joyful, welcoming space at the table.

Frerin, his earlier seriousness forgotten, stood and grinned, his eyes bright. “Come, join us!” The warmth of the family embraced the newcomers, and the happy hum of conversation resumed, fuller and richer than before.

The royal family quarters hummed with the contented murmur of full bellies and mulled wine. The remnants of a truly epic coming-of-age feast for Bilbo and, Foxglove, lay scattered across the long, polished table. Platters once piled high with roasted meats, savoury pies, and a ridiculous amount of seed-cakes were now picked clean. Smiles were indeed satisfied, even if some of the younger dwarves were already dozing off, propped against their kin. Fili, Kili and Gimli were in their wolf forms curled around Alaris and Bombur's pups near the fireplace.

Legolas, ever perceptive, felt a subtle shift in the otherwise warm atmosphere. His gaze, quick and keen, landed on Thorin and his brother, Frerin. While both had participated in the revelry, a faint, almost imperceptible tension clung to them, a stiffness in their shoulders despite the easy laughter around them.

The Elf Prince set down his goblet, the crystal clinking softly. "Thorin?" he began, his voice gentle, carrying just enough to draw the attention of those nearest. "Is everything alright?"

The King Under the Mountain stiffened further, his fingers coiling around his empty ale mug. Frerin, beside him, cleared his throat and avoided eye contact, pushing a stray crumb around with his finger. The table quieted, several pairs of dwarven eyes turning to their monarch.

Thorin hesitated, a flicker of something akin to embarrassment crossing his usually stoic features. "Yes," he finally grunted, though it sounded more like a question than an affirmation. "Frerin and I were simply... surprised at the beginning of Bilbo and Foxglove's coming-of-age party."

Tauriel, ever direct, leaned forward, her green eyes filled with concern. "Are you both alright then? Was there trouble?"

Dis, Thorin’s sister, let out a laugh "Oh yes, they are just fine, dear! More than fine, I assure you!" She waved a dismissive hand, a wide, knowing grin spreading across her face. "Thorin and Bilbo are Ones. Frerin and Foxglove are Ones. Much like how Vili and I are…" She trailed off, glancing fondly at her husband, Vili, who merely winked back, a quiet warmth in his eyes.
Across the table, Balin and Dori exchanged a quick, secret look, their eyes saying, ‘We’ll announce us later’ with a shared, almost bashful understanding. Meanwhile, Dwalin and Nori shot looks at each other that heavily said, ‘Explain later, this party is for Bilbo and Foxglove, not our dramatics!’

Legolas and Tauriel’s eyes widened in unison, processing Dis’s casual bombshell. Tauriel gasped, pushing back from the table slightly. "What?!" The word burst from her, laced with utter disbelief.

Legolas, equally stunned but with a more focused intensity, snapped his attention first over to the two hobbits, who had gone gloriously, spectacularly red, their ears turning crimson. Then his gaze darted back to Thorin, who looked like he’d rather be mining the deepest, darkest tunnels of Erebor than facing this conversation.

"Oh, Ada is going to be so mad he missed this!" Legolas exclaimed, the exclamation edged with a mix of awe and a strange sort of poignant frustration. "My mother and him weren't soulmates in the elven terms, just best friends who married. She sought his protection from others who eyed her power and influence, and he married her to give her the freedom to explore his realm without constant harassment, and him to have someone who understood him more than anyone else in our realm." He paused, a flicker of old sadness in his eyes. "They both knew going into the marriage something was missing for him, a true connection of the spirit, but they still cared about each other the same. When she sailed, she made us promise her to find his soulmate so he'd always be happy, truly happy."

A beat of silence hung in the air, weighted by Legolas’s revelation. Bilbo, having managed to regain some semblance of composure, a mischievous glint back in his eyes, looked at the Elf Prince with a wicked grin. "Well, Legolas," he said, his voice a playful drawl, "Maybe his soulmate is a dwarf? Or one of the men in Dale."

Chapter 14

The morning after Bilbo and Foxglove’s coming of age party in Erebor was not met with the usual quiet of dawn. Instead, a low hum of anticipation, a nervous energy, seeped through the very stone of the Mountain. Whispers, light and swift as the mountain wind, flowed through the vast, echoing halls from the guards who had stood outside of the Royal family quarters the night before.

“Bilbo and Foxglove were found to be our King Thorin’s One and Prince Frerin’s One!” The words, barely audible over the distant ringing of dwarven hammers, carried an electric charge. These were not just whispers, but excited murmurs, laced with awe. Rumours of how the hobbits had brought the Queen’s Gardens back to life, coaxing vibrant colours from dormant soil, were interwoven with tales of the gentle way they spoke with their pebbles, their laughter like bells in the stern halls.

In the Ri chambers, bathed in the soft glow of a perpetually lit hearth, Foxglove found herself cornered, not unpleasantly, by Dori. Dori, matriarch of the House of Ri, and the hobbits’ adoptive eldest sibling, spoke in a hushed, fervent tone about Foxglove being Frerin’s One, and Bilbo being Thorin’s One. The very idea, that the hobbit adopted siblings of the House of Ri were now bound by fate to the King under the Mountain and his brother, was enough to make Dori’s hands fidget with her belt.

Foxglove could only nod, a dizzying warmth spreading through her chest. The electric feeling still pulsed through her veins, a residual echo of Frerin’s gentle embrace during the party, a touch that had sent shivers of pure, undeniable belonging down her spine. The revelation of Bilbo being Thorin’s one last night was also a surprise, not that anyone doubted the King’s fondness for the clever hobbit, but to be truly fated… it was monumental.

Poor Dori was pacing, a veritable whirlwind of nervous energy. Her hands wrung themselves, then smoothed her dress, then began to fidget again. She was waiting for Thorin and Frerin to come and speak about the courtship rituals, about who would be chaperoning them during the times they would be allowed to walk around the mountain when Frerin or Thorin came to call on Foxglove or Bilbo. The sheer formality of it all, the gravity of what was about to unfold, had Dori almost vibrating.

Bilbo was sitting in the chair nearest the fireplace, a cup of lightly sweetened tea clutched in his hands. He watched Dori pace, a faint tremor in his own hands betraying his calm exterior. His gaze flickered repeatedly to the large, carved doors where Thorin and Frerin would be entering to begin the negotiations with Dori. He remembered Dis, Thorin and Frerin’s sister, nudging her brothers after the party, a knowing smile on her face, telling them pointedly that she would see to the mountain in the morning so they could go speak with Dori.

Just as the silence in the chamber stretched taut with anticipation, a firm, short knock sounded on the doors. It heralded King Thorin and Frerin’s arrival. Dori straightened, her spine ramrod straight, all nervousness momentarily banished by queenly resolve. Bilbo took a deep, steadying breath, his eyes fixed on the entrance. Foxglove’s heart began to hammer against her ribs.
When the door swung open, two figures stepped inside. Thorin, usually a paragon of calm and composed regality, had an air of vulnerability about him, a hint of awe in his usually stern features. His eyes, the colour of deep mountain lakes, were warm and soft as they gazed directly at Bilbo, a silent question passing between them. Frerin, ever the more outwardly expressive of the two brothers, a small, hopeful smile graced his lips, but his powerful hands, so often steady, trembled visibly as his gaze locked with Foxglove’s, a spark igniting between them that promised to set the Mountain alight.

The grand main doors of the Ri family chambers stood ajar, allowing a sliver of the bustling Erebor halls to filter through. Inside, however, the atmosphere was markedly different – charged with an almost palpable tension, though one laced with a generous dose of humor, at least for some observers.

From where Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, and his brother Frerin stood somewhat awkwardly near the entrance, Dori, matriarch of the Ri family, strode towards them. Her steps were purposeful, her expression set in a formidable mask that brooked no argument. Without a word, she simply gestured towards the stout, cushioned couch situated against the far wall. Thorin, despite his regal bearing, and Frerin, usually more impish, both straightened slightly before meekly walking over. They sat, side by side, on the plush cushions, looking for all the world like two pebbles awaiting a stern lecture.

Dori halted directly before them, her hands settling firmly on her hips. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, bore into them both. It was a stare that had likely quelled many a quarrel and disciplined countless unruly youngsters in its time, and it was certainly having its intended effect now.

In her chair across the room, Foxglove pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a giggle that threatened to escape. Watching the King Under the Mountain and his younger brother, both renowned warriors and often intimidating figures, acting like chastened pebbles before her elder dwarrow-dame sibling was a truly humorous spectacle. Dori, Foxglove knew, was just getting warmed up, preparing to launch into the delicate, yet undoubtedly firm, courting negotiations. First, for Bilbo’s hand with Thorin, and then, for her own hand with Frerin.

Foxglove’s gaze flickered across the room to where Bilbo Baggins sat, ensconced in a comfortable armchair, ostensibly reading a book that had rested on the table beside him but clearly observing the unfolding drama. Their eyes met, and instantly, Foxglove knew he was amused by the exact same thing. A shared, silent mirth passed between them, a delightful recognition of the sheer hilarilty of the situation. Bilbo’s lips twitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile playing on them.

The silence stretched, thick with Dori’s unspoken demands, until Thorin, ever the one to face things head-on, spoke. His voice, usually a deep resonant boom, was a gentle rumble, almost deferential. “I believe the chaperones Frerin and I spoke about on the way here would be a wise choice, Dori.”

Dori’s formidable brow furrowed slightly, and one eyebrow arched, a silent question in her gaze. She was a master of non-verbal communication.

Frerin, sensing his cue, jumped in smoothly. “Legolas and Tauriel. They’re ambassadors for the Greenwood Realm, yes, but they’ve become fast friends with all of us. And they are, crucially, unbiased between us and the hobbits.” He met Dori’s stare with unusual earnestness. “They understand our ways, and the hobbit ways, without favouring one over the other. They could ensure propriety for all.”

Dori’s gaze shifted, her eyes momentarily losing their sharp focus as she halted in thought. Frerin’s words had merit; elven impartiality, especially from those who had genuinely bonded with both groups, was a compelling argument. She considered it, the stern lines of her face softening almost imperceptibly as she weighed the suggestion.
Finally, her gaze snapped back to the two brothers on the couch, the moment of contemplation over. “Very well,” she said, her voice still firm, but with a hint of concession. “Now, when should we expect your first outing?”

Thorin’s face, which had been a mask of carefully controlled composure, broke into a relieved smile. “If possible, today?” he ventured, hope shining in his eyes.
Frerin, unable to resist a mischievous glint in his own eyes, reached up and tugged on the braid neatly tucked next to his ear. “We may also have sent word to them this morning before we arrived,” he confessed, a smirk playing on his lips.

As if on cue, precisely at that moment, two heads – one fair-haired and impossibly regal, the other fiery red and fiercely practical – peeked around the corner of the open door to the chambers. Legolas and Tauriel stood there, impish smiles playing on their faces, their eyes dancing with amusement as they looked inside at the scene, clearly having heard every word. The chaperones were ready, and the courting of the Ri-family hobbits was officially, and hilariously, underway.

Dori pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out an exasperated sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand untold dwarf shenanigans. "Very well, Tauriel, if you wouldn't mind watching over Frerin and Foxglove. That leaves you, Legolas, to watch over Bilbo and King Thorin."

The two elves, poised in the doorway, grinned. Their eyes, usually keen and watchful, now brimmed with barely contained glee. They stepped into the grand hall, their movements easy and fluid, a stark contrast to the stiff, almost eager postures of their assigned wards.

At Dori's words, Foxglove and Bilbo rose from their cushioned chairs in unison, a silent, knowing glance passing between the two hobbits. Simultaneously, Thorin and Frerin quickly got to their feet, bowing with a touch of exaggerated, feigned solemnity to Dori. "Thank you," they chimed together, a little too quickly, a little too enthusiastically.
Foxglove, her rosy cheeks dimpling with a suppressed smile, walked over to Frerin. He met her halfway, his hand gently taking hers and tucking it securely into the crook of his arm, a warmth blooming in his chest. Across the room, Thorin's own hand gently found Bilbo's, lacing their fingers together, as they began to walk towards the imposing double doors. Legolas, a smirk truly tugging at his lips now, fell into step behind them, his keen eyes missing nothing of the subtle affection between the Dwarf King and his Burglar.

Frerin, with a tender smile for his companion, gently led Foxglove in the same direction, though veering off slightly from the path Thorin and Bilbo were taking. "Where would you like to go?" he whispered, his voice a soft murmur meant only for her.

Foxglove hummed, a thoughtful sound. "Have you seen the Gardens lately?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with a promise of beauty.
Frerin shook his head, a genuine regret in his eyes. "Unfortunately, I have not. Would you please show me?"

Foxglove’s grin brightened, a pure, unadulterated joy that lit up her whole face. She squeezed his arm, leading him along familiar, winding pathways, deeper into the heart of the mountain. They descended a gentle slope, the sounds of the bustling halls fading behind them, replaced by a growing quiet.

When they stepped through the final archway, Tauriel, who had followed discreetly, let out a soft gasp. Before them lay a hidden green oasis, a vibrant, living testament to life within stone. It was the gardens that Foxglove and Bilbo had meticulously healed and brought back to breathtaking life after the royal family’s beloved grandmother had passed away, leaving the space forlorn and forgotten.

Foxglove led them through the verdant arbors, her voice lilting as she pointed out the different blooms. "This," she explained, gesturing to a cluster of deep crimson roses, "these took us the longest to heal. We almost gave up hope on them." Then, with a bright smile, she pointed to a patch of cheerful yellow buttercups. "And these were the very first ones we were able to save. They were so resilient!"

Frerin paid attention to every word, every gesture, his gaze fixed on Foxglove, adoring her love of the gardens, the simple, profound joy she found in bringing life back to a place long loved yet hidden away. The garden itself was a true testament to hobbit craft, a lush tapestry of greens, vibrant reds, soft yellows, radiant oranges and golds, gentle purples, and bright blues. Cascading vines draped over smooth stone, smaller trees offered tranquil shade, and bushes burst with fragrant blossoms. The air was sweet with the scent of damp earth and myriad flowers, and the gentle trickle of hidden water features provided a soothing melody.

As Foxglove lovingly stroked the petals of a particularly delicate bluebell, Frerin's thoughts, for a fleeting moment, went to his elder brother. A warm smile touched his lips, and he instantly knew where Thorin would have taken Bilbo. Many a night, as the family sat on the balconies overlooking the mountain, Bilbo could be seen staring up at the stars, weaving fantastical stories, not just to Bombur and Alari’s pups, but to Gimli, Fili, and Kili as well.‘Yes,’ Frerin thought, the conviction settling in his heart, ‘Thorin took him to the Chamber of Glittering Stars.’

The air in the Queen’s Gardens shimmered with the mist rising from the newly sculpted waterfall. Foxglove bit her lip, a faint flush on her cheeks, as she traced the intricate pattern of a vine near the cascade. These vines, like so much else in this burgeoning paradise, were a testament to shared effort – hers and Bilbo’s painstaking work, aided by the sturdy hands and good humour of Bofur and Bifur. The fragrance of blooming heliotrope and night-scented stock was already beginning to unfurl as dusk approached.
Frerin, ever watchful, knelt beside her, admiring their handiwork. "It's magnificent, Foxglove. More beautiful than I ever imagined it could be."

Foxglove smiled, then her expression softened, growing wistful. "Frerin, I'd like to find flowers that grow at night."

He glanced over at her, startled. "Is there such a thing?"

Foxglove nodded slowly, her white hair swaying gently. "It was a tale that our mother told us. She called it 'moon’s grace'. She didn't know the right name for it, but she had seen it in Lord Elrond's gardens, a special section dedicated to Lady Yavanna, for those who liked to sit among them and enjoy the jasmine smell they give off. Elrond said it was a gift from the Greenwood for his wife, I think?"

Frerin felt his back straighten as he listened, intrigued by the unexpected depth of her desire. Foxglove continued, "I wouldn't dare ask such a request of the Greenwood, however. They guard their secrets fiercely."

Frerin’s mind raced as he looked out over the Queen’s Gardens. The vibrant life, the carefully nurtured blossoms, the flowing water – all bore the indelible mark of Foxglove and Bilbo's shared vision, their dedication. A profound resolve hardened within him. He took her hand, his thumb tracing the soft skin, and then lifted it, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. Frerin knew what his first gift would be, and it was going to be perfect.

Foxglove blushed, her eyes widening slightly as she watched him, a quiet warmth spreading through her.
A soft voice broke the spell. "Foxglove?"

Foxglove looked up to see Tauriel, a graceful silhouette against the deepening violet of the sky, standing by a slender birch tree. "Yes?" Foxglove tugged Frerin along, drawing him towards the Elf.

Tauriel smiled, her green eyes bright. "Do you think it would be alright if Legolas and I visit the gardens the next time you and Bilbo come down here?"

Foxglove looked thoughtfully for a moment. "I don't believe there should be a problem… though you should ask Frerin or Thorin about permission to enter their Grandmother’s Gardens. It is technically royal grounds."

Tauriel’s smile broadened, and she turned her gaze to Frerin, a hint of earnestness in her expression. "Would that be alright? This place... it helps ease the longing we sometimes feel to be in the trees while we are here."

Frerin smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes. "Of course! If it helps you, especially. We know you and Legolas need the trees to ease your longing. I'll talk to Thorin about it, and I'm sure he wouldn't mind. He values the peace between our Realms."

Tauriel’s exquisite smile deepened, her green eyes sparkling with gratitude. "Thank you, so much." She drifted away from them for a moment, her movements fluid and quiet, clearly enjoying the peaceful ambiance of the gardens.

As Tauriel moved out of earshot, Frerin reached into the pocket of his tunic, pulling out a small, intricately carved bead he had worked on late last night. It was made of precious moonstone, veined with silver, symbolizing romance and new beginnings.

"Foxglove," he began, his voice a little lower, a little more earnest, "I wish to give you a bead to symbolize our courtship."

Foxglove’s eyes lit up. She took it carefully, turning the bead over in her fingers, admiring the delicate craftsmanship. "I accept," she said, her smile soft and genuine.

Frerin grinned, brimming with excitement, his heart thrumming. "Will you allow me to braid it into your hair?"

Foxglove nodded, her smile growing into a playful smirk. "Yes, though I feel like I should warn you. My hair sends Dori into fits every time. Nori would have to do it when she's home because her fingers are nimble enough, or Ori would, because he has the patience to braid it.”

Frerin laughed, a rich, warm sound that echoed pleasantly in the quiet garden. "Thank you for the warning. I do love a challenge." He moved behind her, his touch surprisingly gentle against her scalp. He hummed a low, tuneful dwarven melody as he carefully gathered sections of her thick, white hair. His fingers, accustomed to hammer and axe, moved with an unexpected grace, weaving the strands into a neat, intricate braid. When it was just right, he carefully clipped the moonstone bead onto a prominent loop, where it nestled like a precious dewdrop, illuminated faintly by the rising moon.

Alittle while later as the crystals above them that held the sun's light began to dim Tauriel rejoined them "I believe it is time to return Foxglove to the Ri family quarters," she announced, her voice a gentle suggestion.

Frerin, who had been listening intently to Foxglove describe a particularly vibrant bloom she’d spotted, let out a dramatic, playful pout. "Already? But the day is still young!"
Foxglove laughed, a bright, melodic sound that echoed faintly in the vast space. It was a sound that seemed to chase away any shadow of his feigned disappointment. Without a word, she allowed Frerin to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm, a gesture of comfortable intimacy that warmed him to his core. With a final, lingering look at the Queen's Gardens, they began their procession out of the wide, open stone room.

The journey through the Dwarrow halls was a winding labyrinth of echoing stone, lit by the steady glow of braziers and the occasional shaft of light from above. They ascended, their footsteps muted on the ancient paths, through corridors carved with intricate runes and scenes of dwarven history, until they reached the Royal Family Quarters.

Outside the oak door of the Ri family chambers, Frerin paused, a reluctant smile playing on his lips. As he turned to bid Foxglove goodnight, she decided to be bold. Leaning in with an impulsive movement, she pressed a soft, quick kiss to his cheek. Before he could even react, she giggled and dashed away, slipping through the door and vanishing into the Ri family chambers.

Tauriel, who had been watching the exchange with a knowing glint in her eyes, hid a smile behind her hand as she walked past a shell-shocked Frerin. He stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide and jaw slightly agape, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He didn't move until Thorin stood beside him, looking just as flustered as he did – a kindred spirit in bewildered masculinity. They exchanged a wordless glance, then stumbled away to their respective quarters, a mumble of bewildered masculinity accompanying their retreat.

"The sheer boldness of hobbits," Frerin muttered to himself, his voice laced with a strange mix of disbelief and delight, "especially the ones who smell of flowers and sunshine."

"Indeed," Thorin echoed, equally discombobulated, finding himself musing aloud about "hobbits who enjoyed gems that glowed like stars… and the trouble they could cause."

Inside the welcoming warmth of the Ri family quarters, Foxglove leaned against the carved wooden door, a triumphant, giddy smile on her face. Just then, Bilbo stepped inside, returning from his own day with Thorin. His eyes, usually discerning and curious, were now shining with an almost childlike wonder, his face alight with awe. Legolas, ever graceful, followed closely behind him, an amused look playing on his features. Tauriel and Legolas, with an unspoken understanding, walked over to Dori, stepping aside to speak with her quietly, their voices hushed.
Bilbo, however, was drawn to Foxglove like a moth to a flame. He practically floated over to her, his voice full of a hushed reverence. "Oh, Foxglove, you won't believe it! The Chamber of Glittering Stars was magnificent. It was… I could almost reach out and feel like I was touching stars. Thorin showed me the Great Sapphire, larger than my fist, and it pulsed as if it lived…"
Foxglove smiled, her heart swelling with warmth. She understood that awe well. Their moment was gently interrupted as Nori ducked her head out from the kitchen, the scent of roasting meats and freshly baked bread wafting out. "Come on then, Foxglove and Bilbo! Dori and Ori just finished readying dinner."

Foxglove and Bilbo shared a conspiratorial smile, their earlier adventures forming an invisible bond between them. They joined the others around the well-laden table. Dori followed shortly afterwards, a happy, knowing smile on her face, offering a silent, understanding nod towards Foxglove and Bilbo. A collective sigh of relief, though almost imperceptible, passed through the hobbits gathered in the Ri family quarters, knowing that their courtships were undeniably off to a good start. They ate together enjoying the company of their family before stumbling off to bed. Foxglove's head filled with her day with Frerin in the Gardens and Bilbo's head filled with being the Chamber of Glittering Stars and listening to Thorin's gentle rumble echoing in the chamber.

Notes:

Moonstone: Associated with romance, intuition, and new beginnings.

Chapter 15

When the sun filtered through balconies in the Ri family quarters the next morning, gilding the polished stone with a warm, ocher glow, a quiet anxiety settled over Foxglove and Bilbo. The previous day had been a whirlwind of emotion, a dizzying height of confirmation and shared hearts. But the dawn brought with it a gnawing worry: courtship.

"What do we give them?" Foxglove fretted, tugging at a loose thread on her dress. "We can't forge, Bilbo. We can't carve stone. Our hands are only good for gardens and baked goods!"
Bilbo, usually the picture of composure, paced the small antechamber they shared. "Indeed! And what, pray tell, does one give a King? A King who already possesses mountains of gold and jewels beyond counting? My old handkerchief wouldn't quite cut it, I fear." He ran a hand through his curls. "And Thorin... he's so particular, so grand. Frerin, too, though perhaps more whimsical. They are Dwarrow King and prince, Foxglove!"

A shared glance, a silent accord, sparked between them. There were two dwarves in Erebor who knew Thorin and Frerin better than almost anyone: their beloved sister, Dis, and her thoughtful husband, Vili.

"Dis will know," Foxglove declared, her eyes brightening. "And Vili. They'll understand."

With a renewed sense of purpose, they made their way through the humming corridors of Erebor, the scent of polished stone and underground spring water a familiar comfort around them. They found Dis in a sun-dappled chamber off the main family wing, poring over a set of maps with Vili, who was tracing lines with a calloused finger.

"Good morning, my dears," Dis said, her smile warm as her eyes took in their slightly distraught expressions. "You look as though you've been wrestling a warg by dawn."

"Worse, my lady," Bilbo confessed, bowing slightly. "We've been wrestling with the complexities of dwarrow courtship."

Foxglove nodded vigorously. "We don't know what to do! We want to give them gifts, true, honest gifts from our hearts, but... we don't know how to make anything worthy of them. We're not crafters of stone or metal. What could we posses, or create, that would mean anything to a King and a Prince of Erebor?"

Dis chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound that always put them at ease. Vili too, offered a kind smile. "Oh, my dears," Dis began, reaching out to clasp Foxglove's hand. "You misunderstand! It is not about gold or mithril, not for what truly matters. My brother, stubborn as a mountain, has a heart as deep as its roots. And Frerin… he seeks beauty in unexpected places."

"Your gifts," Vili added, his voice calm and considered, "will be worthy because you make them. Because they come from your hearts, from your unique perspectives. Thorin has seen all the finest gems Erebor can offer. Frerin has walked every carved path. Consider what you love to do, what brings you joy, what tells your story."

"Thorin treasures things of sentiment, of home," Dis mused, her eyes distant for a moment. "Something that speaks of the Shire, perhaps. Something that reminds him of simpler joys, of the life he glimpsed there before you came when he would have to visit Ered Luin or the Blue Mountains. He values honesty and comfort above all else."

"And Frerin," Vili continued, "he sees narratives in everything. Something with a story, something that grows or changes, something that embodies the spirit of the earth or the sky, given by hobbit hands, would intrigue him more than any treasure hoard."

A quiet spark of inspiration began to glow in the hobbits' anxious hearts. Not grand, forged masterpieces, but something personal. Something hobbitish. Something filled with care and meaning. The idea felt both terrifying and wonderfully right.

Meanwhile, unknown to the two struggling hobbits, two dwarrow minds were working on strikingly similar projects, albeit with vastly different approaches.
Frerin had woken, still dazed from the previous day's walk with Foxglove in the revitalized gardens. The memory of her heart-filled plea about the mythical flower her mother spoke of – the 'Moon's Grace' – echoed in his mind. A flower said to bloom only under a singular moon, in hidden glades, possessing petals like liquid moonlight. A legendary bloom, primarily found in the Elvish lands.

He had taken a fresh parchment, unfurling it carefully on his desk, and began to write.

To His Majesty, King Thranduil, of the Woodland Realm,
Greetings from Erebor, and may your halls ever echo with song.
It is with a matter of most delicate importance that I, Prince Frerin of Erebor, seek an audience with you at your earliest convenience. While I would humbly request your presence here in Erebor, should it suit your Kingly schedule, to better explain my reasoning, I am compelled by a pressing matter of the heart.
I have recently been made aware of a remarkable bloom, known to the folk of the Shire as 'Moon's Grace,' said to be found only within the ancient forests of your realm. It is a flower of immense sentimental value to one who has recently become deeply significant to my family, and indeed, to myself.
I believe an in-person visit would allow me not only to convey the urgency of this request but also to show you the remarkable work being done in my grandmother's long-dormant gardens, revitalized by the very hands of the hobbits who now make Erebor their home. I trust you recall the unique affinity hobbits possess for all things green and growing, and I believe their touch upon our stone halls would greatly intrigue your Elven sensibilities.
Furthermore, and perhaps not entirely coincidentally, my brother Thorin and I have recently, and quite ceremoniously, been acknowledged as 'dwarven Ones' to these same hobbits of the mountain. A momentous occasion, I assure you, and one which your son, Legolas, expressed a particular interest in witnessing firsthand, though circumstances prevented it at the time.
I eagerly await your reply, and trust that a meeting can be arranged for the mutual benefit of our kingdoms and, dare I say, the flourishing of an extraordinary friendship.
With profound respect, Prince Frerin, Son of Thráin, of Erebor.

Frerin leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eye. He knew that particular bit of information, fed by Legolas's casual admission of Thranduil's interest in the fated match during the hobbits' Coming of Age, would certainly pique the Elvenking's curiosity. A unique flower, a revitalized dwarven garden, and the tantalizing hint of newly confirmed 'Ones'? Oh, yes, Thranduil would come.

Thorin meanwhile, remembering Bilbo's sheer delight upon seeing the Chamber of Glittering Stars for the first time, had gone to speak with Gloin, the master gem-cutter, and then directly to the gemstone carvers.

"I need gems," Thorin rumbled, his voice deep, as he stood over a table laden with various cut and uncut stones. Gloin, accustomed to his King's often abrupt manner, merely raised an eyebrow. "Not just polished facets, Gloin. I need gems that look like stars. Stars that have fallen to earth, captured."

Gloin picked up a polished sapphire, turning it in the light. "Like this, my King? Faceted to catch every glimmer?"

"No," Thorin negated, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Not like a cut diamond, reflecting light. More... containing it. As if the light sources from within. As if a tiny piece of the cosmos was trapped within the stone. Something that, when held, feels like holding a piece of the night sky."

He remembered Bilbo's gasp, his wide, wonder-filled eyes in the star chamber, the way he had reached out, as if to touch the glowing constellations above. Thorin wanted to give him something he could hold, something that would bring that same sense of awe and wonder, but on a more intimate scale.

After a long conversation with Gloin, filled with sketches and descriptions, Thorin sought out the most skilled carvers, describing his vision for stones that weren't merely cut for brilliance, but shaped to evoke the swirling nebulas and distant sparks of stars. He wanted the stones to feel ancient, infused with otherworldly light, yet small enough to be held in a hobbit's palm.
He didn't know yet how they would be presented, only that he would find a way to place them somewhere Bilbo would stumble upon them, somewhere they would truly shine. A gift worthy of a heart as bright as a captured star.

Neither pair knew the other was engaged in similar pursuits, hearts full of affection and minds bent on crafting the perfect, most meaningful gift. The threads of their affection, unseen, were already weaving a complex, beautiful tapestry across Erebor's stone heart.

Foxglove, nestled in the comfort of the Ri family quarters, felt a wonderful idea bloom in her mind. It was a vision of home, distilled and tangible, and she knew exactly how she wanted to bring it to life. Eagerly, she snatched a piece of parchment and began to sketch, her pencil dancing across the page, detailing curves and dimensions for a unique creation. When she was satisfied, she folded the drawing gently, her heart quickening with anticipation.

Stepping out into the grand hallway, she spotted one of the royal guards. "I need to go to speak with the glassmakers," she requested, her voice clear and polite. "Would you be so kind as to show me the way?"

The guard, a burly dwarf with a well-kept beard, bowed slightly. "I'd be honored, Milady."

Foxglove offered a grateful smile as he led her through the labyrinthine passages of Erebor, down towards the roaring heart of the mountain – the forges. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of metal and soot and something else, something sharp and clear, like heated sand. Just outside a pair of heavy, arched doors, the guard gestured. "There, Milady. I'll wait for you right here."

"Thank you," Foxglove nodded, "hopefully I won't be long." She pushed open the doors and stepped into the glassmakers' cavernous rooms, the heat washing over her like a comforting blanket. Across the vast space, amidst shimmering tools and glowing furnaces, a master craftsman, Master Lir, looked up from his work.

Foxglove approached him, her small hobbit stature a charming contrast to his stout dwarven form. "Hello, Master Lir," she began, her voice carrying easily over the distant hum of the forges, "I wish to ask a request from you."

Master Lir, his face smudged with ash but his eyes sharp and intelligent, tilted his head. "Yes, Milady?"

Foxglove’s smile widened. "As you can see, as a hobbit, I can't forge as well as you wonderful dwarrow can. But I wish for you to create a large, see-through glass bowl with a lid. I have a sketch here, if you wouldn't mind looking it over." She offered the folded parchment.

Master Lir took it, his gloved fingers surprisingly delicate as he unfolded it and studied the precise lines of her drawing. His brow furrowed in concentration for a moment, then smoothed. "I believe it would be possible, Milady," he rumbled, "shouldn't take me long if you wish to wait."

"No need to rush your beautiful craft, Master Lir," Foxglove responded, genuinely. "Please, take your time."

Master Lir relaxed, a hint of a smile touching his lips, and nodded. Foxglove found a comfortable spot to sit in the warmth of the room, watching the master at work. As he began to prepare the materials, her mind raced, envisioning the final project. She pictured the large glass bowl, a miniature ecosystem of her memories. She would painstakingly recreate Bag End in miniature, nestled within it, surrounded by the vibrant, beloved flowers of the Shire, battling her memories to get every detail just right. A flicker of worry crossed her mind – she'd need to talk to Bofur and Bifur, the master carvers, for lessons on whittling wood for Bag End's tiny furniture. But for now, watching the glass take form, was enough.

The rhythmic clang of Master Lir's hammer on cool metal had softened into the gentle hiss of glass being shaped, a delicate counterpoint to the roaring heat of the forge. Sparks, like ephemeral fireflies, danced and died in the cavernous workshop, casting shifting shadows on walls blackened with centuries of soot. The air, thick with the scent of hot iron and damp stone, was surprisingly warm and comforting, an embrace that lulled the unwary.

Master Lir, a dwarf whose beard was as intricately braided as the patterns he etched into his work, stood hunched over his bench, his breath held as he put the finishing touches on a piece of spun glass. The light of the forge caught the nascent form, revealing a clarity and fragility that belied the dwarf's powerful hands. Finally, with a sigh of satisfaction, he straightened, stepping back to admire the fruit of his labor. The glass bowl, delicate as a soap bubble yet remarkably strong, shimmered with an inner light, its accompanying lid resting perfectly beside it.

He looked over to the ancient, polished stool where his guest, Foxglove, sat. The hobbit lass, with her remarkable white hair and earthy attire, was almost dozing, her head tilted precariously to one side, eyelids fluttering. A soft chuckle rumbled in Master Lir's chest. He knew his workshop wasn't exactly a place for quiet contemplation, but the warmth and the low hum of creation often had a soporific effect.

Placing the finished bowl gently on a patch of clean counter, he walked over to her. His large, calloused hand rested softly on her shoulder, mindful to avoid tangling in her unusual, pale strands. “‘Milady,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

Foxglove startled awake, her eyes snapping open, her cheeks instantly flushing a rosy red. “Oh, my apologies, Master Lir!” she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. “I didn’t mean to doze in your workshop. It’s just… so cozy.”

Master Lir let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing briefly in the grand space. “It’s alright, lass. Happens to the best of us when the fire’s warm and the work is done.” He gestured towards the counter with a sweep of his arm. “The bowl and its lid are finished.”

Foxglove gasped in delight, her weariness vanishing in an instant. She practically flew off the stool, rushing over to the counter. Her eyes, wide with wonder, peered at the glass, tracing the elegant curve of the bowl, the subtle gleam of the material. A raw, genuine awe blossomed on her face. “Thank you, Master Lir. Your craft is simply amazing! I’ve never seen anything so clear and beautiful.”

Master Lir puffed up his chest, a broad, pleased grin spreading across his face. There was no higher praise for a dwarven craftsman than unbridled admiration, especially from a discerning eye like a hobbit’s. He watched as she continued, lost in the delicate artistry.

“I may have to commission more of these glass bowls for a different purpose later if you wouldn’t mind,” Foxglove mused, her brow furrowed in thought. “For use in the Queen’s Gardens, for when Bilbo and I have some particularly difficult plants we need to grow. Something that requires careful nurturing and precise conditions that only such clarity and strength could provide.”
Master Lir’s smile widened even further at the thought of his meticulously crafted glass bowls gracing the legendary Queen’s Gardens, a place of vibrant life and untold botanical wonders. The idea of his work aiding in the cultivation of rare and ancient flora filled him with immense pride.

Just then, the heavy workshop door creaked open, admitting a sliver of light from the corridor and revealing the imposing figure of the dwarf guard who had escorted Foxglove down into the forges. “Milady?” the guard rumbled, his voice deep but respectful.

Foxglove spun to face him, her blush deepening slightly. “Oh! I’m so sorry, master dwarf, for leaving you outside and not keeping you updated. My apologies. Would you please carry this glass bowl for me? We have at least one more place to go.”

The guard nodded, his expression unreadable but his readiness clear. Master Lir, already anticipating the request, carefully wrapped the exquisite glass bowl in a thick, protective square of soft fabric, making it easier and safer to carry. He handed the bundle to the guard, whose large hands dwarfed the package but held it with surprising gentleness.
Foxglove turned back to Master Lir, bowing gracefully. “Thank you again for your master craft, Master Lir. It truly is magnificent.”

With a final, warm smile, she turned and, with the guard by her side, exited the workshop, the heavy door closing softly behind them. Master Lir stood staring at the now-empty doorway, a wide, contented smile still stretched across his face. Yet another dwarf, he mused, had been touched by the simple, genuine kindness and appreciation of hobbit hearts.

The cool air of Erebor, perpetually scented with stone dust and a faint, exciting tang of forge smoke, brushed against Foxglove’s face as she and the stout dwarven guard exited Master Lir’s glassmaking workshop. The sunlight, filtered through the mountain’s cunningly placed vents and reflective surfaces, cast long, shifting shadows across the meticulously carved obsidian floor. The hum of industrial magic and the rhythmic thunk-thunk of distant hammers vibrated through the very rock beneath their feet.

The guard, a burly dwarf with a neatly braided beard and an ever-present air of calm efficiency, looked down at her, a large, carefully wrapped package cradled in his arms. “Where to now, milady?” he rumbled, his voice surprisingly gentle for his imposing stature.

Foxglove, her own gaze still sparkling with the magic of the glass workshop, smiled up at him. “Is Lord Bofur and Lord Bifur’s workshop nearby?”

The guard nodded, a flicker of what might have been amusement crossing his weathered face. “Yes, in fact, it’s just down a few workshops. I believe they are also in shop today.”
Foxglove’s smile widened into a full-blown grin, revealing a dimple in her left cheek. “Excellent!”

With the guard leading the way, they navigated a bustling thoroughfare, past ironmongers whose workshops echoed with the clang of hammer on anvil, past jewelers displaying glittering gems in ornate cases, and past scent-laden bakeries emanating the comforting aroma of fresh bread. Finally, the rich, earthy scent of seasoned wood grew stronger, and the sounds of gentle rasping and whirring replaced the metallic cacophony.

They stepped inside the Toymaker Workshop, and Foxglove felt an immediate sense of warmth and creativity. The space was a delightful jumble of organized chaos: shelves lined with miniature chariots and carved beasts, workbenches laden with wood shavings and half-formed figures, and a pervasive, comforting scent of cedar and pine. In the center, hunched over a large table littered with blueprints and finely detailed sketches, were Bofur and Bifur, deep in concentration. Sunlight, streaming through a high archway, illuminated the sawdust motes dancing in the air around them.

Foxglove, clutching the smaller parcel she carried, led the guard towards them. She reached out and gently tapped Bofur’s shoulder. He was so engrossed that he jumped, startled, nearly sending a delicate carving tool flying. Bifur, perched on a stool beside him, let out a booming laugh at his cousin’s reaction, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

The guard, ever professional, bit back a smile as he gently put down the large, wrapped package in his arms. Foxglove, her heart thrumming with anticipation, carefully unwrapped the smaller one she held, revealing the smooth, perfectly spherical glass bowl and its matching lid, a masterpiece of Master Lir’s craft. Then, turning her attention back to the distracted dwarves, she looked at Bofur and Bifur, her eyes alight with a specific memory. “Do you remember Bilbo and my tales of Bag End on our journey here? Especially how it looked?”

Bofur’s cheerful face seemed to soften, a little sheepishness creeping into his expression. He shared a quick glance with Bifur, who merely smiled knowingly at Foxglove. Without a word, Bofur walked away towards a side room, a narrow opening partially obscured by hanging tapestries woven with intricate dwarven scenes.

The few moments he was gone stretched, filled only with the faint sounds of the workshop and the rhythmic tapping of Bifur’s finger against the tabletop. Then, Bofur reappeared, and in his hands, cradled with the utmost care, was a lovingly replicated, smaller version of Bag End.

Foxglove stood stunned, breath caught in her throat. It was perfect. The round green door, painted with exquisite detail, the precise curve of the grass-covered hill, the little windows peeking out from the side. Every detail Bilbo and she had painstakingly described on their long journey to Erebor had been captured. Her hands, without conscious thought, began to tremble as she reached out. She gently took the miniature from Bofur’s hands, her fingers tracing the smooth, cool wood carving, caressing every lovingly recreated line. It was more than just wood; it was painted and brought to life, a tangible piece of her heart’s homeland.

Bofur, ever perceptive, seemed to read the surge of emotion on her face. His own cheerful expression softened with understanding. “Now, lassie,” he said, his voice warm and gentle, “before you fall to pieces on us, tell us what you are here for.”

Foxglove blinked, pulling herself back from the brink of tears. She managed a watery smile before carefully placing the precious carving on the sturdy wooden table. She then looked at them both, the glass bowl beside it, and began to explain, her voice a little steadier now. “I wish to make a terrarium of Bag End as my courtship gift to Frerin. I… I can’t forge, not like a dwarf, so I reached out to Master Lir of the glassmakers, who made this lovely glass bowl and lid for me.” She gestured to the gleaming vessel. “I was going to ask if you and Bifur would teach me how to whittle so I can recreate Bag End inside the glass bowl.”

The air in the workshop hung thick with the comforting scents of wood shavings, hot metal, and a faint, sweet aroma of pipe-weed. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light streaming through a high window, illuminating an array of tools, half-finished carvings, and stacks of lumber. Foxglove, her usually neat braids slightly dishevelled from an earlier energetic discussion, stood before a large, shimmering glass bowl, tracing its smooth curve with a thoughtful finger. The bowl, exquisite and perfectly balanced, was clearly the work of a master glassblower – perhaps Master Lir himself, as she’d been told.

Bofur, leaning against a workbench, a half-finished wooden toy in his hands, chuckled, his eyes twinkling. Bifur, nearby smiled a encouraging wave of his hand. "Ah," Bofur began, a wide grin spreading across his face, "so the courtship has begun for you four has it?"

Foxglove’s cheeks flushed a delicate rose. She nodded, turning to face them fully, her hands clasped in front of her. "Yes, though Bilbo and I were at a loss as to what to give Thorin and Frerin. Such an occasion demands something… special, doesn't it?" She gestured around the impressive dwarven workshop. "Everything here is so grand, so enduring."
Bofur nodded, his expression softening. "Aye, a grand occasion indeed."

"We sought out Dis and her husband for advice," Foxglove continued, a faint smile playing on her lips. "They were wonderfully patient. They gently reminded us that it's not the gift, it's the thought and heart behind it that counts." She paused, remembering the warmth and wisdom in Dis’s eyes. "When I left the Ri family quarters, Bilbo was deeply engrossed at his desk, writing. I suspect his gift will be a poem, perhaps a song, or even an epic tale in miniature, knowing him."

She turned back to the glass bowl, her brow furrowing slightly in concentration. "While I remembered Frerin's honest delight at seeing his grandmother's gardens Bilbo and I revitalized together here in Erebor. I thought of having a small piece of our old home here within our new one given to Frerin. A living memory, perhaps. While I know my way around the kitchens, the gardens, and sewing, I needed something more… something to truly make it personal, something to add that dwarven strength and permanence." She gestured emphatically at the empty glass bowl. "Thus, the terrarium was born as an idea, a vessel for that memory."

Bifur hummed, a low rumble in his chest, and looked over the glass bowl that Master Lir had created for her. His gaze then shifted to Foxglove. "Whittling isn't like your gardening," he rumbled, his eyes thoughtful.

Bofur nodded, setting down his toy and picking up a small, sharp carving knife. "No, it's not. But it’s about shaping, about coaxing beauty from raw material, much like tending a plant. And we’d be honored to teach you."

Foxglove’s eyes lit up. She grinned, a genuine, joyful expression, and quickly sat on the closest stool, pulling it up to a clear section of the workbench.

The guard who had accompanied her, a stern-faced dwarf named Borin, cleared his throat from the doorway. "Milady," he said, his voice a low rumble, "I must leave you for my shift change. Will you be alright here?"

Foxglove turned, her smile undiminished. "Yes, thank you so much for your help today, Borin. Please enjoy your rest."

Bifur nodded, a slight tilt of his head towards the guard. "We'll look after the lass, Borin. Tell your replacement she can be found here if she’s needed."

Borin nodded, a small, almost imperceptible bow of his head, then turned and left the workshop, his heavy footsteps fading into the sounds of the mountain.

