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Chapter Text

Summer that year began with a sweltering heat wave.

Looking back, Bilbo would blame the humidity for obstructing his judgment and evoking his impetuous decision to pursue a relationship with the mysterious dwarf that had wandered into the Shire in search of work.

Presently, the matter of a new blacksmith hadn’t concerned him in the slightest until the day his cousin Odo was struck ill. Poor Proudfoot lad had caught a nasty fever. Excessive warmth would only hinder his condition further, so nobody expected him to be traipsing about Hobbiton doing his daily chores in this sort of weather.

Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was a kindly fellow and rather fond of this particular relation, so he offered to take on Odo’s responsibilities while the sickly hobbit recovered. Running errands for Aunt Linda was not how he would have ideally planned to spend such a lovely day, but, it wasn’t the worse favor he’d ever done. It was affection for his cousin that brought him to the forge that day, nothing more – certainly not fate, not by a longshot.

He sauntered into the smithy around noontime, hoping his aunt’s order would be finished by then; that way he could sneak in a round of conkers with Flambard Took before lunch. Bilbo wasn’t eager to actually enter the establishment, for if the heat radiating from the sun was this stifling, the forge would be practically unbearable.

Sadly, he had to venture inside anyway, when no sign of the blacksmith was forthcoming. Squinting through the steam, he stepped past the threshold, feeling as though he’d drifted into the center of a boiling volcano. "Hello, is anyone–"

Words fled at the sight of bare, decadent muscles pulsating and flexing as they smashed a hammer against the anvil in a rhythm that matched the suddenly erratic beat of Bilbo’s pulse. Exertion and heat had them glistening with layers of sweat, shining like jewels in the midmorning sun. That magnificent torso was attached to a head of long, sweat-slicked hair darker than coal. Gathering his wits, Bilbo tried to speak again, only to be struck dumb when pierced by the most breathtaking pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen.

Upon noticing his audience, the dwarf set down his tools, wiping his brow with the back of a hand that could probably squeeze the life out of Bilbo, who was helpless to do anything but watch the movement with his mouth hanging agape like an imbecile.

"Can I help you?" the blacksmith inquired, in a baritone that sent a shudder down the hobbit’s spine.

 "Um, I…" Bilbo floundered, trying to recall why he’d come to the forge in the first place. Not to loaf about like a pervert, he reckoned. "I-I came to collect my aunt’s order."

Those sapphire eyes flickered over to his face, effectively stealing the breath from Bilbo’s lungs. Thank Eru for the temperature, so at least I have an excuse for being this red. "Name?" the dwarf pressed.

"Bilbo Baggins – my name is Bilbo Baggins," the hobbit answered, too quick and too flustered. In a calmer tone, he offered a polite, "Pleased to meet you."

"Thorin Oakenshield, at your service," the dwarf introduced with a bow, which left Bilbo grinning so hard his face ached. Then, "But I actually need your aunt’s name if I am to find you her commission."

Inconceivably, Bilbo's face turned an ever darker shade of crimson.

"Of course! Forgive me, I’m sorry. Linda Proudfoot is her name." He chuckled self-consciously, inwardly bemoaning his blunder. "It’s this unbearable heat, I swear. Skewers the mind a bit, doesn’t it? Makes fools of us all, really."

"Quite," Thorin agreed as he went to fetch the commission. "I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Mister Baggins. You seem to function well enough. Here you are."

"Thank you very much. I am certain she’ll be pleased," said the hobbit appreciatively. He wasn't embellishing, either - dwarf craftmanship was truly a sight to behold.

"I should hope so. Displeased customers are bad for business,” remarked Thorin, sporting a crooked grin that made him appear infinitely more attractive; in Bilbo's opinion, at least. "Oh, and Mister Baggins?"

"Yes?"

The blacksmith's gaze traveled down the length of his body before coming to rest on his flushed features. "If ever you have need of a blacksmith’s hands," and by the Valar, those eyes were practially boring into his skin, with an intensity that could only be described as smoldering. "Feel free to drop by."

Bilbo's mouth went dry, lips moving soundlessly. Those words, so innocent out-of-context, seemed downright seductive when cloaked in that deep, sensual voice. No, there was no mistaking it. He pinched himself just to check, and nope, he was awake. As surreal as it was, Bilbo was being wooed by this handsome, mysterious stranger. And that was... Unexpected, yes, thought hardly unwelcome. And so... Well. Let it never be said that a grandson of the Old Took allowed a prime oppurtinity to pass him by.

"I will," he replied coyly. "Good day, Mister Oakenshield."

To his delight, that crooked grin reappeared. "Likewise, Mister Baggins."

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At first glance, Thorin Oakenshield posed an intimidating figure. He was taller than the hobbits by far, broader and made of more brittle material. His face often had a stony, unapproachable quality to it and while he was always polite towards his customers, it was clear that they didn’t choose his service based on his sterling conversational skills.

If you managed to get past the tough exterior, however, you would find that he was hard-working, loyal and infused with a nobility that Bilbo had before only found in the tales of old heroes. Sure, he was also unsociable and stubborn and yes, surly as they come.

But for better or worse, he was Bilbo’s surly dwarf.

The two of them were an unexpected match, certainly – where Thorin was carved of firm and unyielding stone, Bilbo was a child of the earth, open and malleable. The dwarf had an almost inexcusable penchant for speaking freely to the point of rudeness, whereas the hobbit had a cunning brand of eloquence that kept him in the good graces of many. Yet the attraction between them was just as undeniable, much like a moth drawn to the flame of a candle, yearning for the light even as it tread too close to the flames.

Once, Bilbo compared it to a legend he remembered from his childhood. In an age when Yavanna’s creations were young, there lived a moth pale as the winter snow, which fell in love with the beautiful glow of the moon. Each day the moth waited in sorrow for the sun to fade, and would weep with delight at the first sign of twilight; except on the nights when the moon did not appear at all, which the moth spent in soul-wrenching despair. Finally, after the separation from its moonlight became too much for the creature to bear, the moth decided it would join its beloved or perish in the attempt. It flew towards the sky for two days and two nights, so the story goes, but on the third morn its strength failed. But the Valar, taking pity on the lovelorn creature, refused to let it plummet to earth – instead, they created a spot for it in the sky, a glowing star to guide even the most hopelessly lost souls back home to their hearts.

When he'd described these musings to his lover, Thorin's brow had furrowed. "Was that supposed to be romantic?" he inquired dryly.

"You wouldn’t know romance if it snuck up from behind and bit you in the arse," Bilbo retorted fondly. “No, that wasn’t the point, you thick-headed dwarf.”

In retliation, Thorin had plucked the book Bilbo had been idly flipping through right out of his hands. And the hobbit was loathe to fight for its return, given his current and very comfortable position, head cradled atop blacksmith's firm thigh. "Enlighten me, then," the aforementioned blacksmith demanded.

"Well, it was rather brave of the moth, wasnt it? Flying towards its heart's desire, though failure was imminent, and refusing to stop until death ended its journey?"

"Others might call it foolish," snorted Thorin, and it was quite evident that he counted himself among those naysayers.

"And that is why you aren’t romantic," Bilbo mock sighed, closing his eyes. Long strands of ebony hair tickled his cheeks, inciting them to open again, where Thorin's striking countenance greeted his gaze.

"Such strange thoughts occupy your mind," the dwarf murmured, bending until his lips were carressing the tip of a pointed ear. "I would sooner have you in my lap, devoid of such daydreams; a mindless, overwhelmed mess."

A delicious shiver rippled through Bilbo’s body. Without further prompting, he grabbed Thorin by the beard and yanked him down for a searing kiss – and in the fumbling touches and tender intimacy that followed, his thoughts were as empty as the cloudless sky.

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Bilbo Baggins was generally considered a level-headed fellow. Sharp, too. Nevertheless, he was young by hobbit standards, fresh from his majority, so a bit of naivety was to be expected. The youth were often open to possibilities the old had long since closed themselves off to, but the old were wise in ways the youth had not the experience for.

So while the infatuated Mr. Baggins strutted across Hobbiton, sneaking kisses with his beau behind the party tree and leading the dwarf to Bag End many a summer evening (where the smithy would not emerge until the early hours of the morning) like a tween in the throes of a storybook courtship, the eyes of his neighbors watched with a quiet disapproval.

"Look at that Baggins boy, sprinting to the smithy like someone’s lit a fire under his toes!"

"Why, I saw him holding hands with that strange blacksmith in the market yesterday, bold as brass! Disgraceful."

"Oh, it’s just a mild infatuation. It will pass."

"Shouldn’t he be careful? Dwarves are a covetous lot, I’ve heard, with keen eyes for riches. The bloke could be after his sizable inheritance."

"The Shire is no place for the children of Durin, anyhow. Mark my words, when that smithy has finished his business, the mountains will call him home."

"I agree. By the season’s end, that dwarf will be gone. That fool of a Took is in for a rude awakening."

"Serves him right."

Everyone saw the writing on the wall, the doomed fate of this summer affair. Nobody had the heart to mention it to the lad, though, for it had been quite some time since such a light had embraced his face, which had grown dim at the death of his parents. Bag End was a lovely home – the embodiment of Bungo Baggins’ devotion to his remarkable wife – but probably very lonely when its three occupants were reduced to one. Still, a hole in the ground was no place for a dwarf. Every biddy from Hardbottle to Buckland understood the sensiblity of it, yet none of them had the decency to warn Mr. Baggins beforehand.

Some lessons were best learned the hard way.

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It was on a cool, early autumn day that Bilbo entered the forge in search of his lover and greeted him with a bright smile.

"There you are! I wondered if you were too busy to join me for a late brunch...." he trailed off, seeing that Thorin was rather immersed in the task of gathering what few belongings he traveled with into a sack. This sparked his curioisty. "Are you going somewhere?"

Thorin paused in his packing, forehead creased in consternation. "Aye," he said slowly. "And I confess that I am in a hurry. I planned on leaving before the leaves began their change. I didn't count on...extenuating circumstances delaying me this long."

"Oh," said the hobbit, frowning. He didn't like the tone of Thorin's voice. It was too heavy, too tentative to bode well. An odd sinking feeling tugged at his stomach, but he pushed it aside, retrieving his former smile. "Where are you headed?"

"To the Blue Mountains, where I must rejoin my kin," answered the dwarf.

"Right, yes, of course. Your family must miss your terribly," Bilbo granted, somewhat reassured by this news. Fondly, he remembered when the light that came to his lover’s eyes whenever he mentioned his sister and her two mischievous sons. "I was only, well, do you mind me asking…when do you think you'll be back?"

With his back turned, Bilbo couldn't read the expression on Thorin's face. Judging by the way his shoulders stiffened at the question, perhaps that was for the best. "I cannot say."

Fed up with all this vagueness and evasion, the hobbit abadoned his pretense of unconcern. "What do you mean?" he asked plainly.

Exhaling, "I do not know when – or even if – I shall ever return."

"You…" Sharp as he was, Bilbo found it hard to comprehend the truth unwraveling before his eyes. "You don’t plan on coming back, do you?"

He winced when Thorin nodded in assent, apparently grateful at being spared the trouble of saying it aloud.

"So, what, you’re just leaving all of a sudden?" he demanded, after many attempts to regain his voice.

"I have given Master Bolger my notice–"

"To hell with Master Bolger!" exclaimed Bilbo. "What about me, Thorin? Had it ever crossed your mind to inform me of this departure?”

"Would it have soothed you to know sooner?" Thorin flared, voice rising in accordance to Bilbo's temper.

"That doesn’t matter – it’s common courtesy!" he snapped, indignation rising. "We have been involved for months, and I was under the impression that even if you left for work, you would eventually return."

"I made no such promise."

A single, callous statement was all it took for Bilbo's illusion to shatter. All the logic he'd denied, all the hopes he'd clung recurred with a vengeace, forsaking everything despite his best efforts to avoid it. The sinking sensation in his stomach enlarged, forming a wide gorge, the bottom of which was indiscernible. It was nothing like a comfy hobbit hole; it was dim, dank and lonely. Bilbo had first felt its presence as he stood admist a flurry of raindrops and tears in the wake of his mother's funeral. For a time, he hadn't even desired companionship to fill the void; because while solitude was bleak, at least it was safe.

But that blasted visit to the forge had brought him to ruin. The sight of Thorin in all his masculine glory had disarmed him, attracted him - the feelings of attachment that followed were wholy unprecendented. Bilbo had only wanted someone with whom he could share a word, a laugh, or a kiss. Against his will, his heart had opened to this surly dwarf, who belonged in the green hills of the Shire no more than an elf belonged in the dark caverns beneath the earth. There was a quality to Thorin, a perpetual homesickness wrapped in age old grief that spoke of a longer to roam until it could be quenched. One day, the Shire would be but a footstep on his journey to reclaim what he’d lost. Bilbo heard it in his voice as Thorin sang beside the hearth and glimpsed it in his eyes as the flames danced across his face.

Perhaps what stung most was that the denial was true. Thorin hadn't promised. Not once.

"I must go, while there is daylight," the dwarf spoke quietly, always interrupting his reveries. "I always meant to, when the season passed. Surely you knew that."

"Yes," said Bilbo tightly, helpless to anything but concede. A part of him yearned to scream and shout and bully Thorin into submission. However, a happy companionship would be futile if one half had no intent on remaining.

Give him a reason to stay, his heart urged. Bilbo could think of only one: He loved Thorin, had fallen head over heels for the dwarf sometime between their first meeting and their first kiss, and he knew these feelings were not a summer lust that would fade with the color of the leaves. But Bilbo bit down on his tongue to keep these heartfelt words at bay. He was not yet pathethic enough to confess a love that wasn't reciprocated. He still had an ounce of pride to his name, and it would be a shame to squander it.

"I am sorry," whispered Thorin, gentle and geuine. His large, roughened palm came to rest upon the hobbit's blessedly dry cheek. And for a single, perfect moment Bilbo thought Thorin might kiss him then, so passionately and sweetly, thereby realizing the love Bilbo felt pounding against his chest at this like an iron hammer wasn't unrequited. To his immense disappointment, there were no kisses or revelations, only a painful loss of contact. In a brutal act of mercy, the pounding came to a stuttering halt at the parting words, "Farewell, Bilbo Baggins."

"Goodbye," Bilbo echoed hollowly. His heart had stopped trying to spring from his ribs, evidently too broken to beat. Now, he mused with a hysterical sort of irony, he truly understood the idiocricy of that ivory moth. And had he heeded the tale, perhaps he wouldn't have suffered a similar fate.

He watched Thorin Oakenshield disappear into the distance that afternoon, taking with him the last of the summer's warmth.

In the wretched days that followed, he would blame his relatives for not warning him of what they saw coming, what he had been too blind to see. He would blame his Tookish half for allowing him to seek such an unconventional relationship and his Baggins half for letting it fall apart without a fight. He would blame Thorin for being such a stoic arse – for giving him such hope and affection just to rip it away in the end. He could blame until he was blue in the face and it still would not mend his broken heart or warm his empty bed. Placing fault on others changed nothing, and to be honest, he had no fingers to point.

Because really, Bilbo had no one to blame but his own foolish self.

Chapter Text

Halfway through the month of Winterfilth, a spiteful chill swept over the Shire, the temperature plummeting in parallel to Bilbo’s bleak mood. Keeping his spirits high in the wake of Thorin’s departure was no easy task, nor was ignoring the lingering ache that occupied his chest. Yet as the memory of that perfect summer became fainter and fainter with each passing day, Bilbo slowly but surely began to move on.

On the morning he was due to have breakfast with his aunt, however, he felt worse than ever, coiled around the water basin like a flu-ridden serpent. Tumultuous nausea assaulted his stomach, and the smell of the acid-like bile urged his throat to heave again. For two weeks straight he’d been suffering like this, usually in the mornings.

When it seemed safe to move without emptying the contents of his stomach, Bilbo shuffled into a standing position, groaning as he did so. In that moment, all he wanted was to burrow into a cocoon of warm blankets and not emerge until this dratted bug was gone. However, his frequent absences would draw attention if Bilbo kept at it the way he was. So if he wished to avoid any unwanted inquiry, Bilbo would simply have to rinse his mouth and bear the visit.

Eventually he arrived at Aunt Mirabella’s home in Buckland, a few hours behind schedule. She seemed unsurprised by his lateness, solidifying Bilbo’s belief that his other relatives had already informed her of his other missed appointments.

“You are a sight for sore eyes, Bilbo Baggins. I was expecting you hours ago,” she clucked reprovingly. Bilbo grimaced.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “To be honest, I may have caught a touch of the stomach bug. Nothing serious, mind you,” he added quickly, seeing her forehead crease with concern.

At her insistence, Bilbo told her about his recent nausea. With a thoughtful frown, she asked if there was anything else, so he also mentioned his unfounded fatigue. He’d never had any reason to suspect these symptoms might be related to a common cause; why would they, when Bilbo was quite obviously a male? Certainly, if he was the opposite gender, there would be a need for worry. Since he wasn’t, though, what was all the fuss about?

But Aunt Mirabella’s expression was unbearably sympathetic as she sat him down and offered him a plate of biscuits. Bilbo ate sparingly, wary of what she had to say. When she spoke again, she spoke of a Took ancestor who had a fairy wife (confirming a rumor Bilbo had  known of since childhood but dismissed as fiction) and of how his descendants were known to be exempt from particular laws of nature, due to the fairy blood, however faint, running through their veins.

By the end of her explanation, Bilbo was intrigued, but by no means enlightened. “That’s all very fascinating, Aunt Mira… Nonetheless, I fail to see what that has to do with me.”

 “Your symptoms are suspiciously similar to those only associated with females, and while it’s uncommon, it isn’t unheard of for male Tooks to experience the same,” she explained. “…if they are with child.”

“W-With child?” he spluttered incredulously, after the initial shock had abated. She nodded.

Bilbo opened his mouth several times, with nothing except unintelligible noise escaping. On the fifth attempt, he finally managed a sentence. “How – you’re saying I am pregnant? No. Just – no! No, you see I am quite certainly male, and that simply cannot happen!”

 “It can and it has,” she sighed. “As to how, well, I’m usually not one to pry but have you been, ah, seeing anyone lately?”

He didn’t think it was possible, yet having his sexual activeness questioned by a woman who’d known him since infancy brought him to a whole new level of humiliation.

Nobody, Bilbo was about to reply, cheeks flushed in mortification, when an image of Thorin’s face lost to the throes of passion flashed through his mind, reminding him that he had shared his bed not too long ago. The fondness of the memory was shattered by the realization that evidently he was pregnant and the sire of his child was nowhere to be found.

“Eru, no,” he whispered wretchedly, burying his face in his hands.

“There, there,” Aunt Mira soothed, rubbing his back like a mother would. Briefly, Bilbo could almost pretend it was Belladonna issuing the comfort rather than her sister. “Now, there’s no need to fret. I understand you are frightened, as you have every reason to be. But you aren’t alone in this mess, no sir. The rest of your relatives and I are here to help. We’ll sort this whole mess out, you’ll see.”

Grateful for the consolation, Bilbo nodded.

 “Well, then,” she began, settling back into her own seat. “Let’s ensure that you understand your options. First of all, just because you’re having a baby doesn’t mean you have to keep it.”

Bilbo blanched, his heart lurching towards his throat. “You mean get rid of it? Oh no, I-I don’t think I could ever go through with that—”

“No, no, nothing that drastic,” Mirabella assured. “What I mean is there’s always adoption. Plenty of couples in the Shire are unable to have children of their own or want to add to their brood. There are widows with a desire to nurture, bachelors in need of heirs, or sonless fathers in need of successors.” The idea had some merit, Bilbo supposed. His reputation would be saved, and the child would be well looked after. “Moreover, if you find you cannot part with your child, there is an alternative: You could wed.”

“Wed?” he tasted the term on his tongue, cringing at its unsavory flavor.

“Of course. There is no shortage of candidates available. And with an eligible hobbit like yourself, there would be no trouble in finding someone to take your hand. If they are to your liking, that is.”

To my liking? Bilbo repeated. Shouldn’t marriage be based on love rather than like?

Sensing his apprehension, Mirabella went on, “I know this must all seem terribly rushed and I don’t expect you to make a decision right now. Go home, eat, rest, and sleep on it a while. When you’ve made up your mind, we shall decide what to do. Does that suit you?”

“Yes,” agreed Bilbo, too numb to do much else.

“Rory!” his aunt then bellowed. A hobbit around Bilbo’s age appeared, smiling when he saw his cousin. For what it was worth, Bilbo returned the gesture. “Escort your cousin home, please. He’s a feeling a tad under the weather.”

On their way out the door, they ran into Primula, the youngest of his aunt’s brood. Perceptive child that she was, she took one look at Bilbo and inquired, “Cousin Bilbo, are you okay?”

“Prim, go play. Cousin Bilbo isn’t feeling well,” Rory shooed.

“You look upset,” she observed, disregarding her brother. “Will flowers help? The pretty kind from Mama’s garden?” She didn’t wait for Bilbo’s answer, merely nodded in affirmation. “Flowers will help.”

Endeared by her declaration, Bilbo laughed as she skipped away. He longed to be that carefree again, oblivious to the obligations and responsibilities of adulthood. “What a little darling she is,” he crooned.

Rory sighed. “Oh, yes, she’s adorable at the best of times, and absolutely horrid if ever you want to be left alone. Doesn’t take kindly to being ignored, she doesn’t. Always has to have her way.”

I ought to get used to that, oughtn’t I? Having a fussy, stubborn toddler at home… Aloud, Bilbo said, “I guess that’s just what all younger siblings are like.”

The eldest Brandybuck grumbled good-naturedly. “I do love them all, you know, deeply and unconditionally; even if I want to lock them in a cupboard sometimes.” He shook his head. “Can’t help but wonder if you lucked out, never having to deal with a child running around the house.”

Bilbo swallowed, throat constricting uncomfortably.

I will soon enough, he mused, shutting his eyes with a miserable sigh. Damn you, Thorin Oakenshield. Damn you.

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For many pensive days followed by many restless nights, Bilbo contemplated his options.

Give the child up. Allow him or her to be raised by another. Perhaps they would be in better hands; perhaps they would not. Bilbo might never know, and he would surely never know his own child in the way a parent ought to. But wasn’t that the price to pay for his carelessness?

Keep the child. Enter an arranged marriage. Have the babe be claimed by someone who isn’t their sire. Would that be fair to his spouse, saddled with the responsibility of a child that wasn’t even their own? But did the babe deserved to be labeled illegitimate?

The pros and cons clashed in a thundering war dance, played upon that stage that was Bilbo’s skull. He now had throbbing headache to add to his growing list of ailments.

Exhausted by his inner battle, Bilbo couldn’t even muster the energy to be angry at Thorin. The initial, burning resentment he felt towards the blacksmith diminished as he became engrossed in his current predicament. And the more he mulled, the more he came to realize that no matter how easy it would be to blame Thorin for all his woes, it wasn’t fair to do so. Bilbo had shared in their relationship, too, and therefore he shared half the blame. To add insult to injury, the biological abnormality that got them into this mess was thanks to his infernal ancestor. Bloody Took linage.

Putting fault aside, there was the matter of Thorin leaving, which was far harder to forgive. But whether his soul was too kind or his mind too rational, Bilbo knew without a shadow of a doubt that his surly dwarf wasn’t the type to abandon his kin. Had he known they’d conceived a child, he probably wouldn’t have left in the manner he did. Maybe he would have stayed (the fact that Thorin would have stayed for their child and for Bilbo made sense, but it also stung more fiercely than he cared to acknowledge) or, at the very least, kept in touch. Maybe he would have done the proper thing and married Bilbo.

Yet somehow, the prospect of Thorin asking for his hand out of duty in lieu of desire didn’t appeal to the hobbit whatsoever. In fact, he felt nauseas in a way that had nothing to do with morning sickness merely thinking about it. A marriage of convenience or obligation is not the sort I’d ever engage in.

And with this decided, it occurred to Bilbo in a moment of clarity that he did know what he wanted. These battles hadn’t been waged in a war between choices – it had been a fight between his heart and mind. Because what his heart desired simply wasn’t proper, wasn’t even a viable option, not for a respectable gentlehobbit like him. If Bilbo chose to follow his heart, it would mean disgrace and disappointment and scandal. And it would mean an end to loneliness and a chance at happiness.

Every choice comes with a price, his father had once said. But for all the grief he would get for this decision in particular, the gain was the opportunity to share his life with his child – with Thorin’s child.

Somehow, that made all the potential grief worthwhile.

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Uncle Longo, Aunt Belba, Uncle Hildigrim and Aunt Mirabella were all assembled in her sitting room. Longo was seated across from Bilbo, arms crossed and emanating an air of disapproval. Belba was fussing over her brother’s son, insisting he take his tea with nettle, as it was very beneficial to a pregnancy. Uncle Hildigrim sat a short distance away, silently smoking his pipe. He was far enough that the smoke wouldn’t harm the babe but near enough that Bilbo ached for his own pipe, yearning for even the smallest of whiffs.

Such an odd assortment of hobbits had been summoned on his behalf, and he figured the least he could do was not waste much of their time.

