#p2 soon

Note: soooooooo this is in two parts and fills two fills! The second part should be up soon. Hope this makes up for how long it’s been since I posted :((( right. Couple of things: It’s TA 2923. Some people have not died yet. Bilbo has just come of age, so he’s 33 in hobbit years which is about 21 in human years. Thorin is around 177 and is say….in his late thirties. I’m also using Aragorn’s age from the movies, so he’s 27 here. The divergence begins when Arthedain survives the Battle of Fornost, and so the hobbits remain under the jurisdiction of the Arthedain King. Doesn’t change much, only that hobbits are a bit more worldly and political, and some of the monarchical culture of Arthedain has been adopted by the Shire. If you have questions let me know, but i advise you just to enjoy the ride lol

The Old Took is a friend of his, and so delivering unfortunate news to him is an especially sorry task for poor Gandalf. He sits, cramped and miserable, in a chair made for the hobbits of Arthedain, never feeling more like one of the Big Folk than he does now (having made himself unwelcome in both areas of size and respectable company). But it cannot be undone, and politics are politics.

“And whom would you suggest I throw to the wolves, Gandalf?” says Gerontius, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists. “There is no one of equal standing.”

Gandalf hesitates, but he knows that speaking truths now would not be helpful. The Old Took is aware of where this will lead anyway, but does not want to say it as much as he does not want Gandalf to say it, and so they remained silent for a time.

As the fire crackles merrily and their tea grows cold, Gandalf puffs at his pipe morosely, thinking of who Gerontius might try to persuade instead. There is Fortinbras of course, though Gandalf is fairly sure that he is attached to the Clayhanger girl. Then Adalgrim, perhaps, though it is important to note that that particular relationship would never work (Grim is not the most… sensible of hobbits). Flambard or Sigismond however….

He looks up to find Gerontius watching him. “No,” says the Old Took. “Flambard is not that way, and Sigismond has just fallen in love.”

Gandalf sighs. “Is it a great love?”

Gerontius shakes his head, looking defeated. “One never knows.”

They stare at each other. There is a frown sitting heavily on the hobbit’s face, and his eyes are bathed in shadow. Looking at his friend, Gandalf feels the noose grow tighter.

“Bella will never forgive me,” the Thain says into the quiet. “He’s my favorite, you know, and there are quite a lot of them to choose from.”

Gandalf smiles, but it is fleeting. “They are equals, to be sure.”

“No,” Gerontius relights his pipe and sits back in his chair. “No, they are not. This dwarf, prince or not, simply cannot compare.”

There is nothing else to be said after that, and resignedly, they agree to go to Hobbiton together tomorrow. They also agree that neither of them wants to break the news. It is Adamanta that does it, in the end, and perhaps that is best.

Lessons take place from second breakfast to afternoon tea, and they are purposely grueling, given Bilbo’s tendency to drift off into daydreams. He thinks of his old ambitions and interests, so callously set aside at his father’s behest. It has never been more apparent than now that he is a hobbit of means and respectability, and so has little choice in where his life must go from here.

It is September the twenty-third, and two days ago, Bilbo came of age.

His father had waited only twelve hours after Bilbo’s birthday to sit him down and say:

“Bilbo, you are not just any hobbit. You are a gentlehobbit. You are the grandson of the Shire’s Thain, the Baggins family heir, and a respected patron and landlord. One day, I shall die – no, do not fuss, I’m healthy yet – but die I shall, and when I do, my boy, I want to be sure that our family’s reputation is well in hand. That is to say, it is time to further your lessons.”

Bilbo, who is gnawing on his lip and growing more and more despondent, says:  "But I’ve been training to be a Bounder! I won’t have time for lessons.“

“You will,” says Bungo, solemnly. “Because you simply cannot be a Bounder.”

Life before his coming of age consists of practicing his archery and patrolling (though not in areas known to be very dangerous – he is only a trainee, after all) the boundaries of the Shire. He and Adalgrim had wanted to finish their training in a year’s time, before joining the Dúnedain as scouts and marksmen. This was Bilbo’s dream, but now, here – his father is telling him that it is simply not possible, and Bilbo is heartbroken.

He does not pay as much attention to his lessons as he should, in consequence. He does not want to learn about public speaking, both Shire and Arthedain histories, and boring old accounting and landholdings. He does not care that he is wealthy or born into privilege.

“You mustn’t sulk, Bilbo, you are very lucky you know,” says Strider. He has come to see if Bilbo would patrol with him (they prefer journeying together, most days), but is instead regaled with the details of Bilbo’s most horrid news.

“But I want to help!” the hobbit insists. “The roads grow more and more dangerous as time passes, and those dwarves will hardly make peace with us, no matter what Lord Elrond says!”

“Bilbo,” Strider begins calmly, putting his hands on the hobbit’s shoulders (he is very tall, and so he obligingly gets down on one knee). “You are an excellent Bounder, and one of the best scouts I have ever trained. Though your calling may be a little bit different than you once thought, it does not mean that you cannot help the Shire. If anything, you are in a better position to make a difference than any other hobbit here.”

“But I’m not even grandfather’s heir! Why do they insist on treating me like I’m special?”

“I imagine that it’s because you are special,” Strider theorizes, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Or the only one suited for the job, given how well I know your family.”