Bofur and Bifur exchanged a look, then began to move around the workshop, gathering supplies. Bofur laid out a selection of small, smooth blocks of pale wood – alder, perhaps, or basswood – along with an array of gleaming, sharp tools. Bifur returned with a heavy leather apron, which he gestured for Foxglove to put on.

When they joined her at the table, their expressions were a mixture of playful seriousness and deep, patient instruction. Bofur took a small block of wood, demonstrating the proper grip, the angle of the blade. "First, lass, you must understand the grain," he explained, running a calloused thumb over the wood. "It'll tell ye how to cut, where it'll resist, and where it'll yield."
Bifur, with a deep grunt, took Foxglove’s hand, guiding her fingers around the knife handle, ensuring her grip was firm but not tense. He then made a small, clean pass with his own knife, a sliver of wood curling away perfectly.

"Now, you try," Bofur encouraged, pushing a fresh block towards her. "Just a simple cut. Feel the wood."

Foxglove swallowed, a spark of trepidation mixing with her excitement. This was entirely new territory. She picked up the knife, the cool steel feeling surprisingly heavy in her palm. Remembering Bifur’s steadying hand, she positioned the blade against the wood, took a breath, and pushed. The wood resisted for a moment, then gave way with a soft, tearing sound. A small, imperfect curl of wood detached.

It wasn't elegant, but it was a start. A small, hopeful piece of the old world taking root in the new, shaped by her own hands, guided by the patient wisdom of her dwarven friends. The lessons for whittling had truly begun.

Chapter 16

Meanwhile, back in the quieter confines of the Ri family chambers, Bilbo Baggins sat at his desk. His gaze, unseeing for a moment, drifted towards the door. He saw Foxglove sneak out, a flash of white hair and fierce determination shining in her reddish-pink eyes – a sight that usually sparked his curiosity, but today, his mind was elsewhere. Before him lay a daunting stack of journals, each one a testament to the meticulous record-keeping of the dwarven royal family. Some of the journals were not filled, untouched pages waiting for future chronicles, but he was pulled to one from the days he was out in the dwarrow markets, its binding worn just so. His thoughts, however, were not on chronicles of old but on courtship – specifically, on finding the perfect, meaningful gift for Thorin. Dis and Vili had offered countless suggestions, practical and profound: a finely wrought brooch, a rare gem, a volume of ancient dwarrow poetry, even a highly practical set of travelling gear. But none truly felt... him. None seemed to capture the essence of what he wanted to convey.

Then, as his gaze drifted over the varied bindings, an idea struck him with the force of a sudden, brilliant flash of fireworks. He carefully selected one that instantly reminded him of home – a soft, moss-green, leather-bound journal, its texture comforting beneath his fingers, like rich soil or the velvet of a hobbit-hole wall. It was one of the empty ones, He pulled his quill and inkpot closer, a tremor of excitement, tinged with a deeper nervousness, running through him.

He began to write, not in Westron, the common tongue he shared with many, but in the flowing, guttural script of Khuzdul, a language he had diligently studied and practiced, driven by a deep desire to truly connect with Thorin’s world. From the depths of his memory, he poured forth all the Shire tales he had ever heard, every scrap of Shire history his Ma and Da had shared with him – the quaint customs of Elevenses and Second Breakfast, the peculiar legends of the Old Took and the origin of smoking pipe-weed, the whimsical rhymes sung by hobbit-lads and lasses in the meadows. He detailed the changing seasons, the importance of good loam, the joys of a well-tended garden, and the simple, profound pleasures of home and hearth. He knew it would take him at least a week to complete, this monumental task of transcribing his entire world onto paper. The tales and histories of his fellow hobbits flowed over the pages, complete with charming, slightly clumsy sketches of rolling hills, cozy smials, and hobbits dancing around a Maypole.

Deep in the back of the book, his hand shook as he contemplated imparting on the second great hobbit secret. It was a truth whispered only among families, a sacred trust passed down through generations, hidden from the wider world. The one Yavanna, in her infinite wisdom and love for their quiet, earth-bound people, had imparted on his people so couples, whether they be male hobbit and female hobbit, or two females or two males, could have children. Instead of faunts being carried within a hobbit-lass, as was custom in most of the world, faunts could be grown in special plots of land, carefully and lovingly tended to for just that purpose. It was a secret of the very earth, of growth and nurturing, deeply entwined with their nature. Bilbo bit his lip, the quill hovering, his hand shaking with the weight of revealing such a profound, intimate truth about his people, a truth almost as personal as his own heart. He took a fortifying breath, remembering why he was doing this – for Thorin, for a deeper understanding, for a future. He mentally shook himself, pushing past the trepidation, and put his quill to the pages, letting the knowledge of his people, in all its sacred beauty, be recorded.

He wanted Thorin to understand not just him, but where he came from, the very essence of the earth that had shaped him, the invisible threads of custom and history that wove through his being.

When the week had passed, filled with the scratching of a quill, the rustle of pages, and the quiet murmur of memories, his hand-crafted courtship gift to Thorin was done. The moss-green journal, now heavy with his heart and history, felt imbued with a new kind of magic. He meticulously inscribed a dedication on the front cover, each Khuzdul rune placed with care, deliberate and profound: "A piece of where I came from written in your language." He closed the book, a quiet sense of triumph and profound hope filling him. Now, all that remained was to present it.
Bilbo’s ink-stained fingers trembled slightly as he carefully closed the now thick, moss-green journal. He had poured his hobbit heart into its verdant pages, from the very first sketch of Bag End with its dedication to the 'Love of my Life, my Mountain King', to the very last, deeply personal secret. Every page held a piece of him, a tapestry woven from the familiar threads of the Shire and the wondrous encounters of his grand adventure.

Tales from the Shire, legends whispered by the firelight, histories of forgotten hobbit-holes and brave Tooks, family recipes meticulously transcribed with notes on the best way to toast certain muffins or churn butter. The importance of Yuletide was detailed, not just for its feasting but for the cosy warmth of family, and the dazzling fireworks Gandalf would show off for the excited fauntlings – vivid sketches of exploding star-bursts and glittering cascades accompanied the memory. Mixed in with all the lore and wisdom Bilbo had painstakingly set down were his sketches. Beyond the initial dedication and Bag End’s familiar green door, there were figures of legend – Bullroarer Took for one example; full, winding maps of the Shire, each lane and brook lovingly depicted. Pictures of certain family recipes, like Mrs. Proudfoot’s prize-winning plum jam, dotted the margins. And right before the very end, carefully placed and intimately hidden, was the secret of Yavanna’s Blessing for faunts. He had even, on two dedicated pages, sketched the elegant, blossoming fireworks mainly used for the joyous Festival of Spring, symbols of new beginnings and growth.

Bilbo stretched, a soft groan escaping him from sitting so long, his back aching pleasantly. He pulled the journal to his chest, its weight a comforting, yet terrifying, presence against his waistcoat. He stumbled out of the Ri family chambers, the ornate Dwarven architecture still feeling impossibly grand after so many years. Spotting a familiar guard, his face still and solemn, Bilbo addressed him, "Hello, Master Dwarf. Do you know where King Thorin would be?"

The guard’s usually stern eyes crinkled at the corners, a rare twinkle appearing. "You're in luck, Master Baggins. He's in his quarters, resting from a particularly draining session in court."
Bilbo let out a relieved sigh, a little burst of air that barely disturbed the regal silence of the halls. He nodded, "Thank you… very much." Then, clutching the journal tighter, he drifted away, his heart a frantic drumbeat against his ribs, nervous that his first, most intimate courtship gift might be rejected.

When he arrived at King Thorin's chambers, he hesitated for a long moment, then gathered his courage and knocked. He heard Thorin’s voice, an exhausted and slightly rough "Enter" echoing from within. Bilbo pushed open the heavy door, finding Thorin exactly as the guard had implied: sitting in one of the grand, carved chairs by the roaring fireplace, his crown resting beside him on a small table, his head buried in his hands. He looked utterly spent.

Bilbo slowly walked over, his hobbit feet making little sound on the polished stone floor. He used one hand, placing it gently on Thorin's shoulder. "Thorin?"

Thorin’s head shot up, his body tensing instinctively, ready for some new crisis. Then his eyes locked onto Bilbo, and the tension visibly melted from his powerful frame, replaced by a profound weariness and something else – a deep, almost hungry affection. "Ah, Bilbo," he murmured, his voice softer, "My One. How are you?"

Bilbo bit his lip, fidgeting slightly, the journal still clutched precariously. "I'm… um, alright. I have my first courtship gift ready for you."

Then, with a deep breath, he held out the moss-green journal. His hands were still shaking, just perceptibly. Thorin, with a gentle, almost reverent touch, took the book from Bilbo’s trembling fingers, his brow furrowed in curiosity. He gestured for Bilbo to sit beside him in the other chair, opposite him, by the warm hearth.

When Thorin opened the journal, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly at seeing the flowing, elegant script of Khuzdul – a language few outside the Dwarrow ever mastered, let alone a hobbit.

Thorin's eyes drifted over the words, his initial surprise giving way to a quiet, profound wonder as he read over Bilbo's work. His calloused fingers gently touched the intricate sketches Bilbo had so carefully drawn – the familiar curves of Bag End, the vibrant burst of Gandalf’s fireworks, the delicate outlines of Shire maps. He could feel Bilbo's heart beating in the pages, a tangible warmth emanating from the very paper. He saw the recipes, the Shire lore, the gentle humour and deep love for his home.

His gaze travelled further, deeper into the book, his expression softening, then growing more intense. When he came to the very back of the journal, his finger tracing the final paragraph, he felt his heart stop. There, in bold, familiar script, were the words: ‘Yavanna’s Hidden Blessing of Faunts: The Planting Seed.’

His hands, which had been so steady as he held the immense weight of Erebor on his shoulders, now trembled. He carefully, so very carefully, turned the page. He read the information written there, his eyes widening with each line, each revelation. It was a secret, a hope, a possibility he had never dared to dream of, a lore from the Eldar and even of the Valar themselves, translated and explained in a hobbit’s loving hand. He closed the journal, just as carefully, his breathing shallow. He looked up at Bilbo, who was now fidgeting almost uncontrollably, twisting his hands in his lap.

"Bilbo," Thorin’s voice was a low rumble, thick with emotion, "are… are you saying, if we so chose, we can…"

Bilbo nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Yes."

That single word was a dam breaking. Thorin rose from his chair, the journal falling unheeded onto the cushion. He knelt in front of Bilbo, his powerful frame shaking. He wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s waist, burying his face into the soft fabric of Bilbo’s waistcoat, against his stomach. His whole body trembled, not from sorrow, but from a torrent of emotion so profound it nearly buckled him.

Thorin’s mind raced, a whirlwind of images and impossible hopes. Pebbles. Of my own. Tiny, precious stones to hold in my arms. The thought surged through him, raw and fierce. Cousins for Fili, Kili, Gimli, and Bombur’s litter to play with. A future, not just for Erebor, but for us. For our line. Then his mind halted, a new, almost mischievous thought blazing through the overwhelming joy. 'Foxglove… and Frerin… Mahal… surely Foxglove knows, and has known. She’s too clever not to. But Frerin… Frerin will be a mess. A magnificent, adoring mess.' A big, smug grin, one rarely seen by anyone outside his closest family, went across Thorin’s face at the utterly delicious thought of his mischievous brother being well and truly a father.

The fire in Thorin’s grand chambers crackled, casting a warm, dancing glow across the richly carved stone and the soft furs scattered on the floor. Thorin, King Under the Mountain, had drawn back slowly, settling himself comfortably with his head nestled in Bilbo’s lap. The Hobbit, ever so gentle, almost hesitantly ran his fingers through Thorin’s loosened braids, a soothing rhythm against his scalp. The journal, bound in soft green leather and smelling faintly of dried herbs and the Shire, lay open beside them. It was Bilbo’s first courtship gift, a meticulously kept record of something ancient and wondrous.

Thorin’s eyes, heavy with contentment and a touch of awe from what he’d just read, blinked a few times before he murmured, "Bilbo?"

Bilbo hummed, his fingers never faltering. “Yes, my dear?”

"Does Foxglove know of the Planting Seed?" Thorin asked, the question carrying a weight of wonder.

Bilbo’s lips curved into a slight, impish smile. "Oh yes, she badgered ma to tell the lore over and over till we both had it memorized. It was her favorite story, even more than the one about the giants who ate clouds."

A soft laugh rumbled in Thorin’s chest, the sound a deep current of pure happiness. "Can you imagine Frerin’s reaction?"

Bilbo giggled, the sound like tiny bells. "Oh, I bet he'd faint. He’d probably start building nurseries before the saplings even sprouted."

“Oh, most likely,” Thorin chuckled, picturing his brother’s predictably dramatic and overenthusiastic response.

He looked over at the journal again, picking it up and bringing it closer to them, his thumb tracing the elegant script. "Do you know… how many?"

Bilbo noticeably swallowed, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. His fingers stilled in Thorin’s hair for a moment before resuming their gentle caress. "Well, that's the thing. Um… a single planting can give anywhere from twins up to five babies in one planting…"

Thorin’s brain screeched to a halt. ‘Five?! Five fauntlings?!’ His eyes widened, a mixture of stupefied shock and dawning, terrifying delight blooming in his chest. Five tiny, demanding pebbles, faunts all at once? He was king! He had a kingdom to lead! He had… oh, Valar.

Bilbo, sensing Thorin’s internal panic, continued as if oblivious. "Though I’m not sure how the gift would hold up in the mountain soil. We’d have to use some of the soil from your grandmother’s gardens as a base because of the love and care Foxglove and I put into the soil. However, I think we should wait till at least we are married. I’m sure your sister would have a fit… and so would Dori."

Thorin burst out laughing, the sound echoing richly in the chamber. The image of Dis, his formidable sister, teaming up with the equally formidable Dori, both of them undoubtedly armed with glares and scolding words, was enough to make even a King Under the Mountain quake. ‘Scary dwarrowdames…’ he mused inwardly, a wave of affection for their protective natures washing over him.

He grinned, a wonderfully mischievous glint in his blue eyes, as he leaned more comfortably against Bilbo’s legs. "Speaking of siblings… have you seen how Dori and Balin reacted to each other?"

Bilbo’s own grin widened. "Like Nori and Dwalin?"

They both dissolved into another peal of laughter, the sound warm and uninhibited, filling the space between them. It was a comfortable, easy laughter born of shared understanding and deep affection.

As Bilbo calmed, he smoothed Thorin’s unruly hair once more. "I think they will start courting soon. Dori was concerned about Foxglove and I courtship starting off correctly before moving on to her own. Getting Nori and Dwalin to start courting though… you might have to lock the pair into a closet. Or perhaps a very small, very dark mine shaft."

Thorin hummed, closing his eyes and letting Bilbo’s gentle touch and the warmth of the fire envelop him. Five fauntlings. It was a daunting, overwhelming thought, but looking at Bilbo, the gentle Hobbit whose presence had brought so much light and joy back into his grim existence, Thorin felt a surge of pure, unadulterated hope. With Bilbo by his side, anything, even five fauntlings, seemed possible. More than possible – it seemed like the most wonderful adventure of all.

Chapter 17

The scent of fresh paint and wood chips hung heavy in the air of Bofur and Bifur’s bustling workshop, though in the backroom, amidst the usual delightful chaos of gears and metal, a profound silence had settled. Foxglove Baggins, a hobbit-lass whose hands were more accustomed to sewing, cooking or gardening, held a delicate brush, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. The miniaturized façade of Bag End – complete with its iconic green door and round windows – was almost finished.

Borin, a guard from Dwalin's company, sat patiently on a stool, his posture rigid but his eyes soft with an unmistakable awe. Dwalin himself had assigned Borin to Foxglove, at Borin’s own earnest request, to see this peculiar courtship gift through. For a week, he had borne witness to her single-minded determination, her tireless efforts to master a craft entirely foreign to her. He’d watched her struggle with tiny brushes, learned to mix paints, and meticulously studied the intricate details of what was clearly a labor of love. The sheer will she possessed, a quiet, unyielding force, had captivated him.

Now, as the last stroke of emerald green settled on the tiny door, Foxglove let out a soft, almost imperceptible breath. The miniature Bag End, a mere few inches high, shimmered under the gaslight. She set the brush down, her gaze fixed on the tiny creation, then shifted to the large, empty glass terrarium waiting patiently on a nearby table. Bofur had assured her, with a hearty slap to his thigh, that this backroom was "No one goes in there but my cousin and I. The gift will be safe."

Slowly, deliberately, Foxglove began the assembly. First, she poured in a layer of rich, dark earth, borrowed with special permission from the Queen’s own garden, its scent grounding and familiar. Then, with an almost surgical precision, she arranged carefully gathered clumps of moss, coaxing them into hills and valleys that mimicked the rolling, verdant pastures of the Shire. Small, smooth stones and pebbles were placed next, forming a winding path that led with meticulous accuracy right up to the spot where the miniature Bag End would eventually sit.
Tiny, intricately crafted bushes followed, their leaves painstakingly rendered. Then came the delicate blossoms – miniature versions of her ma’s preferred Forget-Me-Nots and her da’s cheerful Marigolds, each petal a testament to hours of patient crafting. She paused, checking the paint on the miniature house with a feather-light touch. It was dry.

With a deep, shaky breath, Foxglove picked up the tiny Bag End. Her hands began to tremble as she lowered it into its designated place, nesting it perfectly at the end of the stone path. The weight of weeks of effort, of countless hours of learning and creating, pressed down on her. She added the fence, a delicate filigree of wire, and then the countless other knickknacks – a tiny washing line with minuscule clothes, a wheelbarrow tipped on its side, a scattering of pebbles that looked like they’d just been trod upon.

Her final touch was the most significant. On the side, nestled in the mossy grasses beside the front door, she carefully placed a tiny, flat stone. Painted upon it were the seven stars, the ancient symbol of the Durin line, positioned just over a barely visible, yet distinct, Baggins symbol. It was almost as if the dwarven stars stood guard, protecting the hobbit home.
With everything in its place, Foxglove lifted the glass lid. Her hands were shaking so much that Bofur, who had been watching with an open mouth and shining eyes, instinctively reached out as if to steady her. But she found the groove, guiding the lid down with a soft, final hiss as it sealed the terrarium, preserving her miniature world within.

She stepped back, her whole frame trembling, and took in the finished product. It was magnificent. The light caught the glass, making the tiny world inside glow with an impossible vibrancy.
Bofur, for once, was speechless. He slowly took off his cap, a wide, pure joy spreading across his face. Bifur, usually quiet, was looking at the terrarium, his wide brown eyes filled with an unmistakable glimmer of pride. Borin, too, had removed his helmet, placing it carefully on the workbench with a soft thump. He simply stared, a look of profound awe etched onto his face.
Foxglove’s voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, cracking with exhaustion and overwhelming relief. "I... I did it..."

Bofur let out a whoop, leaping into the air and throwing his cap towards the ceiling. "You did it, lass! By the King under the Mountain, you truly did it!"

Borin, moving with an unusual gentleness for such a large dwarf, stepped closer to the glass, his eyes tracing the intricate details of the miniature world. He didn't touch it, merely observed, an unspoken reverence in his gaze. He looked at Foxglove, his voice deep and sincere. "Milady, I'd be honored to carry this for you."

A wide, watery smile broke across Foxglove’s face, tears finally welling in her eyes. "T... thank you, Borin," she managed, her voice thick with emotion. "I'd be so grateful. If I tried to carry it now... I'd drop it for sure."

Foxglove slowly sank to the floor, her eyes locked on the finished Bag End terrarium in front of her. It glowed faintly, a miniature world meticulously crafted: the tiny, Bag End nestled into a gentle hill, perfectly scaled trees with leaves of spun copper and jade, a winding path of crushed quartz leading to a delicate, arching bridge over a shimmering ribbon of resin ‘water’. Every detail, from the miniature clothesline outside a wee circular door to the almost invisible curl of smoke from a tiny chimney, spoke of countless hours of painstaking effort, of love poured into glass and earth.

As she stared, tears began to flow, a maelstrom of emotions crashing over her. Relief, yes, a profound, bone-deep relief that it was truly done. Emotional exhaustion, the sheer weight of pouring her soul into recreating a piece of everything she had lost. Physical exhaustion, her fingers aching, her back protesting from bending over the work for days. And now, a nervous tremor, the sheer vulnerability of presenting this deeply personal creation to Frerin.

Bofur knelt beside her, his large, calloused hand hovering near her hair, careful not to disturb the delicate strands. His voice was a soft rumble, gentle as a mountain stream. "Foxglove? You alright, lassie?"
Foxglove nodded slowly, a choked sound escaping her throat. "It's… it's done… I can't believe I did it."

Bofur's smile was warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Aye, you did, lassie. You should be proud of your creation. It's a marvel."

Foxglove tore her gaze away from the miniature landscape and looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with an undeniable brilliance. "I am so proud of it. I just didn't realize how emotionally draining it would be to see it finished. It feels… like a piece of my heart."

Bofur smiled softly, the understanding in his eyes deep and ancient. On her other side, Bifur knelt, his own quiet presence a balm. He gently pulled her to rest her forehead against his shoulder, letting her lean into his sturdy frame. His low grumble grounding source of comfort and pride. "Your adad and amad would be so proud of you, little one."

The mention of her parents was the final trigger. Foxglove covered her face in her hands, letting out a sob that seemed to carry two years of unwept tears, of courage held too long in check.
Borin, who had been watching from a respectful distance, felt a familiar ache in his own chest. He remembered that when Bilbo and Foxglove had arrived at the Mountain two years ago, they were freshly orphaned, their small, brave faces etched with a grief too profound for their years. The Fell Winter, a blight that had frozen the very breath in the air, had swept through the Shire, claiming lives and livelihoods. Their parents, fox shifters like Foxglove and Bilbo, had stood their ground in their small fox forms, fighting off the fell wolves and bitter cold to give their children precious moments to escape. Those terrifying moments had led Foxglove and Bilbo across desolate lands, guided by a desperate instinct, until they found the stout walls of the House of Ur and the welcoming hearth of the House of Ri, sheltered within the Mountain's embrace. Borin dropped his gaze to the ground, mentally sending a silent, heartfelt prayer to Mahal, and to Mahal's Wife, Yavanna, that her parents found peace in the verdant, eternal gardens beyond the veil, watching over their remarkable children.

Slowly, the storm of grief receded, leaving behind a quiet ache that was now intertwined with the immense pride she felt. When Foxglove's tears were done, Bofur slowly and gently helped her to her feet. With Bifur, he carefully approached the terrarium. Together, they lifted the precious creation, its glass walls cool and smooth, and carefully wrapped it in the same rich, emerald green cloth that had been used to bring the custom-blown glass from Master Lir’s glassmakers workshop.

Borin, who had taken off his helmet out of respect for her grief, quickly put it back on, the metallic click a sign of his renewed purpose. He walked over, taking the carefully wrapped terrarium from Bofur and Bifur. A silent understanding passed between the three Dwarves; this was more than just a gift, it was a piece of Foxglove’s soul, a bridge between her lost past and her hopeful future. Borin gently but firmly wrapped his arms around the terrarium, its weight surprisingly profound despite his formidable strength – it wasn’t just glass and earth, but the culmination of grief and hope, a precious, fragile cargo.

Borin looked over at Foxglove, his gruff voice softer than usual. "I believe we will find Frerin on the training grounds right now."

Foxglove took a deep, steadying breath, her chin lifting. The last vestige of her tears had dried, leaving behind a quiet determination. "Alright," she said, her voice clear, infused with a newfound courage. "Let's go present this gift to my intended."

The scent of coal smoke and hot metal clung to the air of Bofur’s workshop, a familiar comfort to its dwarven inhabitants, but perhaps less so to the small figure who now stepped over the threshold. Bofur, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners, held the heavy oaken door wide, allowing Borin and Foxglove to pass through.

Foxglove’s usually cheerful face was a canvas of exhaustion and raw emotion. Her reddish-pink eyes, normally bright with curiosity, were swollen and more red than pink, twin paths of tear streaks glistening on her pale cheeks. She stumbled slightly, her small frame swaying, but Borin’s arm was a steadfast anchor at her elbow. He walked with a quiet purpose, his broad shoulders squared, a carefully wrapped package held reverently in his arms. It wasn’t heavy, not truly, but its significance made him treat it as if it were spun from starlight.

They began their slow procession through the labyrinthine passages of the dwarven workshops. The sounds of industry – the ringing clang of hammers on anvils, the rhythmic hiss of steam from miniature forges, the whir of gem-cutting lathes – began to fade as they passed. Heads turned. Jewel craftsmen paused, their magnifying loupes slipping from their eyes, their intricate work laid aside. Miners, fresh from the tunnels, their faces smudged with dust, straightened up from their discussions. All around them, dwarrow stopped what they were doing, their gaze drawn, first to Borin’s unusual burden, then to Foxglove’s distraught appearance.

Curiosity rippled through the onlookers, a silent wave of questions in their eyes. Was she hurt? What was in the package? But then, as their experienced dwarven eyes sharpened, a different understanding began to dawn. They saw the careful, almost ceremonial way Borin held the package, the way Foxglove, despite her tears, still held herself with a fragile pride. The streaks on her face weren’t just sorrow; they were the residue of intense focus, of frustration, of sheer, overwhelming effort. They were the tears of a creator.

A hush, profound and reverent, began to fall over the workshops. The clang of hammers softened, then ceased. The hum of drills died down. A collective realization washed over them, a silent murmur of awe passing from one to another. She had finished it. The first courtship gift. Her offering, a piece of her soul and skill, crafted with the devotion only such a serious declaration commanded. This was not merely a present; it was a promise, a challenge, a testament.

As if by an unspoken command, the crowds parted, creating a wide berth for Borin and Foxglove. Faces that had been curious now held expressions of deep respect, some even reverence. They understood the monumental effort, the cultural weight of this moment. They stepped aside, allowing passage for this quiet, weighty procession.

Finally, they reached the massive, carved doors that led to the outside world. Even through the thick stone, they could faintly hear the sharp, rhythmic clash of iron on iron, accompanied by the hearty cheers of the training grounds. Borin pushed open one of the doors, revealing the bright, crisp air of the Iron Hills, the sky a vast canvas of blue above them.

He led Foxglove towards a section of the training grounds where a few dwarrow were practicing, their movements fluid and powerful. Her eyes found Frerin instantly, standing beside Vili, their heads close as they spoke quietly.

Vili, ever observant, noticed the small hobbit first. His brow furrowed slightly in concern at her appearance, then his gaze shifted to Borin and the wrapped parcel. His eyes widened just a fraction, the subtle movement enough for him to nudge Frerin with his elbow, a silent, pointed gesture.

Frerin turned, his focus shifting from Vili to Foxglove. For a moment, he was utterly still, a statue carved from concern, his blue eyes searching her tear-streaked face. Then, as if a dam had broken within him, he started to move, walking towards her with long, purposeful strides.

Borin stood silently beside Foxglove, a steadfast guardian, as Frerin stopped directly in front of her. His blue eyes, usually alight with a playful mischief, were now gleaming with a mixture of concern and an underlying question. "Foxglove? Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it.

Foxglove nodded, her throat tight. "Yes, Frerin. I'm… I’m alright." She swallowed hard, gathering her courage. "I have my first courtship gift for you." Her gaze went to the package in Borin’s arms, then back to Frerin. "Created by my hands, though one part I requested because it was from a forge. Hobbits and heat don't mix well," she admitted with a small, watery smile, a flicker of her usual self returning. "Lords Bofur and Bifur taught me how to whittle wood for my creation. They were very patient."

Frerin nodded, his gaze unwavering, a silent intensity in his eyes. Borin, understanding the cue, walked carefully over to a large, flat-cut stone that served as a resting place for training weapons. With the utmost care, he gently placed the wrapped creation on the stone, then stepped back, allowing Foxglove her moment.

Foxglove walked towards the unseen object, her frame trembling once more, not from exhaustion now, but from the enormity of the moment. Her fingers, still stained faintly with wood dust and something resembling dried tears, fumbled slightly as she untied the cloth. With a deep breath that hitched slightly, she began to pull it away.

"Frerin," she began, her voice gaining strength with each word, "I present to you… Bag End, in all of its miniaturized comfort and simplicity."

Then, with a flourish that belied her earlier exhaustion, she dropped the last of the cloth from around the terrarium.

The sun, high and bright, struck the clear glass, making the enclosed world seem to glow from within. Inside, meticulously crafted and breathtakingly detailed, sat a miniature hobbit-hole. Not just any hobbit-hole, but Bag End. The iconic round green door, the small, perfectly painted windows, the little garden path leading to a tiny bench. Every blade of grass, every tiny flower, every curve of the roof was rendered with astonishing precision. Inside, through the glass, one could see the hint of a warm, inviting interior, a tiny fireplace and a comfortable armchair. It was a complete world, perfectly self-contained, a miniature slice of hobbit serenity.

Frerin stood, utterly shocked to his core. His breath caught in his throat as he walked closer, his blue eyes, now wide with disbelief and wonder, devouring every minute detail of the carvings. Vili, equally astounded, followed closely behind him. Frerin took another step, then another, until he was directly in front of the terrarium. The sheer artistry, the devotion, the meaning of it all was overwhelming. He sank slowly to the ground, his knees giving way, his gaze fixed on the glowing, tiny world. Awe, pure and profound, was clear on his face, erasing all other emotions.
From her vantage point, a faint smile gracing her tear-worn face, Foxglove caught Vili’s expression. It was nothing but pure pride, mixed with a deep, knowing understanding. He saw it – how she had chosen to give a gift of herself, a piece of her very hobbit nature, yet presented it in a way that resonated deeply with dwarrow courtship tradition. It was a masterpiece, a home, a declaration, and a future, all contained within glass, shining like a promise under the dwarven sky.

The training grounds of Erebor, usually a cacophony of clanging metal, booming commands, and the rhythmic thud of war hammers on practice dummies, fell into an uncharacteristic, profound silence. Hundreds of Dwarrow, from grizzled veterans to the youngest axe-wielders, were frozen in place, their eyes unanimously fixed on a scene unfolding near the sun-drenched eastern wall.

There, Frerin, Prince of Erebor, brother to Thorin Oakenshield King under the Mountain, was on his knees. Not in battle, not in supplication to his king, but before a Hobbit lass with a cascade of white curls, and a gift unlike any ever seen within the Lonely Mountain.

The gift was a terrarium, a glass dome, meticulously crafted and surprisingly large, resting on a pedestal carved from a single piece of polished stone. As the morning sunlight streamed through the training grounds, it struck the terrarium, making it glow with an ethereal warmth. Inside, miniature trees, tiny shrubs, and a perfectly scaled, round green door with a brass knocker, nestled into a grassy hill, announced themselves as an impossibly detailed replica of Bag End.

Frerin’s gaze was fixed on the tiny dwelling, the familiar warmth and comfort of it radiating even from his miniaturized version. The memories of Foxglove’s stories, whispered late into the nights, of cozy firesides, of overflowing pantries, of a quiet, peaceful life within those very walls, flooded his mind. He turned his head slowly, still on his knees, to face her, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Foxglove," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion, "this... this is amazing. You worked on this all week?"

Foxglove, her own eyes shimmering, nodded, a single tear escaping to trace a path down her cheek. "Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "my childhood home now rests within your childhood home."

The silence from the assembled dwarrow was deafening. No one moved, no one spoke, as the raw, tender emotion of the moment hung heavy in the air.
Frerin carefully, almost reverently, stood up. He reached out, not for the terrarium, but for Foxglove herself. He scooped her up effortlessly, her feet leaving the ground, and spun her gently in a slow circle, a low, joyful laugh rumbling in his chest. Then, he pulled her into a firm, unyielding hug, burying his face into the fragrant softness of her white curls.

"I love it, Foxglove," he murmured, his words muffled against her hair. "I will cherish it always. Thank you for showing me your childhood home and letting it rest within mine." Cheers erupted from the assembled dwarrow in response to the gift.

Chapter 18

Notes:

Think of this one mid week for Bilbo and Foxglove's working on their gifts for Thorin and Foxglove.

Unknown to Foxglove, who was in the middle of creating her terrarium for Frerin, the dwarf prince was facing a meeting of his own. Meanwhile, a deep rumble vibrated through the stone heart of Erebor, a sound that Frerin had been anticipating with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. The day before, he had sent a message, an audacious request, to the Elven King Thranduil, seeking an audience at Erebor. To his immense surprise, a reply had come swiftly, confirming the King’s arrival.

Frerin had been pacing at the grand entrance of Erebor for what felt like an age, his boots echoing softly on the polished stone. He straightened his tunic, smoothing a hand over his beard, his eyes fixed on the distant winding road that led up to the Lonely Mountain. Then, a magnificent silhouette appeared against the pale sky – a massive elk, its antlers branching like ancient trees, carrying a figure of austere grace.

As the great creature approached, its hooves making little sound on the dwarf-hewn road, Frerin felt a sudden surge of nervousness. This was no ordinary diplomat; this was the Woodland King, a being of immense power and ancient renown.

The elk halted before him, its breath steaming gently in the cool mountain air. King Thranduil, tall and impossibly elegant in robes of forest green and silver, slid off the elk with a fluid motion that belied his size. Frerin, remembering his manners, moved forward to catch the reins, his fingers brushing the surprisingly soft leather. He held them for a moment, steadying the majestic beast, before handing them back, bowing deeply.

"Thank you for answering my message, King Thranduil," Frerin began, his voice firm despite his internal flutter, "and for coming when you were available."

King Thranduil inclined his head, his eyes, the color of ancient ice, briefly sweeping over Frerin. "You are welcome, Prince Frerin. Now, can you explain more about this request you have of me? Your message was… intriguing, to say the least."

Frerin waved a hand towards the vastness of Erebor behind him. "Let us stable your elk first, King Thranduil, and then we can move to where the discussion would make more sense. I will explain everything in full once we arrive."

Thranduil nodded, a faint hint of curiosity sparking in his eyes as they walked together towards the stables. The stable hand, a young dwarf, bowed low, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to show respect to the unexpected royal guest. He quickly took the elk’s reins, leading it into a spacious stall, before retreating discreetly.

Frerin walked beside King Thranduil, his mind racing, trying to find the perfect words for his deeply personal and rather unusual request. He had rehearsed it a hundred times in his head, but now, with the Elven King’s silent, observant presence beside him, the words felt clumsy and inadequate.

Before long, they arrived at a grand, arched doorway, surprisingly open to the mountain air. This was the entrance to the revitalized Queen's Gardens. Frerin pushed the massive doors open, revealing a breathtaking vista within. He waved King Thranduil inside, stepping back to allow him passage.

The minute King Thranduil stepped inside, he was left stunned. The air, cool and fresh just moments ago, became infused with a soft warmth, thick with the scent of damp earth, blooming flowers, and verdant moss. Sunlight, channeled through ingenious dwarven engineering from unseen shafts above, bathed every corner in a gentle glow. Vibrant greens, from deep emerald to shimmering jade, unfurled in a riotous tapestry. Flowers of every imaginable hue bloomed in impossible abundance, climbing walls, cascading from hanging baskets, and forming lush carpets underfoot. The soft murmur of hidden water features provided a soothing melody.

Thranduil felt it instantly—the undeniable grace of Lady Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits, over every inch of the gardens. It was a vibrancy, a life force, that resonated deep within his ancient Elven spirit. He left Frerin’s side, walking slowly, reverently, through the winding paths, his hand occasionally brushing against a dew-kissed leaf or a perfect petal. He came to a stop in the very middle of the central grove, a place where a magnificent, ancient-looking tree rose towards the light. He turned, looking back at Frerin, his regal composure momentarily shattered, a faint hint of awe in his voice.

"You say the hobbits, Bilbo and Foxglove, did this?" Thranduil’s voice was barely above a whisper, laced with disbelief and profound wonder.

Frerin nodded, walking over to join him, his chest swelling with pride. "Yes, King Thranduil. It took them two years of daily, tireless care. Every seed, every sapling, every stone laid was chosen and placed by their hands. But they knew how much Grandmother's Gardens meant to us, to my family, after her passing and King Thror locking it up from us. So they made it their mission to give us a piece of our grandmother back, to heal a wound in our hearts."

Thranduil stood, silent and motionless, simply staring at the verdant miracle around him. He remembered meeting the late Queen in this very room, the last time he had visited Erebor. After she passed it became devoid of life, he silently despaired at ever seeing it vibrant again. To see it now, transformed into such a vibrant, living testament to life and resilience, was nothing short of miraculous.

Frerin spoke quietly, breaking the spell of Thranduil’s silence. "The reason I asked for you to come here was for you to see this, yes. But primarily, it was for a request concerning my One, Foxglove."

Thranduil stilled. His attention snapped back to Frerin, his earlier awe giving way to a renewed, piercing curiosity. He moved to sit, his back gracefully leaning against the rough bark of the central tree, his gaze fixed intently on the dwarf prince. "What can I help you with, Prince Frerin?"

Frerin took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Foxglove spoke to me of a flower her mother found in Rivendell. A flower that bloomed only at night, in one of the gardens dedicated to Lady Yavanna herself. Foxglove’s mother called it 'Moon’s Grace.' She wasn’t sure if that was its true name, only what her mother had called it. But Foxglove spoke of wishing to have one here, in honor of her mother, as well as to grow it in these very gardens." He gestured around them, encompassing the vibrant Queen’s Gardens. "I wish to ask if you, King Thranduil, possess this plant, or if you know its true name. And, if you do, if there are any more flowers in your realm that are of the night-blooming variety. Foxglove gave us our grandmother's garden back, King Thranduil. I wish to give her a night garden."

Thranduil sat utterly stunned, staring at the dwarf prince before him. The request was so profoundly unexpected, so deeply personal, and yet, in the heart of this impossible, blooming mountain, it somehow made perfect sense.

The late afternoon sun, filtered through the crystal windows above blossoming trees of Erebor’s rebuilt gardens, cast long, dappled shadows across the stone path where Prince Frerin sat with King Thranduil. Around them, the vibrant hues of spring flowers exploded in joyous profusion – a testament to the tireless efforts of Frerin’s One Foxglove and Thorin's One Bilbo.

Frerin, his eyes alight with a tale he clearly loved to tell, gestured expansively. "And so, King Thranduil, it was Foxglove, with Bilbo's help, who truly breathed life back into my grandmothers' old gardens. They understood the soil, the water, the very spirit of the plants, like no Dwarf ever could. They brought back colours and scents we thought were lost forever." He paused, a softer, almost reverent look on his face. "But there's one bloom, one memory, that Foxglove cherishes above all others. Her mother, you see, was a great traveler. She spoke of a flower, hidden deep within the gardens of Rivendell, that she called 'Moon's Grace.' Foxglove wishes more than anything to see it, to have it grow here, in these very gardens."

Thranduil, who had been leaning against a moss-covered stone archway, his gaze distant, slowly straightened. The casual mention of Rivendell and a hidden flower, Moon's Grace, sent a sudden, sharp jolt through him. His own gardens, the quiet, secluded arbours in the heart of Mirkwood, flashed through his mind. Then, like a dam breaking, a cascade of memories, vibrant and bittersweet, surged forward.

Hidden in Rivendell… Moon's Grace… The descriptions Foxglove’s mother must have given, relayed by Frerin, echoed too perfectly. They pointed, unmistakably, to her flower. His wife's flower. The one she had carefully, painstakingly cultivated over centuries, pouring her spirit and her artistry into its very essence. Her beloved creation, the Ithil lóth.

And Frerin, Prince of Erebor, was asking about it. Not for conquest, not for plunder, not for personal gain. But for his One. For his love, Foxglove. The thought, so pure and unexpected, caught Thranduil off guard. His breath hitched, a tremor running through him. He slowly crossed his legs, a gesture of profound stillness, his hand rising to subtly touch the ancient bark beside him.
"Frerin," Thranduil said, his voice a low, almost reedy whisper, "Please, sit." He gestured to the stone bench beside him, his eyes closing for a fleeting moment as if to compose himself.
Frerin, sensing the sudden shift in the Elven King's demeanor, slowly, respectfully, sat on the edge of the bench, closer to Thranduil than he’d ever dared. The air around them seemed to thicken, charged with an unspoken history.

Thranduil opened his eyes. They held an ancient sorrow, a depth Frerin hadn't noticed before. "I do have the flower," he began, his voice solemn, each word carefully placed. "However, before I give it to you, I wish to impart the story of how it came to be."

Frerin nodded, utterly focused, his own desire for the flower momentarily forgotten in the face of the King's gravity.

"The flower," Thranduil continued, his gaze drifting over the vibrant blooms around them, "was created by my wife. Not my soul mate, perhaps, but my best friend. The dearest companion who stood at my side through countless ages, who understood the very essence of my being." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, gone as quickly as it came. "It took her centuries to perfect it. Centuries of patience, of trial and error, of coaxing beauty from the very starlight. When she was finally finished, when the Ithil lóth bloomed in its full, ethereal glory, she gave it to Elrond's wife, Celebrían, to aide in her healing after her ordeal with the orcs. It was a gesture of immense love and solace, a token of hope before they both sailed to Valinor." His voice softened further, tinged with a deep, lingering affection. "She had told our children, to help me find my soulmate as well, when the time was right."

Frerin's eyes widened, a dawning comprehension slowly spreading across his face. The weight of the story, the personal sacrifice, the sheer passage of time, settled heavily upon him. "King Thranduil…" he began, his voice thick with apology, "I'm sorry… I…"

Thranduil lifted a hand, a silent gesture to halt Frerin’s stammering. He bowed his head, his long, silver hair falling to cover half his face, obscuring his expression. "I see in your heart that it's true, Frerin," he said, his voice regaining some of its usual strength, though still gentle. "You are asking out of love, not greed."

He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping across the flourishing gardens around them. He saw the healthy, growing things, vibrant with Yavanna's grace, teeming with life. He saw the tangible evidence of Foxglove and Bilbo's efforts, their genuine care. It was not a superficial beauty; it was a deep, resonant harmony.

"I will send the seeds when I return to my realm on my messenger, I will not risk them on your ravens. To easily lost in the air." Thranduil declared, his voice firm, tinged with a new, quiet hope. "The seeds for the Ithil lóth, and all of the night blooms I have. They will thrive here, I believe, with Foxglove's touch." A faint, almost mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. "My only request in return is this: I wish to see the Night Gardens here in Erebor, in full bloom."

Frerin's face lit up, a wide, joyous smile spreading across it. He nodded quickly, eagerly. "Of course, King Thranduil! A request gladly accepted! A night garden, for our friends in the Greenwood. We shall make it shine even brighter than the stars!"

Frerin was about to speak again, the words of the past few days still tumbling in his mind, but Thranduil gave him a small smile. It wasn’t the regal, distant smile of a king, but something softer, more akin to the faint, knowing curve of Legolas’s lips when he’d just gotten away with something clever.

“Now,” Thranduil began, his voice a smooth stream, “I know Legolas hinted at my possible frustration at now witnessing you and King Thorin’s revelations about Foxglove being your One and Bilbo being Thorin’s One.”

Frerin nodded, uncertain where the Elven King was going with this. He braced himself for a lecture on dwarven impulsiveness or perhaps a gentle reminder of protocol, but he was surprised when Thranduil’s eyes, usually cool and discerning, suddenly sparkled in mischievous delight, just like Legolas’s does on a daily basis.

“How did it happen?” Thranduil leaned forward slightly, curiosity plain on his noble features. “How did it feel?”

Frerin sat still for a moment, the unexpected question disarming him. Then, a rumble started deep in his chest, blossoming into a full, hearty laugh as he thought back just a few days ago to the chaotic joy of the coming of age celebration. He looked at the Elven King, who was now leaning slightly forward, a picture of keen interest.

