Summary: BOFA; everyone lives (for a bit) AU. After a life-threatening head injury, the Company has only one option to keep their precious burglar. Except he's not quite their burglar anymore. Warning: Major Character death. (Pretty much an excuse for me to de-age Bilbo Baggins, to be honest.)

So long because I am devoted to now posting all my stories as really long oneshots to avoid stress.

WARNING: This does contain the death of a child, so if that will trigger you, please be aware that this fic will not be for you at the end.

No slash, profanity, or M rated themes (aside from character death).

Translations: Khuzdul

nadadith: Little brother/male cousin that is young

melekȗnith: Little child/hobbit

mim akdâmuthrab: Little burlgar

Translations: Elvish

Peredhil: Halfling

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!

Still.

Bilbo is so, so still. Too still.

Death clings to him. He is too pale; his lips are white and his face is alabaster. The veins in his hands are too prominent, and he lays motionless beneath the many covers that have been piled upon him. His fingers don't even twitch where they rest against the mattress, and they're cold to the touch.

Bilbo's chest barely moves. If Thorin didn't know that Bilbo was alive, he would have mistaken him for a cadaver. As it is, Bilbo is fading fast, and no one, not even the best elven healers Thranduil can provide (because he cares too, unbelievably, but Thorin then wonders why it is so shocking to him because Bilbo is the kindest and friendliest person Thorin has ever met) know what to do.

The white bandages wrapped snugly around Bilbo's forehead almost appear yellowed against his skin, aside from the places that blood has wept through. It sickens Thorin to look at, the blood seeping out from the thrice checked (and many more times cursed) head wound that has rendered Bilbo unconscious for the past four days, to know that he was the cause.

This small creature, whom he has insulted and threatened and scared, charged headfirst into battle to defend a place he had no ties to, a place that was meant for the dwarves alone to protect, and yet here he is- broken, battered and looking so, so small even when he is so mighty and his heart is so big.

And now here he is, alone and on the brink of death, perhaps believing that Thorin still despises him and he is still banished from their Company. Since Fíli and Kíli's near deaths he has been back to himself completely, the knowledge that both his nephews' lives rest in only Fate's hands sobering him more than any hit or battle could.

(They are both still bedridden and lie in healing sleep, but wake when prodded and groan when jostled. Bilbo does none of these.)

Technically Thorin's not supposed to be out of bed at all, much less sitting with his injured burglar, but he can't seem to wrench his hand out of Bilbo's lax grip or from Bilbo's limp and tangled hair. His legs refuse to carry him up and out of the chair that he has set up at the edge of Bilbo's makeshift mattress. He sits waiting, watching and hoping, praying to anyone who will listen for Bilbo to be alright.

(The idea of Bilbo's death is unfathomable but, as Thranduil's healers have freely admitted, inevitable, if not for a miracle.)

(So Thorin, with more than anything he has hoped for in his entire existence, hopes for a miracle.)

Gandalf left directly after the battle, and there is nothing more Òin can do for their burglar. "Head wounds are tricky," he'd said when he'd bumbled around and gone about treating Bilbo's wounds after Legolas had found him. "You never can see directly what you're dealing with, and it all depends where and how hard."

But he'd treated it all the same, with all the care and gentleness that he might give an injured bird, and it made something hot and guilty coil in the pit of Thorin's stomach every time Òin came in to change Bilbo's bandages. The soft almost reverent touch he used to tend to their burglar made him feel brutish and cruel, and he always had to avert his eyes when even the old grouchy dwarf brushed a few wayward curls off Bilbo's face.

Bofur comes. He's hurt his hand in the battle and might never regain use of it again, but he's alive and smiling and only appears heart weary when he thinks no one is looking. He takes his hat off and places it snugly over Bilbo's head (and it is removed then replaced when the healers come to look at the head wound later).

Bifur comes, and Balin and Ori and Dori and even Dwalin, who only lays a hand (more gentle than Thorin has ever seen him, like he is touching something sacred and fragile) against Bilbo's arm, his face thunderous when he leaves.

Thorin only holds Bilbo's hand and strokes his curls and prays, and hopes to anyone who will listen that their burglar will be alright.

It's selfish, Thorin knows, but he can't help but want Bilbo to just open his eyes so Thorin can ask his forgiveness. He has no right to it, and he definitely doesn't deserve it, but he can't help the ache deep in his heart for it.

He wants to apologize more than anything, to soothe the pain in his heart and let Bilbo know that he is so, so loved….by everyone.

But Bilbo is silent, and death clings to him.

And he is so, so still.

It's another day before Gandalf returns in a flourish of frantic urgency, storming into Bilbo's healing tent sometime during the early morning (it's still dark out when Thorin blearily glances through the tent flaps) and Òin and even a few of Thranduil's healers are hovering and Thorin is awake immediately.

"What's happening?" He asks, but he's pushed aside like he's a doll, practically swept away by Gandalf's hand as he crowds close to Bilbo over his bed. Gandalf sharply turns to him, eyes wild with criticality as he demands, "Thorin Oakenshield, do you want your burglar to live?!"

Taken aback, Thorin splutters, "Of course I do- I would give anything-"

"Even said burglar? For him to live, you would give him up?"

Despite not quite understanding, Thorin hesitates. There's a heaviness to the question that takes him off guard.

Then he gives a single, slow nod.

Gandalf leaps back into action, brandishing his staff, and there is a burst of shouts and protests and hands grabbing him and roughly shoving him and pulling him and he finds himself out in the chilled night air, an apologetic voice saying: "wait here Your Majesty" even as the tent flaps are sealed shut.

He could go back in, but he doesn't dare. It would feel...intrusive, and make his soul dirtier than it already is, and he figures he's been pushed out for a reason. The sounds though- there's shouting and protests and so much noise- make his stomach toss, and he has to swallow many times to fight the nausea clawing its way up his throat. What is Gandalf trying to do?

What if Bilbo doesn't make it?

It's with this thought that he finally keels over and is sick, and his ribs scream in protest as his body jerks but he can't find it in himself to care. He's wet and he's cold and he's worried and Bilbo is dying, and will maybe never be the same again- you would give him up-

But Thorin will do anything to keep Bilbo Baggins living, even give up the Arkenstone- especially give up the Arkenstone- so he waits in silent agony, every wail that pitches and every shriek that shrills out into the night sending jolts of pain through Thorin's chest, but it's no less than he deserves, so he stands and listens. He doesn't want to- he doesn't want to- so he forces himself to stand there and hear, because it's the only way he can put himself through some semblance of pain that Bilbo Baggins is feeling, and has been feeling since Thorin had been driven to madness.

He isn't sure how long the cries ring out- it could be minutes, but they seem to go on for hours an hours, time ticking like an injured bug might crawl across a table: slowly, haltingly.

Thorin feels as if his ears might bleed just like his eyes, though that is not blood.

The screaming tapers off to whimpers, which fade completely into the night. The dawn is fast approaching, Thorin notes with a certain degree of numbness (he cannot feel his fingers nor the bite of chill from the snow on the ground- he is without a coat) but has not arrived yet.

He doesn't know if Bilbo is alive or dead, and depending on the answer, the dawn may never come.

Not for Thorin.

He begins to shiver slightly. The absence of screaming now makes the camp seem too quiet, an echo of a ghostly wail whistling through the tent flaps as all is silent.

(Thorin tries to banish the phrase silent as death from his mind. He fails.)

It's a considerable amount of time before Gandalf emerges, looking grim faced and solemn, and Thorin's heart sinks.

He stands beside the injured king and pulls out his pipe, packing it loudly and fumbling around with the pipeweed as both simply enjoy the sunrise together, Gandalf puffing quietly. Thorin wants desperately to ask but is afraid of the answer, so instead he remains silent and stoic and stares into the sun, trying to convince himself this is why his eyes water so.

"Your burglar will live," Gandalf says at length, and the weight Thorin has carried around for the past week (since the start of this whole journey, if he's honest) dissipates. "I warn you though, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf says as he turns to study the dwarf with a crafty, wise eye, "he will never be the same burglar you once knew. This change is permanent. You will learn to accept him as he is, and to expect nothing more."

Thorin can only nod- he simply cannot ask more of the small creature who left his comfortable life behind for those he had met the night before. Has Thorin damaged the poor hobbit forever? Is he paralyzed- can he still walk? Enjoy the sun? Has he been blinded?

"He is none of the things you're considering," Gandalf assures, though Thorin is positive he said none of these thoughts aloud. "You may go see him, if you feel up to it. He is resting and in a healing sleep. Allow him this peace."

As if Thorin could want for more than this quiet, brave creature's peace? For his innocence and love of life to return? He is too naive to have seen battle, and Thorin has endangered his life more than once. He feels ashamed of himself for so much as suggesting some of the sort he did to the hobbit, who is considerably more fragile than the dwarves.

He should not have had to prove himself time and time again to gain Thorin's attention. Merely agreeing to leave his whole life behind should have been enough.

To Thorin, it had not been.

It should have.

He wants desperately to go see Bilbo, but isn't sure anymore if he will be welcomed. Now that the hobbit is in a healing sleep, will he process the King Under the Mountain's presence? Would he wake and be frightened? Thorin does not want to cause anything detrimental to the burglar's healing.

So with a crestfallen heart, he turns away.

...

The first person he hears from is Dwalin who, apparently, has had to actively seek him out.

He's been negotiating with Bard the Bowman and (sickeningly) Thranduil, because although he is...difficult he has helped the dwarves (and Thorin) in more ways than one, offering food and healers and shelter and aid, and although Thorin cannot forgive him for not doing this the first time, he can see past it the second time.

There is so much talk about the gold in the Mountain and the payment of the Lakemen- Thorin has been more than willing to give them their share, and has simply been waiting for it to be written up so he can sign it and the whole business can be over with. They need shelter, though, too- and Thorin is not sure how keen he is on letting them into the Mountain, but he and Balin have reasoned that they can clear enough rubble away from the Great Hall- far, far from the treasury.

Thranduil has been a different matter.

The Elvenking constantly stares with calculating, cold eyes- eyes that Thorin is ashamed to remember he once called Elf-friend- something that Thorin is not sure is meant to question him or study him. Both make him uncomfortable. He knows Thranduil seeks the gems of starlight, but he isn't sure how he wants to play this card- not yet. He knows he can gain something- perhaps a tentative alliance. They will need supplies, and the Elvenking of Mirkwood has many to offer.

Bard asks him of Bilbo, asks how the hobbit is, how he has been faring, if Thorin has seen him yet. There is something unspoken in his dark eyes- maybe it's concern? Maybe it's- dare Thorin believe- dread? Does the Dragonslayer think he so cruel to kill Bilbo, or wish for his death on the battlefield? But what can Thorin say, other than reassure him that Bilbo lives?

Dwalin grabs his arm and pulls him aside, eyes intense and face deadly serious- and Dwalin has not escaped injury, having lost the tip of his ear and half a finger on his left hand-

At his friend's expression, Thorin feels dread creeping into his heart.

"Have you seen the hobbit, Thorin?" Dwalin asks quietly, and Thorin's heart leaps up into his throat.

"No," he responds, and it's strangled. "Why?"

Dwalin sighs and just claps him on the shoulder. "He's...changed," he says simply, and then walks away before Thorin can ask how, trying to interpret the look on Dwalin's face. It isn't sadness- perhaps there was something similar to it there, but mostly something...strange to see on Dwalin's face.

Fear is crawling all over him, making his skin tingle like a million tiny ants could. He swallows his fear and tells Bard and Thranduil he will return shortly and all but runs to the hobbit's tent, and he can sense them following, probably having noticed his urgency.

His lips are trembling as he slips through the flap and into the tent, opening his mouth and looking up, ready to apologize because he is so ashamed-

"Oh, hello," a little voice pipes, and Thorin's head snaps up, his eyes wide in surprise.

There sits a child upon the bed- one of smallest children Thorin has ever seen, and he has raised two undernourished dwarflings, who are small but sturdy in themselves- but this little creature is small. He's sitting up in the center of the bed, a small wooden something in his hands, a few other objects strewn atop the covers, and Bofur and Ori sit on either side, their smiles dimming as they see their King in the entryway.

The small being blinks at him, a mop of honey colored curls flopping over as his head cants. Huge hazel eyes- too big for the small creature's face- stare at him in awe and frank curiosity. Pointed ears- like an elf's- poke out from the mop of hair, but they are gently curved instead of the harsh jut that elves have. Freckles are splattered across his cheeks and nose- too long in the sun, probably.

