CHAPTER 33

Smiths

Mahal knew Bilbo loved his dwarves with all his heart.

A handful of years ago, the hobbit had hardly seen a single dwarf, let alone talked to them. Now, he had a whole mountain full of the bearded fellows who would soon be looking up to him – something that still made him a little green around the gills when he truly thought about it – and a smaller number who he was happy to share his waking hours with.

But there was something to be said about an early morning walk to the farmers' market to pick the ripest tomatoes and the nicest pork chops for lunch, all alone without a grumbling child of Aüle on your heels.

It was a beautiful day, much as the rest of the week had been. Sunny, with whisps of white clouds streaking the blue of the skies. Bilbo smiled at the thought that with that blessed weather and a bit of luck, it was only a matter of days until the convoy from the Blue Mountain reached the Shire. Hopefully, they would need a couple of days to gather supplies and they would all be able to enjoy the festivities of Midsummer's Day – and eat one last good, earthy meal before the long trip back to Erebor and the dried rations that were sure to accompany them on the road.

With every day bringing them closer to seeing Dís again, Thorin and his nephews' amenable mood kept increasing. So naturally, when Bofur pointed out that their ponies would need new horseshoes for the long journey back to Erebor, Thorin offered to make them from old gardening tools he had found in Bilbo's shed.

"I would maybe need to buy some ores from the market," Thorin had mused, scratching his growing beard. "I have seen a fellow with a large green hat, from Bree I think. He had iron and copper ores, I would simply need a proper fire pit and something to use as an anvil. Something flat but also round, to shape the horseshoes."

"It's only a few hours' ride to Bree," Bilbo had shrugged. "Are you sure you want to go through all this trouble when you can buy all the horseshoes you need from a blacksmith there?"

Thorin had scowled. "I will not buy something that can be crafted in as much time as it would take you to saddle your pony. Back in Dunland, I used to make about two hundreds of horseshoes each day, provided I found the proper ores. This will be easy."

Bilbo had not dared to object. True to his word, Thorin had sought out the green-hated hobbit's stall in the market the following morning and had bought something near to his weight in iron ores – probably making the hobbit's week, judging by the smile that had lit up the fellow's whole face.

A little touch of dwarven magic later, and an open-air smithy had sprouted near the ponies' pen in Bilbo's yard. Oh, he had frowned quite a bit at that, but Thorin had sworn that he would put the garden back to its original state before it was time to leave for the Lonely Mountain. And when Thorin swore, well, he could generally be trusted. Generally.

As long as the children kept away from the fire, all was good.

Of course, word travelled faster than a Rhosgobel rabbit in Hobbiton, and it wasn't long before the first curious strollers 'happened' to walk by Bag End to have a look at the swinging hammers. At first, it was only a few indiscreet glances and a mutter or two about the waste of garden space; but then, one lady had gathered her courage and approached a working Thorin with a twisted hoe, expecting a rebuttal but walking out of the improvised smithy with a repaired tool and a large smile.

So naturally, every morning before the fire was even lit in the makeshift forge, a small line of chattering hobbits bearing gardening or cooking wares in various states of disarray never failed to gather. Thorin had been put off at first but had taken it all in stride, somewhat happy that he had been 'accepted' after all. In a weird, hobbit way.

Thorin had found a true purpose while waiting for his sister and his kin to reach the Shire. Even if it was simply straightening frying pans or soldering broken sickles back together, the King worked diligently several hours a day, ate heartily and found sleep effortlessly. And seemed all the happier for it all.

Sometimes, Dwalin would join him in the forge and help. A few hobbits in the line would shift their weights at the sight of the bare-chested, tattooed bald dwarf bending steel as though it was leather and wonder if they really needed that pot fixed. It never failed to make Bilbo chuckle, especially since he knew he would have had the same reaction before the quest for Erebor. So, in a show of good will, the master of Bag End invited his neighbours to wait for their repaired items inside where a spot of tea and a plate of buttered scones awaited.