“We spent days planning Foxglove and Bilbo’s coming of age celebration,” Frerin began, a fond smile stretching his lips. “They’re young, but grown, and we wanted it to be memorable. So, on the day it started, we sent Fili and Kili – our nephews, you know – to go get them from the Gardens to wash up and get dressed for the celebration. The minute they stepped inside the great hall, the whole hall erupted, and we all shouted ‘Happy Coming of Age Day!’” Frerin chuckled, the memory vivid. “Poor Foxglove jumped a foot in the air, letting out a little squeak that only sound she could make, and Bilbo, caught entirely off guard, took a step back only to crash directly into Fili, who barely managed to stay upright.” He paused to let the image settle, a warmth spreading through him. “Afterwards, they were passed around between the royal families, everyone giving them the tightest hugs. I do feel a little bad because I nearly squeezed the life out of Bilbo – he’s still so small! – but it was entirely out of love, mind.”Frerin took a moment, gathering his thoughts, the amusement fading into something far more profound. “And then, when I embraced Foxglove… it wasn’t just a hug. It was like the forge inside all dwarrow was struck, a pure, clean blow. My soul was completed. It no longer felt like I had a missing piece in my heart and soul, like I’d been walking around half-formed all my life.”

Frerin went quiet, lost in the overwhelming memory, but Thranduil’s voice, a quiet whisper filled with genuine awe, broke the silence. “It felt like home…”

Frerin nodded, glancing at the Elven King who looked up at the intricate tree branches above them, his expression distant, thoughtful.

Frerin chuckled, the previous profound moment lightened by another comical memory. “Thorin’s face when he embraced Bilbo is one I will cherish for the rest of my life. It was like someone had solid-gold-hit him over the head with a hammer. Just utter bewilderment. Meanwhile, Bilbo stood in his embrace, just frozen, his face turning red as a ripe berry as the reality sat in, thick and heavy. We’d been planning this celebration for months, and then this happens! Dis, our sister, she’s sharp, she figured it out first. She asked us what was wrong, why we were both looking like we’d seen a dragon and found a mountain of gold at the same time. When we both said, at the exact same moment, that we found our Ones, well…”

Frerin leaned back, a wide grin breaking across his face. “Everyone in unison looked at Dori. The poor dwarrowdame looked like she was about to fall over right there and then! Two Ones, declared at the same instant, after centuries of no new discoveries in the royal line. It was quite a moment.”

He continued, the excitement of the aftermath still palpable. “Foxglove and Bilbo, bless their small, clever hearts, took in the knowledge easily. They’ve lived with us for two years now, in the schools, around the House of Ri they were adopted into, and they’ve been asking questions, learning the dwarrow culture with a zeal that made most scholars surprised. They’re quick studies.”

“The celebrations were even better after that, actually,” Frerin found himself saying, the joy reigniting. “Especially after Tauriel and Legolas joined in. They came a little while later, and after a small explanation of the dwarrow Ones – Legolas always has to know everything – they were instantly intrigued by it. Happy for us, of course, and truly excited to see the courtships begin.”
Frerin gave Thranduil a small smile, a touch of mischief now in his own eyes. “It was actually a little while later, after Legolas and Tauriel had compared the dwarrow Ones to the elven soulmate bonds, that Bilbo – the little troublemaker he is – leaned over and whispered, just loud enough for Legolas to hear, ‘What if Thranduil’s One is hidden in the ranks of the dwarrow of Erebor, or one of the men of Dale?’”

Thranduil, who had been listening to Frerin intently, a faint smile playing on his lips, froze. The smile vanished. His eyes, fixed on Frerin, held a sudden, intense stillness. Thranduil’s mind was visibly racing, a storm of thoughts and forgotten impressions coalescing, giving him an answer he hadn’t known he needed until this very second.

Thranduil’s voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, filled with a dawning revelation that sent a shiver through Frerin. “One of the men of Dale?” He repeated the words slowly, as if testing their weight. His gaze drifted, unfocused, as if seeing something beyond the hall. “It… it would explain why I’ve found myself drawn to the roads leading to Dale, with no clear purpose, for so many years.”

Frerin’s eyes widened, a new, monumental implication settling between them. The Elven King, the solitary, ancient ruler of Mirkwood, pulled by an unknown force towards the mortal realm, towards... Dale. The thought was staggering. Frerin jumped to his feet and began pacing, his strategic mind already running over ways to help Thranduil find his one. The King, reclined against the ancient bole of a great oak, watched him with a curious expression anxiety hidden deep his eyes. The moonbeams dappled through the leaves, painting silver streaks across his robes.

Frerin halted his pacing, turning to face the Elven King directly. "When did pulling to Dale start?" he asked, his voice direct, cutting through the fragrant quiet.

Thranduil leaned back further, closing his eyes for a moment, a thoughtful frown touching his brow. The question was unexpected, yet it resonated with a truth he hadn’t dared voice. "18 years ago." The words were soft, almost a whisper, as if he were speaking to himself.

Frerin froze as he listened, his mind coming to a complete stop, a sudden, jarring halt to his rapid calculations. His voice came out strangled. "P...Prince Bard of Dale was born 18 years ago. Mind you, there were probably other births that came during that time, but his is the only who comes to mind right away." The implications hit him like a physical blow, cold and undeniable.
Thranduil was also still, his mind following the same paths as Frerin’s before halting at the impossible thought. His eyes snapped open, a flicker of something akin to terror, then disbelief, crossing his features. He pushed away from the tree, sitting upright, his posture suddenly rigid. He spoke, his voice unusually strained, "Elves know their soulmates at first sight... when their eyes peer into each others..." He trailed off, the ancient lore clashing violently with his own reality.

Frerin’s heart ached for him. He saw the proud King of Greenwood brought low by a truth that defied Elvish understanding. Frerin’s voice broke as he looked at Thranduil. "Have you ever seen him? Locked eyes with him?"

Thranduil shook his head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible, a stark admission of a profound lack. "No, he and his elder brother, Arnis, were always walking through Dale whenever I visited. I would see them from afar, glimpses in the marketplace, but never..." His voice trailed off again, the unfinished sentence hanging heavy in the scented air. Never truly met. Never seen.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis for a moment, a cosmic joke played on the King of all Elves. But Frerin was a dwarf of action, and his mind, once out of its shock, began to whir again, faster than before. If the normal route was blocked, forge a new one!

Frerin began pacing once more, though this time with renewed vigor, a spark of mischievous brilliance igniting in his eyes. He stopped, a smile growing on his face, wide and absolutely triumphant. "What if we were able to arrange a meeting? I'd have to talk to my family about it, but I know of way to get the two of you to meet."

Thranduil’s eyes, which had been clouded with a peculiar blend of longing and despair, now held a glimmer of intrigue, a faint, almost imperceptible spark of hope. "How?" His voice was regaining its usual composure, though the underlying tension was still present.

Frerin’s grin stretched from ear to ear. "A proper announcement! Of Thorin and Bilbo as One, along side Myself and Foxglove as One! Inviting the royal family of Dale as well as yourself and your elder sons from Greenwood for a celebration. Tauriel and Legolas are already here so that's easy." He gestured wildly with his hands, already picturing the grand event, the sheer ingenuity of it.

A slow, understanding nod spread across Thranduil’s face. The cunning of the dwarf was truly something to behold. It was audacious, brilliant, and completely plausible. "Yes," he said, the single word carrying the weight of ancient hope finally given tangible form. "We will come for the announcement."

Frerin clapped his hands together, a sound of pure delight echoing through the quiet grove. "Yes! Now, leave the task of informing Thorin and Dis to me, and you will have an invitation soon enough."

Thranduil inclined his head, a small, genuine, hopeful smile finally gracing his lips.

Chapter 19

The polished stone of Erebor’s halls chilled the air around Thorin Oakenshield as he strode from the throne room, the drone of morning petitions still echoing faintly in his ears. Diplomacy, trade negotiations, and the endless minutiae of ruling a kingdom had left him feeling mentally sated but physically weary. Unbeknownst to him, deep in the Gardens, his cousin Frerin was at that very moment closeted with Thranduil, an encounter Thorin would later learn of with a mixture of amusement and joy.

He was halfway down the grand corridor, heading towards the quiet sanctuary of his own chambers, when a broad smile and an informal air he knew well stopped him short.
“Cousin!” Gloin’s voice, a warm rumble, cut through the corridor’s quiet. There was an unrestrained joy in the dwarf’s eyes, the kind of open delight that only family, truly unbound by courtly decorum, could display. “The gemcutters, they found them. The gems you spoke of finding. The ones that looked like stars fallen down to earth, inspired by the Chamber of Glittering Stars.”

Thorin halted, a sudden, electric jolt shooting through him. The weariness of the morning’s court vanished in an instant, replaced by a roaring surge of hope and excitement. It was a fierce, almost desperate hope, for a gift, a promise, a connection he cherished above all else. His eyes, usually sharp and stern, softened, a flicker of something akin to boyish eagerness sparking within their depths. “Show me.” The word was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of his anticipation.

Gloin, his grin widening, gestured with a sweeping hand. “Follow me, my King, if you please.”

They moved at a brisk pace, leaving the main thoroughfares of the royal levels, descending deeper into the mountain’s heart, where the air grew cooler and the subtle hum of dwarven craft filled the air. The clink of hammers on stone, the whir of polishing wheels, grew louder until they reached a wide cavern, specially carved and lit for the delicate work of the gemcutters.
Stepping inside, Thorin’s breath hitched.

The space was a controlled chaos of activity, though now, the usual din was hushed. A dozen or so gemcutters stood or sat around multiple heavy tables, their faces smudged with dust, their eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, yet a quiet pride radiated from them. And on the tables… Gems. Hundreds of them. Not merely polished, light-catching stones, but gems that glowed with an ethereal, living light, like miniature nebulae captured within crystal. Multiple colors pulsed gently: deep, fathomless blues that mimicked the night sky, vibrant yellows like distant suns, fiery reds like the forges, verdant greens like the grasses around Erebor, and pure, icy whites that looked like trapped starlight. They shimmered and whispered light across the rough-hewn stone walls, turning the cavern into a celestial dreamscape.

Thorin walked slowly, reverently, through the space, a genuine look of awe transforming his features. His gaze lingered on each table, on each captured fragment of the cosmos. He stopped at the first table, drawn by the cool, serene glow of the blue gems. His large, calloused hand, so often gripped around a hammer or an axe, reached out, his fingers surprisingly delicate as he lifted one of the blue stones. It felt cool and smooth in his palm, pulsing with a soft, internal light that seemed to resonate with the quiet beat of his own heart.

He held it gently, turning it, watching the light shift within its depths. Then, he looked up, meeting the weary but expectant gaze of the lead gemcutter, an old, grizzled Dwarf named Dorin, whose hands were scarred but steady.

“My thanks,” Thorin’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, filled with profound gratitude. “To all of you. My craft as blacksmith, as warrior, would not have helped where as you all have. I appreciate your assistance with finding these gems. You all did well.”

Dorin, his gruff, honest voice rumbling in the cavern, shifted his weight. “King Thorin, we all made the choice to find these gems for you. We heard how you spoke of your One, Bilbo, finding such joy in our Chamber of Glittering Stars. We felt how his eyes lit up, how he described the light. We wished to help you, out of the joy of our work being appreciated by the beloved hobbits in our mountain.” The last words, “Beloved Hobbits,” were spoken with a quiet reverence that resonated deeply.

Thorin gently placed the blue gem back on the table, his gaze sweeping across the tired faces before him, then over the other tables laden with their glowing treasures. The realization that they had done this, not out of duty, but out of a shared appreciation for Bilbo’s wonder, out of a deeper familial bond, touched him to his core.

“You all did well,” he repeated, his voice gaining a new timbre, resolute and deeply sincere. “And for this… I will personally work on new cutting tools and pickaxes for all of you as thanks. Each one hammered, sharpened, and balanced by my own hand, specifically for your work.”

A ripple of shock, followed by a surge of deeply pleased expressions, spread through the gemcutters. The King, Thorin Oakenshield himself, offering to craft bespoke tools for them, from his own forge, with his own hands – it was an honor almost unheard of, a testament to the profound gratitude of their monarch. They murmured their thanks, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of such a personal and meaningful reward.

Thorin nodded, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. He knew, with an absolute certainty, that he had found the perfect gift. Not just a gift, but a series of gifts, each one a captured piece of the starry sky, to remind his One of the wonders of Erebor, and of the unique, glittering connection they shared.

The glowing gems, newly cut and polished to a breathtaking brilliance, shimmered with an inner light, casting a soft, ethereal glow across the gem cutters’ workshop. Each stone pulsed softly, miniature suns trapped within crystalline depths. Thorin stood, a figure of regal anticipation, as Dorin, the lead cutter, gestured proudly.

“Do you have chests that the glowing gems can be placed in and carried? I wish to have them moved up into the Royal Wing of the palace.” Thorin’s voice was low, but carried the weight of his purpose.

Dorin nodded, a wide smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty, we have chests set aside for this purpose. They are velvet-lined, to cradle these wonders safely.” He gestured to a row of finely carved wooden boxes. “We will have them gems placed inside and brought up to your quarters. When are you going to give them to Bilbo, Your Majesty?”

Thorin paused, a rare, thoughtful expression on his face. “I will have to speak with my family, but your work will not sit untouched or unnoticed for long.” He knew the Hobbit’s delight would be boundless. Little did Thorin know, his brother Frerin had already begun to plan a thought that could help him with giving this wonderous gift.

Dorin nodded, a smile stretching across his face, radiating understanding. “Of course, Your Majesty, there was no doubt. We just wanted to make sure we had them stored in time for you to give them as a gift.”

Thorin rested his hand on Dorin’s shoulder, a rare, warm gesture of approval. “I understand, Dorin, and thank you.”

At his word, the gem cutters leapt to their feet, their movements precise and practiced. They began to gently place the precious stones into the waiting chests, each gem nestled carefully on silken cushions. Thorin watched, standing beside Gloin, who was practically brimming with excitement, his red beard twitching with anticipation as they witnessed the gems being secured.

When Thorin and Gloin entered the Family Royal Wing, the cacophony of low murmurs and gentle laughter within the family chambers abruptly ceased. Frerin was seen pacing, a whirlwind of focused energy, his face a mask of deep planning. It was something the family normally never saw on their playful, mischievous brother. Dis was sitting on a plush armchair, Vili at her side, a knowing look on her face. Fili and Kili were sitting on the ground in front of them, whispering, while the others of their kin were scattered around the chambers, a comforting presence.
Bofur and Bifur were not present, and when Bombur was asked about their whereabouts, he simply smiled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “They are helping Foxglove,” he said, and offered nothing more.

Frerin spun to face Thorin, his eyes wide, his face going through a range of emotions in rapid succession: relief, awe, understanding, and finally, fierce determination. He strode over to Thorin, put his hands on his brother’s shoulders, and practically vibrated with suppressed energy. “Thorin. I know how we can present our gifts as well as the announcement of Bilbo and Foxglove being our ones!”

Thorin was stunned for a moment, taken aback by the endless energy bursting out of Frerin. Frerin, oblivious, continued speaking as the door opened again, allowing Legolas and Tauriel to slip quietly into the chambers. They found space on the ground between Balin and Dwalin, listening intently. Oin was sitting beside Gloin’s wife, Mizi, and Gimli was perched proudly on the ground in front of Mizi. Gloin crossed the room and sat beside Mizi, taking her hand. Dori was sitting not far from Balin, Nori leaning casually behind Dwalin, and Ori had found himself nestled comfortably with Fili and Kili. Frerin let out a sigh of relief as he looked at their assembled family, a strange calmness settling over him.

Thorin gripped Frerin’s arm, a soft admonition in his voice. “Frerin, breathe. We can’t plan unless you give us a clue.”

Frerin smiled widely, a flash of his usual impish grin returning. “In a few days, we should do an announcement of Bilbo being your One, and Foxglove being mine. Then we can give them our first gifts.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his gaze falling to the ground as if recalling a sacred secret. “Also, Thranduil was here this morning. I requested his presence to explain my gift to Foxglove, and I reached out to him for assistance. He came, and I showed him our grandmother’s gardens.” A soft hum of appreciation went through the family, the dwarven reverence for their ancestral home deeply ingrained. “Then I asked him about the Moon’s Grace that her mother spoke of, that she found in the gardens of Rivendell.”

At the mention of Rivendell and the specific flower, Legolas and Tauriel stiffened where they sat, their elven ears cocked, listening intently. Frerin continued, his voice gaining strength. “Thranduil told me of his wife’s flower, the Ithil lóth, the Moonpetal, and the history around it. He is willingly giving me the seeds of the flower, plus all seeds of the night-blooming flowers in his realm, to cultivate here. His only request was to see the Night Garden we are planning in bloom.”

Legolas and Tauriel let out simultaneous gasps, their hands flying to their mouths, their bodies shaking with a mixture of awe and profound shock. The gift was beyond measure, a sacred trust between realms.

Frerin, oblivious to the elves’ reaction, excitedly kept going as he spoke of their conversation, of how Thorin and Frerin found out Bilbo and Foxglove were their ones. Then, Thranduil explained how elves found their soulmates, not just by gazing into the eyes of their One, but by feeling the powerful pull on the fea, their very spirit. And then, Thranduil dropped the news like a hammer on an anvil: his own fea had been pulled to Dale… and it had started 18 years ago.

A stunned silence fell over the chamber. The weight of the revelation was palpable.

Frerin, ever quick, looked at Thorin, his eyes wide with a dawning realization. “Prince Bard was the first thought I had… he was born 18 years ago.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sharp intake of breath from Balin who muttered, “By Durin’s Beard!” The implications of Thranduil, the Elvenking, having a soulmate in Dale, and that soulmate potentially being Bard, the younger Prince of Dale, settled like a heavy cloak over the royal family. This was far more complex than a few glowing gems and a grand announcement. This was history, swirling and colliding, in the most unexpected way.

Frerin went on as he stood in front of Thorin, his hands still on Thorin's shoulders, a nervous tremor deep beneath his calm exterior. "I spoke to Thranduil about the announcement for our One's. Bilbo being introduced officially as yours. Foxglove being introduced as mine. Inviting the Royal Families of Dale, then the Royal Family of The Greenwood to the announcement."
Thorin’s eyes, usually so sharp and piercing, widened almost imperceptibly. He gripped Frerin's arm tighter, a sudden, almost painful squeeze, catching onto Frerin's thought process with the clarity only a soul-bonded brother could possess. "This is so Thranduil can finally see Prince Bard and see him. To truly see if Prince Bard is King Thranduil's soulmate." The words were not a question, but a dawning realization, spoken with a note of incredulity and dawning hope.

A gasp, soft and reverent, escaped Legolas from his place on the floor between Dwalin and Balin. His elven eyes, usually so bright, were wide with an almost childlike awe. "My Father... soulmates to the Prince of Dale?" The idea seemed to blossom in his mind, a connection so unexpected yet so profoundly right, coloring his normally composed features with wonder.
Tauriel, ever vibrant, was already buzzing beside him, a low hum of excitement emanating from her. Leaning closer to Legolas, she whispered, "Imagine! King Thranduil, finding his One!" Her eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and delight.

Thorin looked over at Dis, who had been watching the exchange intently. She glanced at Legolas for a moment, a fond, knowing glint in her eye, then back to Thorin, her expression instantly serious. "We have to plan this perfectly, more than we normally do. This is going to be grand." Her words were soft, but carried the weight of a seasoned ruler. The official introduction of Thorin's One was already momentous, as was Frerin's, but orchestrating a potential soulmate revelation for the Elvenking? That elevated the entire affair to legendary status.

He glanced at Dori, who was already buzzing, her silver hair head leaning close to Balin as she quietly whispered ideas about guest lists and suitable attire. Dori, ever the meticulous planner, was in her element.

Thorin then looked at Dwalin, his most trusted guard. "We have to have the right security in place for this event. All the royal families in attendance…"

Dwalin simply nodded, his face grimly determined. "Between our guards and Nori's shadows, we should have the event properly protected."

Nori, ever the opportunist, grinned as she leaned over the back of the couch behind Dwalin, a glint in her eye. "Don't you worry, Thorin, we'll have all the plans in place. No one gets in or out without us knowing."

Bombur, who had been listening intently, his presence a comforting warmth in the room, leaned forward, his eyes alight. "I'll take over all kitchens for the feasts. I'll talk to the head chefs of all the kitchens myself and plan it out. There will be food fit for every palate, from the Elves to the Men of Dale, to our own kin!" His enthusiasm was infectious, already envisioning tables laden with culinary masterpieces.

Thorin looked at Frerin, who was starting to relax, a weight visibly lifting from his shoulders now that the full scope of his plan was out in the open. Then his gaze flickered to Fili and Kili, who were practically vibrating with suppressed excitement. "You two will be on your best behavior," he warned, his voice low but firm.

Fili and Kili, for once, didn't need to be told twice. They nodded quickly, their youthful faces solemn, understanding the immense gravity and significance of what Frerin had just set into motion. This wasn't just about their uncles finding happiness; this was about potentially uniting realms, forging new bonds, and witnessing a true miracle unfold. The air in the cavernous hall crackled with anticipation, the hum of future plans already beginning to echo through the stone.

Chapter 20

Three days dissolved into the air as swiftly as the wind carried their ravens across the lands. The Mountain echoed with a barely contained hum, a prelude to the monumental events poised to unfold.
For Thorin, the past seventy-two hours had been a whirlwind of revelation and stunned silence. Bilbo’s first courtship gift had not been some grand jewel or a weapon of renown, but a simple, leather-bound journal. Thorin had opened it with curiosity, only to be given the shock of his life. Within its pages, Bilbo had meticulously penned the story of hobbit life in the Shire – the rhythm of their days, the importance of tea, the comfort of good food, and the peace of their green hills. But it was the latter half that had sent Thorin's mind reeling: the secret of how hobbits had their families. Not born from flesh and blood in the traditional sense, but grown in the ground, tended to and loved by the hobbits, nurtured from tiny sprouts into fully formed, beloved family members. The sheer, utterly baffling wonder of it had left Thorin speechless, his mind grappling with a biological phenomenon entirely alien to dwarven understanding.

Across the Mountain, a different, though equally profound, astonishment had seized Frerin. Foxglove’s gift had been no less breathtaking: a terrarium, painstakingly crafted, that showed Bag End in miniaturized form. Every detail, from the rounded green door to the curl of smoke from the tiny chimney, had been reproduced with astonishing precision. The intricate mosses, miniature flowers, and even a minuscule pathway hinted at a depth of artistry and affection that had left Frerin utterly charmed and openly gaping. The mountain was still buzzing about that particular gift, its beauty and unique nature a topic of endless, delighted conversation amongst the dwellers of Erebor.

The two gifts, so personal and uniquely tailored, had set the stage for what was to come. The plans for the Royal Announcement, the formal declaration of the courtships, were being gone over with an almost obsessive care, timed almost to the minute. When the invitations were finally sent out, first for the Royal Family of Dale and then for the Royal Family of Greenwood, a palpable hush fell over the Mountain. Anticipation hung heavy in the air, thick and sweet like the smell of fresh-baked bread.

The ravens, bless their swift wings, returned with good tidings: both kingdoms had accepted the invitations.

With the confirmations in hand, the planning increased to a frenzied fervor. Thorin, for all his kingly might, relied heavily on his family and their friends. Dwalin, ever the stalwart, was going through his guards with meticulous precision, imparting how monumentally important the event was, ensuring every dwarf was aware of their duty and the honor of safeguarding such a momentous occasion. Nori, ever the strategist, had her shadows placed in all the places they could think of where anything could possibly go wrong, a network of watchful eyes and silent ears ensuring security was paramount.

Bombur and the head chefs had been working nonstop for the last three days, their minds and hands consumed by the immense menu. Hunters had been dispatched to find all the finest animals, and the kitchens pulsed with the warmth of ovens and the scent of exotic spices. Dori and Balin, a surprisingly effective duo, worked together so seamlessly they could anticipate each other's needs, their combined organizational skills a force to behold. Ori, ever the diligent scribe, worked alongside them, meticulously writing down every detail, every change, every new instruction for the myriad of tasks.

Dis and Vili, with their keen eyes and impeccable taste, worked tirelessly with the planners to set up the Hall of Plenty, transforming the grand space into a vision of dwarven majesty and warmth, adorned with tapestries, glittering lamps, and comfortable seating. Fili, Kili, and Gimli, buzzing with youthful energy and a keen desire to help, acted as runners between each of the groups, carrying messages, fetching forgotten items, and generally showing their eagerness to see this event succeed. Legolas and Tauriel, ever graceful and efficient, could be seen assisting wherever they were needed, their elven speed and keen senses a valuable asset to the bustling preparations. Gloin and Oin, with their practical minds, helped with the payments to the swathe of people who were working the event, ensuring everyone was fairly compensated and all ledgers balanced.

Yet, amidst this whirlwind of activity, Foxglove and Bilbo remained, to the surprise of all, somewhat blissfully unaware of the finer details of the events taking place. Having delivered their deeply personal gifts, they had retreated into the tranquil embrace of the Gardens, almost relaxing from the emotional intensity of their earlier presentations. They spent their days strolling amongst the flowering plants, sharing quiet conversations, and finding peace in each other's company, a calm eye in the center of the approaching storm.

When the day finally came, the entire mountain could be felt almost vibrating with excitement. A low, continuous hum of anticipation ran through the very stone of Erebor. Then, the word came from the battlements, relayed down through the intricate network of tunnels and halls: "The Royal Family of Dale is arriving first! And the rest of the Royal Family of the Greenwood is right behind them!"

The moment had arrived.

The colossal, intricately carved gates of Erebor, usually a bastion of stoic dwarven craftsmanship, hummed with an unusual energy. At their base, Thorin Oakenshield stood, a proud smile barely contained beneath his beard. His hand rested gently, possessively, on the arm of Bilbo Baggins, whose usually neat hobbit hair seemed a touch ruffled, and whose ears were already tinged pink with anticipation. Beside them, Frerin, Thorin’s younger brother, mirrored his brother’s contentment, his own arm linked with Foxglove Baggins.

Behind the two couples, Dis, Thorin and Frerin’s sister, stood with her beloved Vili. Their sons, Fili and Kili, usually a whirl of boundless energy and mischievous grins, stood uncharacteristically still and composed beside them, their gazes fixed on the immense gates. The air was thick with expectation.

With a deep, resonant groan, the mighty gates of the Lonely Mountain began to swing inwards, revealing the daylight of Dale beyond. A finely crafted carriage, adorned with the sigil of Dale, emerged first. From within, King Balder and Queen Astrid of Dale stepped out, regal and composed, their two sons, Arnis and Bard, immediately behind them.

As the royal family descended, Thorin and his entire kin bowed deeply, a wave of respect washing over the assembled dwarves. Dwarven stable hands, efficient and silent, gently guided the carriage away from the entrance to the side, allowing clear passage.

King Balder, a man known for his kind but firm disposition, moved forward, Queen Astrid walking gracefully beside him. His eyes twinkled as he addressed Thorin. "King Thorin, a most pleasant surprise when your raven informed us about you finding your One. As well your brother finding his. Our congratulations to you from our family to yours."

Thorin bowed again, a genuine smile illuminating his face. "Yes, we were pleasantly surprised at the revelation ourselves." He turned, his gaze softening as he gestured to Bilbo. "Bilbo, meet the King of Dale and his wife. Our neighbors from down the mountain."

Bilbo bowed slightly, the blush on his ears deepening. "Welcome to Erebor, Your Majesties. Thank you for coming."

Queen Astrid’s eyes sparkled as she studied him. "So, you and your sister were the ones two years ago that caused such a stir?" A pleasant laugh escaped her.
Bilbo stammered, blushing further. "Yes, we didn't mean to…"

Queen Astrid waved a dismissive hand. "No worries, Master Baggins. It brought an excitement to the region that we haven't seen for years."
With the initial pleasantries exchanged, King Balder and Queen Astrid were respectfully guided past Thorin and Bilbo by Dis and Vili, making their way towards the grand Hall of Plenty within the mountain.

The gates, however, had barely settled into their open position when they swung wider once more, admitting another distinguished guest. King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, clad in robes of forest green and silver, walked with an ethereal grace that seemed to glide over the stone. Beside him was his firstborn son, Melthinorn, and trailing slightly behind them, his second son, Límhir.

Thorin, remembering the delicate nature of their alliance and recent events, performed a formal bow. As he straightened, he met Thranduil's gaze and gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod – a silent confirmation that Prince Bard, the one Thranduil had been concerned about and had sought reassurance on, was indeed present and well within Erebor’s halls. Thranduil’s rigid shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, a fleeting moment of relief passing over his ancient features. With another brief, regal inclination of his head, Thranduil joined the procession, and Thorin led them all towards the Hall of Plenty.

Inside the magnificent Hall of Plenty, bathed in the soft glow of dwarven lamps, King Thranduil quickly separated from his sons. An attendant, quiet as a shadow, walked beside him, cradling a small, ornately carved wooden chest. Thranduil’s keen elven eyes scanned the assembled crowd, quickly locating Frerin, who was thankfully momentarily alone; Foxglove was engaged in conversation with one of the other members of the Durin line.

Thranduil approached Frerin, his movements silent and graceful. Without a word, he extended the chest. Frerin’s eyes widened as he carefully took the chest into his arms. A quick, small nod from Thranduil confirmed his suspicions: it was filled with the promised seeds. The lid of the chest was intricately engraved with the delicate image of the Ithil lóth, the Moonflower, glowing faintly as if touched by moonlight.

Frerin’s lips curved into a genuine smile. "Thank you, King Thranduil," he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude.

Thranduil inclined his head, a rare, almost imperceptible softening in his expression, then stepped away to rejoin his sons, leaving Frerin to marvel at the gift. Frerin, clutching the precious chest, quickly navigated through the mingling crowd to where Thorin’s grand gift for Bilbo sat, already prepared for the presentation. With a careful motion, he placed his own gift for Foxglove right beside it.

Thorin, now standing proudly at the front of the hall, waved Foxglove forward to stand beside Frerin. She looked stunning in a flowing red and silver dwarrow gown, Dori’s masterful hand evident in every stitch. Bilbo, beside Thorin, was equally striking in a tailored green, blue, and silver dwarrow male tunic and matching pants, a vibrant contrast to his usual simple waistcoat.
Thorin raised one hand, the hall falling to a hushed silence, all eyes turned to him. "I know there are some in the mountain who have heard the rumors of what happened a week ago. Frerin and I stand before you, our people, as well as our friends from Dale and within the Greenwood, to proudly announce…" His gaze deepened as he looked at Bilbo, a profound joy in his voice. "Bilbo Baggins is my One."

Frerin stepped forward, his voice ringing with equal pride. "Foxglove Baggins is my One."

The cheers that erupted from the gathered crowd were deafening, a joyous roar that made the very mountain shake and the polished stone floors vibrate beneath their feet. It was a sound of approval, celebration, and deep affection for their beloved Kings and the hobbits who had captured their hearts.

Thorin raised his hand again, gradually bringing the clamor to a manageable murmur. "Bilbo has already given me his first courting gift, which was a journal filled with the tales of his homeland – tales, histories, legends, as well as recipes of his family. The giving of recipes, in accordance with his people, is tantamount to us dwarrow giving heirlooms of our families to our Ones." Whispers of awe and murmurs of appreciation spread throughout the throng, understanding the profound significance of such a gift from a hobbit.

Thorin then waved Frerin forward. "Foxglove has also surprised me with her first courtship gift. A terrarium. A miniaturized version of her childhood home that she gave me to rest in my childhood home. She reached out to Master Lir of the glassmakers to create the glass jar and lid, but asked Lord Bofur and Lord Bifur to teach her to whittle for the wood structure of her old home." Gasps and awed whispers began anew, much louder than before. The sheer effort and personal touch involved in such a gift resonated deeply with the dwarven value of craftsmanship and devotion. Foxglove blushed, a shy smile on her face, as she looked over at Bilbo, who was gazing at her with wide, admiring eyes. She knew exactly what he was thinking: 'I need to see it!!!'

Thorin moved to stand beside Frerin again, a shared sense of triumph in their expressions. "In addition to our shared announcement, we are presenting our first courtship gifts to them in front of you all." Thorin moved over to the chests that the gem cutters had painstakingly assembled and filled. Frerin walked over to the small, engraved chest Thranduil had given him just moments ago.

Thorin gestured to Bilbo, inviting him forward. "Bilbo, these are for you. I requested the gem cutters to find these for you, as my craft would not allow me to find them. The gem cutters, masters of their craft, found these in my stead." Thorin reverently opened the lid of the first chest, revealing a cascade of glowing blue gems. The room fell utterly silent, mesmerized by the ethereal light.

Bilbo staggered forward, a gasp escaping his lips, and knelt in front of the chest, his eyes wide with wonder. "The chamber of glittering stars… You gave me stars… stars I can touch. Thank you, Thorin!" His voice was choked with emotion.

Thorin smiled softly, a rare, unguarded tenderness in his eyes. "Each of these chests are filled with glowing gems of blue, red, green, yellow, and white." Bilbo gasped again, eagerly opening the other chests, staring in mute adoration at the mesmerizing jewels within. "Oh… These gems are marvelous! Those gem cutters did such an amazing job…" His wonder was palpable, lighting up his face more brightly than the gems themselves. The audience remained silent, truly awed by the beauty and the depth of the King’s gift.

Meanwhile, Frerin walked over to Foxglove, his steps heavy with purpose as he stopped directly in front of her. "Foxglove, I remembered the story of the Moon's Grace your mother spoke of to you, the flower that bloomed under the moonlight, hidden in the gardens of Rivendell. So, I reached out to King Thranduil, requesting an audience with him. He came and informed me about the flowers and gave me these seeds, as well as more seeds of all night-blooming flowers of the Greenwood Realm." He opened the small chest to reveal numerous packets of clearly labeled seeds, each promising nocturnal beauty.

Foxglove’s hands shook as she reached out to them, her voice cracking with emotion. "A Night Garden? Really?"

Frerin nodded, his eyes full of love. "Yes, my One. A night garden for you to enjoy."

And then, as a wave of understanding and delight washed over the assembled company, cheers erupted once more, louder and more joyous than before, shaking the very foundations of Erebor with the overwhelming happiness of the moment.

The resounding boom of Thorin’s voice echoed across the Stone Halls, cutting through the low hum of excited chatter. "Let the feast begin!" he declared, his hand raised high above the ground. As if a dam had broken, the assembled crowd immediately surged forward, hands reaching for the bountiful spread of food that covered the long tables.
Amidst the joyful chaos, Thorin and Bilbo, along with Prince Frerin and Lady Foxglove, began to navigate their way through the throng, escorting their families towards the raised dais where the Royal Families were seated. Dori and Balin, meticulous as ever, had outdone themselves with the seating arrangements. Their most carefully planned move: positioning King Thranduil directly across from Prince Bard. It was a calculated risk, designed to give the Elven King ample opportunity to gaze into the Laketown Prince's eyes, hoping to trigger the elusive elven soulmate bond.

As they settled into their seats, the rich aroma of roasted meats and freshly baked breads filled the air. Foxglove, her hobbit-round face alight with a warm smile, leaned slightly forward and addressed King Thranduil. "Thank you for assisting Frerin with his gift, your Majesty. I'm extremely grateful."

Thranduil, usually a picture of stern regality, softened his gaze as he replied, "You are most welcome, Lady Foxglove. I would be most pleased to see the flowers blooming in the Gardens when they are ready."

Foxglove’s grin widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Of course! If I do not send the message myself, I will make sure Frerin does for me. I do not think you'd much care to open a message covered in dirt."

A ripple of playful laughter spread around the table at Foxglove's cheeky remark, even coaxing a rare, genuine smile from Thranduil. The festive spirit was already taking hold.
Further down the table, Oin and Gloin were deep in conversation with King Baldor and Queen Astrid of Dale, discussing the burgeoning markets and the diverse range of healing herbs available in their respective lands. Dwalin, usually the most boisterous, was uncharacteristically subdued, a slight pout marring his rugged features. He tried to hide it, but his family knew him too well. Nori, his "one," was on assignment, her presence hidden somewhere in the shadows, fulfilling her role as a master spy. Dori, ever the comforting presence, sat beside Balin, who was gently patting Dwalin's shoulder in silent sympathy.

Bofur and Bifur, meanwhile, were animatedly discussing their latest ingenious ideas for a new line of toys with Fili, Kili, and a very engaged Gimli. Bombur, looking utterly relieved, was speaking quietly with Alaris, his wife, who seemed grateful for the brief respite from their eight boisterous dwarfling pups—and the shared stress of the last three demanding days.

Thorin, a profound sense of contentment radiating from him, simply watched his family and friends, a soft smile gracing his lips as Bilbo leaned comfortably into his shoulder. Frerin, his hand resting gently on Foxglove’s knee, exchanged whispers and smiles with Dis and Vili, their laughter mingling with the general merriment.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Foxglove saw it. King Thranduil and Prince Bard’s gazes finally, finally, met across the table. Her hobbit ears twitched almost imperceptibly as she watched Thranduil’s eyes widen ever so slightly, mirroring the broader widening of Prince Bard’s. It was a silent, powerful moment unfolding amidst the boisterous feast.

Foxglove subtly squeezed Frerin’s hand, drawing his attention. When he looked at her, she twitched her head in their direction. Together, they watched as Prince Bard, a faint blush spreading across his face, dropped his gaze. Thranduil, however, did not look away. Instead, he met Frerin’s eyes and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Frerin grinned and returned the nod, adding a quick, conspiratorial wink. Thranduil relaxed minutely in his chair, a subtle shift in his posture betraying a quiet relief.

They were correct. Prince Bard was King Thranduil's elven soulmate. A thrill of happiness shot through Frerin. He felt a profound sense of satisfaction that they had helped the Elven King fulfill a long-held wish—the dearest wish of many of Thranduil's closest friends, that he would finally find his soulmate. He squeezed Foxglove’s hand gently, a shared joy passing between them as the feast continued around them.

And then, to the surprise of nearly everyone, Nori stepped out of the deepest shadows. She was no longer clad in her usual practical gear, but in a stunning dwarrowdame dress of deep emerald, perfectly matched to her piercing eyes. With a confident, almost predatory grace, she stalked over to the Royal table and, with a knowing smirk, took the empty seat beside a stunned Dwalin.

Dwalin’s eyes went comically wide, his jaw slack. The rest of their family watched, growing amusement flickering across their faces. Dori, however, let out a soft sigh of pure relief, her heart swelling as she took in the sight of her sister and her "one" finally able to enjoy the festivities together. The feast, already joyous, had just gained a new layer of warmth and unexpected delight.

Chapter 21

Foxglove woke with a smile on her face. As she sat up, she looked over at Bilbo, who was already sitting on his bed, a fond smile on his own face “Thorin gave me stars…"
Foxglove grinned, her eyes sparkling. "You know, those gems that act like stars… you could put them in the Night Gardens."

Bilbo’s eyes widened, a matching grin spreading across his face. "That’s perfect! Between the soft glow of your night-blooming flowers and my gems that glow like stars…"
Foxglove nodded, her smile radiant. "It’s going to be perfect."

They quickly dressed in their court-respectable wear, the rich fabrics and intricate embroidery a now familiar part of their daily lives in Erebor. Stepping out of their room, the main hall of their wing was quiet, save for the low murmur of Dori and Nori speaking together near the grand hearth, Ori smiling as he perched on a stool at the kitchen table, already tucking into a plate of something delicious. Their gifts from the night before – an intricately carved pipe for Bilbo, a delicately embroidered shawl for Foxglove – sat proudly by the fireplace.

Foxglove started to head towards them, a greeting on her lips, but was stopped when a sharp, authoritative knock echoed from their main door. Bilbo, ever quick to respond, walked over and opened it to reveal Frerin and Thorin. They both looked utterly exhausted, dark smudges under their eyes, though their eyes held a familiar warmth upon seeing their partners.

"Early morning court session before we can join our guests," Frerin explained, his voice a low rumble. He walked over to Foxglove, pressing his forehead against hers gently, a silent comfort. "Morning, love."

Thorin smiled, taking Bilbo’s hand, his thumb tracing circles on the back of his hand. "King Baldor and Queen Astrid, along with their sons, are in the royal family antechamber. Dis and Vili are waiting for us there." He paused, a sigh escaping him. "Dis had sent for King Thranduil and his sons and Tauriel to come with and join us."

A wave of anticipation and a touch of trepidation washed over Foxglove and Bilbo. Important guests indeed.

Thorin and Bilbo walked in front of Frerin and Foxglove as Dori and Nori split off, muttering about their tasks for the day, while Ori, with a final contented sigh, went off to his lessons. They stepped inside the stately antechamber, the door closing softly behind them, and were met with a scene that was both formal and utterly stunned.

King Baldor sat rigid in his chair, Queen Astrid beside him, her face pale. A usually composed Arnis sat slumped, looking utterly shocked, while Bard, usually so self-possessed, stood beside his chair, looking distinctly flustered, a blush dusting his cheeks.

King Thranduil, regal and serene, occupied an opposite chair, his expression unreadable. Behind him, his sons Melthinorn, Límhir, and Legolas stood like statues, their elven grace palpable. Tauriel stood beside Legolas, her frame betraying little, but her ears – subtly, almost imperceptibly – trembled, a clear sign of her internal turmoil.

Thorin, ever the King of Erebor, stepped over to the group, his presence commanding attention. King Baldor looked up at him, disbelief etched deeply onto his features. "Lady Dis told us of how dwarrow ones are, and King Thranduil had just finished speaking of the concept of Elven soulmates." He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to Bard. "Then Thranduil informed us about the revelation of Prince Bard being his elven soulmate."

Queen Astrid's voice wavered, fragile with emotion. "Our son… the soulmate of an Elven King?" The question hung in the air, laden with a mother’s protective fear and bewilderment.
King Thranduil's eldest son, Melthinorn, stepped forward slightly, his voice gentle and clear, cutting through the tension. "It's a rare gift of our people, Lady Astrid. Ada is not taking him from you. Bard will always be able to visit, as would you be able to visit him in our Realm. It's been our dearest wish for Ada to find his soulmate."

Límhir took over, his expression earnest. "Ama, our Ada's best friend, they ruled side by side for centuries before she left for the Undying Lands. She knew they were not soulmates, and before she left, she told us to help him find the one who would complete his soul."

Arnis, finally finding his voice, burst out in shock, "He just came of age!"

A shared, knowing chuckle escaped Foxglove and Bilbo. "So did we," Bilbo said, his eyes meeting Foxglove's, "when we were matched to Thorin and Frerin."

The Royal family chambers, usually a place of booming laughter held an unusual hush. Arnis, Crown Prince of Dale, looked at Foxglove and Bilbo, shock etched onto his usually composed face. His gaze flickered between the two hobbits, so small yet radiating an undeniable presence, and the formidable, stoic figures of King Thorin Oakenshield and his brother, Frerin, who stood protectively beside them.

Queen Astrid, regal even in her visible distress, finally broke the silence, her voice ringing with disbelief. "But you both are so young!"

A soft, knowing smile touched Foxglove’s lips, her bright eyes twinkling. She took a small step forward, her voice surprisingly steady and clear. "Queen Astrid, Bilbo and I just turned 33 at our coming of age ceremony a week ago. We were matched to Thorin and Frerin. Bilbo for Thorin. Frerin for me. Though because of the Green Lady—one of her many gifts to her children—is we can bond with other races and live as long as they do, except for elves. They are the only race we can't bond with because of their immortality."

Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, who had been observing the proceedings with a detached, almost ethereal calm, leaned forward slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his elegant features. He had heard tales of the Shire-folk, of course, but never such a peculiar detail.

Bilbo, ever the diplomat, took over smoothly. "Indeed. We are bonded with more than just our Ones. We bonded quickly with the dwarrow of Erebor as well. Our hearts are tied to the Mountain and its people." He gestured vaguely towards Thorin and Frerin, a warmth in his gaze that was returned by both dwarves.

Melthinorn, Thranduil’s son, curiosity brimming in his eyes, leaned in. "How long do hobbits live normally?"

Foxglove’s smile softened, taking on a touch of sadness. "We're lucky if we hit 100. Our lives are often short. Many parents die young and so their children are taken in by other family members, nieces and nephews raised by aunts and uncles, cousins by other cousins. The family tree branches wide to catch those who fall."

Bilbo continued, picking up the thread. "But if we are bonded with another race—say for example the dwarrow—we can live as long as they do. Our aging begins to slow to match the dwarrow. It’s a protection, a gift of longevity so we don't have to face the sorrow of leaving those we love behind so soon."

