This story takes its sources from quite a few places, not limited to Tolkien's canon, Jackson's movies, and the Lord of the Rings Online game. Most of this is just for reference, and quite a bit is played around with. Most particularly, the canon timeline is bent to allow for Aragorn to be an adult at this time period. The whole Rangers protecting the Shire from Goblins thing actually happens about ten years after the Hobbit. So, I suppose Aragorn was born ten years earlier in my storyline.

This story also delves heavily into discussions of gender, sexuality, relationships, and identity, and how various cultures deal with those things. If a specific chapter is triggering for some reason, I will say so. Many many characters in this story are transgender and some have alternative pronouns. Aragorn, for instance, uses the elven pronouns "te/tir", which I created. This will all be explained as we go along.

Full pairing list: Aragorn/Bilbo/Thorin, Thorin/Bilbo/Dwalin, Dwalin/Nori, Bofur/Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, Bombur/Female OC, more are possible as we go along. Note that three character pairings are not love triangles, but polyamorous triads.

The tears didn't come until the door to Bag End shut behind him.

Bilbo fell against it, limbs trembling against the wood, fighting the feelings he knew had to come. Long months had passed since he left the Lonely Mountain, but the loss he felt so keenly then was still a dull pain and it continued to ache. It most likely always would.

He still saw them, as he knew them, when they still breathed: Fili, so bright and brilliant, always smiling; Kili, energetic, and heartfelt, and kind; … and Thorin, King Under the Mountain, for such a short time. He deserved better, deserved more. They all did.

But that was that, there was no arguing the what-if's and why-not's, what's done is done and Bilbo can't spend his life wondering why it had to be. It simply was. They were gone and here he was, a changed Hobbit as Gandalf had said he'd be. He felt… larger, braver, wiser, and – wounded, in a way no healer could mend.

That was it, then. Felt as if the world had ended, when Bilbo awoke on that field, when Thorin said his goodbyes, when he learned who had fallen. And it had ended, for them. But this was the lot of the living – to live on after the end, to keep breathing, somehow.

He'd done it before, and he could do it again. Bilbo Baggins looked at his parents portraits above the fireplace, which he'd not seen in so long, yet knew so well. Yes, he thought, clutching at his chest as if to try and reach in and tear out the pain, he could do it again. That was simply how it had to be.

Only, it wasn't.

A Few Months Before, After the Battle of Five Armies

The horrors of war do not end with the bloodshed; what follows is as grotesque and disheartening as the struggle itself. The wounded and dying must be cared for, and the dead attended to. A battlefield might become as a nightmare, a stretch of the nameless dead for endless miles, distorted beyond recognition.

It must fall to the miserable living to account for these dead, to find those who have fallen, to inform loved ones. These hard tasks wear upon the soul. Mistakes, can, then, easily be made. Body against body, all bloodied and sullen and reeking, might be easily taken for one another.

Of course, finding the King and his heirs was of great importance, for it was to them that rule was to fall. Dain lived, and had been found, but he was not rightfully allowed to take charge, unless proof could be shown that the heirs of Durin had fallen. To do anything less would be akin to treason. So, the tireless effort to find the heirs in the wake of the battle began; and many a tired dwarf did try. But how many had ever met these heirs? How many knew them? Thorin was found, in grievous condition, and in his injury, could not rule. So it fell to Fili, or to Kili, if they could be found. Well, they couldn't. They must be one of those bodies upon that endless grave, it was thought, and so they were declared dead.

When they stumbled into camp two days later, neither dwarf was very happy about it.

As for Thorin, he was in a grave state indeed. That last he had been awake was his goodbye to Bilbo, a tearful thing which broke all hearts who saw. After, Thorin fell under, and in his horrible grief Bilbo stumbled from the tent, thinking him dead. For who in such agony could recognize the subtle different between the sleep of death, and a dreadful coma from which the king might not wake?

Well, Bilbo could not know, and he did not linger long enough to find out.