And if Bilbo decided to linger in front of the window near the oven to steal glances at a certain King's sweat-soaked, powerful shoulder-blades, well, that was his own business, thank you very much.

Bilbo sighed and adjusted the basket on his arm, his bare feet finding the way to the next market stall on their own. To be truthful, he hadn't seen much of his suitor these last few days. The best part of their days were spent apart – Thorin in the forge, Bilbo entertaining guests and children alike with stories and picking out which item would follow him into his new life as a Consort – as well as their nights. Frodo refused to sleep anywhere outside of Bilbo's bed, so the dwarf had retreated back to his bedding in one of the guestrooms to sleep away the exhaustion of his days at the forge.

The lad was doing remarkably well at day. Bilbo knew that, due to his young age, Frodo did not fully understand the concept of death and its implications. The initial sadness had worn off, replaced by the knowledge that he would not see his parents for a very long time but that, eventually, they would come back. Bilbo did not have it in him to tell the fauntling otherwise; for the moment, it would be enough. Especially since Frodo's nights were restless and riddled with nightmares.

Fortunately, he had a small army of dwarves to keep him entertained throughout the day, be it Bofur taking him out to feed the ponies or Thorin making small misshapen animals with iron scraps – ravens, wolves and boars, he said, but they were essentially lumps with tiny spikes in lieu of legs. Still, Frodo enjoyed them.

Maybe today would be a good day to ask the lad. About Erebor. Yes, maybe today was the day.

With a newfound spring in his step, Bilbo walked up Bagshot Row with his large basket filled to the brim with goods from the market. In his yard, the forge was not yet lit – it would still be some time before second breakfast, after all – and the ponies were quiet, calmly licking dew from grass blades and low leaves. Early birds in the trees were chirping, the bees were buzzing around the daisies, everyone was preparing for the day ahead.

Time for a certain pack of dwarves to do the same.

Bilbo balanced his heavy basket on one arm to twist the green door open.

He was not greeted by loud snores, as he usually would, but a piercing scream that froze his blood right in his veins.

Frodo.

Bilbo dropped his basket and ran. He didn't care that the eggs were probably broken or that he had left the door hanging wide open. Or that he had left Sting in his bedroom and the only 'weapon' on the way was an old candlestick – which did not offer much in the way of protection, in all honesty. But time was of the essence and Bilbo rushed toward the source of the terrified screaming, his mind blank except for the need to find Frodo.

The sound came from the master bedroom, where Bilbo had left the lad to sleep in earlier in the morning. Was it another nightmare? Perhaps it was only a stubborn bad dream, but Frodo usually whimpered and rolled up into a ball when he had one of those; never had he cried out in this fashion.

Bilbo's doubts turned to ice-cold terror when he reached the round brown door and other noises carried through: deep, feral growls. Sweat broke out on his forehead from his sudden sprint as well as naked fear. What kind of foul beast had snuck its way into Bag End to corner the fauntling? Was it a warg, much like the one that had attacked Thorin a few evenings back?

Bilbo tried to remember exactly where he had stored Sting in his bedroom and wondered if he could burst in and grab it before whatever creature was inside attacked either him or Frodo.

Another growl and scream ripped those thoughts from his mind and Bilbo kicked the door open with what he hoped was a convincing battle cry – but really, a ten year-old dwarfling could have done better – his candlestick at the ready.

Had he known how ridiculous he would look anyway, he would have paid little mind to either his shout or his weapon.

Frodo was curled up on the large bed, which would be the normal thing to do for a fauntling being attacked by a large beast. Only... the large beast in question was not quite what Bilbo had in mind.

Thorin straightened from his looming position over the bedding and pulled back the red blanket that covered him to reveal his bearded face. "Yes? What is it? Can't a dragon pillage a city in peace in these realms?" the King grunted in what Bilbo had come to label his 'joking' tone.