“Thank you all for coming today. Your support means a lot to me, especially under such circumstances. So, I shan't keep you in suspense any longer,” said Bilbo, clearing his throat. “After a long and careful deliberation, I have decided to keep the child.”

“If that’s your decision, so be it.” Mirabella nodded, her expression encouraging. “Which of the suitors have you chosen, then?”

“None of them,” Bilbo replied firmly. “I am keeping my child but I refuse to wed.”

A tense, wordless pause seemed to engulf the room.

“You refuse?” echoed Longo disbelievingly. “Surely you must be joking. And if you are, it’s in very poor taste.”

“I pride myself in telling jokes of the utmost taste, uncle. So, no, I am perfectly serious,” Bilbo negated, bracing himself for their reactions.

Again, that uncomfortable silence prevailed.

“Er, Bilbo, dear,” Belba muttered. “Please think about what you’re saying—”

“I have, auntie. And this is what I want to do.”

Apparently unable to contain himself any longer, Longo stood with a snarl, eyes blazing with fury. “How can you stand for this, Mirabella? This unrepentant child will sully your sister’s and my brother’s good name with his foolishness!”

“Longo, you ought to calm down,” Belba cut in.

“Are you saying you approve of this?” he barked.

To Bilbo’s dismay, his aunt didn’t answer.

“I want nothing more to do with this madness or that abomination,” Longo spat, gesturing to where his nephew sat.

“Then I will gladly show you the door,” Mirabella asserted, all traces of geniality gone. He heard her escort him to the door, an exchange of cold words, and at last the door slamming shut.

Belba winced at her brother’s behavior, looking equal parts embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I should probably go as well,” she murmured. “Take care, dear,” she said to Bilbo, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Must think of your health, first and foremost.” She departed with much more grace and on better terms with her in-law, who reentered the room looking more composed than before, if not a bit frazzled.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Bilbo offered, trying to make light of the matter.

“Oh, Bilbo,” Aunt Mirabella sighed, and the younger hobbit felt his stomach clench at the disapproval in her tone.

 “You, too?” he exploded. “I thought you were on my side! Why do you insist on marrying me off to a hobbit I barely know—”

“Because you must think of the child,” she snapped, startling him into silence. “He or she will grow up branded as a bastard. Is that what you want?”

She wasn't being cruel, she was being realistic; still, Bilbo winced. “So, I should marry someone I don’t love? Lie to my son or daughter? Would that be preferable?”

“Perhaps not. Or perhaps years from now, you will regret the decision you made today. Regardless, the decision is yours and yours alone, and nobody – not I or Longo or anyone else – can dispute it. All I will say is that once you have made your bed, you had best be prepared to lie in it.”

And with those final words of wisdom, she left the room. Bilbo slumped in his seat, feeling twenty years younger and properly chastised. Was it true? Was he making an enormous, selfish mistake? Was keeping his baby what was best for the child or best for Bilbo? In midst of all his musings, he had forgotten that there was still one relative remaining, until the faint scent of Old Toby tickled his nose.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.” He snorted. “Aren’t you going to yell at me, too?”

“No,” mumbled Uncle Hildigrim, pipe clenched between his teeth. “I know my older sister would have clocked me if I tried. Always kept me on my toes, Belladonna did.”

Despite his foul mood, Bilbo’s lips curved at the memory of his mother. “I wish she were here,” he confessed, a painful note of longing in his voice. “I can’t help but think that everything would be better if she or my father were alive. Just their presence would be a comfort.”

“Believing your parents can solve any mess you get yourself into is only natural,” reasoned his uncle, sending his nephew a pointed look. “That child is going to rely on you the same way. Think you can handle that kind of responsibility?”

“Honestly? I don’t know,” whispered Bilbo, subconsciously clasping his abdomen. “But I am willing to try.”

Uncle Hildigrim shrugged. “Good enough for me,” he declared, blowing out a ring of smoke. “I’m a queer hobbit ‘round these parts, though. Seen too many adventures. Folks in Hobbiton might not be as accepting of your illegitimate bundle of joy.”

Then his uncle leaned forward, as though sharing some private, scandalous secret. “’Course, there are places you can travel where nobody would ever know if you babe was born a bastard or not.”

Bilbo blinked in disbelief, hardly daring to believe his ears. “Are you offering to take me away?”

“That’s one option, yes,” Hildigrim confirmed. “Or I could track down this wayward dwarf of yours and drag him back by the scruff of his beard.”

Picturing the expression on Thorin’s face should the aged Took ever get a hold of his beard, Bilbo chortled. “Thank you for the offer, uncle, but the Shire is where I must stay. Even if people begin to talk…”

“And they will,” his uncle interjected, snuffing out his pipe. “Anyway, my offer still stands. But I’m growing old, lad. Soon I won’t be able to go traveling like I used to. Though what I wouldn’t give to get a glimpse of the sea again…”

Once upon a time, Bilbo recalled having dreams of seeing the sea and other faraway lands. Hearing the wistfulness in Uncle Hildigrim’s voice reminded him that those childish fantasies had never come to fruition; and though the chance of a Baggins like him abandoning his comfy smial for an adventure were slim, now the chance of it happening was practically gone. “Thank you, uncle,” he reiterated, gloom returning at full force. “Tell Aunt Mirabella goodbye for me.”

Stepping into the cool afternoon air, Bilbo exhaled deeply, allowing the muscles he hadn’t even realized were tense to unwind. What now, then? I'm right back where I began - scared and unsure.

“Cousin Bilbo!” he heard from behind. Bilbo turned and spotted little Primula Brandybuck hobbling towards him at breakneck speed.

“Hello, Prim,” he greeted with a wan smile. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she rasped breathlessly. She held out her tiny hands, which were clutching a cluster of flower stems. “Here are the pretty flowers I promised to pick for you!”

“Why, thank you, dear,” said Bilbo graciously, inhaling the bouquet’s sweet scent. “They’re lovely.”

“Baby’s breath,” Prim explained. “I heard Mama tell Rory you were going to have a baby. Is that true?”

Bilbo paused, wondering how degrading it would be to have a small child berate his foolishness as well. Then again, he couldn’t fathom feeling any lower than he already did. “Yes, dear, it is. What do you think of that?”

“I think you’ll make a great papa!” she exclaimed, a wide grin splitting her rosy cheeks. Her cheerful expression then morphed into one of horror. “Oh, no, don’t cry Cousin Bilbo! Do you need more flowers?”

“No, sweetheart, I’m quite alright,” Bilbo chuckled, wiping at his wet eyes. “I’m crying happy tears, which are much different from sad tears. Understand?”

“Oh… Why are you crying happy tears?”

“Because you’re the first person to believe I can raise this baby on my own,” said Bilbo, genuinely touched. “I only hope he or she grows up to be as wonderful as you.”

Primula beamed. “They will. I’ll make sure!” Extending her pinky, she motioned for him to the same, and they linked them together in a sign of promise. To wee lads and lasses of the Shire, the pinky-swear was an unbreakable, solemn oath. To Bilbo, it was ray of light on his previously dark outlook.

For if this child believed he could make a decent parent, perhaps the situation wasn’t so hopeless after all.

Chapter Text

In a hole in the ground under the Hill in Hobbiton there lived a hobbit named Bilbo Baggins, along with his son, Barnabas. Like most young hobbits, Barnabas enjoyed the simple pleasures in life; gardening, fishing and eating six meals a day, to name a few.

Unlike most Shire folk, however, Barnabas harbored some unusual fancies as well; such as swordplay, blacksmithing, and a passion for fantastical tales of the world beyond his comfy hobbit hole. Of course, there oddities were generally attributed to the fact that Barnabas Baggins - more commonly known as Bas - was only half hobbit.

Already taller than many hobbits his own age, in addition to those a few years his senior, it was clear that Bas had inherited a noticeable proportion of traits from the other half of his gene pool. True, he had Bilbo’s face, nose, and hairy feet - moreover, it was his strong stature, wavy black hair and sapphire-colored eyes that were unmistakably dwarf.

Be that as it may, Bas had been raised solely by hobbits, and thus he was very much like hobbits in temperament. Sure, he was stubborn as stone, and he wouldn’t hesitate to show his temper if pressed far enough; overwhelmingly, though, Bas acted like any tween in the Shire. He and his father lived a happy, practically uneventful life, in which nothing unexpected ever happened.

Until one morning, when a strange visitor appeared at Bag End, carrying a tall staff and wearing long gray robes.

And what a lovely morning it was, too; Bilbo was sitting on his favorite bench, pipe clenched between his teeth and admiring the fine spring morn, when an old man clad entirely in grey wandered up the road. Bilbo was blissfully unaware of the stranger’s intent, preoccupied with puffing splendid smoke rings into the air. Only as the magnificent butterfly collided with his face did the startled gentlehobbit acknowledge his guest; and a very peculiar guest, at that.

Following a baffling introduction and unusual conversation, Bilbo was quite certain that this Gandalf the Grey was here to recruit him for a quest that only a fool of a Took would be willing to undertake. Upon this revelation, he had half a mind to send him straight across the Water to Tuckborough, old friend of his mother’s or no. Before he could learn the finer details of the wizard’s proposition, though, the sound of his freshly painted green door being slammed diverted his attention.

Bas stepped into the sunlight, a sack of tools slung over his shoulder and his wavy black hair tucked into a loose ponytail behind, dripping wet from a recent bath. Lad was probably in a haste to get to the forge, where Master Adalbert was impatiently awaiting the arrival of his apprentice. Of all the hobbit-y traits his son had inherited, promptness was unfortunately not among them.

“Da, I’m going—” Bas stopped short, catching sight of the Big Person standing at their gate. “Oh. I didn’t realize we had company.”

 “Yes, well, he dropped in quite unexpectedly.” Bilbo cleared his throat. “Bas, this is Gandalf, the grey wizard. He was a friend of the Old Took and your grandmother. Gandalf, this is my son, Barnabas Baggins.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Bas politely.

“And I yours,” Gandalf returned with a nod. “My, what fine young lad you have here, Bilbo.”

Bas beamed, warming to the wizard with significant speed. While Bilbo always encouraged friendliness, he did not condone the twinkle of childlike enthusiasm brewing in his son’s blue eyes.

“Wow. So you’re a real, live wizard? Can do magic?” the boy asked in awe.

“I have been known to do a few tricks,” Gandalf answered, sparing the older hobbit a mirthful glance. “But in the Shire, I am most specially known for my firework displays.”

Bas’s eyes filled with clear and radiant excitement, and any fool could see how badly he wished to voice his next inquiry.

“Oh, no, you won’t be going anywhere near those today,” said Bilbo sternly, ignoring the lad’s groan of disappointment. “Now, were you not off to the forge? Master will be most displeased if you are tardy for the fifth day in a row. Go on, shoo!”

Pouting through his compliance, Bas tried, “Can I go fishing with Prim afterwards?”

“Fine, fine! Just be careful.”

“I will,” he promised. Turning to their guest, Bas dazzled the wizard with a wide grin. “Enjoy your day, Mister Gandalf!”

“You, too, my boy,” Gandalf chuckled.

“Be home in time for lunch!” Bilbo called, watching until his son disappeared down Bagshot Row.

“Well, this is indeed a surprise,” the wizard spoke, smiling warmly at the hobbit. “I had no idea you were married, Bilbo. Had I known, I would have sent an engagement gift.”

“I’m not,” Bilbo automatically clarified. “Married, I mean. I never have been.”

The wizard’s ridiculously bushy eyebrows rose in question. Bilbo resigned himself to the usual shock and denial when he elaborated, “I never had a wife because I bore Bas myself.”

“Ah, I see,” nodded Gandalf, as if males bearing children was an everyday occurrence. Bilbo balked. “Would it be too forward of me to presume that his sire wasn’t entirely, well, a hobbit?”

Bilbo frowned suspiciously. He was beginning to grasp that this “old man” was far keener than he appeared. “Your presumptions are correct,” he confirmed. “However, I would prefer it you didn’t mention it. My son’s sire is a bit of a sore subject. Bas never got the chance to meet him, nor have I seen or heard from him in over twenty years.”

“Pity. It’s his loss, I suppose,” said Gandalf earnestly. “Your son is, as I said, a very find lad. But I will respect your request and honor it duly – mums the word.”

“Thank you,” murmured Bilbo, rather endeared by the sentiment. Shame on me, he admonished. Just because he and his son’s situation had garnered much opposition in the past didn’t mean everyone saw fit to scorn. Pushing those thoughts aside, he resolved to focus on the matter at hand, which was: shooing the wizard off his property before he was somehow got entangled in whatever adventure nonsense he was spouting.

Inwardly, Bilbo snorted at the mere suggestion. That would be the day.

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It was midafternoon when Bas reappeared at Bag End. Gandalf had long since gone, though Bilbo hadn’t liked his parting words, as they left him with an eerie sense of forebode. He pushed his unfounded concern aside for his son’s sake. The last thing the boy needed was to have his head filled with silly notions of adventure and whatnot.

Hearing the door open and shut with remarkable quietness, Bilbo became suspicious. Having raised a child, he knew that deliberate sneakiness always meant trouble. So with all the grace of a veteran parent, the middle-aged hobbit shouted, “Oh, is that you, Bas? Come into the kitchen, I’ve just made a cake.”

Caught in the act, his son could do nothing but mentally curse his foiled escape and comply. Suppressing a triumphant smirk, Bilbo turned to find out what the trouble was, but there was no need. A single glance at his son showed him a sluggishly bleeding nose, and that was all the answer Bilbo required.

 “Bas!” he cried. “What on earth happened?”

“Got in a fight,” the young hobbit mumbled. Then, as if it might somehow absolve him of his transgressions, he proclaimed, “I won!”

Simply put, Bilbo was unimpressed.

“Barnabas Baggins, what have I told you about this fighting nonsense?” he groused. Sighing, he sat his son down at the kitchen table. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“That ruddy arse started it!” defended Bas, while his father fetched a wet cloth.

“Language,” admonished Bilbo. “And you don’t mean Lotho, do you? When will that boy learn?” he muttered long-sufferingly.

“Pimple never learns, no matter how many times I teach him a lesson,” Bas sneered.

Bilbo lightly cuffed the back of the boy’s head, eliciting a squawk of protest. “Enough bad-mouthing and enough fighting, too! I raised a respectable young gentlehobbit, so I expect to see you act like one.”

“Da, you weren’t there!” his son raved, unfettered. “He said—”

And against his will, Bilbo softened, his face losing its stern edge. Throughout his life, poor Bas had endured a lot of nasty words said both to his face and behind his back; usually a rude comment on his parentage or lack thereof. Bilbo had shielded him from it as best he could, taking the brunt of the insults, but it still hurt to watch as his son continued to suffer for his father’s mistakes.

“My dear Bas, I knew you have been called a great deal of horrible names in your life. For that, I am sorry.”

Bas’s expression fell. “Da, I—”

“Let me finish,” shushed Bilbo. “You need to understand that what people say doesn’t matter unless you let it matter to you.”

“He didn’t say anything about me!” Bas exploded, unable to remain silent. “He said something about you.”

Any retort his father could have prepared died on the tip of his tongue.

“I don’t care what they call me anymore, I’m used to it.” And if that wasn’t a stinging blow to Bilbo’s heart, what was? “But when Pimple called you a—”

What exactly Pimp- Lotho Sackville-Baggins said Bilbo would never know because Bas couldn’t even complete the sentence, fists clenched tight at the mere remembrance of it. “I saw red. I punched him as hard as I could and I won’t apologize because I’m not sorry. He deserved it.”

A heavy silenced followed this declaration, the homely noises of Bag End coming to an awkward halt. Clearing his throat, Bilbo broke it with, “Be that as it may, it was no reason to start trouble. I could care less what those old gossips or their children say about me, either. It’s all sticks and stones, as your grandfather would quote.”

Bas scowled unrepentantly. “I don’t care! They have no right to insult you! You have done well by me my whole life, so who are they to debase your honor? As if they’re so high and mighty…”

Smiling, Bilbo regarded his son fondly. “Why are you so upset by what Lotho said?”

“Because it isn’t true—”

“Exactly,” Bilbo interrupted. “As long as you know that, I know that and the rest of our family and friends know that, nobody else’s opinion matters. Least of all those dratted Sackville-Bagginses.”

To that, his son had no reply.

Wiping the last of the blood from under his son’s nose, Bilbo declared, “So, no more scuffles, even if you’re provoked to the point of murder. Do I make myself clear?”

“Mhm,” Bas hummed. “Oi!” he cried when Bilbo ruffled his unkempt hair.

“You, Barnabas Baggins, are undoubtedly the cause of the premature gray hairs on my head and the worry lines on my brow,” Bilbo mock sighed. Bas tried to avert his gaze, ashamed, yet his father would have none of it. Hooking a finger under his hairless chin, Bilbo made the boy to look at him as he spoke, “And you are also my most precious treasure.”

A grin that could brighten the even darkest corner of Middle Earth split his son’s face. “Thanks, Da. And I am sorry—not about Lotho, but for making you worry. I’ll try harder to keep my temper next time.”

“Good lad,” said Bilbo. “Since we have that straightened out, why don’t you go wash up for lunch?”

“Oh, speaking of which…” Bas began, only to be interrupted by the arrival of another unexpected visitor.

“Greetings, cousin!” exclaimed Primula, dark curls bouncing behind her as she pranced into the kitchen.

“Prim! What a pleasant surprise. Do come in, dear,” Bilbo beckoned, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. “You will stay for lunch, won’t you?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Bas invited me earlier. Didn’t he mention it?”

Bilbo looked to where his son had been, seeing empty air instead.

“Must have slipped his mind,” the older hobbit murmured wryly, shaking his head. “How are you, dear? How are your parents and siblings?”

“All still alive, last I checked,” Prim related cheerfully. “Mum says that banana bread you brought to tea last month was divine. You must divulge the recipe.”

“Would that I could, my dear cousin. But my mother stated specifically that none of her sisters were ever to get their paws on her secret recipe,” Bilbo informed regretfully.

“Did she now?”

“I believe it was written in her will.” Prim chortled.

Just then, Bas came barreling into the room, mouth already running at lightning speed. “You should have been here this morning, Prim! Da was entertaining a wizard!”

No sooner did he inform her of this was Prim off on a tangent herself, spitting out rapid fire questions faster than her cousin could answer. “A wizard? You little weasel, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! What was he like? Did he have a hat? I’ll bet he had a hat.”

“Hold it!” Bilbo quieted. “First off, I was not entertaining him. Mister Gandalf was an old friend of the family who just happened to stop by.” And then, after a beat, “And yes, Prim, he was wearing a hat.”

Prim grinned smugly. “Did he say when he’d be back?” she inquired hopefully.

“I doubt he will be. Wizards have more important business than social calls to attend to, I reckon,” said Bilbo sensibly, gathering the plates and silverware from the cupboard. “You’ll see. Come tomorrow, I reckon life at Bag End will be as ordinary as always.”

Chapter Text

Bas and Bilbo had just sat down for supper when there was a knock at the door.

The hobbit glanced at his son, at the front door, and then back again. “Another friend you forgot to mention?” Bas raised his hands in an innocent don’t look at me gesture.

Apprehensively, Bilbo pushed his plate away and went to the door.

He opened it without a second thought, assuming it would be either the neighbor girl, May Gamgee, or perhaps her older brother, Hamfast. But no gardener of any sort, or even a hobbit for that matter, stood outside. Of all the visitors to have banging on his door at this time, a dwarf – a large, bald, bearded axe-wielding dwarf – was certainly not what Bilbo had been expecting.

“Um,” Bilbo gaped, too surprised to speak. The dwarf stared back, unperturbed. “Dwalin,” he greeted in a low rumble of a voice, bowing. “At your service.”

If not for his proper upbringing, Bilbo might’ve been struck dumb at the sight. Luckily, his inherent sense of courtesy needed no input from his brain before spewing out a halted, “Er. Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”

Without further prompting, the newly named Dwalin stepped past the hobbit and entered Bag End as though he were an honored guest. Funnily enough, Bilbo thought with a touch of irritation budding through his shock, he didn’t recall inviting him in at all.

“Who is it, Da?” called Bas, followed by the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and his son’s ensuing footsteps. He skidded to a stop beside his father, mouth open in question, when he caught sight of their lumbering guest. Wide blue eyes trailed the dwarf from bottom to top, awed. “Oh,” he gasped, craning his neck to meet the stranger’s face. “Hello…sir.”

As he watched his son ‘oooh’ and ‘aww’ over their imposing visitor, Bilbo decided that whatever the hell was going on, it was somehow Gandalf’s fault.

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Bas could hardly believe his eyes, nor could he bring himself to tear them away from the stranger sitting at their dining room table. He was easily the most burly, broad-shouldered fellow the lad had ever come across; and also, the first dwarf he had ever met, so far as he could remember. Within his memory, there were twenty-five years worth of questions about the other half of heritage, and he yearned to voice them now that he finally had someone who could answer.

Unfortunately, while his will to ask was strong as ever, the words themselves seemed to lose their nerve after being idle for so long, and steadfastly refused to obey; so Bas settled for observing the dwarf as he devour the fish he had caught earlier that day, up to and including the head.

And then, as abruptly as the first had come, a second knock echoed through the house.

“That’ll be the door,” grunted Dwalin, the remark sounding suspiciously like an order. Bas managed to suppress a snort at the gob smacked expression on his father’s face. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have balked at the audacity of their guest. As it was, Bilbo seemed too perplexed to do anything but comply.

“Fetch me a cup of ale, will you, laddie?” Bas blinked up from where he’d been studying the dwarf’s elaborate tattoos, the request taking a minute to register.

It’s all so surreal, Bas thought as he made his way to the pantry, body working on autopilot, freeing his mind. I keep expecting to wake up in bed with nothing but a disappointing pile of drool on my pillow. Yet no matter how hard I pinch myself, I’m never roused. Which means that there is a dwarf in our home – and though it seems unlikely, considering Da’s attitude towards him, perhaps he might –

His thoughts were interrupted by Dwalin wandering into the pantry. A shorter, older dwarf followed closely behind, sporting a long white beard that would give Mister Gandalf a run for his money. “Here you are,” Bas proffered, giving Dwalin his mug. The bald dwarf inclined his head in thanks, while the older one regarded him with interest.

“Who’s this, now?” he queried, squinting at Bas’s features. “Not one of ours, is he, brother? Why, he’s beardless as the day he was born!”

“Nay, he belongs to our host,” Dwalin related, taking a swig of his drink. “Does look a little familiar, don’t he?”

“Aye, he does. Though I cannot quite place the resemblance…”

“My name is Barnabas. Bas for short,” Bas tacked on as an afterthought. “Pleased to meet you, mister…?”

“Balin, at your service,” the white-haired dwarf replied with a bow, donning a grandfatherly smile. Then he turned back to his brother, and the two became immersed in a conversation about cheese or whatnot, so Bas took it as his cue to take his leave. Not too late, either, for just as he slipped out Bilbo went in, appearing frazzled.

Left to his own devices, Bas planned to resume to his earlier speculation; however, yet another visitor at banging at their Bag End’s door prevented him from doing so. Bas was about to seize his chance to discover what madness lay beyond it this time when Bilbo emerged from the pantry like a hobbit possessed, shooting him a patented Don’t even think about it! look that incited a huff from his son.

Wearing an expression that said he would regret this action later, Bilbo flung open the door, revealing a pair of dwarves who were much younger than the last – one with a fair head of hair, the other with dark.

“Fili,” the fair-haired dwarf exclaimed. “And Kili,” the second parroted, and then altogether they cried, “At your service!”

Bilbo seemed torn between claiming they had the wrong place or slamming the door shut and washing his hands of the matter entirely; alas, his propriety apparently outweighed his displeasure. But with his patience waning, he gestured towards Bas, permitting him to entertain the newest guests. He left then, presumably to find some peace in which to gather wits. Bas promptly stepped forward, ushering the pair in with a delighted, “Come in!”

“Oi, what do we have here?” Fili wondered aloud.

“It’s a wee hobbit!” Kili exclaimed, examining Bas as though he were a fascinating, unfamiliar breed of animal. “Huh. And I thought our host, Mr. Boggins, was supposed to be small.”

“Baggins, you mean,” Bas corrected, chest puffing at the latter slight. “And I will have you know I’m the tallest of my age group.”

“Ah, did you hear that, brother? Tallest of his age group,” Kili repeated with mock esteem, elbowing his brother in the ribs. The pair shared a sly look.

“Still short compared to us, I’m afraid,” Fili chuckled. “Big enough to handle this, though, aren’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, he chucked a handful of armor and weapons at Bas, who staggered under the unexpected weight. No sooner did he gain his footing did Kili hand him his own parcels; although being more prepared, the young hobbit managed a bit better.

“There we go!” Kili clapped him on the back, threatening his already precarious balance. “Look after those for us, will you?”

“Mhmm,” Bas hummed, unable to resist running his palm along the hilt of the fair-haired dwarf’s sword.

“Careful, it’s sharp,” Fili cautioned.

“Of course it’s sharp, it’s a sword,” Bas muttered, rolling his eyes. He was usually never so sarcastic with his elders, especially those he’d just met, yet something about the behavior of these two told him they weren’t quite as adult as the previous dwarves he’d encountered. They acted more like older siblings, he reckoned, with their playful jibes and general air of superiority.