When the tiny thing makes to get up, Bofur places a hand on the child's shoulder- his hand covers most of it, along with the child's upper arm and chest- and pushes him back down with ease. "Remember what Gandalf said, little one," he reminds, and the little creature huffs and crosses his arms, brushing a wayward curl out of his eyes with an annoyed flick.

"Mister Gandalf said not to get up," the small one recites, "because I'll be off balance and floppy."

Ori laughs. "Not exactly, but yes, that's it for the most part."

The little creature turns back to Thorin, who is still standing motionlessly half in the tent. "Who are you?" He asks, guileless questions that make Thorin's heart ache for some reason. "Are you another dwarf? There are lots of those around here. And wizards. But there's only one wizard- his name is Gandalf. Do you know him? Maybe you're friends. Gandalf is friends with all the other dwarves I've met so far. He told me to stay in bed so I don't go floppy, but I'm so bored," this is said with an exasperated glance towards Bofur, who shakes his head. There's a smile on his face. "And I wanna get up and go 'splore!"

Thorin can only focus on breathing. "Where is Bilbo?" He asks Bofur, whose smile is soft now instead of amused. There's a strange light in his eyes- it's solemn, but not sad. "Where is Master Baggins?"

Bofur just gently inclines his head in the child's direction, and Thorin's suspicions are confirmed.

His heart plummets.

"I'm Bilbo, and my last name's Baggins," the small creature says joyfully, his eyes bright. "I'm from Hobbiton, in the Shire. My mama told me that to tell strangers in case I got lost at market. But I haven't ever gotten lost at market because I always go to market with Papa, who's a Baggins. Bagginses are boring," he adds with a wrinkle of his nose. "My Took cousin Grim- his full name's Aldagrim, but only his mama calls him that when he's in trouble because he sometimes steals mince pies from Brandy Hall and Aunt Chubbs, because she's a good baker- he gets lost at market on purpose."

Thorin is staring at Bofur, who has the merriest smile on his face as he listens to- to- the little one carry on and on, nonsense words that mean absolutely nothing, but this- this can't be Bilbo, this little slip of a curious, inquisitive thing. This can't possibly be the same Bilbo Baggins who panicked after realizing he'd forgotten his handkerchief, and who'd thought a corduroy waistcoat and silk shirt were good travelling clothes.

But it's not, is what Thorin is coming to realize. It's him, but not the Bilbo they know.

If possible, his heart fractures more.

The little one seems to sense Thorin's anguish, because his face washes in something very melancholy, a shadow passing through his huge hazel eyes. "Oh no. I didn't say anything bad this time though, honest- Papa punished me for a whole week after telling Auntie Camellia that she ought to wash my cousin's mouth out with soup because he spits such mean things at people, but I didn't say anything bad, did I? Did I?"

He turns grief stricken eyes to Ori, who shakes his head reassuringly and glares- actually glares, who would've thought Ori?- at Thorin as he gathers the little one close.

"No, little one," Ori assures, and Bofur just cants his head at Thorin as if to say 'it's hard to get used to, but you'll handle it'. "You didn't do anything wrong. Here," he says as he picks up one of the wooden figurines- a dragon, Thorin notes with a distant sort of bitter amusement. "Play with your dragon a bit, hm? Fly him around, I think he's restless."

"Okay," Bilbo agrees, and then he's impersonating dragon roars and fire spitting, and Ori has picked up another figure and is now attempting to slay Bilbo's dragon.

He's remarkably still for a child, Thorin thinks as he watches Bilbo fly the dragon around with only his arm and limited fidgeting, attacking his other characters using only his other hand. He doesn't wiggle or squirm, and Thorin isn't sure if that makes him worried or relieved.

Bofur gets up and walks over to him, saying in a hushed voice, "Gandalf thought it was the only way to save him. By...making him younger. He's a right little bugger, let me tell ye, and he's always got somethin' to say to ye," Bofur's eyes shine with fondness. "And he's not our Bilbo, not anymore, but…" He glances at the little hobbit on the bed, and shrugs. "He's a cute little button all the same, and I'm happy he's here."

It sounds almost like...like a challenge, Thorin realizes, and immediately feels incredibly ashamed. Has he not made it clear that Bilbo is forgiven? Has his distance been mistaken for avoidance? Has he not announced that Bilbo is pardoned of all charges he may have been guilty?

"As am I," Thorin says, and Bofur is clearly less tense. Thorin's eyes flicker down to Bofur's bound hand and wrist- still immobilized, he thinks, and guilt flushes through him. This dwarrow who has so willingly given Thorin his loyalty may lose the use of his hand, his livelihood, all because of Thorin. What was it he'd asked? Loyalty, honor, and a willing heart? He has had no right to ask any more, much less intimidate his Company members. He visibly does his best to look less imposing. "Although he is not the same Bilbo Baggins, he is Bilbo Baggins nonetheless, and I am happy to see him alright."

Bofur's grin is so wide, Thorin wonders if it makes his face ache.

There's a dull throb in his chest from his wound that makes him wince slightly, and Bofur exclaims, "goodness, ye must be dead on yer feet! Come sit down and-" his voice is hushed again, a twinkle in his eye, "humor the lad, will ye?"

So Thorin gets off his feet with a sigh of relief, easing his hurting body down into the chair beside Bilbo's bed. Bilbo's game is forgotten in an instant, and bashful, apologetic hazel eyes peer at him through curls.

"'M sorry," Bilbo murmurs shyly, looking at Thorin through his lashes. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I don't know what I said, but 'm sorry."

A great swell of love suddenly rises within Thorin, and he can only give a small, genuine smile to the tiny creature who has so simply and swiftly captured his heart with his bright smile and inquisitive eyes. He feels as though he is looking upon Fíli or Kíli in their younger years, and feels suddenly incredibly scary, bending slightly in his seat. This position must help his stitches, after all.

"Don't be, little one," Thorin says. "I am not angry nor offended; merely surprised."

Bilbo perks up at that, a smile lighting his lips. "Surprised? By what?" He questions, and Thorin is so astonished that this tiny agog thing will become a proper, handkerchief wielding Baggins of Bag End that it startles a small chuckle out of him.

"I did not expect you to have such well crafted toys so soon," Thorin improvises, picking one up and really inspecting it now. He's gotten Bombur, and the likeliness to the actual dwarf is astounding. It's as if he's been shrunken and made into wood, it's so detailed.

"Aren't they great?!" Bilbo responds enthusiastically. "Mister Bifur made them for me! I got to watch him carve with a knife and everything! Did you know he's got an ax stuck in his head? That's okay. I once had a thorn stuck in my finger for a whole month before I could get it out, and that was with the help of a lot of hot water and some peanut butter. But Mister Bofur says Mister Bifur's will never come out, but that's okay, because he can still carve. Mama brings out knives sometimes, but only to keep them sharp and clean, because they get dusty in her glory box," Bilbo says, and the intense irony is not lost on the King Under the Mountain. Who'd have thought that the glory box that their Bilbo had treasured so much had once been used to store weapons?

"They are," Thorin agrees, peering around at the six or so mini figures. "Who's that one?" He asks, pointing, and Bilbo picks it up and hands it to him as if it were made of glass.

"That's the King," Bilbo says confidently. "Mister Bofur says that the King can lead a whole army into battle and protect almost all of them! And Mister Ori tells me stories about the King's adventures!" Bilbo plays with the hem of his shirt, much too big on him now. He swims in it. "My favorite is the one about the rabbits, and the dwarves have to escape the orcs."

"Oh, they weren't just any rabbits," Thorin says wryly. "They were Rhosgobel Rabbits."

"You know the story?" Bilbo asks, awe in his voice.

Thorin nods with a smile. "Aye; tis one I know well. Would you like to hear it again?"

"Oh yes, please!"

Ah. So there are the Baggins manners. "Right," Thorin says. "Well, the Company of the King was in dire-er, bad need of provi- ah, supplies, after their run in with the trolls, so they began to travel again when a strange man in a strange hat happened to ride up beside them on a sled. The sled was pulled six rabbits! He came to warn the Grey Wizard about the Orcs following the Company, and…"

It only takes five minutes or so for Bilbo to become enraptured in the story, and another five for him to settle down and drop off to sleep.

"That's incredible," Bofur whispers. "We've been trying to get him to sleep for ages, now. Gandalf says he needs quite a bit to balance for the huge change his body went through."

Despite it being only a small thing, it makes Thorin swell with pride. He had been the one to get the ever-energized little Baggins off to sleep with his story. Bofur might be the one to make toys, and Ori might be a proper storyteller and able to draw a pretty picture, but Bilbo had only settled down from Thorin's story.

It wasn't a dangerous amount of pride, but it was enough to stop him from feeling so guilty about everything he'd done to the poor halfling.

He exits the tent and is relieved to find Bard and Thranduil gone, because he needs some time to think and process all of this.

Bilbo Baggins- their strong, steadfast, and just always constant hobbit- is a small child again. Because Gandalf...de-aged him, and now their Bilbo is gone; replaced.

It's not as hard to get his head around as he would have liked, and something warm and traitorous settles in his chest at the thought of the baby hobbit, sitting in bed and asking incessant questions, flying around his dragon.

And he thinks that maybe leaving behind their Bilbo is for the better, if little Bilbo will get to live and be surrounded by people who so love him.

...

Bilbo doesn't get it.

These dwarves are super special- more special than the Midwinter celebrations or the Party Tree. And they're nice to him- Nori and Ori and Balin and Bombur and Dwalin and the rest of them, and he doesn't know why. Now, Bilbo's a smart little hobbit. But he doesn't understand.

Bombur, at the moment, is probably one of his favorites. The round dwarf is very friendly and always willing to talk about whatever Bilbo fancies best- whether it be Elves (which Bombur wrinkles his nose at but endures) or his mama or herbs or adventures or storytelling.

Bilbo's never had such good friends before, even though they're all bigger. Sure he's got other fauntling friends in the Shire, but that's- different. They're all either too adventurous for his liking and make him get into trouble with his papa or too dull and don't care much for his imagination.

It makes Bilbo a little...he doesn't know the proper word for it. But he feels empty in his chest sometimes, and sometimes only his mama can make that go away.

But he doesn't feel empty with Bombur- Bombur makes him feel like he can fly if he wants to or run faster than even the fastest horse or be taller than even Elves, and that's saying something because the elves are pretty tall, Bilbo reckons.

And he thinks that maybe he's found a best friend.

...

A couple weeks pass like this, various Company members going in and out of Bilbo's tent many times a day, always with a small gift or parcel. Fíli and Kíli have also woken, Thorin overjoyed as he sat by their bedside now that Bilbo had...recovered, and they were immediately chatting over each other and finishing each other's sentences. This, more than anything, convinces Thorin that his nephews will be alright.

Thorin himself feels quite fine, the wound to his chest even escaping infection. ("Bloody lucky, you are," Òin comments gruffly, but Thorin thinks secretly, he's glad for the respite. Óin's own wound- an arrow to the shoulder- has healed nicely, and he should regain full movement. (Thorin is intensely relieved.)) Due to the injury to Thorin's foot he walks with a constant limp, and Óin is unsure whether he will ever walk right again. (This is not as offsetting as Thorin believes it should be, but pays no mind to it. There are far more worrisome things to ponder.)

"How's the Company?" His nephews ask once their joy at seeing their uncle alive and well has dimmed. "How's Bilbo? Did anyone...Everyone's okay, right?"

"Everyone is...alive," Thorin settles on, and immediately his sister's-sons slump in relief. "Bilbo has undergone certain...changes, however."

They're both back to alarmed, eyes huge and wide, and Thorin puts his hand up before they can start tripping over themselves again for an explanation. "I cannot fully explain the changes he has underwent, only that he is alive, awake and can still move, but...smaller. You'll just have to see for yourselves."

"Can we see him?" Kíli pleads, all wide, imploring eyes, and Thorin hesitates to answer.

Bilbo is back on his feet and his nephews are awake, and Bilbo is a good lad, knows when to be still and when he can get excited…

"Of course," he answers eventually, and sweeps out of their tent to retrieve him.

Bilbo is animatedly describing something to Gandalf, who has to stoop terribly to be at the small hobbit's reach (but Gandalf tells them that Bilbo cannot continue to be referred to as "the small hobbit" as all hobbits are small, and instead tells them that a baby hobbit is called a faunt).