It is true that Bilbo’s cousins are very…well…hobbit-y. When not obligated to, they generally stay away from Big Folk Business, partially from fear and disgust, and for some, outright hatred. Adalgrim is remarkably tolerant, but is not in any way tactful enough to be around anyone respectable, Hobbit or not. Flambard despises all races (even his own) and Sigismond is afraid of his own shadow.

Besides Fortinbras, none of the others are in the least bit suitable, and so have not been trained in Arthedain politics, various languages, and Elvish etiquette. He also supposes that his added interest in these things has unwittingly signed him up for a lifetime of boredom and misery. To top it off, the title on his father’s side as Lord and gentlehobbit had essentially marked him as Respectable for life, regardless of his grandfather’s status. It really isn’t any wonder that Bilbo cannot run off, bow and arrow in hand, to save all of Arda.

Still, it hurts.

Strider goes away having not made Bilbo any happier, and he tromps back to Bag End with a heavy heart. Lessons tomorrow and lessons the next day, he thinks with a sigh. I must simply resign myself to this unhappy existence.

But when Bilbo slouches up to his little green door it suddenly opens, and before him stands his grandmother.

“Come, darling,” Adamanta says, holding out a hand to him. “We must speak.”

Thorin gazes solemnly at the expanse of his father’s halls, sweat running down his face and into his collar. He is tall for a dwarf, and rather plain by dwarrow standards, but he cuts a striking figure perched on the stone mezzanine. He briefly worries that his size and demeanor will intimidate his hobbit husband, and tries to smile in a comforting manner. It comes out as a grimace no matter how much he practices.

“Have you no objections?” Thrain had questioned him concernedly. “It is a great burden I must ask of you.”

“We cannot starve again,” Thorin had told him. “If I must be married to prevent it – then of course I will be married. I only ask that he is of my own gender and reasonably pleasant.”

He stands and watches his dwarrow now; his people who have come through so very much since the dragon came. Thorin considers it no great trial to marry a hobbit (no matter how cruel he finds them) if it means his dwarrow will not go through another winter of starvation. Marrying into the Thain’s family will ensure that the hobbits think twice before cutting off the food supply again.

The brigands are on Thorin’s mind as he retreats from the balcony and back into his forge; they and the orcs consume his waking hours with worry and rage. He is to go out again, five days from now, to meet his sister and Balin at Emyn Beraid; his betrothed is to meet him there, before they are to be married.

The hobbits (and all of Arnor) believe that the plague on the Great East Road is the fault of Thorin’s kin. Azanulbizar had inflamed Azog and his hordes, this was true, and there are dwarrow among the brigands, he is sorry to say – but this is not the fault of his people, whose population had dwindled steadily over the years as their supply of food grew sparse at the whim of the halflings. Thrain tells Thorin that it has to do with politics, and perhaps straight and honest loyalty to the Arthedain King. But there is politics and loyalty and then there is cruelty. The war between the Blue Mountains and Arnor has been over for three decades now, but still there are those that hold on tightly to their petty grudges.

Thorin is not among them. He saves his anger for the orcs, for Smaug, and for Thranduil. That is not to say that he likes the races of Arnor, nor that he wishes to marry into their society.

“He cares only for duty,” Dís had said to their father before she had left for the outpost. “Not for his own happiness.”

But Thorin does not have the time or luxury to worry for his own happiness. Thorin is a prince of a captured kingdom, a servant of his father’s throne, and a trusted representative of his people.

His desires do not matter.

Thorin will marry a hobbit of the Shire, and ensure his people the peace they so desperately need. It is a small sacrifice, all things considered.

Emyn Beraid is the last bit of civilization before the road turns brittle and dark. Ered Luin looms on the horizon, its peaks split by the winding Lhûn and the Grey Havens. To the south lies the Westmarch, and the iron settlements, whose dwarrow are seldom seen. The Shire lies to the east of Emyn Beraid, and the hobbits must travel from Tuckborough to the Far Downs, and then to the tower hills, where the rangers meet the Thain and his party with food and refreshment.

The elves of Rivendell arrive next, followed by the Arthedain representative. Last is Thorin himself, who comes with a party of only three, and is therefore vastly outnumbered. He is made to feel excluded when among them, and they reference only King Thrain and seem to not think much of his son. The wedding, when spoken of, is treated as an afterthought.

Yet for all they seem to despise Thorin, they rather adore his husband-to-be. The Dúnedain hover protectively, and even the perpetually gloomy Arthedain representative looks enchanted. Elrond too, seems especially fond, and the entire hobbit coalition glares murderously at the dwarrow in a truly impressive show of aggression, given their small size and penchant for expensive waistcoats.

Thorin, himself, has a mixed reaction to his betrothed.

His first thought is that he is small, which though not his cleverest observation, is a notable one nonetheless. He surmises that just as he is tall for his people, this hobbit must be short for a halfling (what he does not know is that Bilbo’s height is quite ideal, even though he is far too scraggy to be considered perfect). Thorin’s second thought is that he could definitely do worse (Bilbo would be furious to hear this, so it is good that Thorin did not say it out loud).

His third thought is forgotten due to his bemusement, for he is boldly approached by his betrothed and without the humiliating wailing that he had initially expected.