King Baldor, usually a man of stern countenance, looked at them in genuine surprise. “Really? That's amazing!” His voice held a note of awe that seldom graced his royal tones.
Thorin, a rare soft laugh rumbling in his chest, stepped forward, his hand finding Bilbo’s. "We were amazed as well when Gandalf told us. Poor Dori was already an emotional wreck worrying about their brief lives among us, so she broke down already when she learned this. The fear of losing our hobbits was already high, but the relief she felt was immense. The entire company felt it."

A palpable tension still lingered in the air, mostly emanating from Queen Astrid. Foxglove, ever perceptive, walked over to Queen Astrid, her step light, her small hands—which seemed almost comically tiny in that grand hall—gently taking the Queen’s clenched ones. For a moment, Foxglove’s hands seemed to be huge for the Queen, brimming with an ancient wisdom and quiet strength. "Queen Astrid, I know that this may seem intimidating, daunting even. This revelation, the bonds, the differing lifespans… but would you really want to stand in the way of your son's happiness? Of their very hearts?"

Queen Astrid’s shoulders slumped, her gaze sweeping the silent room. The weight of Foxglove’s words settled over her like a heavy cloak. She finally raised her head, her eyes clouded with an internal struggle, and met Bard’s, her second son, a silent, yearning plea hidden deep within the depths of his own.

Arnis, sensing the shift, seized the moment, his voice a low, urgent whisper that only his mother could hear. "Bard was never comfortable in court, Mother. He longs to be free, to be able to wander freely. Remember his time in the woods around Dale? How he’d disappear for days, only to return with tales of the wild?"

Bard, emboldened by his brother’s support and his mother’s wavering resolve, finally spoke up, his voice clear and resonant. "Mother. Father. I want to go be with Thranduil. I wish to see the Greenwood. To learn from the Elves, to walk among the ancient trees, to feel the wild wind on my face, not the stifling air of court."

King Baldor let out a long sigh, the burden of his kingship evident in the sound. He looked from Bard to Thranduil, then back to the hobbits, and finally, his gaze softened as it lingered on his wife. "Very well," he conceded, a slight incline of his head. "However, King Thranduil and I will need to discuss everything going forward. Agreements must be made. Terms must be set. But yes... you may go, my son."

A collective breath seemed to be held and then released in the room. King Thranduil gave a rare, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction. Bard’s face, usually serious, broke into a relieved, hopeful smile. The path forward, though still winding and uncertain, had finally begun to unfold.

While King Thranduil and his Family spoke with King Baldor and Queen Astrid about the future for Prince Bard and King Thranduil. Foxglove walked over to Frerin "Frerin, may I steal you away? I wish to go speak with Master Lir about something for helping me grow the seeds you gave me." Frerin glanced at Thorin who nodded "Go on nadadith, we will be fine here."

Frerin walked with Foxglove out of the Royal Family chambers, their hands clasped loosely, swinging gently between them as they strolled down the long, echoing corridors of Erebor. The polished stone gleamed with the light of strategically placed gems, casting a warm, inviting glow that seemed to chase away any gloom. Their voices, usually hushed in these grand halls, carried a conspiratorial lightness.

"I think 60 jars for the seeds would work. I saw there were at least 30 seeds per…" Foxglove mused, her brow furrowed in thought, her thumb tracing the back of Frerin’s hand.
Frerin chuckled, his deep voice rumbling. "Per what, my love? Per sprout? Per pocketful? You'll have our halls overflowing with greenery at this rate." But his tone was one of indulgence, not complaint. He loved her passion for the living world, a vibrant contrast to the stone heart of their mountain home.
They descended deeper into the mountain, the residential quiet giving way to the distant hum of industry – the rhythmic clang of hammers, the hiss of steam, the faint scent of heated metal and minerals. They were nearing the workshop level, the very pulse of dwarven craft. Once they arrived, the sounds became a symphony, a testament to the tireless work within Erebor’s depths.

Foxglove, her eyes bright with purpose, led the way to Master Lir's workshop. The wide, arched doorway stood ajar, revealing a cavernous space alive with the glow of multiple forges and the delicate shimmer of countless glass creations. Stepping inside, she called out, her voice clear despite the ambient noise, "Master Lir? Are you here?"

A figure, tall and broad even for a dwarf, turned from a workbench where he was meticulously shaping a piece of molten glass. Master Lir, his beard neatly braided and dusted with fine glass powder, broke into a wide smile as he saw her and Frerin at the entrance. "Ah! Lady Foxglove! How did the gift turn out?"

Foxglove blushed, a becoming flush across her cheeks, as Frerin answered for her, his arm settling comfortably around her waist. "Most enchanting, Master Lir. Indeed, it has found a place of honor." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the intricate glasswork around them. "I must commend you on your glass crafting. It is for your glass crafting we are here now."

Master Lir straightened, his eyes twinkling as he looked between the prince and the lady. "Yes?" he prompted, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Foxglove finally found her voice, her smile widening. "Do you remember when I said I'd come back for your assistance in making more of those bowls for any seeds that I need growing?"
Master Lir's smile broadened. "Yes, of course! They would be a joy to make for your garden. How many are you looking to need?"

Foxglove bit her lip, thinking over the multitude of seeds she had meticulously cataloged in her chambers. "At least 60."

Master Lir's eyes went wide, reflecting the distant forge light. "60?" he echoed, the single word carrying a weight of surprise.

Foxglove nodded, a little apologetically. "Yes, Master Lir. I'm sorry for dropping such a large order on you. I promise they are all quite necessary."

Master Lir waved a dismissive hand, recovering quickly. "No worries, lass, no worries at all! A challenge is what keeps the hands nimble! I just need to find volunteers and get my apprentices to come in for the work." His gaze flickered to Frerin, a respectful query in his eyes.

Frerin stepped forward, releasing Foxglove's waist, though he kept her close with a gentle hand on her back. "My craft is with jewels, Master Lir, but I can assist you if needed. I am eager to learn what I can, and to aid Lady Foxglove in her endeavors."

Master Lir's jaw dropped ever so slightly, then he quickly recovered, bowing deeply. "Your Highness, that would be of great assistance! An honor, even!" The idea of a Prince of Erebor working at his forges was clearly a source of both awe and pride.

Frerin simply nodded, a serious expression on his face as he began to remove his ornate outer tunic, shrugging it off to stand in his simple, practical undershirt and sturdy pants. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms. "Let's get started."

Foxglove smiled, a warmth spreading through her as she watched the prince ready himself for honest labor. She walked over to a clear section of a workbench, finding a piece of parchment and a charcoal stick. With practiced ease, she began sketching out a smaller jar with a lid, nearly a third of the size of the original bowls. "This is what I would like, Master Lir," she said, holding up the drawing. "For storing the seeds before they are ready to sprout, and some for smaller cuttings."

Master Lir took the parchment, studying the sketch. His brow furrowed in concentration for a moment, then he nodded, a broad smile returning. "Ah, yes! This will be much faster and easier than the larger bowls. Excellent choice, Lady Foxglove. Let me send for my apprentices and volunteers right away."

Frerin nodded his assent as Master Lir, renewed with vigor, walked away from them into the back of the workshop, his voice ringing out as he instructed two of his apprentices to begin preparing their stations. The third, a young dwarf barely out of his apprenticeship, was given a special task. "You, lad!" Lir’s voice carried. "Find your fellow apprentices, those who are not yet here, and spread the word for any volunteers who would like to help with a most noble and urgent order for Lady Foxglove's gardens!"

The apprentice’s eyes lit up at the prospect of exciting work, and he quite literally ran out of the workshop on his mission. Master Lir turned back to his two remaining apprentices. "Alright, lads! Let's get the other glass forges started up and firing. Then we can get started on our order from Lady Foxglove for the gardens!"

The apprentices cheered, their enthusiasm infectious, and immediately began walking around the vast workshop, moving with purpose to get the other five forges stoked and ready. The sounds of stoking, clanging, and the roar of newly stoked fires began to fill the air.

Frerin, seeing the bustle begin, walked Foxglove over to the door, away from the immediate rising heat and noise. He leaned down, his voice a low whisper meant only for her ear. "You'll need wood crates to carry them all, my clever gardener. Don’t you worry about the glass, we’ll handle it here. Walk down to Bofur and Bifur’s workshop, I know they will want to help you." He squeezed her hand, his eyes warm and sincere. "They are our heart-family after all. They brought you to me, after all."

Foxglove's reddish pink eyes softened, a faint shimmer of unshed tears making them sparkle in the forge light. The reminder of her arrival in Erebor, guided by the kind, boisterous brothers, always touched her deeply. She nodded, understanding the unspoken sentiment. "I will. Thank you, my heart." She pressed a quick, tender kiss to his cheek and then, with a resolute smile, turned and stepped out of the burgeoning hubbub of Master Lir's workshop, heading towards a new task in the industrious heart of the mountain.

The air in the dwarven halls hummed with industry, a symphony of hammer on metal, the hiss of steam, and the low rumble of forges. Foxglove, her heart still light from her conversation with Frerin and her recent commission from Master Lir, stepped out into the bustling corridor. A soft, contented smile graced her lips as she passed by the various workshops, each a hive of focused activity.

She paused by a smith meticulously polishing a intricate buckle, offering a genuine compliment on the gleam of the silver. Further on, she admired a carver coaxing life from a block of oak, thanking him for the sturdy wooden spoons he’d crafted for the kitchens. Her path led her deeper into the mountain, towards the familiar warmth and scent of woodsmoke and worked metal that marked Bofur and Bifur’s shared space.

Pushing aside the heavy leather curtain that served as their door, Foxglove stepped inside and found Bofur, his iconic hat slightly askew, frowning in concentration over a small, soft form. Bifur, ever the quieter complement, was meticulously stitching an eye onto what looked like a miniature, fluffy creature. Their workshop, usually a glorious chaos of tools, wood shavings, and half-finished projects, had a particular quiet focus today.

“Bofur? Bifur?” she called out, her voice a soft bell amidst the muffled clanking from nearby workshops.

Bofur’s head snapped up, a grin instantly splitting his whiskered face. “Foxglove! Hey now, lass, what are you doing back here?”

Bifur, without looking up, gave a quick, conspiratorial wink. “Need somethin’ else, do ya?”

Foxglove chuckled, her smile widening. “Yes, I do, actually. I was hoping you both wouldn’t mind, or perhaps might have some spare wooden crates lying around?”

Bofur scratched thoughtfully under the brim of his hat, his brow furrowed in good-natured curiosity. “Now, lass, what in the deeps are you needing crates for?”

She moved closer, pulling up a sturdy wooden stool and settling onto it beside their workbench, drawn by the scent of pine and fresh cloth. “I just placed an order with Master Lir for sixty smaller glass jars. I’m going to use them for the seeds Frerin gave me last night at the announcement feast.”

Bifur’s head finally lifted, his single eye glinting with understanding. He grinned. “Ah, getting a head start on your night garden are we?”

Foxglove nodded, her enthusiasm clear. “Yes, I am. I’m going to put dirt into the jars, then the seeds. The condensation inside the jar will help the seeds grow faster.”

A light of revelation dawned in Bofur’s eyes. He snapped his fingers. “Like ale makers! Aye, that makes sense!”

Foxglove giggled, a warm, bright sound. “Yes, Bofur, exactly like ale makers.”

Bofur, still scratching under his hat with his free hand, considered her request. “Now, how big are these crates going to be, then?”

“No more than ten jars per crate,” Foxglove explained, tapping her fingers lightly against the chipped wood of the workbench. “I want to keep my first round of seeds separated.”
Bifur nodded, already surveying the organized piles of wood and metal around them. “We should have some somewhere. Can we see the size of the jars?”

Foxglove rummaged in her pouch, pulling out a small piece of parchment and a charcoal stick. With practiced strokes, she quickly sketched out a rough outline of the jars. “They will end up being about a third of the size of the large bowl Master Lir made for me the courtship gift.”

Bofur leaned in, examining the drawing. “Aye, we can work with that,” he confirmed with a decisive nod. “We’ll finish up this wee badger here and get started on your crates.”

Foxglove’s heart swelled with gratitude. It was always like this with the dwarves – practical, kind, and always willing to help. “Thank you, Bofur and Bifur. For everything.”

They merely grunted in acknowledgement, already turning back to their badger toy. But as Foxglove stood, Bofur gestured good-naturedly towards the door with his free hand, while Bifur gave a gentle nudge with his foot, as if to say, go on now, let us work. Foxglove laughed, the sound echoing lightly in the workshop, as she walked back towards Master Lir’s, carrying the warmth of their friendship with her.

Foxglove hummed a jaunty little tune, her white braids bouncing as she dodged a sturdy dwarf carrying a lumbering anvil, offering him a quick, friendly smile. The tunnels of Erebor, usually echoing with the clang of hammer on steel or the deep thrum of mining, seemed to carry a lighter note around her. She’d just left Bofur and Bifur’s workshop, where the air was thick with the scent of seasoned wood and the comfortable clutter of half-finished projects. They were making excellent progress on the soft toy badger for young Ori, its striped fur already remarkably lifelike. A flurry of cheerful nods and quick smiles marked her passage as she hurried through the stone corridors, each step closer to Master Lir’s glass workshop buzzing with a quiet excitement.

The air had been cool in the tunnels, carrying the tang of rock and metal, a familiar comfort. But as she finally made it to Master Lir’s glass workshop, she slipped through the heavy, padded door, and a wave of heat, thick as a summer blanket, slammed into her. It was a familiar embrace, the breath of the forge and the heart of molten glass, yet it still made her gasp, the sudden intensity making her cheeks flush even more.

Master Lir, spotted her instantly. He nudged Frerin, who, with a practiced grace that belied his royal stature, handed the glowing tongs he was holding to the apprentice beside him without a word. Frerin’s gaze, usually intense and focused on a delicate glass piece, softened the moment it met Foxglove’s.

His strong hands, usually calloused from blacksmithing and mining, were surprisingly gentle as he guided her back towards the doorway, a look of tender concern on his face. "My love," Frerin’s voice, usually a rumble, softened to a murmur. "The workshop is too warm for you to be in there now. Why don't you head back to your chambers and get your night-blooming plant seeds that I gifted you last night? Then we can bring the jars when they are done to you."

Foxglove, ever a whirlwind of unexpected delight, nodded, her initial flush fading slightly as the cooler air from the tunnel reached her. "Bofur and Bifur are finishing a soft toy badger," she chirped, seemingly unfazed by being ushered out. "Then they were going to get started on the crates. Knowing those two, it won't take long."

Frerin nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Alright. We'll have to send one of the apprentices over to their workshop and pick up the crates." He looked at her, his dark eyes warm with affection.

Foxglove’s smile widened, mischief bubbling in her bright blue eyes. She leaned in, a quick, soft brush of her nose against his. "A shire kiss for you," she whispered, her eyes sparkling. Then, before Frerin could even process the warmth of her touch, she spun on her heel and ran off, her laughter trailing behind her like a string of bells, leaving Frerin standing there, utterly and delightfully stunned.

A rumble of laughter, low and warm, rippled through the workshop from the dwarrow who had been discreetly watching the exchange. Their smiles were wide, their eyes crinkling. Oh, their mischievous, joyful blonde-haired Prince. He was so thoroughly taken by surprise, again, by the little hobbit who was his One. Even though Prince Frerin really shouldn't have been surprised, they certainly weren't. Not anymore. After all, Foxglove had a way of charming the very rocks of the mountain, and Frerin, their beloved Prince, was just as susceptible as any other.

Chapter 22

Foxglove’s hobbit feet, usually so prone to leaving cheerful patters, moved with an unusual quietness across the polished stone of Erebor’s workshop halls. The vastness of the Lonely Mountain, even in its most industrious corners, held a hushed grandeur. Her destination was the Royal Palace, a journey that always felt a little surreal, traversing the heart of the Dwarf kingdom. She slipped through the grand archway into the Ri family quarters, a space that felt strangely homely despite its scale.

Her eyes scanned the familiar room, landing on the ornate wooden chest tucked into a corner. This was it – the chest of night-blooming plant seeds, a tender courtship gift from Frerin, given with the unexpected but appreciated assistance of Thranduil, of all people. Foxglove smiled, a silent acknowledgement of the layers of memory attached to the simple wooden box. She bent, her small hands easily encompassing the chest, and straightened to leave, her mind already picturing the fertile soil of the mountain gardens.

But as she turned, her gaze fell upon Bilbo. He was seated at his desk, a pool of lamplight illuminating the parchment before him, though he wasn’t writing. His familiar profile was etched with a rare look of profound contemplation, almost a frown. Foxglove hesitated, then walked over, setting the chest down gently beside him on the desk. She placed a hand lightly on his shoulder, feeling the slight tension there.

Bilbo jumped, a soft 'eep' escaping him, and spun around. "Oh, Foxglove! Sorry, I was just… thinking." His green eyes, usually so quick to sparkle with wit, held a distant, troubled look.
Foxglove’s brow furrowed in concern. "What’s wrong, Bilbo?" she asked, her voice soft.

He tapped his fingers rhythmically on the desk, a nervous habit. "Just thinking," he repeated, then sighed. "Thorin… he’s been King since he was fifty-three or so, hasn’t he? Because of his grandfather and father going off to Khazad-dûm. Just a lad, really, to bear all that." He paused, looking at some unseen point in the room.

Foxglove nodded slowly, waiting, a flicker of understanding beginning to dawn within her. She knew Thorin carried a heavy burden.

"Dis and Frerin help whenever they can," Bilbo continued, his voice laced with a quiet frustration, "but the mountain still weighs on Thorin’s shoulders. At most, Dis or Frerin can be Regent, if he were… indisposed. But it’s not the same. It’s not true shared power, not like it should be.”

Foxglove crossed her arms, a thoughtful expression replacing her earlier concern. She cast her mind back over the past two years, observing the rhythms of Erebor, the countless decisions that landed squarely on Thorin’s broad shoulders, the subtle lines of weariness that sometimes etched his face despite his indomitable spirit. Bilbo was speaking the truth. It was a truth she hadn't consciously acknowledged before, but now that he voiced it, it felt starkly obvious.

She let out a sigh, a faint sound in the large room. "Have you dove into the deeper parts of the library, Bilbo? The ancient texts on dwarven governance?"

He shook his head, a shrug of his shoulders. "No, not yet. I plan on it though. I know Frerin and Dis wish they had the same power in their voices to help Thorin, really help. There is only so much they can do, and the vast majority of it falls directly on Thorin’s shoulders. If I can help ease it, just a little… I know me being his One helps, but I wish I could give more… more tangible support beyond just… being there." His voice trailed off, his gaze returning to the blank parchment.

Foxglove froze. An idea, bright and sudden, sparked in her mind, like flint striking steel. Her eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Like back in the Shire!" she exclaimed, her voice rising with excitement. "We have the Thain for military matters and times of strife, the Master of Buckland for his side of the Brandywine and dealing with the Old Forest, and the Mayor of Michel Delving, who was postmaster and also the ceremonial head of events and gatherings! They all shared the power of governing!"

Bilbo looked up sharply, his green eyes, previously clouded with worry, now wide with shock and then, a dawning, incandescent brilliance. His jaw dropped slightly. "Foxglove!" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper before it surged with explosive energy. "Foxglove, that is genius! We can modify that whole idea to work here in the mountain! Not exactly the same, but the concept!"

He was practically vibrating with excitement. In a flurry of motion, he swept the blank parchment towards him, grabbed his quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and began scribbling furious notes. He leaned over, reaching up to press a quick, brotherly kiss to her forehead, a gesture of pure, unadulterated gratitude and affection. "Thank you, Foxglove! Thank you!" And with that, he dashed out of the room, leaving a faint scent of ink and the lingering hum of his energy in his wake.

Foxglove laughed, a warm, soft sound that filled the sudden silence. She shook her head, a familiar fondness bubbling up inside her. Bilbo, ever the hobbit of action when an idea took hold! She picked up the seed chest from the desk, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings. Her own task, humble as it was, now felt imbued with a new sense of purpose.

She made her way through the halls again, this time towards the inner gardens, the chest tucked securely under her arm. The air grew warmer, faintly damp, carrying the scent of rich earth and burgeoning life. She found her usual spot, a sun-drenched alcove where patches of light filtered down from vents high above. She placed the chest carefully beside her, settling down on a low stone bench. Soon, Frerin would join her, along with the apprentices from Master Lir’s glass-making workshop, bringing the small terrarium jars she had asked for – miniature greenhouses, perfectly designed to coax the night-blooming seeds to life, even deep within the heart of the stone mountain. A new seed had been planted today, a very different kind, one that promised to bring balance and lighten the weight on a King's shoulders.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Bilbo left Foxglove back in the Ri Family chambers, his mind raced, a wildfire of thought ignited by his sister’s quiet ingenuity. "Oh, my brilliant sister!" he muttered, his feet almost tripping over each other as he hurried through the stone corridors. "This... this should help if I can modify it to work with the dwarrow structures of the mountain and culture. The siblings already help each other and carry the weight…"

He stopped abruptly, feet skidding on the polished stone just outside Dis’s quarters, remembering himself before he bowled over some unsuspecting dwarf. Taking a fortifying breath, he knocked, a rapid tattoo against the heavy wood. Instantly, the door opened, revealing Dis, her brow furrowed with worry.
"Bilbo? Are you alright?" she asked, her sharp gaze scanning him.

Bilbo nodded vigorously, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as she stepped back to let him in. "Yes! I am, but Foxglove, my brilliant sister, gave me an idea that might help Thorin!" He was brimming with an almost uncontrollable excitement, his hands already fumbling for the parchment tucked into his waistcoat.

Dis, seeing the vibrant energy radiating from him, smiled faintly, her worry easing. She took him gently by the arm, guiding him over to the two comfortable chairs near the roaring fireplace. The minute they sat down, Bilbo wasted no time, pulling out the hastily written notes, his scribbled diagrams and bullet points a chaotic testament to his racing thoughts.
"Dis," he began, barely pausing for breath, his eyes alight with conviction, "I don't think I told you about the government in the Shire and how it was run."
Dis shook her head slowly, her attention already captivated by his earnestness.

"You see," Bilbo continued, leaning forward, the parchment crinkling in his eager hands, "They have a Thain, which is the leader for their military and times of strife. Then there's the Master of Buckland, who handles their affairs but still reports back to the Thain about anything happening in the Old Forest, a very important role, mind you. And finally, the Mayor of Michael Delving, who is in charge of events and planning, as well as the postmaster – utterly vital for communication!"

He stopped, taking a shaky breath, his earlier excitement now tinged with a nervous tremor. "Thorin carries a lot of those responsibilities on his shoulders alone. Yes, you and Frerin help him when you can, as advisors or even as Regents during his recovery. But what if we set you and Frerin up as Co-rulers? Full, equal partners in kingship?"

Bilbo's voice dropped, becoming softer, more persuasive. "This will ease the weight of kingship, truly. And you three can rotate as needed before the council or on the throne. Say, if you were sick for any reason, Frerin or Thorin can step up and handle both the council and the throne while you rest and recover. Right now, it's just Thorin. Even if you and Frerin handle things while he recovers, your voices don't have the same weight as his. Not officially, not when it truly matters."

He fell silent, his face a mix of excitement and hope, waiting for Dis's reaction.

Dis sat there, utterly frozen in awe. Disbelief warred with a burgeoning sense of revelation. Bilbo had literally handed her a solution on a silver platter. A way for her and Frerin to share the immense, soul-crushing burden of ruling with Thorin, rather than watching as he suffered alone under its weight, even with Bilbo soon to become his consort, offering comfort and counsel.
Slowly, she stood from her chair, beginning to pace. Her mind, sharp and keen, raced through her own lessons in history—the history of her family line. Kings who almost broke under the sheer, unyielding weight of being king. The profound sadness their families endured, watching it happen, being powerless to stop it. She remembered her mother, her heart broken, almost consumed by grief, dying as she watched her father, Thror, march away with her husband, Thrain, to Khazad-dûm, leaving Thorin to take over so young, yet doing so with a determination that belied his tender years. The weight of it, the constant responsibility, the loneliness of final decision.

She stopped pacing, her gaze fixed on Bilbo. One of the hobbits who had come to them, fleeing the Fell Winter in the Shire, arriving in a humble wagon. One of the hobbits adopted into the House of Ri, who had seen past the traditional roles, past the rigid expectations of royalty, and discerned the true strength and intelligence of someone who was, in every conceivable way, perfect for Thorin. Not just as a companion, but as a catalyst for a better, stronger rule.

A slow, dawning smile spread across Dis's face, a rare, radiant thing. "Bilbo," she breathed, the name a reverence. "You... you and Foxglove truly are brilliant." The mountain felt a little lighter already.

Dis gently gripped his hand as she pulled him to his feet. "We need to find Thorin, Foxglove, Frerin and Vili now. We need to start the idea between us. All of us, after we get the idea into their heads about how the Shire is ran we can work it into the mountain." Her voice was a low, urgent murmur, crackling with an energy Bilbo had come to associate with her most formidable plans. He stumbled slightly, a hobbit unaccustomed to such rapid transitions from thought to action, but his mind was already racing to keep pace with hers.

Bilbo followed her as she gently tugged him along, his hand still warm in hers. She stepped outside of the rooms, her gaze sweeping over the guards standing there. "Please send for both my brothers, King Thorin, Prince Frerin, Lady Foxglove – Frerin's One – and my husband, Prince Consort Vili, to come to my chambers immediately. It is of the utmost importance." The guards nodded quickly, their faces serious, and strode away with a speed that spoke of the urgency in Dis’s tone.

Dis closed the door with a soft click and spun to face Bilbo, a determined look in her eye. "Now, Bilbo, we need to work out how to frame this co-ruler idea properly."

Bilbo nodded, his spine straightening. He met her gaze, a flicker of his own hobbit resilience rising to the surface. It was a daunting task, proposing such a radical shift to Thorin, but seeing the relentless toll the crown took on his King, Bilbo knew it had to be done.

A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal Thorin, Frerin, Foxglove, and Vili. They strode in, worry etched on their faces, their eyes immediately seeking Dis and Bilbo. Dis gestured for them to sit down, her expression serious but reassuring.

Bilbo swallowed as he took in Thorin's exhausted face and slumped shoulders. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, and the intricate braids of his beard seemed to hold the weight of the entire mountain. Foxglove had the faint scent of herbs and freshly turned earth clinging to her, dirt still smudged on her hands, suggesting she’d been in the gardens. Frerin’s usually meticulous tunic was dusted with fine bits of glass clinging to his tunic, suggesting time spent overseeing carving or construction, and Vili, with the glint of steel at his hip and the faint smell of sweat and leather clinging to him from a training ground, settled into a chair, his weapons still on him from training a few squads outside. A shared furrow of concern etched itself onto their brows.

Without a word, Bilbo walked over to Thorin and wrapped his arms around Thorin's shoulders, squeezing gently. It was a silent offering of strength and solace. Thorin’s arms wrapped around his body firmly, a deep, shuddering sigh escaping him, the sound muffled against Bilbo's shoulder as he buried his face into Bilbo's neck, hiding for a moment behind his russet curls. Then, with a slow release, he let Bilbo step back, who then stood beside Dis.

Dis looked at Thorin for a moment, a flicker of raw empathy in her usually stern gaze, before looking at Bilbo. Bilbo swallowed once more, a dry click in his throat, but his resolve hardened as he met Thorin's gaze, then turned to the others.

"Foxglove," Bilbo began, "remember what you told me in the Ri Family Chambers? About how the Shire government is run?" Foxglove straightened in her seat, her posture shifting from weary concern to alert readiness as she nodded at her brother.

Dis took over, her voice steady. "Thorin, Bilbo and Foxglove handed you a key to your saving grace for us to really help you, not just as advisors. But as something more." Thorin looked up at her, confusion evident on his face, but a willingness to listen was clear as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, resting his head on his hands.

Bilbo continued, finding his voice gaining strength. "In the Shire, they have three people who, I suppose, in the terms of dwarrow culture, rule together but in separate capacities. The Thain is leader of their military, which includes the bounders and sheriffs, as well as acting during times of strife." Thorin's shoulders tensed, but he continued listening intently.

"The Master of Buckland watches the Old Forest and handles their affairs, but still keeps the Thain informed of anything he needs to know. The Mayor of Michel Delving is the one who handles all events, gatherings, and day-to-day life. He also is the postmaster of the Shire."

Thorin sat up straight, a spark of recognition igniting in his tired eyes as he focused on Bilbo. "You wrote about them in the journal you gave me..."

Bilbo nodded quickly, pushing on. "Yes! But what if we took that concept and adapted it to here… under the mountain. I don't want to watch you being crushed under the weight you carry alone. Every decision, every grievance, every threat, every success – it all rests on you. Dis and Frerin already help you as much as they are able, but you have the final say on anything in the mountain, whether it's from the council, the courts, everything."

He stepped a bit closer, his voice softening, pleading. "What if Dis and Frerin had the same weight in their voices as you do? Carry the weight of leadership, not just as advisors, but as true peers? They are not merely advisors whose counsel you can choose to heed or dismiss; they become integral pillars, sharing the very foundation of rule. It's not to undermine you, my dear, it's to help you. It is to strengthen the monarchy, to ensure its continuity and resilience. If you're wounded in battle – which I truly hope you won't be, but you never know – Frerin and Dis can easily step in and have the same weight in their voices while you recover, without having to push your recovery. No more delaying healing for the sake of official duties, no more forced appearances when your body cries for rest. Please, Thorin, let them share the burden with you. You are not alone."

Silence hit the room. The air in the room grew thick with unspoken hope and suspended breath as they waited for Thorin's answer. Bilbo stood there, trembling slightly, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Thorin remained motionless, sitting upright his face blank but his eyes speaking volumes. The others watched, their faces etched with a mixture of apprehension and unwavering support. The weight of the mountain itself seemed to hang in that quiet chamber, waiting for the king's decision.

Silence stretched, thick with unspoken hopes and fears, as Bilbo stood before Thorin, his heart hammering against his ribs. He watched Thorin's chest rise and fall with a single, ragged breath, his eyes, deep pools of exhaustion and thought, moving between Bilbo's earnest face and Dis's unwavering gaze. Frerin leaned forward, his knuckles white where he gripped his knees, while Foxglove and Vili watched with bated breath, their own worry etched on their faces.

Thorin finally stirred, a low rumble escaping his throat. "You speak of sharing the crown, Bilbo," he said, his voice rough, "of diminishing the King's sole authority." He didn't sound angry, just profoundly weary, as if the very concept weighed heavily on his already burdened shoulders. "Is this truly possible? Will it not weaken our rule?"

Dis stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tension. "It will strengthen it, brother. Not weaken it. A single column, no matter how mighty, can fall. Three pillars, supporting each other, standing together, are unshakeable." She looked at Bilbo, then back at Thorin. "We do not seek to lessen your power, but to distribute the weight of it. To multiply our effectiveness."
Thorin slowly lifted his head, meeting Bilbo's gaze. The hobbit’s earnestness, his genuine love and concern, shone in his eyes. Thorin remembered the journal, the detailed observations, the quiet wisdom Bilbo had always possessed. He remembered the countless sleepless nights, the endless petitions, the internal strife, the council debates, the sheer, crushing isolation of the throne. The admission, though silent, hung heavy in the air: He was drowning.

A tremor passed through Thorin's strong frame. He closed his eyes for a long moment, the image of Bilbo’s pleading face, the words "You are not alone" echoing in his mind. When he opened them, there was a flicker of something new – not just exhaustion, but a glimmer of desperate hope.

"The burden," Thorin whispered, his voice barely audible, "it has become… unbearable." He looked at Dis, then Frerin, then back at Bilbo. "You truly believe this can work? Without… without fracturing the very foundation of our rule?"

Bilbo took a hesitant step closer, his voice soft but firm. "It will be the new foundation, Thorin. A foundation built on shared strength, not solitary endurance. On collaboration, not isolation. It is not about one king, but about the prosperity and well-being of all our people, managed by those who can best serve in their own capacities."

Thorin's jaw worked. He looked at Frerin, his younger brother, who had always been steadfast. He looked at Dis, his sister, his fiercest protector and most astute mind. And he looked at Bilbo, his One, the heart of his home, who saw past the crown and into the very soul of the dwarf king.

A single tear tracked down Thorin's weary face, quickly wiped away. He pushed himself up from the chair, his movements stiff, and walked directly to Bilbo. He didn't speak, but simply wrapped his arms around the hobbit, burying his face in Bilbo's shoulder, taking a long, shaky breath.

Bilbo's own arms came up, holding Thorin tightly, a silent answer to the unspoken question. He felt Thorin's shoulders tremble under his hands, the deep relief that coursed through the dwarf king.

Then, Thorin pulled back, his eyes still red-rimmed but now alight with a new resolve. He turned to face his family, his voice stronger, albeit still hoarse. "Then let us build this new foundation, together. Bilbo speaks true. This burden… it is too much for one dwarf alone. I… I accept. I accept this offer of shared burden, of shared rule."

A collective sigh of relief filled the room. Foxglove clapped a hand over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Vili nodded, a grim smile on his face. Frerin shot up from his seat, rushing to embrace Thorin and Dis, a shared look of fierce determination passing between the siblings.

"Excellent!" Dis clapped her hands, her voice ringing with the energy of a general planning a new campaign. "Now, Thorin, Bilbo – and Foxglove, you too, with your knowledge – let us adapt this Shire model. Thorin, you remain King Under the Mountain, the ultimate authority, the Thain of Erebor, leading our military, our defenses, and serving as the final arbiter of justice. That aligns with your strengths."

Thorin nodded, a newfound lightness already appearing on his face.

"Frerin," Dis continued, turning to her younger brother, "you will be our Warden of the Holds. You have a knack for the people, for resources, for the day-to-day workings of the mountain's deeper levels and external relations. You will be our Master of Buckland, overseeing the mines, the craft-halls, ensuring our people prosper and our resources are well-managed. You'll be the voice of the common dwarf, taking care of concerns instead of Thorin carrying it."

Frerin's eyes shone. "I accept. It would be my honor."

"And Vili and I," Dis stated, placing a hand on her chest, "will be the Wardens of the Home. We will oversee the legislative councils, the treasury, the trade negotiations, the long-term planning for the mountain's future, the cultural events, and the libraries. We will be our Mayor of Michel Delving, in a sense, managing the internal politics and the grand affairs of state. These will be our three pillars, Thorin. Each with equal weight in our council, each responsible for their own domain, but all working in absolute concert, reporting to each other, and making decisions together."

Bilbo stepped forward, a wide, relieved smile spreading across his face. "And Foxglove," he added, "when she marries Frerin, helping him shape the details, ensuring all aspects are covered. This is the start of a new Erebor, my friends. Stronger, together."

Thorin looked at each of them, his family, his chosen family. The crushing weight of the crown hadn't vanished, but it had distributed itself, shared among strong, willing hands. He felt a different kind of burden now – the burden of trust, of responsibility to those who stood beside him. But this burden, he knew, was one he could carry, for it was borne of love and shared purpose. A new dawn truly was breaking under the lonely mountain.

The air in the private chamber was thick with the comfortable warmth of the hearth and the muffled sounds of the Mountain. Bilbo Baggins sighed contentedly, leaning his head back against Thorin’s broad shoulder. Thorin, in turn, had an arm wrapped around Bilbo’s shoulders, his fingers stroking the soft wool of Bilbo’s tunic. Across from them, Vili had just strode over to Dis, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze, a quiet understanding passing between them. Not far, Frerin bounced Foxglove in his arms, spinning her in a joyful circle that elicited peals of laughter from the hobbit-lass, her white braids flying.

“I believe we should bring the rest of our family into planning this out further,” Thorin rumbled, his voice deep but soft, gazing down at Bilbo. “Can you tell this all over again for Balin, Dwalin, Gloin, Oin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur and Alaris? I’m not sure if we should have Fili, Kili and Gimli in the discussion.”

Dis, ever practical, gave Thorin a sharp, knowing glint. “They absolutely should be here. Fili and Kili will be the next generation of this new foundation even if they don’t have ideas, they can be here as the foundation is forged.”

Thorin nodded, conceding the point. “Very well, shall we send for them now? This way we can get this foundation started?”

Frerin and Foxglove, overhearing, exchanged a glance. “We can go get them,” Frerin offered, already setting Foxglove down. “If we split the tasks of summoning them, we can get it done in half the time.”

Thorin smiled, a rare, relaxed curve of his lips. “Go ahead. Bring them here, have Bombur tell his apprentices to send up a meal for us as well. If you wouldn’t mind, I have a feeling we’re going to be here awhile.”

Frerin and Foxglove nodded, already chattering excitedly about a plan of action as they strode out, the heavy oaken doors closing behind them.

An hour later, the doors opened once more, this time with Frerin and Foxglove leading a small throng. Balin entered first, his brow furrowed in confusion, followed by the rest of the summoned dwarves. Dwalin’s hand rested on his axe, though his expression was more perplexed than alarmed. Gloin and Oin looked curious, while the Ri siblings seemed particularly eager. Bombur, Bofur, Bifur and Alaris trailing after them.

“Thorin? Is everything alright?” Balin asked, his gaze sweeping the room, noting the settled calm of Thorin and Bilbo.

Thorin’s smile broadened. “Yes, better than alright. But first, Bilbo has something to tell you. All of you.” He gestured to Bilbo, who stood beside him, a reassuring hand on his forearm.
Bilbo took a steadying breath, his spine straightening. He felt a familiar flutter of nerves, but beneath it, a surge of purpose. This wasn’t just an idea; it was a necessity, born of love.
“Foxglove gave me the idea,” Bilbo began, his voice clear despite the tremor he felt deep inside. He met their gazes, one by one. “Because over the past two years, I’ve watched Thorin carry the weight of the Mountain on his shoulders. Thorin has been ruling the Mountain since he was 53, and as his One, I want to help him in every task I am able to.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts, remembering how explained this the first time to Thorin with Dis. “So, in the Shire, they have three people who, I suppose, in the terms of Dwarrow culture, rule together but in separate capacities. The Thain is leader of their military, which includes the Bounders and Sheriffs, and in times of strife.” Bilbo watched as a few heads nodded, a glimmer of understanding in some eyes. “The Master of Buckland watches the Old Forest and handles their affairs but still keeps the Thain informed of anything he needs to know. The Mayor of Michael Delving is the one who handles all events, gatherings, and day-to-day life. He also is the postmaster of the Shire.”

Bilbo swallowed, his throat dry. “What if we took that concept and adapted it to here… under the Mountain? I don’t want to watch Thorin being crushed under the weight he has to carry alone. Dis and Frerin already help him as much as they are able, but he has the final say on anything in the Mountain, whether it’s from the council, the courts, everything. What if Dis and Frerin had the same weight in their voices as Thorin does? To carry the weight of leadership. It’s not to undermine him, it’s to help him. To strengthen the Mountain and its people.”

Bilbo’s voice faded to a quiet whisper as he looked from face to face, waiting. The silence in the room stretched, heavy with anticipation.

Then, Dis spoke, her voice cutting through the quiet, crisp and decisive. “We already thought of a basis for who would be what; it just needs to be hammered out. Frerin would be Warden of the Holds. He’d oversee the mines, the craft-halls, ensuring our people prosper and our resources are well-managed. Vili and I would be Wardens of the Home. We will oversee the legislative councils, the treasury, the trade negotiations, the long-term planning for the Mountain’s future, the cultural events, and the libraries. Thorin will be leading our military, our defenses, and serving as the final arbiter of justice. That aligns with his strengths.”

The silence after she spoke was even more profound, making Bilbo’s hands tremble. He watched their faces, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint of disapproval. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs.

Then, the thought struck him like the force of a hammer on an anvil, sharp and undeniable: if this works… truly works… Bilbo had just handed over his second courting gift, not even realizing it. A way to ease his One’s burden, to strengthen their people, forged not in gold or gems, but in deep love and thoughtful care.

The silence that followed Dis’s words was thick, heavy with the weight of generations of tradition and the sudden, radical shift being proposed. Bilbo’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a frantic drum against the quiet in the grand chamber. He watched faces, trying to read them: Balin, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation; Dwalin, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, but a thoughtful rather than aggressive set to his jaw; Fili and Kili, young and earnest, trying to grasp the full implications; even Gimli, though only a boy, looked on with wide, curious eyes.
Then, Balin let out a slow, deliberate exhale. “A… tripartite leadership,” he mused, his voice a low rumble. “It is… unprecedented in our history, Thorin. But I confess, the logic is sound.” He looked at Thorin, then at Dis and Frerin. “The burdens you carry, Thorin, have always been immense. To share that weight, not diminish it, but distribute it for the betterment of all… that is a wisdom I confess I had not considered.”

Dwalin uncrossed his arms, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I’ve seen you work, Thorin. And I’ve seen Bilbo here hold his own amongst us. If he believes this strengthens you, Thorin, then I am inclined to listen.” His gaze swept over the gathered company. “And if it strengthens the Mountain, well then, who are we to argue with a Hobbit’s cleverness?”

Fili, ever the eager one, stepped forward slightly. “Uncle, if this means you can… can breathe easier, while the Mountain still prospers, then why wouldn’t we embrace it? And Amad and Uncle Frerin are already pillars of leadership. To formalize it only makes sense.” Kili nodded vigorously beside him, adding, “Aye! It’s like strengthening the main support beams, isn’t it? Makes the whole structure surer.”

Thorin’s hand, which had been resting on Bilbo’s shoulder, tightened gently. He looked at his nephews, then around at his kin, a profound sense of relief washing over his stern features. “Fili, Kili, you speak with more wisdom than your years. And Balin, Dwalin, your counsel is invaluable.” He turned to Bilbo, a warmth in his eyes that made the Hobbit’s breath catch. “Bilbo is right. The burden has been… heavy. This is not about relinquishing power, but about multiplying strength. About ensuring that Erebor thrives for generations to come, robust and resilient, not dependent solely on one individual’s shoulders.” He gestured to Dis and Frerin. “My sister and my brother have always been my staunchest allies, my wisest advisors. To empower them fully, to give their voices the same weight in their respective domains, is a gift to the Mountain itself.”

Gloin, ever practical, stroked his beard. “The division of labor sounds… efficient. Frerin, Warden of the Holds, overseeing the very foundation of our wealth and craft. Dis, Warden of the Home, guiding our policies, our investments, our cultural heart. And Thorin, leading our defenses, our military might, and the final word on justice. It aligns with natural talents and existing responsibilities.”

“But the transition?” Oin grumbled, though his expression was more curious than disapproving. “How would such a thing be implemented? And what of the council? Would their role change?”
“These are precisely the questions we need to hammer out,” Dis interjected, her voice firm and clear, radiating quiet authority. “This is a foundation, as Bilbo said. It requires careful planning, discussion, and a unified vision from all of us.”

Just then, the main doors swung open again, Bombur's apprentices their faces flushed from the kitchens, entered, supervising a small train of apprentices bearing trays laden with steaming pots, fresh bread, and hearty cuts of roasted meat. The aroma filled the chamber, a welcome, grounding presence.

“Ah, excellent timing, Bombur, Alaris,” Thorin rumbled, a different kind of warmth in his voice. “It seems we have much to discuss, and a long night ahead. Pull up chairs, everyone. Let us eat, and then let us begin the true work of forging this new future for Erebor.”

As the company began to settle around the impromptu feast, Bilbo felt a profound calm descend upon him. He watched Thorin, whose shoulders seemed visibly less burdened already, engaging with his kin, a spark of renewed energy in his eyes. He saw Dis and Frerin, empowered and resolute, ready to take on their stated roles. And then, the thought struck him fully, a warm, resonant hum in his chest: if this works… truly works, Bilbo had handed over his second courting gift not even realizing it.

The first, a journal filled from words of Bilbo's old home the shire, had been born from Bilbo's love of comfort, home and family. This, this was different. This was a gift born of quiet observation, of protective love, of a deep desire for Thorin’s well-being and the prosperity of his people. It was a gift of shared weight, of collaborative strength, a testament to his understanding of Thorin, and of the Mountain itself. It wasn’t a treasure, but an idea – an idea with the power to shape the very future of Erebor, built on the solid bedrock of family, trust, and shared purpose. He smiled, a genuine, deep contentment settling over him. This was more precious than any gem.

Notes:

I thought of this for awhile, because honestly one pillar of leadership would be crushed. Three Pillars however? Nah, especially those three Erebor would be protected.

