Let me guess, you're here for the ancient blorbos

Honestly, Bilbo should have known something was up when the elks started to behave strangely.

The creatures had appeared not long after Bilbo had set out from the Lonely Mountain, grief-numbed and feeling as though he was being held together only by the gauze that was wrapped snugly around his wounds. Really, he shouldn’t have been travelling; he’d taken quite a beating during the battle, more than he’d realized in the moment, and his head still throbbed with pain if he looked at, well, anything for too long, but Bilbo would not, could not, stay within the cursed halls of Erebor for another moment, not while he could still feel the cold, harsh surface of the stone rampart pressing into his spine, bruising his flesh as Gandalf worked to persuade Thorin not throw Bilbo to his death.

Thank Yavanna the gold-maddened king had listened, because it was his choice to grant his betrayer mercy, and his choice alone, that had saved Bilbo in that moment. The rest of the Company had despaired at Thorin’s actions, yes, but none had been willing to try and wrest the Hobbit from his grasp once he’d managed to haul him up onto the rampart. Bilbo supposed he understood; anyone who would have tried would have almost certainly been branded a traitor and promptly banished right alongside the burglar, but that didn’t stop their inaction from gouging a hole into his heart.

Their guilt, when everything had calmed after the fighting had finally ceased, had hung in the air like heavy summer heat before a raging thunderstorm. None of them had been able to hold Bilbo’s gaze for more than a few moments, and the once easy familiarity between the Dwarves and their Hobbit had seemingly vanished. Eventually, on the twilighted evening before Bilbo was set to depart, Balin had come into the room where Bilbo was staying, a small chest held firmly in his grip. He’d set it down next to Bilbo, and softly told him that the chest contained part of his share of the treasure. Bilbo had stared at the chest for a long moment, ignoring the ache that was building in his temples, before he’d turned his head away. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with any of that accursed dragon-hoarded gold, and he told Balin as much as soon as he managed to draw words out of his raw throat.

Balin had hesitated for a moment, his thumb rubbing against the knuckles of his right hand, before he flipped open the lid of the chest and nudged the ornate container towards Bilbo.

“...We figured that might have been the case, so we decided to give you somethin’ else.” the old Dwarf had murmured, his voice softened into something that was almost a whisper, “It’s a far cry from what you deserve, laddie, but… hopefully it’ll help ensure that you can get home safely before winter sets in.”

The White Gems of Lasgalen twinkled and gleamed even without a light shining upon them, casting a pale glow over Bilbo’s face when he finally gave in to his mounting curiosity. The Hobbit had blinked at them stupidly for a while, before fixing Balin with a bewildered look.

“You- you’re giving me these? Balin that’s- that can’t be allowed! Surely Thorin-” Bilbo’s voice had broken as the Dwarf King’s name passed his lips, for his grief and despair were still festering close to the surface, “surely the king wouldn’t allow something this valuable to be handed to- to a banished, traitorous burglar?"

Balin had snorted at that, though his eyes held a look of misty sadness.

“Thorin’s desires are not very highly regarded at the moment, Master Baggins, nor do I think they will be until he manages to rid himself of that abhorrent Dragon Sickness. We will not repeat the mistake of allowing his actions in his current state to go unchallenged, that I can promise you.” Balin stated firmly. The Dwarf then had reached out and clasped Bilbo’s hands in his, drawing the Hobbit’s attention squarely onto him, “You don’t have to go, Bilbo. No one here considers your banishment just, and while Thorin will be in a healing sleep for some time, I am sure that, when he wakes, he will understand that you were just trying to help and revoke his decree.”

An olive branch had been extended, yet to Bilbo, who was overburdened with heavy emotions that he did not have the energy nor will to process, it seemed to be more an offer done out of guilt than any true desire to have him remain in the mountain. Bilbo had pulled his hands back into his lap, and had allowed his silence to serve as his answer. When the sun’s pale light finally managed to peirce through the shadow of the lonely night the following morning, Bilbo had slipped out of the doors of Erebor without a sound, relying on the natural stealth that his species possessed to leave without being noticed. His heart had ached at the thought of leaving without so much as a goodbye to the Dwarves that he had come to consider almost as family, especially the young princes, who were in the same healing sleep as their uncle, but an even greater part of him dreaded the idea that they would not want to hear the parting words of their traitorous burglar. 

He didn’t think he’d survive an outright rejection, so he’d slunk away before the possibility of such a thing could even become a thought in the minds of the Company.