So it was that Bilbo returned to the Shire with a heavy heart. Perhaps it would have been easier, had he any close friends or relations to return to. But he had always been seen as somewhat queer to them, since the loss of his parents, so he had none to find comfort in.

He missed them, Belladona and Bungo Baggins, more now than he had since first he lost them. Bag End felt so empty, with naught but a single hobbit, and two aging portraits offering cold comfort, above the fireplace.

Still, it was very good to be home. Painful as it was, Bilbo took consolation from returning to his old life at Bag End. And, if he had his way, Bilbo Baggins would have no more to do with Kings and their mad quests.

It was all too bad, then, that fate had other plans. For not only was the King Under the Mountain not yet gone from Bilbo's life, but there was another, who did not use a royal title but had as much a right to one. A man of many names, from many lands, who was always as kind, gentle, and good-natured as the best of men could be.

If the Wizard made another silly jab at Aragorn's own expense, te might just give in to tir rising urge to hit him.

Te was not, typically, prideful, nor one inclined to violence – but this one called Gandalf was pushing tir to the edges of tir patience. If Father had not supported his claim, Aragorn would not have even believed he was a wizard. What a strange old man he was, always at word games, never speaking sense.

This whole trip was ridiculous. Aragorn understood the need to defend the Shire; from Gandalf's telling the Hobbits were rather peaceful sorts, unprepared for the onslaught bearing ever down upon them. What te did not understand was why Gandalf insisted Aragorn accompany him on horseback via the main road, rather than allowing tir to travel the Wilds with tir fellow Rangers.

Heh. "Fellow". If te could call them that. Supposedly, it was tir right, tir duty, to lead them, and these last few years, they had gladly followed. But Aragorn was a stranger to their people and their lands; barely full-grown, having only five and twenty years, raised by elves in a peaceful valley where hardships that were daily realities for the Ranger folk were virtually unknown.

What a mess, Aragorn sighed.

"Troubled?"

Aragorn inclined tir head. "There is much in this world that is troubling. I fear for those I am headed towards, and those I leave behind."

"Bah," Gandalf waved a dismissive hand. "You do not leave enough worry for those who are neither ahead nor behind. We may yet need some of your concern." At that, the wizard glanced off into the woods. "Foul things walk the borders of the Shire now, closer than they have dared since Golfimbul's death at the hands of Bandobras Took."

"Yes, so I've heard," A few times, Aragorn thought, since this journey began. "You've told me, that's how golf was invented."

"So I have!" That seemed to be news to him. Gandalf's face lit up with a sly smile. "So I have."

They continued on, ever closer to the Shire, in blessed silence. Aragorn was not much for idle chatting. Least, not with one te knew so little of. If te were traveling with Elladan and Elrohir… not for the first time, a bitter pang of loneliness welled up in Aragorn's chest.

"Have you given any thought to your title?" Gandalf's words pulled at Aragorn's attention. Te glanced up. "What you will be called in the Shire?"

Te… had not. Te said as much.

Exasperation made itself clear upon the wizard's face. "You are leaving the safety of the North, Dunedain, and here the people will not keep your name to themselves. And your elven name stands out too much, for a man bearing an elven title will always draw attention. No," Gandalf shook his head. "You must find some other name to bear here. And most likely, wherever you go, you will always do so. Your birth name is not safe outside your people's homeland."

Te had not thought of it, but the wizard's words rang true, and a greater sorrow sunk into the ranger's chest. Aragorn was still much unused to such secrecy, even after four years with the Dunedain. To lie, over something so little as a name… yet, now more than ever, it was clear te could not share the name Aragorn with any but the closest of kin…

The weight of that name sunk into tir's bones, weighed darkly upon him. Te was not sure te wanted it, anyway. As clear as day, Aragorn could remember when father had shown tir the shards of Narsil, the ring of Barahir, told the truth – that tir name was not Estel, but Aragorn, that te was the heir of a long lineage, and a heavy burden. One te was not sure te was worthy to carry.