Gandalf doesn't have to fake his smile of delight when Bilbo presents him with something- likely a picture he's drawn, because Bilbo, even for a small faunt, is a better drawer than Thorin will ever be and is only a few steps behind Ori when it comes to using a quill or piece of charcoal.

"Will you pin it to your cabinet?" Bilbo asks hopefully. "That's what Mama does."

Gandalf chuckles. "My dear little hobbit," he says, "I will find a cabinet just for that purpose."

It makes Bilbo beam.

Thorin clears his throat- he knows Gandalf is aware he's there, but Bilbo hasn't taken notice yet, and he has this endearing habit of-

"Thorin!" Bilbo exclaims, immediately forgetting about his conversation with Gandalf and running over and straight into Thorin's arms (he has to crouch to make them low enough for Bilbo to reach) and Thorin scoops him up and turns him so he's dangling upside down, Bilbo's curls dropping towards the floor. His chest stretches a bit in protest, but Thorin is determined to handle it if it makes Bilbo smile.

What Thorin wouldn't do to see the old Bilbo smile once more- just once-

There's only Bilbo's rambunctious giggles for a few moments before Gandalf thunders, "Thorin Oakenshield if you drop your burglar-"

"I have him," Thorin interrupts calmly as Bilbo swings back and forth upside down, nearly whacking Thorin in the face with one tiny hairy foot as he kicks out.

"Up! Up!" Bilbo calls, so Thorin quickly spins him around so he's upright- he knows too well the consequences of keeping a child upside down too long. "Where are we going? Are your long talks done yet?" Bilbo asks. "Mama's and Papa's talks can go on for hours and hours about this that and the weather, but your talks are more interesting, even when they go on for longer. Are you finally done?"

"Yes, little one, they are done for today," Thorin says. He tries not to think about the arguing he and Thranduil went through, and thoroughly pushes Dáin from his mind. "In fact I'm going to take you to meet some new people."

"Meet people?" Bilbo asks excitedly, and Thorin can't help the small smile that graces his lips as he helps Bilbo into his little fur coat and gloves and hat. "I like people! Are they dwarves?"

"Yes," Thorin says, making sure the hat covers the tiny pointed ears, and decides to talk as he walks, Bilbo's had nestled in his own as they weave through the maze of tents. Thorin takes back ways as he has done for the past two weeks, partially to avoid attention, partially to avoid the crowd, and partially to avoid Bard and Thranduil. "They're both dwarves, and they're my nephews. They've only just woken."

"Did they get a bad scrape?" Bilbo queries with the kind of innocence that makes Thorin's chest ache. "I once got a bad scrape after I fell and slipped by the river and got all cut up by the sharp rocks. Willie Bolger once pushed Gilly into the stream and she had to get stit-les in by her elbow," Bilbo tells him.

"Did she now?"

"Mmhmm," Bilbo says, swinging his arms. "And she even let us see them. They're were weird and weaved like...like...the pattern on the wings of a butterfly."

"Butterfly stitches."

"Mmmhmm," Bilbo says, blissfully unaware of the irony. "The stit-les had to come out soon though, and they left a cool scar. You have some nice scars," Bilbo comments, and Thorin raises his eyebrows.

"Do I?"

"Yep," Bilbo says, hands in the air like he wants Thorin to pick him up, and Thorin obliges, if not stiffly. Tiny fingers trace the scar on his upper lip. "Like here it looks like a tree branch whacked you in the face," he says, then moves to the one on Thorin's neck. "An' this one looks like an acorn."

Thorin has dutifully been paying attention, but sets Bilbo down as soon as they reach Fíli and Kíli 's tent.

"Now Bilbo," he says, taking the faunt's hand again, "my nephews are very hurt right now, and they need you to be very, very calm. Can you be calm for me?"

"Mmhm," Bilbo says, nodding eagerly. "I can do that! I can sit still! My Papa makes me sit real still when I learn my letters."

"Well, you don't have to be that still," Thorin concedes. "But you will have to keep your wits about you."

"My mama always said that 'a Took that doesn't keep his head could always surely end up dead,'" Bilbo quotes, and Thorin winces at the near- accuracy of that statement, but doesn't say anything about it. He just sweeps aside the flap and ushers Bilbo inside, out of the biting cold.

Fíli and Kíli both try to sit up when they hear the rustle of the tent, but Thorin casts them a dour glare and they both sink back down, their faces pinched in pain. Bilbo's soft inhale is all the noise there is as the two young dwarves, from their position, stare in bafflement, and Thorin gazes upon his living, breathing nephews with nothing short of relief.

"I...I-is that-" Kíli breathes, and Thorin nods before he can finish his sentence, peering over his shoulder behind him to stare at Bilbo, who seems to have been suddenly seized by a fit of shyness.

"Master Baggins," Thorin asks kindly, reaching behind him to put a large hand on Bilbo's small back. "Do you not wish to meet my nephews?"

And Thorin gets a glimpse of the quiet courage that their Bilbo carried throughout the quest, the courage that helped him stand up to orcs and goblins and spiders and elves and Thorin himself as Bilbo steps out of Thorin's shadow with his head held timidly high.

"You must be Mister Boggins," Kíli says with a faint chuckle, and Bilbo's nose scrunched indignantly, a frown ghosting his lips.

"I'm Bilbo Baggins," he corrects, then giggles. "but Boggins would be a funny name. Even funnier than...Bullroarer or Proudfoot, and I'm related to both!"

Fíli's eyes shine with delight. "Do you know that my grandfather's name was Thrain, and his father's name was Thror?"

Bilbo giggles and slaps his hands over his mouth to stifle it. "Those are silly!" He claims after his tiny fit ends, and something small stretches the corners of Thorin's mouth. "I got some cousins," he says, then wrinkles his nose. "And there are the Sackville Bagginses. They're horrid. They like to come over and try to steal spoons from my mama's collection. No one knows why."

Kíli positively cackles in joy, wincing and descending into a coughing fit when the movement causes something to happen in his chest. Thorin supports his youngest nephew through it, holding him up and patting him gently on the back. He is faintly aware of Bilbo watching on with wide eyes and feels the first tinges of worry, but Fíli says, "mim akdâmuthrab, come here," and Bilbo all too willingly runs over and huddles close to Fíli on his bed.

The hacking passes and Kíli smiles apologetically at Bilbo, who tentatively lifts his face out of the cover of Fíli's golden beard. His tiny hands, however, stay twisted in the prince's braids.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo says, all wide eyes and trembling lips. "I didn't mean to make you hurt."

Kíli's smile turns softer, and he opens his arms. Bilbo wordlessly transfers beds and settles against Kíli's shoulder, mindful of his wounds.

"I'm alright, nadadith," he says down into Bilbo's curls, as one hand is supporting Bilbo close to him and his other is holding Bilbo's small hand to prevent it from twisting his braids too. "It wasn't your fault."

"But I-" Bilbo stops, blinking in confusion. "I-"

He gasps, clutching at his head with both hands, and a shrill scream rips its way from his throat as he doubles over and gives a loud sob. His screams are like nothing Thorin has ever heard before- they are gut wrenching and agony filled, such torture packed into someone so small, so fragile and undeniably under Thorin's protection, and he freezes up with the weight of this and doesn't know what to do.

"Uncle!" Kíli shouts, eyes blown huge in panic, and Fíli's are wide in alarm. "Uncle- do something!"

He doesn't know what he can do- Bilbo writhes in pain, his shrieks growing ever louder, small and high pitched and so shrill in his guileless terror and pain, and Thorin's breath is sucked from his lungs as he seizes the tiny being as gently as he can and pries his hands from his head, but he finds no open wound to treat.

"I don't-" he tries to say, but the words are stuck in his throat as Bilbo draws another breath and let's out another shriek, this one more forceful than the last, and Thorin winces with their power and volume. They're so tortured and pain filled and tiny and they make Thorin's heart bleed.

Someone comes bursting into the tent- Thorin thinks it may be Gandalf, but he cannot be sure- and Bilbo is wrenched from his arms, shrieks fading as that someone works their magic on him, and all at once Thorin finds all his energy drained from him, and barely processes the pain of slamming into the ground before darkness embraces him like an old friend.

...

Bilbo doesn't get it.

One second he was perfectly fine, but then he looked at Thorin and- and- he was cold and afraid and scared and wanted Mama and wanted to go home and wanted Bifur because Bifur's big and can protect him and all he can do is scream and scream and scream because he doesn't know how to do anything else-

And then he realizes that he's not by Thorin at all and instead being rocked back in forth in someone's arms, and when he looks up all he sees is dark hair from a beard, but through that he can see the glint of something in the light and he knows it's Bifur's ax and so it's Bifur.

He whimpers because he doesn't know what else to do and it feels like there's ice in his chest, and he thinks it's Nori with his hand on Bilbo's back, but Bilbo can't be sure. Bifur mutters something in his really really old sounding language that Bilbo can't understand, and Nori tells him, "you called for Bifur when you were screaming. He's here now, then, shhh, it's all right now."

And then Bilbo realizes he's crying and that just scares him more, because the ice in his chest gets bigger and he wants his mama because her hugs are always the warmest and, and-

"Oh then," Nori says from behind him and Bilbo can feel him leaning forward to wrap his arms around him too, "none of that- don't you cry none. I'm here too, see- and two hugs are better than one."

Bilbo doesn't know if that's very true, but he's beginning to feel impossibly better and sniffles in one long breath, trying his best to stop his tears. "Promise?" He asks and doesn't care if he sounds little or like a baby because Otho Sackville-Baggins isn't here to make fun of him for it, and Nori's arms tighten and Bifur murmurs something in his really really old language again and Bilbo feels reassured and warm and loved.

"Yeah," Nori translates and his voice sounds like it's thick, but Bilbo doesn't know why, "we promise."

...

When he opens his eyes, Bilbo's name is the first to spill from his lips.

"Lie back down," someone commands, hands pushing on his shoulders so that he's lying supine again. "And don't move, laddie."

Balin.

"Balin," Thorin says, and tries to sit up again, "what's happened to Bilbo? He just-"

"Began to scream?" Balin finishes grimly for him, and Thorin trails off uneasily. If Bilbo has been hurt... "Aye, we know. Poor little thing had quite the shock. Gandalf has been in to see him and he's right as rain now, laddie, don't you worry. You, on the other hand-" And Balin gives Thorin a look that he hasn't received since he was a young dwarfling, "you need your rest. You've been too active, Thorin," and now Balin's voice is hushed, "and we nearly lost you. Again."

Guilt seeps into Thorin's heart. "Balin...I…"

Balin sighs, and something in his face looks very, very old. "I know, laddie. You don't have to say it. But do us all a favor and please don't get yourself killed. Not after so much has happened."

There's a lump in his throat that refuses to go away. "And Bilbo?"

Balin sighs, something akin to a chuckle escaping his lips, though it sounds worn. "Bilbo is...doing well," Balin hazards, and Thorin isn't sure if the knot in his chest loosens or the noose he feels around his neck tightens. Maybe both. "But Tharkun...well. I suppose he'll want to tell you himself."

Balin gives his knee a gentle pat, and is gone.

Now that Thorin is alone, he can't help but concentrate on the pain radiating from his chest. His wounds are coming back to bite him, he knows, and though he is assured he will live by Óin, he knows he truly should not have been wandering, nor attempting any of the actions he'd been doing. Especially to please the little hobbit, he thinks, but won't say aloud.

There's a dull ache in his foot, too- he had forgotten it had been injured for a while. His limp has become automatic. (He's not sure if he's...uncomfortable about that or grateful that he no longer hurts himself further when he forgets. (Maybe it's both.))

Gandalf sweeps into the tent and eyes him thoughtfully- at least, Thorin would like to believe it's thoughtfully, but it might just as well be warily.

"Thorin Oakenshield," he says haughtily. "Glad to see you're alive."

Thorin acknowledges this with a nod, trying to look as majestic as possible. (It's difficult, considering he's bedridden, his hair's probably a mess, and he's most likely very pale and weary looking from all the pain, but he's trying.) "And you," Thorin says, but his tone is serious. "What of Bilbo?"

Gandalf sighs and slowly plops himself into the chair beside Thorin's bed, resting heavily on his walking stick. He looks...old, Thorin decides, and immediately dislikes the thought. It makes him uneasy, to know that such a powerful being looks weary from all of this, especially when it concerns Bilbo.

"Our hobbit is quite alright, I assure you," he begins. "But Thorin, you must understand," he implores, blue eyes weathered, "Bilbo is not the same hobbit he once was."

