#elenafishers

(if you have any questions about things that don’t line up with Tolkien’s work just be warned this is very AU and he’s probably spinning in his grave anyway.) title comes from the Lumineers because it’s like my ultimate Bagginshield song??? I don’t even know, y’all.

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The first time Bilbo pulled open the wide door to Bag End and found dwarves decorating his carpet he had been much younger and easily frightened by anything that stood more than four feet off the ground. The second time he pulled open his door and found a herd of dwarves, (rather miraculously), on their feet he wasn’t particularly frightened or even really all that surprised. “Bilbo!” Fili and Kili chimed in together with a manner which still managed to unnerve the small hobbit. “Fili, Kili, how are you? Oh, hello there Ori, that is a lovely sweater.” Ori gave him a slight blush and looked at his feet before shuffling to the side and allowing the hulking figure behind him into the light pouring from Bag End. Thorin’s hair boasted more grey than from the previous occasion Bilbo had seen him nearly five years prior. The long locks were twisted into one wide braid trailing down the Dwarf’s spine, and for the first time Bilbo could see Thorin’s large ears and his full forehead. He averted his eyes; staring at Thorin’s bare skin felt oddly intimate. “Come in, come in!” He welcomed his old friends into his hobbit hole, moving out of the way and opening his arms wearily to take Fili’s sword and Kili’s bow. “You have changed nothing, lad.” Bofur grinned, taking in the simplicity of clutter lining the walls. However, Bilbo’s eyes had not left Thorin’s back, observing with awe the gold embossed into his clothing and the golden ringlets now wound into his hair. It would occasionally hit Bilbo like a hammer to the stomach that Thorin was a king and a warrior, yet for the moment he was simply an awkward dwarf dripping leftover raindrops on the carpet that once belonged to some distant grandparent of Bilbo’s father. “I’m sorry if I seem rude, but to what pleasure is the reason for your visit?” The hobbit asked from underneath the pile of coats he’d been given, “Because if you’re looking to slay another dragon, I must tell you that one was quite enough for me, thanks.” Fili let out a laugh and wrapped an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder, “Can we not merely visit an old friend? Perhaps some of us missed you!” He shot a quick glance to Thorin, who did not return the stare and instead busied himself with mopping up the water he’d trailed through Bag End. A small patter of feet on wooden floors caused the dwarven company to still, the old instinct to draw a sword or string an arrow tugs at them. Ori gripped tight to his knitting needles at the back of the group. Instead of a goblin or orc, the bare feet belonged to a small boy with curly black hair framing his ears. The small child ran to Bilbo, wrapping an arm around his leg and staring with wide eyed curiosity at these new shiny strangers. “Frodo, my lad!” Bilbo smiled down kindly, “You should be sleeping.” “I was, but I heard voices.” Frodo responded, eyes fixated on Thorin’s tall frame with wonder. The dwarf stared back in equal amazement, as if he had never seen a child before. Suddenly, Kili bent down to Frodo’s level and stuck out a calloused hand, “Kili, nice to make your acquaintance, young master.” Frodo giggled and then stuck his own tiny hand out, “Frodo Baggins! Are you one of the dwarves from the stories about the dragon?” There is an awkward moment where all the dwarves look at each other and awkwardly shuffle, doubting the worth to their story being told, as Bilbo was probably much more generous with the details than they rightfully deserved. “Well, Bilbo did help us out of a tight spot once,” Bofur grinned to the young hobbit. “You slayed the dragon Smaug together!” Frodo exclaimed and let go of Bilbo for the first time, looking up at Bofur in excitement. “There was very little actual slaying on my part, Frodo.” The older of the hobbits said wearily, “Now, it’s quite past time for bed, you can talk more in the morning.” With only a little reluctance, Frodo turned from the group and trotted back off to his room, the soft sound of slight cracks in the floor fading out. “I knew not that you had produced an heir since last we met.” Thorin said to Bilbo, fully looking him in the face for the first