Fili and Kili took no offense to his snark, instead finding it rather amusing. They laughed all the way into the kitchen, where they greeted Dwalin and Balin with jovial familiarity. Meanwhile, Bas returned his attention to the sword, his inner blacksmith marveling at its design.

“The craftsmanship is superb,” Bas murmured in admiration, tracing the blunt side of the blade with his fingertips. Master Adalbert would kill to have the secret to creating such a masterpiece.

“What are you doing?” his father’s voice inquired, eliciting a startled “Nothing!” from his son.

“Oh, never mind.” Bilbo motioned for Bas to set the sword aside, continuing on, “That’s the least of my worries, what with this – this invasion of dwarves! The reason they’re here is still shadowy at best, and I really detest being kept in the dark, especially under my own roof.”

At this point, Da clearly had a lot on his plate, and the last thing Bas wanted to do was add to that. However, there had been something nagging at the back of his mind since the first dwarf appeared at their door, and well, it would explain why the older hobbit was in such a panic…

“Da,” Bas began, endeavoring to broach the subject as carefully as possible. “Would any of these dwarves happen to be my, well…you know…?”

“Goodness, no!” Bilbo cried, realizing what his son was edging at. His ensuing laugh sounded a tad strangled. It ended as swiftly as it came, and the older hobbit eyed his son with a burgeoning awareness, seeing past the dilemma at hand and understanding how confused and curious his son must be. He sighed, the kind of sigh that signaled a serious heart-to-heart, but never got the chance to speak. For at that exact moment, there was a resounding flurry of knocks at the door.

Bas reacted first, throwing caution to the wind. He practically leapt to the front door, even as his father emitted an odd, flabbergasted noise from his nostrils. Bas paid it no heed. All he could focus on was the blood pounding in his ears and the way his heart was speeding with unadulterated excitement. He grabbed the knob, tore open the door and –

– not one but two, three, four, eight dwarves came tumbling in. They landed in a fumbling heap, twisting and cursing as they attempted to gain freedom from the pile of limbs, allowing Bas to submit several new words into his vocabulary. Spotting another person standing at the fringe of the group, Bas smiled so wide he feared his cheeks would burst apart at the seams.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo breathed, glaring up at the cause of these shenanigans, who at least had the decency to look sheepish.

Quite the unexpected party, Bas mused, watching the lot of them file into the kitchen, grinning like yuletide morning had come early. But a merry gathering nonetheless.

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Bilbo had had just about enough of unheralded dwarves arriving at his door, demanding food and desecrating his plumbing, no matter how admirable their dish-stacking or how catchy their tunes. Speak of the devil, scarcely a second after the idea formed, another knock was heard! He couldn’t even summon the energy to be outraged anymore.

“Ah, that will be him,” announced the dwarf called Balin.

“Who?” he interjected, idly wondering if he might as well give in and put a sign outside that read “Bag End Inn: Vacancy Available!” with all the uninvited guests he’d been receiving lately.

“The leader of our company,” Gandalf responded, shameless as ever, despite being the ringleader of this circus.

Good, grumbled Bilbo, straightening with indignation. I’ll speak directly to the dwarf in charge, and give him a piece of my mind!

Bilbo opened the door, a dry comment already poised on the tip of his tongue, yet all forms of speech shriveled up and died at the sight of Thorin Oakenshield in all his glory, standing in the doorway like he’d barely aged a day in the last twenty six years.

Eru, his knees felt weak. Seeing his old flame after so long, handsome as he remembered and clothed in fine leather and fur, aroused unwanted emotions in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. And those eyes, always so intense, were locked on him in what could only be discerned as recognition, wrapped in something softer, something Bilbo couldn’t quite place.

Say something, damn you, don’t just stand there gawking like a lunatic!

“Thorin,” he whispered at last, a name he hadn’t said aloud in over two decades.

“Bilbo Baggins,” the dwarf replied quietly, and there was an almost wistful quality to his gruff voice. Bilbo could’ve sworn he saw the ghost of a smile touch Thorin’s lips before it was gone, replaced by a carefully practiced aloofness. “It has been a long time.”

“Indeed,” said Bilbo in a shockingly steady voice. But beneath his calm façade, anger flared, thawing the frost that had settled in his chest.

“Have prior introductions been made?” Gandalf inquired, eyes flickering between the pair, obviously sensing the tension but having the good sense not to comment upon it.

“We’ve met,” Bilbo muttered, teeth grinding in an effort to keep from saying more.

“I see,” said Gandalf simply, again choosing not to pry. He nodded at Thorin, beckoning him inside. “Well, do come in. I say, what took you so long?”

“I lost my way. Twice.” Bilbo nearly snorted, shutting the door. Sense of direction is as poor as ever, apparently. “If not for the mark on the door, I might’ve done so thrice.”

“What mark? There’s no mark on my door,” the hobbit argued. As a matter of fact, he could very clearly recall the smooth, green color of the wood. He had asked Bas to add a fresh coat of paint not a week ago, after all.

The image of his son struck him like a vivid blast of lightning, drowning out whatever explanation Gandalf was spewing out, something about a thief and Khuzdul and other meaningless words that were nothing compared to the fact that Bas’s father was here, in this room, and the lad could walk in at any moment before Bilbo even had the chance to tell Thorin he was a father.

Suddenly, it was all too much. Bag End being invaded by dwarves, a wizard drawing curious marks on his door, seeing Thorin after two decades of separation – it was currently taking every ounce of his self-control not to do something extremely rash and unbecoming; which, no matter how hard he fought it, was most likely inevitable. But he didn’t much fancy doing it in public.

“Might I have a word?” Bilbo gritted out. The question was more of a courtesy than a request. “Excuse us.” Without waiting for an answer, he grasped Thorin’s bicep – ignoring the way the firm, unyielding flesh felt beneath his fingertips – and pulled him down the hall, away from other ears and eyes.

Once they were a safe distance away, Thorin’s lips parted in question, clearly about to speak. Before he even had the chance, Bilbo raised a hand – quite forgetting everything about civility and decorum Bungo Baggins had ever tried to instill in his son – and slapped him hard, the sting of his hand well worth the stunned expression he received.

When the astonishment faded, the dwarf growled subconsciously. “What are you–”

“How dare you!” Bilbo rasped furiously, years of pent-up emotions bursting towards the surface, suppressed for too long. “You, Thorin Oakenshield, have a lot of nerve showing up here unannounced after twenty six years! And what’s more, you bring a company of pantry-raiding dwarves along with you! You, who left without any word of when or even if you would ever be back, when you had a responsibility to be here, whether we had an agreement or not!”

“Da?”

All of Bilbo’s fury was swept away by that single syllable. It was like swallowing a bucket of ice water after releasing a belly full of flames. How could I have forgotten? he mentally berated, knowing Bas had probably heard every word, even though Bilbo had meant to break it to him gently; not like this, never like this. How could I have been so careless?

Frozen, Bilbo could then only watch, helplessly, as Thorin peered over his shoulder to see who had spoken – and unwittingly laid eyes on his son for the first time.

Chapter Text

“Da,” Bas repeated, glancing between his father and their newest arrival with dawning comprehension. “Da, is he…?”

“Go to your room, Bas,” Bilbo ordered in a tone that brooked no room for argument.

“But-”

“Barnabas Baggins, go to your room this instant.”

For a split second, the boy appeared ready to defy his father’s authority, until self-preservation defeated the notion. Reluctantly, Bas turned tail and stomped off towards his room. Only when he heard the irritated slam of a door did Bilbo dare exhale.

“You have a son,” observed Thorin, sounding much calmer than Bilbo presently felt. That would surely chance once he learned the truth.

Sucking in a shuddery breath, Bilbo found his center, deciding that rather than allow emotion to conquer him once more, it would be best to take this slow. Maybe there was still a chance to salvage the situation, he thought without much actual hope, the sinking feeling in his stomach settling like a rock in a stream. “I am sorry I slapped you like that, but I feel the yelling was well-deserved,” he began. Unconsciously, the hands hanging idle at his side clenched into fists, trembling with lingering resentment. “The way you treated me all those years ago…”

“I know,” Thorin said solemnly, and with a look utter penitence on his face, no less! “If it is any consolation, I look back on my behavior that day with regret.”

“Oh… Well, yes. Good. You should.” Bilbo blinked, the leftover anger bleeding from his body. He had honestly expected a stronger, more argumentative reaction; not such guilty resignation, although to be fair, Bilbo had given him quite the dressing down earlier. Thorin had always been prideful, yet perhaps over the years, he’d gained some humility as well. Enough to accept blame where blame was due, at least.

“Congratulations,” the dwarf continued, tugging him away from his thoughts, and causing Bilbo to stare at him as if he’d gone soft in the head.

“Excuse me?”

Thorin inclined his head slightly, as though delivering a common courtesy. “I didn’t know about your marriage, nor that it had been blessed with the birth of a child,” he intoned, the kind words strangely void of sentiment.

“I’m not married,” Bilbo countered, exactly as he had to Gandalf earlier today. “I never have been.”

Sharp blue eyes met his own, slicing through his resolve; and before the hobbit could fully reign in his nostalgia, Thorin rebounded with a swift, “Forgive me. I only assumed because of your son–”

“About that,” Bilbo interjected, previously fisted hands twitching nervously, palms sweating profusely. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t explained this many times before, he reasoned, though never to anyone quite so intimately (and unknowingly) involved. With surge of courage, he threw caution to the wind and blurted out, “I never married because I bore the boy myself.”

There, quick and painless, like ripping off a bandage.

Except that matters such as men bearing children rarely ended so easily. Now it was Thorin gawking at him like he’d gone mad.

“That is preposterous,” he stated after a beat, brow furrowed, as if Bilbo were having him on and he couldn’t quite work out why. “While it has been many years since our parting, I distinctly remember you being...male.”

“Your memory is impeccable,” said Bilbo dryly, emboldened by their verbal spar. “Nevertheless, I am not just a male, but a Took. And well, the funny thing about Tooks is that our ancestor had a fairy woman for a wife. Her blood runs through us all, stronger in those that are direct descendants like me.”

“Fae blood?” Thorin repeated, the confusion fading some, replaced by intrigue. “And this somehow enabled you to bear a child of your own?”

“Well, it takes two to sew a fertile field, as my grandmother would say,” Bilbo intimated, and then became silent. He waited, watching Thorin’s face, particularly the way his forehead creased as he struggled to make sense of their conversation. Waited until the creases grew deeper and deeper, intrigue turning to wonder to suspicion and then finally a mounting terror, all the hints and clues coming together with a startling burst of clarity.

“Your son!” Thorin gasped, appearing very white, a ragged note to his deep baritone. “How old is he?”

“Twenty and six years.” If anything, the dwarf blanched further, looking like he might faint. To look so distraught, he must’ve have reached the right conclusion. He must have, Bilbo stressed, worrying how far he would have to push for the inevitable question. But he needn’t wait any longer.

“Bilbo,” Thorin croaked, haltingly, pausing to recover his nerve. “Is that boy…is he my son?”

Having been braced for this question from the moment he discovered his pregnancy more than two decades ago, Bilbo met it unflinchingly. “Yes. He is.”

What he’d forgotten to prepare for was Thorin’s reaction. It had apparently slipped his mind that the stoic, thick-headed blacksmith sometimes (usually) had difficult handling his emotions. For instance, when faced with unfamiliar feelings brought on by tense situations, he tended to fall back on those that were familiar; chief among them, anger.

“Why did you not tell me? I had a right to know!” the dwarf yelled abruptly.

“Me? It isn’t my fault you left and never returned!” Bilbo snapped back.

“I didn’t know you were with child!” was Thorin’s hot reply.

“Neither did I!” the hobbit exclaimed, rendering them both speechless, the only noise in the room their panting breaths. “Not until it was too late. You were already gone.”

“Mahal, I have a son,” Thorin whispered, and Bilbo feared he might actually faint. “I am a father.”

“Takes a bit of getting used to, I know,” Bilbo offered sympathetically. And he meant it, too. In hindsight, he’d had at least nine months to accept his impending parenthood, while Thorin was having it heaped onto him all at once, and without warning to boot. He could scarcely imagine what was going through the dwarf’s head at this very moment.

“Bilbo, I am…if I had known you were…were pregnant, I would have never left the way I did.” Thorin grappled for the right words, finding each one unworthy of conveying the depths of his apology. He needn’t have tried so hard, however, for Bilbo could read it in the agony of his expression. “There are no words that can repay the transgressions I’ve dealt. Although it’s a poor consolation, I am truly, utterly sorry.”

The hobbit took a moment to digest his long-awaited apology, searching for words of his own. “I cannot forgive you overnight,” he admitted at length, only to have Thorin nod in grave agreement. “…but it’s a start, I suppose. Besides, I think we have it in us to sift through this like like civil adults, for our son’s sake."

“Son,” Thorin tasted the foreign word on his tongue. “What is my…what is our…what’s his name?”

“Barnabas. Barnabas Baggins. Although he prefers to go by Bas,” informed Bilbo, the corner of his lips quirking. “Would you like to meet him?”

Thorin was bewildered by the query. “You would offer me this, after everything I have done?” he asked in shock.

“O-Of course!” Bilbo stammered incredulously, cheeks coloring. “What do you take me for? I would never deliberately keep you from my son or my child from his father. It would be unnecessarily cruel.”

“It is far more than I deserve,” the dwarf explained somberly. “In my culture, children are considered the rarest and most precious gifts. To abandon them is to forfeit your right to such a treasure.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, you didn’t abandon your child…not precisely,” he added before Thorin could protest. “If you had known about Bas, no doubt you wouldn’t have gone the way you did. No matter what I felt, I always knew that to be true. Because I know you, Thorin – or I did know you, once – and I knew you to be a decent, noble dwarf. And my opinion hasn’t changed. In spite of what’s happened in the past, I am glad you wish to be a part of your son’s life.”

Out of nowhere, Thorin said, "Tell me about him." Seeing Bilbo start at the sudden request, he amended, "If it’s not too much to ask.”

“No, it is fine,” the hobbit assured. “Let’s see… I’m not sure if you noticed, but he resembles you a lot, with his dark hair and blue eyes. He’s quite stubborn at times, too, and has a bit of a temper.” Bilbo beamed, unbidden, as he proudly listed his son’s many merits. “But he’s also kind and noble and honest and…”

He trailed off, throat too tight to continue. For out of the corner of his eye, he saw that ghost of a smile grace Thorin’s face, the sort of smile that was sad and happy all at the same time, and it hurt too much to gaze at.

“…and the rest, I am afraid, you will have to discover for yourself,” he finished quietly. Thorin nodded, grim-faced as they stood to leave. However, as they turned the corner, there was a squawk of fear and surprise, and Bilbo peered over Thorin’s broad back to see three extremely guilty-faced dwarves stumbling backwards.

Caught in the act, Bilbo reckoned disapprovingly, too drained to muster much annoyance at their antics. They were the youngest members of the company, it seemed: the two brothers, Fili and Kili, along with the third fellow, who appeared very put upon by this turn of events – Ori was his name, if the hobbit wasn’t mistaken.

“What the hell are you three doing?” Thorin demanded in a dangerously low tone, which the lads were easily cowed by.

“Oh, so this isn’t the water closet – our mistake!” Kili exclaimed. There was something eerily familiar about him, and his brother, too; something Bilbo had failed to notice upon their initial introduction, though he was quite sure of it now.

Ignoring the poor excuse, Thorin loomed over the trio. “Are you sure you weren’t eavesdropping on a private conversation?”

“They made me!” Ori cried, pointing at the brothers in accusation. Having thus confessed, he fled down the hall, eager to escape Thorin’s wrath. Eyes flashing with indignation, Kili chased after him, shouting, “Oi! Get back here, you squealer!”

Left alone to deal with fuming hobbit and dwarf, Fili grinned uncertainly. “Um,” he stuttered, chuckling sheepishly. “Congratulations, Uncle?”

Thorin glowered.

“Right. I’ll just flee now, if you don’t mind,” he mumbled, and then like his co-conspirators, made a hasty retreat.

A sigh erupted from Thorin in the wake of his escape. “There goes the chance of this matter remaining a secret. Those fools will have the company informed within a matter of minutes,” he muttered long-sufferingly. “Mahal curse the day my sister reared such knuckleheads.”

Bilbo's eyes widened in recognition. “Don’t tell me those are the little miscreant nephews you told me about?” he gasped.

“Alas, they are,” confirmed Thorin, managing that odd mixture of exasperation and fondness that, as a parent, the hobbit was well acquainted with. Despite the previous tenseness between them, Bilbo fought to stifle a smile.

Following this brief interlude, they resumed their original course, arriving at Bas’s room in a matter of minutes. Gently, Bilbo rapped on the door before opening it. Thorin lingered behind.

“Bas,” he called softly. “There is somewhere here you should meet.”

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Bas paced the length of his room, full of anxious energy. He didn’t know what was going on beyond his bedroom door, which in thoughtless gesture of anger he had slammed shut, cutting himself off from the discussion he was sore about being barred from in the first place.

In retrospect, it hardly made much difference. Bas knew why Da had insisted he leave, and he knew who that dwarf was – even from the short glimpse he’d caught after following the sound of his father’s raised voice and stumbling upon some sort of confrontation, Bas had seen the same dark hair and blue eyes he saw in his own reflection. At the time, nothing except the information itself had processed through his mind, the thrill of it pouring into his veins; hence, his current restlessness.

Now, given the chance to think, Bas wasn’t certain what he felt. He paused in the middle of his room, taking a moment to gander at his belongings; the space was an assortment of toys, games, clothing and books. By the door lay his forging tools, set aside with care. In the corner was a pile of old toys he had been meaning to pass onto his younger cousins but couldn’t bear to part with just yet. Truly, the room itself was a testament to his transition from boy to man.

Quite often, maybe more often than he would like, Bas found himself contemplating his future. Growing up, growing responsible, growing old – majority was sneaking up on him, a stranger trying to make his acquaintance, and he wasn’t at this point certain whether he wanted to greet it with open arms or cling to the familiarity of his childhood.

Sometimes he wondered if his inability to cope with the future was because he had yet to comes to terms with his past. Yes, you could argue that Bas knew all he needed to know – he was a hobbit, born and raised, and for some that might be enough. But Bas was a dwarf, too, and he couldn’t ignore that fact no more than he could ignore the sun in the sky. And the older he grew, the more he yearned to explore this half of heritage, desperate to make sense of what he was, so he could in turn figure out who he was.

As a boy, the question of his identity hadn’t been such a struggle. In the midst of early childhood, it had eventually occurred to Bas that he was…different from other children. Contrary to popular assumption, it wasn’t the unique qualities he had that made this apparent; rather, it was what he lacked.

And what he lacked was a mother.

So he’d asked May Gamgee – a neighbor girl around his age, and therefore, his usual playmate – about it. Having always had a mother herself, she agreed that Bas having none didn’t make much sense. Who better to seek answers from, she reasoned, than her own mother? Unable to argue with that logic, the pair had scampered off to find Mrs. Gamgee. She was in the kitchen when the children approached and made their innocent inquiry, expecting a simple response.

But the question seemed to fluster Mrs. Gamgee. She told them it wasn’t her place to answer, whatever that meant, and that Bas ought to ask his father. Then she practically heaped a pile of freshly baked sweets on them, as if in compensation for her inadequacy; not that either of them had complained.

When he’d finally trudged home, his belly full of sweets but his mind hungry for answers, Bas was determined discover the truth. He marched up to Da’s favorite arm chair, climbed into the bemused hobbit’s lap and asked his question. And fixing him with a stare that was far beyond his age, Da had told him the truth; about dwarves, about his birth, and most importantly, about his sire.

From that point on, Bas would immerse himself in imagining what it would be like to meet his other parent someday. Often in his younger and more fanciful years, Bas had been accused of being a rampant daydreamer. Always with his head in the clouds, Prim would tease, after catching him staring off into the sky. Little did she know his mind was filled with glorious fantasies of his father returning to Shire to whisk him and Da off on some wild adventure in far away lands. It always ended with a vanquished villain and a triumphant Bas, whose victory gained not only a glorious treasure and the respect of everyone, but also the reunited family he secretly longed for.

Now, the day had finally come. All the wondering he had done, the answers he had sought, the waiting for this moment came to a head here, as he stood face-to-face with his sire for the first time ever. There were so many questions he’d yearned to ask, so many words he’d rehearsed inside his head in anticipation. By all rights, this should be the happiest day of his life, just as he’d envisioned it would be.

Yet Bas couldn’t conjure an ounce of joy. All he felt was a raw, all-consuming anger.

Try as he might, he couldn’t muster a smile, or recall any of his cheerful fantasies. Evidently, thinking about the day you would meet your father and actually experiencing it were very different.

He couldn’t remember his questions, not a single one. What he did remember was being four-years-old and hearing the word bastard for the first time, not knowing what it meant. He remembered sniffling behind Prim while she fended off his bullies before he was old enough to fight them himself. He remembered being excluded from games with certain children whose parents were reluctant to let them associate with the likes of him. He remembered every scorned look sent in his direction, every pitied glance, and every gaze of disapproval leveled at him throughout the years.

Perhaps the most damning thing of all was that he remembered the painful urgency in his father’s voice when he’d ordered him to his room. Bas had never heard Da sound like that before, so young and distraught. Throughout his life, Da had had always been a pillar of strength, a barrier against all that was dark and sinister in this world.

And it only took the mere sight of this dwarf to make his unflappable father come undone. Bas couldn’t forgive that from anyone – not even his other father.

His contemplation was cut short by a knock at the door. Unlike before, the prospect of visitors didn't fill him with thrill. Bas could hardly form coherent noise, much less tell whoever it was to enter. However, this happened to be the one person who needed no invitation.

“Bas," Da called, and his voice seemed thicker now; yet stronger, too. "There’s someone here you should meet.”

Even as his chest clenched at those words - the words he'd desired to hear for years - Bas couldn't bring himself to look at the dwarf who stood behind Da. Seeing would make it too real, and he wasn't ready.

"I should..." said Bilbo awkwardly, when the silence showed no signs of waning. "...I should give you two some time alone."

So he left, and Bas was loathed to see him go, the encouraging expression on the older hobbit’s face doing nothing to soothe the ache in his chest.

“Hello,” Thorin said finally. Bas gave him credit for having the courage to speak first, though he didn’t have it in him to return the gesture, directing his half-hearted greeting at the floorboards.

Thorin took this initial rejection with stride. He tried again, “I realize this must be difficult, meeting like this, after so long.”

“Do you?” Bas choked out, astounded by the sheer vehemence behind the words.

It wasn’t lost on his sire, either.

"Of course, you must be very cross with me,” he allowed, and if Bas were in an accommodating mood, he might’ve caught the shame in his voice. “And you have every reason to be. I fear I owe you, at the very least, a lengthy explanation.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” The words left him in such a rush he wondered if they were true or not – but they were, Bas realized, more certain now than ever. Thorin opened his mouth to protest.

“No, really. And you know why? Because Da raised me all on his own. I wasn’t neglected, undervalued or mistreated – so honestly, you have nothing to be sorry for.” Once the words began flowing, he found that he couldn’t make them stop. “If there’s someone you ought to make amends with, it’s him. He’s the one you left. You didn’t even know about me.”

“Yes,” agreed Thorin resignedly. “But if I had known–”

“Don’t,” rasped Bas, voice like the tip of Fili’s blade, keen and cutting, “Don’t tell me how it could have been because that’s not how it was and nothing can change the past, so let’s leave it at that and spare us both the unnecessary pain.”

If Thorin was taken aback by his statement, then Bas was doubly so. He had never been the spiteful sort; it simply wasn’t in his nature. Guess I’m learning loads of stuff about myself today, he thought grimly, ignoring the way his inner self winced with regret.

“I…” Bas swallowed, lips trembling in an effort to stay steady. “I think that’s all I have to say.”

His outburst had left him feeling hollowed, subdued. But he couldn’t quell the twinge of satisfaction and regret that touched his thunderous heart as he walked from the room, away from the father who had walked away from him all those years ago – wondering if, in doing so, Bas was forfeiting the family he'd always wanted.

Chapter Text

Thorin watched his son – his son, Mahal, he had a son! Even with the sheer amount of times he’d repeated the fact to himself, the shock had yet to cease – stalk from the room, wishing he had the words to stop him. His hand, which twitched with the instinctive need to reach out, stayed resolutely at his side. It would be futile, he reasoned, and couldn’t blame Bas for his cold dismissal. After all, it was Thorin who had caused his pain, and therefore, it was fair he face the rage borne of it.

Although he understood and accepted these terms, he couldn’t ignore the ache writhing within his own chest, wrought by a blow that no armor could protect against. It was a pain Thorin knew well – knew it to be worse than any cut from an orc’s blade or sting from an elf’s arrow. No, this was the pain of loss, and it was quite unlike anything else in this world. In hindsight, Bilbo’s slap had been mild in comparison (and while he didn’t have much brawn to his body, Bilbo was fierce when riled) and far less than he deserved.