"I know that- have I not minded-"

"Thorin Oakenshield do not interrupt!" Gandalf says firmly, and Thorin quiets. Gandalf hmphs and purses his lips together for a few moments. "Now," he continues, "Bilbo's emotions- his own emotions, from when he was our hobbit- seem to be...filtering through. Not his memories," Gandalf hastens to add, "those have been locked away completely- perhaps even destroyed. Nevertheless, they will never return to haunt him."

"I thought that you made him younger to avoid this?" Thorin asks with dire disbelief, something dark in his voice. "Did you not do this to prevent-"

"I did this," Gandalf says, peering down his nose at the King Under the Mountain, "to prevent our Bilbo Baggins from dying- and that is what I have done. The mind is a fragile and unpredictable thing, Thorin Oakenshield, and you of all people should be aware of this." His tone is considerably softer. "I had no way of knowing that this would be a side effect. I knew there were...potentialities, but that is with anything that anyone may do. It is merely another adaptation that we must-well, adapt to."

When he speaks, it is slow, and after a few minutes have passed. "So this...affliction," Thorin says. "It is his past emotions filtering in?" All the betrayal, all the fear, all the pain- little baby Bilbo Baggins could now feel all of it?

"Yes," Gandalf answers, sounding deep in thought. "But not all of them will be bad emotions, Thorin. You forget he found kinship, and happiness, and companionship on this journey."

"He also found suffering, death, and pain beyond imagining," Thorin points out. It takes a lot of courage to admit what he next does, but when it is out, he feels better for it. "Some at my hand."

Gandalf looks...disgruntled. "Do not think that Bilbo did not forgive you for those acts," he says, and his voice grows fond. "Hobbits have such capacity for resilience, and even more for courage. But they do not know what it is to hold a grudge, King Under the Mountain, and are more familiar with love than hate."

He pauses. "And if there was one feeling Bilbo Baggins harbored for all of you, it was love."

And if that doesn't make Thorin feel like the dirtiest being to ever walk Middle Earth, he doesn't know what could.

...

Bilbo doesn't get it.

He's beginning to realize that there sure are a lot of things he doesn't get.

"It's all right now, laddie," Óin tells him, but Bilbo's not sure if he wants to believe him. The chill in his chest is gone though, and Bilbo is happy about that. "That chill won't plague you any longer, and you can go see Thorin soon."

There's a lump in his throat as something just as icy from his chest creeps under his skin, and makes it feel like there are ants all over him. It's not that he doesn't like Thorin- he knows he does. Thorin protects him and likes him and makes him happy. But there's this weird feeling in the pit of his stomach now when Thorin's name comes up- it's not scary, because Bilbo got over scary and now he's really trying hard to keep it away- but it's sort of like when his tummy hurts when he's eaten too much. All rolly and wrong.

"What's the matter, then?" Óin asks him, and Bilbo tries his best to think of an answer. Despite his appearance Óin is actually very kind to Bilbo, and Bilbo appreciates that when he gets a scrape Óin doesn't kiss it or mother him or anything because even his mama never did that, and if the dwarves started doing that for him he'd feel like a baby, and he's not a baby. He's eleven years old.

"I dunno," he says even as his tummy tosses and he lays a hand over it. "I feel...my tummy hurts." He's frowning.

Óin hmphs and moves to sit next to Bilbo, lending quiet support. "Well," he starts. "Is it about Thorin?"

Bilbo tries not to look guilty. He knows that when you look guilty people automatically think you are. Óin chuckles.

"I'm not blamin' you, laddie. I was just asking."

"It's...I'm fine," Bilbo says, shy now for some reason, though he doesn't know why. Óin eyes him like he doesn't believe him and then gets to his feet and rustles around in his bag for a few moments, then pulls out a vial of something.

"Drink this, then," he says, and sounds gruff, but Bilbo knows he's just worried and that tosses his stomach more. "It'll settle your stomach. Give it a few minutes to work."

But even when more than a few minutes pass, Bilbo's stomach doesn't stop tossing.

...

Bilbo comes to visit Thorin sometime later, saying bashfully, "I'm sorry for making you all scared and hurt again." And Thorin's heart simply swells.

"You did not do this, melekûnith," he is quick to assure. "My injuries merely overwhelmed me. But I am fine, and I am just…" He works past the lump in his throat. "I am sorry I was not there for you, to protect you."

He's not sure which Bilbo he's truly apologizing to.

"That's okay," the new Bilbo says, and Thorin isn't sure if he's gladdened that it's so easy coming or disappointed that it isn't their Bilbo replying. "You were gonna protect me?"

"I will always protect you," Thorin vows, and wishes that he had sworn this when he had first set eyes on Bilbo Baggins in Bag End, and not after all he's already been through.

...

Glóin settles him down for his nap, tells him a story, doesn't mind when Bilbo doesn't want to stray further than Glóin's side and willingly goes to Dori when Glóin tells him he has to go do something for business.

He knows when Dori puts him down instead of allowing him to settle against his side like Glóin had, but doesn't dare open his eyes. He knows Dori gets fussy when he doesn't sleep like he's meant to, but sometimes he can't help it.

He manages to doze off but suddenly feels like he's falling, falling, and there's a hand around his neck and someone hauling him over the side of something and he's going to fall and smash and-

And he wakes up terribly afraid and Dori isn't there and there's only Thorin on his mind as a protector, he lifts up the tent and slips out the bottom and makes a run for the negotiations table, spreading his arms and trying to pretend that he can fly just because he'll get to Thorin faster.

...

Thorin is up and about two days later, feeling much better (if not slightly irritable) for the enforced rest, and he wants to seek out Bilbo immediately, but one cannot simply be absent from two days of negotiations without consequences.

So off he is whisked to Bard's and the (ever pleasant) presence of Thranduil, to talk of jewels and gems and shelter, and supplies and food and rebuilding plans. Lake-town desperately needs to be repaired, as does Dale and the parts of Erebor that were destroyed when Smaug took over and abandoned it, and all of the plans make Thorin's head spin.

He is a dwarf that does, not prepares, and this inactivity is both maddening and grating. But Thorin had been trained for these sorts of talks, once upon a time, so he knows he must keep his silence and endure for the moment, and find comfort in the smaller things.

It is about three hours into the negotiating that Thorin sees anything that brightens his day, and it comes in the small but no less loved package of a little hobbit.

It's unexpected (and perhaps unhelpful, but to be honest Thorin will do anything to kick this conversation because there's so much debating and so little being resolved) when he hears the high pitched and joyful, "Mister Thorin! Thorin! Thorin!" Being chanted from ten feet away, and on pure instinct he turns and crouches and catches the tiny faunt when he stumbles, a smile bursting forth before Thorin can check it, and he's being hugged around the neck by small arms.

He whirls around and forgets temporarily all about Bard and Thranduil and whoever else might be standing with them, eyes full and focused completely on Bilbo in his arms. "Hello melekȗnith," he greets, and Bilbo giggles.

"Everyone's been calling me things like that," he says, and his little brows furrow in confusion. "What's it mean?"

Thorin's smile turns much softer, though he doesn't answer as he gently takes whatever's in Bilbo palm to study it. "Ah! Your dragon," he says.

"His name's Benny," Bilbo shyly admits.

Thorin isn't sure whether to frown or chuckle, and finds himself doing the latter. Laughing is made so easy when he's around this little creature. "Is it, now? Well I think that's a very fierce name."

"Mmhmm," Bilbo agrees, and plants a sloppy kiss on Thorin's scratchy cheek. "Hey," Bilbo says crossly, rubbing at his lips, but another giggle escapes him. "You make my lips itchy!"

"Do I?" He asks teasingly.

"Mmhmm," Bilbo says again, then looks up. And his mouth falls open. "Down," he commands, and Thorin has no choice but to release the wriggling little being. Bilbo lands with a plop and steadies himself by rolling into a crouch, his head canted to the side, his eyes wide in curiosity. His lips are parted in awe. "You're an elf," he whispers, as if speaking it out loud is a crime.

Thorin inwardly groans.

Thranduil studies the little hobbit with a cool expression, looking calculating and distant. Bilbo's fascination isn't dulled as he creeps closer, all guileless innocence and childlike wonder, and even something in Thranduil must melt, because he allows this inspection. Bilbo reaches out a hand as if to brush Thranduil's robes- something stops him, though, and he withdraws to only stare.

"Well, child," Thranduil says suddenly, cold eyes bearing down on the being only up to his knees. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Bilbo blinks, then collects himself visibly with a deep breath and straightens, smoothing down his shirt as if he's making himself presentable. He turns his head up all the way so he can look Thranduil in the face- the spark has not left his eyes- and utters one, priceless question.

"Are all Elves so pretty?"

Thranduil blinks.

Thorin laughs.

"Or is it just you?" He pauses, then seems to think of more. "How long do you spend on your hair? Mama spends 'least half hour on hers, and all she does is put it up and tie some ribbons innit. But yours is super smooth and, and…" He searches for a right word. "Glow-y. Do you use special stuff to make it like that?"

Thranduil blinks.

Thorin laughs and laughs and laughs.

"My mama says she met elves once," Bilbo says conversationally, pacing around Thranduil now and really taking an unabashed look. "She says that they were real pretty- the prettiest and most graceful...est people she'd ever seen. Grim says he's seen elves, once, but I don't believe him. Mama said you move in slow motion- do all Elves move in slow motion?"

Thranduil blinks.

Thorin laughs so hard tears leak out of his eyes.

Bilbo has finally taken notice and makes his way over to Thorin, tugging on his hand. When he receives no response and only a wide eyed, shocked look from Thranduil, he huffs and turns to Bard, then brightens.

"Hello, my name is Bilbo Baggins- you're very tall. I bet you could touch treetops if you tried."

Bard, despite himself, cracks a slight smile. "I don't believe I'm that tall."

Bilbo shakes his head- for one who only barely reaches Bard's knees, Bard and Thranduil must seem like giants. "Are you a Man? Mama's seen Men in Bree. She says that they're loud and very tall, but not as tall and graceful as Elves. She says that they protect the Shire, but that only certain ones do, and that we're very lucky. But my Took cousins have only ever seen a Man once, and that was in Fangorn Forest, so I'm not sure, 'specially because no one likes to go in Fangorn Forest and maybe they didn't even go in at all so how could they have seen a Man, and why would a Man want to go in anyway?"

Bard seems to have been trying to keep up with the conversation spectacularly, and has knelt down so that he and Bilbo are at similar eye levels. He's still slightly taller, even on one knee and hunched, but Bilbo is exceptionally small.

"I don't know why anyone would go into...Fangorn Forest. But I'm sure the Shire is very protected, and you need not worry." He attempts to sound reassuring.

Bilbo either doesn't catch it, or doesn't care. "What's it like, living in houses that aren't in hills? I heard from Mama that you live in houses that have triangle roofs and aren't in the ground. You must feel very…" He struggles.

"Exposed," Thorin offers once he's recovered himself enough.

"Yeah," Bilbo agrees. "Esposed."

Thranduil still hasn't regained the ability to speak.

"Not really," Bard says. "You see, our roofs act much like your...hills do. Our houses give us walls, and our doors locks."

"And your doors aren't round?"

Bard laughs. "No, little one, our doors aren't round."

Bilbo's nose wrinkles. "That's silly. Why not?"

Bard can't seem to fathom why Bilbo thinks that's so strange, and looks to Thorin for help. Thorin tosses him the dragon toy.

"Why don't you tell me about him, hm?" Bard asks, and hands the dragon back to Bilbo with care. "What's he like?"

"His name is Benny," Bilbo says, and Thorin isn't sure why the faunt is suddenly seized by a bout of timidness. "He's a good dragon, even though the one in the stories is very, very bad. His name is Smaug, and the Dwarves have to beat him to get home. But the Dragonslayer from the Ice-town shoots down the bad dragon before he can do anything bad, and then helps them rebuild." Bilbo pauses, and something very melancholy passes his face. "I'm sad, but I don't know why," he tells them quietly, and Thorin sighs as he picks Bilbo up, ignoring the ache in his chest.

"Don't feel bad, mizimith," he says, and pulls Bilbo close as he sniffles. "It's okay to shed tears," he adds in a whisper, and something warm and wet suddenly drips onto his neck, and Thorin knows Bilbo is crying by the small trembling of his shoulders.