The hobbit's grip on the candlestick faltered and he lowered the makeshift weapon. "I... I thought... I mean, I heard..." Bilbo stammered lamely. "Oh dear..."

"Yes, if that is all, you may now leave us." Thorin tucked the red blanket back over his head and brought his attention back to Frodo. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Hand over the gold and then I will eat you!"

"Never!" Frodo shouted, his little high-pitched voice a striking contrast to Thorin's great booming one. "Bad, bad dragon!"

The little lad's mock defiance dissolved into shrieks of laughter when Thorin dove in and made good on his threat to 'eat' Frodo, one bearded rub at a time.

"You two don't mind me," Bilbo grumbled, aware that there was no chance either the dragon or the poor victim could hear him over peals of laughter and furious growls. "I'll just... go and fetch those groceries I dropped at the door..."

Bilbo deposited the candlestick on a nearby shelf and exited the room, closing the door on the shameless ruckus inside. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, not sure if he should feel sheepish, amused or aggravated.

Peaceful days, indeed.

"So, a few days before the Festival, huge parchments are hung at one end of the marketplace," Bilbo said, poking at the large lemon cake in the oven with the tip of a knife. Any minute now. "There is one parchment for each category of the year. Some may change, but most are key events."

"Who decides which trial stays and which doesn't?" Kíli asked, for once sitting still at the kitchen table. The promise of cake was enough to keep the young dwarf focused on one conversation.

"The elders, the Mathom society, the Thain," Bilbo counted off, stealing one glance through the window. The last 'customer' had left about one hour ago but Thorin and Dwalin were still at the forge. Luckily, they looked like they were putting away hammers for the day. And right in time for tea. "Anyone is free to speak their mind, of course, but as long as food, ale and music are there, hobbits will go with anything, really."

"So you write your name on the parchment of the trial you want to participate in?" Fíli asked. "How many must you choose?"

"Oh, there's no clear rule about that," Bilbo smiled, poking the lemon cake again. Perfect. "You don't even have to choose one. But it is good form to at least pick one, if only for sport. Two is acceptable as well. But three or more, well... nothing forbids it, per say, but it would come across as a bit greedy. I, personally, usually stick to conkers but on good years I try the tomato contest."

"Conkers and tomatoes?" Bofur asked from his seat at one end of the table.

Bilbo chuckled, snatching a tea towel to safely remove the cake from the oven. "What, did you expect archery and swordsmanship? Did you forget we are speaking about the Shire? The closest thing to weapons we have here are darts. And Farmer Maggot's old deaf donkey, but you cannot rely on that one. Here, Bofur, could you cut the cake?"

Bilbo's back did not feel much like bending over the table to cut the cake. He had spent the entire afternoon submitting his smial to his Baggins skills, scrubbing and dusting Bag End from top to bottom. With the knowledge that Dís, his future sister-in-law, could literally drop by at any given time, he was anxious to keep his home pristine. He was almost certain that it did not matter one bit to Dwarves, but he wanted to make a good first impression. In that sense, he was fighting with the weapons he had long since mastered: cleaning, cooking and politeness.

As for the rest, well, he had the remainder of his life in Erebor to learn.

"Sounds fun," Kíli grinned, though whether he was genuinely interested in the Shire's Midsummer activities or simply happy that he would soon devour his piece of the lemon cake, Bilbo would not bet. "If Mother arrives in time, do you think we might stay for the party? It will be long before Erebor's repairs allow for balls or grand celebrations."

Bilbo had to be careful not to cringe. As much as he was happy that Thorin and his nephews would soon be reunited with their closest remaining family member, he could not help but be worried about the day Dís would actually set foot in Bag End. The golden-haired Baggins had come to know quite a bit about Dwarves and their ways; he knew what kind of scrutiny strangers, especially from another race, found themselves under upon a first meeting with a child of Mahal.

Not to mention that Dís' temper was often discussed among the Company and they rarely painted her as... overly forthcoming.

"I don't see why not," Bilbo shrugged. "We can keep an eye out for the parchments on the marketplace, they should be here before your mother."