Chapter 23

The last delicious tang of roasted boar and spiced ale still clung to the air in Dis and Vili’s spacious chambers. Amidst the clink of tankards and the rumble of deep voices, discussions had already begun to turn towards the future, specifically the thorny issue of establishing clear roles for Frerin and Dis, especially concerning the proposed titles: "Warden of the Holds for Frerin" and "Warden of the Home for Dis and Vili." A few senior dwarrow, including Balin and Dwalin, were leaning in, their brows furrowed in serious contemplation as they hammered out the finer points, their voices low but intensely focused.

Bilbo, however, found himself increasingly overwhelmed by the intensity, the sheer weight of tradition and expectation that shimmered in the air. The idea, his idea, felt monumental. He felt a familiar flutter in his chest, a peculiar mixture of pride and profound anxiety. With a quiet grace that only a hobbit could manage, he slipped away from the warmth of the hearth and the animated discussions.

He stepped out onto the wide, carved stone balcony of Dis and Vili’s chambers, the cool air a welcome balm on his flushed cheeks. The setting sun, a fiery orb sinking behind the distant peaks, cast long, purple shadows across the Stone Halls. Erebor, vast and ancient, seemed to breathe around him, the distant echoes of dwarven hammers a rhythmic, comforting pulse from deep within the mountain.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers fumbling slightly, and pulled out his pipe and a small pouch of particularly fine Longbottom Leaf. His hands, usually steady and precise when tending his garden or sketching, were trembling noticeably as he slowly, carefully, filled the bowl. It was more than the chill of the evening; it was the tremor of a mind wrestling with a bold, perhaps audacious, proposition. He took a deep, shaky breath, struck a match, and inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of pipe-weed a small comfort. He then released a perfect, curling circle of smoke into the twilight, watching it dissipate into the velvet cloak of twilight. Leaning back against the solid, cold stone wall, he closed his eyes, inhaling again.

Every muscle in his body felt taut, vibrating with an unspoken tension. He heard it first, a soft, familiar tread, then felt it – a powerful, undeniable presence behind him. Before he could turn, strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him back against a solid, warm chest. The embrace was so familiar, so inherently Thorin, that it instantly steadied the frantic drumming of his heart, even if his body still quivered.

"Thorin," Bilbo said, his voice a fragile whisper, laced with a tremor that had nothing to do with the cool air. He leaned back into the warmth, finding comfort in the solid anchor of the King Under the Mountain. "I just realized… when we were proposing the idea of Dis and Frerin co-ruling, with you, to our family… it’s the perfect second courtship gift." He paused, taking another breath, trying to steady himself. "I'm looking out for you, yes, but this is also my way of looking out for our people and the mountain. For Erebor."

Thorin’s grip around him tightened, just a fraction, a silent testament to the depth of his emotion. He buried his face into Bilbo's shoulder, the familiar scent of pipe-weed and something uniquely hobbit-like filling his senses. "I'm so grateful and glad you are my One, Bilbo," he rumbled, his voice thick with emotion. "To know you are looking out for me, and for our home… it means more than words can say."

Bilbo inhaled again, the pipe a small, warm weight in his hand, and let out another small circle of smoke, watching it curl into the fading light. "I know I'm not strong like a dwarf," he confessed, the old insecurity creeping in. "I can't craft or forge either, but I can give you ideas from the Shire… and help our home thrive and grow."

Thorin shook his head, ever so slightly, his cheek still pressed against Bilbo’s shoulder. "I am grateful, like I said before. You are strong, Bilbo, but of a different vein. You are mithril true when it comes to family, when it comes to the heart of things. Your sister too, she is perfect for Frerin." A soft chuckle vibrated through Bilbo’s back. "Frerin has always been mischievous and joyful, a handful, but Foxglove… she keeps him grounded, like the very earth you come from. I thank Mahal every day that you both came to the mountain. Frerin's One as a hobbit is perfect, as is mine. Both of you are perfect. Mahal gave us gifts when he forged us together."

Bilbo’s voiced wavered again, the initial relief giving way to a fresh wave of anxiety. "I have no idea how to bring this to the Elders," he admitted, the fear palpable. "I don't know if I can. They may have accepted Foxglove and I as hobbits of Erebor, and your and Frerin's Ones… but an idea like this? I have no idea how it will go over. I'm truly looking out for everyone. From the smallest pebble to their King."

Thorin finally, gently, turned Bilbo to face him, his hands cupping Bilbo’s face. He rested his forehead against Bilbo's, his gaze steady and unwavering in the dimming light, reflecting the last embers of the sunset. "I know," he murmured, his breath warm against Bilbo’s skin. "And we will go present it together. We'll bring everyone if need be; Dis, Vili, Frerin, Foxglove, Balin, Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur." He paused, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. "I fear we can't bring Alaris with us because of her and Bombur's pups, but Bombur and Alaris think alike, so she's there with us in spirit."

He tightened his grip on Bilbo’s shoulders, his thumbs stroking comfortingly. "This idea will need to be hammered out completely, Bilbo. And if we have to change the titles, we will. I know we thought of ideas for the Titles already, but if we have to, we can change it. Modify the tasks within the titles, make them better, more suited to the needs of Erebor. We have a rough idea, yes, but we and our family… our entire family… can make it better. More ironclad, more resilient. Then we present it to the Elders."

The words, spoken with Thorin's unwavering confidence, were like a sturdy oak in Bilbo's storm-tossed mind. Looking into those deep, blue eyes, Bilbo felt a profound calm settle over him. He was not alone in this. He never was, not with Thorin at his side, and their family – hobbit and dwarf alike – standing with them. Together, they would face anything.

Chapter 24

Thorin's Chambers in Erebor had seen many things: feasts, battles, coronations, and mournful vigils. But rarely had it witnessed such a flurry of parchment, ink-stained fingers, and hushed, intense debate as it had over the past week. Ori stolen from his time in the Academy, bless his meticulous heart, almost did lose his mind. Stack after stack of vellum, roll after roll of papyrus, all covered in his neat script, flowed from his tireless hands. Each line was a proposed duty, each paragraph a potential responsibility, all to be assigned to the royal family. He’d barely slept, fuelled by strong dwarven coffee and the burning conviction that he was part of something truly revolutionary. This wasn't merely about governance; it was about the very future of Erebor, a future his family was attempting to forge with foresight and unity.

Eventually, through countless reworkings and exhaustive discussions, the framework solidified. No longer would the crushing weight of Erebor rest solely on one King’s shoulders. The burden would be shared, each member of the royal line bearing a responsibility suited to their strengths. Thorin, as always, would remain the unwavering core: King Under the Mountain and Might, his domain encompassing the military, defense, the grand, long-term planning of Erebor’s future, and the solemn duty of final arbiter of justice. A fitting role for the the unyielding leader.
Frerin, the one who leapt into the mines and crafting halls, emerged with the title King of the Deep and Holds. His hand would guide the crafting halls, the labyrinthine mines, the meticulous treasury, and oversee all incoming resources vital to the Mountain’s survival and prosperity. It was a role that played to his love of craftsmanship and his keen eye for logistics.

Dis, the formidable sister, would be crowned Queen of the Hearth and Home. Vili would share the role as King at her side. Their purview expanded beyond the domestic – they would command all trade negotiations, the delicate dance of diplomacy, the various councils that addressed the people’s needs, the vibrant cultural events that kept the dwarrow spirit alive, and the vast, knowledge-filled libraries of Erebor. Her wisdom and sharp wit and his firm but mischievious eyes were perfectly suited to fostering connections both within and beyond the Mountain.
The decision to appoint all three as King and Queen in their own right was fiercely debated but ultimately agreed upon. It wasn't about diminishing Thorin's authority but augmenting the collective power. Each title carried a distinct weight, ensuring that every facet of Erebor's governance was seen as paramount, held by a monarch dedicated to its specific needs. And when Foxglove eventually married Frerin, she would seamlessly integrate, taking on a share of his responsibilities, her own skills adding to the Mountain’s strength. Vili, too, was already proving invaluable to Dis, splitting the demanding tasks of trade negotiations and councils, a testament to the family's expanding capabilities.

But amidst all the meticulous planning, Bilbo had found himself strangely adrift. How could he, a hobbit, contribute to Thorin's immense role in the Mountain? He could not command armies, nor did he possess the tactical genius for defense. Long-term planning, while interesting, felt too grand, too sweeping for his practical mind. Justice, while important, was not his purview. He worried he would simply be a decorative consort, a gentle companion, but not a true partner in the monumental task of rebuilding.

Then, one quiet evening, as he watched Thorin pore over maps, a memory sparked. A conversation with his mother, years ago, about the Shire’s peculiar governance. And it hit him: balance. Not one weight, but three.

The day came. The air in the royal wing vibrated with nervous energy, thick and palpable. Bilbo stood beside Thorin, a faint tremble in his frame that he hoped wasn’t visible. Behind them, a silent bulwark of support, stood Frerin, Dis, Kili, Fili, Dwalin, Balin, Dori, Nori, Ori, and the rest of the mountain. They had rehearsed, debated, and planned, but now, facing the Elders, was the true test. Thorin, sensing Bilbo’s apprehension, wrapped a warm arm around his shoulders, a silent promise of strength.

The massive, carved doors of the Chamber of Elders swung inward with a low groan, revealing the cavernous space within. Bilbo’s breath caught at the sheer enormity of the room, dwarfing everything he’d ever seen. The Elders, ancient and unsmiling, sat on elevated platforms, their weathered faces impassive, their gaze collectively falling upon them. In Bilbo’s private opinion, the platforms were as intimidating as they were unnecessary, but Thorin smoothly guided him to stand in the very middle of the room, directly before the seated council.

Thorin’s arm dropped from Bilbo’s shoulder as he strode forward, his voice, usually so deep and rich, booming with unshakeable authority in the chamber. "Honored Elders. We come before you with a revolutionary idea that will benefit Erebor and her people. From her pebbles to her King. Will you listen with open minds and open hearts to our presentation?"

The Elders looked between each other for a long moment, the silence amplifying the weight of their scrutiny. Finally, the head of the Elders, an old dwarf with a braided white beard reaching his knees, waved a gnarled hand. "Proceed, King Thorin."

Thorin looked back at his sister Dis and his brother Frerin, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Then, his gaze landed on Bilbo, and he extended his hand in silent support. Bilbo swallowed, a dry lump in his throat. This was it. He stepped forward, taking Thorin’s strong, calloused hand, Thorin becoming his unwavering tether as he began, his voice, surprisingly, clear and steady.

"Honored Elders, I bring before you an idea that comes from my childhood home to my true home. A way I know that will help Erebor thrive and grow beyond how she is now." Bilbo swallowed again, glancing at Thorin, who offered a reassuring squeeze of his hand. "Thorin has been ruling since he was fifty-three, and as his one, I wish to help him lighten and carry the mountain on his shoulders in a way I believe and hope that will help him and Erebor."

The Elders, initially skeptical, nodded, a flicker of genuine interest sparking in their ancient eyes. They leaned forward, eagerness replacing their stoic expressions as Bilbo continued. "I propose this first to Lady Dis, who was immediately supportive of the idea, who always helps King Thorin in every task she is handed to her. Lord Frerin is also supportive of the plan. What the Shire does, is it has three Leaders who balance the tasks King Thorin currently carries on his shoulders alone."

Bilbo paused, gathering his thoughts, then explained, "In the Shire, they have three people who I suppose, in the terms of dwarrow culture, rule together but in separate capacities. The Thain is leader of their military, which includes the Bounders – our border guards – and the Shirriffs, as well as taking command during times of strife or external threat. He is our chief warrior, our protector." Bilbo saw a few Elders nod, appreciating the martial aspect. "Then there is the Master of Buckland, who watches the Old Forest and handles the affairs of his own region, but still keeps the Thain informed of anything he needs to know, acting almost as a regional governor with a focus on defense and safety." He gestured slightly. "And finally, the Mayor of Michel Delving is the one who handles all public events, large gatherings, and the day-to-day life and well-being of the Shirefolk. He also functions as the postmaster of the Shire, ensuring communication and order."

The Elders, fully invested now, their faces a mixture of curiosity and dawning understanding, waited on Bilbo's next words, their attention rapt.

"I purpose we split the duties," Bilbo continued, his voice gaining confidence, "not to undermine or weaken King Thorin's rule, but to strengthen it through the bonds of family and duty. Lord Frerin would become King of the Deep and Holds in charge of the crafting halls, the treasury, the mines, and any incoming resources for the mountain and her people. Lady Dis would become Queen Dis of Hearth and Home in charge of trade negotiations, diplomacy, councils, cultural events, and libraries. King Thorin would be Thorin, King Under the Mountain and Might as he would carry the military, defense, long-term planning of Erebor's future, and final arbiter of justice on his shoulders. I bring this before you, Honored Elders, to better the future of Erebor and her people."

Silence descended upon the grand chamber. The Elders exchanged glances, no longer scrutinizing, but processing. The air hummed with the weight of the proposal. Bilbo clutched Thorin's hand tighter, his heart thrumming, as the head Elder slowly, thoughtfully, stroked his long white beard. A hint of something akin to admiration, or perhaps just profound surprise, flickered in his ancient eyes. The silence stretched, pregnant with possibility, as the fate of Erebor's new governance hung in the balance.

A heavy silence settled over the cavernous chamber once Bilbo's voice faded, the last word echoing softly off the high, carved ceilings. The Elders, who had leaned forward in rapt attention, now sat back, their faces a mixture of contemplation and surprise. They exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves, their aged brows furrowed in thought. The head Elder, Dorin, stroked his long, braided beard.

Thorin, a steadfast anchor beside Bilbo, tightened his grip on the hobbit's hand, offering silent reassurance. Bilbo, despite his earlier eloquence, felt a fresh wave of nerves. Had he overstepped? Was this truly as revolutionary as they believed, or merely hubris?

Dorin's gaze eventually settled back on Bilbo, sharp and assessing. "An… unconventional proposal, Master Baggins," he rumbled, his voice deep but not unkind. "To split the burden of the King Under the Mountain in such a manner. While King Thorin has indeed borne the weight of Erebor on his shoulders since a young age, and admirably so, the Crown has ever been singular. What guarantees do we have that this division will not weaken, but strengthen, as you claim?"

Thorin stepped forward, keeping Bilbo close. "Honored Elders, the strength lies not in a singular burden, but in shared purpose and unified vision," he boomed, his voice resonating with conviction. "The wisdom of the Shire, as Bilbo has presented, offers us a framework. Frerin, with his deep understanding of stone and metal, of the lifeblood of this mountain, is unmatched in his ability to oversee the mines, the treasury, and the very craft that defines us. His passion for the Deep will ensure our resources are managed with unparalleled care and innovation."
Frerin, sensing his cue, stepped forward, his expression earnest. "Indeed, Elders. My heart has always been in the delve and the forge. To formally dedicate my energies to these tasks, unburdened by the broader matters of state, will allow me to truly flourish and bring forth the mountain's greatest wealth, both material and artistic."

Dis then took a step, her bearing regal and confident. "And I, Elders, have long stood beside my brother in matters of diplomacy and the welfare of our people. To focus my efforts on our relations with other peoples, on the cultural heart of Erebor, and on the vital flow of information through our libraries and councils, will allow Erebor's light to shine brighter and farther than ever before. Vili, my One, already proves invaluable in these endeavors, and together we shall ensure our outreach is both far-reaching and deeply rooted in our traditions."

Thorin turned back to the Elders, his gaze sweeping over them. "By appointing them Kings and Queen in their own right, we do not diminish my authority, but rather solidify theirs. Each holds a piece of the Mountain's soul, dedicated to its flourishing. My focus, then, remains on the defense of Erebor, the long-term strategic vision that will guide us for generations, and the just application of our ancient laws. It is a more focused, yet equally profound, responsibility."

Dorin nodded slowly, a glint of understanding in his eyes. "And Master Baggins," he said, turning to the hobbit again, "you spoke of helping King Thorin lighten his burden. Your contribution to his specific role, what would that entail?"

Bilbo felt the weight of all eyes upon him, but Thorin's hand was still a reassuring presence. He took a deep breath. "Honored Elders," he began, his voice gaining strength, "my knowledge is not of warfare or the stone, but of people, of histories, and of other ways of life. Thorin's burden of long-term planning requires a breadth of vision that extends beyond the mountain walls. I propose to serve as his chief counsel and strategist for these matters. To aid him in understanding the nuances of the outside world, to help him forge alliances not just with other Dwarf-holds, but with Men, Elves, and Hobbits, should the need arise. To delve into records not just of battles, but of trade routes, cultural exchanges, and the subtle shifts in power that shape the world. I would be his eyes and ears outside the direct military sphere, and his voice when new approaches are needed for ancient challenges, particularly in matters of justice where impartiality and a fresh perspective can be vital."

A quiet hum went through the Elders. Bilbo, the hobbit, not a warrior, not a miner, not even a traditional diplomat, offering a role of strategic insight and cross-cultural understanding. It was unprecedented.

Dorin looked at Thorin, then at Frerin and Dis, seeing the unified front, the clear dedication in their eyes. He saw not a weakening, but a refinement, a specialization that could indeed lead to greater strength. The weight of centuries of single rule was immense, and the thought of dividing it, not out of weakness but out of amplified strength, began to make sense.

After a long moment, Dorin raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. His gaze, deep and ancient, met Thorin's. "King Thorin," he declared, his voice ringing with newfound conviction, "your family stands united behind this vision, and your reasons are sound. Erebor has long been blessed by the strength of its King, but perhaps the time has come for her to be blessed by the collective might of a family, each dedicated to their highest purpose. We, the Elders of Erebor, see the wisdom in this revolutionary path."

He rose from his seat, and the other Elders followed suit, a ripple of agreement passing through them. "We concur with your proposal. Let it be known!" Thrain announced, his voice booming. "Thorin, King Under the Mountain and Might. Frerin, King of the Deep and Holds. Dis, Queen of the Hearth and Home. And Master Bilbo Baggins, when you become the King's Consort, you receive your title when you marry. Foxglove will receive hers when she marries Frerin. May Erebor flourish anew under this shared and mighty rule!"

A collective cheer rose from behind them, as the family, who had stood in silent support, erupted in relieved exclamations. Thorin let go of Bilbo's hand only to pull him into a fierce, joyous embrace. "My heart, you have done it," he murmured into Bilbo's hair, a raw, emotional relief in his voice. "You have given us not just a plan, but a future."

Bilbo, his own tears pricking at his eyes, returned the embrace, feeling the solid, comforting strength of his King. He had found his place, not with a crown, but with a purpose that felt as vast and vital as the Mountain itself. The Revolution had begun.

The heavy, ornate doors of the Chamber of Elders clanged shut with a resonant thud, a sound that echoed through the very stone of Erebor and, it seemed, through Bilbo’s bone-deep exhaustion. He stumbled forward, legs feeling like leaden pillars, his mind a joyous, jumbled mess. He had done it. He had done it. Him, Bilbo Baggins, a simple Hobbit from the Shire, had somehow, incredibly, helped shape the future of a kingdom. He had helped Thorin, his King and his future husband, and in doing so, he had helped Frerin, Dis, and truly, the whole mountain.
The relief that surged through him was immense, a wave so powerful it threatened to buckle his knees. It was also utterly exhausting, draining the last vestiges of strength from his frame. Just as he felt himself sway, a blur of white curls launched at him.

"Brother! I can't believe you did it!" Foxglove’s arms wrapped around him, her tackle-hug surprisingly gentle given the force, but enough to anchor him.

Bilbo buried his face into her familiar, fragrant curls, hugging her tightly in return. The tremor that had been building beneath the surface finally broke free, his body shaking violently as the long-held tension, the fear, the doubt, the sheer magnitude of what he’d just accomplished, all washed over him. Tears pricked at his eyes, but they were tears of overwhelming gratitude and release.

"Foxglove…" he managed to whisper, breath catching in his throat.

A warm hand, calloused but gentle, threaded through his russet curls. Dis, with a look of quiet permission from Thorin, stepped forward, her regal bearing softened by immense affection. "No, Bilbo," she murmured, her voice deep and steady, "it is we who should thank you. You gave us a system for our people, adapted from your old home, a way to better help Thorin. Frerin as King of Deep and Holds. Me, Queen of Hearth and Home. To better help Erebor. We can't thank you enough."

Bilbo felt the group around them lessen, the press of joyous bodies easing as Dis gently but firmly tugged him fully into her arms. She swayed him back and forth like a small, tired child, her embrace a balm to his frayed nerves. "We despaired," she continued, her voice thick with emotion, "at watching Thorin being crushed under the weight of the mountain single-handedly. But now, we share the weight of the mountain, a weight which you will help carry after your courtship is complete. As will Foxglove, when her and Frerin's courtship is complete."

Bilbo pushed back from her embrace, his eyes, still a little wet, sparkling with a sudden, mischievous glint. He grinned up at Dis, a genuine, unburdened smile. "Would you believe me if I told you I unintentionally handed over a second courtship gift to Thorin with that proposal?"

Dis looked down at him, her expression absolutely stunned for a moment, before her gaze flickered over to Thorin. The King Under the Mountain stood leaning against a pillar, a rare, soft smile on his face, one arm draped protectively across Frerin’s shoulders.

"He told me as such last night," Thorin’s voice rumbled, deep and laced with a profound tenderness. "A noble gift. To help me and to help Erebor. A gift that surpasses gold or gem."
Dis’s eyes, suddenly bright with unshed tears, returned to Bilbo. She tightened her arms around him, only a little more, but the gesture spoke volumes of her love and acceptance. "Bilbo. Foxglove. You two are perfect for this family."

Dis eventually released Bilbo, but he was immediately caught by Dori, who enveloped him in a robust, comforting hug. "Oh, nadadith," she crooned, her voice thick with pride. "I'm so proud of you! You looked utterly magnificent in there, standing up to the whole council of Elders!"

Nori, ever the imp, then deftly stole him from Dori’s hold, crushing him to her. "You looked out for everyone, you are so selfless, nadadith. Truly, we are blessed."

Before Bilbo could properly respond, Ori, with a joyful whoop, all but tackled him, a cascade of laughter bubbling from his throat. "Nadadith, you owe me for all those parchments! My fingers are cramped from all the copies!" The rest of the group laughed, a warm wave of sound that wrapped around Bilbo like another embrace, as Ori burrowed his face into Bilbo’s curls, still chuckling.

When Ori finally released him, Bombur stepped forward, his round face beaming. "This calls for a feast!" he declared, his voice echoing with hearty conviction. "I'm going to cook a meal for us all in celebration! Come to the Ur family chambers later, when you're rested!"

Bilbo managed a tired nod, the warmth of their affection battling with the sheer exhaustion that was now threatening to pull him under. He swayed again, his legs truly giving out. Before he could fall, strong arms scooped him up. Thorin, with an almost effortless grace, lifted him until Bilbo’s head rested against his broad shoulder.

"Easy, my One," Thorin murmured, his voice a low rumble against Bilbo’s ear. "You've done enough for today. Let me carry the rest of the way."

And so, surrounded by the loving gazes of his new family, Bilbo was gently carried through the grand halls of Erebor, the weight of the mountain that he had helped rebalance now shared, and the promise of a future filled with love, laughter, and belonging, a sweet lullaby in his ears.

Chapter 25

The air in Erebor was thick with anticipation. Days had passed since the intense, private meeting with the Elders, a meeting that had seen long-held traditions challenged and new ideas forged. Now, the entire mountain community was summoned. The Great Hall, usually reserved for grand feasts and urgent councils, was to be the stage for an announcement that would forever alter the governance of Erebor.

Bilbo, despite Thorin’s repeated, rumbling reassuring whispers, was a barely contained bundle of nerves. His stomach fluttered like a trapped bird, and his palms were damp. "You won't have to speak, my heart," Thorin had rumbled earlier, seeing the hobbit's growing agitation. "Just stand by me. That's all." It had helped, a little, but the sheer weight of what was about to transpire, the uncertainty of how the proud, traditional dwarrow of Erebor would accept such radical change, kept Bilbo on edge.

Just outside the massive, carved doors of the Great Hall, the Royal Family gathered. Thorin, as always, a tower of regal might, stood at the forefront. Beside him, Frerin, ever the steady, reliable brother, and Dis, her features composed, her strength a visible aura. Vili, her husband, stood proudly at her side. Behind them assembled Fili and Kili, keen and alert, alongside the venerable figures of Dwalin and Balin, Oin and Gloin. Mizi and young Gimli stood with Gloin, their expressions a mix of curiosity and solemnity. Dori, Nori, and Ori completed the core kin, while Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, and his wife Alaris, rounded out the close family. All were clad in their finest ceremonial robes, rich velvets and silks in deep blues, greens, and burgundies, embroidered with golden threads depicting ancient symbols of the Line of Durin. The Elders, in their own simpler but equally dignified grey and silver robes, stood nearby, their faces unreadable, ancient wisdom etched into every line.

A deep, resonating boom echoed through the mountain as the Great Hall doors swung open, revealing the cavernous space within, packed shoulder to shoulder with dwarrow. A collective hush descended, so profound that the soft clink of a falling coin somewhere in the distant market would have been startlingly loud. The Head Elder, a venerable dwarf named Borin, led the procession, his staff tapping a rhythmic cadence on the stone floor. Behind him, the Royal Family advanced, a slow, deliberate march that spoke of gravitas and purpose.
Bilbo, his heart thrumming a frantic beat against his ribs, walked precisely at Thorin’s side. Thorin’s hand, large and calloused, found Bilbo’s, enclosing it in a firm, steady grip. It was an anchor, a grounding force amidst the swirling anxiety, and Bilbo clung to it, finding a small measure of calm. They stopped before the assembled crowd, just shy of the ancient dais where the throne of the King Under the Mountain awaited.

Dorin, the Head Elder, stepped forward. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the immense hall, carrying with it the authority of generations. "People of Erebor!" he boomed, and the hush deepened, if that were possible. "We gather this day not for war, nor for mourning, but for the forging of a new age, an age of unprecedented prosperity and unshakable unity!"
He paused, letting his words hang in the air, then continued, "For too long, the weight of a kingdom has rested on one set of shoulders. The crown, a symbol of power, has also been a burden that few could truly bear alone. It has led to hardship, to isolation, to suffering." His gaze swept over the crowd, and a ripple of murmurs began, quickly silenced by a gesture from Dorin.
"Through the wisdom of one of our beloved hobbits," he said, turning his gaze briefly towards Bilbo, "and the bold spirit of Thorin Oakenshield and his kin, a new path has been illuminated. A path inspired by the harmonious government of the Shire, adapted and refined to fit the proud heart of Erebor and its people."

Bilbo felt a blush creep up his neck, but Thorin’s hand remained a constant, reassuring pressure.

"The weight of the crown, and its duties, shall henceforth be split, shared, between three rulers, to the benefit of the whole mountain!" Dorin declared, his voice rising with conviction. "No longer shall one dwarf bear the endless burdens of every aspect of our lives. Instead, the strength of three will guide us, each dedicated to the pillars upon which our great kingdom stands!"
The tension in the hall rose palpably. Whispers, rustles of robes, a cough here and there – the crowd was leaning forward, straining to hear, to understand the magnitude of these proposed changes.

"Thorin, Son of Thráin, will uphold the military might of Erebor, ensuring the impenetrable defenses of our home. He shall be the final voice of justice, and the architect of the long-term planning and vision for our beloved kingdom. His will be the hammer that protects, and the gaze that sees far into the future!"

A collective gasp, then a sudden surge of murmurs. Thorin, the warrior king, would retain his martial role, but also the strategic oversight. It was a shift, certainly, but one that resonated with his known strengths.

"Frerin, Son of Thráin," Lorin continued, turning his gaze to Thorin’s younger brother, "will hold the reins of our crafting halls, the deep mines that yield our very lifeblood, the treasury that secures our wealth, and the incoming resources vital for our people's prosperity. His will be the pickaxe that delves, and the hand that crafts the very essence of Erebor!"
This was a more surprising division. Frerin, known for his steady hand and practical mind, was to oversee the very economic heart of the mountain. The tension continued to mount.
"And Dis, Daughter of Thráin, and her husband, Vili, will share the profound responsibilities of our diplomacy, forging strong trade negotiations with other peoples, nurturing our cultural events that bind us together, and guarding the mountains' accumulated knowledge within our vast libraries. Theirs will be the voice that speaks to the world, and the heart that nurtures the soul of Erebor!"

The revelation of Dis, a Queen in her own right, sharing power with her husband, broke through the last vestiges of silence. A cheer erupted, a roar that began as a rumble and swelled into a thundering ovation. Bilbo looked out, his eyes wide. Some dwarrow were indeed cheering, jubilant cries echoing through the hall. Others wept openly, tears streaming down weathered faces, perhaps from relief, perhaps from hope. Still others stood astonished, their mouths agape, trying to comprehend the sheer audacity and promise of it all.
The Mountain herself seemed to hold her breath, listening.

Dorin raised his hand, and slowly, the cheers subsided, replaced by a buzzing anticipation. He gestured for Thorin, Frerin, Dis, and Vili to step forward, closer to the dais. Thorin, with a gentle squeeze, finally released Bilbo's hand. But before the hobbit could feel adrift, Foxglove, gracefully stepped to his side, taking his hand in a sisterly grip, a warm, reassuring presence. Together, they watched, a small, yet vital, anchor in the grand proceedings.

From a velvet-lined casket, the Elders presented four new crowns.

Dorin lifted the first, a magnificent iron crown, heavy and strong, mixed with the fiery glint of rubies and the deep, silent mystery of black onyx. It was a crown of power, of unyielding will. His voice rang out, strong and clear: "People of Erebor! I give you Thorin, King Under the Mountain and Might!" With deliberate solemnity, he placed the crown upon Thorin's head.

Next, the Elder turned to Frerin, holding aloft a crown of radiant gold, adorned with the warm glow of citrine and the earthy striations of tiger's eye, representing the very lifeblood that flowed from the mountain's heart. "People of Erebor! I give you Frerin, King of the Deep and Holds!" The golden crown was settled gently onto Frerin's brow. Foxglove’s grip on Bilbo’s hand tightened, a silent joy passing between them.

Finally, Dorin presented two crowns for Dis and Vili. They were crafted of bronze, warm and inviting, set with the serene purple of amethyst and the vibrant orange of carnelian, symbolizing home and heart, hearth and warmth. "People of Erebor! I give you Vili and Dis, King and Queen of Hearth and Home!" As the crowns were placed upon their heads, the roars of acceptance and appreciation that echoed from the crowd were so immense, Bilbo swore they could be heard from the very peak of Erebor down to its deepest, most ancient bones.

And then, as if in response to the joyous cacophony, a profound, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the stone. The mountain itself seemed to let out a long, slow sigh of relief, as if She, too, knew that this radical, shared governance was precisely what her beloved people needed to flourish. A new era had begun, not with a bang, but with the quiet, collective breath of hope.
The echoes of that mighty roar of acceptance slowly faded, leaving behind a silence so profound it seemed to hum with the weight of change. The Head Elder Dorin, his face etched with a quiet triumph, inclined his head, a gesture mirrored by the other Elders, and then stepped back, relinquishing the symbolic stage to the newly crowned.

Thorin, his crown on his brow of iron and rubies, turned first, his gaze sweeping over the assembled dwarrow, a new depth of purpose in his eyes. Beside him, Frerin, radiating a grounded strength beneath his golden crown, met the eyes of his people with a firm, steady regard, ready to delve into the very heart of the Deep. Dis and Vili, their bronze crowns glinting, stood with an air of warm, unwavering unity, already embodying the heart of the home they would nurture, their expressions a blend of solemnity and profound love for their folk.

Bilbo, still clutching Foxglove’s small, warm hand, felt the last tight coil of anxiety unravel within him. A soft, tremulous sigh escaped his lips, mirroring the relief that seemed to permeate the very air of the Great Hall. He looked up at Thorin, whose eyes found his across the short distance, a shared look of profound understanding and gratitude passing between them. Thorin gave a subtle, reassuring nod, a silent acknowledgment of the plan that had, against all odds, been embraced. Foxglove squeezed his hand then, her own small face alight with awe and happiness, the momentousness of the event clearly understood.

The mountain, truly, felt different. A palpable sense of rightness settled, a calming presence that soothed the long-held anxieties of the deep. It was as if the ancient stone had exhaled a breath held for generations, now free to nurture the new growth that this shared leadership promised. The very air shimmered with the promise of a future where burdens were shared, and strength multiplied.

Then, Thorin stepped slightly forward, his voice, when it came, resonated with the newly bestowed authority of his kingship, yet it was laced with the familiar warmth of their kin. "People of Erebor," he boomed, not a command, but a promise that settled in every Dwarf's heart. "Today, we do not merely crown kings and queens. We forge a stronger future. We acknowledge that the strength of this mountain lies not in one ruler alone, but in the collective might of our royal line, working together, each for the well-being of all. My brother, my sister, and her husband, will lead alongside me, their wisdom and their hearts dedicated to different, yet equally vital, aspects of our beloved home. This is the way forward. This is the way of Erebor renewed!"
Another, deeper cheer erupted then, not born of surprise or immediate relief, but of a settled, understanding joy. It was the sound of a people accepting their destiny, embracing a path that felt not just new, but inherently true. It was the sound of hope, resonating off the ancient stone, promising prosperity. Bilbo smiled, a wide, genuine smile that reached his eyes. Erebor had found its balance, and he, a simple Hobbit, had quietly helped it find its way.

The great hall of Erebor still thrummed with the echoes of a thousand voices, a magnificent roar of acclamation that had crowned three new monarchs this day. Golden light, caught by the gleaming facets of the newly forged crowns, danced on the ancient stone, reflecting the joyous chaos of the cheering throng.

Frerin, newly crowned King of the Deep and Holds, his own golden crown shining on his head, didn't hesitate. The moment the final acclamation faded, his eyes found Foxglove across the platform. With a burst of energy, he rushed over from where he stood beside Thorin and Dis. He lifted Foxglove easily, her white hair a luminous cloud under the lamps, and swung her around in a dizzying circle. Their unbridled laughter, crystal clear and infectious, intertwined and echoed through the vast hall, momentarily cutting through the lingering cheers. Frerin gently put her down, his hands still on her waist, and rested his forehead against hers. They whispered together, a private moment in the heart of the celebration, their eyes full of shared triumph and adoration.

Slowly, deliberately, Thorin, newly crowned King Under the Mountain and Might, walked over to Bilbo. The weight of his own, heavier crown seemed to settle more comfortably on his brow as he approached. He didn't speak immediately, but simply reached out, his large hand gently cupping the back of Bilbo’s neck, and rested his forehead against his Hobbit's. Relief, profound and almost overwhelming, was evident in the deep blue of his eyes. "My One," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion, "the people accepted… we did it." Bilbo leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping him.

The people, still cheering behind them, began to ebb and flow, gravitating towards the raised platform. A mixture of deep respect, burgeoning hope, and profound curiosity was evident on their faces. Dis and Vili, newly crowned King and Queen of Hearth and Home, stepped forward, their faces radiating calm authority. They began to answer the unspoken questions, explaining how these newly crowned kings and queen would now help Erebor grow, how the mountain would unfurl its might and its bounty once more.

Then came the question that had, perhaps, been simmering in many minds: how would Foxglove and Bilbo assist in this grand new age? A ripple of anticipation silenced the hall, the last echoes of cheering fading into a hushed stillness.

Foxglove looked out to the sea of faces, her expression serene, then offered a gentle, reassuring squeeze of Frerin's hand before she spoke up. Her voice, though soft, carried clearly in the quieted hall. "I will assist Frerin with the organization of the incoming resources of the mountain. The wood needed, the food coming in, every last item that will be needed to thrive there." Her words were practical, grounded, and immediately understandable to the industrious Dwarves.

Bilbo swallowed, a nervous tremor running through him, but he stepped forward with Thorin a solid, comforting presence at his side. He met the expectant gazes of the Dwarves. "I will help Thorin in the long term planning for Erebor, from another perspective." He paused, gathering his courage. "I can't wield a weapon," he admitted, a small, self-deprecating smile touching his lips, "but I have my words, my voice, and my mind of use to Thorin."

A hush gathered over the people, a moment of profound consideration, and then, slowly, a collective nod rippled through the crowd. From the edge of the throng, Master Lir, a well-known master crafter and a friend of Foxglove's, shouted over the sudden quiet, his voice ringing with conviction, "Aye! Lady Foxglove walks among us down in the crafting halls! Watching us and giving us praises for our work!"

Another Dwarf, older and grizzled, his voice thick with emotion, bellowed, "Aye! Lord Bilbo has given us a gift! A vision for us to follow! We have seen our Beloved King Thorin carry the weight of the mountain on his shoulders for too long! Erebor will grow!"

Cheers erupted once more, a tidal wave of joyous relief and acceptance that swept through the Great Hall. Bilbo staggered slightly back, caught off guard by the sheer warmth of the outpouring, finding himself resting firmly against Thorin's solid chest. Beside them, Foxglove let out a joyful squeal and jumped, her excitement bubbling over as Frerin, a broad grin on his face, rested his hand firmly and protectively on her shoulder. Dis and Vili, standing a little apart, looked at them all, pride and unshakeable support clear on their faces, their family unit, and their kingdom, finally whole.

Notes:

Thorin's Crown
Iron - represents strength, resilience, and power
ruby - courage, passion, and the life force
black onyx - grounding, protection, and self-control
Frerin's Crown -
Gold - the wealth of erebor
Citrine - prosperity, abundance, and success
Tiger's Eye - attract good luck and prosperity, especially when placed in business or financial areas
Dis and Vili's Crowns
Bronze- Warmth and comfort: The rich, earthy tones of bronze create a cozy and inviting atmosphere, making spaces feel welcoming and comfortable.
Amethyst - protection, peace, and positive energy
Carnelian - dispel negative energy and promote a sense of balance and harmony within the home

Chapter 26

The rich, dark soil of Erebor’s burgeoning gardens clung to Foxglove’s hobbit feet, a comforting, grounding sensation. A few days had passed since the Honored Elders had announced Bilbo’s utterly bonkers plan – a plan that, for all its audacity, had brought a visible wave of relief to the entire mountain. The Crowning of Frerin, Dis, and Vili, alongside the Re-crowning of Thorin, had cemented a new era for Erebor.

Bilbo, bless his brilliant, chaotic mind, had pulled off the most insane political maneuver Foxglove had ever heard of. Splitting the single kingship into three distinct pillars of power, reducing Thorin’s crushing burden while empowering his siblings, was pure genius. It was, Bilbo had quietly confessed, his second courtship gift to Thorin, after the first, unexpected declaration of his love. And the sheer relief that had smoothed the harsh lines from Thorin’s face spoke volumes of how desperately he had needed it.

Frerin and Dis, for their part, had embraced their new stations with a zeal that reverberated through the very stone of the mountain. A fierce, joyful light now gleamed in their eyes, a freedom to truly help their brother, to contribute their unique strengths without being overshadowed. Thorin, as the King Under the Mountain of military might, defense, and the final voice of justice, could now focus on the long-term vision of Erebor. Frerin, King of the Deep and Holds, dove headfirst into the crafting halls and mines, his passion for creation sparking new life in every chisel and pickaxe. Vili and Dis, King and Queen of Hearth and Home, navigated the intricate threads of daily dwarrow life, planning grand events and forging new trade relationships with a shrewd grace.

Foxglove’s gaze was fixed on the small collection of terrarium jars before her. Inside, tiny, eager tendrils of green were pushing through the soil – the night-blooming seeds that Frerin had given her as his first courtship gift, the very day she’d been declared his One, and Bilbo, Thorin’s. A soft sigh escaped her lips, a mixture of wonder and gratitude. Bilbo’s second courtship gift had been so profoundly perfect, helping not just Thorin but the entire Mountain. And what about her? How could she, Foxglove, assist in her own right?

She watched the delicate sprouts, so tiny yet so determined. She hummed a low, humming melody, a hobbit song filled with love for the earth, and the faint green blush of the seedlings seemed to deepen, stretching a fraction of an inch taller. A grin blossomed on her face as she looked at the other jars; they too were stirring, coming to life. Lady Yavanna had truly blessed her children, the hobbits, with the magic of growing things. It was this magic that had allowed her and Bilbo to bring the first vibrant green to Erebor’s gardens, and now, to her newest project: the Night Gardens, planned for the deeper, cooler chambers of the mountain.

She tilted her head, enjoying the sweet, earthy scent. And then, it hit her like a gust of wind from an open Shire window. What if I wrote to my Grandfather in the Shire? The Thain himself. He could send the deeply rich and fast-growing crops and trees. Dale is a trade nation, yes, but there’s something missing in the markets, a certain freshness, a vibrant, earthy goodness that only Shire produce has. The thought ignited a spark of pure, hobbit-ish determination.

Foxglove turned, her thoughts spinning like a potter’s wheel, and strode out of the peaceful quiet of the gardens. She nodded to a bustling smith as she passed, exchanged a cheerful greeting with a stone mason shaping a new archway, her mind already racing ahead. She didn’t stop until she reached the shared Ri family quarters, a space now filled with the comfortable clutter of two hobbits making a home. She collapsed at the large, shared desk, pulling a fresh piece of parchment towards her.

Then she began to write.

She started with an apology, heartfelt and earnest, for not having written in so long. She explained, briefly, how her life in Erebor had blossomed, how she had found her soulmate in a prince who was now a newly crowned king, a king of his own pillar in the mountain, no less.

Her hands trembled slightly as she penned the next lines. Could he, the wise Thain, send the fast-growing crops and trees typical of the Shire? And, crucially, could he send some of the rich, dark soil from the Shire itself, to help stabilize them into the mountain’s unique geology, especially around the base of the Mountain where the new farms were being planned? She envisioned fields of plump Shire pumpkins, sturdy apple trees, and thick, sweet carrots thriving under the Dwarven sun.

Below that, with a faint blush creeping up her neck, she added another request. Could he also send her and Bilbo’s parents’ belongings to the mountain? Their books, their trinkets, the small, sentimental things that made a house a home.

And then, with a deep breath, she wrote the final, most personal request: "And dearest Grandfather, if it is not too much trouble, might you send the seeds for growing children? Not for immediate use, of course," she quickly clarified, lest he faint with surprise, "but for when we are ready. For when the Mountain truly settles into its new rhythm, and Frerin and I, and Thorin and Bilbo, are ready for the next step in establishing our family lines here in Erebor."

Foxglove neatly signed her name, a profound sense of purpose filling her:

Foxglove Baggins Ri of the line of Durin Intended of King Frerin of the Deep and Holds

She folded the now rather large letter, pressed a kiss to the wax seal, and marched out of the Ri Family Chambers, a determined glint in her eye. She descended to the postmaster’s office, a bustling hub echoing with the coo of ravens and the scratch of quills.

"Please," she said, holding out the letter, "send this to The Thain of the Shire."

The postmaster, a grizzled Dwarf named Lorin, looked at the surprisingly large, well-sealed missive, then at Foxglove’s earnest, important face. His eyes widened, and his burly hands trembled slightly as he took it. "The Thain… of the Shire?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble.

"Yes," Foxglove affirmed, a hopeful smile playing on her lips.

Dorin nodded slowly, then turned to a large cage of ravens. He selected one, a majestic bird with intelligent, dark eyes, and spoke to it in a low, rumbling Westron that Foxglove perfectly understood. "To the Thain of the Shire, my friend. Deliver this with haste and care."

The raven, with a knowing flick of its head, allowed the small, sturdy tube containing the massive letter to be affixed to its leg. With a powerful beat of its dark wings, it launched itself from Lorin’s arm, soaring through the cavernous hall and out into the bright Erebor sky, a hopeful message carried on the winds, bridging the mountain and the Shire.

A week and a half crawled by in Foxglove’s estimation, each passing hour stretching into an eternity. Her days were a blur of motion, a conscious effort to outrun the gnawing anxiety tightening its grip around her heart. She moved between the vast, shimmering gardens of Erebor, her soft voice a constant melody as she gently coaxed the delicate sprouts in terrarium jars, whispering ancient tunes of growth and light. Then, she would descend into the echoing crafting halls, a whirlwind of activity, or delve into the deep, resonant mines, helping Frerin with the ceaseless flow of raw resources. Every task, no matter how small, was a welcome anchor in the churning sea of her thoughts, a distraction from the increasingly frantic drumbeat of her nerves, waiting, ever waiting, for the response from her Grandfather, the Thain of the Shire.