Strange and morbid as it sound, the pain somehow made it all easier to swallow. Pain was familiar territory, something Thorin had faced and conquered before, could clench his teeth and bear through it with the same stubborn will his ancestor’s had wielded for centuries.

Like his grandfather used to say, back when Thorin was still small enough to be balanced on the king’s knee. "Durin's folk were built sturdy. Mahal carved us from the strongest of stone so that we could prosper and survive."

And prosper they did. If he closed his eyes, he could see Erebor in all its glory: the shimmering, marble walls; the mines overflowing with jewels; the people of his proud kingdom, wealthy and happy. But with the remembrance of such joy came the remembrance of Smaug’s attack, the memory a scar upon his subconscious, permanently embedded into his psyche. Until the day he left Middle Earth for the hall of his ancestors, Thorin would forever recall the sight of flaming skies, the sound of frenzied screams.

In the wake of the dragon’s devastation, what remained of his kingdom was a half-starved, wandering mass of survivors. Like ashes from a conflagration, they banded together, seeking strength and safety, so as not to be swept away by the wind.

Thorin had led them, young though he was, through that terrible time. To think, a prince who could barely keep his own family from falling apart, taking on such a vital role. But the westward road was a long one, paved with war and strife. By the time they reached the Blue Mountains, Thorin had lost a grandfather, won a battle, gained an epitheh and become a leader to his people.

He helped them build a home, a place where they could settle and live peacefully enough. Peace was not cheap, however, and the cost of security was high. Thorin had a duty to provide for his newly erected domain, even if that meant swallowing his pride to labor in the towns of men.

In fact, the summer he met Bilbo Baggins had begun with him searching for work in Bree, where none was to be found. Fortunately, a halfling by the name of Bolger had been passing through. He took one look at Thorin, and perhaps having heard of the dwarves and their renowned craftsmanship, offered him a job at his forge. The combination of fair pay and free housing was too tempting to resist, so Thorin accepted.

The Shire turned out to be a quiet, green patch of land that paid little heed to the woes of the world beyond its borders. The folk there were good-natured, more likely to gossip behind your back than knick your pockets when you weren’t looking. Furthermore, even the gossip proved advantageous to Thorin. Once word got out that Bolger had an especially talented new tenant, business had boomed.

He probably wouldn't have minded spending the summer like that, as the private blacksmith who kept to his forge, even in the blistering heat, preferring an anvil and hammer over foreign company.

Of course, that was before he had the pleasure of meeting a foreigner that could make the Shire feel like home.

Thorin could still recall, with perfect clarity, the day his stuttering hobbit had stumbled upon him in the forge. Drops of sweat beading on his forehead, lips parted in silent awe, cheeks flushed a rosy pink - he'd been instantly endeared by the sight, though he hid it better than his own admirer. Indeed, the attention left him somewhat smug, enough that he didn't see a problem indulging in their mutual attraction. What was the harm, after all?

But a mere summer fling simply wasn't in the stars. Bilbo Baggins was...well, more. More than he'd ever expected and more than he could've ever hoped for. He was sharp-tongued, quick-witted and very well read. He was kind and just and headstrong, never cowed by Thorin's strong will, able to match him tit for tat. He cared too much, thought too deeply, and consumed Thorin's world without even meaning to.

One of the follies of bearing a royal title was that romance was often just another part of politics. Finding true love had never been his top priority, and while Thorin had been in no position to give his heart away, he fell in love regardless. It was a lot like falling on his head, actually - dizzying, confusing and dreamlike.

Alas, all dreams must end, and Thorin's wake up came with the call of a raven.

The leaves had already begun to turn when the missive came one crisp autumn morn, shortly after Thorin arrived at the forge. Seeing the blackbird sitting on the windowsill, he frowned. Only a select few could have possibly sent it. Of those few, it happened to be his sister.

Greetings, brother dearest. I hope this message finds you well, and that business is good, which I assume it must be - seeing as you've been too busy to write. Not to worry, though, we in the Blue Mountains are fairing fine in your absence. Sure, there’s talk of usurping you and making your sister the new heir, but usually only at the dinner table. Anyhow, now that the summer is through, you ought to think about returning before winter comes – lest there be a repeat of your arse-freezing-to-the-saddle incident of our youth. Sincerely, your sister.

Yes, that was Dis in a nutshell, and the tone of the message suited her to a fault; a sarcastic remark followed by a comment on her superiority, ending with a reference to an embarrassing incident from his childhood. Knowing his sister as well as he did, however, he caught the underlying concern hidden beneath the jibes and it made his stomach twist. It was then that Thorin realized that up until that point, he hadn’t been contemplating his departure, so content was he with Bilbo.

In short, Thorin had done the unthinkable: He had become comfortable in the Shire. Hell, he had practically moved into Bag End, spending his nights curled next to a warm body and was awoken in the mornings by the smell of breakfast. Which was fine, certainly, for an ordinary blacksmith who had no obligation to anyone but himself.

Guilt, cold and heavy, settled over his shoulders. Here he was, enjoying the domestic life, while his family and friends patiently awaited his homecoming. With his responsibilities reaffirmed, he resolved to leave immediately. Leaving wasn't just leaving anymore, though.

Leaving meant leaving Bilbo behind.

With duty comes sacrifice, Thrain had taught his son, and he never forgot those words. Yet he never truly understood their meaning until he realized that loving Bilbo meant letting him go. For what did he have – a dethroned king from a desecrated homeland – to offer someone like Bilbo, who already owned more wealth and comfort than Thorin could provide?

For as much as he had a duty to lead his people, Thorin had a duty to prevent Bilbo from wasting his life waiting for his wayward lover to return, or Mahal forbid, abandon his beloved Bag End and risk his neck following his blacksmith into the Wilds.

So Thorin would have to severe their ties completely; end it cruelly, abruptly. Maybe Bilbo would hate him afterwards. Maybe that was for the best. Indeed, part of Thorin hoped he would.

Because while hatred left deep wounds, love left deeper wounds still.

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Watching the flames flicker in the hearth of his study, Bilbo suppressed a shudder, trying not to think of dragon fire. However, it was hard topic to divert from, when the dwarves’ plot to take back their kingdom from the firedrake who stole it had been laid upon his dining room table, clear as day and bold as brass. Furthermore, it was made plain that their whole reason for coming to the Shire was to recruit a burglar, who would have the esteemed role of sneaking into the dragon’s horde.

And of all the hobbits from Bree to Buckland, Gandalf had recommended Bilbo Baggins for the job.

Just my luck, Bilbo huffed, reminiscing on recent events. Inevitably, his mind drifted towards his son, and the last he'd seen of the boy since his confrontation with Thorin.

“Bas?” Bilbo gasped when he saw his son emerge from his bedroom, fists clenched at his side, looking like he’d gone another round with Longo Sackville-Baggins. Had that only been this morning? It felt like an eternity ago. “Bas!”

Reluctantly, his son stopped, prompting Bilbo to ask, “Are you okay? How did it go?”

“Peachy, Da,” Bas grit out. “Just peachy.”

“I see,” said Bilbo, clearly unconvinced. “Do you want to talk about it?”

There was a beat, and then, much to his father’s shock, a very firm, “No.”

Having been unexpectedly shot down, Bilbo blinked, lips forming a protest. “But–”

“Please,” Bas interrupted. “I know you mean well, and I’m okay, I really am. Right now, I just want to be alone. Alright?”

Even as every instinct in his body refused, Bilbo acquiesced, the note of blind frustration in the boy’s tone hard to argue with. Bas nodded in gratitude, or maybe apology, before making his escape.

“Teenagers…” Bilbo mumbled under his breath, sounding every bit the long-suffering parent he was. When had his little boy become too old to come to him with every little problem? Probably when he discovered I didn’t have all the answers…

“I thought I might find you here,” a familiar voice greeted, slipping into the room like a grey-clad shadow. Gandalf smiled gently at him, and truth be told, it did lift his spirits slightly. “Enjoying a moment’s peace? I daresay you deserve it.”

“Yes, it’s been quite the…eventful day,” the hobbit muttered, for lack of a better term. Gandalf chortled in agreement. While he didn’t mind the company, the wizard’s presence reminded Bilbo of something that had been nagging at the back of his mind. “Did you know?” he asked quietly; not accusing, merely curious.

Gandalf contemplated his response. “I noticed somewhat of a resemblance when I met the boy, but, I reasoned it could be a coincidence.”

“A coincidence,” Bilbo chuckled wryly. “Yes, this evening seems to be quite the coincidence in and of itself. Although debacle might be a more fitting word to describe it.”

“Mmm. Or perhaps it’s another word altogether,” Gandalf remarked vaguely. The hobbit raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to elaborate. “Perhaps it is fate that brought Thorin Oakenshield to your door the second time around.”

“I was under the impression that it was you who did that,” Bilbo deadpanned.

Gandalf laughed. “You flatter me, Bilbo, yet even I cannot see beyond the here and now. All I know is that I have a company in need of a burglar and before me sits a hobbit with the potential to fill that position.”

"Oh, no." The hobbit shook his head. “No, no, no. All this talk of quests, burglary and dragons – furnace with wings, as that Bofur fellow so eloquently put it – is not my cup of tea! Sorry, but no, it’s best if I stay put.”

“Hmph. If you ask me, you’ve been staying put for far too long,” Gandalf asserted. “Tell me, what ever happened to the lad that used to run off in search of elves in the forest?”

“He grew up,” Bilbo replied smoothly, “and had a lad of his own.”

“Ah,” the wizard acknowledged, comprehension dawning.

“Let's say, hypothetically, that I agreed to this madness,” Bilbo continued. “Could you promise me that I would come back?”

“No,” said Gandalf gravely, impressing Bilbo with his honesty. “And if you did, you would not be the same.”

Bilbo sighed. “You see, that’s what I thought. And you know, perhaps I could live with the consequences, should I manage to survive. However, I have not only myself to consider, but also Barnabas.”

He looked the wizard straight in the eye and asked, nay, demanded, “Can you promise that my son will come back, if he follows? Or that this venture won’t leave him orphaned if he’s left behind?”

“I cannot,” Gandalf admitted, and hearing a note of resignation in his voice, Bilbo nodded. And that should have been the end of it altogether. Except...

"Da, I want to go."

Both occupants of the room turned towards who had spoken, and Bilbo sputtered after learning it was none other than Bas, who had returned from who-knows-where wearing an expression of such determinedness that it put him on edge.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Gandalf staring at the boy in astonishment, a twinkle of what might have been pride in those ancient eyes. Bilbo glanced sharply at the wizard, who, taking the hint with good grace, excused himself from the room.

“Bas, you have no idea what you are talking about,” he reasoned, frowning. Where on earth had this burst of bravado come from? “This quest isn’t to be taken lightly.”

To his surprise, Bas interrupted with a forceful, “Stop treating me like I’m simple! I know I’m not fully grown, but I’m not a child, either! I understand the danger of this journey, and also why the thirteen of them are willing to go anyway! This is bigger than any one of us – this is for the good of my people.”

“Your people?” Bilbo balked. “Don’t be daft, son. You’re a Shireling, not a warrior!”

“I am a hobbit, Da, born and raised. But I am also a dwarf, which is why I must go," Bas declared, squaring his shoulders. "They’re my kin and they need help. Wasn’t it you who taught me to choose the right path over the easy one?”

“Yes, and I am glad you took those words to heart. Surely, though, you can’t expect me to condone you going on such a hazardous mission!”

“But it’s not like I’d be going alone,” the tween reminded. Adopting an air of nonchalance, he added, “Technically, you wouldn’t have to condone me going anywhere with anyone if…well, if you went along, too.”

At that, Bilbo snorted. "Are you mad? For goodness sake, I’m a Baggins, not a burglar!"

“You’re a Took, too, aren’t you?” Bas pointed out, and well, Bilbo could hardly protest his own genealogy. “What about great-great-great-great-great uncle Bullroarer Took? Didn’t Great Uncle Hildigrim tell us that he once beheaded a goblin in the midst of battle, and sent it straight into a rabbit hole one hundred yards away?”

Glad that his son recalled what few memories he had of his dearly departed uncle, Bilbo smiled indulgently. “Those are just stories, lad. Tales told to settle a child’s mind before bed.”

It pained him to say it, to see Bas crumple with indignation, to watch his son's hopes be dashed like a candle's flame, snuffed by his father's fingers. What's more was that Bilbo could feel a part of himself - the part that still believed - deflate at his own words. Nevertheless, they needed to be spoken; if not for the lad's sake, then for his own. Because despite the small, undoubtedly Tookish voice in the back of his head that urged him to go gallivanting into peril and seek the adventure this mission promised, Bilbo had the good sense to ignore it.

However, Bas seemed to be of a different opinion. Expressing a conviction rarely shown, he rebutted, “Well, true or not, those tales taught me that if you give up at the beginning you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it.” “Just because you can’t find it in you to do doesn’t mean I want to waste this chance, too! I don’t want to have regrets, Da. It’s my life–”

“And I won’t allow you to risk it!” Bilbo exclaimed, emanating a finality that not even Bas at his most persuasive could argue. “End of discussion.”

The boy clamed up, biting his lip to keep what was probably a slew of curses learned form his older cousins at bay. He shut his eyes, hiding his disappointment from sight, but the trembling of his fists couldn't his disguise his anger. That was perfectly fine, Bilbo mused. Let him be angry. Let him sulk and swear and throw a fit.

Better he be safe and angry than the alternative.

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"Well, it appears we have lost our burglar," Balin sighed, eyeing his king knowingly. "Perhaps that is for the best, though, given your history."

Thorin couldn't help but concur. The mere idea of Bilbo tagging along on such a treacherous journey made his insides clench uncomfortably.

"Besides, there wasn't much hope to begin with," the older dwarf went on. "If Dain had offered us an army for aid, then maybe we could stand a better chance."

"You forget that we have a wizard in our company," Thorin reiterated Kili's earlier point. "That is not nothing."

“I trust Gandalf with my life,” Balin allowed, yet his tone suggested that this was not where his doubt stemmed from. “I also understand that a wizard is responsible not only for a company of dwarves, but also the entirely of Middle Earth. Intuition tells me the Grey Wizard has a goal of his own that parallels with ours. Given that assumption, we cannot rely solely on his power and guidance.”

"Then we will make due, with or without his presence," Thorin conceded, raising a hand to halt his friend's protest. "We might not have the best or the brightest, the largest or the mightiest. But when I called, it was these dwarves who answered, and that has proven them worthy enough already." He thought of his twelve kinsmen, ready to risk life and limb at his side, feeling his chest expand with pride. "Loyalty, honor, and a willing heart. I can ask for no more than that."

Balin softened. "All I am saying is that you do not have to risk your life on such a perilous endeavor. We are no longer a homeless, wandering tribe; you gave us a place to call our own, in the Blue Mountains, which now thrives. You’ve done honorably by our people," he reminded. "And on top of everything else, today of all days, you discover that you have a son. If that is not a sign, pray tell what is?"

"A son who would sooner see me strung by my beard than call me father," Thorin intoned soberly. And who could blame him?

"Oh, laddie, don't give your hopes up yet. Even the hardest of stones can corrode, given time and effort. Barnabas is young and hurt, and thus reckless with his anger. Not unlike another prince I used to know," he said slyly. Thorin scowled at the comparison. "You still have a chance to do honorably by him, too. But you forfeit that chance if you die."

As if Thorin hadn't considered as much. But there was no time to dwell on such things. He had a quest to lead, after all, and he had already spent too long wrestling his demons and brooding over his past failures. This was his chance to succeed, to finally redeem his homeland, his lineage. If that meant burying what pain lingered from his son’s rejection, so be it.

"I have not given up hope," he declared. "He is my son. Now that I know of him, I cannot simply leave it be, no matter how much he wishes it. When Smaug is slain and Erebor is reclaimed, I will return here and I will strive to make amends. Until then, I must put trust in our stars and have faith in my friends."

And his friend, who had watched him grow from a foolhardy prince to a leader in his own right, inclined his head.

"Then we are with you, until the very end," Balin vowed. "Wherever that may be."

Chapter Text

At dawn the company departed from the Shire, bound for the Misty Mountains. Although they had quite a bit of distance to cover before they reached their destination, they rode at a leisurely pace. This was the most amount of peace they were likely to see on their journey, after all, and it wouldn’t do well to squander it. The seasoned members of the group savored the lull, recognizing it as the calm before the storm; while some of the younger, more inexperienced members found it rather dull.

Ori was barely paying attention to the road, too busy scribbling in his journal, and it was up to the combined efforts of his brothers to keep the scribe from colliding into someone else’s pony. Fili was wondering if he ought to bother hiding an extra knife in his hair or if it would even be necessary. Kili was trying to perfect the art of steering a pony while glancing backwards – and failing miserably.

“You’re going to hurt your neck if you keep at it, laddie,” Oin cautioned.

“What’re you keeping watch for, anyway?” Bombur inquired curiously.

Bifur signed, “Checking to see if our burglar decides to change his mind?” Kili shrugged, which basically meant, more or less.

“Bah, a waste of time if you ask me,” Gloin asserted. “Doubt the halfling will change his mind.”

“I guess you’re right,” Kili agreed.

“Don’t be so hasty to dismiss our burglar, Master Kili,” Gandalf intervened, coming up from the rear. The dark-haired youth frowned at the wizard.

“Mister Gandalf, I don’t know if you recall, but my fellow eavesdroppers and I learned about – ” Quickly, he cut a glance at the head of the company, to ensure his uncle wasn’t listening, “ – the messy business between Master Baggins and my uncle firsthand, and I assure you, it was nothing short of painfully awkward.”

“And incredibly tense,” Fili concurred.

“Scary,” Ori recounted with a shudder.

“Yes, we all recall, considering the three of you told us everything the moment you escape,” Dori guffawed.

“In the long run, we were simply doing Uncle a favor,” Kili defended. “Can you imagine what it would’ve been like if he’d had to share the sordid details of his liaison?”

“He would have gotten that constipated expression on his face and the vein in his forehead would’ve positively bulged. I’m always afraid it will explode one day,” Fili said with concern.

“Then Oin will have to stitch his head and Uncle will be forced to wear a hat to hide his hideous scar.”

“And hats simply don’t suit him. A crown, maybe, but a furry deerstalker? Never.” Fili threw a sheepish look to his left. “No offense, Bofur.”

“None taken.”

“If you two are finished talking nonsense,” Oin interjected. “As Gandalf said, you could at least have a little faith. Master Baggins may still surprise us yet.”

“I can agree to that,” Bofur piped up. “Anything can happen, after all. Just because it isn’t probable doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

“Even with the boy?” Gloin hedged.

“The boy could very be the deciding factor,” Gandalf cut in again, revealing his trump card, so to speak. “He had his heart set on joining the quest, and with his persistence, I believe Bilbo will be hard-pressed to ignore his own spirit.”

“Well, if you’re so certain,” Nori said loftily, a mischievous smirk crawling across his face. “Care to make a wager?”

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Far over the misty mountains cold…

The dwarves’ haunting melody had woven its way into his dreams, stringing together visions of a kingdom wrought with misery, brought to ruin by flames, and then left to rot in darkness and decay.

Bilbo could see it behind closed eyelids, unable to escape, a nightmare he couldn’t outrun or ignore. He recalled the melancholy reflected in Thorin’s features when he used to gaze into the hearth all those years ago and he finally understood. Because he saw it now, too – children, perhaps Bas’s age or younger, watching as the only home they’d ever known was desecrated by dragon fire. He thought of the children born after, in the years of roaming, children who would grow up without the concept of a home.

What if that had been you? his mind whispered, and Bilbo couldn’t fathom a life without the stability and warmth Bag End had always provided for his family. What if that had been your son?

His eyes shot open, , and the first thing he noticed upon waking was the eerie lack of noise. Bilbo slowly crept from his bed, careful not to disturb the silence that now seemed out-of-a-place after an evening full of boisterous activity. After a brief yet thorough exploration, it became clear that the dwarves had departed while he slept, leaving not one trace of their mess behind.

I should be glad. Grateful, even, thought Bilbo, searching within himself for the annoyance he’d felt last night. He found a striking amount of sorrow instead, with more than a bit of regret mixed in to boot.

“What’s wrong with me?” he groaned aloud, thumping his head against the mantle for good measure. “I can’t seriously be considering – ”

That was when it caught his eye. A piece of parchment atop the fireplace; left intentionally, of course, and displayed in plain sight. A note? No, the contract. A last ditch effort should he change his mind. Probably Gandalf’s doing, cunning old man he was.

Tell me, what ever happened to the lad that used to run off in search of elves in the forest?

“Stop it,” he muttered. Whether to his subconscious or the memory of the wizard’s words, he wasn’t entirely sure. Both were equally detrimental to his general wellbeing, of that he was absolutely certain. “You’re not a child anymore. You are an adult. You are a father, a bachelor, a realist. You’ve only gone to battle with the weeds in your garden. You are nothing like the brave heroes of ballads or the warriors of Durin’s folk. You are a hobbit of the Shire, a Baggins of Bag End…”

You’re a Took, too, aren’t you?

Bilbo glared mulishly at the contract, the blank line meant for his signature glaring back expectantly, as if to say, Well?

“Confound it all!”

Without further adieu, he stomped down the hall and burst into his son’s room, startling the younger hobbit awake. “Wha–” Bas gasped.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Bas squinted at his father in wonderment. “Da?”

“First thing’s first,” Bilbo began, taking a deep breath through his nose. “There will be conditions. So, so many conditions.” And he listed them.

“Number one, you are to obey me implicitly, no matter the order. None of this rebellion business you’ve been so fond of recently.”

“Da–”

“Don’t interrupt,” Bilbo snapped, not missing a beat. “Number two, if I deem a situation too dangerous for you to be involved in, you will run or hide or dive into a pile of dung if need be. Which brings me to stipulation number three – ”

“Da–”

“Under no circumstances will you be going anywhere near a dragon. Understand?”

“Da!” Bas shouted, finally getting a word in edgewise. His voice was terribly hopeful as he spoke. “Does this mean...we’re going?”

Bilbo blinked, tirade momentarily forgotten. “Well, given those restrictions, I hardly see much point. There won’t be much excitement, you know.”

He almost topped over when Bas leapt out of bed, embracing his father for all he was worth. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he cried in a rush of bubbly joy.

“Yes, you’re very welcome,” said Bilbo blithely, if not somewhat muffled against his son’s curly head. “I hope you appreciate that not all parents are so generous as to allow their children to go on quests across Middle Earth so their father can commit burglary against the monstrous calamity.”

Unbothered by the sarcasm, Bas simply hugged him tighter. “Not all parents are as brave as you,” he mumbled into the crook of his father’s neck.

Clearing his throat, Bilbo gently detached his son. “Right, then. If we’re to catch them, we will have to pack quickly,” he reminded, ever the practical hobbit.

Bas nodded, bouncing about the room, throwing any clothes he could find onto his bed, spilling his sack of forge tools to make room for traveling items. Goodness, if it had been any other situation, Bilbo would’ve had a conniption at such a mess! As it was, he was organizing his son’s belongings while the lad dressed, with the intention of doing so himself once Bas was settled.

Suddenly, his son paused in the middle of the room, struck by some private epiphany. He bit his lip, conflicted, and turned towards his father. “Um, Da, there is one matter I wished to take care of before–”

“Yes, yes, go!" Bilbo waved him away. :You’re hopeless at packing, anyway – just hurry!”

Bas grinned. “What would I do without you, Da?”

“Valar forbid,” Bilbo grumbled, waiting until his son was out of earshot, unable to hear his fearful murmur, “And hopefully you will never have to find out.”

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“Wait!”

Bilbo yelled between pants of air, Bas hot on his heels. They had managed to catch up to the slow-moving company on foot, and he could only thank Eru that in his haste, he had remembered the contract that was currently hanging from his hand. Balin took it, and after a cursory examination, cheerfully proclaimed that it was binding. Bilbo didn’t know which feeling was more prevalent at this point – thrill or dread – and decided that it didn’t much matter now, since he was past the point of no return.

The reactions to their arrival varied greatly. Gandalf appeared entirely too pleased at having his instincts proven right. Several of the dwarves who bet on his word were grinning ecstatically, while those who had bet against were bit put out, but not enough to sour their mood against the newcomers. Dori shook his head at their antics and Ori added another note to his journal. Thorin was perhaps the worst off, his countenance too constipated to properly construe, which worried his nephews.

“There’s that vein,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, both he and his brother regarding their uncle’s forehead with wariness.

“Get them a pony,” the leader spoke at last, brusque and businesslike. So that was how it was going to be, eh? Well, that was probably for the best, Bilbo supposed. Then the reality of what Thorin had ordered set in, and he was quick to insist that a pony wasn’t necessary, please, he was just fine walking –

Of course, his protests went unheeded, and with a ungraceful yelp Bilbo found himself hoisted onto the creature anyway. Wonderful.

“Up you go, laddie,” said Bofur, hefting Bas into the saddle behind his father. He beamed graciously at the dwarf, a gesture that was returned in kind. Bilbo was less enthused about the whole endeavor, grasping the reins somewhat bewilderedly, as if waiting for the instructions on how to ride to appear out of thin air. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the pony’s hair was already irritating his nose, and wouldn’t luck have it that the only thing he’d forgotten to pack was a handkerchief?