"You don't have Midsummer's Day in your mountain?" Frodo asked innocently from his seat on Bombur's lap.

"We do, little one," Fíli smiled, reaching over to poke Frodo's cheek. "We simply do not celebrate it as you do. But we have a lot of other festivals: Durin's Day, Yule, and many others."

But Frodo still seemed distraught. "But Midsummer's Day is the most important," he said quietly.

"Well, tell you what," Kíli chirped, "when you come to Erebor we'll make Midsummer's Day an official thing, so you can enjoy it each year, what do you say to that?"

Bilbo's back went straight as a ramrod at the young dwarf's words. Had Kíli really... well... the hobbit had rather planned to breach the subject with his little charge in the relative peace of the evening, while everyone else was too busy sharpening daggers or enjoying a pipe in the front yard. Now, the cat was out of the bag and Bilbo's carefully-laid plans had gone out the window thanks to Kíli's quick mouth.

So, nothing unusual then.

Bilbo chanced a glance at the fauntling who had become very still in Bombur's lap. Frodo's big blue eyes were fixated on Thorin's youngest nephew; fortunately, they were filled with disbelief rather than distrust. "I can come to your mountain?" he asked quietly, sounding very much his age at that moment. "I can... go on an adventure, like Uncle Bilbo did?"

"Of course you can," Kíli beamed, losing twenty years on his true age by that simple act. "Now, there probably won't be trolls, or wargs or dragons, but you can see Erebor and maybe even Elves, should they come visit!"

Frodo smiled wide but quickly reined his enthusiasm in and turned to Bilbo. "Uncle Bilbo," he began tentatively. "Can we go to Erebor? Please?"

Oh, my poor boy...

"Well," Bilbo said, trying to keep his deep uneasiness in check, "it is a long journey, Frodo. Very, very far away from the Shire. If you go, you may not be able to come back here and see your friends for many years. Are you certain that it is what you want?"

Frodo seemed to ponder the idea for a little while. Bilbo ignored the dwarves' offended stares; if Frodo was to make that life-changing decision right then in Bag End's kitchen, a few minutes before tea, he needed to be made aware of the downsides of it, too. No matter how young he was.

"If I don't go to Erebor, can I stay here with you instead?" the lad asked, his youthful brow creased in worry.

Bilbo sighed and sat at the table next to Bombur, who had put one enormous paw on Frodo's head for comfort. "I still have not told anyone about this, so you will be the very first one to know. I am not staying in Hobbiton, Frodo. When Thorin's sister arrives, I will go East to Erebor, and I will not come back."

Frodo's breath caught in a small gasp at his uncle's words. "Why?"

Why? Funny, how Bilbo had never directly addressed the question but now found himself trying to put words on the answer. Why would he leave everything he had ever known for a life under a mountain that had nearly cost him his life, surrounded by dwarves he had only known for a handful of years?

Well, mainly because he could not bear to be parted from Thorin, not when each day brought him closer to the firm belief that their hearts belonged together. He would waste away, one day at a time, knowing he was denying himself the greatest joy of his life.

Then, there was the rest of the Company, and how they had given Bilbo's life a purpose, a meaning. They had faced death together, they had cried in sorrow and laughed in victory together. Such a bond could never be tarnished.

Why was he leaving for Erebor? Because nothing was holding him back in the Shire, because he could not bear going back to his little bachelor routine, because there was more to life than constantly putting up with Lobelia's nagging, because…

"Because I want to," Bilbo said softly, offering his nephew a gentle smile.

Again, Frodo paused to mull over those words, but it wasn't long until his gaze met his uncle's again. "I want to, too," he said, eyes firm and serious under his dark bangs.

Bilbo's smile grew a tad as relief washed over him. "Then you are welcome to live in Erebor. But I would ask that you keep thinking about it from time to time until we have to leave, just to be sure that this is what you want."

Frodo nodded gravely. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of the front door being pushed open.