“Hello!” the tiny creature greets him. “I’m to marry you! I think.”

It is…impossible not to be charmed by the hobbit, who introduces himself as Bilbo, and then proceeds to name all of his hobbit party and how he is related to them (which takes a while). Thorin finds that he does not wish to interrupt, for the halfling’s voice is pleasant (though rather wobbly, at first, with nerves) and his eyes are whimsically bright and clever.

He stares without really listening after a while, and so his cheeks turn red when he realizes that Bilbo has asked him something. “Pardon me,” says Thorin. “What did you say?”

A spark of frustration alights in Bilbo’s eyes. “I inquired about your company,” he repeats. “You’ve only the one.”

“And Dís and Balin, whom I believe you have met.”

“Oh yes! Balin certainly knows his literature; we’ve had a few riveting conversations already. And Dís is just lovely!”

Thorin disagrees but does not say so.

“Still, that is only four relations to see you wed. Are you sure you don’t want to invite more?”

Haltingly, Thorin tells him that the rest of his family are all busy back in the Halls, and cannot come. He doesn’t have the heart to say to this little hobbit that the wedding is only another addition to a long list of concessions in the treaty. That it is not to be celebrated…but endured.

They feast that night, and mean to go to bed early (the wedding is in the morning, and they leave to return to the Halls shortly thereafter), but Thorin finds that he cannot sleep. Dís cannot either, and so she comes to visit him.

“Brother,” she says. “This is not what I wanted for you.”

He thinks that she also means that this is not what our mother wanted, either.

“It must be done,” he tells her. He has said this many times since he agreed to the marriage.

They sit beside the fire in a small room with a draft. Emyn Beraid is not an inn, but a fortress, and yet there are probably better rooms left empty that were not given to the dwarrow out of spite.

“If it must be done,” Dís repeats his words with a sigh, chewing on her pipe and gazing at him with dark eyes. “Then I suppose I should warn you that the hobbit is quite the handful.”

There is a small twitch at the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “Is he that bad, sister? If so, you must promise not to kill him before we are married.”

Dís huffs. “Bad? No. He is a tiny ball of mischief. He reminds me of Vili. Utterly useless but absurdly charming.”

“Useless? I’ve been told he is quite clever.”

“Oh, yes, that he is.” She grins at him a little. “He likes his books and poetry – and there’s no need to make that face, Balin will satisfy his craving for that sort of talk – but however clever he is, he does not know of what dangers lie before him. Nor of the severe lack of luxury in our Halls, which I believe he is not prepared to account for.”

Thorin has deduced the same, as the hobbit’s clothes are thin and fancy, and not made for their dusty, dirty home. He wonders what else Bilbo will bring with him, that will prove only a burden in so simple a place as Ered Luin.

“As spoiled as he may be,” Dís concludes, rising from her chair with a yawn. “I do believe he’ll make a fine companion for you.”

“I do hope so,” Thorin says, and then repeats into the quiet, once Dís has gone, “please let her be right.”

They are married after breakfast. Bilbo is bleary-eyed but dressed and groomed finely. Thorin has been up since before dawn. Elrond reads the service.

They break bread together, and drink of the same cup, and Thorin taps his forehead to Bilbo’s, hurting his back since he must lean so far down. The hobbit twines flowers in his hair, and Thorin gives Bilbo his first bead.

When all is done, Thorin is married to a halfling from the Shire, and Bilbo is tied to a prince from a forgotten kingdom. But most important – the treaty is signed, and there is peace between the races of Ered Luin and Arnor.

Gandalf, who had refused to come to the wedding in protest, shows up two hours before he and Thorin leave for the Halls. He glares down at Bilbo and stomps his staff in frustration.

“I thought you might have run away.”

Bilbo glares back. “You mean you’d hoped. You’re such a troublemaker.”

“Imagine you saying that to me, Bilbo Baggins! Well. You have not run away and that is that. Tell me of your husband.”

Bilbo, busy adjusting his saddle and saddle bags for their journey, gives the wizard an impatient look. “You’ve met Thorin before.”

“Yes but I should like to know what you think.”

He sighs and runs a hand through Myrtle’s mane. She snuffles at his pockets for the apples he has there, and so he gives her one. “He is very serious,” Bilbo finally says. “Overly dutiful, one might say.”

Gandalf seems amused. “One might.”

“I was just…so glad to not be stuck in the Shire…counting coffers and hosting tea parties, that I suppose I assumed that he would be…happy too.”

The wizard hums thoughtfully. “Thorin is a leader. He thinks of his people, before he thinks of himself. He is a good dwarf, Bilbo. I trust him with you.”

Bilbo smiles softly. “Well, if you think – ”

“But I do not trust you with him.”

He gasps, and then grows hot. “What do you mean by that? I won’t trouble him!”

“Won’t you?”

“Not at all!” Bilbo stomps his foot and Myrtle whinnies a bit. “I know this is important. I know that my family did not believe me when I said I wanted to help, but I do, Gandalf. I do want to help. It’s why I wanted to be a Bounder! And I am not as silly as the others think. I won’t be a hindrance to anyone, not you or Elrond or Strider or anyone. And especially not Thorin, who I must live with now, if you’ll remember!”