She was deep within the heart of the main gardens, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and burgeoning life, her voice a low, melodic hum blending with the gentle drip of an underground spring, a song for a cluster of fledgling moonpetals. Suddenly, the massive, intricately carved doors to the Gardens burst open with a resounding thud that echoed through the cavern. A runner, sweat glistening on his forehead and temples, stumbled through the entrance, his chest heaving. His gaze locked onto Foxglove, and he practically flew across the verdant space, skidding to a halt before her. His hand, visibly trembling, held out a large, sealed parchment.

"Response from The Thain in the Shire," he gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Foxglove’s breath caught in her throat. She reached out, her own hands shaking so violently that the parchment rattled ever so slightly as she took it. The runner bowed deeply, a quick, deferential nod, and was gone as swiftly as he had arrived, leaving the vast silence of the gardens to press in around her, broken only by her own ragged breathing.

Her fingers, suddenly clumsy, fumbled with the seal. She broke it, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, carefully, she unfurled the thick parchment. The familiar script of her grandfather, bold and slightly slanted, swam before her eyes.

He began, as only he could, with a playful scolding for her silence. “Dearest Foxglove, a letter from you after such a long time! You left us quite worried, child, though we understand the circumstances of the Fell Winter and your arduous journey.” A small, relieved smile touched her lips. That was her grandfather, always a touch of good-natured chiding before getting to the point.

And then, he dove right in.

“Yes, my dear girl, of course! We’ll send all you requested, and more. When I read your letter, I admit, I dropped it. Right there on the floor. It was your grandmother, bless her quick wit, who picked it up and read through it faster than I ever could. And what do you think she did next? Called for a Shire-wide meeting! By the Party Tree, no less!”

Foxglove gasped, a small, choked sound. A Shire-wide meeting by the Party Tree! That barely happened, perhaps once in a generation, for matters of gravest importance or greatest celebration. This was… monumental.

Her grandfather’s letter continued, painting a vivid, chaotic picture. “The whole Shire is abuzz, child! Oxen and wagons have been bought, sight unseen if need be, and hobbits are scrambling to be put on lists… lists to come to the Mountain! To join you! To help cultivate the coming crops and orchards, imagine that!”

A wave of profound relief, so pure and overwhelming it felt like a physical blow, washed over her. Her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank to the soft, damp earth, a quiet sob escaping her lips. She continued reading, tears blurring the words.

“New heirs for positions have been chosen, of course, to keep things running here. And some of our oldest friends are coming—the Gamgees, for instance, all their children too! And those precious seeds you spoke of, for future children? Safely chosen, from Bungo and Belladonna’s old garden, lovingly prepared to be given to you and Bilbo.”

Her heart swelled, a tender ache of memory and joy. Bungo and Belladonna… their garden, their legacy. It was coming with them.

And then, the final, most astounding revelation. “Your grandmother and I our heir, along with Master of Buckland his heir and Mayor of Michael Delving his heir, we are journeying to come to Erebor ourselves. The heirs we chose are coming to establish a colony to live beside the mountain. To meet your new family, Foxglove. The Kings of your hearts, as you called them, and the Ri family who adopted you and Bilbo. They didn’t replace Bungo and Belladonna in your hearts, my dear, they just added to them. We wish to meet them, to thank them.”

Foxglove slowly, carefully, rolled up the parchment, then bent double over the letter, pressing her forehead into the cool, damp earth of the garden. A deep, wracking sob tore through her, followed by another, and another. Not tears of sorrow, but of profound, boundless joy and relief. The Shire was coming here to the Mountain!

The implications, the sheer scale of it, raced through her mind even as she lay there, pressed against the soil. How would they show them the Mountain? The Mountain that had become their home, their sanctuary, their future, over the past two years? How would they bridge the gap between their quiet, green Shire and the soaring, golden halls of Erebor?

Gratitude, so vast it threatened to consume her, poured out of her for the Green Lady, for the unseen hand that guided her fate, for the love that now spanned mountains and plains. As her tears soaked into the earth, a silent magic settled over the garden. Around her, the plants of the gardens, the fragile sprouts and the sturdy greens, seemed to grow larger, healthier, their colours deepening, their forms unfurling with a gentle, appreciative sigh. The night-blooming plants, still tightly furled, pulsed with a subtle inner light, as if answering her heart's joyful cry.
The late afternoon sun, usually a welcome balm, felt like a physical weight on Foxglove’s eyelids as she lay amidst the riot of blooms in the Royal Gardens. But it wasn't the sun that pressed upon her; it was the sheer, unbearable lightness that had settled after days—no, weeks—of a knot in her stomach so tight it had stolen her appetite and her sleep. Now, that knot had dissolved, leaving behind a torrent of tears. She didn't know how long she had lain there, clutching the thick vellum letter to her chest, crying of sheer relief and joy, the scent of earth and blossoms mingling with the salt of her tears.

A shadow fell over her, then a warmth. Frerin’s strong, calloused hand gently turned her, rolling her until she lay half on his lap, her head cradled by his thigh. His face, when she finally looked up, was a study in profound worry and tender concern. "Foxglove, my love, are you alright?" he murmured, his voice rumbling softly in his chest.

She couldn't speak, not with the lump of emotion still lodged in her throat. She just nodded, clutching the letter from the Thain of the Shire as if it were a life raft in a stormy sea. His focus dropped to the letter, a flicker of curiosity joining the worry in his eyes. Without another word, he gently scooped her up, cradling her against him, and carried her out of the gardens.
As they walked through the winding paths of the mountain, the dwarrow around them caught sight of her tear-stained face, their murmurs of conversation fading to concerned whispers. He murmured reassurances to her, even as he nodded his thanks to those who paused, their expressions shifting to alarm. Foxglove, still incapable of speech, managed to tilt the letter in her hand, showing the heavy seal and the elegant, looping script of the sender's address. Multiple eyes widened, tracking the imposing size of the envelope, then the unfamiliar crest: the Thain of the Shire. The weight of who it was, and where it was from, seemed to sink in, and the collective concern grew even deeper, laced now with a peculiar awe.

Frerin finally made it to the Royal Wing, his steps sure and determined. They stopped outside Thorin's quarters, the low, steady murmur of voices within – Thorin's deep baritone, Bilbo’s lighter, quicker cadence, Dis’s firm tones, and Vili’s quiet rumble – indicating a private meeting. Frerin looked down at Foxglove in his arms, then at the guards standing outside. With a silent nod, the guard nearest the door pulled it open, allowing Frerin and Foxglove inside.

The others turned to face them, their conversation abruptly silenced. Their eyes immediately took in Frerin's deep concern, the unmistakable tear tracks on Foxglove’s face, and the tightly clutched letter in her hand.

Bilbo, ever the most outwardly expressive, sprinted over, his face etched with panic. "Foxglove? What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

Dis was quickly behind him, a glass of water already in her hand. She pressed it gently to Foxglove’s lips, helping her drink a few sips before handing it to Vili. Dis then took a damp rag from Vili’s waiting hand and began to wipe Foxglove’s face gently, her touch as comforting as a mother’s.

Once the cool water and the gentle ministrations had soothed some of the raw emotion, Foxglove found her voice, though it was still shaky. "I... I thought of what you had done, Bilbo, to help the Mountain. Your explanation of the Shire's government, and how it was adapted here... so I wanted to help, in my own way, as well. So... I reached out to Grandfather."

Bilbo sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes wide, a dawning horror and understanding warring on his face.

Foxglove continued, her voice gaining a little strength with each word. "I wrote to him, apologizing for the long silence. For us not writing for two years, and then... I asked him if he could send the Shire's fast-growing crops, the trees, and barrels and bags of the Shire's good earth to us... here. I also asked him for our parents' things to be brought here, to have their memories here with us and to show our family here who our parents were. Plus... 'The Planting Seed'... if it could be sent. We would need it."

Bilbo’s face went utterly white. He staggered on his feet, his hand reaching out blindly. Thorin’s strong arm caught him, steadying him, his gaze flicking between Bilbo’s ghost-pale face and Foxglove’s earnest, still-damp one. Bilbo’s voice, when it came, was a mere cracked whisper. "His response?"

Foxglove, with a final, trembling breath, handed over the letter. Bilbo took it, his fingers almost fumbling with the heavy vellum, and slowly unfurled it. He began to read, his eyes scanning the elegant script. For a moment, a soft, disbelieving chuckle escaped him, then his eyes widened, his breath catching. A tiny, choked sob escaped him as he slowly, almost unthinkingly, sank to the stone floor, his gaze fixed on the letter, reading it in full. Then, with a whisper of parchment, the letter dropped to the ground in front of him. His hands cupped his face, as if to contain the overwhelming rush of emotion, but tears of profound relief and joy overflowed, streaming between his fingers.

Dis and Vili knelt between the two hobbits, their faces soft with empathy. Frerin gently sat on the floor, still supporting Foxglove, Vili resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Dis moved to Bilbo, gently rubbing his back as he sobbed, the sound raw and broken but utterly releasing.

Thorin, a silent presence beside them, pulled Bilbo into his side, holding him firmly. With his other hand, he gently picked up the fallen letter. As he began to read, his own eyes widened, mirroring Bilbo’s earlier astonishment. The sheer generosity of the Shire, the immense scope of the offer, began to sink in. But then he froze, his gaze snapping back to the sender's address. The Thain... Bilbo and Foxglove's grandfather.

Thorin reread the letter, slower this time, determined to pick up every piece of information. Seeds, yes, and trees. Good earth. And hobbits – more hobbits – were willing to come help cultivate the new crops. The phrase "The Planting Seed" made him pause, a vivid memory resurfacing from Bilbo’s last chapter in the journal he had given Thorin. The stories of how hobbits had children grown from the seeds of their family gardens... Planting was coming here. From Bilbo and Foxglove’s own parents' garden.

And then, the final, staggering blow. 'The Thain, his wife, their heir, The Master of Buckland and his heir, and the Mayor of Michel Delving and his heir were coming to the Mountain to establish a same colony for the hobbits moving to live beside them at the Mountain's feet... to meet Bilbo and Foxglove’s new family and home.'

The very blueprint of how the Shire was run, the system Bilbo had explained to their family, then again to the Honored Elders of the Mountain, that had been embraced and implemented to distribute the weight of Thorin's sole kingship, now split between himself, Frerin, and their sister Dis and her husband Vili. It was all coming here.

Thorin dropped the letter, not in anger, but in sheer, thunderstruck shock and a little fear. He looked down at the two hobbits they loved so fiercely, Foxglove for Frerin, and Bilbo for himself. The entire government of the Shire was coming, plus their heirs... and most of them were blood-related to their beloved hobbits.

He hugged Bilbo into him even more firmly, Bilbo burying his face into Thorin's tunic, hiding his tears that were now slowly subsiding into trembles. Thorin’s mind swirled, utterly overwhelmed. Their beloved hobbits' home was coming here to visit, yes. But part of it was coming to stay.

Dis looked at Bilbo’s crying expression, his small face buried in Thorin’s broad shoulder, then at Foxglove’s, who was tearing up once more, fresh streams tracing paths through the dust and grime on her cheeks as she watched her brother. The raw emotion in Thorin’s arms was a stark contrast to the quiet tension filling the Thorin's chambers. Dis quietly whispered, almost worried about the answer, “Thorin, what is in that letter?”

Thorin looked at her, his expression unreadable, then at the thick parchment in his hand. He extended it to her. “We are going to be busy, dear sister. Very busy.”

Dis took the letter, her fingers brushing against the heavy, well-preserved paper. It felt ancient and important. She slowly began to read the Thain’s script. It started, as expected, with a gentle scolding for not writing in so long, a quaint Hobbit formality that made Dis almost smile. But the tone quickly folded into a warm, affectionate understanding, acknowledging the severity of the Fell Winter and their desperate flight.

Dis shuddered slightly, the memory of seeing the Hobbits when they first arrived still fresh and haunting. Dori, Nori, Ori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, his wife Alaris, and their eight pups – tiny, shivering bundles of fur and fear, their faces gaunt, their eyes wide with trauma. They had been mere shadows of the plump, cheerful folk she’d imagined. The Dwarrow had taken them in, offering warmth and food, but the scars of that winter ran deep. She cleared her throat, pushing the dark images aside, and continued reading.

The next paragraph made her brows rise. The Thain had accepted her requests in full. Not just the quick-growing seeds of the Shire, known for their resilience even in harsh climates, but also saplings from their famed orchards – apple, pear, plum, and cherry – along with many more seeds of their various crops. And then, the true surprise: wagons and wagons of the well-loved and well-tended earth from the Shire. It was to help stabilize the rough, new soil around the Lonely Mountain, preparing it for the delicate Hobbit seeds they were bringing. A colossal undertaking, but not entirely unforeseen given the Shire’s reputation for agricultural excellence.

Then came the part that made her stop breathing for a moment. More hobbits were coming. Lists upon lists were attached, names she did not know, families she had never heard of. Hobbits were coming to stay. Heirs Chosen for leadership for the Shire, yes, but also heirs chosen for the hobbit colony around Erebor. A permanent settlement, then. A colony. Not just a few visitors, but a planned, deliberate migration.

And finally, the last paragraph. Dis’s eyes widened, then narrowed in disbelief. The Thain himself, his wife, the Master of Buckland, and the Mayor of Michel Delving and their heirs were coming to visit and establish this colony. On a deeply personal note, the Thain, as a grandfather, wanted to meet Thorin and Frerin. He wanted to meet the Ri siblings – Dori, Nori, and Ori – to thank them for adopting Foxglove and Bilbo into their family.

Dis’s hands shook, the implications hitting her like the blast from the forges. Her elegant hands, usually so steady, wavered with the parchment. The entire Shire Government, plus heirs, were coming here? Plus a great many more of the Shire? Their heirs were coming to live and start a colony to live beside them? Yes, but first… The Thain of the Shire was Bilbo and Foxglove’s GRANDFATHER?!

The realization struck her with the force of a battering ram. Bilbo’s loud sobs, Foxglove’s quiet tears – they suddenly made a terrible, beautiful sense. Not just homesickness, but the overwhelming, disorienting news of their entire world shifting, of their family, The Shire, making an unprecedented journey to be with them. A colony. A permanent colony, right here, under the shadow of Erebor.

Before Dis could even begin to process the magnitude of this revelation, the heavy door to the Chamber of Kings slammed open with a resounding thud. Fili and Kili ran in, their faces drawn in concern, their golden and dark hair bouncing with their hurried movements.

"Amad! Adad! Uncle Thorin! Uncle Frerin!" Fili burst out, his voice high with worry. "We heard from the whispers in the crowds coming here… something is wrong with Auntie Foxglove?"
They stopped abruptly, their bright young eyes taking in the scene: Bilbo still sobbing in Thorin’s arms, Foxglove in Frerin's lap sniffling and wiping her eyes, and Dis sitting frozen, the thick letter clutched in her trembling hands. Their questions were clear on their young faces, unspoken but potent. The air, already thick with unspoken news, hummed with impending revelation.

Dis quickly stood, her mind racing, still holding the letter from the Thain of the Shire in her hand. Her gaze fell on Fili and Kili, who were hovering nearby, exchanging nervous glances.
“Can you do Amad a huge favor?” she asked, her voice calm despite the flurry of thoughts.

Fili and Kili nodded instantly, curiosity bright on their faces.
Dis continued, her words precise, “I’d like for you two to go get Balin, Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur. If Alaris can be separated from her and Bombur’s pups for a little bit, that would be good. Send for the nannies you two used to have if needed, to ease Alaris about leaving her pups. Please have them come here. Alright?”

Fili and Kili nodded quickly, their faces now alight with purpose, and they dashed back out, splitting instantly to cover more ground on finding the dwarrow in question.

Dis let out a soft breath, then turned around to see Thorin had picked up Bilbo, cradling him to his chest, his eyes closed in quiet content. Frerin had also stood, and cradling Foxglove, they walked gently over to two chairs that Vili had spun around from the fireplace, to have their backs against the wall by the hearth. After they were seated, Frerin was running his hand through Foxglove’s soft white hair, calming her down, while Thorin simply hummed the deep, resonant song of the mountain where Bilbo’s head rested, the Hobbit relaxing to the soothing tones.
Dis let out a sigh, then looked at Vili. “Well, my beloved, we have our first task of diplomacy mixed with family relationship to look forward to in a few months.”

Vili chuckled, stretching out his hand to her. Dis took it, and he gently rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. “I can’t wait. We’ll be fine; it’s family first even for this meeting.”

Just then, the doors opened to reveal Balin, Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, and even Alaris, who looked surprisingly grateful for a break from her brood. Fili and Kili walked over to Dis and Vili as they sat on the couch nearby, Thorin and Frerin still having Foxglove and Bilbo on their laps by the fireplace. Thorin now had his head resting against Bilbo’s, a small, soft smile on his lips.

Balin looked at them all, puzzled for a moment, then over at Dis. “Now lassie, what did your boys drag us in here for?”

Foxglove let out a soft shudder of breath, then offered a small, shy smile. “I suppose if we’re going to lay playful blame on someone, it’s my fault.” Chuckles rumbled around the room. She continued, “I was inspired by Bilbo’s help with the mountain. The Shire’s government taken and adapted here for Thorin, Frerin, and Dis.”

The assembled dwarrow all nodded, intrigued, as she went on. “So, I reached out to our Grandfather. Wrote to him to ask for the seed of their quick-growing crops, saplings of all their orchards, and all the other seeds they have… I also asked for the well-loved and well-tended earth of the Shire, as much as they were able to gather, to bring here. On a personal note, I asked if some of our parents’ belongings… the memories… can be brought here.” Dori’s eyes softened hearing about Foxglove’s and Bilbo’s parents, Bungo and Belladonna Baggins, lost to them in the Fell Winter two years ago.

Foxglove smiled, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, as she went on. “I also asked for The Planting Seed, which Bilbo and I will explain later… much later.” The blush erupted further on her face, but she kept going. “Grandfather answered!” she gestured to the letter still clutched in Dis’s hand. Dis, with a knowing grin, handed it over to Foxglove, who began to read the full letter once she had found her place.

Dis let out a soft chuckle. “Keep going, Foxglove, might as well drop the last anvil.”

Foxglove blushed even further, her voice a little softer now. “Our Grandfather… is the Thain of the Shire. He and his wife, the heir that was chosen for here, the Master of Buckland and his heir, the Mayor of Michael Delving and his heir… they are coming here to Erebor to visit. To establish a colony of many, many hobbits to live on the slopes and feet of Erebor.”

The room fell into a stunned silence, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the soft, rhythmic hum Thorin continued to make, a lullaby to Bilbo. Foxglove’s words hung in the air, weighted with the monumental implications of her plan. A colony of hobbits. In Erebor.

Balin was the first to speak, his bushy eyebrows raised so high they nearly touched his hairline. "A... a colony of hobbits, lassie?" he repeated, as if trying to grasp the concept, his gaze darting from Foxglove to Thorin and then to Dis, as if for confirmation.

Dis chuckled again, a deep, satisfied sound. "Indeed, Balin. You heard the lass correctly. The Thain of the Shire, Foxglove and Bilbo's own grandfather, is coming. And he's bringing a grand many of their folk with him."

A low whistle escaped Dwalin’s lips. "Well, that's one way to populate the slopes and around the mountain," he rumbled, though a slow, thoughtful smile began to spread across his face. "More hands for the mountain, aye. And farmers, you say? Good, solid folk."

Oin, ever the practical healer, leaned forward. "Quick growing crops and orchards, you said? That's valuable. Our own stores are plentiful, but new varieties and faster yields could only improve our well-being and diversity. And the good earth itself… for planting herbs, perhaps." He stroked his beard, already envisioning new possibilities.

Gloin puffed out his chest a little, a proud glint in his eye. "Hobbits, eh? Always heard they were sturdy, good-hearted folk. Much like dwarves, in their own way. Diligent and fond of a good meal." He glanced at Bombur, who was already nodding vigorously, a dreamy look on his face.

Bombur finally found his voice, a delighted gasp. "Their gardens! They say hobbit gardens are the finest in all Middle-earth! Imagine, fresh vegetables and fruits grown right here! And the pies! Oh, the pies!" Alaris, beside him, rolled her eyes fondly but a small smile of her own played on her lips, clearly envisioning a future where her pups might have more playmates and new culinary delights.

Dori, her eyes still soft with sympathy for the mention of Bilbo and Foxglove's lost parents, stepped forward slightly. "To bring their memories, their heritage, here... that's a truly noble purpose, Foxglove. They would be proud of you both."

Nori, ever the opportunist, had a calculating gleam in her eye. "A new community. New skills, new crafts, new trade. This could open doors, provide opportunities we haven't even considered."
Ori, usually quiet, spoke with a voice full of wonder. "Imagine, a piece of the Shire, right here beneath Erebor. It'll be beautiful." He looked down at Foxglove, a look of awe in his eyes.

Bofur’s broad grin was infectious. "Well, that's grand news! More folk for songs and stories, and I hear hobbits are fond of a good pipe and a warm hearth. Welcome, I say, welcome!" Bifur just grunted an enthusiastic agreement, his eyes glowing with delight.

Thorin, who had remained silent all this time, his head still resting against Bilbo’s, shifted slightly. Bilbo, still drowsy, stirred a little but remained nestled against his King. Thorin’s hand, which had been gently stroking Bilbo's hair, moved to cup the back of his head. He looked up, his deep blue eyes meeting Foxglove's. A slow, profound smile spread across his face, replacing the earlier solemnity. It was a smile filled with pride, with dawning understanding, and a touch of mischief.

Thorin murmured, his voice a low rumble that resonated through Bilbo's small form. "A new beginning, indeed." He looked at Bilbo, then back at Foxglove remembering Gandalf's words. "You truly are your mother's daughter, Foxglove. And your father's son, Bilbo. Always thinking of others, of growth, of home."

Frerin, who had been watching with an amused glint in his eyes, patted Foxglove's head affectionately. "Well, Bilbo, it seems your little 'inspiration' has grown into something rather large. And rather brilliant, if I do say so myself."

Dis swelled with pride, looking from Foxglove to Thorin, then to her beloved Vili. "As I said, my love," she beamed, squeezing his hand. "Diplomacy, family, and a whole new community to welcome. Erebor will truly bloom now."

Vili, still gently rubbing her hand, chuckled, his eyes alight with warmth. "Aye, my dear. And with Bilbo and Foxglove at the heart of it, I daresay it will be the most unique and prosperous colony in all of Middle-earth." He looked across the room at the eager, curious faces of the assembled dwarves. "It seems we have a lot of welcoming to prepare for." The murmurs of excitement and planning began to rise among the royal family, the weight of the news settling into a shared sense of impending adventure and a future richer than any of them had imagined.

Thorin's chambers, usually a cavern of echoing stone and rumbling dwarven conversation, hummed with a different kind of quiet. Dori, ever the meticulous, stood walking over and gently taking the letter from Foxglove's hand. She scanned the parchment, her usually calm demeanor perturbed by a faint crease between her brows. Her quiet but soft voice cut through the air, "The Thain wants to meet Me, Nori and Ori too? As thanks for adopting Foxglove and Bilbo…"

Nori, ever the opportunist, grinned, a glint in her eye. "You know, I might be able to see if a few hobbits wouldn't mind becoming Shadows with me…"

Foxglove, who had been leaning against Frerin's chest, snorted, then started laughing, a clear, bell-like sound that surprised the dwarves. "Be careful Nori on that. You might be asking for more than you bargained for."

Bilbo, who had been settled comfortably against Thorin's side, opened his eyes, a mischievous glint in their depths. He grinned slightly. "You know Foxglove if Grandfather is coming and his heir is staying you what they are bringing right?"

Foxglove froze, her laughter dying. Her brow furrowed in thought, then her eyes widened in dawning horror. "No… Grandfather is bringing well-trained Bounders!! HERE?!"

Bilbo nodded, his eyes bright with unholy glee. "Imagine that… some of the Shire’s defenses paired with Erebor’s…"

Thorin, who had been listening with an increasing intensity, tightened his arm around Bilbo. Dwalin, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward, his focus sharp. "Bounders, you said that before when you explained what the Thain was in charge of.. What are they?"

Foxglove's grin returned, wider and more knowing than before. "Think scouts mixed with guerilla warfare. Quieter than elves and smaller than you. Then when they shift? Oh, you’d never see them coming…"

Bilbo laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. "Oh Foxglove this is going to change everything!"

Dwalin’s thirst for knowledge for anything military orientated was piqued. "Explain."

Foxglove leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret. "The bounders are trained literally from the time we are faunts. Pebbles, if you will. We have window sills that we are taught to sneak up to and take the pies off the sills,and if we are caught. We are simply told to try again. Grandmother Took, The Thain's wife, had the highest sill in the shire. If you managed to take the pie off her sill you are instantly taken to be trained into the bounders. The shifts the bounders usually have are small wild cats, or birds easily blended into the shire or as messengers."

Dwalin’s eyes were wide as he listened, taking in every detail. Thorin, still holding Bilbo firmly to his chest, his expression unreadable, sat up even straighter. Dwalin, ever practical, asked again, his voice a low rumble. "Weapons?"

Bilbo, catching Foxglove’s mischievous gaze, answered. "Slingshots, bows, small daggers if needed for a more hand-to-hand approach." Then, with a truly naughty grin spreading across his face, Bilbo added, "Foxglove and I both have stole four pies a piece off her sill while leaving the open bag as it were with another faunt."

Dwalin, Thorin, Frerin, and Dis all froze. The implications of what Bilbo had just said, combined with Foxglove’s earlier description of Bounder training, settled over them like a sudden chill.

Frerin’s voice was a little strained as he asked, "How fair in the training were you both?"

Foxglove all but purred, a low, satisfied sound. "If the Fell Winter didn’t mess things up we would have been captains…"

Frerin and Thorin groaned in unison, both tipping their heads back to hit the stone wall behind them with soft thuds. The others laughed at their reactions, with Dis staring at Foxglove and Bilbo, torn between admiration and a little bit of fear.

Oin and Bombur looked at each other, then back at the hobbits. "The gardeners?" Oin asked, a new thought emerging.

Foxglove looked a little more thoughtful. "Some are dogs for scenting the ground as needed, some of the bigger hobbits are miniature horses helping the more stubborn ground to be broken in, pulling tills through the ground, a few again, birds, to fly over the farms to check on the crops."

Oin and Bombur sat back in surprise, the implications settling in. Balin narrowed his eyes slightly. "How rare are hobbit-foxes?"

Foxglove looked down, her tone softening. "Rare. At most there are 15 of us. Used to be more, but since they were more vicious, territorial, and more protective of the Shire… the Fell Winter took most of them out. They were part of the Bounders then, worked well with the cat shifter hobbits."

Bilbo nodded solemnly. "Grandfather and Grandmother are two of the oldest fox hobbits in the Shire."

Dis’s voice was strangled, a raw whisper that cut through the low hum of conversation. "Mahal’s Wife gave her children the same gift we have. Shifting—we thought you two the only ones. But the whole Shire does?" Her eyes, wide with disbelief, flickered between Bilbo and Foxglove, then swept over the stunned faces of her kin.

Bilbo nodded a smug grin on his face "Yes, everyone." he clarified, still nestled comfortably against Thorin's chest. “Especially among certain families, and those who train for specific roles. It's just... we don't make a fuss about it. And hobbits are rather good at being overlooked, aren't we?" He winked, and Thorin grunted, a sound that might have been a laugh, or a groan of dawning realization.

Foxglove nodded, her grin softening slightly. "It’s not like dwarven shifts, either. We don’t turn into great beasts of the earth or noble eagles. Our shifts are small, unassuming. We blend. A gardener might become a robin to check for blight on the high branches, or a mole to aerate the soil. A baker an owl to keep watch over their night-rising dough. It’s practical, mostly. And private." She paused, almost defensively. "We rarely need to prove ourselves to outsiders. And those who do know tend to keep it to themselves."

"So the stories..." Balin murmured, his eyes still narrowed in thought. "The whisperings of hobbits disappearing and reappearing as if from thin air. The way they seemed to vanish from sight even in open fields..."

"Oh, that's just good stealth," Bilbo interjected, a cheeky glint in his eye. "Though sometimes it helps to be a field mouse when you're caught out after dark past your bedtime."
A low rumble of dawning understanding went through the dwarves. Oin stroked his beard, his other hand gesturing vaguely. "Aye, I’ve heard tales of hobbits having a strange affinity for the earth, for the creatures of the land. Never thought it literally meant they were them."

Bombur, who had been listening with rapt attention, nodded slowly. "The way the crops always seemed to thrive… the sudden appearance of rare herbs just when they were needed in the Shire… it makes a strange kind of sense now."

Dwalin, ever practical, leaned forward again, his brow furrowed. "So, the Bounders. These foxes, the cats, the birds… they form the Shire’s defense? Against what, exactly? A badger?" He tried for levity, but his voice betrayed his serious consideration.

Foxglove’s expression turned grim, the playful mirth leaching from her eyes. "Against anything that threatens the Shire. Wolves from the North, Goblins from the mountains, even Orcs, though that’s thankfully rare. And yes, sometimes, even wayward men. We deal with anyone who poses a threat to our peace and our land." She looked down for a moment, then met Dwalin's gaze directly. "The Fell Winter, as Bilbo said, was a dark time. It was unseasonably harsh, and many of the bigger, more resilient shifter-lines were hit hardest. It also attracted scavengers, monstrous beasts driven south by the cold. That's when the foxes, and many of the larger cat-shifters, made their stand. They fought, silently, relentlessly, to protect their kin."

Bilbo, sensing the shift in mood, patted Thorin’s arm. "They were heroes, even if no one outside the Shire—or even most inside—ever knew the full extent of it. Grandfather and Grandmother are two of the very few who survived that brutal time."

Thorin tightened his hold on Bilbo, his face a mask of complex emotions. Admiration, certainly, for these unassuming folk who harbored such hidden strength. Concern, for Bilbo and Foxglove, and what they had endured. And a growing awe for the hidden depths of the Shire itself. "And your Thain," he began, his voice deeper than usual. "He knows of this. He commands them?"

"The Thain is the head of the Bounders, by tradition," Foxglove confirmed. "It's an inherited role, passed down through the Took line. My Grandmother Took was the Thain's wife, and though she wasn't the Thain, she was the head of the training program. The current Thain, my Grandfather, now, is a formidable strategist. He coordinates everything. He knows the Shire better than any map."

Bilbo coughed, a small, conspiratorial sound. "He also knows how to use his Bounders to... 'convince' unruly elements to leave, or simply vanish them." He grinned. "It's quite effective."

Nori clapped her hands together, a sharp, decisive sound. "Hobbit Shadows! This changes everything! Imagine, scouts who can actually become the very creatures of the land. Messengers faster than any pony over rough terrain. Spies who are literally invisible unless you know exactly what you're looking for! My 'Hobbit Shadows' idea... it just got a whole lot more interesting."
Foxglove snorted again, but this time a genuine, unburdened laugh followed. "I told you to be careful what you wished for, Nori! You want to train with hobbits? Fine. But you might find them turning into a mole and digging a hole under your feet if you're not paying attention."

Frerin sagged in his seat, though a rueful smile touched his lips. "Captains, you said? Of Bounders? And you both stole pies from the fiercest trainer in the Shire? Mahal's beard. My brother matched to Hobbit Lord for his One, and now it turns out he’s taken a secret weapon!" He looked at Thorin, a mischievous glint in his eye. "And you, brother, thought we were just marrying a couple of quiet, gentle hobbits."

Thorin merely grunted, but his grip on Bilbo had not lessened; if anything, it was tighter, more possessive. He looked at Bilbo, a new respect dawning in his eyes, mingled with a touch of exasperated amusement. "A secret weapon indeed," he rumbled, pressing a kiss to Bilbo's curls. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Dis, however, was still processing. She looked at Foxglove, then at Bilbo, her expression a mix of awe and lingering apprehension. "So, when the Thain comes… he’s bringing a host of these… Bounders? To Erebor? To the mountain?"

"Well-trained ones," Bilbo emphasized, his eyes bright with excitement. "Imagine, Dis. Erebor's might, our impenetrable walls, our warriors... working alongside the Shire's silent guardians. Bounders, integrating with your scouts. Their knowledge of the land, our knowledge of the mountain. It could be an alliance unlike any seen before. The Shire’s defenses, paired with Erebor’s."
The room fell silent as the full weight of Bilbo’s words settled over them. The implications were vast, stretching far beyond a mere social visit. The dwarves, who had always seen the Shire as a quaint, vulnerable, distant land, were now confronted with the revelation of a deep, hidden strength. A strength that was now, through Bilbo and Foxglove, intertwining with their own. The future, clearly, was going to be far more interesting than any of them had ever imagined. Especially for Dori, who just smiled softly and shook her head, already picturing the polite chaos that was about to descend upon their ancient halls.

The warmth of the hearth stones permeated the common room of Thorin's chambers, a comforting balm against the chill of the evening. Thorin sat, with Bilbo leaning against his chest thinking of everything Bilbo and Foxglove told them about who was coming from the Shire. Across from them, Frerin was similarly occupied, a bright-eyed Foxglove nestled against his chest, her striking white hair a striking contrast to his dark tunic. Nori, ever observant, leaned back in her chair, watching the quiet domesticity with a knowing smirk. The air was thick with the scent of pipe-weed and a faint aroma of ale.

The tranquility, however, was destined to be short-lived.

Dwalin, who had been brooding over a tankard of ale, suddenly pushed himself up from his spot. His gaze swept from Nori to Bilbo, then landed firmly on Foxglove. "How about a demonstration?"

Bilbo, startled from his semi-doze, sat up quickly, dislodging Thorin’s hand. Foxglove, equally swift, lifted her head from Frerin's shoulder, her eyes wide. "What do you mean?" Bilbo echoed, concern evident in his voice.

Dwalin crossed his brawny arms, his expression eager. "Bounder training. Do your bounders spar like we dwarrow do?"

Bilbo nodded, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Yes, though we didn't like the bruises we got…"

Foxglove snorted, a sharp, disbelieving sound. "You just hated the fact we had to face each other because the other trainees got nervous going against us. And that I used to trounce you."
Bilbo's frown instantly morphed into a playful glare, a spark igniting in his eyes. "Alright, you're on!"

The dwarrow in the room, sensing an impending spectacle, quickly moved back, chairs scraping on the stone floor. Thorin, with an almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, shifted back, making room. Bilbo and Foxglove leaped off their respective dwarrow's laps, landing silently on bare feet. They began circling each other, their stances light and fluid, like dancers preparing for a complicated routine.

Foxglove’s grin was wide, feral almost. "Hand to Hand? Shifting?"

Bilbo returned the grin, his own eyes gleaming with an unexpected competitive fire. "Only hand to hand and shifting is allowed."

Before the words had fully left his lips, Foxglove launched herself at Bilbo. Mid-air, her form blurred, and she shifted, transforming into a flash of pure white fur – her arctic fox form. Bilbo, anticipating the move, dropped into a low crouch, catching her with surprising ease as she landed smack against his chest. But Foxglove, ever the trickster, didn't waste the opportunity. Before he could fully regain his stance, she darted her head forward and gave his cheek a long, wet lick.

Bilbo shrieked, a sound more of disgust than pain, pulling away abruptly. "Oh, you know I HATE when you do that!"

He wasted no time. As he pushed her off, his own form blurred, russet fur exploding into existence. Moments later, a stocky, rich russet-furred fox stood facing the pristine white one, both sets of fur bristling, not from fear, but from the electricity of the challenge. Only their spines seemed to hum with suppressed energy as they launched at each other.

Foxglove, relying on her lighter frame and lightning reflexes, leaped clean over Bilbo, landing silently behind him. But Bilbo was faster. Faster than any dwarrow-wolf Dwalin and Thorin had ever seen. He spun, a blur of russet, pinning Foxglove mid-shift, her form half-fox, half-hobbit. In a fluid movement, she pushed off him, fully shifting back to her hobbit form even as Bilbo, equally swift, returned to his own.

Their eyes, bright with the thrill of the spar, gleamed. It was a dance of power, a symphony of movement unique to bounders. Hand to arm, heel to arm, legs sweeping out to trip the other, only for a sudden, partial shift to a fox leg or tail to catch their balance, or to propel them forward with impossible speed. The dwarrow in the room were utterly silent, their mouths agape, just… watching the absolute insanity unfolding before their eyes. They moved with a grace that defied their hobbit stature, predicting each other’s moves, feinting, dodging, and striking with a precision that would put many experienced warriors to shame.

Suddenly, as quickly as it began, it was over. Bilbo and Foxglove stopped, both slightly breathless, sitting on the stone floor. Then, they burst into laughter, loud and uninhibited. Bilbo, still laughing, quickly shifted his face just enough to give Foxglove a quick, triumphant lick on the cheek before padding over to sit by Thorin's feet, a smug, satisfied look on his face.
Foxglove groaned, rubbing her cheek. "Yeah, yeah, I asked for that. I know."

Dwalin, who had been standing frozen like a statue, slowly dropped into a nearby chair, landing with a thump. He stared at them, his eyes wide. "This... is normal?!"

Bilbo looked up at him, a picture of genuine confusion. "Which part?"

Dwalin stammered, pointing a thick finger. "The partial shifting? The... bits of your fox forms appearing?"

Foxglove, who had been about to get up, froze mid-motion. Her cheerful grin vanished, replaced by a slight flush. "Uh... no…" she began hesitantly, looking at Bilbo. "It's the highest form of training for bounders. Taught to us by Grandmother herself."

Bilbo, suddenly looking a little nervous himself, nodded quickly. "It's also why the trainees didn't like training with Foxglove and I. We didn't use the partial shifting on the journey here. We were worried we'd be looked at as, well... more weird, I suppose." He glanced up at Thorin, who looked down at him, his eyes wide in surprise, a mixture of awe and something akin to wonder written on his face.

A quiet voice broke the silence. Ori, ever gentle and curious, asked almost shyly, "What was your most comfortable way to have the partial shift?"

Bilbo and Foxglove both flushed a deep, undeniable crimson red. Foxglove stammered, fidgeting with her fingers. "Well, um… you see." Bilbo looked equally flustered, glancing at Foxglove, then back at Ori, before a shared, silent decision passed between them.

A shimmer ran through their hair, and in an instant, a pair of soft, pointed fox ears, one russet and one white, twitched replacing their hobbit ears. Simultaneously, a fluffy russet tail and a bushy white one emerged from behind them, swishing gently. They looked like two very embarrassed, very charming, fox-eared hobbits.

Ori gasped, a delighted little sound, a wide smile spreading across his face. The other dwarrow stared, a mix of shock, wonder, and a touch of something like reluctant acceptance settling over their faces. It was, after all, just another layer to the eccentric charm of their surprising beloved hobbits.

The flickering lamplight in Thorin’s chambers cast long shadows as Frerin, ever the playful one, grinned at Foxglove. "May I?" he asked, his eyes bright with anticipation.

Foxglove, her cheeks flushed with warmth from the spar from Bilbo, nodded. As Frerin gently touched the tips of her now-visible white fox ears, a soft purr rumbled in her chest. The other dwarves in the room chuckled, clearly enjoying the uncharacteristic display of affection.

Thorin, however, rolled his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips nonetheless. He was interrupted by a gentle pressure against his leg. Bilbo, his own hobbit form subtly changed with a fluffy tail wrapped around Thorin's waist, looked towards Dwalin. "With Grandfather and Grandmother coming here, and the hobbits signed up to live beside the mountain, you'll see how the Bounders are trained. Though I'm not sure who will take over the training for that..."

The jovial atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze as Foxglove's face paled. A horrible, dawning thought crept into her mind. "Bilbo..." she began, her voice barely a whisper, "Grandmother always told us we were the highest trained hobbit shifters and Bounders she ever trained."

Bilbo's eyes widened, mirroring her fear. He shook his head from side to side, his tail twitching nervously. "No... she wouldn't..."

Dis, ever astute, caught on to the unspoken tension. "She wouldn't what?" she asked, her brow furrowing with concern.

Foxglove swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "Grandmother might have Bilbo and me to be set up as the trainers of Bounders here in Erebor."

The words hung heavy in the air, silencing the room. Thorin's eyes widened, disbelief warring with a strange sense of... inevitability. Dwalin, the seasoned warrior, sat up straighter in his chair, his gaze sharp and calculating as he looked at the two hobbits. Balin, ever the scholar, sat in the nearest chair, reeling at the sheer amount of information Foxglove and Bilbo had revealed this evening. Bounders? Family Relations? He felt a sudden urge to retire to his study.

Thorin, after a moment of stunned silence, pulled Bilbo close, hugging him tightly. A fierce protectiveness surged through him. He glanced outside at the deepening twilight. "I believe it is time to retire," he announced, his voice firm, brooking no argument.

The dwarves, still processing the bombshell revelations, stumbled out of Thorin's rooms. Dori, Nori, and Ori, ever the dutiful guardians, collected Foxglove and Bilbo from Frerin's playful clutches and Thorin's protective embrace. They escorted them back to the Ri family chambers, their own minds buzzing with questions they dared not voice.

Foxglove and Bilbo, their legs feeling like lead, practically collapsed onto their respective beds. The weight of the potential responsibility, the sheer absurdity of being chosen to train Bounders in Erebor, was overwhelming. Sleep, they hoped, would bring some respite from the unsettling reality of what might await them in the morning. They both knew, however, that the quiet life they'd envisioned in Erebor had just been irrevocably altered. And they weren't entirely sure they were ready for it.

Chapter 27

Notes:

So I was planning on dropping this chapter yesterday but life decided to sneak up behind me and smack me in the back of the head like Sam wielding his frying pan in Moria. Emotional breakdowns, scrambling of plans, situations were handled, physical exhaustion slammed into me till I slept most of the afternoon away and then struggling with physical pains for part of the night till I crashed back into sleep again.

Weirdly I woke from a dead sleep to me absolutely shivering then curling back up under blankets and crashing again. Needless to say my day yesterday was not the best.