"Do not look so heavy-hearted," Again, Aragorn looked to the wizard. His expression was kind this time, almost gentle, and he looked upon Aragorn as one would a child. It was somewhat disconcerting how comforting that was. "What must seem very overwhelming now will come naturally as needs must, for I see in you the makings of kings. I thought it might be, but… well…" The wizard glanced off. "I wished to be sure. And now I am!"

Was that the reason for this ridiculous side journey? Baffled, Aragorn glanced off, not sure what to say. The wizard simply wanted to know tir better? All this for – for – frowning, Aragorn turned away, biting tir lip to keep from replying.

Wizards!

Now, while neither of them knew it, Gandalf and Aragorn were being followed, in a fashion, though not on purpose and not for any dire reason. It was simply another group of travelers who chose the same road, having the same destination in mind, but they were perhaps two days' travel behind the wizard and the ranger.

These travelers came from the north as well, and the east, for the Lonely Mountain was their origin. For they were none other than Thorin's Company, whom you might know from other installments of these tales of Bilbo Baggins and the folk of Middle-Earth.

Some months past, Thorin Oakenshield awoke from his dreadful sleep, to the joy and relief of all those who knew him. It had been a harsh few months, awaiting his fate, unsure of how the King might fare. In that time, his sister, Dis, became Queen Under The Mountain, for she was of age and the closest kin to Thorin.

The mountain prospered under her rule. Dwarves from near and far, from human settlements and the Blue Mountains, returned to Erebor. The riches under the mountain were spread to the men of Lake-town, allowing them to rebuild their home, and to begin reconstructing of Dale. With Dis, Bard and his people made peace, and Thranduil and his kin as well.

For some, mostly the lower class folk, the thought of Thorin, rightful heir as the eldest male, awakening was not something to be pleased by. This was a good time for everyone, peace and prosperity as they'd not had in ages, and Thorin Oakenshield carried many grudges with him. He was a good man, but would he make a good King?

Few knew, but this question bothered Thorin himself.

He pondered it, the hours after his waking, sitting up in his sick bed feeling for all the world like Azog had made of him a pin cushion. From what he could remember, he saw the beast fall under his nephew's blades, but not what became of them, or the end of the battle… to hear that both still lived was more than he could ever have hoped for, and meant more to him than he could say.

"Uncle!"

Speaking of beloved nephews. Thorin glanced up towards the door but by that time both boys had sprung into his bed, one on either side. He gave a groan at the jostling but did little more than hug them in return, too relieved and overjoyed to care for how the embrace pained him. His healer, though, gave greater care.

"Down, down you two!" Oin insisted fervently, pulling at the twin nearest him. "Hardly awake half a day and here you are treating him like a damned pony. Down!"

"Sorry, uncle," One said after the other, both still beaming bright. Thorin gave a laugh, reaching out his hands for them, and both took his in their own tight grips.

"I'm so glad," He began, throat tightening. "So glad to see both of you." His final thoughts had been that he had sent them to their deaths, doomed them with his own greed. He gripped their hands tight as he could and praised Mahal for this second chance.

Which brought him back to his thoughts before, of this realm and its rightful ruler. Could he claim that title, King Under the Mountain? Did he deserve it? His short rule had almost cost them all their lives, had endangered the people of Lake-town, brought war to the land with his short-sighted foolishness, his pride. Though the dragon sickness was gone, he still remembered it, and he feared to step into the treasure chamber should it return. He feared the mountain, and the hold it might have upon him. What kind of man could rule a kingdom he feared? What man could rule others, who feared himself?

So it was that Thorin shared these troubles with his sister, Dis, and they discussed them. And not a day later, Thorin Oakenshield abdicated to her, to all the shock and horror of so many elder clansmen. A woman, ruling not in temperance, but until her dying days? A Queen Under the Mountain! It was so, and none of the nobles could challenge it, for none had a right better than Dis, Daughter of Thrain. Thorin had forsaken that right, and did so gladly.

Her sons were not old enough, nor wise enough, though many clansmen argued in their favor. Both boys came close to forsaking the rights themselves, until more even tempered dwarves reminded them that one day, they would inherit the mountain, and not to foolishly end their mother's line out of a misplaced act of loyalty. It would not be easy, asserting her right to rule, but if any dwarf could do it, it was Dis.