“Calm yourself,” Gandalf finally cuts him off. “You are hysterical. I only meant this: Thorin is a good dwarf, and I trust that he will not hurt you. I do not trust, however, that you will do what is best for him in regards to his happiness. You must be patient with him, and kind. Dwarrow are not treated as they should be in Arnor. You must also teach him to think of other things besides duty. To put it simply, you must teach him to be more like you.”

Bilbo thinks on this, gnawing on his lip. “I…yes. I think I can do that.”

“You must also let Thorin teach you how to be more like him,” Gandalf says, giving Bilbo a stern look. “Wanting to help is all fine and good, Bilbo Baggins, but succeeding at it is another thing entirely.”

Bilbo says goodbye to his family an hour before their departure. He figures that this is enough time for them to cry a little and give him their many hugs and kisses. It is not enough time, though, because Bilbo is going far away and it has only just hit them.

Consequently, he keeps Thorin waiting.

The only hobbit that does not cry is Gerontius. “I would ask your forgiveness, but I cannot even forgive myself,” the Thain says, holding Bilbo close.

“You mustn’t fret so, grandfather,” Bilbo tells him. “I’m alright.”

“If you are not, we will come fetch you,” says Aunt Mirabella, and then louder, “and see how these dwarves make do without the charity of hobbits!”

Bilbo shushes her, though he knows that Thorin’s party has overheard. His last goodbyes are tame compared to the wailing his aunts, uncles, and cousins do, and these are his parents, who are likely to miss him the most.

His father, ever proper, does not blubber. But it is a close run thing.

“Be well, my Bilbo,” he says wetly. “Mind your manners, and keep on with your lessons. I expect a letter once a week.”

“The post isn’t as fast as that, dad,” Bilbo laughs. “But I shall write as much as I can. You have my word.”

When Bungo has said all that he can without falling to pieces, Bilbo turns to his mother. Her eyes are filled with tears, but she straightens her back and manages to keep them in.

“Bilbo,” she starts, clearing her throat. “What will I do with you gone?”

Bilbo smiles. “Take care of dad?”

Belladonna sighs. “If I must,” she says. “I love you, so much. And I will miss you every hour of every day. Please be safe. Please be happy.”

He kisses her cheeks and promises her that he will, but she does not look reassured. She gazes past Bilbo’s head at Thorin’s party, who wait awkwardly by their ponies. When she turns her eyes back on Bilbo, they are compassionate and concerned.

“You must be kind to them, my boy,” she tells him, to his surprise. “It is the least that they deserve.”

Bilbo has lived his entire life hearing about the greediness and unreasonableness of dwarves. He has not heard that he should be nice to them. But this is his mother’s request, and Bilbo will meet it out of loyalty if nothing else.

It is his last goodbye, and when he is done they are soon perched upon their ponies and journeying away from Emyn Beraid – a solemn group of hobbits seeing him off with tears in their eyes.

But Bilbo is not so miserable as all that.

“Dalin, right?” he persists, despite the impressive scowl on the face of the dwarf in question.

“Dwalin, laddy,” Balin chuckles. “My ever cheerful brother, as you can see.”

Dwalin scowls harder, and Bilbo glances at him slyly. “Can you use that axe, Master Dwalin? Or is it for decoration?”

Dís, at the head of the group, barks out a sudden laugh. Thorin seems confused though, from his place beside her.

“Dwalin is our weapons master,” he reveals. “He is more than capable. Tell me, hobbit, what weapon do you wield?”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow at the slight edge of antagonism in Thorin’s tone. “The bow, if you must know,” he answers. “And I’m fairly good with knives.”

“Truly?” Dís asks in disbelief. Bilbo is a bit offended at her surprise, but decides to let it go. “I did not know that hobbits did weapons training.”

“Some of them.”

“Are you any good?”

Bilbo shrugs. “I hit what I aim for, more or less.”

Thorin snorts.

The day continues on in this manner, with Bilbo’s well-meaning chatter distracting them, luckily without being overly obnoxious. Thorin can understand why Dís likes the hobbit, and sees as well his similarity to Vili in his mischievous but honest demeanor.

On the maps, the Great East Road ends at Emyn Beraid, but on foot it continues. The road becomes a treacherous, rocky forest with nothing to guide them but foliage and the elusive scent of water. Luckily, dwarrow have walked the path from the Lhûn to the southern mountains many times, and so they move on instinct now.

Thorin predicts that they will reach the river tomorrow night, if they keep to a steady pace. Bilbo is glad; the forest is dark and empty, and makes him feel very small. They set up camp in a practiced manner that leaves Bilbo sitting out rather awkwardly.

“Can I help?” he asks, fidgeting.

“Faster if we do it,” says Thorin, distracted.

Dís sends her brother a warning look that he does not see, and comes over to Bilbo. She is carrying a sack full of dried meats, and she goes through them with him companionably, letting him have first choice of salted strips of elk and steer.

They sit around the campfire and eat their meager portions, drinking a hot tea that Bilbo volunteered to make once the fire was going. Balin talks with Bilbo of their shared interests (which extends to Elvish poetry, much to everyone else’s disgust) until he seems to realize that they have excluded the rest of their group from the conversation.