time since his arrival. “We will go, we do not wish to disturb the lady of this home-” “Oh! He’s not.. I mean I’m not-” Bilbo felt flustered. “Frodo is not my son, I adopted him after his parents drowned. He’s lived with me at Bag End for less than a year.” Ori sighed in the background with a sad smile, “That was a very kind thing to do, Mister Bilbo.” “Well, after spending so much time with you lot, I must admit it got rather lonely here at Bag End. Frodo’s a good lad, only twelve in hobbit years.” Bilbo spoke with a smile on his face that carried every ounce of being a proud parent and when he thought of Frodo’s light snores his heart swelled. “Aye, too young to have lost both parents, but a very eager young fellow!” Bofur declared. “Too eager, if you ask me.” Bilbo muttered. “But, you still not have told me your reason for being here, shall we discuss it over a meal? You all look famished.” The prospect of a good hobbit meal caused both Fili and Kili to swoop down and each kiss a cheek on Bilbo’s face before scuttling off to find the dishware. Ori helped Bofur carry in a barrel of ale, leaving Bilbo and Thorin alone to set out food on the wooden table. “So,” Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly, “How is Erebor?” More oft than not, he felt intimidated in Thorin’s presence, as if he should address this dwarf with a more respectful title or bow before speaking to him. Being a simple hobbit, Bilbo had no real idea how to speak to a great king, even if that great king happened to also be a friend. To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin’s usually stony features split into a grin and he looked down at his friend in amusement. “I suspect well, I do not know. I left many lunar cycles ago and have not returned since. My kinsman and I have been travelling for quite some time before reaching the Shire.” Thorin said plainly, laying out the cheese knife. Feeling a little gobsmacked, Bilbo turned to him, “But... then who is king under the mountain?” “My cousin, Dain, has made for a great king, I am sure. Fili would have inherited the crown, but both he and his brother chose to leave when I did.” The answer was simple. Thorin did not generally speak more words than were necessary and before Bilbo could respond the rest of the dwarves reappeared with cutlery and bread. “We have come to stay in the Shire for a little while, or perhaps even a long while, if we find it agreeable enough.” Fili grinned, handing out pints of ale to the party. “Surely the Shire is too quiet for dwarves such as yourselves? You are warriors! Kings!” Bilbo looked to Thorin at a loss for understanding what he clearly felt to be madness. “Yes, we are those things, but we are also quiet folk who enjoy a good craft and a warm bed at night.” Ori said softly. “We’ve grown weary of war and decay.” “No one will know what you’ve done here, and no one will believe your stories, if any bother to listen in the first place. You deserve honor!” Bilbo protested. Thorin pushed his plate away and shifted his gaze to the hobbit, “We know what deeds we have done, friend, and we have no need of fanfare.” He reached for another spoonful of potatoes, “But you are wrong - Frodo believes our stories. That is enough for us.” Something in Bilbo’s chest tightened at ease of his nephew’s name falling from Thorin’s lips, because though he was a strong and fierce dwarf to many who knew him, Thorin was also an uncle who helped raise his own nephews with hard work and fondness. Silence settled in over the group and there was no song from the dwarves throughout the rest of the evening as they did not wish to wake the now snoring Frodo. Bilbo offered them the two spare rooms in Bag End and Thorin the master bedroom. “I will sleep on the floor, that will be plenty for me.” Thorin had responded, but Bilbo protested and now the two stubborn bodies were crammed in the same hobbit-sized bed. “I wish I could have offered you more, but Bag End is no place for a king to stay,” Bilbo said, his back pressed up against the warmth of Thorin’s. The dwarf shifted a little uncomfortably before letting out a gruff reply, “I am no longer a king, and I have spent much of my life with my back to rocks and bare dirt. I assure you, you are much warmer than any of those things.” Bilbo had to agree, the warmth from the thin tunic Thorin wore was seeping slowly into his own skin. He drifted into an easy sleep and did not wake until late the next morning.

