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— BOOK ONE : HEAVEN —

With a Whimper

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Primula does not know how long it takes them to reach Rivendell—only that when they do, she is more exhausted than she has been in her life. She has not slept well, since they left the Shire behind—and their days are spent in long hours in the saddle, Halbarad holding her close so as not to let her fall. Paladin's and Esmeralda's safety have been left largely to her—and, as the novelty of being so high up on the horse wore off on them quickly, she had to entertain them as well as she could, for the weeks they spend on the road.

She is not angry about it (grateful, even, because their games tend to distract her from her wandering thoughts), but it is exhausting, and when Halbarad finally announces that they should reach Rivendell late that afternoon, she finds herself sagging in relief. She has heard precious few things about elves, from books she has read and from the Tooks and Brandybucks who have traveled, infrequently, this far east, and she knows them to be kind and generous creatures. Surely, they will take care of two small hobbit children and a tween not yet of age. Hopefully, even, they will help them in traveling home.

When will they be allowed home? Primula isn't sure—doesn't know whether their homes still stand—but she has been thinking, when things are quiet, and she knows she must return there. She needs to know whether her father is alive, and whether the Shire has been overrun by orcs. She is petrified of the answers but she thinks the not knowing must be worse, and she has been working up the courage to ask Halbarad on the morning he announces their imminent arrival.

"How long will we need to stay there?" she asks him after they have been on the road for some time; he has pointed out the place that the land falls away, several miles ahead, and if she squints, she thinks she can make out the landmarks he refers to. But it will be hours more until they arrive—until Halbarad will likely need to leave her in the safety of strange elves—and she tries to swallow down her discomfort at the thought.

Halbarad hums, behind her, and pushes the horse a little faster. "Until the Shire is safe for your return, certainly," he says after a moment, and Primula swallows. "A month, perhaps less—elven steeds can travel even faster than ours, especially their messengers. And I would be surprised if my comrades have not begun to contain the situation already."

"But—the orcs…" she trails off, panic still rising in her gut at the thought of those awful creatures, and Halbarad grips her a little tighter.

"There are only so many of them—and more than enough dwarves and men to subdue them. I swear to you, Primula, your lands will be kept safe."

"But Drogo is dead," she says, trying not to let it choke off into a sob—and the weight of his knife weighs heavily on her hip. Halbarad says nothing, though she thinks she can feel his breath hitch in his belly—and he only drives the horse ever onward.

She dozes, she thinks, because very soon she sees the land drop away before them into a great valley. She cannot yet see what lies at its bottom, but Halbarad seems greatly relieved—and Primula realizes easily that this must be Rivendell.

He guides the horse down a narrow path on the valley wall, and when Primula looks down, just the once, she feels an awful rush of vertigo at how far below the city is. Hobbits were never made for high places, after all (and riding atop a horse has been shock enough for her, who has not once mounted even a pony), and though she thinks she trusts Halbarad to keep her and the children safe, it is still a terrifying prospect, that her feet are so far from the safety of the earth below.

They reach the bottom of the valley quickly and cross into the city proper, where enormously tall creatures stand at attention, weapons held at their sides as they stare at Primula and the others. Their faces are utterly unreadable, and Primula feels discomfort settling in her stomach as Halbarad stops several feet from them, dropping the horse's reins and getting out of the saddle before assisting Primula and the children with the same. "I must speak with Lord Elrond," he says, and his voice is rather breathless. Primula notices this only dimly, staring at the cobblestone beneath her feet, holding Esmeralda's smaller hand in her own as they wait to see what the elves will say.

"What brings you here with such company?" one of them says, though when Primula glances up, she cannot tell which of them has spoken.

"The Shire has been invaded by orcs," Halbarad says, his voice ticking up a notch in impatience. "I would request your aid in helping the hobbits—"

"Who are these?" the same elvish voice asks, and when she looks up again, this time she is able to detect some amount of shock and concern in their features, so high above her own.

"They're children," Halbarad says, leaving Primula to wonder how such creatures could mistake them for anything but. "They would have died had I not brought them with me!"

The elves are silent for a moment longer before one turns swiftly, disappearing up the steps in a matter of moments. The other stands at attention, though Primula can feel his eyes on her, wondering, probing—puzzling out whatever elves might wish to know about her kind. "Are you an elf?" Paladin asks abruptly, and Primula looks over in a bit of alarm as he takes a small step forward.

The elf turns to him, something like surprise blinking across his features though it is gone just as quickly. "I am," he says simply, staring down at Paladin as if not sure what to make of him.

"I'm a hobbit," Paladin says, as if he had asked in return. "My name's Paladin, and this's my sister Esmeralda. An' our cousin Primula," he says, as if as an afterthought, gesturing to the two of them. The elf's eyes flicker to the two of them, appraising, though he says nothing else.