Thranduil seems to snap out of whatever had seized him and his face contorts- it's not disgust, Thorin thinks, but something rather compassionate, and his eyes thaw, and crinkles appear in the corners that Thorin hasn't seen for a long, long time.

"Come now, Peredhil," he says. "I haven't had the chance to answer all your queries." He looks a little sickened to encourage them, actually, but Bilbo's trembles ease and he sniffs as he dashes at his eyes. When he turns from Thorin's neck, his chin wobbles and his eyes are red and watery.

"R-really?" He asks, and Thranduil's lips twitch as he gives a nod.

Bilbo swallows and tightens his arms around Thorin's neck. Thorin tightens his own around Bilbo, and this seems to reassure the small being.

"You will need to remind me of what they all were, however," Thranduil continues. "I'm afraid I was a little too...taken aback at the time to truly pay attention."

"Oh, uh," Bilbo says. "Where do you live?"

"In the Forest of Mirkwood, just beyond those plains," Thranduil says, and gently inclines his head in the direction.

Bilbo swallows again. "And- and are you the King?" He is eyeing the crown of silver adorning Thranduil's brow.

Thranduil nods once.

"Oh," Bilbo breathes, and no longer seems to know what to do.

"What is your name, Peredhil?" Thranduil asks, and Bilbo scrambles.

"I-uh-huh-Bilbo Baggins of the, the Shire," he says, and drops his gaze. "At your service," he murmurs, and then tucks his face back into Thorin's neck. Thorin looks down at the head of curls in a sort of breathless sadness, and looks up at the Elvenking. He's not sure if his eyes hold a thank you or a plea.

Apparently, a plea.

"Have you ever heard the tale of Beren and Lúthien, Peredhil?" Thranduil asks, and Bilbo apprehensively shakes his head.

"Tell me, please?"

Thranduil seems to be filled with a new resolve, because he takes a seat, picks up his wine glass, and takes a long sip of it before setting it down and folding his hands together. "The story of Beren and Lúthien is treasured amongst my people. It's a love story. Beren was a mortal Man and Lúthien an Elf, the daughter of the great Thingol and Melian the Maia. She was dancing and singing in a glade when Beren came upon her, and fell instantly in love. She grew to love him after he gave her the name "Nightingale", moved by her voice and her appearance- she was the fairest of all Elves and Men."

Bilbo, enraptured by the story, has leaned forwards, and Thorin reluctantly puts him down so he can approach Thranduil, who doesn't make a remark of this change and instead only continues his story. "When Lúthien presented Beren to her father the King, Thingol felt that Beren was an unworthy match for his daughter, and sent him on an impossible task."

The pause Thranduil inputs is long and purposeful.

"What was it?" Bilbo whispers, daring to edge closer.

"Thingol asked Beren to bring him one of the Silmarils, the three hallowed jewels made by Fëanor, which Morgoth had stolen from the elves. Morgoth was...very evil," Thranduil decides, and leaves it at that. "And against her father's wishes, Lúthien follows. On his journey to the enemy's land Beren reached Nargothrond, an Elvish...castle, and was joined by ten warriors under the lead of King Finrod, who had sworn an oath of friendship to Beren's father. Although Fëanor's sons, Celegorm and Curufin, warned them not to take the Silmaril that they considered their own, the company was determined to accom-to go with Beren. On their way to Angband they were taken by the servants of Saur-...of someone even worse than Morgoth, despite the best efforts of Finrod to maintain their gu-their...disguise as Orcs, and impris- taken captive in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. One by one they were... they perished by a werewolf's hand until only Beren and Finrod remained."

Bilbo is captivated, and leans tentatively against the arm of Thranduil's chair.

"When she was following Beren, Lúthien was captured and brought to Nargothrond by Celegorm and Curufin. Helped by Celegorm's hound Huan, she was able to escape. With his help she found the fortress where Huan defeated the wolves of the Enemy. Then Lúthien forced the Enemy to give the tower to her. She freed the prisoners, among them Beren, while the Enemy took the form of a vampire and fled.

Beren wanted to try his task once more alone, but Lúthien insisted on coming with him. Through magic they took the shapes of the bat Thuringwethil and the wolf Draugluin that Huan had killed. They were able to enter the enemy's land unseen and came to Angband and before Morgoth's throne. There Lúthien sang a magical song which made the Dark Lord and his court fall asleep, then Beren cut a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown. As he tried to cut out the others, his knife broke, so he could not cut out the other ones. Eagles helped Beren and Lúthien escape before they could be harmed."

Thranduil wisely chooses not to mention that Beren's hand was bitten off by the werewolf guarding the escape, and for that, Thorin is grateful. He also leaves out certain scary or gory details, and the fact that the Elvenking had the kindness of mind to leave these out is not lost on the King Under the Mountain.

"Beren and Lúthien returned to Thingol with tales of their deeds and the Simaril. He accepted the marriage of his daughter and the mortal Man. They lived many years together happy, but Beren died."

Bilbo blinks up at him and gently clambers into Thranduil's lap- the Elvenking doesn't push him off, repulsed, like Thorin predicted. Instead he shifts to allow Bilbo to settle there more comfortably, and once he's sure the young hobbit is content, continues in a voice soft and melodic.

"Grieving for Beren, Lúthien also died, and came to the halls of Mandos. There she sang of her life and her sadness of the fact she would never see Beren again- mortal Men go to a different afterlife than Elves. Mandos was moved by her tale and restored Beren and Lúthien to life and granted mortality to the Elf so they may be together. Lúthien left her home and went to Ossiriand with Beren, and there they lived for the rest of their lives, both eventually dying the death of mortal Men."

"That's sad," Bilbo says, and Thranduil blinks.

"Why do you think so? They end up together."

"But they're dead," Bilbo says quietly, and Thranduil sighs.

"Death is not so great and terrible, Peredhil. It is soft and quiet, and when you are an old and great Halfling, you shall walk willingly into its arms," he explains softly, and Thorin cannot help but wonder how many the Elvenking has lost.

Bilbo seems pensive. "But...I don't want to die," he says and it isn't fearful, just plain.

"And you shall not, for you have many great friends who will protect you."

"Like you?" Bilbo asks, and there's a hope in his voice. Thranduil's face remains cool, but Thorin leans forward. Will Thranduil say yes? Agree? Disagree cruelly and maybe spit his innocence back into his face?

Thorin almost doesn't want to let Thranduil speak. He would keep Bilbo happy even if it meant sabotaging the tentative peace he and Thranduil have.

"And I," Thranduil concedes, and Thorin's heart flies in nothing short of relief.

Bilbo seems satisfied and throws himself off of Thranduil's lap, tripping and nearly landing on his hands and face. Thranduil's hand- just in time- wraps around Bilbo's small midsection (and covers his chest and the upper part of his legs) and pulls him back up.

But when Bilbo turns around and beams toothily at Thranduil, Thorin can't help his smirk. That fall was completely purposeful, the devious little hobbit.

He toddles (because that's what Bilbo Baggins does- he toddles) over to Bard and bows, and says something along the lines of "nice to meet you Mister!" before he makes his way back to Thorin's arms and settles there comfortably.

"Now mizimith," Thorin says, "who doesn't know you've gone missing and is currently throwing a fit looking for you?"

"Mister Dori," he says, and if he sounds proud Thorin imagines he should scold the young hobbit for it, but can't find it in him. He settles on just rebuking him for sneaking away.

"Bilbo, you know that you aren't supposed to do this," he says and sounds stern and unkind even to his own ears, aware that his expression has darkened. He has never hated himself more when he sees Bilbo shrink. "They get worried."

"I had a bad dream," Bilbo says quietly, and surreptitiously wipes at his eyes again. "I-I...You said you'd protect me."

Thorin sighs because yes, he did say that, but he hadn't meant for it to fuel secret escapes. "I am not rebuking you for seeking me out when frightened," he reprimands firmly. "Rather I'm disappointed that you were foolish enough to wander off alone and without informing your protector where you are going. It is dangerous out here still, Bilbo Baggins, and you are certainly more clever than this. I am disappointed indeed."

Bilbo's head can't possibly get any lower.

Satisfied now that he has- temporarily- instilled this lesson, he helps dash away the tears leaking from the corners of Bilbo's eyes and deliberately makes his voice softer. "Now would you like to speak with me about your nightmare, melekûnith?"

Bilbo frantically shakes his head, but Thorin knows the nature of nightmares and how horrifying they can become if left to fester. "Come now. I'm sure talking about it would certainly make you feel more at peace, and I am right here."

Bilbo swallows, peering around. Thorin startlingly realizes that Thranduil and Bard are some ten feet away, talking in quiet tones to give them some privacy. He feels an uncontrollable swell of gratitude that makes him slightly sick because it's towards an Elf.

"I only know it was scary, and that...it involved you. But you weren't scary," Bilbo is quick to reassure when he spots the look on Thorin's face. "And I…" He tucks his face into Thorin's neck and simply breathes. "I'm done."

Bilbo grows heavier in his arms as he sags against the dwarf, and Thorin becomes keenly aware of the time, and that it's past the hour when they put Bilbo down for a nap.

So he takes his leave through a head nod to Bard (who returns it with a certain sparkle in his eyes that hadn't been there before) and weaves his way through the maze of tents, the little Hobbit tucked into his jacket against the chill of winter, and he spots the very frantic Dori, Bombur, and Nori.

"There he is!" Nori shouts, and they all drop what they're searching in or under or around to run to Thorin, who hands a very drowsy little faunt over to Bombur. Bilbo settles down almost immediately against the bigger dwarf's shoulder (after all, Bombur is very cushion-y and comfortable) and Dori almost looks like he wants to wake Bilbo up and scold him all the way back to the Shire, but won't. He simply stands there, his face red and his fists balled, before he turns to Thorin.

"Where'd you find him?" He says through gritted teeth, and Thorin is suddenly very sure he never, ever wants to get on Dori's bad side.

"After you- assumedly- settled him down for a nap he must have had a nightmare," Thorin explains. "And he sought me out. I vowed I would protect him, you see."

"I did put him down for a nap, yes," Dori says, wringing his hands. "And then I swear I was only gone a moment to check on the Princes next door, and when I returned he'd slipped away!" Then he hung his head. "It's all my fault and I'll accept any punishment you deem suiting."

"Dori," Thorin says, "Bilbo knows better than to sneak away like he did, and you were only gone a moment. Your leave was for honorable reasons, but it truly only takes half that time for a child to be taken or kidnapped or to slip away and carted off. You understand?"

Dori nods solemnly and vows, "it won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," Thorin returns with slight bite (because lessons must be hard learned in order to be learned at all). "I expect better from you."

Dori gives a respectful bow and backs off, and Bombur sweeps Bilbo off to a nearby tent, perhaps, and Nori gives Thorin a considering look.

"Little bastard's more a sneak now than ever he was," he says, and it makes something in Thorin both ache and lift at the same time. "This little mini version would have been useful against the great scaly slug, too."

But the picture of little Bilbo running from Smaug's fire is too much for Thorin to bear, so he merely shakes his head. Nori seems to know he's crossed a line, too, and falls stiff and silent, then shrugs. "He's a good little thing, if not slightly mischievous. I think that's my favorite part, though."

And then he's gone.

And, despite all the things the mischief razes, Thorin can't help but agree.

...

"Mister Bofur," Bilbo asks one day when he's sitting next to the dwarrow, who stops whatever he's doing to turn his full attention to Bilbo. Bilbo bites his lip. "Why can't you move your hand no more?"

Bofur glances down at his immobilized hand and sighs, coming to crouch in front of the little hobbit and mindful of his swinging feet. "Ah, Bilbo," he says. "I was defendin' my King, ye see...and someone bad thought it'd be a good joke to whack me in the hand. The joke went wrong, ye see, and he ended up breakin' some of my bones. These bones were very special, and couldn't be fixed enough to work right again fer me."

Bilbo is saddened by this and wonders if it has to do with what he thinks it might and so says softly, "I'm sorry someone bad did that. Someone bad took Tilda's mama too, and someone bad makes me scared sometimes. But I don't know why."

Bofur sighs, something deep and full of something that Bilbo can't possibly understand before he shifts his hat on his head with his good arm. War, Bilbo thinks to himself, though it doesn't yet make sense. "The world's full of good and bad, Bilbo. Sometimes ye gotta look harder for the good then the bad, and sometimes it's the other way 'round. But I don't regret losing the use of my arm for a second, and ye know why?"

Bilbo shakes his head, and Bofur runs his good hand through his curls.