“Bas, do you–” he started, only to be cut off by a particularly harsh sneeze.

Getting the gist of it, Bas replied, “Sorry, Da.”

“Wonderful,” Bilbo repeated glumly. They had a long, handkerchief-less road ahead.

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By the time the company stopped to make camp for the night, Bas was utterly saddle sore; yet despite the discomfort, the lad relished in the experience, ready to soak in every aspect of their journey. He wasn’t a fool, fully aware that the road ahead was going to be difficult, not all sunshine and glory. But if every quest was conquered with ease, he reasoned, there would be nothing worth remembering.

Worth remembering, Bas mused as he lie curled on his side, pretending to be asleep. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough for the lad, who was eager to prove himself. What would the folk back home think, he thought wildly, if they could see me now? Barnabas Baggins, a legend in the making. Okay, maybe he was being too fanciful, but it didn’t hurt to dream, did it?

He didn’t have much else to do, honestly. Da had told him to go to bed early, claiming he needed his rest. Knowing that his father wasn’t kidding about his conditions and unwilling to push his buttons, Bas did as he bade, although it was pointless. Sleep eluded him, and no, not because of the rock digging into his back, though that might have been a contributing factor.

The air felt different out here in the Wilds; more open, yet heavier with the weight of possibilities the land held. Bas breathed it in, chest expanding with so much anticipation he feared it might burst, and really, how was he expected to rest when his skin was stretching just trying to hold back his spirit from leaping into the night to join the stars above?

A piercing howl echoed through the sky, and Bas’s heart jolted at the ominous noise, however distant it sounded. His father had a similar reaction, and asked among the company for reassurance. His cousins were none too comforting, though, with their talk of orc raids and throat-slitting. Bas was getting the distinct impression that the pair were indeed the young jokesters of the pack, and he couldn’t help taking an almost instant liking to them; except now, when they were acting like a couple of arses.

Furthermore, Thorin was the least impressed with their ribbing, silencing them with a snarling remark. Bas grimaced at the harsh tone, understanding why it so easily cowed his cousins, and feeling slightly indignant on their behalf. True, they were being immature; but did he really have to be so damn waspish about it? Then again, perhaps he was too willing to find faults in his sire to form a reliable opinion.

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” said Balin kindly. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs.”

Bas wondered what more reason one needed to hate creatures that killed for pleasure and spite other than the obvious. But then the tale of a dire battle began to unfold aside the campfire, and Bas listened while the dwarves fought at the gates of Moira, only for their numbers to be hewed and hacked by a massive, merciless enemy. As the pale orc lopped off the king’s head in the ultimate act of cruelty and humiliation, a shiver swept down his spine, and he pondered how many of the warriors here had been there to witness it firsthand.

He felt sympathy for the prince of Balin’s account, who howled with grief at his grandfather’s demise, at the slaughter of his people – and oh, he understood now, that was the point of this telling, that was why Thorin abhorred orcs so.

Wait, what? Bas could scarcely believe what he’d heard, never mind realizing the repercussions, and apparently he wasn’t the only one.

“Prince?” Da sputtered, forcing the story to a screeching halt. “You were a prince?”

“Uncle, you never mentioned it?” Fili balked.

“And he’s king now, if you were paying attention,” Kili pointed out.

Then that would make me…make me…

Bas shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts from his mind. If I was being fanciful before, this is pure lunacy. Son or not, though, there was something to be said for legitimacy, and the reminder calmed him down. He wouldn’t be ascending the throne any time soon. Still, to be related to this lineage in any manner, much less a direct descendant of the royal house…

Rather than open up another can of worms, Da seemed content to let this information digest quietly, so Bas followed suit, continuing his façade of slumber. Likewise, Balin went on as if no interruption had occurred; the true mark of a master storyteller. Against all odds, Thorin had managed to defeat the pale orc, succeed in avenging his grandfather, and claim victory for his people. Although their losses were steep, there was hope yet, evident in the white-bearded dwarf’s voice as he concluded his narration.

“And I thought to myself then, there is one I could follow. There is one I could call king.”

No longer able to feign sleep, Bas turned to the find every member of the company awake, assembled around their king. The sight was something to behold, a scene straight from a storybook, painted into reality by a bard’s song. And standing there at the cliff’s ledge, framed by the pale moonlight, was Thorin. For all his misgivings, not even Bas could tear his gaze away, distracted by boyish awe and reverence; and that was when it truly sunk in, that the hero of Balin’s tale and the blacksmith who had sired him, the father he both desired and resented, were one in the same.

Chapter Text

Rain poured from the sky, thick and unrelenting, drenching the company from the top of their heads to the hooves of their ponies. Some might consider the poor weather a symbol of ill-omens to come – superstitious nonsense, Gandalf grumbled. Not to say they weren’t going to run into any trouble; no, in the case of this venture, it was inevitable that they would be confronted with some form of obstacle sooner rather than later.

Moreover, this matter was of little consequence at the moment, for there was nothing he could do against future woes that had yet to present themselves. The puzzle he was currently engrossed with had nothing to do with what lay ahead and everything to do with what was behind; specifically, the pensive lad sitting behind him, quiet as could be.

Whilst they were readying to begin their day’s journey earlier that morn, Gandalf had taken notice of the boy’s unusual silence. Obviously absorbed in his thoughts, he paid hardly any attention to his surroundings; a stark contrast to the wonder-struck gaze that had eagerly drunk in every ounce of scenery the day before.

He didn’t appear troubled, per se. Merely withdrawn. Even so, Gandalf had offered to let the lad ride with him today in the hopes of raising his spirits. He was fully prepared to share stories of his lengthy travels, many of them magnificent in nature, if he did say so himself. But to his utmost surprise, he wasn’t badgered by any curious inquiries, not once. Besides the blow to his ego, it signified that there was indeed something weighing on Bas, and the wizard intended to help sort him out if he could.

“Is there something on your mind, young Barnabas?” he asked discreetly, slowing until they were at the tail end of the company. He had a feeling the lad wouldn’t be comfortable expressing himself where others might hear.

“Hm? No, well…” The boy shifted in his seat, all but confessing his worries outright. “…not exactly.”

Gandalf didn’t pry further, patiently waiting for Bas to divulge in more detail. This time, he wasn’t disappointed.

“It’s a bit much to take in at once, I s’ppose,” Bas said eventually. Once the initial confession rolled off his tongue, the rest followed easily, the words leaving him in a rush. “Learning that your long-lost father wasn’t the simple blacksmith you always thought he was, and now, suddenly I’m descended from a long, illustrious line of kings. Meanwhile, I’m still just…Bas.”

“Just Bas?” Gandalf repeated, raising a bushy brow. “Why, you couldn’t be farther from the truth, my boy. You’re a fine, upstanding lad; I told your father as much on the day we met.”

“But no matter how you look at it, I’m a commoner. Or at least, I was raised like one. I’ve never done anything of distinction before and I don’t know if I ever will.” Blue eyes stared in the direction of his father and cousins, clouded with insecurity, voice laced with despondency. “How am I ever supposed to measure up?”

“Measure up? Goodness, what do you think this is: a height competition?” At that, Bas cracked a smile, snickering at the jibe. Gandalf was glad to see his expression lighten. “Ah, that’s better, isn’t it? You’ve no need to look so glum in the first place. What you fail to take into account is that you’re new to this world and you can hardly help your inexperience. Nobody is born a brazen warrior or a gallant king. Such things come with time. Believe me, there will be plenty of chances to prove yourself down the road. But only if you first give yourself a chance. Understand?”

Bas jerked his head in assent. “Thank you, Mister Gandalf,” he said after a beat, sincere and polite. “I will try to keep that in mind.”

“You are quite welcome,” said Gandalf warmly, staring at the path ahead. They had a long way to go and the rain showed no signs of stopping. “This weather reminds me of an amusing anecdote that involved your great grandfather, a barmaid’s apron and a particularly odd rutabaga farmer. Would you care to hear it?”

“Yes, please,” was the cheery reply, and it filled Gandalf with triumph to know that despite his seeming inability to solve every shadowy threat that lay over the increasingly dark horizon, he could still bestow a bit of valuable wisdom on a youth in need of guidance; a feat of equal, if not higher, accomplishment.

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Another day of travel passed uneventfully. Dusk was thrust upon them in no time at all, so the company stopped to set up camp beside an abandoned farmhouse, much to Gandalf’s consternation.

Bas dismounted with a grimace. Having no previous riding experience whatsoever, his lower half didn’t appreciate spending a ridiculous amount of time on a pony.

“Saddle sore?” Fili guessed after witnessing his poor, wobbly excuse for walking. He gave him a jovial pat on the back, chuckling. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Cheer up, mate. I’ve got something that will take your mind off your bum,” said Kili.

Bas narrowed his eyes. “Not a punch to the arm, is it?” he asked suspiciously. “Cousin Gruffo had a habit of doing that.”

“’Course not,” snorted his cousin, and to prove his sincerity, the dark-haired dwarf revealed the aforementioned something. Bas perked at the sight of it.

“A bow,” he murmured. “Yours?”

Kili nodded proudly. Bas admired the handmade quiver, the tightly drawn string. He had to admit, it was a beautiful piece, though he wasn’t sure how it was meant to “cheer” him up. “So what’s – ”

“Wait,” Fili shushed, placing a finger over his lips. He nodded at Kili. “Watch.”

Huffing, Bas listened nonetheless. He stayed quiet while Kili strung an arrow, taking aim at a tree standing straight ahead. He let it fly, and the arrow went soaring through the air, embedding itself into the bark.

“Impressive,” he remarked. “But I still don’t see what the point of it was.”

“The point, dear cousin,” a grinning Kili explained, “is we want to properly welcome you into the company by giving you a test of courage.”

“An initiation, if you will,” continued his brother, leading an apprehensive Bas to the base of the tree Kili had pierced. “See, it’s a dwarvish tradition for a young warrior to prove his courage, strength and determination by retrieving the arrow.”

Bas squinted upwards, straining to locate the arrow through the last, lingering rays of sunlight leaking through the trees. “That’s rather high…” he mumbled uncertainly.

A hand clasped his shoulder, sympathetically. “We understand if you choose not to partake,” Kili said in accommodating tone.

“Like you said, it is quite a climb,” Fili nodded. “And not everyone is up to the challenge. What an achievement it would’ve been, though.”

“Pity,” sighed Kili.

Indignation swelled in the half-hobbit’s chest, an unfortunate folly of youth – another was the subconscious desire to be acknowledged amongst his peers. Even with his good sense screaming at him to stop and think like a respectable hobbit should, it was his adolescent impulse that compelled him to do the exact opposite.

Shaking off his cousin’s hand, Bas gazed up at the arrow with newfound determination, estimating the overall height of the tree. Unbeknownst to him, the brothers shared a mischievous look behind his back, clearly pleased with how easily their target had taken the bait.

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“He’s going to break a leg.”

“He’s going to break his neck if he isn’t careful.”

“How did this happen?” demanded Thorin, stalking to Dwalin’s side. Following his friend’s line of sight, he was met with the unsettling sight of his smaller than average son climbing a tree that was thrice his size, at least.

“Someone left him alone with those two knuckleheads,” Dwalin grunted, jerking a thumb in Fili and Kili’s direction.

Thorin cast a glare at his nephews; who, as if sensing its heat upon them, slowly crept away from his line of sight, mumbling something about “the vein.” Never mind, he thought, resolving to deal with them later.

“Laddie, you had better climb down! ‘Tis not safe!” Oin advised.

“I’m almost at the top!” Bas protested.

“And when you reach your destination, exactly how do you plan on descending?” questioned Balin, ever the practical thinker.

“In the same manner I ascended, only backwards,” the boy answered, as though it were obvious.

Nori snorted. “Sharp tongue on that one, eh?”

“He gets it from his father,” said Thorin long-sufferingly. He had a feeling that flinging common sense at the child was not going to succeed. He had been young once, too, after all (though it seemed like an eternity ago).

He stepped to the forefront of the gathered dwarves, ready to assert his authority. Sternly, he addressed his son, “Barnabas, I will not ask twice – I am ordering you to climb down now.”

There was no response to his command, verbal or otherwise, and this threw Thorin through somewhat of a loop. Never mind that he was accustomed to being obeyed by his underlings; it was, he assumed, an unspoken fact that a child heeded its parent. Having thus been proven false, his resolve wavered, and he embarrassedly considered summoning Bilbo to handle it. Then came shame, hot and cloying, for what kind of father was he if couldn’t even sort out such a simple incident by himself?

In the midst of him brooding over his inadequacy, there a snap of a branch cracking, a strangle yelp, followed by a cry of “Bas!” that might have come from his own mouth, but more likely someone else’s. The lad had lost his footing, apparently, yet managed to right himself before falling to what would have been his death. And then he continued his ascent, as though the mistake had never happened, the thickheaded little fool.

And like so many parents before him, Thorin came to a dreadful realization. Mahal, the dragon will have nothing left to incinerate by the time we reach the mountain. This child will be the death of me.

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Closer to the campsite, Bilbo was having an amiable conversation regarding supper with the company’s designated cook, Bombur. Aside of them sat Dori, engrossed in his knitting, and Bilbo wondered if many of his initial impressions of the dwarves were a tad misjudged. Despite their warrior ways, Bombur had plenty to say about the merits of adding parsley to the stew and Dori clearly had a knack for intricate stitching. The familiarity of these tasks set him at ease, and for the first time since stepping outside his front door, Bilbo thought that perhaps he wasn’t entirely in over his head after all.

So of course, that was the cue for his son to do something spectacularly ill-timed and foolish.

It started with a chorus of cries coming from the tree-line, where the rest of the dwarves had gone to collect firewood and tend to the ponies. “What’s all the ruckus?” Dori wondered aloud.

They were at a far enough distance that it was hard to discern what was going on, but just near enough that Bilbo could swear that, with his paternally-tuned ears, he could hear his son’s name being shouted.

“Excuse me a moment,” he sighed, standing. Might as well nip this in the bud.

His nerves were already on edge after Gandalf’s sudden departure, and he would be lying if the wizard’s disappearance coupled with Thorin’s none-too-reassuring promise of his return didn’t have him worried. Therefore, upon finding his son scaling a tall tree and paying no heed to those urging him to descend, Bilbo was in no mood to tolerate such antics.

“Barnabas Baggins, get down from there this instant.”

The reaction was instantaneous. A few minutes later, without fail, Bas scrambled down from the tree. He landed with a dull thump, with more haste than grace, but wasn’t the least bit harmed. Immediately, he tried to explain, “Da, I was just – Ouch!” only to groan when Bilbo caught his ear between his fingers.

“I ought to do more than pinch your ear. What were you thinking, scaling a tree that high? You could have been seriously hurt! You begged to come along on this journey, so it’s time you realize that this isn’t a holiday; these are the Wilds, and thus, you must exhibit a bit more caution than you normally would at home.”

Bas winced at the release of his ear, rubbing the sore appendage. However, Bilbo was far from finished.

“Furthermore, the other members of this company are you elders, and much more experienced in navigating these areas. You will listen to them even when I am not present, especially your father. Do I make myself clear?”

Mutely, Bas nodded. “Good. Now, I believe our poor excuse for a firewood pile could do with some improvement. Off you go – and don’t stray too far!”

As he hurriedly went to complete his chore, the princes could no longer contain their amusement and began laughing outright. Poor choice on their part; Bilbo whirled on them quicker than a crow on a freshly spotted carcass.

“And you two,” he accused, putting an end to their merriment. “I do not appreciate your bad influence on my son. Eru knows he gets enough of it from my mother’s side.”

“Us?” said a wide-eyed Kili.

“Bad influences?” Fili uttered in shock.

“Don’t play innocent or dumb. Neither suits you very well,” Bilbo retorted, unfazed. “I understand that you had no ill intentions, and it’s just playful ribbing from your perspective, but Bas is younger than you. And as his older cousins, I would have thought you’d be more inclined to look out for him, rather than pull pranks that could potentially do him harm.”

The shock on Fili’s face was no longer a ruse, and to the hobbit’s satisfaction, both brothers looked properly ashamed of their behavior.

“We’re sorry,” Fili said sincerely.

“Truly,” echoed Kili.

“Very good. You should go assist Bas with the kindling. Three collectors are better than one, after all.”

And to the amazement of the rest of the company, Fili and Kili complied without complaint. “Yes, Mister Boggins, sir!” they chorused before running off in pursuit of their cousin.

In the wake of this bewildering turn of events, every dwarf in the general vicinity, Thorin included, were unsure of how to respond or proceed. All except one, that is.

Bofur felt a tap at his shoulder and obligingly turned.

‘Can we keep him?’ signed Bifur.

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Bas was hunched over, collecting dry sticks and twigs, when an unexpected force collided with his back, sending him spiraling towards the ground. Or two forces, to be exact.

“Ugh,” he groaned, spitting out clumps of dirt and half-chewed leaves. “For Eru’s sake, watch where you’re running before you barrel into someone like that!”

“Er, sorry,” said a sheepish Fili, offering him a hand.

“What you in such a hurry for?”

“We came to apologize,” Kili answered earnestly.

“For getting me into trouble, you mean?” he inquired, without any real bite. He shrugged. “That was mostly my fault, anyway.”

“True, but we’re the ones who egged you on. You’re our little cousin, and it isn’t fair of us to take advantage of your inexperience.” Fili sounded absolutely contrite as he spoke. “So really, it is our fault you got chewed out. And we’re sorry.”

Bas was silent for a moment, taking that in, before replying with an air of nonchalance, “Whaddya mean, sorry? If anything, you should be congratulating me.”

Fili opened his mouth to protect, and then closed it again, blinking as Bas reached into his coat and handed something to his brother.

“You…” Kili began in astonishment, glancing between Bas and the retrieved arrow in his hands without comprehending what he was seeing.

“Heh. Feat of bravery? More like child’s play,” Bas declared smugly. “Hobbits are fairly decent climbers, you know.”

Recognition flitting across their features at last, the brothers beamed. The look in their eyes, directed at him, was that of true respect, and undoubtedly worth all the ear pulls in the world. Even more so because it hadn’t been spurred by Da’s disapproval or Thorin’s steely gaze. This he had earned all on his own.

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“That was a most impressive display you put on back there, Master Baggins,” Balin complimented over supper that night.

“Aye. It was a scolding worthy of my wife,” said Gloin proudly.

“Well…thank you, I suppose,” said Bilbo haltingly. He had never been praised for his child-wrangling skills; at least not aloud. “‘Twas nothing special. A little discipline goes a long while.”

Balin nodded like he knew what he was saying, from hard-won experience. “With a pair of rascals like Fili and Kili, one would have to adapt that sort of mindset,” he said by way of explanation.

The rascals in question had been sent to tend to the ponies, as punishment for their earlier tom-foolery.

“Was Bas a difficult child?” Dori inquired curiously.

Bilbo considered it for a moment. “No more than any other youngling in the Shire. For the most part, Bas was wonderfully behaved. Except when he was stubborn.”

He saw Balin cut a glance at Thorin, full of mirth and amusement, which was purposefully ignored.

“Why, I remember one night, when Bas was about seven-years-old. I read him a bedtime story about a king and his grand castle. Well, afterwards, he demanded we set about building our own. It was much too late to start erecting architecture, so I told him we could attempt it tomorrow before tucking him in. At the crack of dawn, I was woken by a loud clatter – frantically, I rushed out to find that Bas had snuck out of his room to begin building himself a castle, using my books.”

“I remember that, too," Bas piped up. “It rained all day, so we stayed inside and played protecting the king’s fortress.”

“The binding on those books was never quite the same,” Bilbo sighed fondly. “Nevertheless, it made for a pleasant morning.”

The nostalgic story gained a quiet chorus of chuckles and smiles, creating a circle of pleasantness around the circle. It put Bilbo at ease, even with them still missing a wizard and the two princes. But the pair had learned their lesson from earlier, he reasoned, as had Bas. So there was really nothing to worry about.

And hopefully, after today, that meant that would be the end of any more shenanigans.

Chapter Text

“Trolls? Honestly!”

“At least they were utter numbskulls,” said Bofur in response to Bilbo’s exasperation. “What would we have done against a trio of slightly intelligent lumps that thought more with their heads than their stomachs?”

“Says the dwarf who isn’t covered in troll bogies,” the hobbit mumbled.

“Says the hobbit who wasn’t nearly roasted on a spit,” Bofur reminded.

“Guess there’s no point in arguing who had it worse,” Bas offered diplomatically.

Both parties of the conversation glared disbelievingly at him. “Says the lad who watched the whole affair from the safety of the bushes,” snorted the dwarf, as he adjusted his hat.

“Hey, while Da stalled for time, I ran into Gandalf and led him to you all!” Bas bristled. He would have helped, if he'd not been told to stay out of it. “That has to count for something.”

“Very little, I’m afraid,” Bofur laughed in that good-natured way that had made Bas like him the moment they met.

After everyone had been freed from their sacks, pulled off the spit and re-dressed, the company followed Gandalf deeper into the forest, searching for the troll’s horde. They found it not far from the camp; a cave emanating an odor so foul Bas wondered if prolonged exposure to the fumes hadn’t addled the trolls’ brains, thus accounting for the lack of common sense.

Da was currently preoccupied; too busy conferring with Dori over what might rid the stench of troll from their clothing to chastise him for poking around such a filthy place, so Bas took the opportunity to slip away. As long as he was brief, he would be back in a jiffy and Da would be none-the-wiser.

“Mind your step, laddie,” cautioned Dwalin. “No telling what those dunderheads left lying around.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled gratefully, though still intent on exploring. The burly dwarf shook his head but let him be.

To his surprise, a whole section of the cave was devoted to a small fortune’s worth of treasure. And while Bas found the prospect of owning such a share of riches after this endeavor was done quite enticing, the troll’s gold failed to hold his interest for very long. That didn’t stop him from sneaking a few gold coins – the cleanest he could find without looking too hard – into his pocket.

Some distance ahead of him, Thorin and Gandalf were inspecting a collection of swords. Where the devil the trolls came across them was beyond Bas, and Gandalf seemed similarly perturbed by the question, as they were clearly no ordinary weapons; even Bas could distinguish that from where he stood. They were ancient, beautiful and oh, what he wouldn’t give to call a sword of such make his own someday…

Then Gandalf mentioned something about the blades being elven – which to Bas was no surprise, knowing what he did about elves from Da, who was an open admirer of them – and Thorin’s expression curdled like he’d swallowed mouthful of sour milk. He made as if to put the sword back, quality be damned, and Bas would have cried out at the injustice of such a gorgeous blade being left to rot in this dunghole if the wizard had not beaten him to it.

Later, as he was exiting the cave, he mentioned it to the dwarf nearest to him - which happened to be Balin. “What’s it matter if the blade was crafted by elves?” he asked aloud.

“The relationship between our people and the elves is, shall we say, strained. There is much history and none of it very civil,” the older dwarf explained.

Bas made a face. Sure, the Shire had its fair share of disputes among families or individuals – the Sackville-Bagginses came to mind – but never to the point that it interfered in annual holidays or day-to-day life. “History or no, you can’t deny they make a fine blade,” he remarked, risking a sidelong glance at the swords his father and Gandalf now carried.

“Aye,” Balin conceded grudgingly. He glanced at Bas with curiosity, noticing the wistful way he observed the relic blades. “Have you an interest in swords?”

“I was apprenticed to the blacksmith back in Hobbiton. He said I was a natural,” Bas said, not without a hint of pride.

“Actually, I meant an interest in wielding swords,” Balin replied, stroking his beard contemplatively. “But that is intriguing. A natural smithy, you say?”

“Like father, like son,” snorted Dwalin as he passed. The statement was by no means covert, but Bas still ignored it like he ignored the awful twinge in his chest.

He walked away from that conversation and all its implications and wandered over to Bilbo. “Wow, Da, is that yours?” he asked excitedly, spotting the dagger in his father’s hands. “Lucky.”

“Lucky will be if I manage not to poke my own eye out,” Bilbo scoffed, warily eyeing his new weapon. “Although I suppose it might come in handy. See these markings? According to Gandalf, they’re meant to glow when…”

Da broke off mid-sentence, eyes going wide and alert.

“…when, what?” Bas prompted, only to notice that the company had gone silent as well, all forms of chatter ceasing. Then he heard it, too, and he understood; a sound in the distance, something loud and making no attempt to disguise its approach.

The dwarves took up arms; even Da brandished his sword, though the sight of him would have been silly if not for the direness of the situation. Bas’s breath seized in his throat, panicked and –

“Whoa!” cried the man that leapt from out of the underbrush, riding a sleigh pulled by…rabbits?

A collective wave of confusion swept over everyone. The tension that had been present mere seconds ago dissipated into thin air at the arrival of this odd man, shouting nonsensically and dressed like he meant to blend in with the forestry. There was a look shared amongst the company, wondering, ‘Who is this loon?’

Da, for his part, appeared equally bewildered but also relieved. Apparently Gandalf was the only one who had any idea of what was going on. “Radagast!” he bellowed jovially, greeting the brown-clad man like an old friend.