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The resilience of dwarves, Bilbo had learned, was not something easily broken. He often felt humbled on their journey by how quickly they could adapt and change to fit their surroundings. He’d never imagined, however, that this would extend to Bag End. The last time they’d all squeezed in his home, they brought their raucous lifestyle with them, though in the end the party made sure to tidy up behind themselves. When Bilbo woke the next morning to a bed devoid of a dwarven king, he thought at first perhaps they had moved on, but as he made his way to the kitchen it became apparent that the rag-tag group were already making Bag End their own. Frodo sat at the table, a handkerchief tucked neatly into his collar, watching with rapt attention as Bofur whittled away at a piece of wood. Ori sat on the other side, knitting needles clutched expertly in his fingers, ignoring Fili and Kili as they fought over the last sausage. Bilbo turned around to take in the state of his home. There was a ordered row of boots next to the front door, all considerably less muddy than they had been the night before. Swords, axes, and bows were hung high up so no young hobbits could get ahold of them, and there were leather coats hung next to each weapon. But the strangest sight came in the figure of Thorin, pan clutched in one hand and fork in the other, with Bilbo’s grandmother’s favorite flowered apron tied loosely around his hips. “Good morning, Uncle! Bofur is making me a dragon!” Frodo grinned up from his eggs, pointing excitedly at Bofur’s hands, still covered in the knitted half mittens Bilbo remembered. “Make sure you thank him when he’s done, Frodo. And don’t forget to drink your milk!” Bilbo smiled gently back to his nephew. “So I can become big and strong? Like Fili and Kili!” He said, swiveling around to the younger dwarves. Bilbo gave them one sharp look and they both began nodding. “Yes, we drank pints of milk each morning when we were wee lads!” Kili chimed in, giving a Fili a chance to steal the last piece of food between them. As they started bickering again, Bilbo turned his gaze to Thorin, who was still standing over the fire, his hands bare of mitts as he poked into the flames. “You’re going to burn yourself!” Bilbo squawked, next to Thorin’s side, watching his progress with the eggs. “There is no need for worry, Master Hobbit, I worked many years in the sword trade.” He outstretched his hand for the plate next to Bilbo. “I assure you, my skin is no longer sensitive to heat.” Dumbly, Bilbo nodded before grabbing the plate. He moved to the table with the rest of the meal, and was surprised to see Thorin pull out the chair next to his own. “Last night I believe my nephew informed you about our intention to remain in the Shire?” Thorin asked, looking to Bilbo. With half an egg hanging quite unattractively from his lips, Bilbo nodded. “Of course, we intend to find work here. We are all tradesmen, but we have brought some wealth with us to get by until we are able to sustain ourselves.” He paused to look around the crowded table. “I realize this is an unexpected turn of events, and that Bag End is your home. We only wish to stay with you until we can acquire quarters of our own.” Bilbo slowly put his fork down, “Um, yes, that is fine. I am sure Frodo would enjoy company. Though I must warn you that he is a very bossy playmate.” “Uncle!” Frodo protested. “And while I don’t understand why you’ve all chosen the Shire, it’s a quiet place. Of course, you will all certainly get some queer looks, but hobbits are warm creatures, I’m sure you will find yourselves at home in no time.” Bilbo said nervously, not truly confident in his own words. Hobbits in the Shire all knew each other and were often simple-minded folk who had no interest in outsiders. Indeed, a dwarf moving into a hobbit hole might spark outrage at first. “You will have to teach them our customs, Uncle!” Frodo piped up from across the table. “And what might those be, lad?” Bofur asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Frodo’s eyes lit up at the prospect of educating the others on the proper role of a hobbit. He sat up straighter in his chair and turned to face Bofur and Ori. “Well, we don’t wear boots. And the more hair on your feet, the more the other young hobbits will respect you.” He pulled his own foot up to show his new pupils. “Also, we like spending time out of doors, even if we’re not working. I’m not old enough yet, but at parties everyone drinks a lot of ale and sing songs. Some hobbits even make up their own!” Bofur listened with complete attention, while Fili and Kili smirked over to their own uncle. “We eat six meals a day if we’re lucky, but it’s not okay to steal food from anyone’s garden, because they might send their dogs after you.” Frodo continued, but Bilbo gave him a stern look over the table. “Frodo, you haven’t been back into Farmer Maggot’s crops have you?” The younger boy fidgeted under his uncle’s scrutiny. “Merry said he wouldn’t notice a few carrots-” “I shall be speaking with Meriadoc’s mother, but for now you can help clear the table.” Bilbo said firmly, and his nephew didn’t argue. As they collected plates for Fili and Kili to wash, Thorin leaned over his host for some of the silver. “He respects you a great deal.” Thorin said gruffly, not looking at Bilbo. “Yes, well. Everyone in town thinks I’m too easy on him.” The hobbit shuffled the plates in his arms. “But he’s just a lad. They’re supposed to get into trouble every now and then.” Thorin didn’t say anything, instead he lifted the stack of dishes out of Bilbo’s arms and carried them to his own nephews. Frodo was chattering away to Fili, a towel in his small hands, drying everything. It was odd how the dwarves fit so effortlessly into this picture. Kili flicking soap bubbles at his brother as Frodo giggled next to them, while Thorin looked on clearly torn between amusement and disapproval. Bofur and Ori whistled as they put all the dishes where they belonged in the cabinets. Bilbo only allowed himself to acknowledge briefly how he could get used to this morning routine. Thorin caught his attention, still wrapped in the flowered apron, and gave a rare smile to the hobbit, and not for the first time did Bilbo’s heart agree with his brain when he thought, “Family.”