"Because I was fightin' fer something I believe in," he says. "And that? That's worth it all. And," he adds, a twinkle appearing in his eye, "it gave us you."

Bilbo wonders if it's greed that makes him swell so happy inside, even though he doesn't know where he thought of that word.

...

Bilbo comes running up to him one day after negotiations, giggling madly, and Thorin isn't sure if he's pleased that the little hobbit is laughing or scared because the little hobbit is laughing. It's cold and breezy, snowflakes tumbling from the sky to cling at Bilbo's eyelashes, his cheeks flushed.

"Come on, Mister Thorin!" He exclaims as he takes Thorin's bare hand in his tiny gloved one, little curls poking out from under his hat. "Come on!"

"Where are we going?" Thorin asks, amused, a wry twist to his lips, and Bilbo simply beams at him, turning to look over his shoulder and up at the tall dwarf. "What's going on?"

Bilbo suddenly stops his tugging, looking bashful. He blushes further and stares at the snow covered ground, and Thorin leans down slightly to see Bilbo's face better, but it's directed downwards enough that it just escapes Thorin's eyesight.

He looks up through his eyelashes, eyes green and bright, and says hesitantly, "do you...Do you wanna build a snowman?"

And Thorin's heart grows a little bit right then. "I would be honored to build a snowman with you," he says, and Bilbo grins at him something full of sunshine.

So they begin, rolling up their base until it's taller and wider than Bilbo and Thorin has to do most of the work, only putting on the second tier to the snowman so that Bilbo could reach up with Thorin's help to decorate it. They giggle and laugh and fool around and throw snow at each other, and Thorin finds himself desperately wishing he could somehow save the moment forever.

Thorin isn't willing to have Bilbo take off his own clothing to decorate his snowman, so he snags a few articles from a young man walking by with extra, aware that they don't have much to spare but unwilling to allow Bilbo's snowman to go bare. Bilbo's eyes are twinkling and Thorin's heart is warm, and there's nothing else in the world he would rather be doing if this keeps the smile on Bilbo Baggins' face.

...

Balin is very grandfatherly. Bilbo thinks that's a good word.

He's very good with words like that, Balin. He knows what to say and how to say it and when, and Bilbo thinks that maybe if he isn't so eager to be an adventurer that he'd be interested in that sort of thing when he grows up. But then he remembers that he'll never grow up, and grins to himself because out of all the dwarves, not many can claim to be invincible.

When he tells Balin this, the dwarf laughs. "You're going to go down in history, laddie," he says fondly. "Mark the words of a wise dwarf."

And Bilbo smiles.

...

It takes a couple more weeks for the mountain to fully be cleared of debris and made habitable- they are down many Dwarves, Men and even Elven workers, many dead or injured and unable to do manual labor. Those who are clearing out the Mountain will be rewarded, Thorin promises to himself, and that is that.

It takes a full three days before all the injured are navigated inside, and though the Company helps, they've already been assigned quarters. They're a little (extremely) dusty and everything needs a good cleaning, but Smaug seemed to have remained mainly in the treasury, because all of the living areas, the dining halls, and most of the bedrooms are in tact. They have to borrow a lot of furniture from the elves, though, because most of their wood and supplies and generally useful things have worn down to nothing, but it's not as bad as Thorin suspected.

Thorin's Company is promptly settled in the Royal Wing despite many of their protests, and Thorin refuses to have them moved.

Food has not been scarce, either, despite the harsh temperature and conditions. Thranduil has been supplying them a steady amount to sustain them until spring, when they can grow their own crops and focus more on the 'living' aspect of Erebor. Right now, it's more a tomb than anything, and Thorin feels it.

He wonders if that was how Bilbo felt at first, trapped down here with a slumbering dragon and just piles and piles of gold for company, believing he'd never feel the sun kiss his skin again or set eyes on his beautiful homeland-

(but he stops that thought right there, because if he goes on he's sure to drown in his guilt, so he swallows the lump in his throat and instead tries to concentrate on the trading documents before him, Thranduil saying something across the table from him and Dáin arguing back but he truly only wishes to see honey colored curls and a bright smile-)

"What say you, cousin?" Dáin says heatedly, and Thorin snaps back from where he his thoughts had been drifting. Thranduil scowls.

"We were discussing the threat of goblins from the North," Thranduil says with something akin to a sneer, and Thorin has to force down the words rising in his throat. He desperately wishes he could tell Thranduil that he can go and-

"I say that we send a group of elves and dwarves," he says, because both races desperately need to be represented to remain peace. "Scouts. Warriors. A small group perhaps, so we may see what the threat is before we act."

Thranduil cants his head, icy eyes narrowing. Perhaps he hadn't considered this. "I will send Elves," he declares after a few moments, gaze flickering to Bard. "Your people are too weary and few yet to venture out, and the elves will be faster without. As for the dwarves, they will be heard approaching from leagues away. No, Elves will go alone."

For once, Thorin agrees, if only to retain the fragile agreement they've reached, and nods his head.

"Where is your Halfling? I much desire to speak with him."

The abrupt change of subject sends him off course a moment, but Thorin manages, "in the Mountain, being cared for by the rest of the Company." Suspicion comes all too easily however, and Thorin almost relishes in it, how familiar it is. "Why?"

Thranduil's face doesn't move, but Thorin reckons he'd have done something decidedly un-Elf like- perhaps sniff in disdain- if he'd let himself be seen as anything other than a god at that moment. As it is, he only turns away.

"So when will the group set out?" Bard asks, and Thorin turns to Thranduil again.

"As soon as they are able," Thranduil responds, and Dáin claps his hands.

"Wonderful! Isn't that nice- if we're all done here, then-"

And as they all stand and awkwardly make their ways away from the giant table in the Grand Hall, Thorin can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.

...

He's wrong.

When he searches out Bifur and Glóin, Bilbo's current babysitters, he finds them nursing a very miserable, very sick little hobbit.

"What happened?" He demands when he enters, and Bilbo mewls. Glóin and Bifur glare at him, and Glóin sighs.

"And just when we'd gotten him to sleep," he mutters darkly as Bilbo begins to cry, big tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "There there now," Glóin tries to comfort and draws the covers up further to Bilbo's neck. Bilbo's teeth chatter.

"I wa-" he tries, but then his eyes catch Thorin and he ends up just pitifully moaning "Thorin!"

Thorin is at his side in a flash, gently smoothing back wayward curls that are trying to get into Bilbo's eyes. "I'm here, mizimith," he assures softly. "I said I would be."
Bilbo can only moan again before falls silent, shivering and looking very miserable. When he looks up, it's with fever lit eyes. "I wa-" he swallows. "I want Mama."

Thorin's guilt rears it's head, and he can only smooth down the covers and brush Bilbo's hair away from his face again. "I'm sorry, melekȗnith," he answers quietly. "I can't get your mama."

Bilbo sniffles. His eyes fill with tears and two gently streak down both cheeks. "I don't wanna be on 'ventures anymore," he whimpers. "Please. I wan' go home."

There's a lump in his throat when Thorin pulls his little hobbit close. "I know you do, but you can't right now. I'm sorry." Bilbo had never talked about his parents on the quest, and Thorin had always assumed they had died. Even if they hadn't, giving a de-aged Bilbo to his elderly parents wasn't the right course of action. (For one, he belongs here, amongst his real family, who will certainly treasure him like-)

"Why not?" His green orbs are filled with something- earnestness, maybe, and it makes Thorin's heart clench.

"Because…" Thorin looks to Bifur or Glóin for help, hoping one of them will cut in and distract little Bilbo for him.

"Because you're our family now," Glóin says, and Thorin is slightly ashamed he is so grateful for the interruption. "You're an honorary dwarf of the Company, lad. There's nothing we wouldn't do for you."

Bilbo's tears run dry, and he sniffles. "Wha' you mean?"

Glóin smiles at his success and continues, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Well, lad," he says, "I know my wee lad Gimli enjoys a good story. Would you like a story?" Glóin must know full well that Bilbo loves stories of all kinds, and Thorin can't help the small, fleeting and fond smile that crosses his face when Bilbo nods enthusiastically, but breaks down into coughs.

Bifur signs in Inglishmek: Óin is on the way.

Thorin nods and sits back against the headboard with a sigh, Bilbo's head on his chest. The curly haired little faunt is quiet for the duration of a story in which a small, courageous little hobbit saves the Company of the King from a war, only letting out a small whimper here or there.

The story is watered down for Bilbo's benefit, and Glóin avoids the whole war altogether. Instead the small hobbit saves the day by giving up his happiness, earning it back when the King understands why Bilbo had to sneak away behind their backs (Glóin makes no mention of the Arkenstone, Thorin can't help but notice) and forgives him, and they have parties about the avoidance for days.

Bilbo blanches, looking very pale as he lays against Thorin, and begins to cry again, harder this time. "What are the tears about, lad?" Glóin asks gently. He signs at Thorin: He's been very emotional today. Scared.

"I- I-" Bilbo sniffles, and there are more tears. "I'm scared. I don't know- hic- why but I- hic- am."

Thorin can't help but notice how Bilbo inches away from him a little in favor of going closer to Glóin, but doesn't find himself offended. He just wants the little faunt to feel reassured, and maybe being near Thorin won't give that to him right now.

(Not after everything Thorin has put the poor creature through- all the hurt and the heartbreak and the fright- not after proclaiming him a traitor and nearly killing him- and certainly not for deceiving him into thinking that Thorin had not cared.)

Glóin takes him and bundles him up close, and Bilbo coughs so hard he nearly brings up a lung. "I didn't mean to," he whimpers, and more tears leak from his eyes.

"We don't blame you," Glóin reassures and smooths down Bilbo's hair. "There there, it's alright...it's not your fault...Shh...that's alright…"

Bilbo whimpers again and only buries his face into Glóin's beard, and doesn't speak.

Óin shows up and is all gentle touches and soft words, and something deep in Thorin's heart flares in agony, and he forces himself from the room, the echoes of Bilbo's soft cries in his ears.

...

Bilbo feels stuck in the Mountain. He feels like he's being crushed under all the rock.

He wishes he could fly.

...

Bilbo's recovery is slow- he's cough-y and cold and Erebor's freezing halls don't help on exposed hobbit feet, and chilly breezes that shouldn't exist in the first place make him shiver. He's sluggish and feverish and frightened, calling desperately for his mama sometimes, even his papa, but the Company can tell that it's a maternal caress that Bilbo so earnestly wishes for. They mourn the fact that they can offer him none, not even a parody of one since they don't know quite how, and they only do all they can as they brush back curls and try to soothe aches.

The construction of Erebor is going well- the elves, dwarves, and men make surprisingly quick work of the collapsed arches and entries, building new furniture and cleaning as much dust out as they can. The wind whips when they go outside and the sky seems perpetually dark, but Erebor grows warm with the fire and cozy with inhabitants, and as soon as the weather lets up the dwarves from the Blue Mountains will be arriving to reside in the lower villages, which are also mainly untouched. Smaug's fire had, apparently, on sought the people when they'd fled.

But Bilbo does recover, his tantrums ending and giving way to smiles full of sunshine, general silliness, and hilarious antics that have Thorin chuckling when he thinks of them. Fíli and Kíli get back on their feet and, between the three of them, Erebor is livelier (and more filled with pranks) than ever it has been.

(Thorin reckons that they could have even given he and Frerin a run for their money, and they were successful prankers in their day (to the point where Thorin's mother had to tie bells about their necks so the cooks in the kitchens would know when he and his brother were trying to steal treats again.))

But Bilbo is a carefree little hobbit again, giggling and exploring and generally being a troublemaker, giving poor Ori and Bombur, Nori and Glóin, and Bifur and Dori a run for their money whenever they babysit. (He cooperates for Óin though, because even though the elderly dwarf is grouchy he teaches Bilbo things, and if there's one thing they've learned little Bilbo loves to do it's learn.)

Bath time is always with Thorin, since they've gotten the plumbing within Erebor functioning again, and it really is a craftsmanship all its own. The water is clean and clear and warm, and there's even a dial to regulate the temperature if it's not hot enough or too hot. The "ginormous tub of fun" is what Bilbo calls the huge, almost swimming pool like bath in Thorin's chambers, and he enjoys splashing around in that.

(He also likes splashing Thorin, the King realizes after the third attempt at keeping himself dry during bath time, and resolves to wear something loose and easy to wash next time. (It turns out to be a good idea.))