“Radagast the Brown,” Da voiced, thinking the same as his son. “He must be the wizard Gandalf spoke of.”

“Reckon he’s had one mushroom too many, that one,” Gloin murmured. Although Bas considered that a rather mean assumption, he didn’t necessarily disagree. As he watched the brown-clad wizard pluck a stick insect from his tongue, he decided that Mister Radagast looked like a very interesting sort of person, to say the least.

“Here you are, lad,” he said to Bas, depositing the creature into his palm, much like a grandfather would gift a treat to a small child. Bas caught it without thinking, staring dumbly at the tiny creature before realizing where it had been and dropping it with a mute cry of disgust. Behind him, he could hear his cousins’ chortle.

Gandalf pulled his fellow wizard aside with obvious intent; they seemed to have important business to discuss. However, since this business seemed unrelated to their quest, the disinterested dwarves left them to it, resuming their own tasks and conversations. In hindsight, it was a mistake to let their guard down, even if just for a few measly minutes.

A howl pierced their tranquil repose, deep and feral and hungry. It startled all of them into action, each dwarf clutching their weapons faster than Bas’s lungs clenched within his ribcage.

Not fast enough, though.

The warg leapt at them from the high ground, snout open in a ferocious snarl, foaming at the prospect of prey. And Bas stood, ripe for the tearing, right in the beast’s line of attack and he couldn’t move, damn it, not in time to avoid being mauled –

Yanked backwards by the scruff of his neck, Bas fell unceremoniously to the ground. Never so glad to be manhandled in all his life, he staggered further away from the wretched creature that Dwalin was quick to fell with a few mighty swoops of his axe. Another came from the opposite side, although this one didn’t make it far before an arrow was lodged in its throat, courtesy of Kili.

“Bas!” Da rasped, falling to his knees and drew his son into a frenzied half-embrace before examining him for injury. When a cursory check showed nothing except a healthy dose of shock, the older hobbit was breathless with relief. “Thank Eru, you’re safe,” he sighed, and then gave a gracious, “Thank you!” to whomever it was who’d pulled Bas out of harm’s way.

Bas glanced behind him, wanting to see who his savior had been, to express his own gratitude…

…and when he did, it was Thorin he saw staring back, his blue eyes almost black with undistinguishable emotion.

There were so many things he wished to say in that moment, words he was suddenly uncertain he would ever get the chance to say again, and “Thank you” was least among them; yet the words wouldn’t form. His father nodded once, eyes tracing over Bas’s face like he was committing it to memory. In truth, the exchanged lasted but a few split seconds, and by the time he had gathered his wits Thorin had moved away and Da was standing again. Bas remained where he was, unsure of what to do with his pitiful self.

“You alright, m’boy?” Oin bent, uttering the words quietly, gently into Bas’s ear.

“Y-Yes,” he stuttered, allowing himself to be hauled off the ground. Voices argued in the background, loud and decisive, but they were all blurred together in a distant-sounding buzz. “That’s the first time I’ve seen anything killed in cold blood. ‘Cept maybe a spider.”

The physician snorted, yet didn’t comment on the fact that his hands were still shaking. Bas wanted to thank him for that, but acknowledging it would’ve defeated the purpose of his kindness, wouldn’t it?

Growls rippled through the trees, carried on the wings of wind and echo. Nobody was pleased by how near they sounded or how many there were. And though Radagast was certain he could outrun them, there was no telling how long his distraction would last. Which meant that, more likely than not, they were going to have to flee for their lives.

“I hope you’re as good a runner as you are a climber,” Fili said to him, the light jibe clearly meant to set him at ease.

But the rapid beat of his heart couldn’t be quelled, bouncing like a spring coil at the bottom of his throat, even as Bas swallowed it back. “Me, too,” he replied, the words lost to the pounding of frantic feet against the earth.

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If the terror of being attacked by a warg pack – and Bilbo pondered how he ever thought plain ol’ wolves would be a problem – didn’t kill him, the daunting, long-distance sprint would definitely finish the job.

For a hobbit of my age, I’m definitely in shape, he huffed furiously. Yet this is ridiculous!

Of course, the extra strain on his heart could very well be attributed to the fact that it was beating extra hard, due to the fear of imminent death racing after them.

Despite his heaving chest, Bilbo kept up with the company without much struggle; the dwarves were, rather strategically, ensuring that he and Bas were poised in the middle of the group (and if he was a bit touched by that, well, now was not the time to dwell on it!). If anything, he muddled through because for whatever inexplicable reason, he trusted the wizard leading them.

“Where are you taking us?” Thorin demanded in a low voice. Gandalf said nothing in response, which irked the king to no end.

This is no time to be arguing with the wizard showing you a path to refuge! Bilbo thought with a surge of irritation towards his ex-lover. Then again, it was difficult to stay annoyed with the dwarf who had snatched their son away from the jaw of a warg.

He shuddered in remembrance of it. But the chill vacated his body as soon as they emerged from the tunnel they shuffled through at Gandalf's behest, the warm glow of the sun enveloping him like a mother's embrace. The sight before him was breathtaking and surreal, to the point where Bilbo had to pinch himself to believe he was really here.

“Oh,” gasped Bas, mouth agape. “This is…”

“Welcome to the Valley of Imaldris,” Gandalf announced smugly. He had done as promised and led them to safety, after all, despite the myriad of doubts and complaints he received for his trouble.

“Rivendell,” Bilbo whispered gleefully, smiling so broadly he thought his cheeks might burst at the seams. “Beautiful…I’ve only ever dreamt of seeing it in the flesh.”

Ever since he was a boy, bright-eyed and apple-cheeked, he’d always wanted to someday visit the elven city. Tucked in with stories of his relatives’ rambles in the lands east of the Shire, a small Bilbo Baggins had spent hours scouring the forest for elves or treasure.

Until this moment, that dream had been misplaced, shoved aside, along with the rest of his childhood fancies.

Now his heart was palpitating, much like it had during the harrowing chase, only the difference was that it wasn’t fear, cold and coiled, bundled in the hollow crooks of his ribcage this time; it was excitement, hot and exhilarating, a balloon of expanding air that filled him with a downright Tookish thrill. This was a feeling long-forgotten, an echo of finding an undiscovered path and following to see where it led, of nicking cooling pies from his neighbors’ windowsills and of chasing the tail ends of Old Took’s magnificent fireworks with his cousins as the sparks fell around the party tree.

This was what it was like to have an adventure.

His companions were not as moved by the scene, which Bilbo supposed had more to do with their races' long-standing feud than their dislike of the view. In fact, the lot of them were just as on edge as they'd been in the Wilds, evident in how they drew their weapons and formed a huddle at the cry of an elven warrior's horn.

Bilbo found himself thrown to the center of the company alongside his son, and really, he did appreciate the sentiment behind Bofur’s none-too-gentle tug but he doubted that the elves had any ill-will. His intuition was proven correct, of course, when the elf known as Lord Elrond - resembling every bit the wise warrior of yore he was - greeted them with nothing except the utmost hospitality.

“Our home is welcome to you, company of Thorin Oakenshield,” said Lord Elrond magnanimously. “We offer food and baths and beds, for you must be weary from your travels.”

At that moment, Bilbo realized how disgusting he must be, covered in more than a few days worth of dirty and grime, not to mention a heady layer of troll snot. Troll. Snot.

Needless to say, a bath sounded absolutely decadent at this point, never mind a meal with enough girth to satisfy a hobbit’s appetite.

With their options nonexistent, and the memory of a warg pack nipping at their heels fresh in everyone’s minds, Bilbo watched Thorin reluctantly accept Lord Elrond’s offer. Most of the dwarves looked loathed to set aside their pride in exchange for a night’s worth of comfort.

Contrariwise, the hobbit could not have been more pleased. Prejudice be damned, they were officially guests of the Last Homely House east of the sea, and Bilbo intended to take full advantage of that privilege.

Starting with a warm bath.

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Supper was as rowdy an affair it had been at Bag End. Apparently not even the lack of meat or their distrust of elves could vanquish the dwarves’ cheerful mood.

At first, Bas was astonished by their effortless merriment. He was still reeling from their earlier encounter, trying to wrap his head around the threats that lay beyond the borders of Lord Elrond’s land (which was protected by magic, the elf Gandalf had greeted as Lindir had assured, as if sensing Bas’s lingering anxiety). Knowing what the Wilds entailed and witnessing the reality of it were two vastly different things, and for not the first time on this journey, Bas was acutely aware of not only his age and inexperience, but also his vulnerability.

For this reason, his companion’s antics were a welcome reprieve, and so compelling that he couldn’t help but laugh with them, too. Even after Da excused himself – probably to do a bit of wandering apart from the dwarves and their hatred of all things involving elves, when all Da wanted to do was marvel at their architecture and gush about the elegance of their culture (which was perfectly alright with Bas. He had noticed the expression of elation on Da’s face upon their arrival, and it made him look younger than Bas ever remembered him being. He knew his father must have had to do a lot of growing up after his birth, so it was refreshing to see him act like a giddy child on Yuletide morn) – Bas opted to stay a while longer.

Eventually, he did follow suit and leave the lively dining hall. En route, he caught Nori examining some of the tapestries that lined Lord Elrond's expansive halls a little ways ahead of him, though the dwarf didn't seem to notice his presence. Within the last couple of days, he'd learned enough about this particular dwarf's trade to know he wasn't ogling them for their historical value. Just as the his fingertips brushed the undoubtedly priceless fabric, his wrist was caught in an iron-grip.

“Hands off, thief,” Dwalin growled warningly.

“Come now, Mister Dwalin, I’m hurt by that accusation,” Nori said, affecting a tone of innocence. “I was only admiring the décor. I’ve got a keen eye for finery, as you well know.”

“And a hand for pilfering.”

“Guilty,” the thief chirped. For someone being confronted by a dwarf who had earlier hacked a warg to pieces, Nori didn’t sound very repentant. “But I’ve promised to keep my hands to myself unless explicitly told otherwise, remember?”

“See that you do,” Dwalin barked, offering one last scowl. Nori waved him goodbye, waiting until the larger dwarf was out of sight before procuring a silver spoon from his sleeve, snickering in triumph.

“How did you manage that?” asked Bas, emerging from the shadows.

Nori startled at his abrupt input. “Damn. Didn’t even notice you lurking there,” he cursed, sounding impressed. “Seems you caught me at it again. I’ll say this: you hobbits do have a knack for sneaking.”

“Well, that is why Da’s here, right?” Bas reminded.

“Aye,” the thief confirmed. “But as you can see, it takes more than silent pair of feet to be a decent criminal. You also need swift hands, a glib tongue and – “ He rolled the silver fork between his fingers, and with a flick of his wrist, slid it beneath his sleeve, “ – a fair bit of improvisation.”

Bas shrugged. “Don’t look at me! I’m just the bloke who hides in the bushes and fetches the wizard. You ought to be giving him burglarizing lessons, not me.”

“Hm. Fair point,” Nori muttered thoughtfully. There was a flicker of something, an idea of some sort, dancing within the color of his eyes. “Anyway, only crooks like me should be skulking about in the dark. You best be off to bed.”

It was true that Bas had been drained by the day's events. Even so, he furrowed his brow at the suggestion. “Never pegged you as the type to enforce rules.”

“Too right,” Nori agreed with a chuckle. “But if Dori catches me keeping you up, he’ll have both our heads.”

“Aren’t you too old to be bossed around like that?” he teased.

Nori smirked knowingly. “Bas, if there’s one thing my criminal career has taught me time and time again, it’s that you’re never too old to receive a harsh scolding from your elders.”

Speaking of which, Da had most likely returned from his ramble, and there was fairly good chance he’d be miffed if Bas hadn’t already settled down for a proper night of rest. Fearing his father’s wrath, Bas bid the thief a hasty goodnight, and hurried in the direction of where he believed his room was.

Elven rooms were large enough to accommodate several dwarves, let alone a hobbit and his son. Since he and Da were sharing, he expected to find Bilbo waiting up for him, perhaps reading a book of elvish lore he had already borrowed from their host’s library.

However, there was no sign of his father. Bas found it strange, yes, but being in such close proximity to an actual bed made him realize how well and truly exhausted he was. Unable to summon the strength for further investigation, he pulled on his nightclothes, and was preparing to climb underneath the covers when his father walked in.

“Where were you, Da?” Bas inquired.

“Standing idle while ancient text was decoded and heads were butted, if you must know,” Bilbo replied airily. “The message on the map Gandalf was given by Thorin’s father was written in moon runes; letters that can only be read by the moon they were written on. Which happened to be the moon hanging in the sky tonight, if you can believe it.”

“After spending a day being chased to an elven city by a pack of bloodthirsty animals, I’m ready to believe anything,” said Bas honestly. He chewed his bottom lip in anticipation of his next question: “What does the message mean for us?”

“Essentially, we have some time before we absolutely have to leave, so Gandalf suggested we linger here awhile to replenish our strength and supplies. And I heartily agreed. We should be in Rivendell for at least a week, Eru willing,” Bilbo affirmed with a smile that spoke volumes about his own enthusiasm. “And you know what gives us?”

Slowly but surely, a grin spread across Bas’s face, ‘till he was beaming ear-to-ear.

“Plenty of time to explore.”

Chapter Text

Refreshed after waking from a long and dreamless sleep, Bas rushed to dress and scrub his face, vigor renewed to what it had been at the start of their journey. And as such, he was not about to waste his reclaimed energy loafing in bed while there was a vast, elven estate to discover.

Even breakfast, tempting though it was, could not distract him from his goal. Hobbits usually weren’t the kind to turn down any meal – let alone heaping plates of sausage and eggs, the smell of which had saliva gathering beneath his tongue – yet Bas would make do with a handful of toast slathered in jam.

“Oi! There’s the late sleeper now,” Bofur greeted jovially, patting the seat aside of him. “Hungry? Bombur has breakfast prepared.”

“Sorry, no time,” said Bas briskly, grabbing his food on the go. “I’m off!”

“Not so fast, lad!” called Balin, beckoning him back with a wave of his hand.

The spring was stolen from Bas’s step, disappointment evident in his protests. “But I was – I wanted to – explore.” Nevertheless, he did as bade, albeit sulkily.

“None of that, now,” chided the white-bearded dwarf. “Besides, I think you’ll be pleased with the proposition we have for you.”

“Proposition?” Bas repeated curiously.

“Aye. In light of recent events, and the fact that our sojourn here has been extended, we’ve decided that it’s high time you receive a lesson in the swords you’re so fond of.”

It took all of three seconds for what he was saying to sink in and Bas could scarcely believe it. “You’re going to teach me how to fight?” he breathed excitedly.

“How to defend yourself,” Balin corrected, though his eyes were twinkling as he spoke. “I take it that you’re not averse to the idea?”

“Are you daft?” Bas snorted loudly. “When do we start?”

His enthusiasm induced a round of laughter from his companions, but his own elation was short-lived, for it occurred to him that he did have a reservation, the mere thought of it filling him with trepidation.

“Um…Mister Balin?” he prodded quietly, gaining the older dwarf’s attention. “Would my…would Thorin be one of my teachers?”

“He could be,” Balin replied carefully, maintaining a neutral tone. “I helped train Thorin, who in turn taught your cousins much of what they know about combat. And might I add, you would be hard-pressed to find a more talented, dedicated instructor.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Bas fidgeted, staring at the hands curled in his lap, the picture of discomfort. “It’s not a matter of skill…it’s just…”

Just…

Taking pity on him, Balin nodded. “I understand, laddie. And I won’t force you into anything you don’t want. But, if you have a change of heart, I’m sure nothing would make your father happier.”

Silently, Bas mulled that over, not knowing what else to say. The older dwarf clapped him on the shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “If it’s any peace of mind, you will be in good hands. For the bulk of your mentoring will be handled by my brother, Dwalin.”

Glancing over at the dwarf he’d watched corner Nori the night before, Bas was perturbed to see Dwalin returning the gaze at full-force. “Eat a light breakfast,” he grunted, more of a warning than a recommendation.

Bas paled, the pit of his stomach shifting southward. “Is he joking?” he whispered to Bifur, who began sniggering uncontrollably, much to his dismay.

When his humor subsided, the miner related something in sign language that Bas couldn’t decipher.

“Quite right, Bifur,” Dori responded. “Don’t forget to get Mister Baggins’ permission.”

“Of course,” Balin acknowledged. “I am sure he will be accommodating. However, I haven’t seen him yet this morning. Does anyone know where he might be?”

Recalling a rainy morning spent building a castle out of Bag End’s coveted collection of books many years ago, Bas had a pretty good idea.

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He was in such a haste to find his father – tucked away in some corner of Lord Elrond’s library, no doubt – that he wasn’t paying attention as he rounded the corner of a tall shelf, and collided straight into the unsuspecting dwarf lying beyond it.

“Oh. Hullo, Ori,” Bas said brightly.

“Good morning,” Ori rejoined, voice muffled against the floor. Bas, who was fairly sprawled atop him, apologized and helped him up. “What brings you here?”

“Looking for Da. Have you seen him?” Ori had not, prompting him to sigh. “He must be here somewhere. Buried in a pile of ancient elven text, if he has his way.”

Just then he noticed the pile of books he had inadvertently scattered across the floor. “I see you’re enjoying the library, too,” he remarked, bending to retrieve them.

Ori took the books gratefully, arranging them into the neat pile they’d been in before. “I’m a scribe, so it’s my job to document this quest so that generations to come will know what we’ve done,” the dwarf explained, swelling with grandiosity rare for someone Bas had pegged as shy but prone to bursts of bravado. “And well, elven or no, this library is quite extensive and I’ve decided to take advantage. For purely academic reasons, you understand.”

“Makes sense to me.” He recognized the notebook Ori was always scribbling in and snuck a peek. “What are those odd letters you’re writing in?” he inquired, pointing to the unfamiliar print in question.

“That’s Khuzdul, the language of the dwarves,” Ori answered absentmindedly.

“Really?” Bas perked. “I’ve learned a little Elvish from Da but never a dwarf language. Could you teach me a few letters? Or at least a phrase or two?”

Ori stiffened at the innocent request, shaking his head. “I-I’m sorry, I cannot! Khuzdul is a difficult matter to explain…”

“I’m a fast learner,” Bas assured.

“No, you misunderstand! I cannot because it is forbidden to teach our language to outsiders,” the scribe clarified, sounding very sorry to say it.

“Oh,” mumbled Bas, crestfallen. “But…I am half dwarf, aren’t I?” he reminded slyly. “And the king’s son, at that. Surely it would be shameful for a prince to be illiterate in his own language.”

“My word, you’re right!” Ori grinned triumphantly. “In that case, it would be an honor to teach you, your highness.”

Taken aback by the honorific, however playfully used, Bas shook his head. “Just Bas, please,” he insisted. “When should we begin, Master Ori?”

The scribe blushed a bit, preening at the title. “As soon as you like.”

Bas would have plopped down right then if not for remembering why he was in the library in the first place. “Hold that thought. I’m afraid I already promised my time to Mister Dwalin.”

“Did you eat a light breakfast?”

“…and anyway, I still have to find Da.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” offered Ori.

Between the two of them, they located Da in no time, although the hobbit was partially hidden behind a huge volume of Elvish. “Uh, Da?” Bas approached tentatively, as there was never a safe way to engage a voracious reader.

“Bas!” exclaimed Da happily. “You won’t believe the stuff I’ve found already – and it’s not even second breakfast yet, mind you!”

“Have you seen the section on First Age genealogy yet?” Ori questioned.

Da’s eyes widened. “No, I have not. You shall have to show me then.”

“Before we get too immersed in literature, I’ve a reason for seeking you out,” Bas interjected. “Since we have some time to spare, the dwarves have suggested I be taught how to wield a sword. You won’t be against it, will you?”

Pursing his lips, Da considered it a moment. “Honestly, I don’t know how I feel,” he admitted, “about you gallivanting around with a weapon strapped to your hip when you’re barely of age.”

“You have a sword,” Bas pointed out.

“According to Balin, it’s more a letter opener than anything,” Da muttered, seeming almost affronted. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Be that as it may. I might not be a smithy, but I know enough to know that handling those things can be dangerous business.”

“No more dangerous than being in the Wilds without a sword.” Both hobbits turned to the dwarf who had spoken up. Ori flushed and stuck his nose in his book, mumbling, “Er, sorry. None of my business.”

“Don’t apologize when you’re right,” Bas retorted, sending his friend a thankful smile. “Even Balin said it’s to teach me how to defend myself. And I hardly see how that could be a bad thing.”

Da frowned, studying his son’s face in earnest. “Those wargs yesterday did a number on you, didn’t they?”

Bas pinkened, cursing his father’s ability to read him like a front cover and replying with a stubborn, “No,” ever aware of their audience.

His father chuckled fondly, ruffling his dark hair. “Me, too,” he said softly. Then with a sigh, he relented, “Fine. Go. As long as you’re being safe and supervised, you’re free to train.”

Overcome with joy, Bas swept his father into a bear hug, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek for good measure. “Thank you, thank you!” he gushed. “You won’t regret it. Oh, you’re the best, Da!”

“So you say now,” Da harrumphed. “Then the next time I say no, suddenly I’m worse than a balrog.”

Not even his father’s parental grumbling could put a dent in his jubilation. This was his chance to become a warrior like the dwarves, like the heroes from legends and history, and there was nothing to stop him from making that childhood dream a reality.

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Or so he thought.

Training, as it happened, was not going as smoothly as he had hoped.

Maybe he had been a wee bit overconfident. In the Shire, Bas was easily the strongest among his age group, and stronger than most of his elders to boot. Rumor had it that it was because of his dwarven ancestry, although it was hardly a rumor when it was so obviously fact.

Whereas his dwarf half gave him a distinct advantage over other hobbits, compared to the average fully-grown dwarf, the presence of his hobbit half left him severely lacking. For one thing, he could barely hold the bloody sword lent to him for practice, the weight of it making it rather difficult for him to swing about.

“An axe is out of the question,” Dwalin had concluded, after taking one long gander at him, “so you’ll have to make do.”

The first day of practice was spent solely getting the feel of his weapon, doing the endless stream of drills Mister Dwalin was determined to pound into his skull. By nightfall, he could do them in order backwards with his eyes closed, and the weight of his weapon was less debilitating than before. The price was that his arms were too numb to even register pain at that point and he wasn’t altogether positive they were still attached to his body.

Come next morning, Bas had his confirmation in the form of soreness like he’d never felt before.

Unfortunately, Dwalin was as relentless as he was unsympathetic, and it soon became clear that his motto of “work through the pain” wasn’t simply an encouraging phrase. On the second day, Bas learned the hard way why eating a light breakfast was beneficial advice.

Often the other dwarfs popped in and out, checking on his progress, sharing comments and criticism here and there. Aside from Dwalin and Balin, Fili and Kili were the most frequent spectators; since they were the closest to his age, they had been recruited to be his sparring partners. And although he was growing fonder of his cousins by the day, they were no more inclined to go easy on him than Dwalin was.

“In the long run, you’ll appreciate it,” Fili told him empathetically. Seeing that Bas was, at present, a sweaty mess of aches and bruises, he didn’t answer for fear of spouting something obscene at the cousin who had spent the last hour walloping him.

And just when the day’s session couldn’t seem to get any worse, an unexpected visitor arrived on scene.

“Uncle!” Kili bellowed. Bas tensed imperceptibly. “Where have you been hiding?”

“In plain sight,” Thorin replied. “I assume you’ve been too busy causing mischief to notice.”

“We’ve been on our best behavior, actually,” his youngest nephew was quick to amend. “Helping our cousin become a full-fledged warrior and all that.”

“Care to test him out?” Fili invited.

“Probably shouldn’t,” Bas declined, trying to make light of it, all the while battling a nerve-induced nausea. “I mean, I can barely manage against Kili as it is.”

“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?” Kili barked, much to his brother’s amusement.

“If you change your mind,” said Thorin soberly, allowing the statement to hang between them, and Bas nodded without making eye contact.

Deliberately suppressing a wince as he stood, not wanting to appear weak, Bas addressed his instructor. “Am I excused?”

“Go on,” said Dwalin shortly, turning to speak with Thorin. Bas required no further incentive and high-tailed it out of there.

After wandering aimlessly for a while, still running on leftover adrenaline, Bas’s legs began to tire, so he took refuge in a secluded terrace. It looked relatively unused, if the poor state of the surrounding plants was any intimation. Bas retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead, upset for reasons he couldn’t rightly name and without anyone to confide in.

Da wasn’t thrilled about him being knocked about like a horse chestnut in Conkers, but neither did he offer his son much pity, as it was what Bas had asked for after all. In his current mood, however, Bas didn’t want logic. Going to the dwarves wasn’t an option either, for no matter how friendly they were, the last thing he needed was to expose his fear of inadequacy to the very people he was trying to prove himself to.

Brooding alone didn’t alleviate his bleak mood in the slightest, the shroud of discouragement weighing heavily on his mind. Because it was nearly a week into his training and he couldn’t seem to make any headway whatsoever and it was really starting to grate on him. Defeat wasn’t something Bas was accustomed to, as he was not one to give up easily – had been in enough fights to realize that fleeing never solved anything.

