Chapter Text
When Dori joined the quest to retake Erebor, he never thought he would come away from it with a husband. To be perfectly frank, he’d not expected to survive the journey at all, but after he’d failed to convince Ori not to go he’d reluctantly decided to join the company himself. For the first time in decades the elder two sons of Hanri agreed on something, and so Dori returned three signed contracts to Balin.
A doomed mission it might well have turned out, but Dori consoled himself that this was, at the very least, a chance to restore some honor to their family, for it was widely known that their ancestress Gemri had been the illegitimate child of a king. While it was commonly said that all dwarflings were valued and precious, the sad reality was that Gemri and her descendants had faced poverty, violence, and scorn for the accident of her birth. Though distantly related to Thorin II, son of Thrain, son of Thror, Dori held no illusions that he and his brothers would ever be accepted as members of the royal family.
So he’d joined the quest in the hopes that one of his brothers might survive and see their honor restored, and he’d not thought much beyond that until they reached the Shire and sought out their burglar.
As it turned out, Bilbo Baggins was fascinating. The hobbit had a truly wonderful home, a pantry overflowing with delicious foods, and a dazzling selection of teas. He was polite and bashful, and Dori found his eyes returning to their host many times during the night. He barely even reacted when Nori teased him about it; he knew others felt him prissy and fussy, but Dori himself did not find being compared to the lovely Master Baggins so terrible as his brother perhaps assumed he would.
“He’s a flighty little thing, isn’t he?” Glóin murmured in Khuzdul, eyeing the hobbit with distaste.
“Oh, it’s like he was made for you, Dori,” Nori crowed. “Should we expect him to wear your braid by the time we reach the mountain?”
The others all thought this little quip hilarious, but Dori sniffed disdainfully. “At least he has fine manners, which is more than I can say for you lot.”
Any further ribbing was forestalled by the arrival of the king, who clearly took an instant dislike to the poor little burglar. When Bofur provoked the hobbit into a faint, it seemed clear that Bilbo Baggins would not be joining their quest for Erebor, and Dori tried to believe it was for the best. Still, he busied himself making a cup of tea for their host, who had let them into this lovely home and fed them so well. As he carried the steaming cup through to the sitting room voices within brought him up short, and he paused to listen.
“—been sitting quietly for far too long. When did doilies and your mother’s dishes become so important to you? I remember a young hobbit who was always running off in search of elves in the woods—”
There was a sharp hiss and Bilbo snapped. “How dare you? You may have been my mother’s friend, once, but you weren’t here when she died. You weren’t here when my father starved to death in the winter. You weren’t here when the river froze and the wolves and goblins came, when my mother faced those monsters down to protect those of us hiding here in the smial, nor were you here when I had to keep my parents’ bodies in the deepest cold cellar until the ground thawed enough to bury them, and I inherited Bag End alone because my older brother and younger sister were both born dead years before. You haven’t shown your face in these parts for over three decades, so don’t pretend that you know anything about me, you two-bit conjurer!”
There was a long silence, and then the rustling of cloth. “I’m…terribly sorry, my boy,” Gandalf murmured, and then he swept from the room. Dori had never seen him look so old before. The grey wizard paused when he saw the silver-haired dwarf, noting the teacup in his hands. He bowed his head for a moment, and then walked on.
After a moment of hesitation, the dwarf entered the sitting room. He saw the hobbit staring moodily into the hearth and cleared his throat uncertainly. “Master Baggins? I’ve brought you a cup of tea, if you’d like.”
Bilbo scrubbed at his face and turned towards the dwarf. “Yes, thank you, Master—I’m sorry, I’m not sure I caught your name.”
“Dori, son of Hanri.”
“Right, yes. Well, thank you, Master Dori.”
“Think nothing of it. It’s your tea, after all.” The hobbit’s mouth twisted wryly, but he didn’t reply. Dori stepped forward and passed the cup to him. With his hands now empty, the dwarf was not sure what to do with himself; he wanted to speak with Bilbo, but he didn’t know what to say. Before he could fret too much, their host gestured to the armchair nearby.