"You, Bilbo Baggins, are going to make a fish of yourself!" Thorin claims as he tries to make a grab for the slippery hobbit, who crows in laughter and splashes more water into Thorin's face. Despite it's soapiness it luckily doesn't burn his eyes, and he laughs as he splashes Bilbo back, making a watery mess of the floor.

"Better a fish than- than-" But Bilbo can't come up with a suitable comeback and instead settles for splashing Thorin more, who laughs and laughs until he's red in the face, and picks him up and dries him off and tells him that he's something special.

Bilbo doesn't really know what this means, so he just shrugs and agrees.

A couple months pass in relative peace, the elven scouts returning with little threat to them of the goblins- the stragglers they did manage to track down from the battle were swiftly dealt with. It makes something in Thorin relax slightly- just knowing that attacks on the Mountain are unlikely, especially after such a huge battle with so many casualties, is reassuring.

Bilbo loves to hear stories, the Company learns, and they take turns regaling him with Dwarvish legends and far away lands, versions of their own adventures. The main character always seems to be a courageous little hobbit who captured the hearts of everyone, and Bilbo falls asleep every night with a content little smile on his face, like he knows that the hobbit they speak of was once him.

Is him still. Just slightly different.

Spring rolls around soon enough, the weather growing warm enough to leave Erebor's doors and certain terrace doors undone to air it out. It smells suspiciously of dragon, has since they've moved back in, and Thorin can't wait until that stench is finally gone forever.

Bilbo is overjoyed with the turn of the weather. He takes Ori and Kíli and Fíli and anyone else who wants play outside and enjoys rolling around in the scarce grass outside. Thorin even think he overhears Bilbo gently teaching some Dwarves to farm and plant seeds.

"No no, Mister, like this- you gotta pat, not slam- you gotta make the seed feel safe, it's not about getting dee- well yeah, it is, but-"

"No Mister, try it like this- don't stab the ground, scoop- no, no don't rip! Just- just gently try an-"

"Instead of dumping all that water on one, try trickling it on a bunch. It might work out better."

It's like watching a flower bloom, and it's beautiful.

Sometimes Thorin listens in to Bilbo and Thranduil's conversations together. They chat about different things- Thranduil seems strangely interested in the life of a fauntling, and Bilbo's questions are insatiable. Thorin keeps a few prize ones clutched close to his heart.

"But Mister Elf, why are you all glow-y?"

"My name is King Thranduil, Peredhil, and it is the light of the stars that encase us."

"I get that, Mister Elf- and Thran...is too hard to say. But why can you all move in slow motion?"

"It's not slow motion so much as it is gracefulness. You should try it sometime. It can be useful."

"Nah, seems boring. Falling hurts but it's fun- you get that split second in midair. Have you ever had that?"

"Sounds very much to me like when Elves move in battle."

"Eh, I'm too small."

"Falling in love, then."

"Ew! No. I don't wan' fall in love. Girls are icky. And mean."

"Are they?"

"Mmhmmm. The other day Gilly pushed Fatty into the stream and then threw mud on him and chaseded him up a tree and he couldn't get down on his own so Auntie Amara had to come and get him down, even though she dragged Gilly away by her ear."

"Chased, child."

"Okie dokie."

It's strange to hear this exchange- it makes Thranduil less ethereal and more mortal. It humbles him in Thorin's eyes in a good sort of way, and he finds that Thranduil must notice this change, because whenever he is caught staring at the Elvenking (usually trying to gauge why Thranduil is possibly being so kind to Bilbo) the Elvenking simply stares back with that cold and distant sort of look in his eyes. They're no longer icy, is all that Thorin notices.

Bard the Bowman and his children adore Bilbo. Bard practically beams whenever he sees the young hobbit, and Thorin thinks that it makes him look years younger, and that if Bard smiled like that more often the world would be better for it. His youngest daughter Tilda and Bilbo often find something in common and become very fast friends, and they love to explore and pick flowers and generally frolic together, sharing their secret worlds.

And it's simply beautiful.

Thorin didn't think he could love something quite so much. He loves his nephews and his sister with all his heart, surely, but this...this is different. He carries a different sort of love in his heart- Fíli and Kíli were never his, truly. He had been a father figure to them as much as he'd allowed himself, but they already had a father, and he was with the Maker. That didn't lessen their love for him, or for Thorin, but their relationship was made different. But Thorin had quickly become aware that he was completely responsible for Bilbo, responsible to raise him up right to be a good, loyal person, and sometimes this is crushing. But when Bilbo takes his face in both tiny hands and kisses him on the cheek and smiles that smile full of sunshine at him, it's hard for Thorin to feel as if Bilbo is a burden.

Because...he wasn't.

Gandalf left in the middle of winter after seeing them into Erebor itself, but returns with enough frequency that Bilbo still recognizes the old wizard. Gandalf is always all too happy to comply to Bilbo's pleas for fireworks and pretty lights, and smoke rings that turn themselves into spectacular figures- sailboats and horses and warriors.

Thorin knows Bilbo had them all wrapped around his little finger.

And he can't care less.

Thorin tries his best to think of the good things, and tries not to miss the old Bilbo too terribly.

(He knows he has no real right. Not after everything he's done.)

(All he can hope is that the new Bilbo is happier somehow, even though Thorin is sure that somewhere, deep down, he mourns the loss of his old self, too.)

...

Thranduil is funny.

He's elegant and elf-y and strange, but Bilbo thinks he's spectacularly weird, and tells him so.

Thranduil laughs and calls him Elf-friend, and Bilbo doesn't know what this means but it sounds important, so Bilbo just says thanks because Papa told him that he should always say thank you.

And Thranduil keeps calling him Elf-friend after that.

(There's that feeling in his stomach, though, that makes it tossy. He feels uncomfortable and squirmy and floppy when he's around the elf and he doesn't know why.)

(This feeling is ever constant around Thorin, too, but Bilbo has learned to ignore it for the most part. After all, it's not Thorin's fault he can't feel the right things.)

...

Bilbo is chattering something at him as they go to his lessons with Dori that morning- something about his cousins in Tookland doing something scandalous- when Bilbo stops mid sentence, his eyes wide. Thorin only notices because of the abrupt silence, so caught up in thought he is.

"Bilbo?" He asks, and Bilbo stares at him with huge, frightened orbs. "Bilbo? What's the matter?"

And Bilbo suddenly squirms, scrambling when Thorin puts him down as he streaks away, a blur in the crowd before Thorin can even blink. "Bilbo!" He bellows, sprinting after, and people seem to have enough sense to move out of the way as their King rushes through them to catch up to the retreating hobbit. His heart is in his throat- what if Bilbo is hurt, what if it's his fault he can't possibly- "Bilbo!" He roars, but the young hobbit doesn't stop. His pace is no match for Thorin's, though, and Thorin quickly catches him and seizes him by the arm, yanking him back to the King's side.

"LET ME GO!" Bilbo shrieks, tears streaming down his face, and Thorin is so shocked that for a minute he doesn't know what to do, just pulls Bilbo closer. Bilbo whimpers, and Thorin is suddenly aware of how painfully tight his grip on Bilbo's arm is.

Horrified with himself, Thorin forces his grip to loosen, instead scooping up a squirming and screaming Bilbo up into his arms. They're attracting attention- attention Thorin knows Bilbo does not need right now- and Bilbo sobs, "I wan- I wan- I wan someone other than you! I want Bofur!"

Thorin blanches because he genuinely has no idea where Bofur is- his hand is permanently immobile, so he can't make toys anymore, and he's not sure how the dwarrow passes his time now. There seems to be a certain amount of luck on his side, because Bombur bursts through the crowd and follows Bilbo's screams and wrenches him from Thorin's arms, and Bilbo simply cries and cries and cries.

Bombur spirits him away, and Thorin is left baffled and staring at his hand in horror, feeling like he's betrayed himself.

...

There's an ugly bruise.

It makes Thorin sick inside.

Bilbo is- timid. He isn't afraid- not frightened like he had been last time. But he eyes Thorin with a certain degree of hesitance, claiming quietly that, "I don't know why, but Thorin makes me scared."

Thorin wishes he could banish the images of their Bilbo dangling by his neck by Thorin's hand, eyes wide and pleading, and the bruises that resulted, like a necklace of blue and green that hung with a dread like gold-

It hurts Thorin deeply, these glances of timid nervousness and hesitance, and the exuberance that Bilbo once greeted him with fades. He stays close to Bofur and Dori and Nori and anyone else other than Thorin, and Thorin tries to pretend that everything is alright. Gandalf makes an appearance, but doesn't really say anything about it- so long as Thorin keeps his distance, the King Under the Mountain figures.

It doesn't help.

But Bilbo still greets him all the same, with the kind of easy forgiveness one can only find in children, but he's still like a doe caught in a hunter's gaze- uneasy. Nervous. Jumpy.

(Thorin wishes, more than anything, that he could undo the damage that has been done.)

...

Thorin scares him.

Bilbo finally gets it.

He does his very best to keep ignoring it, though, because he loves Thorin dearly and doesn't want to be left alone, and feels scared even when Thorin isn't with him. He wonders why and he doesn't understand the rest, but he knows that it's not Thorin's fault, whatever this is. It's his.

Besides.

Thorin promised he'd protect him, after all.

...

Bilbo runs about with Tilda through the blooming flowers they've only just planted and laughs when Bard swings him up onto his shoulders, claiming that "I'm almost as high as the mountain itself!"

It's hard to think that, just four short months ago, it wasn't fauntling Bilbo, it was proud and courageous Master Baggins. Sometimes Thorin's heart aches for his counsel.

Now it just aches for little Bilbo back. Before these emotions began to trickle in.

Even this passes, though, and Bilbo and Thorin become close once again when Bilbo learns to work through the idea that Thorin is scary and keeping the knowledge that Thorin will never hurt him close to his heart, and they become best friends once more.

Bilbo and Tilda are exploring the fields behind Erebor a little ways away (which is finally sprouting some grass amongst the few sparse flowers, which lightens Thorin's heart) and giggling about something.

"But what about attacks? Don't people try to invade your Shire?" Tilda asks as she piles more flowers into her arms.

Bilbo shakes his head and his curls toss. "No," he laughs. "We might not look it, but we can be a fearsome type! My mama certainly is, and all my Took cousins. Well," he amends, "not all my Took cousins. But the interesting ones. And I've heard stories of the Rangers that guard the Shire's borders- they're very good."

"They haven't let in any goblins?" Tilda asks in awe, and Bilbo giggles again, but not at her.

"Goblins haven't invaded since my...my Great- Great- s'more greats that I can't 'member- Bullroarer Took drove 'em out. S'rumored that that's when the game of golf was invented too."

Tilda looks fascinated, sitting down in the field and coaxing Bilbo to sit next to her. "And what about animals? Bears, wolves and things?"

"Nah," Bilbo says easily, grinning. His hair shines in the light. "They keep 'em out. We haven't had wolves in the Shire since- ever!"

"Never?"

"Never ever," Bilbo affirms. Tilda leans back and lies down so she's looking at the sky.

"I'd like to live somewhere so peaceful, I think," she says quietly to herself, absently picking the petals off a flower. "Where there's no death or destruction or greed."

Bilbo lies down next to her and turns his head to look at her. Her hair is all splayed out around her and resembles something of a caramel waterfall, the way it flows out and shimmers. Bilbo finds himself staring at it. "But...It's boring too, I think," he says thoughtfully, and she turns to frown at him.

"Better than here," she tells him, and her hazel eyes are shadowed like storm clouds. "Here there's war and famine and...dragons. And greedy kings and masters, and bad people who...who don't care how their bad hurts others. My Ma was taken by a bad person," she adds in a whisper.

Bilbo doesn't like it when Tilda gets this look on her face, so he scoots over and wraps his arms around her as well he can, being smaller and awkwardly positioned on the ground. She leans her head on his and keeps her gaze glued to the faintly blue sky, and Bilbo doesn't know what to do so he watches the clouds reflected in her eyes.

"I love you, Bilbo," she says softly. "You're my very best friend."

And he doesn't know what to say back because he doesn't understand why she doesn't have her mama anymore or why she's so sad when she mentions it, and things like war and famine and greed go over his head, so he just tightens his grip and says, "I love you too, Tilda."

In the back of his mind, he wonders if this is the same kind of bad that makes him so scared sometimes.

And he wishes more than ever that he knew how to fly.

...

Thorin doesn't get it.