However I give you another chapter! much love!!! xoxoxo

Months molded into a comfortable rhythm in Erebor, the dwarven society adjusting surprisingly well to the Shire-inspired leadership system. The mountain kingdom flourished under this new blend of tradition and innovation. Then came the momentous day when the wall guards, perched atop the Gates of Erebor, announced the arrival of a delegation from the Shire: the Thain, his wife, and their heir, the Master of Buckland and his heir, and the Mayor of Michel Delving with their heir. They had come not only to visit Foxglove and Bilbo but, more significantly, to establish a hobbit colony near Erebor, a wave of familiar faces from their old home.
Foxglove and Bilbo, a nervous flutter in their chests, abandoned their chambers and raced towards the gates, their dwarven family trailing behind. As the massive gates swung open, a sight met their eyes: a sea of wagons, their wooden frames straining under the weight of supplies and belongings, pulled by sturdy oxen. Two hobbits, nimble and quick, practically slid down from the driver's seat of the leading wagon and approached them.
"Grandfather. Grandmother," Foxglove and Bilbo breathed in unison, their voices thick with emotion. They were instantly enveloped in warm, familiar hugs.
The Thain, stepping back, gently cupped their faces in his calloused hands. "Oh, Foxglove. Bilbo," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Thorin and Frerin, stood awkwardly back, observing the outpouring of affection. Sensing their unease, Foxglove tugged at Frerin's hand, and Bilbo took Thorin's.
"Come here," Foxglove commanded softly. When they were close, she turned to her grandparents, a radiant smile on her face. "Grandfather. Grandmother, I'd like you both to meet Frerin, King of the Deep and Holds. My intended."
Bilbo, beaming, followed suit. "This is Thorin, King Under the Mountain and Might."
The Thain surveyed the dwarven kings, his gaze sharp and discerning. He looked deep into their eyes, then back at his grandchildren, a knowing twinkle in his own. "Good pairs for you," he declared, his tone firm but approving. "Also, where are Dori, Nori, and Ori?"
Dori, Nori, and Ori, who had been lingering at the edge of the crowd, stepped forward. "We are Dori, Nori, and Ori."
The Thain took each of their hands in turn, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Thank you for giving them shelter in your families," he said sincerely. Then, a mischievous grin spread across his face. "You can call us Grandfather and Grandmother if you'd like." He winked, causing Foxglove and Bilbo to erupt in laughter at the bewildered expressions on the faces of Dori, Nori, and Ori.
The Thain’s gaze then turned and swept over the scene unfolding before him. Hobbits were pouring from the wagons, their figures bustling with energy and purpose. Even more intriguing, shapes shifted and morphed – cats, dogs, and birds darted away from the wagons, their noses twitching as they explored the strange, new terrain of Erebor. He turned to the remaining dwarves.
Dis and Vili, ever the gracious hosts, stepped forward. "Thain Took, Master of Buckland, Mayor of Michel Delving, please come with us so we can show you to your rooms within the mountain during your stay." The hobbits nodded, following Dis and Vili’s lead, the other dwarves falling in behind them.
As they walked through the immense halls of Erebor, the visiting hobbits gazed in awe at the dwarven city, their faces alight with curiosity and respect. Finally, they arrived at the wing specifically prepared for the comfort of the hobbits – a testament to Foxglove and Bilbo’s detailed explanations of hobbit sleeping habits, specifically the fondness for communal piles for warmth and security.
The Thain stepped inside, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. "Thank you, King Vili and Queen Dis." The other members of the royal family joined them, settling around the room as the visiting hobbits mirrored their actions. The Thain's wife turned to Foxglove and Bilbo. "We have brought at least two thousand five hundred hobbits with us, about five hundred of those are Bounders and their families."
Foxglove staggered at the sheer number, and the color drained from Bilbo's face. But the Thain's wife continued, unfazed. "You will not have to train them. We have them trained up, and even the elite bounders have your full abilities, Foxglove and Bilbo."
Frerin's voice gasped in surprise. "The Bounders? Are they already..."
The Thain nodded. "Oh yes, they are already familiarizing themselves with the area. With the full squads we have, it won't take long for them to get a full map of the area."
The Master of Buckland, ever practical, spoke next. "The earth of the Shire will be immediately tilled into the ground here around Erebor by the gardeners and their helpers. The other hobbits, I’m sure, have already begun to look around for future smials to be built. After the smial locations have been picked out, the gardeners will begin planting. If all goes well, we should be able to, in the afternoon, sing the song of Yavanna's growth to help the seeds and saplings connect with the ground here."
The Mayor of Michel Delving crossed his arms, his gaze steady and unwavering as he addressed the dwarves. "We have complete copies of our culture written down for you to read and pass around for your people."
The Thain smiled at Foxglove and Bilbo. "We even brought a seed of the Party Tree back home for the new colony here."
The dwarves were stunned, not just by the sheer number of hobbits, but by their organization, their efficiency, and the speed with which they were embracing their new home. The hobbit colony at Erebor was not just a migration; it was the meticulously planned and flawlessly executed implantation of an entire culture. The future of Erebor, and the relationship between dwarves and hobbits, had taken a fascinating and unexpected turn.
Dwalin leaned forward slightly. "Dwalin son of Fundin at your service, Thain Took. I have some questions, if that's alright with you?"
The Thain focused on Dwalin with unflinching focus. "Yes, Master Dwalin?"
Dwalin rumbled, "The Bounders? What is their full squad size?"
The Thain folded his arms, looking thoughtful. "It depends on what you need them for. Scouting? Five per squad, spread out but still able to communicate with at least one bird shifter to fly between the others. Guerrilla tactics? Now, that’s trickier to explain. We normally leave that up to the Captains, who I'll have Paladin here introduce you to later. However, if we're talking about defense? Twenty-five per squad. But if we're going severe defense, like we had to for the Fell Winter? We had to have fifty per squad…"
Thain's wife sighed. "And still, it wasn't enough. We had the Rangers of the North, then the elves of Rivendell finally able to join them, but by then we were already stretched thin…"
The Master of Buckland shuddered, remembering, while the Mayor of Delving winced. "My own wife was part of the Bounders. Half our children joined, while the other half stayed with me."
The Thain looked at Bilbo and Foxglove. "Your cousin Dudo's family are the ones in Bag End. Drogo's family is here."
Bilbo's fox ears shifted out as he leaned forward. "Drogo? HE'S HERE? I thought he'd never want to leave the Shire!"
The Thain's wife chuckled. "He and Dudo actually sparred for the right to come here. Both wanted to come, but agreed it was an honest way to figure out who was coming and who was staying."
Foxglove leaned forward. "Wait, what about that Primula lass Drogo was sweet on?"
The Thain grinned. "She and her family are here."
Foxglove slid off her chair, leaning against her arms on the floor, her entire form trembling. Frerin, her intended, knelt beside her, his hand on her back as the Thain continued, "The Gamgees are here as well. They were the first on the list to come. They missed you so much, both of you."
The Master of Buckland's heir, Saradoc, snorted. "Me and my future bride are here, as is Paladin and his future wife. Our parents ran us through the ringer the whole way here so we are fully trained leaders in our own rights."
Thorin sat up from his chair. "Already?"
Paladin, who was leaning against Saradoc, nodded. "We knew we were coming, for family and a new home. The urgency was too much to ignore. We are the new leaders and faces here on the slopes of Erebor. If we are going to bring the Shire here for you to see, we needed to be ready to lead."
The Mayor of Michel Delving leaned in, a conspiratorial whisper in his voice, "You'll be happy to know that Lobelia and her ilk stayed in the Shire."
Bilbo let out a shout of triumph. "YES!!"
Foxglove giggled as she sat back, watching her brother.
The Thain smiled, even as he shook his head. "In the Bounders, we have five captains who lived through the Fell Winter and chose to come. They will be the leaders of what I guess you dwarrow call battalions. One hundred hobbits each per captain." He paused, considering. "And each captain is a master of a specialized form of fighting. One is an expert in the sling, another with the bow, another with traps, another with guerilla warfare, and the last...well let's just say she is a mini tornado with daggers." The Thain leaned forward, a glint in his eye. "They are the best we have. And they are here to serve you."
Frerin kept a hand resting on Foxglove's back, looking at the assembled hobbits with genuine curiosity. "Your smials? What do you need to build them? How can we help?"
Dis and Vili, always attuned to the needs of a home, straightened, their interest piqued by Frerin's thoughtful question.
The Thain, a sturdy hobbit with a kind face, glanced at Paladin, who stood with his arms crossed, observing the dwarrow. "Wood, for supports in the smials, so they don't collapse. The doors, we may have to reach to your craftsmen for those, if that is possible? While the Shire doesn't have many invaders, unless it's really bad, here I'm sure we will need the extra protection.”
Thorin nodded, his brow furrowed. “Yes, we do sometimes have orc war parties that come through. However, we try our best to fend them off.”
Paladin, looking deeply thoughtful for a moment, suddenly grinned. "Is there a way we can have tunnels going from each smial, burrowing into one major tunnel leading into the mountain if we need to evacuate?”
Thorin and Frerin exchanged widened glances. A hobbit-sized escape route, cunningly integrated into the mountain? Thorin recovered first. "We'd need to see a full map of the area, plus where it would connect into the interior of Erebor, but I don't foresee a problem with that foresight."
Dis and Vili stepped forward, their eyes already assessing what was needed. "What do you need from us?" Dis asked.
The Thain's wife, a matronly hobbit with a cheerful smile, beamed. "As Foxglove explained in her letter, you both are the King and Queen of Hearth and Home. We may need to reach out to either of you for cloths and other things necessary in our homes."
Saradoc nodded, his expression serious. "Paladin, Will Whitfoot, and I have discussed this at length during the journey here. We want to set up the smials first and, if permitted, stay in the rooms you have set up for us until they are ready."
Gloin, ever practical, crossed his arms. "What do the hobbits bring to the markets, besides the crops you can sell?"
Will Whitfoot grinned, radiating good humor. "We brought Old Toby and Longbottom leaf to grow and sell. New pipe weeds for the dwarrow to enjoy. Along with some of our best brewers of hobbit mead, ale, and other drinks. We also brought tea leaves and their seeds to grow."
Dori straightened, her interest clearly piqued by the mention of tea, while Oin leaned forward eagerly. "We have some healing herbs, are there more you use?"
Saradoc nodded sagely. "Yes, our midwives and healers gathered all their seeds and knowledge, as well as their best apprentices who just graduated brought along.”
Oin leaned back, thoughtful. Balin chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, it seems you all have thought this through."
The Thain nodded, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the dwarves. "Yes, for family we don't hold back on anything. You are now part of that family." His words hung in the air, a promise of unwavering loyalty and a shared future, built on the foundations of friendship and mutual respect. The dwarrow, hardened by years of hardship and loss, felt a warmth spread through them, a comforting reassurance that they were no longer alone. The hobbits, small in stature but large in heart, had woven themselves into the tapestry of their lives, bringing with them the promise of home, hearth, and unwavering support.
The door to the hobbit's wing opened as five older hobbits stepped in, a quiet power radiating off them as one. A hobbit with a meticulously crafted dagger belted to her woolen tunic stepped forward. "Thain," she announced, her voice crisp and efficient, "Our Bounders have completed their sweep of the area around Erebor. The other hobbits have finished their survey of the surrounding lands for the smials and have plotted where they can begin digging. The gardeners and their helpers have already begun tilling the soil."
The Thain, with a shrewd glint in his eye, nodded approvingly. Paladin, his face etched with a mixture of determination and a hint of weariness, stepped towards the Bounder captains. "Well done, all of you. Do you have the Bounders stationed around the area for both the hobbits who are shifting earth and those tilling?"
The one with a beautifully crafted hobbit-sized bow slung across his back, its wood dark and polished, nodded. "Yes, we have. Paladin, your future wife, along with Saradoc's and Will Whitfoot's, have designated where they want their smials as well."
Paladin sighed, running a hand through his thick, curly hair. "Let me guess, we three are on the outer edges, while the bulk of the smials are in the middle?"
Another captain, one who was constantly tinkering with a small, intricate trap he held in his hands, snorted, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Yes, they were determined to keep the hobbit families safe between all three of you."
Paladin pinched the bridge of his nose, but his grumbling held a good-natured tone. "Fine..."
A low rumble broke through the hobbitish murmurings. Dwalin, son of Fundin, stood from his chair. He walked purposefully over to the Bounder captains, who immediately snapped to attention as Paladin stepped aside, a silent understanding passing between them.
"Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service. General of Erebor's armies."
The Bounder captains stood even straighter, their eyes wide as they looked up at the formidable dwarf. "Yes, General Dwalin."
Dwalin relaxed, a rare smile gracing his lips. "Relax. Come join me and King Thorin over to the side so we can get a full scope of your abilities and your battalions."
The captains exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible look before nodding and following Dwalin and Thorin, who had risen from his seat and walked over to stand with Dwalin.
Paladin nodded, a flash of gratitude passing over his face before he turned to look at the others. "Well, Saradoc, Will Whitfoot, seems like the process has begun."
Saradoc, a tall hobbit with a thoughtful expression, nodded. "Father," he said, turning to the Master of Buckland, "we must go and oversee the hobbits outside. I believe you are in good hands in here."
With a final nod to the Thain and a quick word to the other hobbits, Paladin, Saradoc, and Will Whitfoot left the room, heading back out into the bustling activity.
Balin, who had been quietly observing the scene, was struck with awe. He was stunned at how quickly the younger hobbits shifted between joking and lighthearted banter with them and then seamlessly taking complete charge of organizing their new home. One moment they were teasing Paladin about his future wife, the next they were commanding Bounders and coordinating the efforts of dozens of hobbits with a confidence and precision that belied their small stature. He saw a resilience and a strength in these hobbits, a deep-seated love for their community, that had perhaps been overlooked before. They were not merely simple folk; they were the heart of this new settlement, and their spirit promised a bright future for the valley beneath the shadow of Erebor.
Bombur, ever the concerned host, surveyed the gathering. "Can we give you a meal?" he asked, directing his question to the Thain.
The Thain's wife smiled warmly. "No thank you, we stopped by Rivendell and Elrond gave us lembas."
Foxglove, her brow furrowed, tilted her head. "Lembas helped on our normally high metabolism?" It was a known fact that hobbits, especially the bounders, had an impressive appetite.
The Thain nodded. "Yes, surprisingly we were fine. The bounders obviously needed it more than the others did because of them patrolling around the wagons.”
Dwalin and Thorin, followed by the bounder captains, walked into the room. Thorin's gaze swept over the hobbits, his expression assessing. "Will it be alright if Dwalin and I go outside with your captains, if my brothers and sister stay to take care of you?"
The Thain waved Thorin closer, his small hand enveloping Thorin's much larger one. "We'll be fine here. Don't you worry." He winked. "Besides, we'll talk later when we get everything all settled."
Thorin's gaze softened as he looked at Bilbo, a soft smile gracing his lips. "Stay, with your grandfather and grandmother. We shouldn't be gone long." With that, Thorin, Dwalin, and the bounder captains exited the wing.
An hour later, a runner arrived, summoning everyone to the nascent colony being built at the foot of Erebor. Foxglove fidgeted impatiently beside Frerin as they walked, trailing behind the Thain, his wife, the Master of Buckland, and the Mayor of Michel Delving. Bilbo walked beside her, his eyes wide with anticipation. As they stepped outside the gates, a breathtaking sight unfolded before them. The hobbits, assembled in a large group, stood amidst fully plotted, tilled, and seeded gardens and farms.
Bilbo and Foxglove bounced in place, barely containing their excitement. Frerin released Foxglove's hand, and both hobbits surged forward, propelled by pure joy, to join the throng. The Thain, his wife, the Master of Buckland, and the Mayor remained by the side, observing with quiet satisfaction.
Saradoc and Paladin stood at the front of the crowd next to Will Whitfoot. Will Whitfoot spoke first, his voice ringing with enthusiasm. "Now, my fellow hobbits who journeyed here to our new home at the base of Erebor. The gardens and farms are ready. Will Yavanna's song of growth. Will you lend your voices to us to bring Yavanna's grace to our new home and fields?"
A resounding cheer erupted from the hobbits, their feet stomping on the ground. Foxglove and Bilbo eagerly joined Saradoc, Paladin, and Will Whitfoot at the forefront.
Saradoc grinned, a twinkle in his eye. "Ah, Foxglove. Bilbo. Come to join us for the Song?"
They nodded eagerly. A deep hum began to emanate from the assembled hobbits, growing in intensity as more voices joined in. Will Whitfoot began to sing, the words unfamiliar, not Westron, but undeniably filled with power.
Thorin, Frerin, Dis, Vili, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Balin, Bombur, and Bifur, along with Dwalin, who were watching from the side, felt a thrill course through them. The song had them firmly rooted to the earth, a primal connection resonating within their very bones. A potent scent of herbs, flowers, and burgeoning crops filled the air, intoxicating and invigorating.
Frerin's gaze was fixated on Foxglove's face. Her smile was radiant, her voice blending seamlessly with the chorus. Seeing her surrounded by her people, vibrantly alive and filled with joy, warmed his heart. He knew she loved Erebor, but with a touch of the Shire blossoming at its base, Erebor could truly become something spectacular, a testament to the harmony between two distinct, yet equally wondrous, peoples.
The last notes of the hobbit songs faded into the crisp mountain air, a gentle lullaby that seemed to coax life from the very stones. Thorin, his heart swelling with a mixture of awe and disbelief, scanned the landscape. Where moments before had been barren earth, now green shoots poked through the soil, and tiny leaves unfolded on fledgling saplings. Gardens, vibrant and teeming with life, stretched as far as the eye could see.
Dis, her face etched with wonder, came to stand beside him. “Thorin, do you see…?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustling of the newly formed leaves.
Thorin nodded, his throat tight with emotion. He saw indeed. Fields of grain rippled in a nonexistent breeze, fruit trees laden with blossoms stood ready to bear, and the promise of bounty filled the air.
Oin, his nose twitching, hobbled up beside them. “Thorin, Dis, can you smell that?” He inhaled deeply. “The scent of so many healing herbs… enough to stock the King’s healers for years!”
Bombur, never one to be left out when food was concerned, bounced excitedly on his toes. “So much food! We could feed the entire kingdom!”
A realization dawned on Thorin, a truth as verdant and fertile as the gardens surrounding them. He looked down at the Thain, who stood with his wife, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Foxglove and Bilbo… they sang for our gardens inside Erebor, didn’t they?”
The Thain nodded, his eyes sparkling. “Yes, most likely. Mahal’s wife has clearly blessed this land, and her favor flows through your hobbit companions.”
Thorin felt humbled, deeply and profoundly. To have the blessing of Mahal’s wife resting upon their beloved grandmother’s gardens was beyond anything he could have imagined.
When the last echoes of the song finally dissipated, the farms were already seeded and burgeoning, and the saplings stood tall and proud. Foxglove and Bilbo, flushed and breathless, spun around, their eyes locking briefly with those of Frerin and Thorin. In a moment of pure, unbridled joy, they tore away from the throng of hobbits and leaped into the dwarves' waiting arms.
Frerin caught Foxglove easily, hugging her tightly to him. Bilbo, slightly smaller, was enveloped in Thorin’s embrace. Laughter rippled through the air as Frerin, finally setting Foxglove down, rested his forehead against hers. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Ah, love…”
Foxglove, pulling away slightly, heard the familiar chuckle of her grandfather and grandmother behind her. They approached, their faces a mixture of amusement and a deeper, more serious emotion.
“Now, now, Foxglove… Let us speak to Frerin and Thorin alone, shall we?”
Frerin stiffened visibly in Foxglove’s arms, a flicker of apprehension crossing his face. He slowly disentangled himself from her embrace and, with a nervous glance at Thorin, walked over to the Thain and his wife. Thorin followed, his own heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
They slowly walked toward the tent where they were staying, Bilbo watching them go with a worried expression. Foxglove, her cheeks still flushed with the joy of the song and the warmth of Frerin’s embrace, turned to Bilbo, a nervous tremor in her voice. “How much you wanna bet that before they let us leave Erebor to go back home, they want to see us wed?”
Foxglove blushed scarlet. “But… we haven’t even finished all the courtship gifts!”
Dis, overhearing them, chuckled as she walked over, placing a comforting hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “I don’t think they care about formalities. They see how deeply Thorin and Frerin care for you both. And more importantly, they see how happy you are here, bringing life and joy back to Erebor.”

Chapter 28

Notes:

*sigh* So life was busy, then job hunting, which by the way YAY I got one!!! But here ya go a new chapter for you. Forgive me for not posting in a while!! *pleads for mercy*

They slowly walked toward Erebor, Bilbo watching them go with a worried expression. Foxglove, her cheeks still flushed with the joy of the song and the warmth of Frerin’s embrace, turned to Bilbo, a nervous tremor in her voice. “How much you wanna bet that before they leave Erebor to go back home, they want to see us wed?”

Foxglove blushed scarlet. “But… we haven’t even finished all the courtship gifts!”

Dis, overhearing them, chuckled as she walked over, placing a comforting hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “I don’t think they care about formalities. They see how deeply Thorin and Frerin care for you both. And more importantly, they see how happy you are here, bringing life and joy back to Erebor.”

The Thain looked up at Thorin and Frerin as his wife, Adamanta, walked beside him through the halls of Erebor. Thorin led them onward, through the echoing stone corridors, until they reached their destination: the gardens Bilbo and Foxglove had so painstakingly brought back to life.

"We are grateful beyond measure, you know," the Thain said, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "That Yavanna's husband saw fit to pair our grandchildren with you both. When we couldn't find them after the Fell Winter, we grieved, believing we had lost them. Belladonna was the pride and joy of the Took family. Adventurous, brave, witty, and clever. Bungo was her opposite, her anchor, yet balanced her completely."

Adamanta let out a sigh, a wistful sound that hung in the air. "Seeing Foxglove and Bilbo thriving here… it's more than what we ever imagined for them."

Thorin and Frerin pushed open the heavy doors to the gardens, gesturing for them to enter. The Thain and Adamanta stepped inside, their eyes widening as they took in the vista before them. It was a vast, underground garden, the like of which they had never seen. Crystal windows, cleverly engineered, channeled sunlight into the cavern, bathing the space in a gentle, life-giving light. Flowers bloomed in riotous colours, bushes sprawled with fragrant leaves, and small trees stood as silent sentinels, transforming the cavern into an oasis under the stone.

Adamanta gasped, walking away from them, her hands running gently through the flowers, the bushes, the small trees. "Yes," the Thain said, a smile gracing his lips, "the Lady Yavanna's Grace is heavy here. They have done well."

Thorin swallowed, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "These were our Grandmother's gardens. She wanted a quiet place for her to relax from stressful days in court, but when she passed away, the gardens… they died out."

Frerin picked up the story, his voice tinged with sadness. "Grandfather locked the gardens away, consumed by pain. Then he fell into despair, leading most of our armies to Khazad-dum and falling there. Our father went with him, and our mother died shortly after. Thorin stepped into the role of King at 53, and he has been ruling ever since…"

The Thain patted Thorin's hand, his eyes filled with understanding. "You've done well."

Thorin shook his head slowly. "My siblings watched for years as it slowly crushed me, before your grandchildren stumbled into our life."

The Thain watched Thorin carefully, his expression softening.

"A few months ago, Bilbo came to us with a radical idea, though Foxglove sparked the inspiration. He saw the kingship was crushing me and taught us how the Shire is run."
The Thain's eyes widened, a spark of hope igniting within them. "You mean…"

Frerin nodded, a hint of pride in his voice. "Yes, just as Foxglove had written. Bilbo got the Honored Elders to agree about splitting the duties of a single king between Thorin, Dis, Vili her husband, and myself."

The Thain's eyes shone with pride. "Oh, Bilbo…"

A delighted gasp coming from Adamanta made them walk quickly to her location. When they found her, she was kneeling by the terrarium jars that held the night-blooming plants Frerin had given Foxglove as a courtship gift. Adamanta was gently touching the leaves and petals, her expression reverent.
"She has it… The moonflower Belladonna spoke of…"

Frerin smiled. "Yes, though its true name is the Ithil lóth. King Thranduil of the Greenwood gave it to me to give to Foxglove."

Adamanta looked around at the lightly glowing plants, then over at Frerin. "What is Foxglove creating here?"

Frerin smiled softly, his eyes alight with affection. "A Night Garden. Her fondest wish."

Adamanta smiled, tears slowly streaming down her face. Foxglove, her clever granddaughter, had found a way to bring her mother to this cavernous space, to keep her memory alive.
The Thain looked at Thorin and Frerin, his heart aching for the pain they carried. He leaned in, gently tugging them down, resting their foreheads against his shoulders. "We are now your family. We aren't going to replace those you lost in grief or war, but we are here."

Thorin slowly wrapped his one arm around the Thain, as did Frerin, pulling the smaller figure into them, hugging him firmly but gently. Adamanta joined them, pressing a gentle kiss on their foreheads.

Adamanta pulled back and looked at the Thain for a moment, then spoke in hobbitish quietly, making his eyes widen in surprise. Shock was evident in his voice as he let Thorin and Frerin go, gripping her hands tightly. Frerin and Thorin looked at each other, not entirely sure what was happening but waiting for the Thain and Adamanta to include them.

The Thain's shoulders slumped, nodding as he looked at Adamanta, who nodded back. The Thain then looked at them, a knowing smile on his face. "Well, it seems Adamanta wants us to stay… permanently."

Thorin staggered on his feet, while Frerin leaned against the tree beside them, shock evident on his face. "What about your Heir in the Shire? Is he ready?"
The Thain laughed, waving his hand dismissively. "Our eldest boys were trained side by side for years."

Adamanta smiled as she looked down at the Ithil lóth and whispered, "I wish to stay… where my daughter's memory has been reborn. And well, with family. We were going to retire soon anyway."

Thorin slumped against the tree beside Frerin. "But… Tharkun, I mean Gandalf, told us that one of Yavanna's gifts was that hobbits can bond with other races… so Foxglove and Bilbo will now share our lifespan…"

Adamanta grinned. "Of course, he did, but one thing you dwarrow need to remember, a hobbit's heart is large, like a never-ending garden."

The Thain nodded, taking Thorin's hand. "You, Frerin, and Dis have been without the comforting presence of grandparents or parents for so long. We can feel it, you can try and hide it, but we can feel it."

Frerin's frame trembled as he sat there, his head in his hands. Adamanta reached out. "May I?"

Frerin nodded. Adamanta gently ran her fingers through his hair. Frerin's trembling became more pronounced. The Thain looked at Thorin. "Allow us to be your grandparents… please."
Thorin could do nothing but nod, tears welling in his eyes. The long years of loneliness and responsibility, the weight of his losses, seemed to lift, ever so slightly, under the warm gaze of these two hobbits who had so unexpectedly walked into their lives.

The afternoon sun dappled through the leaves of the ancient trees in the valley, painting shifting patterns on the faces of the small gathering. Frerin, leaning into Adamanta's gentle hand in his hair, chuckled. "Thorin...we have grandparents again..."

Thorin, usually so stoic, couldn't help the answering chuckle that rumbled in his chest. "Indeed we do."

Frerin's grin widened, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Dis is going to flip."

Thorin laughed outright, a sound that resonated with the joy that now swelled in his heart. "Fili and Kili are going to be so spoiled!"

Adamanta, her silver hair shimmering in the light, leaned closer, her voice laced with delighted curiosity. "Fili? Kili?"

The Thain, his weathered hand resting on Thorin's shoulder, listened with quiet attentiveness. Thorin leaned into the comforting touch. "Dis's children."

Adamanta gasped, her eyes sparkling. "Oh...great-grandchildren! Gerontius! We have dwarrow great-grandchildren!"

Gerontius chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. "Indeed we do, my dear Adamanta. I say we have a full family meal."

Frerin lit up, his energy practically crackling. He turned to Thorin, his excitement palpable. "The full family?"

Thorin leaned back against the tree, not dislodging Gerontius's hand. "Yes, the full family." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "It's... extensive."

Gerontius looked between them, his gaze gentle and encouraging. He was eager to learn about this sprawling family that had suddenly blossomed around them.

Thorin began, counting them off on his hands. "We have our cousins Balin and Dwalin. Balin was mainly my advisor, but we're still working on how to fit him into the system of our government. On a more honest note, I think he's more grateful he doesn't have to worry about me so much right now. Dwalin you've met already. Balin's younger brother and general of our armies. Oin is another cousin and Royal Family healer, he taught Erebor's healers that are on each level of the mountain. Gloin is our master of Coin; he works with Frerin here in the treasury. Gloin is married to Mizi, careful though, he could go for hours praising his wife's beauty, their son is Gimli, and Gloin again could go for hours talking about his boy."

Adamanta and Gerontius chuckled, charmed by the image. They sat down on a few moss-covered stones beside them, making themselves comfortable. This promised to be a long and fascinating tale.

Frerin took over, his voice brimming with affection. "You met Dori, Nori, and Ori outside. However, they are a side line of the Line of Durin that we wanted to have brought home. Dori is our majordomo, and she works with Dis and Vili." Frerin leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "There's bets going around in our family about when Balin and Dori are going to start courting and be married."

Thorin snorted good-naturedly. "They are waiting for you and I to be married off to Bilbo and Foxglove."

Adamanta folded her arms, her curls bristling slightly. The idea of these two, so clearly fond of...others...not following their hearts clearly displeased her. Gerontius chuckled at her reaction, patting her hand reassuringly.

Frerin continued, unperturbed. "Nori, now Nori is our spymaster, in charge of the Shadows. She and Dwalin work side-by-side to protect Erebor. Dwalin and Nori really need to get their acts together and start courting..." Frerin groaned. "I've caught Dwalin so many times staring at her, moping."

Thorin laughed even harder at Frerin's words, picturing the gruff warrior rendered lovesick.

Frerin smiled fondly. "Then we get to Ori, he's the gentle brother of the Ri's. He's so smart and flying through his studies at the academy."
Thorin grinned. "Just don't mess up his parchment or writings!"

Frerin shuddered playfully. "He can be scary when you do."

Gerontius and Adamanta just smiled, listening to the easy banter between Thorin and Frerin. They radiated such genuine affection for their family.

Thorin took over next, his voice softening. "Bofur and Bifur brought toymaking to Erebor. Wood-carved toys and soft toys of dwarrow make. They do some other woodworking when needed but mostly focus on toys. They just started bringing in apprentices to learn."

He paused, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Bombur and his wife, Alaris, are chefs. Dis practically begged for them to be the Royal Family chefs; this way, they were in the Royal Palace but also so their eight pups were better protected."

Adamanta's eyes widened. "Eight?!"

Thorin nodded. "Yes, eight. Normally, dwarrow are blessed with two or three pups in their lifetime. Bombur and Alaris were blessed with eight at once."

Gerontius patted Thorin's shoulder, his eyes filled with warmth. "Yes, this has cemented our stay here. You all need us." He looked at Adamanta, a twinkle in his eye. "Think of all the little ones!"

Adamanta smiled, her heart overflowing with happiness. "Indeed. It seems we've a great deal of catching up to do." The sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the leaves in hues of gold and crimson, as the four settled deeper into conversation. The scent of pine and damp earth filled the air, a comforting embrace as they built a bridge between past and present, connecting their lives to create a shared future. The promise of a full family meal, of laughter echoing through the halls of Erebor, hung heavy in the air, a testament to the enduring power of kinship and the unbreakable bonds of family.

Adamanta smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked at Thorin and Frerin. "Oh, this is going to be amazing! We will stay in Erebor with you. Closer to all of you." Gerontius, ever the grounding force, nodded, standing up straighter in the Gardens. "Yes, we will stay..."

Adamanta took a step back, allowing Frerin to rise, and Thorin followed suit. Both looked lighter than they had in years, even more so than when the new system of government was established in Erebor. Gerontius grinned, looking up at Thorin. "Come, let's see about Bombur and Alaris setting up a meal. Then we can meet everyone."

Adamanta smirked, a mischievous glint in her eye. "And surprise Foxglove and Bilbo with the news we're staying," she added, her voice laced with excitement.

Frerin nodded enthusiastically as they escorted Adamanta and Gerontius from the Gardens. Thorin and Frerin walked through the halls slowly, pointing out everything to Adamanta and Gerontius. They explained in great detail the halls, chambers, and levels of Erebor, their voices echoing in the vast spaces. Finally, they arrived at the Royal Palace.

Adamanta and Gerontius stood stunned, their eyes wide as they gazed upon its grandeur. Adamanta's voice was pure awe. "Wow, how beautiful," she breathed.

Thorin and Frerin guided them towards the Ur family chambers. Thorin knocked lightly on the door. It swung open, revealing Alaris, exhaustion etched on her face. "Thorin. Frerin. The pups are close to shifting from pups to pebbles."

Thorin took a step closer, resting his hand on her shoulder, urgency in his tone. "How close?"

Alaris's frame drooped. "Hours... if that. I need help. Can you..."

Frerin took off running, shouting over his shoulder, "I'll get the family! Don't you worry, Alaris!" Then he disappeared around the corner.

Thorin let out a sigh. "In the meantime, Alaris, let us help."

Alaris nodded, stepping back and allowing Thorin, Adamanta, and Gerontius inside. Thorin followed the sounds of puppies whining or whimpering and a baby's cry. He led Adamanta and Gerontius to a lower room that was used for the pups and knelt nearby, resting his hands on one of the closest ones, humming gently. The pup relaxed. Alaris knelt by two more, exhaustion clear on her face.

Adamanta and Gerontius looked at each other and shifted. Where they once stood, now two foxes of white and light russet stood in their place. They padded over to the pups and curled around them, nuzzling them and purring quietly. The pups froze and instantly started sniffing the foxes around them. One pup yipped, then looked at Alaris, then buried his face into Adamanta's side, instantly relaxing.

The door burst open, revealing Bombur who was first, along with Bofur and Bifur. After them came Frerin, Foxglove, Bilbo, Dis, Vili, Dwalin, Balin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, and Gloin. Foxglove rushed over with Bilbo on her heels. Bombur went to Alaris's side. "My dumpling, are you sure? They are shifting?"

Alaris nodded. "If it wasn't for Thorin and Frerin showing up, I would have been overwhelmed."

Foxglove knelt by Adamanta's fox form, while Bilbo knelt by Gerontius's fox form. Thorin looked at them curiously. "What are they doing?"

Foxglove smiled. "Grandmother and Grandfather. They smell like Bilbo and I do, and so they used that scent matching to help keep the pups calm till more help arrived for Alaris with the shifting."

Bombur walked closer and gently removed one of the pups, a little girl with a coat of soft bread dough, from the pile. "Come now, little one. Adad and Amad are here." The pup whined then slowly shifted from wolf pup form to a pebble of ten years old. Her warm brown eyes opened and gripped Bombur's beard with her unsteady hands. "Oh Alaris, look at her!"

Alaris smiled as she took a second pup from the pile, a boy who had a coat of golden brown, in her arms. "Little one, Amad is here." The little boy shifted and opened his caramel eyes to see Alaris and started to smile.

Dis and Vili quickly handed over the blankets to Bofur and Bifur, who took the pebbles from Bombur's and Alaris's hands, wrapping them gently and whispering to them in Khuzdul. On and on it went. Pups went from multiple shades of brown, changing to pebbles. Eventually, all eight pups were now dwarrow children. All wrapped in blankets and in various arms of the family.

Adamanta and Gerontius, now back in hobbit form, were in awe as they looked around at the children. Then Adamanta focused clearly on Alaris, her features soft around the eyes, the slight curl in her hair. Adamanta staggered closer and gasped. "You have Hobbit blood in your family tree!"

The room fell silent, save for Adamanta’s ragged breaths. Bilbo and Foxglove froze, their eyes wide, darting between Alaris, cradling one of her newly shifted children, and the stunned dwarves. Adamanta, her face etched with disbelief, had delivered a revelation that shattered the foundations of their understanding.

"May I?" Gerontious asked Alaris, his voice barely a whisper. Alaris, pale and trembling, could only nod. Gerontious gently touched her face, his aged eyes scrutinizing her features. "Oh… Adamanta… Dear Alaris here has Brandybuck blood."

Adamanta shot up, pacing frantically. “Marmadoc’s youngest sister… She left the Shire… following her heart… and it took her to the Blue Mountains.” She stopped abruptly, whirling around to face Gerontious, her voice choked with emotion, "She never contacted anyone! Everyone thought she perished!"

Alaris swayed, her grip tightening on the child in her arms. Thorin caught her, his strong arms supporting her as he helped her into a nearby chair. His face was a mask of concern and confusion. He turned to Adamanta, his tone low and hesitant, "What does this mean? For Alaris… and for Bombur?"

Gerontious managed a weak smile. "Nothing bad, Thorin. Just that Alaris and her pups have ties with Saradoc and the Master of Buckland now. More family that came across the Misty Mountains."

Bilbo, his eyes shining with understanding, walked over to Alaris. "Oh, Alaris, it would explain so much. Why Foxglove and I bonded with you so readily. Why the pull we felt to ensure your pups were fed and cared for. It was more than just friendship."

Alaris looked down at the sleeping child in her arms, a tiny, peaceful face nestled against her. Adamanta, still reeling, whispered, "It also explains why you had so many pups…"

Bombur, his usually jovial face now paling, began to pace. "My Alaris… my beloved Alaris… has hobbit blood in her? What about me and my brother Bofur?"

Bofur, who was bouncing a giggling little boy in his arms, froze mid-bounce. His smile vanished, replaced by a look of utter bewilderment at Bombur’s words.

Gerontious, sensing the impending avalanche of truth, slowly walked towards them. He led a bewildered Bombur to stand beside a frozen Bofur. His hands trembled as he asked, "May I?" They nodded, their eyes locked on Gerontious’s face.

Gerontious touched their faces, his gaze lingering longer, searching for any familiar characteristics from the hobbit families. He studied the shape of their noses, the set of their eyes, the curve of their chins. When he was finished, he staggered back, grabbing Adamanta for support. "The Gamgees… the Sandyman families…"

Adamanta slid to the floor, her eyes wide with disbelief and dawning comprehension. "Holman's brother... The Sandyman's lost sister..."

Thorin, overwhelmed by the cascade of revelations, dropped into a chair beside Adamanta. His mind reeled, shock and awe battling for dominance. Bofur, Bombur, and Alaris, all with hobbit blood? It seemed impossible, yet… slowly, it began to make sense. Bofur and Bombur were always so cheerful, their love of food and good songs unwavering. And Alaris… now it was explained, what now seemed a near impossible amount of children she had born with Bombur. It all clicked into place.

Bilbo rushed to Thorin, wrapping his arms around Thorin’s shoulders, his voice thick with emotion. "They are family… to both dwarrow and hobbit…"

Frerin’s face broke into a slow, heartfelt smile. "Thorin… Family… blood and by heart…" He stepped forward, placing a hand on Bofur’s shoulder. He then moved over to Bombur, pulling him into a hug. "We knew it all along…"

The revelation hung in the air, thick with disbelief and a fragile, burgeoning hope. Thorin, recovering from the shock of Bombur, Bofur, and Alaris's hidden hobbit ancestry, let out a booming laugh, drawing all eyes to him. "Oh. This just got a whole lot better!"

Gerontius blinked at him, then a slow grin spread across his face, understanding dawning. "Oh! You are right, Thorin."

Adamanta, her silver hair catching the light, giggled. "Foxglove. Bilbo. We're staying here. In Erebor."

Foxglove and Bilbo's jaws dropped in perfect unison. Bilbo's voice was a strained croak. "But the Shire? Your position?"
Gerontius waved a dismissive hand. "Paladin's brother was ready. And honestly, we want to retire, and with you here… this beautiful mountain… we want to stay."

Adamanta walked over to Foxglove, patting her arm. "We lost you both once. The dwarrow here helped you come back, and you, my dear granddaughter, brought Belladonna's memory to Erebor. Our children in the Shire all knew, I think they knew we were ready to come here and stay."

Foxglove's eyes welled with tears. She crumpled into Adamanta's arms, who chuckled softly, holding her close. "Besides," she added, her voice laced with affection, "we promised Thorin and Frerin we'd be grandparents to their family, their whole family."

Dis rose from her seat slowly, her movements hesitant. Her voice was soft, tinged with a yearning that resonated through the room. "Grandparents? To all of us?"

Gerontius nodded, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Of course, my dear Dis. We aren't replacing anyone you have already lost. We're just stepping in to give you all the love you have

been missing for years."

A wave of stunned silence washed over the dwarrow. Balin's eyes widened in surprise, Dwalin's face softened, a rare and tender expression. Dori looked as though he was about to cry, Nori's lean face was slack with shock and yearning, Ori's hands trembled, Oin and Gloin wore twin expressions of disbelief and awe. Bofur and Bombur blushed slightly, Alaris looked visibly relieved, Bifur's eyes were wide but filled with warmth, and Vili smiled a soft, knowing smile. The weight of generations of loss and responsibility seemed to momentarily lift from their shoulders.

Dis staggered towards Gerontius, her voice wavering, barely a whisper. "You mean it? You'll take all of us as your grandchildren?"

Adamanta laughed lightly. "You dwarrow remind us so much of the Tooks outside and back home. Of course we'll take you. Like we told Thorin and Frerin, a hobbit's heart is like a never-ending garden. Always room to grow more love for others."

Dis rushed over and knelt before Gerontius, wrapping her arms around his small hobbit frame, hugging him tightly. Gerontius gently put his hand on her hair, stroking it with a grandparental air about him. He looked around at the assembly of dwarrow, his gaze filled with a deep, inherent understanding. "You all have been carrying the weight of Erebor since you were very young, haven't you?"

Dis nodded into his shoulder, her voice muffled. The others spoke up hesitantly, agreeing with him, their voices filled with a mixture of gratitude and longing. Adamanta released Foxglove, leading her to sit beside Frerin, who wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

Then, Adamanta walked over to the dwarrow, looking into their eyes one by one, her gaze filled with a warmth that sparked a familiar comfort. It made many of them feel like they were back in the halls of their childhood, listening to their blood grandparents again. The burdens they had carried, the expectations they had borne, seemed to lighten under the weight of her loving scrutiny.

Adamanta nodded, her eyes shining with a light that filled the hall. Looking at Gerontius, she finished, "Yes, this is where we need to be."

Gerontius held Dis’s trembling frame close, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling deeper with the effort. His gaze locked with Adamanta’s, a silent conversation flitting between them, built on decades of shared laughter, sorrow, and unwavering love. Adamanta, ever the pragmatist, eventually nodded, her silver hair shimmering in the firelight as she surveyed the faces before her – her dwarrow grandchildren.

Dis, Vili, Thorin, Frerin, Gloin, Oin, Balin, Dwalin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bombur, Bofur, Bifur, and even Alaris stared back, a mixture of curiosity and concern etched on their features. Adamanta smiled, a spark igniting in her eyes. Something had clicked into place, a plan solidifying with each anxious glance directed her way. She leaned towards Gerontius, whispering in the lilting tongue of hobbits, a language only Bilbo and Foxglove understood within the room.

Gerontius sucked in a breath, his aged face registering stunned disbelief. Bilbo and Foxglove mirrored his shock, their eyes widening as they instinctively clung to Thorin and Frerin, respectively. Adamanta, however, remained resolute. With a wave of her arthritic hand, she addressed the assembled dwarves, her voice suddenly imbued with a fierce determination and a palpable love for each and every one of them. She spoke rapidly, the hobbit words tumbling out in a torrent. Gerontius wavered, momentarily overwhelmed, then gave her a weary but understanding smile, tinged with exasperation.

Foxglove, her small hand trembling, slowly released Frerin’s arm. She stepped forward, her voice barely a whisper, as she repeated Adamanta's words in hobbitish, her voice cracking with emotion. Adamanta and Gerontius nodded firmly, their unwavering resolve fueling Foxglove’s own. A gasp of delight escaped her lips.

Thorin, who had been watching the strange exchange with growing unease, finally rose from his seat. Confusion and uncertainty clouded his usually resolute face. "Gerontius? Adamanta? What is going on?" he demanded, his voice resonating with the authority befitting a King Under the Mountain.

Adamanta beamed, her eyes sparkling. "My dear Thorin," she said, her voice regaining its usual gentle tone, "Gerontius and I are planning on praying to Lady Yavanna tonight in the Gardens you showed us. We intend to ask her for a plea."

Gerontius nodded, his gaze fixed on Thorin. "If it works, which I don't believe will be a problem for the Lady Yavanna, you won't lose us for a long, long time either. Foxglove and Bilbo have already bonded to you. Their coming of age at thirty-three, plus seeing you as their family, already solidified one of Lady Yavanna's Gifts. We, however, do not wish to wait for the already small bond we feel forming in our hearts to grow."

Thorin dropped back into his chair, his mind reeling. The implications of their words, coupled with the fragmented pieces of hobbit culture Gandalf had occasionally dropped on them, crashed over him. Hobbits needed family bonds, true bonds, to thrive. Frerin and he, along with the rest of their kin, had already forged a deeper connection with Foxglove and Bilbo, amplified by the knowledge that they were soulmates. Foxglove for Frerin. Bilbo for himself. The bonds they had created were extending those hobbits' lifespans, aligning them with the longevity of the dwarves. No longer would they be relegated to a fleeting existence. Bilbo could, and would, match the lifespan of Thorin.

And now, Gerontius and Adamanta, already old beyond measure by hobbit standards, wanted to share in this extension of life, to remain with them for as long as they could. The fledgling bond they felt for him and his family was already stirring in their hearts, but they desired to amplify it, to accelerate its growth, to match the depth of feeling that already connected them all. They were willing to plead with Lady Yavanna herself to make it so.

The enormity of their love, their sacrifice, left Thorin speechless. He looked at his grandparents, his foster grandparents, his family, and a wave of overwhelming gratitude washed over him. They were willing to change their very nature, to entwine their fate with his, simply for the privilege of remaining by his side. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he would do anything for them, just as they were willing to do anything for him. The bond was not just growing; it was blossoming, filling the room with an invisible, powerful force that would bind them together for generations to come.

Dis leaned back, looking up at Gerontius, her voice cracking. "How can we help? With your plea?"

Gerontius gently touched her hair, carefully avoiding the intricate braids. "If you would like, you may witness it. Lady Yavanna will see that our desire and plea is urgent, and filled with familial love."

Adamanta looked past them and saw the balcony with the setting sun painting the sky in fiery hues. "If we're doing this, Gerontius, we need to get down there now."

Gerontius nodded as he released Dis. She staggered to her feet, already turning to Vili. "We need Fili, Kili, Mizi, and Gimli. Or to have them meet us down at the Gardens."