Not long after, though, the second guard returns, an even taller elf hurrying behind him, his face creased in worry. As Primula looks between the three of them, they all appear to be the same age: right around their prime, and they move with a fluidity that she has never seen before. "The Shire has been attacked?" this new elf says, his voice deep and troubled as his gaze sweeps the hobbits before honing in on Halbarad.

"A few hundred orcs at least, and a quarter that many Uruks, according to those on the front lines," Halbarad nods, his jaw clenching as Primula looks up at him. "The dwarves of Ered Luin have already come to help drive them off, and the men of Bree as well—but if you have any relief supplies to offer, they will be accepted gladly. Soldiers, as well, in case…"

In case her home has not been secured, though he does not say this aloud—and the elf's face grows grimmer still. "I will send them out at dawn," he says, and Halbarad lets out a heavy breath beside her. "Would you have us keep the children here?"

"If you can," Halbarad says, a hand falling on Primula's shoulder. "They—they need a safe place to stay, until they can return home."

"You are welcome," the elf says instantly, and though Primula had not allowed herself to think anything else, she finds herself relieved nonetheless. "We have spare quarters for all of you—you can stay for as long as you need." A small but warm smile grows on his face as he looks between the three of them, and Primula finds herself smiling tremulously back. "You said Uruks were there?" the elf says then, turning back to Halbarad, and the man grunts an assent, his grip on Primula's shoulder tightening.

"We've not the slightest idea why they've come so far west," he says, his voice low, "but we've dealt with them as best we can. Erebor's dwarves are mighty warriors, and they've been a great help—when we left, they were confident the threat would be contained."

The elf's frown grows considering, at the mention of the dwarves, but he says nothing—only gesturing for the four of them to follow him up the stairs. "I have someone here who may wish to speak with you," he says to Halbarad, who is walking at a slower pace to allow the hobbits to keep up—and after a moment of apparent confusion, the elf slows to match them. "I am Elrond," he says to Primula as they walk, and she can hear kindness behind his voice—a desire to put her at ease in such a strange place. "These are my lands—I can assure you, no harm will come to you or the little ones while you are here."

"Thank you," she says, hates the way her voice wavers—and realizes, after a moment, that she has forgotten her manners. "I'm Primula Brandybuck," she says, "and these are Paladin and Esmeralda Took, my cousins."

"We are well met," Elrond says kindly, his eyes creasing a bit. "If I'm not terribly mistaken, there is someone here you may wish to meet, as well."

Primula blinks, unsure of who in an elven city she would like to meet—but decides not to question it for now, as the exhaustion of their journey is beginning to set in in earnest. "If you would like to eat, dinner is in an hour," he continues, then turns to Esmeralda as she yawns widely. "Or, if you prefer, we can show you to our guest quarters and bring you food later, after you've rested."

Primula hesitates, not wanting to be rude, but…Paladin looks just as tired as his sister, and even she feels her muscles ache and her eyelids droop. They have been on the road for not quite two weeks, but it has been a hard ride, and she really would like to rest in a bed. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble," she hedges, and Elrond's smile broadens, at that.

"Not at all," he says immediately, and she finds herself smiling back.

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Bilbo knows these dwarves, and so he knows that after a week in Rivendell, each and every one of them is desperate to be on the road again.

Their manners have been—well, not impeccable, but certainly an improvement over the last time. There has been no bathing in the ancient fountains, or furniture repurposed for kindling, or even many foul words directed toward the elves. Those most unhappy with their current lodgings have kept it largely to themselves (likely at Thorin's behest), and anyhow, they are planning to leave early the next morning. Though Bilbo will miss his old home dearly, he knows they must press on toward the mountains before much longer.

Gandalf has been tied up in meetings with Elrond—and, Bilbo suspects, Galadriel—but has insisted they wait for him to finish before they continue on through the mountains; this has relieved some of the Company and irritated more. "He can catch up with us later," Dwalin grumbles at dinner one night, and Glóin mumbles what might be an agreement—but none can argue against the filling food, the restful sleep, and the hospitable hosts they have encountered here. Though Bilbo does not doubt that the older dwarves will cling to their prejudices, he hopes that perhaps some of the younger ones will see and learn.

Dinner this last night is just as crowded as usual, though Elrond comes in rather late (trailing a grey-faced Gandalf behind) and more of the chatter than usual seems to be directed toward the dwarves' table. It's all in Sindarin, of course, but that only heightens the dwarves' paranoia; more than once, Dwalin has glanced to Bilbo with deeply furrowed brows, asking silently what they're saying.

He can't hear full conversations, of course, and the elves closest to them seem to be making an effort not to say anything—so he can catch nothing but scattered words and phrases. He can't deny, however, that the elves seem to be looking toward their table—his half in particular—more often than normal, especially after they have been here a full week. And the words he can pick out—Shire, orcs, hobbits—have his stomach sinking low enough that he knows he needs answers, now.