And having Thorin, of all dwarves, stumble upon him today – possibly watching him get his arse thoroughly handed to him – was the last straw, and without knowing why, Bas took hold of his sword and swung it at the nearest object, which happened to be a shrub.

He hit it again and again, until his breath became labored and all the impromptu anger drained from his body. And then he hit it again and again, until his arms were spent and he couldn’t anymore.

“What did that shrub ever do to you?”

Bas started at the unfamiliar voice. A boy – a human boy, by the looks of it, no older than thirteen years – stood behind him, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Surveying the pitiful bit of shrug that remained after his rampage, Bas blinked. “Well…nothing, now that you mention it.”

“Then I see no reason to mangle it. I was quite fond of that shrub.”

“Were you?” returned Bas, lips quirking of their own accord. “I’m sorry. Judging by the state of it, I assumed it wasn’t very well liked.”

The boy’s cheeks colored. “Yes, well, I don’t exactly have a green thumb when it comes to plants,” he coughed.

“Obviously.”

“Oho,” the boy guffawed. “And does the shrub-slayer have a name?”

“Barnabas Baggins, at your service,” Bas grinned, bowing. “But I prefer Bas.”

“Mae g'ovannen, Bas. My name is Estel,” the boy introduced. “You’re traveling with that company of dwarves and Mithrandir, aren’t you?”

“I am indeed,” Bas affirmed. Mirthrandir, he gathered, was what the elves called Gandalf.

“My father tells me there’s a halfling among you, too. Is that you?”

“Yes. No. Kind of,” he hedged. “My father is the full-blooded hobbit, if we’re being technical. I am half-hobbit, half-dwarf.”

Estel blinked bewilderedly. “Is that even possible?” he asked bluntly.

“Apparently,” said Bas dryly, gesturing to himself.

Neither could restrain the burst of laughter that followed this ludicrous line of discussion. Afterwards, Estel asked, still giggling, “Why were you hacking at that shrub, anyhow?”

“Blowing off steam, I guess.” Bas shrugged, feeling rather silly about the whole affair now. “My companions are training me to wield a sword. Or attempting to, I should say. I’ve always dreamt of learning…only I never imagined it would be so difficult.”

Estel nodded compassionately. “Nobody is ever an expert at first. Trust me, you’ll get the hang of it.”

His confidence implied that he was speaking from experience. “Are you an aspiring swordsman, too?”

“My brothers are teaching me,” the boy confirmed proudly. “I wish they were here for you to meet, but alas, they are on a hunting trip…”

Bas didn’t miss the forlorn note to his voice at the last part. Without his brothers, it stood to reason that Estel might be lonely, as there didn’t seem to be many – if any – children his age around to play with.

Perhaps he recognized it so easily because he understood. Even with a horde of cousins he could hardly keep track of and the Gamgees living right next door, Bas understood loneliness better than most.

Sensing the shift in mood, Estel cracked a smile, dispelling whatever gloom lingered over their conversation. “So, I take it you haven’t any previous experience with weaponry, have you?”

“Ha! None. Shirefolk don’t fancy that sort of sport, I’m afraid. The closest they get to battle is fending off pests in their gardens.”

“Are hobbits fair gardeners?” asked Estel, intrigued. “I believe my father mentioned that once.”

“I daresay we are,” said the half-hobbit in question. “Great Grandma Laura told me that we’re the favored children of Yavanna, and as such, have close ties to earth below our hairy feet.”

Bas was flattered to have such an eager audience, truly, yet he couldn’t quite comprehend why a boy of Estel’s age would rather be talking to him about hobbit lore than running amok elsewhere. “Why so interested in gardening, anyway?”

“Well, you see…My father is an excellent healer. Maybe the best in all of Middle Earth. And I’d like to surprise him by growing my own herbs that he could use. It would be most impressive to him, I think.”

He gestured to the plants Bas had disparaged earlier.“I’ve been practicing by working to keep these plants in shape using knowledge I found in books, yet I haven’t been having much luck,” he finished glumly.

“An herb garden, eh?” Bas clucked, “Nothing to it, really. I happen to live next to a family of expert gardeners, and we Bagginses aren’t too shabby ourselves. Why, Da’s tomatoes haven’t lost a competition in years.”

“Let’s strike a bargain, then,” Estel pronounced, smirking like a child with a notion that couldn’t be ignored. “I can help you with your swordsmanship if you help me cultivate my gardening skills. Deal?”

“Deal,” said Bas, extending his hand so Estel could grasp it. A contract was set, and a friendship was formed.

Chapter Text

There had scarcely been a hair upon his chin the day Balin received his first sword; the hilt had been worn, by his father and his father before him, but the blade had been freshly polished, gleaming like silver in the sunlight. “This is not a weapon, son,” his father had explained. “This is a tool. It can preserve and it protect. And it can also destroy. That is why you must learn to master it.”

Reminiscing on his own training was inevitable as he watched Dwalin instruct young Bas, a boy who resembled his sire in both body and spirit, probably more than he cared to realize. It was nostalgic enough to bring memories of Balin’s father to the forefront of his mind, and he wished the boy would consent to sharing the experience with Thorin, who was under the impression that Bas would flee at the mere sight of him. While that wasn’t necessarily untrue, Balin pointed out that avoiding Bas in turn wouldn’t lessen the rift between them; yet it seemed he would not be swayed. The conversation they had shared on their first evening in Rivendell had made that crystal clear.

“We finally find a place to rest in peace and quiet – but in an elven city, with a lord who’s wise to our intentions,” Balin mumbled under the pale light of the crescent moon. “Of all the ruddy luck.”

“I am no more thrilled than you,” Thorin grumbled. And Balin knew it to be true, not only because his friend’s misgivings towards elves were greater than any among their company but also because he recognized the itch in Thorin’s voice, the eagerness to move forward. “But if we must bide our time, then let us do it idly.”

Balin regarded Thorin questioningly. “Pray tell, what do you intend to accomplish?”

His king’s eyes wandered away, somewhere farther than Balin could follow. Farther than the horizon could carry, he feared. “I believe it is time that my – that Bas take up swordsmanship.”

“After yesterday’s incident, I imagine so.” No doubt whisking his son away from the jaws of a warg had spurred this reaction. “And I whole-heartedly agree. For a boy his age to be traveling through the Wilds, self-defense is an indispensability.”

“I worry for him,” Thorin confided. “Fili and Kili are young and foolish, too, but at least they can hold their own in a fight. I cannot always be there to protect him.”

Balin frowned at the vehemence behind those words. “If your concern is so great, why don’t you offer to train him yourself?”

Thorin's expression dropped miserably. “Coming from me, I fear it wouldn’t be well-received,” he said despondently, before straightening with determination. “And this is too valuable a chance to be squandered.” He cast a hopeful grimace at his old friend. “I trust that you can see it done.”

Balin nodded solemnly. Familial obstinacy aside, surely Thorin could count on him. “And what will you do then?”

“I must speak to our gracious host,” the king said purposely, yet didn’t deign to disclose why. “Keep me updated on his progress.”

And thus far, Balin had had nothing except commendations to report. For as much as the lad agonized over his shortcomings, Bas was progressing exceptionally. Not that it was a surprise to anyone, given his lineage. Yes, thought Balin wistfully, there was no mistaking the ember of determination glowing proud and bright within the boy's blue eyes.

They would make a warrior out of him yet.

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Meanwhile, in an undisturbed corner of Lord Elrond's library, Bilbo flipped another page of the massive tome currently resting on his lap. It was more of a mechanical motion than a conscious effort after spending so many hours engrossed in the variety of books stacked among his host’s collection. This volume was only his latest conquest, and once it was finished, he hoped to start another before his imminent departure.

The mere idea of leaving caused his chest to constrict, his commitment to the dwarves’ quest warring with his desire to remain in the comfort and safety Rivendell provided. He seemed to belong so much better within the rows of shelves than he did traipsing alongside his companions in the Wilds.

Pushing his inner doubts aside, Bilbo shifted the tome from his lower limbs, sighing as they regained some circulation. Maybe he should go for a ramble around the gardens, stretch his legs. Prior to that, however, Bilbo decided he could do with a spot of tea, and reached for the warm kettle Lindir had graciously delivered to him not half an hour ago.

Bilbo had been so touched by the elf’s generosity that he hadn't been able to muster any annoyance at having been found. For if there was one thing a hobbit took pride in, it was their ability to go unseen and unnoticed among others, especially their own kind. Why, if not for the favorite pastime of ‘hide and pretend to not be home,’ Bilbo and his cousin, Lobelia, would have no manner of civil interaction between them.

That was why soon after discovering the library, Bilbo had carved out a comfortable space for himself among the shelves, private and secluded. He had periodic visits from Bas and Ori, who were the only ones privy to his secret nook (besides Lindir, of course; although Bilbo suspected that there was little within his lord’s realm that he wasn’t aware of).

Which was why, at a time he knew both of them to busy, he was shocked to hear someone burst into the tranquility of the room with a smug, “You’re a hard hobbit to find, Mister Baggins.”

“Confound it, Nori!” gasped Bilbo, grasping his chest to keep his heart from leaping out of it. “What in Eru's name are you doing here?!”

The dwarf in question merely smiled, utterly remorseless. “Now is that any way to greet someone?”

Bilbo bristled, thinking that awfully rich coming from the one to have barged in on him. “A word to the wise: don’t except a grand welcome after scaring the living daylights out of a person.”

Nori chuckled. “My deepest apologies, I didn’t mean to ruffle your hobbit sensibilities.”

“Worry not, they remain intact,” said Bilbo dryly. Though irked by the thief’s shameless behavior, his deep-seeded sense of propriety overruled his irritation, and he found himself offering the dwarf, “Tea?”

“Thanks very much,” Nori replied graciously.

“It took no small degree of cunning to discover your hiding place,” he said after taking a sip. “Eventually, my impatience got the better of me, so I forced my brother to rat you out.”

Ah. Had to wring it out of his poor brother, did he? That cheered Bilbo’s mood, not to mention his pride. “What did you do, hold his pen for ransom?”

“Worse. I tickled it out of him,” Nori revealed wickedly.

Bilbo snorted into his tea. “You fiend.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” When the corner of his mouth curled upwards, all mischief and roguish delight, Nori looked much younger than what he was, and the lines of experience – experience in what, Bilbo couldn’t begin to guess, and it wouldn’t be polite to ask – engraved in his face faded into dimples. “On my way here, I passed by your boy’s training session. He’s coming along quite nicely.”

“Is he?” Bilbo inquired, sincerely pleased by the news. “That’s a relief. I feared the rigorous training was taking its toll on him.”

“Dwalin is a strict but effective teacher,” the thief assuaged. “He’s captain of the guard, and usually put in charge of training the recruits, in addition to his regular job of keeping the streets clean of criminals.”

“You two must be very well-acquainted then,” the hobbit deadpanned, but it backfired when Nori flashed him a downright lecherous smirk, which was not how Bilbo’s comment was meant at all.

Desperate to change the subject and dispel the redness from his face, he continued, “Anyway, as long as he keeps at it, Bas is sure to succeed. He’s a sharp boy – and as they say, practice makes perfect.”

“I’m glad to hear you feel that way,” interposed Nori smoothly, “as it relates to my reason for seeking you out.”

“And here I thought it was simply for my company,” the hobbit muttered, wary of the dwarf’s intentions.

“Trust me, Mister Baggins, it’s all in your best interest.” Bilbo signaled for him to continue, albeit suspiciously. “Since young Bas has already taken initiative to improve his combat skills, it wouldn’t be far-fetched for you to consider doing the same,”

“What? Pick up a sword and start practicing my swing?” scoffed the hobbit.

“Not necessarily. Although that’s not a bad idea, either.”

Bilbo sent the dwarf a withering glance.

“Look, I do appreciate your effort in coming here, and I see that you really are trying to help,” he said cordially. “However, if I’m not mistaken, my part in this quest is to being a competent burglar, a task that hinges on me being silent and stealthy. Traits I already have in spades.”

“Precisely,” Nori claimed, like that'd been his point all along. “However, it is like you said – discipline gains results. From one thief to another, I can promise that without practice, you’re sure to get rusty.” Bilbo felt the need to remind him that he wasn’t technically a thief, not yet. “So I have for you, a challenge, so to speak. If you can handle this, you might have a chance against a dragon.”

“You’re not going to leave me in peace until I accept, are you?” Nori’s shit-eating grin was answer enough, and with the date of their departure ever-impending, Bilbo realized that at this rate he would never be able to return to his beloved books unless he relented.

He sighed resignedly. “What would this challenge of yours entail?”

“Nothing fancy,” Nori assured. “Could be as simple as a pick-pocketing. I’ll present you with a target, and you nick something from among their personal possessions without them knowing, and return it before they even notice it was gone.”

“And exactly who…” the hobbit began, a trickle of dread sliding down his neck at the dwarf's contemplative expression, “…did you have in mind?”

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Bas skirted away from his cousin’s sword, twisting 'round so that he could deliver a close-but-not-quite blow to his left side, and it was all he could do to suppress a triumphant burst of laughter, even though Fili outmatched him by far. At least he was getting good at this.

His improvement was largely due to his new friend, Estel, whose efforts to assist him had been immensely rewarding for both. In the morning he would meet with Dwalin for his early session, after which he would sneak off under the guise of exploring the grounds; when in actuality, he was joining Estel, and the two would spend a decent portion of the afternoon sparring or gardening or chatting in the shade of their favorite tree.

This extra practice was tremendously beneficial, and more than that, it was just plain fun witling the time away with a friend. In the Shire, Bas didn’t have many mates outside of his family or the Gamgee family, but Estel had swiftly become a kindred spirit of sorts. Bas couldn’t explain why, but he felt very comfortable around the other boy, like an unspoken understanding was set between them, allowing for ease of honest conversation and playful banter.

Just yesterday, in fact, the pair had shared a very candid and illuminating moment during a spar.

His taller friend had gained the upper hand, knocking him off balance with a sweep of his long legs. Bas skittered to the ground, his practice sword flying from his hands. He stretched for it, yet the sound of boots thudding towards him told him it was fruitless. Usually, this heralded the end of the round; this time, however, Estel remained where he was, preventing Bas from standing up.

“What do you do now?” Estel demanded out of the blue.

“Eh?” Bas asked dumbly, staring at the blade poised in front of his face.

“You’re pinned by my sword. If this was real, and I was truly your enemy, what would do you?” Estel repeated. His grey eyes were unreadable even in the glare of the afternoon sun. And as the seconds ticked by, taunting him with their inadequate silence, Bas knew how this riddle ended.

Ever since the incident, the question had been nagging at the corner of his mind, and in an effort to avoid an untimely death, Bas deemed it a matter of priority. And now was his chance to have it addressed.

“What if I lose my sword?” he asked breathlessly, narrowly avoiding another swing.

“Never lose your sword,” Dwalin advised.

“But what if I do?”

Fili considered it a moment. “Pray for a quick death?”

Very helpful. “I mean, what if I get cornered without a weapon? How do I defend myself, then?” Bas pressed.

Dwalin mulled it over. “Lad makes a fair point,” he declared at last. “Let’s try a little hand-to-hand combat. Fili, take a break; Kili, on your feet!”

Obligingly, Kili swapped positions with his brother. Dwalin took Bas’s sword and gestured for him to take a fighting stance. Bas raised his fists, standing opposite his dark-haired cousin. Kili copied his movements, and Dwalin gave little to no warning before he barked in Khuzdul, “Begin!”

Even without his lessons with Ori, context clues would suggest the word’s meaning; yet Bas couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at being able to understand it regardless. His giddiness was soon knocked out of him – quite literally, too. “Oof,” he grunted.

“Pay attention,” Dwalin snapped, and Bas reddened, both embarrassed and bothered by Kili’s amused expression. But this was a dance of swords, he mused bracingly, and Bas was no stranger to fist-fights.

Only – when he fought, it was triggered by anger, more often than not. As much as Da bemoaned his son’s inclination towards brawling, Bas wasn’t eager to engage in violence unless necessary. He had been raised a gentlehobbit, after all, and even baser instinct had trouble breaking through years of learned behavior in a non-threatening situation.

Halfway through their round of sparring, Bas was holding his own, but he remained on the defensive rather than deliver an offensive blow.

“Anticipate your opponent’s next move and let it determine your own,” ordered his instructor, as he ducked out of the way, aiming a swift jab at his opponent’s stomach. Speed gave him some advantage, at least, as he was noticeably lighter on his feet than any of the dwarves. “Always be aware, alert and prepared to change tactics – let your movements be an extension of your mind.”

“But it’s not only a matter of brute force,” Bombur interjected, frowning slightly. “Your heart has to be in it, lad.”

“He is right,” Gloin concurred. “If you have no will to fight, you will never win.”

“It’s not that simple!” Bas burst out, panting. “How am I supposed to start throwing punches at my cousin in earnest? I’m not even angry at him!”

“Well, when it’s an orc you’re up against, I reckon you won’t care whether he’s upset you or not,” the red-haired dwarf harrumphed.

“If it helps, Kili could rile you up,” Fili offered. “Go on, little brother: bait him!”

“No problem,” Kili quipped, bouncing on his heels. “I’m an expert antagonizer. Give me a minute and I’ll have you itching to clobber me.”

“He’ll have to get in line,” Dwalin rumbled, initiating a short break. Grateful for the chance to catch his breath, Bas stumbled backwards. A hand steadied him from behind.

“Listen here, lad,” Balin spoke in his ear. “A forge burns in us all, more hot and fierce as dragon fire. Puffs steam into our chests, boils our blood before battle. Find that flame, Bas. Let it ignite your spirit. What gives you a reason to fight?”

A reason to fight? Bas pondered. There were plenty back home. Not good reasons, not always. But Bas had leaned how to pull punches early in life. It became a necessity as he grew and got tired of being helpless, of hiding behind Prim’s skirt or clinging to Da’s waistcoat.

Unbidden, a memory of the day Gandalf had arrived at Bag End’s gate flooded his mind, playing like a stream of pictures behind his eyes. It felt like an eternity ago, yet the memory was vivid, as if it had happened yesterday. He had just parted ways with Prim, after a morning’s work at the forge and an afternoon spent fishing with an assortment of cousins, and was walking home when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks...

“Where are you off to, bastard?”

Bas paused mid-step. He couldn’t not – running away always made it worse.

Much to his dismay, it was Pimple, along with a few other boys near their age. But the lackeys hung back, said nothing, content to let their mate do the majority of the heckling.

“Now, now,” Pimple tittered. “Don’t look so sore. That is your name, isn’t it? I was under the impression that Bas was short for bastard.”

Bas clinched his fists, nails digging into the underside of his palm. Keep walking, it’s not worth you time, urged the sensible portion of his subconscious. The less sensible portion was trying to rein in his temper. He ground his teeth together, counted backwards from ten.

Nine stupid prats, eight stupid prats…

It didn’t help.

“Pity your father picked such an unfortunate name. Then again, what would you expected from an unwed whore?”

And that was when Bas lashed out, twisting around so that his fist collided with Pimple, so hard and fast that the momentum carried him through to the next hit. Because that was too far and the line had to be drawn somewhere and he didn’t care if he was a halfbreed or a bastard or a shame to respectable society-

Nobody insulted his father.

Then the scene dissipated, melting into the present, and Dwalin gave the order for the spar to resume, and before he knew it Bas was lunging at Kili with all his might, attacking with a vicious uppercut.

“Atta boy!” someone cried, but he heard nothing beyond the blood pounding in his ears, the taunts of his peers echoing through his memories. The fire had been lit, the forge was burning bright and Bas could no more douse the flames than he could stop the progression of time.

“Watch your opponent! Keep your balance, that’s it! Aim for his center of mass!”

Truthfully, Bas could barely see past the red glazing over his sight. But while the details were blurred, he caught the movement of his opponent (his cousin, his fears, his bullies), so he aimed, and he hit, until the satisfying smack of skin-meeting-skin brought him back to his senses.

He sucked in a lungful of air, the rush of oxygen clearing away the haze. The first thing that registered was the sweat running down his neck, slick with heat. Second came the throb of his knuckles, the kind that came only after a well-delivered shot to the face and froze, spotting Kili sprawled on the ground not five feet away.

“Sorry!” he wheezed. His fingers were still clenched together, he noticed; hurriedly, he unfurled them. “Sorry, I got carried away–”

“Admirably done!” Gloin lauded.

Bas blinked, mouth agape.

“You gave him quite a thrashing!”

Dumbstruck at the praise, Bas clamped his lips together. Well. This…hadn't been the reaction he was expecting. For one thing, he expected a reprimand, not ...congratulations.

“Guess I’m in no position to disagree,” Kili had the good grace to admit, smirking as he wiped at the blood under his nose. “'Course, I was going easy on him, remember?”

“Sure, sure,” Fili replied unconvincingly, all the while winking at their bewildered cousin. Bas smiled back, tentatively, still soaking in his victory. The flames within his belly were dimming now, replaced by a light, fluttery sensation; as if the fire Balin mentioned had cleansed the dark, heavy weight of his demons from his body. It felt different from the aftermath of his usual quarrels.

It was liberating.

“Not bad,” snorted Dwalin, glancing at him with something akin to approval. “Not bad at all.”

.

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Why, oh why, did I ever agree to this fool’s errand?

His nerves were in a state of panic, and rightfully so, as he stood outside the bathhouse of Rivendell. Within the warm, relaxing chamber was a very naked, very familiar dwarf blacks- or king, rather. Otherwise known as Bilbo’s ex-lover and father of his child.

Bilbo didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of all the targets Nori could have chosen, he would choose Thorin because Fate enjoyed watching him suffer; and because Thorin would, as Nori put it, provide the greatest challenge.

To be fair, it wasn’t Nori who suggested that Bilbo do his stealing while the king was bathing. No, that stroke of idiocy had been the work of Bilbo’s subconscious, who reasoned that it was the perfect chance. All he had to do was slip in, grab an item from Thorin’s discarded personal affects, show his prize to Nori and then return it before Thorin was any the wiser.

Summoning his mettle, Bilbo marched into the bath – though the effect was somewhat diminished by him having his hand clamped over his eyes like a flustered lass. Peeking between his fingers, he scoured the distance for his target. He was ready to abandon this undertaking at the first sign of trouble, but of course there was no hint of it, just...

There, standing waist-deep in the heated water, was Thorin in all his naked glory. Bilbo was infinitely glad that he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear the strangled squeak that escaped his lips. He cursed his heart for its compromising weakness, yet then again, who could blame it? Unlike Bilbo, the years had not taken their toll on Thorin’s physique, and it remained in the prime condition he remembered, all sinewy layers of compact muscle and tan, weather-beaten skin.

Bilbo shook the improper thoughts from his head, willing himself to focus. He should act now, while Thorin’s back – broad and slick and always so firm beneath his fingertips no, no, stop it! – was turned. Without input from his brain, he tiptoed towards the edge of the bath, searching for a bundle of clothes and finding it not five paces away. Nonetheless, he resolved to use the utmost caution, the tell-tale shift of water alerting him to Thorin’s every movement. Sweat tickled his brow, cool compared to the tepid temperature of the bathhouse.

You can do this, Bilbo. Just an inch closer and–

-and then there was the slosh of feet sliding against the tiled floor, too late for Bilbo to even question what was going on before he lost his traction, tumbling into the water below.

There could only be one explanation.

“Oh! It’s you, Bilbo!” cried Fili, having the decency to keep the flailing hobbit from drowning and giving him a hearty slap on the back to boot; a stream of water flew from Bilbo’s mouth. “What brings you here?”

Rather than construe a hasty lie, Bilbo was saved the trouble when Kili snorted, “It’s a bathhouse, Fili, what else would he be doing? Flying kites?”

A smart that led to his older brother dunking his head underwater and not letting him resurface until he apologized. Grumbling about dwarves and their astonishing lack of manners, the hobbit managed a mild, “As it happens, I am about to get out.”

“But you’ve only just gotten in!”

“And I’m already thoroughly drenched, thank you,” he retorted. Climbing from the water, Bilbo felt an instant chill. There was nothing for it, he concluded unhappily, slowly stripping out of his shirt so he could wring some liquid from it. At least his current plight had successfully distracted him from the former.

“Durin’s beard, Bilbo!” he heard Kili exclaim abruptly. “Wherever did you get such a scar?”

“Hm?” Brow furrowed, Bilbo followed the young dwarf’s gaze to the white, horizontal line that ran across his bare abdomen. “What, this?”

“Yes, that!” Fili gawked. “Looks like you were cut open like a fish!”

“Well, it wasn’t nearly as crude as you put it. The butcher was busy that day, so the physician filled in,” was Bilbo's wry response, quirking an eyebrow at the pair. “How else did you expect your cousin to be born?”

“I-I hadn’t given it much thought,” Fili confessed, looking a tad green.

The younger prince waded over to Bilbo, stopping at the edge of the bath. “Did it hurt?” he asked softly.

Earlier displeasure forgotten, Bilbo’s heart melted at the concern in his tone.