“Where are my manners? Please, do have a seat, Master Dori.”
“Thank you.” He took the offered seat. The two sat in tense silence, and Dori began to wish he’d thought to fetch his knitting out to occupy his hands. Before he could decide that it might be best to leave, however, the hobbit addressed him.
“Forgive me, but…well, you seem the most reasonable and genteel of your company, and I can’t help but wonder why you would—that is, this whole affair seems—are you not scared to die, Master Dori?”
“Well, yes, but—” He pursed his lips, staring at the hobbit. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “I cannot speak for any of the others, but this quest offers my family a chance we might never see again. My kin and I, we are descended…our ancestress was the daughter of a king, but her mother was not the queen, if you understand my meaning, and, well, dwarrows have a long memory for honor and lineage.”
“And so you seek to recover your honor? Through a suicidal quest?” Bilbo looked scandalized.
“If it were just me, I’m not sure I’d have volunteered, but my brother Ori joined and…it is becoming apparent to many of us that the Blue Mountains are beyond capacity. The ore is running out, and our family is not the only one suffering from want. Some may see this as a chance to claim riches, but for us, for the king…We see the children provided for, where we can, but our people are becoming desperate. The native dwarrows of the Blue Mountains were kind enough to take us in as refugees, but resentment has begun to grow as resources dry up. The situation grows tense between us and it’s possible that reclaiming Erebor may now be our only hope for survival.”
Dori looked up from the fire to see the hobbit watching him with such a look of sorrow and compassion that the dwarf’s breath caught in his chest. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, and then Bilbo drained his cup and stood, determination plain on his face. Without another word, he marched back down the hall to the dining room, swept up the contract, and signed it.
“You have yourselves a burglar, and I think I’d best go prepare for the journey now. Gandalf knows where the guest rooms are, and I shall leave it to you how you share them. Good night.” With that, he was gone, a puzzled silence in his wake. Finally, Nori turned to his elder brother with a growing smirk.
“What'd you say to him, then?”
The silver-haired dwarf huffed in annoyance and turned away, but not before seeing the look of proud accomplishment on Gandalf’s face. He narrowed his eyes at the wizard, who merely saluted him with the pipe he held in one hand.
The next morning, the dwarrows woke to find their host cooking up a storm, emptying the last of his pantries’ contents onto the kitchen table. Bombur joined him cheerfully and Dori wrangled his brothers into ferrying the platters from the kitchen to the dining room. Soon, they were all digging into another hearty meal, even more delicious than the previous night’s supper. When Bofur said as much, Bilbo scoffed.
“I didn’t even know you lot were coming! Of course a meal I actually prepared would be better than the hodgepodge of foodstuffs you all scarfed last night.”
“Did Gandalf not warn you we were on the way?” Ori asked.
The hobbit leveled a baleful glare at the wizard. “He most certainly did not! I turned him down flat and he sent thirteen uninvited guests on anyway—and don’t think I’ve forgotten your trickery, old man, just because you’ve gotten your way! ” He waved his fork menacingly at Gandalf, who pretended not to hear him. The hobbit grumbled, but went back to his breakfast without further comment.
Dori gave the Maia his own disapproving look, which the wizard similarly ignored. “Well, I do hope you’ll forgive us for being an unwitting party to such rude behavior,” the silver-haired dwarf offered.
“Oh, pish—I doubt you’ve been rude a single day since your majority, Master Dori,” the hobbit said with a wry chuckle. “And while I might have wished for a little more explanation and a little less tomfoolery, it’s all done now and can’t be taken back.” He finished the last of his breakfast with quick little bites, and began to gather the dishes. “Anyway, if I can get a hand cleaning these dishes, we can be off quite soon.” Dori and Ori were quick to help, as were Bofur and Bombur and Kíli, and in short order the kitchen was neat and clean, and they were all setting off into town to retrieve their ponies and packs.