Bilbo keeps shying away from him- Thorin can clearly see the effort that he's trying not to. Gandalf's away again and consulting whoever he goes away to consult and has left them all alone- forsaken them, Thorin can't help but think- but he thinks that that's not Gandalf's fault so much.

(After all, Tharkun isn't the one who Bilbo is afraid of.)

Thorin doesn't get it.

But he keeps trying.

...

"What are you thinking about, mizmith?" Thorin asks him, picking him up and taking him into his arms, and Bilbo fights down the urge to be sick at the terror that floods his heart. Thorin doesn't mean it- Bilbo knows. He knows that it's his fault, whatever these emotions are, and that he needs to control them and that he's wrong, but it doesn't help him.

These pet names confuse him, too. He doesn't understand why everyone calls him 'mizimith' and Fíli calls him 'mim akdâmuthrab' and Kíli calls him 'nadadith'. It's in a language he can't understand, and he finds he's a little more- if not comfortable, familiar- with Glóin's, Óin's, and Bard's "lad" than he is with all these foreign words.

He doesn't know if he should tell the truth- the uneasiness in him grows. Telling Thorin the truth once would have been easy. But now…

"Nothing," he answers, and gives Thorin a sunny grin, but something lurks just below it. Bilbo is still sincerely afraid, even though Thorin's been nothing but gentle with him. (Other than the bruise, but he deserved it for running- he should have kept a tighter lid on his feelings.)

Thorin looks unconvinced, but he relents and instead appears to listen as Bilbo begins to unsteadily rattle off something about Uncle Longo and what he did last summer to the Party Tree, but he wonders if this feeling of being unsafe and dirty and afraid will ever leave him alone.

And he reckons he knows what famine is.

...

Thorin doesn't get it.

But there are a lot of things he doesn't get.

...

His lessons are going well, he thinks, but Dori can be the judge of that really. At the pleased noise he makes, Bilbo thinks Dori agrees.

"Very nicely done, Bilbo," Dori says with a grin. "My, you're a natural at mapping!"

It makes something in him swell. Out of all the dwarves, it's Dori who reminds him most of Mama and Papa, and though he's nothing like them he fusses as if he is. He thinks that, out of all his mish moshed family, that Dori is definitely the most mothering.

The thought warms his heart instead of making his nose wrinkle, because mamas can be overbearing and annoying and make you scrub behind your ears, but they care about you a whole lot.

He doesn't tell the dwarves how much he wants his mama. He's not a baby, and mamas can't come on adventures. He knows that.

So he simply hugs Dori as tight as he can and tries not to think about war or greed or famine, and closes his eyes and tries to imagine he's safe in his mama's arms in the Shire, home and without a care in the world.

...

Thorin doesn't get it.

He notices, of course, that something's going on with Bilbo.

But he doesn't know how to broach the subject, and Bilbo seems less than willing. And Thorin just wants Bilbo to be happy.

So Thorin doesn't.

...

"What's the matter?" Bard asks and crouches down to his level, and all at once Bilbo wants to cry. It's silly, he knows, because only babies and Otho Sackville-Baggins cry, but he can't help it. He misses home and is tired of keeping it from everyone.

In the beginning he was happy- really. He doesn't know what's happened. He feels on edge around Thranduil now too, but he doesn't know why. The sight of Thorin makes his tummy toss. When he looks at the Mountain and walks around its halls, all it really makes him want to do is scream.

He feels like he's being suffocated.

And he doesn't know why.

But Bard is here and Bilbo feels safe with him- he doesn't know why but he does. And Bard is a papa, Tilda's papa, and Tilda's his best friend.

"I can't breathe," he tells Bard, lightly clawing at his own chest and imagining that he had wings so that he could fly high enough to get a breath of fresh air. "I wish I could fly," he murmurs, and Bard chuckles softly.

"I'm sorry, little one," Bard tells him softly and holds him close, and Bilbo shuts his eyes and pretends he feels safe in Bard's arms. "I won't let you fall. I promise."

And Bilbo thinks that the problem is not his fear of falling, it's his lack of fear of flying.

...

He loves Fíli and Kíli dearly.

They remind him of his Took and Brandybuck cousins. They smell like home and laugh like the Brandywine River runs. They prank and tease and smile, and he can sense the Shire in everything they do.

And he's glad they're here with him.

Fíli swings Bilbo up onto his shoulders and Bilbo feels taller than even the tallest person- even Thranduil the Elf, and that's saying a lot. Kíli holds his hand and makes him smile even when he's sad and afraid and something inside him is always sad when he looks at them- not sad because of them, sad for them, though he still doesn't understand why.

He doesn't understand a lot of these strange emotions.

But he knows that he loves them and that they love him, and that makes him happy enough to pretend he's not sad when he sees them, and that's enough.

(It's not enough for him to get over his terror when he looks at Thorin, but he thinks that he's getting better at hiding it, and is proud of himself for doing something right.)

...

Thorin doesn't get it.

But at least he knows he should.

...

Bilbo thinks that Ori is the best story teller.

He spins tales of great deeds and wondrous places and amazing fights, and then can tell great stories of love and sacrifice and friendship. And he doesn't mind it when Bilbo snuggles up all close next to him and sometimes lies on top of him when he's drawing or reading or writing, and that makes Bilbo smile.

But there's something nagging at his mind- something that feels like a memory but isn't quite anything at all, just a little echo of feeling. "Ori?" He asks, and Ori stops what he's reading to look down at him.

"Yes, Bilbo?"

"Where did you put it?"

Ori is genuinely confused. "Put what?"

"That- that…" But now Bilbo doesn't know what he's talking about, confused himself. Just as quickly as the idea comes, it's gone.

"That's alright," Ori tells him easily, with a smile that makes Bilbo feel instantly better. "Actually, I made this for you." Ori fetches something out of his pack and hands it to Bilbo, who unfolds it with trembling fingers.

It's him. It's a perfect portrait, and it's the most beautiful thing Bilbo has ever seen.

He doesn't know what to say- it's far beyond what an eleven year old baby hobbit has the capacity to express, so he just turns and flings his arms around Ori's neck, breathing in the scent of well loved books and worn leather.

With Ori, he feels safer.

(Safer than he does with Thorin nowadays, anyway.)

The picture doesn't leave his pocket after he receives it.

...

Bilbo is fidgety.

His hand is clenched gently in Thorin's own as they take their daily walk around Erebor- Bilbo needs the fresh air, Óin claims, or else he'll be sick again. Thorin wants more than (almost) anything that Bilbo isn't sick again and so volunteers to take him out, though Bilbo sometimes goes with Dwalin or Balin or Bofur.

Thorin isn't sure what to do. He knows they can't go on like this- it's too much. It's too big. He's just one dwarf- he can't do this alone, and can't have Bilbo constantly afraid of him. But he can't seem to find it in himself to leave Bilbo alone, either.

Love is a double edged sword.

"Bilbo," Thorin begins, and there's a lump in his throat. "If there's anything at all that I can do to make you more...comfortable around me, please, you need only ask."

Bilbo is quiet. His breaths are coming in short bursts through his nose.

"Bilbo?" Thorin asks in concern, and immediately releases the young hobbit's hand.

Bilbo takes off a sprint, and doesn't look back.

Thorin's heart breaks a little more.

...

Dwalin, Bilbo thinks as he streaks through the crowds of dwarves and men and elves standing there. I need Dwalin. Dwalin is tall and big and can protect-

Protect protect protect-

Please help me-

And he knows he's made it when he's scooped up into warm arms and soft beard and the smell of cleaning oil and metal and wood chips, and he can only cry and cry and can't seem to stop because he's so afraid and tired and he just wants to go home-

And Dwalin rocks him because Dwalin knows, somehow, what's going on, and Bilbo cries more because he doesn't want to be wrong it just happens-

And he somehow knows that he'll be forever grounded.

...

Despite all this, Bilbo walks with Thorin again.

And Thorin knows he's selfish, having this happen, but he can't seem to help it. He just doesn't know enough about having to let go, he supposes.

Letting go has never been his strong suit.

And he and Bilbo are taking their walk like always- quieter than Thorin would like, but he figures that it's a miracle Bilbo has even mustered up the courage to walk with him at all.

The strength of hobbits, indeed.

"When is Gandalf going to be back?" Bilbo asks him quietly, and Thorin sighs. He's been wondering the same thing lately. Tharkun just has this way of making things seem- if not better, than less daunting. Maybe it's his seemingly infinite wisdom.

Maybe it's because he had the strength to do what Thorin cannot.

Either way, it makes things easier.

"I don't know," he answers honestly, because he can't lie. Bilbo sighs- something quiet, but something there. It makes Thorin's heart throb for some reason.

It's not a sound meant to be coming out of the mouth of someone so young.

They wander once more in silence, choosing random halls and passageways to meander down, and Thorin wonders if maybe this is peace he's feeling. There's a twinge in his gut that tells him he's wrong, though, despite his hope.

(Thorin can't hope. He doesn't want to.)

(He wishes he couldn't.)

Thorin doesn't realize it, so caught up in thought as he is, but Bilbo gets ahead of him. Thorin can still see him, though, and figures that if this distance makes Bilbo feel reassured, then there's no problem with him being some six or seven feet away. Thorin could quickly reach him if he so needed.

If it all hadn't gone so wrong- Bilbo, to Thorin's knowledge, hadn't remembered anything, only experiencing these dark emotions of fear and anxiety. Thorin can see it as it barely comes over his face- when he's sitting with Thranduil, primarily, and obviously when he's around Thorin too long, but there are also these little confused and frustrated looks, too- like Bilbo's trying to remember but can't.

Thorin sincerely hopes he can never.

Bilbo, ahead of him, fiddles with something in his pocket- Ori's drawing. He takes it out and unfolds it, gazing at it for a long moment before carefully smoothing it out and re-folding it before putting it back in his pocket.

The action is so familiar and automatic that suddenly Thorin is stricken by a wave of sadness that he can't explain.

He knows Bilbo wishes- well. Wishes for things. Wishes he could go home, for one. He catches the tiny glimpses of loneliness that come over Bilbo's face and thinks that as soon as he can, he'll take Bilbo back to his beloved Shire. Maybe they'll stay there.

Thorin's not sure yet, but he'll figure something out.

His mind strays back to Bilbo in the early days- playing with Benny. Laughing with him. Seeking him out when he was frightened instead of running away. Building that snowman.

That going away is completely Thorin's fault, and he knows it.

Bilbo is still some eight or nine paces ahead.

Thorin pulls himself out of his thoughts long enough to process where they are-

And his blood freezes in his veins.

Bilbo is still walking. He's eleven- twelve- thirteen paces ahead. Too much, Thorin's mind supplies, too far for Thorin to grab him. But he can't move- his feet are frozen to their places on the ground.

They're on the ramparts.

They've wandered onto the partially rebuilt ramparts, still crumbling from age in some places, and Bilbo is fifteen paces ahead.

Too far, Thorin's mind warns again, louder.

Thorin's still paralyzed- he can't think, he can't move, he can't. He can't.

This is where it happened where it all went wrong he'd been avoiding this area for this very reason he can't face himself or what he's done to Bilbo he's a coward and he knows it and Bilbo is seventeen paces ahead-

Stop him, his brain demands, stop him before he hurts himself!

And Thorin is so frightened and frozen and can't, can't move or speak or jump that he simply shouts, "BILBO, GET BACK HERE NOW!"

It's fear driven and full of panic because these ramparts are falling apart, but the yell pulls Bilbo from his own thoughts and makes him careen to the side in his all encompassing terror and Bilbo screams at the top of his lungs and jumps to the side, right into a small structure of bricks, and Thorin's worst nightmare comes true as the bricks give way.

It's almost like watching something in slow motion- there's dread pooling in his chest and water pooling in his eyes and he bounds forward, flies through the air with his arms outstretched but that seventeen paces is too far, but this isn't happening it can't be happening please Mahal please don't do this-

But Thorin isn't fast enough and Bilbo's small, shrieking body disappears over the side, Thorin's hands barely brushing the fabric of his shirt.

Thorin screams and jerks his arm but there's absolutely nothing to grab, and he watches Bilbo's terrified face looking up at him with pleading eyes and screaming lips and frightened tears leaking down his cheeks, air swishing past him and tugging at his hair and clothes and limbs, and he's falling, falling and Thorin wasn't quick enough and oh Mahal please-

There's a sickening crunch as Bilbo's body hits the ground.

And then silence.