"Ah, that would be our renowed blacksmiths," Bilbo said lightly, rising from his seat. "And right in time for tea, too. Bofur, you can fetch the small plates for the cake. Fíli, be a good lad and watch the kettle, the water should be just about ready. I will see to it that the newest heroes of Hobbiton remember to leave their boots by the door."

As a matter of fact, they had not. But that was not the extend of it.

Thorin and Dwalin had entered Bag End in the middle of a little friendly squabble; a boyish game they sometimes engaged into when they felt particularly at ease. They had rogguish grins adorning their bearded faces and kept pushing one another's shoulders, causing them to stumble and grab whatever was in reaching range to steady themselves.

Leaving black imprints not only on the floor with their boots, but also on the walls and beams with their filthy hands.

"What in the Green Lady's good name do you think you are doing?" Bilbo hissed at the sight of his hard afternoon work gone like the wind.

The two warriors stopped in their tracks and turned to face the fuming hobbit. All manners of pleased grins were wiped from their whiskers quicker than a wild rabbit fleeing a pack of wargs upon sighting him.

"Bilbo, dear heart," Thorin began tentatively, clearing his throat. That lump of a King had mercifully sensed that something was wrong. "Is it not time for tea?"

"For tea? For tea? Mahal and Yavanna both grant me patience, or so help me!" Bilbo growled, grasping at his hair on either side of his face – strange, really, how he could practically feel it greying under his fingers.

He would not curse, no he would not, not when there were young ears in his household. But oh, he certainly wanted to, and the puzzled look that passed on between Thorin and Dwalin only fueled that desire.

"Are we that late?" Thorin ventured in that cautious tone again. "We lost track of time for a moment when Master Hamfast brought his cart and we fixed the wheels, but from the position of the Sun, I was fairly certain-"

"It's not about the Sun, or tea, or anything that goes on in that overheated playhouse of yours!" Bilbo snapped angrily, letting go of his hair to wave his hands in the direction of the two dwarves. "The entrance hall!"

"What about it?" Dwalin asked gruffly, crossing his dirty arms over his bare chest. Bilbo shuddered at the mere thought of grime mixing in with sweat and hair over the muscled expanse of flesh.

"It's clean! Or rather it was, before you mountain trolls felt like strolling in with your filthy boots and grubby hands!"

By all means Bilbo had not planned to shout. But the thought of hours of work gone to waste in less than five minutes irked him to no end. A little mess created by children at play, he could deal with. But this? Two grown dwarves messing up the whole entrance hall when they should know better? It was enough to make what hair remained on top of his burnt feet stand on end.

The comment about boots seemed to set Thorin and Dwalin in motion. Hastily, much like chastened children would, they grabbed at their boots to pull them off before Bilbo could tell them to do it outside and leave the thrice-forsaken contraptions on the doorstep.

As a result, King and Captain were hopping on one foot in their haste to escape the master of the house's ire. Profusely leaving more dark smudges on the walls where they leaned their shoulders or hands to avoid falling over, and scattering bits of coal disloged from their boots all over the floor and the carpet.

When Dwalin lost balance and dropped his left boot to the floor where it released every little rock and speck of dirt it possessed, Bilbo just about lost it.

"That's it!" he roared – and he would later reflect that he could make a convincing impression of a furious Lobelia, if he put his mind to it. "Out! Out with the two of you!"

Now bare-footed and panting, both dwarves stared at Bilbo. "Out?" Dwalin rasped.

"Yes, out! As in outside, out in the open, away from here, anywhere but here!" Bilbo marched on and easily pushed Thorin and Dwalin toward the still open door. They were much more obedient than they should have; probably because they did not wish to anger the hobbit any further. "I don't want to see you again before you are clean enough to walk in this smial without leaving enough tracks for a blind orc to find you! Use what you want; the neighbour's washroom, the lake, even the ponies' bloody drinking through, I don't care!"