When Bilbo saw the ponies he balked, but he was soon lifted into a saddle in spite of his protestations. Bofur took pity on him (the hobbit had obviously never sat a horse before) and helped him get situated on his pony and take up his reins. He spent a goodly portion of the morn sneezing, and was visibly distressed when they rode through luncheon. By day’s end the poor little fellow had blown his nose raw, could barely walk with how stiff he’d gotten riding, and seemed to be wilting from hunger. Dori had given him a couple of his own handkerchiefs when it became clear he’d forgotten to pack extras, but he could do little for the stiffness besides tell Bilbo to stretch out before bed. The hobbit thanked him graciously anyway, and staggered over to question Bombur about supper.
Bilbo looked truly wretched the next morning when confronted with another day of riding, but he accepted Bofur’s boost into the saddle anyway, clumsily hauling himself astride once more without complaint. He winced, settling into his seat, and followed the line of the column as they turned back onto the road. Several of the dwarrows muffled chuckles at his predicament.
“Bet you’ve never had as sore a bum as you did last night, eh?” Bofur joked.
The hobbit flushed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I actually have—and much more pleasurably gotten, too.” He clicked to his pony and pushed ahead, leaving a gaping, blushing Bofur in his wake.
“Oh-ho, he’s got some fire in him after all,” Nori crowed.
“Hush, brother,” Dori snapped.
“What, jealous?”
The silver-haired dwarf sped his own pony up with a growl, but he couldn’t quite escape his brother’s raucous laughter as he hurried on up the column until he could speak with Balin, who had by far the finest manners of the group—excepting the hobbit, of course.
The first few days on the road passed in this easy way. Bofur playfully drew out the hobbit, who soon adapted to riding with some grudging advice from Dwalin, and Nori teased his elder brother to the very edges of his patience. Thorin largely ignored the most recent addition to the company, but Óin, Balin, Ori, Bombur, and the young princes all spent some time riding beside Bilbo or speaking with him around the fire at night.
By the second week, Nori took his own interest in the hobbit, who was quite patient with Ori, but continued to hold his own in verbal spars with Fíli, Kíli, and Bofur. The thief crowed loudly each time the three dwarrows lost, to their ongoing chagrin. Nori listened curiously while Óin asked about the herblore of the Shirelings and Ori peppered their burglar with questions about his homeland. To show his gratitude for the hobbit’s solicitude towards the youngest Ri brother, the thief gifted the little fellow with a long knife.
“What would I do with such a thing?” Bilbo asked, staring at the sheathed blade in his hand.
“You never know when a knife might come in handy,” the ginger dwarf replied with a wink.
The hobbit favored him with a wary look for a long moment, but he eventually just shrugged and tucked the blade away with a murmured thanks. Nori just grinned widely at him and urged his pony on.
Though it was late in May, a spate of rain came over them in the third week and would not be shaken. Thus far they had managed to find an inn or pay for the use of a barn at least every third night, but they had now left behind the lands nearest the Shire—bright, airy, vibrant green lands with friendly peoples—and entered the Lone-lands, which were dreary and dark and hosted no humans and, therefore, no inns. Worse still, their wizard had vanished sometime during the second day, leaving them without even the hope of magical relief from the ravages of the damp weather. With much grumbling they prepared to set up camp, and were just discussing supper when one of the pack ponies spooked, stumbling into the river and losing half of their food supplies to the swift waters. Fíli and Kíli rescued the pony, though they came out of the encounter half-drowned, and the already dour mood of the company sunk even further when they realized two of the other ponies had bolted into the woods while they were distracted.