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At the end of their first month in the Shire, the dwarves all managed to find their own ways of fitting into this new and strange culture they wanted to become a part of. Ori had the easiest time blending in with the hobbits. Being the first to give up his boots and armor, he also knitted the best blanket that side of Bree. Many females came to the market, giggling and nervous, to compliment the youngest dwarf on his skill. Mostly he blushed and stared at his bare feet. The children hobbits took to Bofur instantly, between his ability to turn anything into a musical instrument and any block of wood into their favorite animal, he was often seen covered in tiny hobbits, pulling at his hair. Bilbo never needed to work in his life, and he didn’t think that the line of Durin would either. He failed to remember how important work and craftsmanship were to the dwarven race. Fili and Kili drank and sang their way into being new bar keep down at the Green Dragon. “You’ll look lovely in the dresses the bar wenches wear!” Bofur had laughed over dinner one night, but the two brothers didn’t seem very offended by it. Ale and food and socialization were things that both hobbits and dwarves held in high regard. If anything, Bilbo felt Fili and Kili would probably rake in a pile of gold during their hours at the inn. Thorin’s seat sat unoccupied through most of the meal, as did Frodo’s. The second week after the party had arrived at Bag End, Thorin asked to take Frodo out to the wooded area. Bilbo, so shocked by the request, had no time to question him before he nodded in approval. He had no idea what they could be doing for so long into the evening, but Bilbo couldn’t help being happy that both Frodo and Thorin had found an unlikely companion in each other. For a moment, Bilbo thought that perhaps Thorin was only so awkward and stiff around older beings. He pictured the dwarven king with his nephews as children and smiled a little. Being Frodo’s guardian wasn’t always an easy business, and Bilbo had no experience in raising anyone. He was thankful to Thorin for this. When the two did come drudging in at the very tail end of supper, they just looked to each other and shrugged at a flustered Bilbo, standing all of three feet in his newly knitted dressing gown, courtesy of Ori. “We brought fish!” Frodo cheered, holding up a sack. “Oh, why don’t you go put those in the skillet, Frodo?” Bilbo offered, motioning somewhere behind him. As Frodo’s curly head trudged into the kitchens to show his catch off to Bofur, Bilbo turned to face Thorin with wide-eyed amazement. “You got him to go to the river?” He asked, studying the dwarf’s face closely. If it was possible, Thorin looked sheepish under Bilbo’s gaze. “I’ve, uh,” Thorin was staring at his feet intensely. “I’ve been teaching Frodo how to swim.” Bilbo took a step back involuntarily. “You’ve... But he hates water. He’s terrified of it.” He observed Frodo in the kitchen, animatedly reenacting his fishing trip for Fili, and noticed the dampness to his hair. “After I showed him that I could swim, he wanted to try.” Thorin finally raised his eyes to Bilbo’s. A soft smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “He’s a brave lad.” Later that night when Bilbo tucked Frodo into bed, he ruffled his hair and asked if he had enjoyed swimming earlier. “Mama always said not to go in the river, because it was too big for us little folk,” Frodo yawned, rubbing his eyes. “But Mister Thorin held me and showed me how to move my arms and legs. I wasn’t afraid with him. He told me,” Frodo screwed his face up to resemble Thorin’s. “‘It’s okay to be afraid, Frodo, but you must never give up.’” Bilbo took a deep breath, pulling the covers up to his nephew’s chin. “You’re not upset are you, Uncle? Thorin promised he wouldn’t let me get hurt. He just wanted to help me.” Frodo’s bright eyes under the moonlight were almost painful to look at, but Bilbo shook his head. “No, lad, I’m not upset.” He leaned down to kiss the top of Frodo’s head. “I’m very proud of you, m’boy.” When he entered his room he found Thorin already there, sitting on his side of the bed, reading a book. Upon closer inspection he realized it was his book, mapping out the lineage of most of the races in Middle Earth. “That’s private you know,” Bilbo said without any real aggression. Thorin looked up from his page, “It’s about me.” Bilbo shuffled his feet and turned to hang his dressing gown up. “It’s not just about you.” “Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the Great King Under the Mountain in Erebor had many talents including his strength in battle as well as being greatly skilled in both singing and playing the harp,” Thorin read, the words slipping from his tongue like one might read a love poem. “Yes, well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Bilbo stuttered, climbing carefully into his side of the bed. Unfortunately, it was a tiny frame, so his arm still ended pressed against Thorin’s. “I’m sorry I don’t have a bigger bed, perhaps Fili and Kili will be living in the inn soon, and we won’t have to share.” Bilbo tactfully changed the topic of conversation and turned over on his side away from Thorin. With a rustle, the book was back on the little table next to the bed and the candle blown out. In the dark, Bilbo could count the rhythm of Thorin’s breathing until he fell asleep.

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