“Not much,” he told them earnestly. At their disbelief, Bilbo went on, “The physician gave me a dose of poppy milk before the procedure, so I was pleasantly inebriated for the most part.”

Kili nodded, seemingly content with that answer. “Mahal…it must have been quite an ordeal,” Fili winced sympathetically.

Bilbo hummed noncommittally. He didn’t delve into further detail, as ordeal didn’t even begin to cover it. The hours leading to the happiest moment of his life had been pure, hellish torment; contractions that evolved from mild discomfort into full-blown agony, ripping him apart from the inside out, the babe in his womb desperate to be free from his body. Nobody had mentioned it beforehand, but Cesareans were risky procedures, and only afterwards did Bilbo understand how lucky he was to have survived to raise his child. There was no reason to share that with the princes, though.

By the time he emerged from his walk down memory lane, the boys had wandered to the other side of the bath, and their uncle was nowhere in sight. Forgetting that his upper half was still exposed, Bilbo spun around, ready to complete his mission and finally retreat to his cozy nook in the library.

What he didn’t expect was to be confronted with the bare, dripping chest of Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo gaped at nest of black curls mere inches away from his nose. Gulping, Bilbo glanced upwards. Dark hair framed his face in a mess of tangles, and combined with smoldering eyes that seemed to be burning a hole into Bilbo so as to sear away his flesh and discover all his secrets, it gave the dwarf a feral quality that shook him to the core.

“Thorin,” he gasped, cheeks heating because he was shirtless and the only cloth covering Thorin was a thin linen towel. The air around them was thick and stifling, much like it had been the day they met in the forge. Bilbo could hardly breathe, although that probably had more to with Thorin’s proximity than it did the steam.

“Such a mark,” Thorin whispered reverently. Too shocked to think, let alone move, Bilbo remained stiff as a statue. Then he shuddered as fingertips, damp and wrinkled, traced along his scar. The caress was feather-light, almost nonexistent, yet it was all Bilbo could do to restrain a moan. “To have proof of our child’s life etched upon your skin is as honorable as bearing the wounds of battle.”

Bilbo exhaled a shaky laugh. “I’m afraid you are making it out to be a lot nobler than it was.” He swallowed, forcing an unaffected smile. “I am just an ordinary hobbit with an unsightly scar.”

Sapphire eyes locked onto his like a wolf leaping upon its prey. “You are more than that, Bilbo Baggins,” he intoned sharply. “You always were.”

And with Thorin’s eyes so earnest, mouth set in that steely line that meant he was never going to budge, not even an inch, Bilbo was seized with the sudden, passionate urge to kiss him. If it was twenty six years ago, he would do it, consequences be damned. If he had an ounce of backbone to his body, he would have done it three seconds ago.

But there was a history between them now, a barrier of scar tissue covering wounds far deeper than the scratch on his stomach. And he wasn’t about to start digging into the raw, oozing flesh, with the scent of lavender and chamomile mixing with Thorin’s natural musk pervading his senses, clutching him like the rough, calloused palm that had left his belly and was reaching for his cheek–

There was splash, distant and irrelevant, probably the result of the Fili and Kili’s horseplay. But it was the sound of shifting water that dragged Bilbo from of his stupor.

“Forgive me,” Bilbo blurted out, turning away from the touch and all its burning possibilities. “I must– I have to-”

Go.

And so he did, gathering his sopping wet shirt and the shreds of his dignity, and without another word he fled the bathhouse as fast as his feet would carry him. But the scent flooding his nostrils followed him out the door, and lingered with him long into the night.

Chapter Text

It was a common misconception that the key to being a successful warrior was power. That the more power you wielded, the more foes you would slay, the less friends you would lose, the more glory you would reap.

But if there was anything his training had taught Bas, it was that this notion was completely false. Knowing when to strike, calculating how far to stretch or bend, gauging what the best move would be with only a moment’s notice to act – the key to being a warrior was not power at all. It was control.

Words, however, words were about power.

Words didn’t need to be sharp to cause damage nor did they require a medic’s hand to heal. They shattered, they repaired. Spared enemies, damned friends. Brought about wars, ended them.

That was why Bas viewed Ori’s language lessons with as much importance as those he received from Dwalin. Ori held an infinite amount of patience for his student and was eager to go as in depth as Bas required; a stark contrast to Dwalin’s “learn by doing and if you get hurt, it means you’re learning” method.

Which method yielded better results was beyond Bas. He was simply glad to have the chance to learn from both capable, albeit different, instructors.

Ori and he were making swift progress, and had already gone through the entire alphabet twice, now moving on to words and phrases. “These are fairly easy, but it doesn’t hurt to go over them,” the scribe elaborated, “especially for how often they are used. Could we start with this one?”

“Amad,” Bas read obediently, tasting the word like a foreign object on his tongue. Scribbled aside of the Khuzdul was the Westeron translation: “Mother.”

Not a word he had much practice with, to be honest, though he was familiar with it nonetheless. Mother brought to mind the sound of the Mrs. Gamgee scolding little Halfred for tracking mud over her clean kitchen floor or the picture of his grandmother that Da hung over the hearth.

“Adad,” he continued at Ori’s bidding, the slowness of his pronunciation having nothing to do with phonetics. “Father…”

This word, on the other hand, encompassed many things for Bas. It was being tucked into bed as a tot, the scent of Da’s pipe and the lull of his voice as he drifted off. It was being ten-years-old and falling from a great height, only to be caught by arms trembling with the same heart-stuttering fear that seized him as fell. And more recently, it was coming to terms with expectations and reality, estrangement and forgiveness.

Yes, mused Bas, as he gathered his scattered thoughts. Words held a terrible power indeed.

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On the terrace where they had first met, Bas and Estel worked well into the afternoon, the former advising the latter as he tended to the soil of his newly refurbished garden (the infamously mangled shrub, along with the rest of Estel's failed attempts at gardening, having been exhumed).

“Have you packed it down tight?” Bas verified, now playing the role of instructor. Bit mind-boggling, really, to switch from learning to teaching within a few hours’ time.

“Aye,” said his pupil, rising from his knees with a groan. “And I’ve so much dirt caked beneath my nails that no matter how hard I scrub, I doubt I shall ever be rid of it.”

“Perfect!” He grinned. “That means a job well done.”

“Hmph,” Estel chortled. “Any other wisdom you’d like to impart before leaving me to my own devices?”

Bas went through his mental checklist of gardening dos and don’ts. “Don’t forget to water it, for one. And if it starts to look particularly droopy, try talking to it.” At Estel’s incredulous expression, he smiled. “It is essential you care for the plants as though you would a person. Give them care, attention and above all, good company.”

“Guess I can handle that much,” Estel muttered, pouring a pint of water onto the soil with a dull, “Cheers.”

“That’s the spirit!” Having thus emptied the last stores of knowledge he had on the subject, Bas reclined, determined to soak up the remainder of afternoon sun.

Having a moment of idleness was a rarity since he'd come to Rivendell - not that he was complaining. Really, all the work he’d been doing was incredibly worthwhile. He was finally starting to feel like a full-fledged dwarf – or half-dwarf, whatever. Plus it meant he wouldn’t have to run for the hills every time he spotted an oncoming pack of wargs.

Nor will Pimple be bothering me anytime soon. Bas smirked to himself, picturing the bully cowering in the face of his skill. Just you wait until I get home.

An unexpected stab of longing pierced his heart. Home.

In all the excitement and distraction the quest offered, in all his exploration of the other half of his heritage, he had hardly once thought of the Shire. And for perhaps the first time after leaving Bag End behind, Bas realized that a part of him missed it dearly. Missed the smoky aroma of Master Bolger's forge, the feel of lush grass beneath his bare feet, the taste of apple crisp fresh from the oven, the sound of May Gamgee humming a wordless tune in the garden…

What will they think of me when I return? True, he hadn’t changed that much since his departure, extra muscle notwithstanding. And anyhow, hadn’t that been what he intended? To leave and come back better for it? But what will it be like, returning to the place where his dwarven roots made him the local black sheep, more dwarf than ever?

“...Estel?”

“Mm?”

He didn’t know where the question came from, but once it popped into his head, nothing could dismiss it. And with a lack of anything else to do or say, it slipped out his mouth, unguarded. “Have you ever wished to live among men? Just to see what it was like… To see if, maybe, you fit in better amongst them than you did the elves?”

There was a meditative pause.

“I suppose…” said Estel, reflectively. “But if you really think about it, being a man raised by elves amongst men raised by men, I might be even more of an outcast. Does that make sense?”

“Not remotely,” he laughed, although he did understand the point the other was trying to make.

“How is it that you came to live among the elves?” he asked, unthinkingly. Realizing his mistake, he quickly backpedaled, “Oh, I'm sorry, that was much too personal–”

“No, it is fine,” Estel claimed, with the composure of one who had said it many times before and had come to terms with it. “My father – my birth father, that is – was killed by orcs when I was a small child. Mother says that all men of his lineage have resided in Rivendell at some point in their lives. So after his death, it was decided that I would come, and here I have stayed since.”

“I’m sorry,” Bas repeated, averting his eyes in shame. Curse my curiosity. “That must have been hard.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” said Estel in a strange tone, drawing Bas’s gaze to him. “I was very young, really, and most assume I am unable to remember him.”

“Even still,” Bas replied cautiously. There was something about the way Estel spoke, so different than he usually did, that set him on edge. “I imagine it must be difficult, to resign yourself to the knowledge that you will never know him, nor have you any mental keepsake of him to hold dear.”

“That would indeed be tragic,” he said matter-of-factly, still in that eerie rendition of Estel’s normal voice. “But do you know what makes it all the worse?” He did not wait for Bas to respond before he stated, quietly, “I actually do remember him.”

“You do?” Estel nodded.

“All in all, the memories are few and far between, and not very significant – short, precious moments I can blearily recall.” A wistful smile tinged his voice. “He used to hoist me into the air and swing me onto his shoulders whilst I laughed uproariously. I think he must have been rather tall, for it felt as though I could see the entire world from his height.”

As he listened, Bas found himself smiling, too. They sounded like such wonderful memories, however sparse, and he was glad for his friend to have them. At least, until Estel went on: “I do not mention them often. Nor have I revealed my knowledge of them to anyone else.”

“But why?” Bas pried bewilderedly. “What’s the point in pretending?”

He just couldn’t wrap his head around it; the concept was incomprehensible. He had spent his childhood scrounging for any scrap of fact about his father he could find, always hoping to someday gather enough information to piece together a whole parent. And here was Estel, rejecting the memories he did have, rather than embrace them for all they were worth.

“Because I am afraid,” Estel confessed. “Because I see my mother and how her heart aches for her dead husband and I don’t wish to share her pain.” He stared at Bas, sad and subdued. “Seems far easier to miss what you never had than to grieve over what you’ve lost.”

In the wake of his admission, Bas was at a loss. Inwardly, he felt foolish for his earlier condemnation. Of course this would be different for Estel, whose situation was unlike his own, and of course his perspective would thus diverge from his. It was self-centered to believe otherwise, and he was ready to open his mouth and apologize for as much, when he accidently spotted their visitor.

She was a slender, pale woman with fair hair and calm features. While dressed in elvish garments, she did not carry herself elegantly as the elf maidens he had glimpsed, yet she was beautiful all the same. There was a quiet, almost imperceptible strength to her bearing that told of long winters and fierce loss. But there, in the way she titled her chin just so, portrayed the obstinate will that allowed her to persevere. There was no mistaking it – she could nobody else.

Estel’s mother called to him in the elvish tongue, and he answered without looking back. “I must go,” he told Bas, imposing a smile. “I shall see you tomorrow, yes?”

Bas nodded, stomach tight. He hated to leave things as they were, if only until tomorrow. Refusing to part ways on a somber note, he called out, “Wait!” and caught Estel by the crook of the elbow as he prepared to leave.

“Whatever you might think, your feelings do not make you a coward. A coward would never admit his flaws so freely, not even to a friend,” Bas declared, soft enough so only the two of them heard. It had the desired effect, as now the smile that graced boy's face was genuine.

“Thank you, mellon nin,” Estel returned meaningfully, clasping the half-hobbit's arm. Without further adieu, he joined his patiently waiting mother, and this time, Bas let him go.

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With dusk soon approaching, Bas departed soon after Estel. It was that odd hour of day when there was not enough light to accomplish anything of merit, yet still too early to retire. So he opted to take a stroll that would help settle his restlessness.

He was in the midst of wandering, towards no destination, when a familiar voice hailed him from behind. He froze mid-step, and after a moment’s hesitation, obligingly turned towards the voice’s owner, locking eyes with his father.

“Could you spare a moment?” Thorin requested.

Despite knowing that if he answered no his dismissal would be respected, Bas was reluctant to do so, feeling a pang of guilt at the hesitance with which his father was forced to regard him. He hadn’t exactly made himself the most approachable, had he? Though not without reason, he reminded.

“Sure,” he acquiesced, his willingness surprising them both. “...What is it?”

The words fell clumsily from his tongue, like a tween fumbling through a growth spurt, the habit of putting Da at the end of his queries conflicting with the fact that this was Thorin, and the term was no more synonymous with him than cuddly was with Mister Dwalin.

“There is something I wish to give you,” said Thorin, almost nervously, and it was then that Bas noticed the parcel in his hands.

“You…what?” he uttered dumbly. For a moment, the tension of the conversation was lost on him, as his hands twitched eagerly. But he held himself in check long enough to ask, “Why?”

“You have been very busy with your training and I’ve s – I’ve been told how well you are doing,” Thorin explained. “In light of your progress and with permission from our host,” the word host, when it referred to an elf, became a slur in the dwarf’s mouth, “I thought you might like something to commemorate your hard-earned work.”

He handed Bas the parcel, and once again, he didn’t have it in him to refuse. Partly because he was anxious to discover what it was and also because he wasn’t so petty to ignore the barely concealed hope etched in the lines around Thorin’s eyes.

Admittedly, it took some restraint to keep from tearing at the wrapping like an overzealous child. By the time the object was bare in his hands, and his reserves of restraint depleted, there was nothing to prevent the strangled, astonished noise from escaping his lips. It was…

“A sword,” he gasped, past the sizable lump in his throat.

Smooth, cool metal met his fingertips. It was so light in his hands compared to those carried by the other dwarves, the ones he had become accustomed to. But this one was just his size, fitting in his hand like it was crafted specifically for him, as it probably had. The blade was sharp like it had been painstakingly scraped with a whetstone, gleamed like it had been freshly polished.

“It is tradition for a parent to bestow upon a child their first sword,” Thorin spoke warmly, keeping his voice low, as if a groom afraid to spook a skittish foal. “I know I have not been much of a father but… I believe this is a gift you deserve to receive nonetheless.”

Bas was too taken by his gift to even contemplate that last bit. Still too busy admiring the sword Thorin had made him with his own two hands. By the Valar, was it gorgeous! He had always known his father was an impeccable blacksmith, though not in the concrete way he knew the taste of honeysuckle or the smell of old books.

Runes were carved into the hilt, which struck Bas the most because it was such a personal touch; something unnecessary to the overall design that Thorin had taken the extra time to add regardless. He wondered what they meant, wondered if the words could ever come close to expressing the sentiment of the mere gesture itself.

“Thank you!” Bas exclaimed whole-heartedly; and then again, “Thank you,”  frustrated by his ineloquence.

Not that anything except gratitude seemed appropriate; belatedly, it occurred to him that he was not only referring to the gift, but to the wargs, to Thorin looking out for him when Bas had not shown him the time of day.

Out of the corner of his eye, his father’s small, relieved smile was impossible to miss.

“The offer of a spar still stands.” Bas glanced at him funny, not having the slightest clue what he was talking about. It must have shown in his expression, as Thorin clarified, “If you’d like to test it out.”

Remembering that day Thorin had caught him at his worst, back when he could barely lift a sword let alone use one, Bas saw this as his golden opportunity to prove how far he’d come, a desire that overrode any apprehension.

“Alright,” he agreed, swallowing. His voice was steady, like his hand. Without another word, he gripped the rune-marked hilt and took his stance. Thorin followed suit.

Facing each other, neither spoke. Bas waited for his father to initiate, anticipation a tickle at the back of his throat. When it became apparent that Thorin was not going to strike first, he threw caution to the wind and rushed at the older dwarf, aiming for his abdomen. A bold move that Thorin easily deflected. Undeterred, Bas struck again; this time feinting to the left before attacking from the right. And again, Thorin blocked it.

Leery of being underestimated, Bas's blood began to pump hotter. Finally, Thorin struck at him in a flurry of carefully calculated speed and strength. Bas parried it, successfully, and the dance began anew. Strike, block. Dodge, miss. The pair went back-and-forth, over and over, carrying on like conversation.

It was easier, he found, to interact without the obstacle of words weighing them down. There was too much unsaid in their relationship, too much said out of haste and emotion, and in between lay a murky grey area that remained impenetrable. But as they sparred, the only sparks between them were those that sprung from the clash of metal-on-metal.

“You are light on your feet,” Thorin noted. Was it Bas’s imagination or was there a note of envy in his voice? The notion inflated him with pride.

“Master Dwalin says that because of my size, I should use speed to my advantage.”

“Dwalin is a laudable instructor,” Thorin remarked, “and a loyal friend.”

He blocked Bas’s blow, and added, casually, “But an exceptionally poor singer.”

Bas nearly dropped his sword at that, choking on air. “He sings?”

“Loudly, when drunk,” Thorin confirmed, right before delivering a blow that sent his son sprawling backwards.

Steadying himself, Bas shook the amusing image from his head, resolving to focus. “You,” he panted, fixing his opponent with a stern look. “Are you trying to distract me?”

The corner of Thorin’s mouth curved playfully.

“Are you letting yourself be distracted?”

Bas guffawed, the sound suspiciously close to laughter. There was no mistaking it, and he found that it was easy to that he was enjoying himself immensely.

So why did he feel awful?

The sensation overcame him swiftly; a cold, heavy weight tugging at his insides. Forced him to stop, abruptly, chest clenching with each huff of breath, mouth rasping, “That’s enough.”

Lowering his sword, Thorin stared at Bas, concern writ plainly across his face. He stepped towards his son, and Bas’s legs went two spaces back.

His father’s face fell. “Inùdoy,” he whispered, something like desperation coloring his tone.

But Bas shook his head and swung himself around, grasping for the exit. Because he knew, he knew what that word meant.

Son.

Thorin did not follow, thank Eru. He wouldn’t blame him for being confused, disappointed even. Things had been going so well and now...now all Bas wanted to do was find a spot where the world could open up and swallow him whole.

Unlike his earlier fit, there was no rage to burn off like a second layer of skin. Just a pile of stones in the pit of his stomach, dragging him down. The weight of them proved too much, and he slid to the floor, back braced against the wall. Unlike his earlier fit, there was no rage to burn off like a second layer of skin. Bas wasn’t even that angry anymore. No, it was much worse than that.

He was afraid.

And there it was, the terrible truth. Meanwhile, Estel’s confession echoed within his memory.

Seems far easier to miss what you never had than to grieve over what you’ve lost.

Hearing it aloud was like having his own fears unveiled. It was why he was so wary of letting Thorin be his father, the father Bas wanted him to be, even when all he wanted to do was embrace him, forgive and start over.

He detested himself for it, loathed his insecurities, and yet...

The fact was that Thorin couldn’t be trusted, after already leaving once, circumstances notwithstanding. If he left again, when he wasn’t a mere dream but a real, solid father whom he truly loved and respected, what would Bas do then? How much worse would that hurt, compared to how he felt now?

Coward, spat his subconscious. And with all the evidence pointing towards that conclusion, Bas was in no place to disagree.

Not a brave warrior at all. He scowled at the sword clutched in his white-knuckled grip, unworthy of its ownership. Just a bloody coward.

.

.

.

.

Twilight descended on the Valley of Imaldris while Bilbo watched, whittling away the evening by blowing smoke rings into the air. Blast. Isn’t even close to a butterfly, he huffed disappointedly. How does Gandalf manage it?

Oh, well. Not even his lack of prowess could ruin the lovely atmosphere. It had, some time ago, occurred to him that the weather in Rivendell was so perfect that not even the fairest summers of the Shire could ever compare. Erestor had informed him it was because of the power Lord Elrond had over his realm that normally kept the valley entrenched in sunlight.

However, not even the elf lord’s glorious city was impervious to all disturbances. Proof of which came in the form of Bas, rolling into the hall like a storm, his steps clapping like thunder against the floor.

Uh oh. There’s trouble afoot.

“Bas!” he coughed, setting down his pipe. It took him a minute to catch up to his son, who kept walking despite his behests. “Barnabas!”

At the use of his full name, Bas stopped. Bilbo sighed gustily as he came to stand at his side. “Goodness, what has gotten into you?” he demanded. “And what’s that in your hands?”

“A sword,” mumbled Bas, as though he had a stomachache. “Thorin made it for me.”

“Oh,” Bilbo exhaled, and it was all he could do to refrain from flushing, the memory of the bathhouse incident still fresh in his mind. Clearing his throat, he said, “That’s very thoughtful of him. Might I have a look?”

With great effort, Bas unclenched his fingers to allow him to see. Bilbo was no expert, not by any means, but he didn’t have to be to appreciate the obvious care that had gone into making the sword. “It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It’s tradition,” said Bas miserably.

Bilbo frowned. He understood that his son had not been ready to accept Thorin with open arms, not at first. And as time went on, he was glad to see him getting on with his cousins, connecting with some of his reconciled family. He had hoped that by this point, Bas wouldbe open to his father’s attempts to bridge the void between them, when the separation was only bound to worsen the wound.

Gently, he took Bas by the shoulder, steering him so they were face-to-face. “You know, my boy, in spite his mistakes, your father is not a bad person. And he’s made it abundantly clear that he would wish to know you more than anything in the world. Maybe you ought to consider at least giving him a chance.”

His son flinched but made no comment. Bilbo took that as his cue to continue.

“Now, I realize I cannot tell you how to feel. But what I will say is that these feelings will never go away unless you resolve them, rather than let them fester inside. They will become like poison.” He could already see them taking their toll, and it pained him to admit that it wasn’t a hurt he could quail with a kiss or embrace. “Holding grudges is a nasty business. And take it from someone whose parents are long gone – a father is terrible thing to waste.”

“But I bet Grandpa and you never had a tiff like this.” Bas gave a snort devoid of humor. “And anyway, what makes you such an expert in letting go?”

“Excuse me?” Bilbo balked, taken aback.

“Isn’t it a tad hypocritical to preach to me, as you haven’t exactly made any attempt to square things with him, either?” Bas barked, shrugging off Bilbo’s hand. “Face it! You avoid the problem even worse than me, yet you have the gull to lecture me about forgiveness when–”

“Young man, you  watch your tone–”

“–you haven’t forgiven him, either!” Bas shouted over him.

Silence reigned in the wake of his tempestuous outburst. Then, in a remarkably calm voice, Bilbo spoke, “Whatever you may think, I made my peace with Thorin Oakenshield a long time ago.”

“You’re lying!” Bas accused. “I see it hiding behind your eyes, plain as day! You can lie to others, and perhaps even yourself, but you cannot lie to me!”

With nary a glance back, Bas darted off to Eru-knows-where; and on an ordinary day, Bilbo would have pursued him and given him an earful for that shameful display of insolence. As it was, he didn’t much care to see his son after that performance, or anyone else for that matter.

Better yet, Bilbo would retreat to his room, where he wouldn’t have to face anyone.

Of course, taunted the Tookish half of his blood, always quick to pick at his faults. Run to your comfy smial and hide from the world. Except Bag End is far away now, and you’ve nowhere to go, have you?

Damn it. Bilbo exhaled, willing his inner Took to take a hike, as he was in no mood to deal with it. The nerve Bas had struck was a sore one, interred beneath layers of denial. There lingered a mess of bad blood between him and Thorin, and on his part, it was partially anger; more than that, though, it was something he didn’t much care to name.

For years, he’d been able to suppress it. Those first few months after Thorin had left had been the worst, spent day after day, hoping against hope that his blacksmith would wander down Bag Shot Row. But that kind of devotion was exhausting, frankly, and as weeks ticked by and the birth of his child grew near, he found he didn’t have the strength to bear the pain along with the weight of his new responsibilities.

Convincing himself that his love was gone forever and would never return was the only remedy that might dispel it. So he set his feelings aside, built a dam to keep them at bay, and fortified it with every protection he had in his arsenal. And he was content to remain like that for the rest of his life – Bilbo Baggins, the bachelor of Bag End.

Then Gandalf appeared with thirteen dwarves in tow, Thorin chief among them, and the dam had splintered, cracked and sprung an irreparable leak.

He had wanted to believe he could be an adult about the whole affair, but the bathhouse incident was only further proof that he couldn’t be trusted to be near Thorin without making an utter fool out of himself. Accepting that they would never meet again, that Thorin would always be the father of his child and nothing more was one thing – this, this tightrope act they walked between what they had been and what they were was agonizing.

Because if he was being completely honest, the truth was that he was still…

…still not ready to admit the whole truth, even within the sanctity of his mind.

And if that made him a liar – or a hypocrite – so be it. It was nobody’s business but his.