Nothing would do, then, but to go in search of them, and so they staked the rest of the animals by a plush little patch of grass and left the two young princes to watch over them. Bilbo himself would rather have stayed, but he didn’t quite feel right arguing with the king, and so he followed glumly along with the rest as they tromped off in the direction the ponies seemed to have gone. He spared a nervous thought for the rapidly fading lights of day. Hobbits, of course, do not have the very best night vision, and he was much disadvantaged when compared to his traveling companions, but as it grew darker they all soon spotted a red light in the distance. Lacking any other sort of guide, they struck out for it, and were soon able to discern that it was a campfire, burning fiercely in spite of the miserable weather. Perhaps these were another group of travelers, who might sympathize with their woes!
In any case, the smell wafting from the cook-pot was heavenly to their hungry bellies and, having just lost a good quantity of food, the dwarrows muttered amongst themselves for a minute and eventually decided to send poor Bilbo in to steal a little something, if he could, and to beg their supper in the event he could not. And if he encountered any trouble, they said, he ought to “hoot twice like a barn owl and once like a screech owl” and they would come to his rescue.
Before he could protest, or even explain that he did not know how to hoot like either a barn owl or a screech owl—nor, to be honest, like any other kind of owl at all—they shooed him off, and he found himself creeping alone towards the fire that had drawn them near. As hobbits can be quite quiet when they wish, especially in a forest or field, he was able to get right up to the edge of the circle of light. Consequently, he was easily able to discern that these were no weary travelers, but a trio of monstrous trolls; mountain trolls, in fact, which are as large and violent as their cave-dwelling cousins, but considerably more cunning, in their own way—and not to be tangled with if one can at all avoid it.
The hobbit was just deciding that the most prudent course of action would be to sneak back to the others as fast as his feet could carry him, when what should he spy but their missing ponies, penned up on the far side of the clearing! Over a fortnight into the quest he could predict already that the dwarrows would consider this a prime moment to test his burglaring abilities. Therefore, returning and urging them all away would be an exercise in futility; he would have to free the ponies, somehow.
Moving further back from the light, he crept slowly around to just behind the pony pen, and drew the knife that Nori had given him from his pocket. Thank Aulë for the dwarf’s foresight! He kept an ear on the trolls, who were arguing about the relative merits of mutton and Man, and the hobbit had just managed to cut the rope holding the pen shut and hop on one of the ponies to lead the pair back to camp when one of the trolls turned to check on the animals and spotted him. In a trice, he was snatched off the pony’s back and dangled in the air by the back of his coat.
“‘Ere, what’s this, then?” said the troll that had grabbed him up.
“Yeah, what are ye?” said another.
“I’m a bur—a hobbit!” Bilbo squeaked, shaking with fear.
“A burrahobbit? Never heard nothing about one of them afore.” This came from the one holding a ladle. “Reckon we could cook it?”
“Wouldn’t be but a mouthful if’n we did,” mused the one holding him.
“Let him go, then,” said the third with a careless shrug.
That might have been the end of things, for the trolls seemed perfectly willing to do so, but at that very moment the dwarrows burst into the camp brandishing swords and axes and all manner of other implements of war, and the trolls (who had a hearty dislike of dwarrows, particularly uncooked ones) turned to confront these new interlopers. Bilbo squirmed out of his coat, caught up his knife once more, and darted off into the bushes as the two groups set to brawling.
Now, trolls are several times taller than any dwarf and have prodigiously tough skin, tougher even than dwarrows, and though the company fought viciously they were eventually overpowered, scooped up in sacks and tossed into a great big pile to one side of the fire.
Bilbo had scrambled up into a tree, and he watched in consternation as the others were all caught. Then the trolls settled in to debate whether they ought to roast their catch, mince them and boil them, or squash them to jelly. He could hear the muffled grunts and shouts of the dwarrows, several squirming around until one of the trolls kicked at them. The little hobbit tried frantically to think of something to help, when one of the trolls complained about how late it had gotten and a little bit of lore from his father’s books floated to the top of Bilbo’s mind: mountain trolls could not abide the touch of the sun!