The first few weeks after he awoke, Thorin remained mostly abed. His wounds healed with time, and he regained the strength of movement. In those restless hours, all of the Company came to see him almost daily – for none, save two, had left without knowing the fate of their leader.

Thorin understood why they both had left, of course. Gandalf was a wizard, with his own motives and machinations. And Bilbo… Thorin had no right to expect Bilbo to await his recovery.

The dwarf thought often of Bilbo. How he fared, whether he'd returned home safety. What he might be doing. Often, his thoughts returned to their final farewells, to how he'd treated the hobbit, during his sickness… he had been so wrong, so terribly wrong. They had all wronged Bilbo gravely.

Thus, a thought came to him, of what must be done to right this wrong. Bilbo certainly would never want to see Thorin again, and that was fine. But Thorin had to make amends, to apologize. Bilbo had been promised so much, and given so little, after all he had done for them. This could not be left this way.

He thought to tell the others of his plan, that perhaps some of them might wish to come. They had all, in their sickness, done wrong, though none so much as Thorin. He should not have been surprised, though, to hear that all of the Company was eager to come along.

"Bilbo's one of us," Bofur told him one evening. "Few of us even got to say goodbye, and fewer still had the chance or guts to apologize for what we did. I know I didn't. I can't sit here lollygagging and counting my gold knowing Bilbo's out there, sitting home, thinking of what we did, that he mattered less to us than a heap of treasure. I'd rather die than let him think that for a second longer than he has to!"

They set out as soon as they could. Once Thorin felt strong enough, and proper preparations had been made. But, still, they did not set out quite soon enough. For Aragorn, son of Arathorn, would arrive in the Shire first, and so would begin all the troubles that were to follow.

Aragorn did not meet with the Rangers before te entered the Shire. That had been tir's plan, originally, but the will of wizards always gets its way.

"There is a hobbit, a Mr. Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End," Gandalf said this with a strange, comical note. "He shall be of great use to you, I wager, in dealing with these troubles. To combat the goblins you will need an army, and hobbits, when roused, are fierce indeed – but it is the rousing which is the trouble. They cling to peace and propriety, as you will see, and it may take one of their own to get them going."

So it was that Aragorn was not going to find tir fellows, but a hobbit named Baggins. Te released the horse, an elven steed, to the wilds, for her masters were not far and she would find her way home easily enough. Te, on the other hand, had some distance to cover. Aragorn took to walking and came upon Hobbiton within a handful of hours.

The central and largest city of the Shire, Hobbiton was a picturesque place, very green and grassy and warm. Trees dotted the landscape, little rivers and lakes twisted between hills and valleys, and all around the hobbits went about their business with a general cheer and openness.

This mood did not spread to Aragorn, however. Wherever te went, suspicion and wide eyes followed. Aragorn walked quickly along the road, eager to be on tir way. There was no secrecy to be had here; Hobbiton was a wide, open space, and wherever tir went te was the talk of all the little folk.

"What's a man doing here, then?"

"Trouble, that's what this is. Big folk only ever bring trouble!"

"He's in an awful hurry, with those big strides of his."

The sooner this was over with, the better, Aragorn thought. This was no place for one such as te. No, Aragorn was better suited to the wilderness and danger of the forests of Bree-land than the quaint fields of the Shire.

Life in the Shire was much as it ever was. Two years away had changed little, but the state of his garden, and the moods of his neighbors. Oh yes, the people of Hobbiton were much taken aback by the return of Bilbo Baggins, none moreso than his own family, in a fashion. Family that had the awful habit of stopping by to bother him all hours of the day.

The fervent knocking at his door kept on, even as Bilbo continued ignoring it. He knew who it was, all right, for he could hear her insistent voice through the door. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had never forgiven him for coming back from that "awful venture" and taking up ownership of Bag End all by his lonesome. She'd tire and leave him, after a while.