"Bilbo, I swear, ghivashel, we never intended to-"

"Out, out, out!" Bilbo punctuated each "out" with a small kick to a dwarven bottom. It did not help that they were taller than him and his thighs hurt from scrubbing the floor and furniture all afternoon. "And if there is the smallest trace of dirt under your fingernails when you do come back, Mahal won't be any help to you!"

With one last furious look at the two culprits – who at least had the decency to look remorseful – Bilbo slammed the door shut and leaned his back on the wooden surface. Pinching his nose, the hobbit forced himself to count to twenty in Sindarin and back to one.

When he opened his eyes, however, the nameless mess that so recently had been his pristine entrance hall was still there. Coal and all.

Oh, well. It would still be there after tea. Miracles rarely occurred in the Shire.

"I'm sorry I shouted," Bilbo grumbled, picking up a roll of white gauze from the leather bag that contained a few of Bag End's medical supplies. "I was tired and annoyed. I probably should have kept my temper in check."

"It would be ill-advised of me to comment on anyone else's temper," Thorin said softly, hiding a little wince when Bilbo turned his hands over to check for burns and cuts. "We were careless."

"That you were, and I reckon your dirtying days are over after this. Still, I should have known better." Bilbo frowned at a particularly red mark between the dwarf's thumb and forefinger. "Do you make a habit of holding red hot iron with you bare hands?"

Thorin chuckled quietly. "No. This is simply a blister, the skin was torn off. It has been a few years since I last wielded a hammer from sunrise to sunset."

"If second breakfast is sunrise and tea is sunset, then yes, I believe you."

Thorin and Dwalin had not resurfaced before supper, long after Bilbo had set the entrance to rights again. Quiet as mice, they had entered Bag End on their tiptoes, leaving their washed boots outside to dry. After a quick change of clothing, the two dwarves had quietly found their way to the dining room and silently helped to set the table.

Throughout the entire meal, Bilbo had not breathed a single word to them, nor did either Thorin or Dwalin seek to take part in any conversation. So when the meal ended, the table was cleared and everyone began to depart for their respective beds, Thorin had been surprised when the hobbit asked him to stay seated and left to fetch a medium-sized leathed satchel.

"I believed I mentionned something about dirt under fingernails," Bilbo said with a frown, splaying Thorin's fingers to have a better sight. When the dwarf visibly straightened, he smiled. "Peace, dearest. It was a joke."

They must have gone to great lengths to come back as clean as they were. Even their beards seemed soft and devoid of any grime.

"And where, may I ask, did you two go to wash yourselves?" Bilbo asked idly, reaching into his bag for a jar of salve.

The light green paste was used to soothe burns and heal bruised skin, from what Bilbo had been told. He had bought it the day before, at the market, from a young Brandybuck girl. In fact he had bought four jars, knowing full well that it would come in handy thanks to the forge that had become his closest neighbour. The poor girl probably thought that Bilbo was the clumsiest cook this side of the Brandywine River.

"The lake was our best option," Thorin said, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. "You should have let us clean the hall. The mistake was ours."

"Dwalin wields a broom as delicately as he does a battle axe. And you, my dear, are more skilled in wiping out a pack of orcs than a hall of tiles, no offence meant. The day I want Bag End destroyed, I know who I should turn to, thank you very much," Bilbo snorted. He scooped up a good amount of cool paste and began to apply it to Thorin's hands, paying extra attention to the abused knuckles. "The lake, you say? Please tell me nobody will be dreaming of hairy dwarven bottoms in the Shire tonight."

"May I remind you that you are not speaking to my nephews? We were well-hidden by bushes and rocks," Thorin huffed. Thankfully, the salve Bilbo was spreading on his bruised skin did not seem to sting. "Your people's dreams are safe on that account. Now, I would have you speak to me. Why did you not let us clean the hall? You usually let everyone clean the rooms, wash the dishes or do the laundry, but this past week you have taken it all upon yourself. Why?"