Being a well-known storyteller amongst his relations Bilbo gathered his wits and, using a voice like one of the monstrous beings, interjected with, “No, no time to roast them, we’d best boil them!” The trolls, having just settled on roasting, began yelling once more, each convinced one of the others had objected. Soon they were arguing about who was arguing, and they had just managed to calm down enough to decide that boiling was the proper method after all, when Bilbo called out, “‘Ere now, we ain’t got no water fer boiling, though!”
That set them off once more, glaring at each other and shoving the others and calling names, until they finally wound down enough to realize how very late it had gotten, and then they decided it was best to sit on the dwarrows to squash them, since sunrise drew nigh. Then, of course, they had to decide who to sit on first, and Bilbo kept them going round and round until at last another voice burst upon them, calling out “The dawn take you all, and return you to stone!” With a mighty crack, a rocky overhang shattered to reveal Gandalf, the light of dawn streaming around him to turn all three of the trolls to stone.
Bilbo quickly wiggled down from the tree he’d taken refuge in, limping over to the pile of dwarrows and cutting them free one by one. As he was helping Ori up, Gandalf came over and clasped his shoulder. “Good work playing for time, my boy. I couldn’t have done it better myself!”
The hobbit shrugged bashfully, fighting down a yawn. “It was nothing,” he murmured.
“Nonsense!” Bofur cried, clapping him on the back. “Hadn’t you stalled them we wouldn’t be here to tell the tale, Master Baggins.”
“Indeed, ’twas well done, laddie,” Balin added.
“Oh, well…it was the least I could do, since you all came after me.”
“Truly, we are thankful,” Dori murmured, tucking his youngest brother close to his side. Bilbo merely blushed, retrieved his coat from where the troll had dropped it, and hurried away to make sure the ponies he’d freed were still safe. He found them actually quite nearby and led them back to the camp, where the young princes were rather relieved to see someone of their company after the long night with no news. Eventually, they were instructed to bring the ponies and packs to the clearing where the company had gathered, and when they arrived Bilbo was glad to hear they would be sleeping for a few hours to refresh themselves before going in search of the trolls’ hoard.
Without further ado, the hobbit curled himself into his bedroll and dropped off into exhausted sleep. Some hours later he was roused by the younger of the two princelings, who dragged him off towards the newly discovered cave housing the varied treasures collected by the three trolls. The stench was extremely off-putting and Bilbo himself was highly reluctant to enter, but he nevertheless allowed Kíli to drag him inside. Off to one side he saw Nori, Glóin, and Bofur acting furtive amongst trunks of gold, while Gandalf and Thorin were speaking in hushed voices near the back of the cave and Dwalin was digging through piles of weapons ranged along the walls. Seeing nothing of particular interest, Bilbo slipped back out, taking deep breaths of fresh air to clear his nose of the putrid scent of troll. He returned to the ponies, nodding affably to Fíli and beginning to groom his Myrtle.
Though the hobbit had initially been a little put out at having to ride—preferring instead to rely on his own two feet—he’d rather warmed up to the stolid little pony. Myrtle was a gentle, well-behaved mount, and though he was more than a touch allergic he still found her a nice enough animal to spend so much time upon. He even slipped her the occasional carrot or apple from supper, which she cheerfully crunched up from his palm. Now, he checked her hooves and turned away, only to startle badly when he discovered the blasted wizard hovering just behind him.
“Gandalf!” he huffed.
The grey-bearded Maia merely chuckled. “My apologies, dear fellow! I merely wished to give you this.” And so saying, he offered a blade to the hobbit which looked no more than a long dagger in the taller being’s hands, but seemed a sword when Bilbo took hold of it.
“Gandalf, what am I to do with such a thing? I’m as like to lop my own toes off as anything else!”
“It is an Elvish blade, and will glow blue in the presence of goblins or orcs.”
“Are we likely to encounter many of those?” Bilbo asked, horrified.
“We may yet. Irregardless, a blade is a handy thing to have on the road.”