Vili nodded and hurried from the room, Gloin right beside him. Gerontius and Adamanta already led the rest of their dwarven grandchildren down the silent halls of Erebor. The air hummed with anticipation, a quiet reverence settling over them. They came at last to the Gardens, Thorin and Frerin quickly pushing open the massive doors to reveal the vast underground space.

Gerontius and Adamanta led the dwarves into the heart of the Gardens. In the center, they knelt and bowed, their voices speaking in hobbitish, reverent and filled with love and affection for both the Lady Yavanna and the dwarves around them.

A soft, loving laughter echoed around them as Gerontius and Adamanta continued speaking, their voices softening. The laughter gently giggled again, then a light formed around Gerontius and Adamanta. Years seemed to fall away from their frames, not a dramatic transformation, but a subtle easing of the burdens of time. They watched, mesmerized, as Gerontius and Adamanta grew stronger right before their eyes.

Thorin, Frerin, and Dis were frozen in place, watching Mahal's Wife, the Lady Yavanna, grant Gerontius and Adamanta a gift so precious they could scarcely believe it. Gerontius and Adamanta's plea had been accepted and granted.

Foxglove and Bilbo dropped to their knees, tears streaming down their faces, their eyes wide with shock. A pair of voices, voices well-loved and well-missed, came in place of the first, speaking to them. Foxglove sobbed as she felt a light touch her cheek and her forehead. "Ma!"

Bilbo felt the light touch his arms and back for a moment, and he reached out to the light, a desperate yearning mixed with devastation on his face. "Da!"

Then the lights shifted. The light surrounding Foxglove was hugging her, while Bilbo had the light press against his forehead and his cheek. Before fading away.

The first voice came back as she pressed a kiss to each of Foxglove and Bilbo's foreheads lovingly as it whispered something only they could hear. Awe shone on their faces as they lowered their heads together, their frames trembling.

Eventually, the Gardens went silent. Gerontius and Adamanta stood before them, younger, stronger, their eyes filled with a profound love for the Lady Yavanna and their dwarven kin. The Lady Yavanna had also seen into Bilbo and Foxglove's hearts, allowing them to hear their beloved parents one more time before they had to wait for them to join them later in her Gardens. The air thrummed with the power of Yavanna's grace, a testament to the enduring strength of familial love. The plea, whispered in hobbitish, had been for the bond Gerontius and Adamanta felt for their dwarrow to grow it amplifiy it. It had been a plea for connection, for remembrance, and for the blessing of their family, both living and passed.

The light of Yavanna now faded, leaving the gardens in the soft glow of moonlight streaming through the crystals in the ceiling. Dis stumbled forward, "Gerontius? Adamanta?"

Adamanta smiled gently at Dis, her eyes twinkling. "Lady Yavanna granted us our plea, the bond we had felt at meeting you now is at the same depth as the ones Foxglove and Bilbo have for you all."

Gerontius looked down at his hands, a smirk playing on his lips. "Looks like she saw fit to melt a few years away as well." He rubbed his chin with one hand while looking at the other.

Adamanta laughed, a melodic sound that hadn't been heard in decades. Her silvering hair rippled, instantly replaced by dark brown, the color of rich earth. "A few? My dear, try a few decades!"

Gerontius spun to face her, his breath catching in his throat. He was almost melting at the sight of her. "As beautiful as the day I married you."

Adamanta smiled at him, brushing his shoulder fondly. "Look at yourself! As handsome as ever… your russet hair as warm as the leaves in the fall in the Shire."

The other dwarrow stumbled towards them, drawn in by the sheer force of love and rediscovery emanating from Gerontius and Adamanta. Oin and Gloin leaned against the closest tree, their faces etched with wonder. Mizi sat beside Gloin with Gimli in her arms. Gimli's eyes were wide, confusion swirling within them. Balin and Dwalin sat on a nearby stone, their faces etched with disbelief. Dori stood with her hands twitching, a few tears tracing paths down her face. Ori, unable to contain himself, had tears streaming down his face, while Nori shifted, fidgeting with one hand she looked like she would run over and hug them, a raw vulnerability exposed on her face. Bofur's eyes were wide, while Bombur's jaw hung open. Bifur's face was slack, rendered speechless. Alaris was smiling, tears streaming down her face in a mixture of joy and grief for what was and what could have been. Fili and Kili looked between Gerontius and Adamanta, then over to Dis and Vili, who had his arms outstretched, ready to steady them if needed.

Thorin and Frerin scrambled over to Bilbo and Foxglove, dropping to their knees beside them. Frerin whispered, his hands resting tentatively on Foxglove's back, "Foxglove? Are you alright, love?"

Foxglove nodded, her frame trembling. "We… we got to hear our parents one more time. They love you both already." Her voice was choked with emotion.

Thorin pulled Bilbo into his chest, gently rubbing his thumbs across Bilbo's cheeks, wiping the tears away. "Bilbo, my heart?"

Bilbo gripped Thorin's wrists, his frame shaking. "Oh... our parents accept you. They love you. So much…"

Gerontius smiled down at Bilbo, a gentle understanding in his eyes. "Lady Yavanna spoke to you both. Might as well tell them so they are not surprised."

Foxglove let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Not surprised? Grandfather… we were still trying to wrap our minds around what Lady Yavanna told us."

Thorin looked between them, confusion etched on his face. "Bilbo? Foxglove?"

Bilbo looked up at him, his eyes wide. "Yavanna told us… Foxglove and I… how many… dwobbits, pure hobbits, and dwarrow children we will have…"

Thorin gripped his face gently, his fingers trembling. "How many?"

Foxglove whispered, her voice barely audible, "I’ll have 5… Bilbo will have 7."

Frerin and Thorin's hands dropped to their sides, their faces going pale.

Dis's voice cracked, her eyes wide with shock. "What?... How?"

Thorin's voice was a mix of awe, fear, excitement, and joy. "The Planting Seed…"

Gerontius chuckled, the sound a warm rumble that filled the air. He looked at Thorin, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Yes, the Planting Seed. But first…" He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on Fili and Kili before settling on Gimli. A grandfatherly look softened his aged features. "Who might you be, young one?"

Fili, ever the eager one, straightened his small shoulders. He glanced up at Dis, who smiled warmly and waved him forward. "Fili, son of Vili, at your service."

Kili, always close to his brother, gripped the back of Fili's tunic, his voice echoing Fili's a second later. "Kili, son of Vili, at your service."

Gimli, not to be outdone, hopped up with a gusto that belied his size. "Gimli, son of Gloin, at your service!"

Adamanta, her face aglow with affection, walked over to Gimli. She glanced at Gloin and Mizi as if seeking permission, and upon receiving a nod from Gloin, she enveloped the young dwarf in a loving hug. "We are Foxglove and Bilbo's grandparents. But we are also all of yours."

Fili and Kili's eyes widened, their expressions a mixture of surprise and delight. "Ours too?"

 

Dis chuckled, wiping a tear that escaped her eye. "Yes, though for you three, great-grandparents."

Kili beamed, his small face lighting up. On impulse, he bolted forward, slamming into Gerontius's frame. Gerontius caught him easily, surprising the adult dwarves who hadn't expected such a burst of energy.

Gerontius smiled down at Kili, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, such a handsome young dwarf! Those eyes of yours are filled with absolute mischief! I feel so bad for your parents." He leaned in, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, "I'll have to show you everything I know, then we can plot behind your parents' backs."

Kili's eyes shone at the prospect of such an adventure. Fili, unable to contain his excitement, rushed over, bouncing on his toes. "Really? You'll help us?"

Gerontius nodded, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Of course! Might have to get your Took cousins involved…"

Dis groaned playfully, while Vili laughed, shaking his head. "Too late, dear…"

Adamanta, meanwhile, smiled down at Gimli, her hand gently smoothing his beard. "Oh, you have your mother's eyes and your father's fabulous beard." She leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, "I think you'll end up with a beard bigger than your father's."

Gimli's eyes sparkled with pride. Gloin and Mizi laughed, watching Adamanta's interaction with their son, their hearts warmed by the genuine affection she displayed.

Vili walked over, resting a hand on Gerontius's shoulder, his expression concerned. "Are you both feeling alright? We need to get the little ones to bed. If you need it, we can carry you from the Gardens."

Gerontius hummed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He looked over at Adamanta before nodding. "If you wouldn't mind? I'm kinda using Kili and Fili as a support at the moment."

Fili and Kili, upon hearing this, quickly wrapped their arms around Gerontius, their small bodies offering what little support they could. Gerontius laughed, a hearty sound that echoed through the room. "I guess I'm taken care of, Adamanta?"

Adamanta smiled, turning to see Ori and Nori wrapping themselves around her waist, effectively anchoring her to the spot. "I have Nori and Ori here."

Frerin stood up and helped Foxglove to her feet. Then, with a gentle strength, he lifted her up in his arms. Thorin, mirroring Frerin's actions, scooped Bilbo up into his arms.
Dis smiled, the weariness of the day etched on her face, but replaced with a gentle contentment. "Time for bed."

Chapter 29

The weeks following the arrival of the Hobbits to Erebor had painted the landscape in vibrant hues. The slopes surrounding the mountain and the plains stretching towards Dale erupted in a tapestry of greens, golds, and countless other colors as farming flourished. Foxglove, in her snowy white fox form, roamed the slopes of Erebor, her thoughts a tangled mess, as intricate as thorny vines.

Gerontius sent a raven back to the Shire, explaining that he and Adamanta are staying in Erebor. The Master of Buckland has been meeting with Alaris to discuss the stories of her hobbit ancestor, the lost Brandybuck sister. Hamfast is talking with Bombur and Bofur about their familiar connection. These thoughts swirled within her. Thorin, Dis, and Frerin have all settled into their roles in Erebor perfectly. Bilbo has been helping Thorin lay out some plans for Erebor, mostly ideas they can more or less toss out or keep. Frerin has been doing wonderfully as King of the Deep and holds. The crafting halls and mines are doing so much better than before he took over that from Thorin. Dis and Vili are doing amazing as King and Queen of hearth and home.
Foxglove twitched her nose, resting in the sun, overlooking the blossoming fields. Her ears perked, catching an approaching sound. She watched as her grandmother, Adamanta, trotted gracefully towards her in her own sleek fox form. Foxglove still found it astonishing that Lady Yavanna had granted her grandparents' plea, to grow the bond they had for their dwarrow family to be fully awakened to stay with in Erebor. Lady Yavanna also removed some years while extending their lifespans.

Adamanta finally reached her, laying down beside Foxglove and nudging her affectionately with her muzzle. "Foxglove, are you alright?"
Foxglove let out a small whine. "I think so?"

Adamanta huffed, a puff of warm air ruffling Foxglove's fur. "Is this because of the wedding plans that are only four days away?"

Foxglove buried her face under her paws, making Adamanta chuckle. "After Dori fainted away, the poor dwarrowdam she got to work double time. Frerin is as nervous as you. Thorin, whenever Gerontius catches him, is three breaths away from a panic attack. That silly dwarf, Bilbo loves him to pieces. Everything will be fine. Dwalin and Nori are both working together to not let anything go wrong for your big day. Dori and her apprentices are working on outfits for you both. Balin is working with Dis and Vili for the seating..."

Foxglove let out another whine. "I'm still nervous. Thorin and Frerin both said they are inviting their cousin Dain from the Iron Hills."

Adamanta nodded, her amber eyes twinkling. "Yes, and from what I hear, he's just a more boisterous dwarf than Gloin."

Foxglove nodded slowly, uncovering her muzzle from her paws. "What if... what if the dwarrow from the Iron Hills don't like what we have done to Erebor?"

Adamanta gently nipped her ear. "Foxglove, all the dwarrow here speak you and Bilbo's praises! We even had the Honored Elders ask us for a private audience!"

Foxglove remembered that moment vividly. Gerontius and Adamanta had been summoned to a meeting that had made all the dwarves in their family worry. But when they returned, they were all smiles and grinning like foxes. It turned out the Honored Elders had offered Gerontius and Adamanta a spot among them if they wished. Obviously, family came first, but Gerontius would be the go-between for Paladin, Saradoc, and Will Whitfoot to Erebor through Gerontius and Adamanta, if needed.

The thought, while still a little daunting, offered a sliver of comfort. Perhaps the Iron Hills dwarves wouldn’t be so bad after all. Perhaps, with Bilbo at her side, and the support of her family, she could face anything.

The air crackled with unspoken tension as Foxglove and Adamanta padded back towards the looming gates of Erebor, their paws soft against the worn stone. A chorus of unfamiliar howls ripped through the evening air, vibrating from the furthest slope. Foxglove froze, her fur prickling. A scene unfolded before her: a pack of wolves, unlike any she’d seen before. At the forefront stood a massive, muscular wolf with fur the color of freshly spilled blood. Beside him, a wolf darker than midnight held itself with an air of quiet authority. And at their side, a striking wolf with fur a blend of black and red stood guard. Behind them stood around ten other wolves about as bulky as the red one.

Foxglove let out a small, anxious yip, nudging Adamanta urgently towards the gates. Her mind was a whirlwind of panicked calculations and half-formed thoughts. 'Dain? Already? But the raven only left a few days ago!'

Adamanta, ever the pragmatist, understood the urgency. She led the charge, their paws drumming a frantic rhythm against the ground as they raced back into the relative safety of Erebor.
Dwalin met them just as they shifted back into their hobbit forms, his broad face splitting into a grin. "Aye, that would be Dain, his wife and his son, along with a squad of his best soldiers." Then, his expression darkened. He fixed his gaze on the back of the wolf pack, where three older-looking wolves lingered, their eyes gleaming with an unsettling intelligence. "And three of Dain's advisors..." A low snarl rumbled in Dwalin's chest.

Foxglove looked up at Dwalin in alarm, her brow furrowed. "What's wrong with those advisors?"

Dwalin wrapped a protective arm around both Foxglove and Adamanta, pulling them closer. "Those three make the Honored Elders we have here seem tame. They used to be some of Thror's advisors, but they left when Thror took some of our armies to Khazad-dum... at least we know where they went now..." He squeezed Adamanta's shoulder. "Spread the word to the other hobbits. Under no circumstance are they to be alone with either of those three."

Adamanta nodded, her face grim but determined. She slinked away quietly, her movements lithe and cautious, carrying the weight of the warning.
Dwalin watched her until she disappeared into the throng of dwarves, then looked down at Foxglove, his eyes filled with a deep concern. "You and Bilbo are to never be alone without one of our family with you."

Foxglove bristled slightly, her hobbit pride surfacing. "But my bounder training!"
Dwalin leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I know both of you have been trained as bounders, and you're both more than capable. But please, for our sakes... do not be alone with them. These are dwarves who have seen too much, who have learned to value power above all else. Trust me on this, lass."
Foxglove, seeing the genuine plea in his eyes, nodded reluctantly. "Alright, Dwalin. I understand."

Dwalin straightened, his expression shifting back to one of hearty welcome. He turned to greet the red wolf, who had shifted back into the robust dwarf that led the party, his beard braided with intricate patterns and adorned with beads.

"Dain! How are you, you son of a badger!" Dwalin boomed, clapping Dain on the shoulder.

Dain looked up at Dwalin, a huge grin spreading across his cheerful face. "Dwalin! I couldn't believe the raven we got about Thorin and Frerin getting married! Who are the lucky beings who are marrying Frerin and Thorin?"

Dwalin gestured to Foxglove with a flourish. "This is Foxglove Baggins Ri. She is going to marry Frerin."

Dain turned his full attention to her, his smile widening. "Well, I'll be!" He strode towards Foxglove and pulled her into a surprisingly firm hug, making her squeak in surprise. Dwalin chuckled beside her as Dain put her down gently. "Ah, here's me lovely wife, Terra, and my son, Thorin Stonehelm. Though, when my son and cousin are standing side by side, we just call my son Rin. Yes, I named him after me cousin Thorin."

Foxglove chuckled, looking at the fiercely protective Terra, then over at Rin, who possessed a mischievous glint in his eyes. She bowed respectfully. "Welcome to Erebor, Lady Terra, Lord Rin. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Terra smiled warmly. "Please, call me Terra. We're about to be family, after all."

Rin smiled and winked. "Rin for me."

Dwalin twitched beside her, his protective instincts kicking in. He stepped forward, positioning himself between Foxglove and the newcomers, subtly cutting off the approach of the three advisors, who were barely concealing looks of thinly veiled disgust.

Dain noticed Dwalin's maneuvering but didn't comment, trusting his cousin's judgment. He glared at the advisors, who, despite their obvious disapproval, backed down under his intense gaze.
Dwalin turned back to Dain, his voice regaining its boisterous tone. "Come, cousin, we have rooms prepared for you and your family in the Royal Palace. If your soldiers don't mind, I had our soldiers set up bunks in the barracks for them. I'm sure they might find some old friends among the ranks."

The soldiers, overhearing the invitation, lit up with excitement. Dain laughed and waved them off. "Go on then! Get settled in!" The soldiers took off immediately, eager to reach the familiar comforts of the barracks.

Dwalin, his eyes still narrowed in warning, addressed the advisors. "We have rooms prepared for you in the guest wing."

The advisors bristled at the non-invitation, but, sensing the undercurrent of tension, backed down when Terra leveled a cold glare in their direction.

Rin, sensing Foxglove's unease, stepped up beside her, leaning in close and whispering conspiratorially. "Here, take my arm. I'll have you back to Frerin in no time. I promise.” His eyes held a warmth and sincerity that was disarming, offering a small beacon of reassurance in the increasingly complex situation.

The air in the antechamber crackled with unspoken energy. Dain, ever the pragmatist, cut straight to the chase. "Who is marrying Thorin?" he'd asked, his booming voice softened with genuine curiosity.

Dwalin, the ever-loyal, ever-blunt, gestured towards Foxglove, who grinned impishly. "Her brother, Bilbo Baggins Ri. He's smart as a whip, that one. We'll inform ya of everything those two hobbits have done when we are in your chambers."

Dain nodded, understanding. 'Not around the advisors...' Terra, his ever-observant wife, echoed his sentiment with a subtle nod. Almost on cue, a pair of Dis's and Vili's assistants materialized, whisking the three advisors away to the privacy of their allocated rooms.

Dwalin relaxed noticeably, a grin spreading across his face. "Nori must have sent 'em."

Foxglove, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, tilted her head up at Dwalin. "Speaking of Nori, Dwalin... when are you two going to start courting?"

The dwarf warrior actually blushed, a sight that sent a wave of surprised glances from Terra, Dain, and Rin. Foxglove dissolved into laughter.

Dwalin pointed a thick finger at her, a playful warning in his voice. "Oi, don't make me assign Frerin to you the whole time! I'll tell him you've been causing mischief, and you know he'd never leave your side!"

Foxglove spluttered, her cheeks flushing a deeper rose than usual. "I didn't do anything!"

Dwalin's grin widened. "This time… he still has a heart attack remembering when he lost ya in the mines just last week!"

Foxglove blushed harder, much to the amusement of Dain and Terra.

Dwalin smirked. "That's what I thought. But to answer your question, lass: after your wedding."

Foxglove grinned. Dwalin continued, "Balin already asked Dori, so that makes my life easier."

When they finally reached the Royal Palace, Dwalin pushed open the doors to a scene of wonderfully chaotic organization. Dori, Balin, and Dis were holding court in the middle of the room, their faces a mixture of determination and exasperation. Vili, Thorin, and Frerin were pacing, their anxiety palpable. Ori, bless his organized heart, was scribbling furiously on three different parchments. And, in the middle of it all, Bilbo was curled up in a chair with a steaming cup of tea, watching the whirlwind of activity with an almost detached amusement.
The room froze as Dain stepped inside. He looked at Thorin, a huge grin splitting his face. "Cousin!"

The single word broke the tension. Dis, Vili, Frerin, and Thorin immediately crossed the antechamber, eager to greet Dain, Terra, and Rin. Rin gently released Foxglove, who was promptly swept up into Frerin's arms. "My white-haired beauty," he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

Thorin hugged Dain firmly, a genuine smile lighting up his usually stern features. "Ah, cousin. I'm so glad you're here."

Dwalin smirked. "Nori'll send the rest of the family in here soon enough."

Dis nodded, relief washing over her face. "Good. We have some… introductions to make."

Dori added, with a rare smile, "Yes, Gerontius was surprised by Nori just outside, but Gerontius went to speak with the Honored Elders about your advisors, Dain."

Dain grimaced. "I'm sorry. They wouldn't listen when I told them to stay in the Iron Hills."

Vili waved a dismissive hand. "It's fine. No doubt Nori has plans in place, just in case."

Dwalin nodded. "Adamanta should be along shortly as well. She went to warn the other hobbits of Erebor."

Dain nodded, as he, Terra and Rin were waved over to sit in chairs and on couches scattered around the room. Frerin, still cradling Foxglove, led her gently to a chair, then promptly pulled her onto his lap, settling her comfortably against him. Thorin, with a surprising gentleness, plucked the cup of tea from Bilbo’s hand, scooped him up, and deposited him on his own lap.
Dain leaned forward, fixing Thorin with a serious gaze. "Now, Cousin. Explain to me what has been going on around Erebor." He knew, instinctively, that the chaotic scene before him was merely the surface of a far deeper, more complicated story. And he was ready to hear it all.

The weight in the room was palpable, a heavy shroud woven from shared trauma and unspoken grief. Thorin let out a sigh that seemed to carry the burden of his lineage, his responsibility. Bilbo, ever the comfort, patted his shoulder, a small gesture of solidarity in the face of overwhelming darkness. The doors swung open, ushering in a wave of familiar faces, each carrying their own piece of the fragmented past. Oin, Gloin, Mizi, Gimli, Nori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Alaris, Fili, and Kili filed in, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and grim resolve. Gerontius and Adamanta followed close behind, their presence adding to the somber atmosphere.

Fili and Kili, despite the gravity of the situation, momentarily broke free of the tension. Seeing Dain, they erupted with youthful enthusiasm. "Dain!!" They rushed forward, their exuberance nearly toppling Dain off the couch. "Oaf!" he exclaimed, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he hugged them briefly before they moved on to greet Dis and Vili.
Dain, however, quickly refocused his attention on Thorin, who shook his head, a gesture of weary resignation. He pointed towards Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Alaris, Dori, Nori, and Ori. "For everything, it's best to start with those dwarrow."

Thorin's face momentarily fell, a flicker of pain in his eyes. "Cousin... it's not going to be easy to listen to."

Bifur looked at Thorin, puzzlement etched on his weathered face. "Thorin?"

Thorin glanced at Bifur, his voice heavy. "Dain wishes to know everything."

Bifur's eyes clouded with pain, a deep ache resonating within him. "Everything?"

Thorin nodded grimly. Bifur slumped in his chair, his usual gruff posture bowed by the weight of memory. Bofur removed his hat, his normally cheerful voice drained of its vibrancy. "Dain, we, the Ur family, come from the Blue Mountains. Bifur is the head of our house, who protected us as much as he could."

Bombur took over, his voice low and somber. "My wife, Alaris, and I were blessed with eight pups." Dain and Terra’s eyes widened in surprise, but they remained silent, absorbing the information. Alaris gripped Bombur's hand, her voice barely a whisper. "The lord of the Blue Mountains... he grew greedy and saw a way to start a tax. A tax on how many pups a family had."
Dain started to get to his feet, his face hardening in anger, but he restrained himself, keeping his focus on Alaris as Bifur continued the story. "He came for Bombur and Alaris's pups, said we had to pay or he'd take'em... all of'em."

Dain's hands clenched into fists, his jaw tight with barely suppressed rage. But Bifur pressed on, his voice laced with raw emotion. "So, one night after he threatened us, I took my family, and we fled. We were just outside of the Shire when we met Foxglove and Bilbo." Bifur nodded towards Foxglove and Bilbo, who were curled into Frerin and Thorin, seeking comfort in their embrace.

Dori winced, stepping forward to continue the grim chronicle. "We lived in Ered Luin. The Lord there, Lord Grimfang..." Terra sucked in a breath, a sharp intake of air that made Dain grasp her hand tightly. Dori pushed on, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. "Lord Grimfang came to me and gave me a proposal. Marry him, and Ori will have the best education he could have. If I refused, Ori would be sentenced to the deepest mines as punishment. Ori's mind is made for education, he learns everything so fast and is so brilliant. When I looked at my brother... I just couldn't do it. So we fled. Nori, Ori, and myself. Ran across the Ur family on the road, who already had Foxglove and Bilbo with them."

Dain then looked at Bilbo and Foxglove, who wore haunted looks in their young eyes. Bilbo spoke first, his voice trembling slightly. "The fell winter hit the Shire hard. Ma and Da had taken us outside to help Foxglove use her white fox coat to blend into the snow. When the fell wolves attacked us, Ma and Da held them off, telling us to run."

Foxglove took over, her voice barely above a whisper. "So we ran. Found the Ur family first, then the Ri family joined us. We all joined together. Bilbo and I gave our rations of food to Alaris so she could keep her pups fed."

Dori growled slightly, a spark of defiance in her eyes, but Balin patted her hand soothingly as Foxglove continued. "Once we hit the Gap of Rohan though... we collapsed. We had a wagon at that point, so Dori and Alaris made Bilbo and I stay in the wagon."

Bilbo smiled faintly, a hint of warmth in his voice. "Dori, Nori, and Ori adopted us into the Ri family the night before we met up with Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, Oin, Gloin, and the soldiers they brought for added protection."

Dain slowly sat back down, the weight of their combined experiences pressing down on him. He looked at Bilbo and Foxglove, then over at Thorin, Frerin, and Dis, a silent plea in his eyes, as if hoping their stories weren’t true, that the horrors he was hearing were nothing more than a terrible nightmare. But the faces around him told a different story, a story etched in the lines of their faces, the weariness in their eyes, and the heavy silence that filled the room. It was a story of loss, of oppression, and of a desperate fight for survival. And it was only just beginning.
"Thankfully, it didn't take us long to recover," Bilbo said, a slight smile gracing his face. "And Thorin, under Gandalf's advice, gave us a place in Erebor to really recover. His grandmother's gardens. Which are now fully revitalized and reborn."

Foxglove, her eyes sparkling, chimed in, "That took us two years. Two lovely years of work to see the gardens living again."

Bilbo chuckled, pointing a playful finger towards Fili and Kili. "The day of our coming of age, those two troublemakers came and dragged us out of the gardens to a surprise birthday party set up by everyone in this room!"

Foxglove giggled, leaning back into Frerin's side, her hand resting comfortably on his arm. "It's also when we learned Frerin and I were One. Bilbo and Thorin were One."

Dain, his booming laugh echoing through the hall, grinned. "Took ya off your feet, did ya?"

Terra, his wife, leaned closer, her eyes alight with curiosity. "How were their reactions?"

Dis smirked. "Thorin and Frerin didn't know what to do. Dori over there looked like she was about to faint."

Dori, ever the composed dwarf, playfully glared at Dis. "Well, it's not every day you have two siblings matched by Mahal to Royals! On their birthday, no less!"

Rin, a youthful dwarf with an insatiable curiosity, laughed so hard he almost fell off his seat.
Thorin shook his head, a fond smile playing on his lips. "We started courting the next day. I took Bilbo to the Chamber of Glittering Stars."

Frerin smiled softly. "Foxglove led me to the gardens."

Terra, ever the romantic, pressed, "What was your first courting gift?"

Bilbo grinned like a cat that had gotten the cream. "I wrote a full text in Khuzdul of hobbit life, legends, tales, maps, family recipes, and in the last chapter… how hobbits have children."
Dain's eyes widened dramatically. "So, you mean…"

Thorin nodded, running a hand through his hair, a hint of nervousness in his tone. "Yes, cousin, we will have kids."

Frerin laughed, wrapping an arm around Foxglove. "Foxglove here gave me a terrarium that has a mini version of her home inside a glass bowl. Master Lir of the glassmaking made the bowl for her, but she did the rest herself."

Bofur, the jovial dwarf miner, grinned. "Aye, she did! Took her a week of hard work in Bifur's and my workshop!"

Foxglove blushed, nodding shyly.

Rin leaned closer, his eyes glowing with delight. "Really? Frerin, would it be alright if we could see it?"

Frerin nodded. "I don't see a problem with that."

Thorin looked at Dain, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Though Bilbo's second courtship gift was even better than the first."

Dain looked puzzled. Bilbo spoke up, a hint of pride in his voice. "I explained how the Shire government was run. Three leaders that do specific jobs."

Dain's eyes widened as Terra gripped his arm, catching on. Bilbo continued, "So we drafted a proposal to the Honored Elders about how we could split Thorin's responsibilities with Frerin and Dis. They accepted it. Thorin is now Thorin, King Under the Mountain and Might, leader of the military, defenses, arbiter of justice, and long-term planning. Frerin is King of Deep and Holds. He is in charge of the crafting halls, the mines, the treasury, and incoming resources. Dis and Vili are King and Queen of Hearth and Home. They are in charge of trade negotiations, diplomacy, day-to-day life, event planning, and the vast libraries."

Dain and Terra's eyes were wide with astonishment, while Rin's jaw dropped open as he stared at Bilbo.

Frerin grinned. "Foxglove here was the one who brought the hobbits to Erebor. She reached out first, only to see if seeds of their fast-growing crops could be sent, as well as the good, well-tended earth from the Shire. As well as her and Bilbo's parents' belongings."

Foxglove blushed, but a smile played on her lips. "I got a lot more in response..."

A kindly voice interrupted from across the hall. Gerontius, a hobbit with a twinkle in his eye, grinned good-naturedly. "Of course, you did. Your two thousand five hundred hobbits to come here."
Adamanta, Gerontius' wife, chuckled. "And your grandparents, which is us, to stay."

Thorin smiled warmly. "Our grandparents."

Gerontius nodded. "Yes, us for grandparents for your grandparents."

Dain was speechless. Dis pointed at Foxglove playfully, scolding her. "You didn't tell us that Gerontius was one of the leaders of the Shire, though! Almost gave me a heart attack when I read that!"

Dain looked at Gerontius in surprise. Gerontius waved his hand dismissively. "Please... Dis dear, we're retired. We have grandkids and great-grandkids to spoil."

Dain glanced at Gerontius and Adamanta, utterly bewildered. "So, you mean... you two are taking this whole lot as your grandchildren?"

Gerontius nodded, his smile radiating warmth. "Of course!"

The four days leading up to the double wedding blurred into a whirlwind of activity. For Foxglove, it was a dance of fabric and fittings with Dori, ensuring each stitch of her gown highlighted her best features. The dress she’d envisioned was becoming a reality under Dori’s skilled hands, a symphony of Durin blue, silver, and white that reflected the love she felt for Frerin and her adopted family.

Bilbo yearned to honor the Dwarrow culture he was joining, commissioning a dwarfish outfit. Dori, ever the stylist, had subtly woven in touches of hobbit flair – a softer fabric, perhaps, or a more comfortable cut – ensuring Bilbo felt authentically himself. Balin, ever patient and wise, dedicated hours to drilling Bilbo and Foxglove dwarrow timeline of the wedding ceremony, his voice a low rumble as they listened.

Outside, the Shire-folk engaged in a flurry of harvest activity, gathering the ripest crops for the grand feast. Bombur, Alaris, and the entire Erebor kitchen staff joined forces with the hobbit cooks, creating a tantalizing blend of cuisines. Gerontius and Adamanta, blessed with a second youth by Lady Yavanna, darted between preparations, offering calming smiles and experienced hands to keep the whirlwind of activity from descending into chaos. Volunteers stepped forward to reinforce the guard, ensuring the safety of their beloved hobbits. Even Nori's network of shadows patrolled the edges of the festivities, ensuring everything ran smoothly.

News of the upcoming nuptials had spread far and wide. Legolas and Tauriel, sent word to Thranduil, including a glimpse into the flourishing Night Gardens. Bilbo’s glowing stones, embedded throughout the greenery, bathed the plants in an ethereal glow, creating a truly magical space. Thranduil arrived two days before the wedding, accompanied by his sons, bearing a gift of blooms from Greenwood the Great, their vibrant colors a testament to their king's affection. King Baldor, Queen Astrid, Crown Prince Arnis and Prince Bard arrived soon after, eager to lend their support and witness the joining of cultures.

Amidst the joyous frenzy, Foxglove found a moment of solitude in the Night Gardens. Kneeling beneath the shimmering leaves, she prayed to Lady Yavanna. "My Lady, please watch over our family. Hobbit, Dwarrow, Elven, and Man. I have a feeling… a shadow that has clung to me since those advisors arrived. Please, just watch over them." A gentle breeze brushed her cheek, a silent reassurance from the Vala she revered.

The wedding day dawned, pulsing with excitement that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of Erebor. Inside Bilbo and Foxglove’s old room, now transformed into a bridal sanctuary, Foxglove sat patiently as Dori worked her magic. Dis and Adamanta stood by, offering words of encouragement and a chorus of happy tears. Adamanta clutched a handful of beads, her voice thick with emotion, "Oh, Foxglove, you look so much like your mother right now."

Dori and Dis braided her abundant curls, now cascading past her waist, intertwining them with delicate blossoms. Adamanta presented the beads: the Ri family bead, representing heritage and strength, and the engagement moonstone bead from Frerin, a symbol of enduring love. Once the braids were complete, Dori carefully lifted the gown, a masterpiece of blue, silver, and white. Turning to face Foxglove, her smile trembled with pride. "Oh, Foxglove..."

Dis mirrored her emotion, her eyes glistening as they helped Foxglove into the dress. Dori stepped back, a proud smile gracing her face as she took in the stunning vision before her. "Oh, Nadadith... You look radiant." Dis nodded in agreement. "Frerin will burst when he sees you."

Foxglove gazed at herself in the mirror, a treasured gift from Master Lir. The dress, with its intricate embroidery and flowing lines, seemed to have been crafted specifically for her. "Oh, Dori... you did such an amazing job."

Dori grinned, resting her forehead against Foxglove's, her voice a soft whisper. "It's you that makes the dress amazing."

A knock echoed at the door. Gerontius stepped inside, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of Foxglove. "Oh, Foxglove… Dori, dear, you have made Foxglove look like a vision."

Gerontius approached Foxglove, offering his arm. "You ready?"

Foxglove nodded, a resolute glint in her eyes. "Yes, Grandfather, I am."

Gerontius nodded in response, as Dori and Dis walked behind them with Adamanta walking between Dori and Dis. The walk to the ceremony had begun.
The air crackled with anticipation in Bilbo's rooms. Balin, Vili, and Gerontius bustled about, a comforting whirlwind of dwarvish energy. Vili, nimble-fingered, was already threading sections of Bilbo's shoulder-length hair into an intricate braid. It was a privilege bestowed upon him by Thorin, a gesture that spoke volumes about the acceptance Bilbo had found within the dwarven family.
Gerontius, his eyes twinkling with grandfatherly affection, carefully extracted the two beads from a small pouch. The first was the emerald Ri family bead, a symbol of Bilbo's lineage and place within his own hobbit family. The second was the sapphire bead, a treasure beyond price. Thorin had painstakingly carved it in the Chamber of Glittering Stars, a personal testament of his love and devotion.
As Vili expertly incorporated the beads into the braid, Gerontius beamed. "Bilbo, my lad, you look just like your father. So handsome. You ready for this?"
Bilbo met his gaze and surprisingly, a sense of calm washed over him. He nodded. "Yes, Grandfather, I am."

Balin, ever the pragmatist, smiled and patted Gerontius’ arm. “Go on Gerontius, go ahead and get Foxglove, would you? We'll finish up helping Bilbo get ready and we'll meet you at the doors."
Gerontius nodded with a wink, slipped out of the room, and walked down from Dis and Vili's quarters to Dori, Nori, and Ori's quarters, where Foxglove was waiting.

Bilbo looked up at Vili, who gave him a reassuring smile. "Nervous?"

Bilbo thought for a moment, considering the monumental step he was about to take. Eventually he shook his head, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "I thought I would be, but I'm not. I'm marrying my other half. How can I be? Plus, we have our family around us. It's perfect."

Balin nodded, patting Bilbo's hand. "That is a perfect answer."

Bilbo grinned. "Though for some reason, I can see Thorin panicking."

Vili laughed, a hearty sound. "Oh, no doubt there! Frerin is prolly bouncing off the walls in their room!"

Bilbo laughed loud and clear, the sound echoing the joy in his heart. "'No doubt."

Balin relaxed, the genuine sound of Bilbo's laughter a soothing balm. Just as Vili finished the braid, securing the last bead, he asked, "You ready?"

Bilbo nodded, his eyes shining. "Yes, let's go."

They escorted him to the doors, where they found Gerontius, beaming, with Foxglove on his arm. Foxglove, her reddish-pink eyes glowing with happiness, looked stunning.
Bilbo sucked in a breath. "Oh, Foxglove. You look so beautiful."

Foxglove smiled at him. "Bilbo, you look handsome."

Gerontius grinned, placing a hand on each of their arms. "Come here, Bilbo, Foxglove. I'll escort you both to the doors."

Meanwhile, in the rooms where Thorin and Frerin were getting ready, the atmosphere was a controlled explosion of excitement. Thorin had Dwalin and Oin fussing over his hair, while Frerin had Gloin and Dain. Laughter and boisterous conversation filled the air. Thorin was smiling more than anyone had seen him in years, and everyone present was acutely aware of the positive change Bilbo had brought into his life.

Frerin looked over at Thorin, his eyes full of affection. "How are you feeling, nadad?"

Thorin let out a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies fluttering in his stomach. "I'm ready. A little panicky, but knowing Bilbo will be walking towards me… it makes the wait worth it. How about you?"

Frerin nodded, a small, nervous smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, same. I can't wait. It feels like I've known Foxglove forever."

Dwalin snorted, a rumble of amusement in his chest. "Dori just about fell over when you both asked to skip the rest of the courting process."

Thorin smiled, looking down at his hands, then at the intricately crafted outfit Dori had designed for him. It was a handsomely cut, Durin blue and silver garment with a green trim around the neck, reflecting Bilbo's love of the Green. Frerin was equally captivated by his outfit, a Durin blue, silver, and white ensemble around the collar.
Dain lifted Thorin's outfit for him. "Well, cousin, better get ready. Or Bilbo will drag you out here just as you are."

Thorin laughed, the sound genuine and relieved. He took the outfit and began to put it on, with Oin's careful assistance. Gloin handed Frerin his outfit. "I'm sure Foxglove will be right behind Bilbo, Frerin."

They carefully and quickly donned their ceremonial outfits, completing their preparations with the placement of their crowns. Thorin's was iron, adorned with black onyx and rubies. Frerin's was gold, inlaid with tiger's eye and citrine.

Thorin looked at Gloin, who nodded reassuringly. "Bilbo and Foxglove's crowns are safe with the Honored Elder Lorin. He requested the honor of performing the ceremony."
A wave of gratitude washed over them. Honored Elder Lorin had become one of Bilbo and Foxglove's biggest supporters after witnessing the groundbreaking results of Bilbo's proposed new system of government. He had also forged a strong friendship with Gerontius and Adamanta, solidifying the bond between the hobbit and dwarven communities.
Finally, Thorin and Frerin stood before them in their full wedding ceremonial outfits, radiating a palpable sense of love and commitment.

"We're ready," Thorin declared, his voice resonating with a quiet confidence. The moment had arrived.

The Great Hall of Erebor thrummed with anticipation. Every inch of the vast space was filled. Dwarrow packed the walls and upper galleries, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity and reverence. In the front, closest to the dais, sat the hobbits of their colony, their small stature no match for the dwarven grandeur surrounding them, yet their presence felt significant. Seated amongst them were their elven guests, Thranduil, regal and aloof, accompanied by his three sons and the lithe, observant Tauriel. The delegation from Dale, led by King Baldor, Queen Astrid, Crown Prince Arnis and Prince Bard, added another layer of diplomatic warmth to the scene. Polite whispers rippled through the crowd, a collective hum of excitement.

The great doors at the back of the hall swung open, drawing all eyes. Dis and Vili entered, arm in arm, their faces radiating joy. Balin walked beside Dori, the latter casting admiring glances at her companion. Dwalin, ever the protector, strode confidently beside Nori, who, mischievous as ever, had somehow managed to sneak into the formal event. Her stunning dark green dress, undoubtedly a gift from Dori, made her eyes sparkle with an unnatural brilliance. Oin and Gloin, steadfast and loyal, brought up the rear, standing guard before the final, most anticipated arrival. With a flourish, they threw open the doors, revealing Gerontius, his face beaming, holding Foxglove gently on his arm. Beside them walked Adamanta, escorting Bilbo, his face alight with a soft smile.

Thorin and Frerin, standing rigid on the dais, strained to catch a glimpse of their beloveds. A nervous energy crackled between them. They exchanged a quick, anxious glance, a shared smile flickering across their faces.

As Foxglove and Bilbo finally stepped into view at the bottom of the dais, the breath caught in Thorin and Frerin’s throats, a silent, simultaneous gasp. Gerontius carefully handed Foxglove over to Frerin, while Adamanta entrusted Bilbo to Thorin. Their hands trembled as they reached out, gently taking Foxglove and Bilbo’s hands and guiding them up the last few steps.
Standing before them, Honored Elder Lorin, his face weathered and wise, surveyed the scene with a gentle, almost fatherly smile. "You four ready?" he whispered, his voice surprisingly strong despite his age. Frerin, Foxglove, Thorin, and Bilbo all nodded, their eyes locked on one another, a silent promise passing between them.

Lorin’s voice, when he spoke next, boomed through the hall, a surprisingly resonant echo that silenced the murmurs. "Welcome Dwarrow and Hobbits of Erebor! Welcome to our friends in the Greenwood! Welcome to our Friends in Dale! Welcome to our Kin from the Iron Hills!" A roar of cheers erupted, shaking the very foundations of the mountain. He raised his hands, quieting the jubilant crowd. "We come before Mahal to bless this most joyous day. Thorin and Bilbo. Frerin and Foxglove. They will now become One in Mahal's sight and in the sight of our kin and friends."
Foxglove grinned up at Frerin, her eyes sparkling with affectionate mischief, as they turned to face the Honored Elder Lorin.

Lorin continued, his voice filled with solemnity and warmth, "Foxglove, Bilbo, you came to us two years ago on the end of a journey, helping bring our Kin home. Then became our family as well. Will you vow to your Ones to always be there, helping to carry the weight of Erebor on your shoulders? Be the partner they need? Help your people, Hobbit and Dwarrow alike?"
Foxglove and Bilbo’s voices rang out in unison, loud and proud, "Yes! We vow!"

Honored Elder Lorin handed over the marriage beads to Frerin and Thorin. Foxglove watched, her heart swelling with love, as Frerin’s trembling hand carefully unraveled the braid and wove in his own with all three beads stacked together, a soft, loving smile gracing his lips. She returned his smile, a silent offering of encouragement.

Once Frerin was finished, Lorin smiled, his eyes twinkling. He turned to two more elders, who stepped forward, each holding a cushion. On the cushions rested two crowns, their eyes gleaming with approval and joy. Lorin lifted one for Bilbo – a mithril crown inlaid with Lapis Lazuli and Clear Quartz, radiating wisdom and clarity. As he placed the crown on Bilbo's head, Lorin’s voice resonated with power, "Erebor, I give you Bilbo, King of Wisdom and Balance!" Bilbo’s eyes widened in surprise, and he stole a look at Thorin, who smiled warmly and nodded, his eyes conveying a depth of love and trust.

Lorin then moved to Foxglove, lifting a delicate rose gold crown adorned with reddish-black Mahogany Obsidian and Smoky Quartz, radiating strength and vibrancy. He smiled and placed it on her head, proclaiming, "Erebor, I give you Foxglove, Queen of Vibrancy!" A blush bloomed on Foxglove’s cheeks as she nodded, glancing at Frerin, who was fighting back tears of overwhelming joy.

Lorin gestured for them to turn and present themselves to the hall as Dis and Vili joined them on the dais. "We give you Frerin, King of Deep and Holds. Foxglove, Queen of Vibrancy. Thorin, King Under the Mountain and Might. Bilbo, King of Wisdom and Balance! Vili and Dis, King and Queen of Hearth and Home! Our pillars are now strengthened!"

The Great Hall erupted in a thunderous roar of celebration and welcome, a wave of joy that reverberated through the heart of the mountain, a testament to the love and unity forged between dwarrow and hobbit, strength and wisdom, might and vibrancy.