Balin clears his throat. “…but no one knows the histories as quite as well as Thorin, isn’t that right?”

Thorin looks up, surprised. “I am proficient, but by no means an expert.”

“Don’t be so modest!” Dís pipes up, her expression gleeful. “When we were little he would go on and on and on about Durin this and Durin that, and ‘our esteemed ancestors’….It was awful.”

Dwalin nods sadly into his mug of tea, remembering little boring Thorin with his histories. They tease him a bit more until he stomps off to take first watch, and Bilbo climbs into his bedroll. He asks Dís to get him up when his shift comes around and she agrees.

No one wakes him, of course.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking watch,” says Bilbo to Dís, the next day. “I’ve taken watch before and no one has died or been carried off by orcs.”

Dís looks sorry to have done it, but there is impatience in Thorin’s posture and in his expression. Their ponies plod along as the rocky, flat terrain becomes a dry meadow, filled with small floating flies and long yellow grasses that make Bilbo sneeze.

“And when have you taken watch?” Dwalin asks, making fun but not unkindly.

“Many times with the Bounders.”

“The Bounders?” Thorin repeats.

“Yes, the Bounders. Our patrol. A hobbit patrol, that is. We work with the Dúnedain and are trained by them to scout, track, shoot, spar, and hunt, and so on and so forth.”

Dís turns around in her saddle to smile at him. “I had no idea you lot did all that! I thought the Arthedain King protected your people, and that you had no reason to worry so. But I’ve never seen a hobbit on the front lines….”

“Because we are very good!” Bilbo reveals, looking pleased. “And I imagine if you did spot us, it would be the last thing you ever saw.”

Balin clears his throat pointedly, and Bilbo falls silent. He has forgotten that it was only a few decades ago that Arnor was at war with the Blue Mountains. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Dís only shakes her head.

Thorin is silent as they cross the meadow. The scent of the ocean, cool and briny, comes in from the west.

They reach the Lhûn at dusk, as predicted. This time, Bilbo decides not to ask if he can help, and instead takes the initiative and begins to collect firewood. Thorin says nothing, but Bilbo can tell that he is surprised and just a little pleased.

The mood is much more cheerful around the campfire that night, being bolstered by the pleasant weather and their having a warm broth for dinner. Bilbo scrounges it up at the last minute, adding in any herbs and edible plants he sees growing around their campsite to a simple vegetable base. Dwalin balks at the idea of eating green food and green food only, but gobbles down his portion after he is finally persuaded to taste it.

With comfortably full stomachs the company falls into a heavy sleep, leaving a yawning Balin to first watch.

They are set upon by orcs at midnight.

In the chaos of the ensuing battle, Thorin simply has no time to look after each member of his party. He counts twelve orcs, all well-armed and ruthless. He dodges an axe to the face and downs an orc with a blade to the gut. He turns and faces another, but is almost run through when he is distracted by a distant howl.

“Wargs!” says Dís, her face grave as she slices the head off of another assailant.

“We must run!” Balin cries, and Thorin turns around and yells for them all to flee. They go.

They run as fast as they can through the forest, the orcs growling and snapping at their heels. Thorin bursts out of the woods and runs along the river, looking for a safe crossing. He knows that there is one, but finds that once he has gone off the path that he knows by heart, he is desperately turned around. Halting, he stands and pants, looking around and suddenly realizing that he is alone. His companions did not make it out.

With a wordless growl he unsheathes his sword, ready to tear off back the way he came. But before he can, he is hit over the head with something blunt and hard, and he falls to the ground – unconscious.

Thorin wakes to a hissed argument. His head is throbbing, and the ground beneath him is hard and cold. His arms ache; they are stretched behind him and tied tight with a bit of rope. He can smell dirt, sweat, and something burning.

“Nûphan! Ki-na lôkhi?” one of his captors curses. Thorin opens one eye and squints. It is a Man, and he is obviously agitated as he paces in front of the fire.

“Nê-yâdim.”

“Nêg-nad anHa niyô.” This one seems like the leader, for he manages to put paid to their argument with a few sharp words. He then continues to clean his sword meticulously, ignoring his nervous companions.

They are not paying any attention at all to Thorin, who is carefully feeling out the rope around his wrists for a weakness. It is slow going; he thinks that he recalls waking a few times before, and his head is tellingly muddled. How long have they kept him drugged? Where are his companions? For that matter, he thinks, where am I?

“Nê-yâdim. Agânun unâkhi!” says the second one suddenly.

Thorin manages to wiggle some room into his binds. He shuffles his hands up and down, attempting to squeeze them out of the ropes. Just as he thinks he’s got it, the leader stands up from the ground and throws his whetstone at his companion’s head.

“Bâ ki-bithahê!” he bellows. “Agannûlun ki-yadahê êphal, bâ ki nûphan!”

“Zirbîth. I have not gone, I’m afraid.”

The Men startle badly; the leader’s eyes go very wide, one of them raises their hands defensively, and the exceedingly nervous one stumbles over his own feet and falls to the ground. The voice comes from the forest around them, bodiless and frightening, and Thorin would be quite afraid too if it did not sound so familiar.

“I will make this simple. Let him go, and I won’t put an arrow through your eye.”