Thranduil had been easy enough to find; the Eleven King glistened and glimmered almost as much as the gems he had so voraciously sought. Truthfully, Bilbo hadn’t even had the mind at the time to consider requesting an escort home in exchange for the gems. He simply handed the chest over to the curious elf, quietly explaining that he only wanted to soothe any remaining resentment that Thranduil might hold towards Thorin, even if the Dwarf surely wouldn’t appreciate it. He’d been fully prepared to find his own way home, though part of him knew that Gandalf would never let him travel alone in his state, but upon seeing what the Hobbit had given him, Thranduil had insisted on accompanying him, at least until he reached the safety of Rivendell. 

A healthier Bilbo might have been more wary of the Elf King’s offer, given that he had spent weeks running about in the shadows of his terrible dungeons, trying to find a way to free his friends, but in his current state the Hobbit hadn’t been up for arguing, so he agreed. 

It was not long after their conversation that the elks had appeared from a nearby wood, apparently summoned by the Thranduil in order to help them reach Mirkwood, as his own mount, the enormous beast that Bilbo had briefly caught a glimpse of before, had unfortunately been slain in battle. 

There were three of them; one for Thranduil, one for Legolas, the King’s son whom Bilbo was promptly introduced to, and one for Bilbo himself. Gandalf and Bard, who had decided to accompany them to the edge of Lake-town’s territory, rode horses instead. Thranduil’s elk was nearly as large as his previous mount. It had a thick pelt of dark brown fur that melted into a lighter tan at its shoulders, and its antlers curved like the branches of an ancient tree. Legolas’ elk was smaller than his father’s, and of a lighter colour all around. Its antlers were smaller, and more refined, though their points were dagger-sharp. The last elk, which was to be Bilbo’s mount, was a cow, and thus did not have any antlers at all. What’s more, the dark, earthy tones of the beast’s coat were broken in places by splashes of white, as though paint had been splattered onto the animal’s fur. 

At first, Bilbo had been slightly intimated by the animals. Most Hobbits considered ponies to be rather large creatures, after all, and these beasts were much, much bigger than any pony. However, to his delight, and no small amount of relief, the elks proved to be very tame indeed, and they were always careful not to step on the Hobbit’s feet or nick him with their antlers. Once they were saddled, Bilbo’s elk, who he decided to call Patches, knelt down and allowed the Hobbit to climb onto her back before carefully easing herself back up onto her hooves.

Patches turned out to be an absolutely delightful animal with no shortage of personality. She was the shortest of the three, and slightly plump around her midsection, something that Bilbo suspected was a result of her love of all things sweet. Every time the band of travellers stopped to eat, she would press her big wet nose against Bilbo’s jaw and hair, sniffing at him until he relented and fed her a portion of whatever his stomach had decided he could handle. He really didn’t mind too much; he couldn’t eat large portions at the moment, and he hated wasting food if he could help it.

Being so high up had been a bit nauseating and frightening for a while, but Patches’ gait was as smooth as butter, her saddle having been modified to better support an injured rider, and soon Bilbo began to relax. For the first day of travel, Bilbo focused on not passing out while also trying his best to not slip off the saddle. His injuries made him both nauseous and exhausted, and although Gandalf and Bard and Thranduil told him multiple times that they really would not mind stopping more often if he needed rest, Bilbo was determined to put as much distance between himself and Erebor as he could, because every time he looked back and saw the Lonely Mountain, it made his heart break all over again and his stomach churn and twist until he felt horribly certain that he was going to lose his lunch.

To keep his mind off of… everything, Legolas chatted with Bilbo whenever he felt well enough to speak. As it turns out, the Elf was not as stoic as he had seemed to Bilbo upon their first meeting. The young prince was actually quite joyful, and was more than happy to swap songs and stories with the weary burglar. By the time the sun had set on the second day of their journey, Bilbo had learned no less than three recipes for Elvish pastries, five different party songs, and two stories about sailing and all the perils that come with it, while Legolas had come away knowing more about the surprisingly drama-filled coming and goings of Hobbiton then any other Elf before him. He promised Bilbo that, if indeed his Sackville-Baggins cousins had invaded Bag End and made off with his good silver spoons as he feared, then Bilbo needed only to send him a letter, and he would come help the Hobbit reclaim them. 

That had gotten a small, yet sincere chuckle out of Bilbo. It was the first time he’d laughed since he’d left Lake-town.

That night, they’d made camp in a small valley not too far away from the earthen road that they’d been travelling on. The chill of autumn had not yet crept in from the North, and so the valley was flush with wildflowers and sweet clover. The elks grazed upon the abundant green grass, never straying too far from their riders, aside from their brief trips to a nearby stream. Bilbo had been so worn out and ill after travelling without the breaks that his body needed that he’d hardly been able to choke down his portion of dinner, and he’d gone right to sleep afterwards, feeling no less miserable than he had before eating.