“But I’ve never used a sword in my life!”
“And if you’re very lucky, you will never have to, either. Best take it along, however.”
“I—oh, very well,” the hobbit grumpily conceded.
“Good, good!” Gandalf beamed, and strode off without another word, leaving Bilbo to try and figure out how the unwieldy thing was meant to hang. After a minute or so spent watching his awkward fumbles Ori took pity and helped him situate the blade on his hip.
Soon enough, the entire company had returned, and after Bombur passed each of them a slice of waybread with a slab of salted meat atop it they climbed atop their ponies and set off once more.
Nothing of particular note occurred in the next three days, other than a pleasant upswing in the temperature and an end to the rain. In somewhat higher spirits, the company came at last to Rivendell.
The sun was rather near to setting when they finally reached the elven house—‘Imladris,’ and ‘the Last Homely House East of the Sea,’ Gandalf called it—and there they were greeted by a tall, dark-haired elf.
“Elrond!” the wizard greeted, and the two held a brief conversation in Sindarin, which Bilbo struggled to follow, though it seemed mainly to be greetings and news. Then the two tall beings turned to the dwarrows (who had been watching with ill grace) and hobbit (who was too busy looking around at their beautiful surroundings to be disgruntled at being kept waiting, even if he was rather hungry).
“Welcome to Imladris, travelers, and may you find rest here. Please follow me; your ponies will be seen to by the attendants.” He gestured, and a pair of elves materialized from the side and began gathering reins as each of them dismounted.
Turning to lead them up the path, Lord Elrond commented, “The orcs have been uncharacteristically bold these past weeks; I am surprised that you arrived here unmolested.”
“Not entirely unmolested,” Gandalf replied. “We had an unfortunate run-in with a group of mountain trolls, though we came away hardly the worse for wear, luckily.”
“Speak for yourself,” grumbled Bilbo. Bofur chortled, slapping the hobbit on the back and almost causing him to lose his footing. Bilbo elbowed the dwarf away from him, but that just caused the cheerful miner to laugh all the harder.
The elf lord turned back to the group as they entered a vaulted entrance hall. “Now, my steward will show you to your rooms, where you may set down your packs and change into fresh clothes. We have bathing rooms nearby for any who wish to clean themselves of road dust and travel before dinner.”
The hobbit perked up at the mention of a wash, and was the first to hurry off to the baths once they’d been left at their rooms. Despite this, he emerged well after the rest, scrubbed pink and clean and wearing a fresh set of very fine clothes.
“Oi, what are they, then?” Nori said, tugging playfully at the embroidered green jerkin he now wore. The hobbit swatted his hands away and nervously smoothed his outfit.
“My mother always said you ought to have two fine outfits whenever you travel, because you never know when you might need to make a good impression, and you never know when a good impression can get you out of a bad scrape!”
“Aye, but I bet it works better for those fine hobbit lasses, eh?” Bofur chortled.
“You really oughtn’t underestimate the charms of a hobbit lad,” Bilbo rejoined tartly. “I’ve made a few good impressions in my time.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, and Bofur coughed and turned away.
“One would think you’d stop trying to out-sauce the hobbit,” Glóin boomed. “You’re just embarrassing yourself, laddie!”
A few of the others joined in on ribbing Bofur, who just laughed along with them as they were led to a large hall and presented with a bounteous meal. Lord Elrond sat at the head of the table, already in conversation with Gandalf once more, but he waved the merry company forward, spreading his arms to indicate the long table laden with food. “Come! I hope you are feeling somewhat refreshed. Please, eat your fill and feel free to any supplies you need while you are here. Are the rooms to your liking?”
Thorin bowed stiffly. “They are, and we are most grateful for the warm welcome towards our party. I would speak with you after the meal regarding a boon, if you are free.”