Judging by their expressions, two of them consider this a fair trade, but the leader instead raises his sword and bellows, “Ki-zagrahê ha!”

To which Bilbo says, “honestly!” with a long-suffering sigh.

A half a moment later there is an arrow in the leader’s eye – as promised.

“I have been following you for six days!” Bilbo tells him, panting as he cuts the rope around Thorin’s wrists. He then scrambles among the Men’s possessions for anything valuable.

Thorin has no idea what’s happening.

“I almost lost the trail when they entered the hills, but they were awfully clumsy the faster they ran!”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, stopping the hobbit with a hand on his arm. “Where are we? What has happened? Where is Dís? Dwalin? Balin?”

Forebodingly, the hobbit refuses to meet Thorin’s eyes. “We were split up,” he relays. “The last I saw Dwalin, he was running after you. Balin and Dís told me to flee, so I went into the forest. They stayed behind. I do not know what has become of them.”

Thorin squeezes his eyes shut. Though he knows that his family is perfectly capable of protecting themselves, his fear for them is instinctual and unstoppable. “Why come after me, then?” he asks, voice hollow.

Bilbo frowns at him, very unimpressed. “You’re my husband,” he points out. “And I don’t much want to be a widower. I’d like to actually get to know you first.”

He can’t help but smile a bit. “But where are we? The hills, you said? Emyn Beraid?”

Bilbo shakes his head, going back to collecting his captor’s provisions. “Emyn Uial. We are across the lake now.”

“What! So far!”

“Yes,” Bilbo squints at him. “You need water. Have they kept you drugged this entire time? How horrible!”

Thorin drinks of Bilbo’s flask, and they gather what they can and go to find a new campsite a good distance away from the bodies. Bilbo, conscious of Thorin’s headache, thankfully does not chatter.

They find a comfortable clearing in between two great oak trees, and set about moving debris out of the way for their bed rolls and a fire (though it is mostly Bilbo who does this, as Thorin is still very weak from his ordeal).

There is a stream close by and to the east, and Bilbo goes there to collect water to boil. He makes Thorin a hot peppermint tea, and it seeps into his nose and down his throat like an elixir. He forces Thorin to chew on Elvish lembas bread, though he puts up very little fight once he realizes that he is absolutely famished. By the time Bilbo has finished coddling him, night is coming on, and his head is clearer than it’s been in what feels like ages.

“You spoke their language,” Thorin says, asking without asking.

Bilbo nods. “Yes, a bit. It was Adûnaic, and they were Forodwaith, but not from the wastes. Their dialect was strange. I would have asked them but they were criminals. Awfully fast too, but not very stealthy. My legs have been hurting for days! In any case, they were taking you east, for reasons I could not surmise, and it does indeed look as though you were the target, I’m sorry to say. Have you an enemy that would go to such lengths?”

“I have many enemies,” Thorin answers absently. He thinks of the elves, and of the Arthedain. Then he thinks of the treaty that they have only just signed, and whether or not this unfortunate setback has started up another war (it’s as awful a thought as it is a realistic one).

“You should sleep,” Bilbo says, moving to guide Thorin into a bed roll.

Once cozy, he brushes Thorin’s hair out of his eyes, and gives the dwarf more water, before patting his face gently with a wet cloth. “Rest,” whispers the hobbit. “I’ll keep watch.”

Though Thorin’s head is much improved in the morning, their dire circumstances have not changed at all. They are far from Ered Luin, and unsure as to what has become of their companions. Bilbo tries to remain cheerful, so as to boost Thorin’s dark mood, perhaps, but Thorin is still very tired and weak. He’s rather short with the hobbit, in consequence.

They set out in the afternoon, and after Bilbo sleeps for a few hours. Thorin points them toward Lake Evendim, where they hope to find news waiting for them at Annúminas.

“I do hope my family isn’t worried,” Bilbo fusses. “And that our company has made it out alright.”

Thorin shakes his head. “I’m sure that they are safe. They are all warriors, and Durin’s folk besides.”

“Yes, of course.” Bilbo smiles. “Then I suppose I must pray that our allies do not think we are dead! What a mess that would be.”

Thorin makes a noise of agreement. “I doubt my people could live through another food shortage,” he says candidly. He is more tired, or more distracted with worry than he thought, for normally he would never say such a thing.

Bilbo frowns up at him, keeping pace with Thorin as they trudge through the woods.

“What do you mean by a food shortage?” he asks, with an edge of defensiveness.

Thorin stares, taken aback. “Twelve years ago there was a terrible winter. Many of my people starved to death.”

“Yes, the Fell winter. We struggled too. But you meant to insinuate that we would hold out on you? That we would stop the supplies?”

As confused as Thorin is, he finds that he is growing impatient with Bilbo now. He doesn’t know what game the hobbit is playing.

“After that winter, provisions were cut,” he explains. “And they become more meager by the year. It is Arnor’s way of fighting without axe or sword.” It is a coward’s way, he thinks, but does not say.

“But we would never do that!” Bilbo shakes his head vehemently. “That’s…but…the children…?”

Thorin’s jaw clenches. He remains silent.

“No, that isn’t right,” Bilbo denies, so distressed that he comes to a halt. “Hobbits aren’t cruel like that!”