It was not that he begrudged his family anything, or that he would not give aid where it was needed or due. Hoarding possessions out of greed was not a kind thing and he'd already seen the horrors it could unleash. But what the Sackville-Bagginses wanted of him was not something he thought he could ever give. Not anymore.

Sighing, Bilbo sunk further into his armchair. All around were spread maps, charts, papers of the like. Research into all sorts of things: the Greenwood, Rivendell, the Lonely Mountain. Places Bilbo had seen for so little, and so longed to return to. He would if only he could. But to leave on his own seemed much too intimidating, and quite lonely. And he was not sure he would like the reception he might find in Erebor.

The word alone sent a shiver through the man, and he held back a whimper. It still hurt, after all this time; moreso, because he could not take refuge in those friends left to him. How could he? How could he share his grief with them, when it was his own fault that… no, enough of that. Bitter thoughts bring nothing but bitterness. Here he was, a Baggins of Bag End, as he'd once told Gandalf, and here he would stay. Whether he liked it or not.

It was with those dark thoughts that Bilbo heard another knock at the door and finally came to the end of his patience. With a few rather impolite mutterings, he leapt to his feet and stomped to the door.

"That is quite enough!" He began passionately. "Now, I've had plenty of visitors since I returned, not just a few being rather hard to shake, but at least they know when done is done and to go on their way! I have had it to here with –"

And Bilbo through open his round green door to see a dark haired, cloaked figure, taller than any hobbit or dwarf, who was certainly not Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

"You – you're not Lobelia!"

Somewhat stunned by the rather odd introduction, Aragorn had to confess that was the case. "No… I am not." The little hobbit looked utterly baffled, eyes wide and mouth gaping.

"Well, I – I'm so sorry! I've been terribly rude, Mr. …?"

Standing outside Bag End, Aragorn realized te could not answer the Hobbit's implied question - as te had never thought of a new name. A sudden heat came over tir's face as te struggled to think of something, anything, to serve as a name.

"I am… Stride…. r."

"Strider?"

"Yes! Strider. That is my name."

The hobbit did not look convinced but he didn't press it. "Well, Mr. Strider, I've been terribly rude, please forgive my lack of manners. But I must say, I wasn't expecting any men at my doorstep, at any hour, let alone one so late as this!"

That, he could reply to. "I come on behalf of one you count as friend, Gandalf the Grey. He sends his regard, but he could not stay."

"Gandalf!" The hobbit's eyes lit up at that, and he swung the door open further. "Well, any friend of Gandalf is a friend of mine. Please, come in!"

Te did not correct his usage of the words "friend" and "Gandalf" in the same sentence, but frowned somewhat all the same. Te was still rather embarrassed at having stumbled over a name. Strider? Ugh, it would have to do. Hopefully hobbits did not know much of men and their practices, to know that such a title was … odd.

Bag End had seen quite a few of the Big Folk since Bilbo made it his home, but none such as this. This… Strider fellow, whoever he was, looked a bit more dwarfish than man, to be honest. Not a scrape of his clothes had any cleanliness about them, all ragged and torn and aged. And was that blood? The man had a hood pulled over his face and scruff covering his cheeks, but beyond that, Bilbo could not make much of him.

He was strange, that much was certain, but then Bilbo was strange by his own people's reckoning. As he'd said, any friend of Gandalf's.

Bilbo led the man into his front parlor. All of a sudden he realized it was quite the mess, with maps and books all spread about, hardly suitable for company. Cheeks flushing, Bilbo set about straightening the place as quick as he could, trying at least to make room for some tea. "Terribly sorry, wasn't expecting visitors, if you'll let me –"

"It's fine," The voice came nearer than he'd supposed. Bilbo jumped, spinning to see Strider had crossed half the room in almost complete silence. "I apologize for coming unannounced."

"Yes, well," Bilbo gave a shrug. "Habit of Gandalf's. I've grown somewhat accustomed to it." Under the shadow of the hood, he saw those thin lips twist into a smile. Well, good. Not completely cold-hearted. "Now, please, take a seat, and can I get you something to eat? Or drink perhaps?"