"I need a word with Gandalf," he says suddenly, not so hungry anymore at the thought of what might have happened to his homeland. Ori and Fíli, nearest him, smile their encouragement as he stands up.

"If they're planning to stop us—" Dori starts, from his brother's side, his scowl deep, but Bilbo waves him off impatiently, the stone in his gut sinking lower.

"I'm sure it's nothing of the sort—I'll tell you what he says."

Gandalf and Elrond are in deep, serious discussion at the high table (Thorin has taken to sitting with his Company during meals except when he needs to speak with either of them, and Bilbo can feel all of the dwarves' sharp eyes on his back as he approaches). Gandalf looks up abruptly when he comes upon them, and his jaw clenches even tighter; Elrond's face falls as well, and Bilbo assumes the worst even before they open their mouths.

"The dwarves won't stand to be here any longer," he says, hoping that perhaps he's misunderstood. "If you're going to try and keep us here—"

"I'm afraid the dwarves may not have much of a say in it," Gandalf says, and Bilbo's stomach sinks. "There is someone here…that I think you may like to meet."

"What do you mean?" he asks sharply. "I'm not stupid, Gandalf, I heard the elves talking—was the Shire attacked?"

Both of them look surprised, at this—and Bilbo realizes faintly that there is no reason for him to speak Sindarin—but he does not have the patience for this now. "Gandalf," he says again, louder, and Elrond sighs.

"As we understand it, the situation is under control," he says, and Bilbo feels like he may be sick—"but yes, there were hostile forces in the Shire."

"A Dúnedain Ranger arrived this morning," Gandalf says, when Bilbo does not reply. "He requested relief and precautionary defenses, and said that the men and dwarves have everything in hand. Your people have nothing further to worry about."

But they have everything to worry about; who would think to attack the Shire now, in these times? No hobbit has done anything appreciable in the outside world in living memory, nor have they attracted any sort of attention from the other races. This never happened, the last time; this was not even a distant concern until they met the Ranger in Bree, that the Shire might be attacked while they are gone.

Everything tilts, for a moment, and Bilbo finds himself grasping at the table before him to stay upright; Gandalf looks toward him in even more concern, but Bilbo, he—why has this happened? He's sure the Shire wasn't untouched in the great War, but—Frodo isn't even alive yet, let alone any of his younger friends, and no hobbit (except him, he realizes) is any sort of danger to the world at large. The Shire has always kept to itself, but now—now—

"The Ranger brought three children with him," Elrond says, his voice gentle but cutting through Bilbo's thoughts easily, and Bilbo looks up through rather blurring eyes. "Two Tooks and a Brandybuck, as they introduced themselves. I don't know if you know them personally, but it might be good for them to see someone of their own race when they are so far from home."

Bilbo finds himself nodding, wondering who these children are (because both families have many) and why they accompanied the Ranger all the way to Rivendell. Gandalf levers himself to his feet, and Elrond's face is creased in sorrow as he stays seated at the high table. Bilbo's wandering gaze finds the dwarves for a fleeting moment, all of whom are staring after him with increasing alarm on their faces, but he can't find anything reassuring to tell them before he leaves. He only looks away, down the dining hall, and tries to keep his knees from collapsing beneath him.

It's only a few moments before Thorin has abandoned the table and fallen into step beside him, worry in his brow as he looks between Bilbo and Gandalf. "What has happened?" he asks urgently, but does not press when neither of them answer.

Bilbo should know where they're going—he lived here for twenty years, after all—but he is blind and deaf to wherever they are walking, and more than once, Thorin has had to correct his path before he walks into a wall or off a bridge. The light is failing, and several elves are busying themselves lighting the lanterns throughout the city—and the darkness about them suddenly feels full of danger, of orcs eager to destroy them all, of—of Uruks, invading the Shire for reasons beyond even the brightest minds of the Age.

Thorin's hand finds his shoulder, briefly, a warm and steadying presence as the silence stretches longer. Thorin, who has ever been averse to unnecessary physical contact; Thorin, who cares for him, here, as a member of his Company.

Thorin, who has seen his own home ravaged and burned and stolen by an evil creature—and he realizes all of a sudden that the dwarven king may understand what is going on even better than he.

They keep the silence, though, until Gandalf stops before a door in what may be the guest quarters; he knocks gently, asking whether he might come in, and a voice that Bilbo thinks is familiar agrees. The wizard pushes the door open slowly, quietly, and gestures for Bilbo to enter before him. Dread growing from the ends of his ears to the tips of his toes, Bilbo steps inside.