“But they do despise dwarrow,” he says sharply.

“No…not…no.”  

Thorin thinks that this young hobbit is very naïve, but that perhaps it can’t be helped. He was born into privilege, and sheltered by the prejudices of his people. Bilbo has never starved, or worried overmuch for his family. He has never gone out into the world and found himself an outcast, separated by his appearance and the false reputation perpetuated by their friends and enemies alike. He is not dwarrow, and so does not need to think of these things.

“We’ll break here,” he tells the confused and now melancholy hobbit. They set up a little camp and rest their feet. Bilbo says nothing, and a pall of misery hangs over them for the rest of the afternoon.

That night, Bilbo comes running into their camp with a dead squirrel wrapped in his coat. “Look! I’ve got us dinner!” he says, spirits evidently lifted.

The corner of Thorin’s mouth twitches. “So you have. Can you dress it, or shall I?”

Bilbo stares down at his prize. “You’d best do it,” he decides, stepping forward and depositing the animal into Thorin’s lap. “Strider hadn’t yet taught me how to hunt before I left. I’m very surprised I managed to shoot it, honestly.”

“Strider?”

“Oh! He’s a ranger,” he explains. Bilbo is off then; telling Thorin all about this Strider fellow, who seems to be a great friend of the hobbit’s. He listens as he skins the squirrel, growing more and more surprised at what he hears.

“You were one of these Bounders, then?” Thorin asks, curious.

“Well, no,” Bilbo admits reluctantly. “I hadn’t finished my training before…well, before the wedding.”

Thorin feels a spike of guilt at that, but brushes it off. “You’re an excellent bowman,” he tells the hobbit now, albeit a bit awkwardly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Oh.” Bilbo flushes, quickly busying his hands with preparing a broth to warm over the fire. “I…thank you. And of course. Any…time.”

Thorin hums, amused. “In fact you have very much surprised me with your skill, halfling. I would not have thought your kind were suited for the wild.”

“Well, there certainly aren’t a lot of us Bounders,” Bilbo confesses. “What with the king and the Dúnedain watching out for us. But there are a few, mostly Tooks, mind, that are quite fond of adventures.”

He suddenly falls silent and looks at his feet. “They are not as I thought, however.”

Thorin frowns. “What isn’t?”

“Adventures,” Bilbo repeats. He sets their cooking pan on the fire, his expression a bit lost. “I am not so fond of them now.”

“It is hard, in the wild,” Thorin agrees, cupping the now clean meat and dropping it into the pot. The broth steams invitingly.

Bilbo remains slouched on the ground for a time, letting Thorin take over the stirring. He leaves him to his silence, but then startles when he hears Bilbo sniff.

He is crying.

“Why, what, you – ” says Thorin, already beginning to panic.

“I did not know what it was like! I do not know what to feel.” Bilbo wipes at his eyes. “I have never killed anyone before, or run off into the woods after kidnappers and criminals, or tried to rescue anyone ever! I just did it, and now I think about it and I feel positively ill.”

Thorin has sat with warriors on these days before, and has said those comforting words that work, for a time, to drive back the horror. But he does not know how to speak to this creature; they are so very different, and what would have worked for dwarrow might be terribly inadequate for hobbits.

So Thorin does what he has seen many of the tiny creatures do when one of them is upset (or often for no reason at all). He puts down the ladle and slides closer to Bilbo, reaching out to draw him into an embrace.

Though startled at first, Bilbo quickly sinks into his arms. They sit, for awhile, saying nothing.

There are no good words for this, anyway.

On their third day of traveling, Bilbo suddenly stops and turns to glare at Thorin – arms akimbo.

“Where are we?” he demands to know. “We should have reached the lake by now!”

Thorin is…not entirely sure, but he knows he has been going west, at least.

“We must be…close,” he hedges.

Bilbo is not fooled for a moment. “Thorin, are we lost?”

“Um.”

This answer does not satisfy the hobbit at all. “You must be joking!”

“Well, you’re the one that followed me!”

“Because I thought you knew where you were going!” yells Bilbo. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have a sense of direction!?”

“I do have one!”

“Oh? Where is it? Or have you lost that as well?”

It is in the midst of their first fight that there is a sudden bellowing, and they both immediately fall silent. Thorin hears the sound again and drags Bilbo toward the nearest tree.

“Wargs,” he explains.

“Excellent timing! Perhaps they’ll give us direct– hey!” He scrambles onto a branch when Thorin effortlessly lifts him up. “Don’t pick me up!”

“Go up the tree!”

“Why aren’t you climbing?”

“I will stay down here and defend us.”

“Oh, no you won’t!” Bilbo hops back down to the ground, much to Thorin’s frustration. They can both hear growls now, coming closer. “You first!”

“No. Get back up there.”

“You get up there! Staying down here is stupid!”

Thorin wants badly to explode into a rage, but they mustn’t make much noise and so their argument involves a lot of heated whispering.

“You are an infuriating creature,” he says, finally conceding. Bilbo looks smug until Thorin picks him up and slings him under one arm before ascending.

“Oi!”

About half way up the tree, the Wargs come into view. They sniff around the clearing where Bilbo and Thorin once stood. Up above, they hold their breath as one of the animals tracks their scent to the base of the tree.