“Of course, King Thorin.” The elf lord bowed his head in acknowledgement, and the company were seated, Thorin taking his place on Lord Elrond’s left side. Though the somber dwarf was visibly preoccupied, the others were not so reserved, and soon the sounds of laughter and talk covered the soft flute and harp being played to accompany their repast.
After a time, Elrond turned to the hobbit amongst them, who was seated just on the wizard’s other side. “Gandalf tells me that you are the son of Belladonna Took,” he said.
“I am, my lord,” Bilbo said, clearly surprised to be addressed.
“How is she? I’m surprised she did not jump at the chance to journey forth in such a group.”
“Ah, she…passed away some years ago.”
“I am sorry to hear that. She was a dear friend to myself and my sons.”
The hobbit looked thoughtful at this. “I had forgotten that. Would you tell me of how you met her?”
“Certainly, though my sons may not thank me for it—they come off looking rather foolish in the tale!” The elf lord chuckled and then launched into a story that began with Elladan and Elrohir being caught unarmed by a party of orcs, and ended with Belladonna saving the two elves and then pranking them relentlessly until they learned to keep their guard up in unfamiliar terrain. The dwarrows who heard the tale laughed uproariously at the image of a pair of 2900 year old elves with green-tinged hair and berry-stained skin chasing a hobbit lass to take back their missing clothes. Bilbo laughed as well, but he soon settled into a wistful mood, which lasted through the end of the meal.
The party eventually separated into smaller groups, with Balin and Ori setting off for the libraries, Bifur and Bofur settling down to an early sleep, Thorin and Dwalin sparring in a courtyard, and the others off pursuing their own interests. Dori himself set off wandering the halls after dinner, and was just considering sitting down for a bit of a smoke when he heard the muffled sniffling and hiccoughing of someone in distress. He was shocked to round the corner and encounter their very own hobbit huddled on a bench along one wall. Hesitantly, he reached out and clasped the hunched shoulder nearest him.
“Master Baggins? Are you hurt?”
Bilbo hurriedly wiped at his face before turning towards him. “Oh! Master Dori! N-no, I’m quite well.”
“But…what is it, then? What upsets you?”
The hobbit seemed to hesitate a moment, before sagging in on himself. “I just, well, I miss my parents. It must seem silly, I know—I’m a hobbit grown, near twenty years past my majority! But I lost them even before that…”
“It is not a loss from which one easily recovers, and not so young, either.”
“Yes, well, my grasping relatives didn’t make it any easier…No, that was unkind of me, please forgive me. I didn’t mean…”
Dori only smiled encouragingly at him and it seemed as though that shook something loose in Bilbo, for the hobbit was soon pouring out the whole tale of losing his parents in the Fell Winter: how the rains and hail of the summer destroyed many of the crops, how the early freeze swept in and strangled the surviving plants. Bilbo told how, being good and kind and having the room to spare, the Baggins parents had invited cousins and neighbors into their smial to shelter in relative safety and comfort, and to pool their resources.
He told how the River Brandywine froze and the wolves came down from the mountains with goblins on their backs to tear into the houses of outlying farms, snatching food and slaughtering families in the night. How Bungo Baggins had snuck portions of his food back into the kitchen, slipping it into Bilbo’s bowl or onto another child’s plate, how he had grown frail and sluggish and then one morning never woken up from sleep. How the peaceful hobbits fled before the invading tide of monsters, until enemies hacked at the round green door of Bag End itself. How Belladonna, desperate to protect her only child (and perhaps more than a touch mad with grief), had taken the hatchet from beside the back door and the sword she had brought back from her travels and had gone out to drive off the interlopers. How Bilbo himself had huddled with Marjory Cotton and Falgin Greenhand and Marigold Hilfast in the sitting room, Holman Greenhand planted at the entrance with kitchen knife and spade in hand, until the young hobbit could no longer contain himself and flew past their guardian, not stopping until he stood in the red-drenched snow and stared down at the broken body of his mother, surrounded by the corpses of goblins and wolves, her cornflower blue eyes turned blindly towards the sky.