"No it's – fine," Something tight in his voice made Bilbo stutter in his footsteps, glancing back. He seemed dreadfully uptight. Constantly fidgeting and glancing about, not taking advantage of the seat Bilbo had pulled back. And… glancing downward, Bilbo saw a scabbard hanging from his belt.

"Oh," He said quietly, arms dropping. "You're one of those friends." A sigh followed his words. "One adventure, hardly two years away, and now it's all anyone can seem to think about!" Because undoubtedly, Gandalf promised this man some sort of assistance in the form of Bilbo, because Bilbo had already proven himself as a Great Adventurer, hadn't he? What a shame it was, the Shire folk thought. Bilbo would refute it, but he was having a hard time letting the adventuring thoughts go himself, as those scattered maps would tell.

"I'm… sorry?"

The stranger's voice brought Bilbo back to himself. He truly did seem contrite, if the guilt ridden slouch of his shoulders and darkened tone of voice meant anything.

"No, don't be, it's not your fault," Sighing once more, Bilbo turned back into the parlor, taking the chair nearest the fireplace. "I'm the one who ran off adventuring, and look what's it got me." A whole heap of trouble and heartache, that's what. But that didn't bear thinking of. "What's happened? Another dragon causing trouble?"

"Thankfully not," The man said with enough sincerity that Bilbo wondered if there were any more dragons around to cause trouble. That was not good at all! "This trouble, I am afraid, falls closer to home,"

With those words, Strider finally took the open seat Bilbo had pulled out for him. It was the armchair Gandalf always used, so it fit him fine. It was only once he'd sat that the man finally removed his cowl.

The sight hit him like a blow to the heart, and left him reeling for longer than a moment. Slate-grey eyes, cheek bones cut finely and angled high, heavy set brows and long, dark hair… and that voice, which hearing now Bilbo heard an echo of another time, of another grizzled baritone which spoke so ominously and deeply. But mostly it was the eyes which did him in.

There was such depth to them, such heart, that Bilbo felt he might get lost just looking at them. Here was a man who could hardly be older than Bilbo in the ways of his people, yet he felt like such a child gazing into those weary, worldly eyes. There was wisdom in them, and compassion, and strength sharp and cold like steel.

It was Thorin Oakenshield all over again – a beautiful, powerful, magnetic force, drawing him in against his own good sense. This stranger, this Strider, had not even spoken, yet Bilbo knew he would follow this man to whatever end.

"I come with grave tidings," Strider began. "Word has reached my people of an imminent attack upon the Shire."

"An attack?" Suddenly Bilbo was glad he hadn't made tea. It would've ended up all over his guest. "But from who? And why?"

"'Who' is easy enough. Though the Battle of Five Armies dealt a great deal of damage to the goblin armies, they are not defeated. Currently they are amassing around the borders of the Shire, aiming to prepare an invasion."

This – this was – horror sunk deep into his chest, chilled his bones, almost stopped his heart. "I can't imagine why! What could we have that they would possibly want?"

"Resources, supplies, which they are in dire need of." Strider offered. "The Shire is not well defended, not for war. It offers an easy target." Strider's grey eyes glanced away. "There is another possible reason."

Frowning, Bilbo felt his fear grow into irritation. "Well?"

Strider glanced back. "It may be you they target."

If he thought he was cold before, well… "Me?" Practically squeaking, Bilbo leapt out of his chair and started to pace. "Whatever for?"

"You made yourself an enemy of them, and acted as a key member of Thorin Oakenshield's Company. Without you, Erebor would not have been reclaimed." Turned away as he was, Bilbo could not have seen the clear admiration on the man's face. He'd of blushed if he had. "Revenge against you may, in some fashion, inform their plans."

Bilbo thought of his luckily very short time in Goblin Town. The horrors there, the bloodshed, the depravity… to think of that, being brought here… of a war making its way into the Greenfields, Hobbiton, Michel Delving… because he had stood against the Goblins?

"Please, Mister Strider," Bilbo finally said as he turned to face the man. "Tell me everything."