An orc calls to the Warg from the darkness of the wood, and the beast comes on command. The rolling dissonance of the black speech envelopes the clearing, and Bilbo can’t help but shudder.

Then the orc is in view, and Thorin gasps. “No.”

“What? What’s happened?” he whispers, looking at his companion worriedly.

But Thorin says nothing, and they wait in fear until the orc pack is gone. Then they do not come down for another half hour, just to be sure.

He turns to Thorin once they are safe. “Thorin, who was that?”

The dwarf looks away, gazing off – lost in memories that Bilbo cannot see. “Azog,” he answers, finally. “It is…likely, that our misfortune is his doing.”

“Azog the defiler?” he asks, quietly. “But…he’s supposed to be dead.”

“Yes.”

Bilbo bit his lip. “So, he’s the one who’s after you, you think?”

“He said my name.” Thorin nods, but when he sees Bilbo’s confused frown he explains. “Oakenshield. It is what I am called, by our people.”

“Oakenshield,” Bilbo repeats, sounding it out. “Will you tell me the story?”

Thorin looks down at the hobbit, sighing. “Yes. But not now. Azog said something else, in Khûzdul this time – I heard him say Carn Dûm.”

Bilbo gasps. “But that’s in Angmar! It’s been abandoned for hundreds of years.”

“I don’t think so. It is entirely possible that there are Gundabad orcs in the ruins of the red fortress. They go where there is darkness, and spread like a pestilence. Perhaps Azog has bred an army there as well as in Khazad Dûm.” He pauses. “We should scout it out.”

Bilbo frowns. “Thorin,” he ventures cautiously, as if fearing for his sanity. “There are more things than orcs in Carn Dûm. There are rumors….”

“I have heard them too, from the clans in the North Downs. But the Witch-king is gone, Bilbo, however his shadow persists. We must see if Azog has truly gathered his army there.”

“And then what?” the hobbit exclaims, frustrated. “Storm the bloody fortress? A dwarf and a hobbit against all of Angmar? That is not wise! We cannot afford to make a mistake here. Thorin, Arnor is in trouble.”

“And I seek only to help it.”

“No,” Bilbo says, shaking his head. “It is foolish. It is suicide. We need to go to Arthedain. We need reinforcements. Please, Thorin.”

Thorin clenches his jaw, looking in the direction that Azog has gone. “Alright,” he says. “But we must make haste. I do not know what the defiler intends, but whatever his goal, I will not let him succeed.”

They sleep less, and eat as they go. Adrenaline has given them the endurance to keep on when exhaustion would normally fell them. Even Bilbo, as unused to extensive exercise as he is, finds that his breath is strong and his steps are sure; his body seeming to be fueled by raw fear and determination.

In the times that they do stop, Thorin tells Bilbo of Azanulbizar, which turns out much different than what his history books had made him believe. Thorin’s heroics, for one, had been entirely left out. On these nights they often plan their course by the stars, something that Bilbo is (thankfully) good at.

By the morning of their fifth day of traveling, they begin to smell a difference in the air; it is the wet, clear scent of a body of water. Soon Lake Evendim emerges between two trees, its surface a deep and quiet blue.

“We’ll meet with the king and ask for news of our friends,” says Bilbo, laying out his plans as they walk along the shore. “And I am sorry, but Ered Luin will have to wait, it seems. We will need to go back to the downs with scouts, preferably a hundred of them – ”

“Bilbo, be quiet.”

Thorin has halted them, and stands completely silent and still. Bilbo frowns, but then he hears it too.

It is impossible to ignore. It rattles the bones and runs cold steel up the spine. Wild fear overtakes Bilbo, dredged up from the base part of him which knows instinctively that this is the sound of death.

“Run,” Thorin tells him, and then grabs his hand.

They fly around the lake, looking for some sort of shelter – anything. In the distance, they see only the tops of Annúminas, its spiraling fortress too far away to provide sanctuary.

The cry comes again.

“Thorin!” Bilbo yelps, when the dwarf decides to veer back into the forest. “Stay near the water! They don’t like it!”

“Then we swim!”

“I can’t!” Bilbo chokes, eyes wide. “Thorin, I can’t swim!”

There is nowhere to go. A loud screech makes Bilbo look back at the Nazgûl. There are two of them, neither of which are the Witch-king, thankfully. Not that these are much better. Bilbo has only heard about them from Strider, and knows not how to fight them. He does know that the lake is their only chance, though, and so he tugs on Thorin’s arm as they run.

“Go,” he says, panting. “I’ll draw them away. Go into the lake. Can you swim as far as Annúminas? I’ll follow on land.”

To his surprise, Thorin only glares at him. “Never,“ he snarls. ”Nungbâha! “

“That sounds mean.”

The Nazgûl ride quickly, and Thorin knows now that they have no hope of escaping. He thinks that their fate will be gruesome, and that they will probably be captured and tortured for information before they are killed. He sees this happen to Bilbo in his mind’s eye and simply cannot countenance it.

Making his decision, Thorin stops, draws his kidnapper’s sword, and turns around. Bilbo halts as well, looking to Thorin with the same solemn resignation. He nods, takes out his bow, and slots in an arrow.

Then they face what comes for them, side by side.