Bilbo shrugged in what he hoped was a casual way. "You all have been very busy, with the forge and the children and whatnot. I thought I could at least do that."

"I may use the word incorrectly but I reckon this is 'poppycock', Bilbo. Now, tell me."

Bilbo winced; not only was he being called by his given name in a stern tone but the word 'poppycock' in Thorin's mouth did not even sound remotely funny. Times were dire indeed.

"I don't know, Thorin, I... I guess I am just a little tad nervous."

The dwarf seemed put out upon hearing this. "Nervous? That is very unlike you."

"Oh, so what? Is there some dwarven ridiculous decree about Hobbits being forbidden to be nervous?" Bilbo snapped with a bit more snark than intended, squeezing Thorin's fingers a bit too hard.

To his credit, the King did not even blink, from neither his One's bite nor the harsh treatment of his bruised hands. "No. There is not. I am merely curious: you stood up to Azog when I could not, you jumped into battle against thousands of orcs, you willingly faced a living, fire-breathing dragon. So pray tell, Bilbo the Brave, what is making you nervous?"

Bilbo sighed and mumbled something under his breath he hoped Thorin would catch.

"You will have to excuse me, my hearing is not as good as when I was seventy. You were saying?"

Toss it all!

"I said," Bilbo began cautiously, "that I may be a little anxious about your sister's arrival. Maybe."

The bovine look Thorin threw at him reminded the hobbit of Farmer Maggot's cows. "My sister."

"The very same."

"My sister? Dís?"

"I do believe you only have one sister. That is, unless you haven't told me everything."

"My little sister is the reason behind that... panic attack you had earlier?"

"It was certainly not a panic attack!" Bilbo hissed through gritted teeth. "Confounded dwarf! Is there really something so disconcerting in trying to make a good first impression on somebody who matters to you and that I am likely to spend the remainder of my life crossing paths with? Not to mention that if the way you and your nephews talk about her is anything to judge by, she is worth every dragon that ever hatched!"

Bilbo almost slapped a hand over his mouth, as a fauntling would hoping that those words had not really come out into the open.

Sadly, they had. Oh no, had he... had he really spoken harshly of the only close family Thorin had left? He was in for a bout of scowling and brooding for the remainder of the week, for certain. That was, unless there was some kind of duel involved with insulting a member of a dwarf family, a female no less.

But Thorin did something Bilbo could not have foreseen. He laughed.

"Every dragon that ever hatched! Aye, that's a nice one," the dwarf rumbled, shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. "Be sure to tell her when she comes here. She will be proud."

"So... you are not angry at me? For comparing your sister to a dragon?" Bilbo ventured. Could it be that Thorin's spirits were so high?

"Believe it or not, Dís has been compared to many unsavoury things along the course of her life. A dragon may be one of the nicest. Besides," and there Thorin's voice dropped to a deep murmur as the dwarf squeezed Bilbo's fingers between his own, "I find it very difficult to be angry at you for any period of time."

When Thorin tugged at his intended's hand to deposit a prickly kiss on the knuckles, Bilbo could feel his cheeks heating up as though he was a besotted tween. Bebother that dwarf and his charming ways.

"My sister is nowhere near the heartless monster that her sons paint her out to be," Thorin pursued, the corner of his mouth twitching in unease when Bilbo massaged the green salve into his palms. "She is merely fierce in protecting her family, whether from a pack of orcs or a bunch of ill-speaking counselors. She is much rasher than me in that aspect. You may choose not to believe it, but I am the more sensible of the two siblings."

"Wonderful," Bilbo sighed, unrolling the gauze to wrap his suitor's hands. "And you ask why I am nervous..."

"You have no reason to be nervous. You have become part of her family and thus fallen under her ruthless protection. You helped win back Erebor, you saved our lives, you keep Fíli and Kíli in check, you literally kick me out of the smial whenever it pleases you and you make the best cinammon rolls this side of the Misty Mountains." Thorin allowed a playful grin to stretch his features. "She will positively adore you."