Bilbo choked on his words, then, and shuddered for a long minute. Then he told how, finally, the Rangers had come to kill what goblins and wolves still descended from the mountains, and how the recovery of the hobbits had been a yearslong process, requiring several autumns of good harvest to reassure the people that they would not again starve in the long cold dark of winter.
“So, when I spoke of our children in the Blue Mountains suffering want…”
Bilbo turned large, sad eyes onto Dori. “The Fell Winter has left its marks on my generation. The Shire is generally a place of plenty, of generosity and joy, but that winter…if the children in the Blue Mountains were feeling but a tenth of the sorrow and pain we did then, it would still be beyond me to turn away from your cause.”
The dwarf swallowed against a sudden pressure in his throat, and bowed his head. “Thank you, truly. We have…well, it is no secret that most men and elves consider all dwarrows greedy and short-sighted. Since we lost Erebor, many have been forced to sell their skills and services for whatever price they could get, and many men have been quick to take advantage of our misfortune. Generosity has not been something many of us have felt since the cursed wyrm came.”
The hobbit wordlessly clasped his hand, and they sat in a long companionable silence (not the last they would share in the weeks at Imladris), eventually passing back and forth a pipe before returning to their rooms to rest.
A certain moon being necessary to read the hidden runes on the map, the company was invited to take their ease in the elven halls for the following two weeks, and they were only too happy to eat their fill (Bombur, Bilbo, and Dwalin), practice their weapon skills (Dwalin, Thorin, Kíli, and Fíli), browse the library (Bilbo, Balin, and Ori), make use of the forges (Thorin, Fíli, and Glóin), drowse in the sunny gardens (Bifur, Bilbo, and Bofur), discuss herblore and healing techniques (Bilbo and Óin), or engage themselves in any other activity which struck their fancy. Dori spent a great deal of time knitting, embroidering, and sampling the truly excellent teas found in the kitchens of the Last Homely House, several of which hadn’t yet made their way to Ered Luin. He shared the occasional pipe with Bilbo and roved the peaceful valley in the hobbit’s company.
In this idyllic way their time under Elrond’s roof passed, until at last the map could be read. Bilbo was flattered (though a touch puzzled) to be invited to the reading, and followed along behind Balin as Elrond led the way to a balcony overlooking the whole of the valley. Here they found a tall crystalline stand, upon which he laid the map, allowing it to be illuminated from above and below by the light of the moon. As they watched, runes shimmered into being below the text they already knew, and Elrond read them aloud.
“Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the key-hole.”
“Durin’s Day?” mused Balin. “Then we must make haste—the summer will not last forever, and we have many miles to journey between us and our goal.”
“But what is Durin’s Day?” Bilbo asked.
Gandalf answered, “It is the dwarves’ New Year, my dear Bilbo, marked by the last moon of autumn and the first sun of winter appearing in the sky together.”
“Then your journey is blessed to have come at the right time to read these letters,” Elrond said, “and I shall see you re-provisioned and on the road once more.” He swept up the map and returned it to Thorin, who dipped his head.
“Our thanks, Lord Elrond.” Then the two dwarrows hurried off, muttering about what they must do prior to their departure. Gandalf followed with an amused glint in his eyes.
Bilbo looked up at the elf lord with a shy smile. “My thanks for your hospitality, and for the stories you shared. It has truly been one of the most peaceful times of my life.”
“Bilbo Baggins, it was my genuine pleasure—and you are welcome to stay, or to go and return; these halls will always be open to you.”
Expressing his gratitude once more, the hobbit followed the path his companions had taken, and was soon swept up in preparations. The next morn found the company trekking back over the bridges and up the steep paths that led away from the elven halls. Bilbo gave a single wistful look back before the rising land abruptly shrouded the valley of Imladris from all sight, and they were once more following the same rocky white path which threaded between scrubby trees and bogs and ravines and ended, finally, at the foot of the Misty Mountains.