A hobbit lass is sitting up on one of the too-large beds, her hair all awry and tied back thoughtlessly—dressed in what must be rarely used clothes for elven children. She looks utterly exhausted, but looks surprised to see Bilbo—and after another moment of blank staring, Bilbo realizes that he recognizes this girl, as well.

Primula Brandybuck—Frodo's long-dead mother—stands from the bed quickly, her eyes widening as she glances to Gandalf and Thorin, stepping into the room behind him. "Uncle Bilbo?" she asks, and her voice is hoarse. "What are you doing here?"

The answer is simple—he's on an adventure; he's helping out some old friends; he's traveling to the east, for a time. But they all choke him, stop in his throat and refuse to emerge, and he only steps forward, crossing the distance quickly and pulling her into a crushing hug.

He's not sure which of them starts crying first, but Primula's hands are balled tightly into the back of his jacket, and he is holding her head reassuringly against his shoulder even as tears fall down his own cheeks. He can't promise that everything is all right—even that everything will be all right, because he knows nothing of the casualties in their homeland or even, perhaps, in their families. But this embrace is something he can provide to her now, and so he will. If it will help her, even a small amount, he will do it gladly.

"There were orcs," she says after several moments, very quietly, and Bilbo hears Thorin swear softly behind him. "They—they attacked the Hall, and…"

She trails off, only gripping at him tighter, and Bilbo threads his fingers into her hair in return. "You're safe now," he says quietly, because this much he can promise her. "And—and Gandalf said everything is under control, in the Shire."

"Drogo is dead," she sobs into his shoulder, "and Da was outside when—"

She chokes off again, her entire body trembling in Bilbo's arms, but Bilbo freezes—because Drogo had traveled from Hobbiton to Brandy Hall to visit Primula, it's true, and Bilbo gave him his mother's prized knife for protection. But such a knife—no matter how elaborately carved or sharp—will do nothing in the hands of an untrained hobbit against the likes of orcs, and—

And if Drogo is dead (he feels his knees weaken at the thought) then Frodo—Frodo—

He thinks something might pass his lips; perhaps it is the name of his nephew, or of his cousin, or an inarticulate sound without meaning, but it does not matter because no one questions it; Gandalf is silent, moving across the room to guide the two of them to the bed before they collapse. "Thorin's kin will defend your people to the death, Miss Brandybuck," he says, and perhaps it is meant as comfort, but Primula only sobs all the louder, turning to lie down on the too-large bed and bury her face in the pillow.

Thorin is yet silent, obviously wary of offering empty platitudes to a child who has watched her home invaded and her friend killed. But he hovers like a watchful guardian, moving closer to the bed, his presence large and quiet and more comforting than Bilbo is expecting. "Elrond said you were traveling with two Tooks?" Bilbo asks carefully after several seconds of silence. "Are they all right?"

Primula hiccoughs but nods, sitting up enough to pull the covers down a bit. A mound that Bilbo had taken as rumples in the sheets turns into children—far too small, too young, and sound asleep, hugging each other tight, as if in comfort. It takes Bilbo a moment to place them, but Primula answers for him: "It's Paladin and Esmeralda. Their—their parents, they were killed by…"

Bilbo swallows, watching their tiny chests rise and fall in measured slumber, trying to reconcile them with the adult hobbits he has long known, in that other life. Paladin is to be Thain, is to father Peregrin, a member of the Fellowship—but now he has not yet finished his first decade of life.

Pippin—and Esmeralda's son, Merry—were ever close friends of Frodo's, but now—now Frodo will never—

The sob escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Gandalf sighs heavily, seating himself on the bed beside them. "We will find out why this has happened," he says gravely, looking between the two of them, looking to the children, deep in slumber. "Orcs do not mobilize in such a way without great cause. And I think you can rest assured that the dwarves and Rangers will not leave your lands undefended."

He trusts Thorin's sister and their armies, of course, to protect the Shire (something he never would have even considered, before this journey); he trusts that the Rangers will put their lives on the line for all of his neighbors and kin. But he does not know why orcs would descend on his homeland at all, why such an attack would come out of nowhere, with no provocation, with no cause—

Thorin has moved to inspect something on the bedside table, a crease in his brow, and Bilbo, in this moment, is so incredibly grateful that Thorin understands enough of the situation to realize exactly how alarming this is. Here is someone with whom he can discuss the situation, to an extent; here is someone who understands that the Shire was never attacked, in that last life, and that neither of them have done anything to provoke such a large change in Middle Earth.

It's something the two of them will have to discuss at a later time, but right now Bilbo needs to be exactly where he is right now: offering comfort to Primula, who is trembling and obviously traumatized though she is doing an admirable job of being brave about it—and Paladin and Esmeralda, whose youth may either help or hinder their recovery. But if their parents were murdered…

"Miss Brandybuck," Thorin says, his voice nothing approaching dangerous or even imperious, but she jumps badly nonetheless, turning to him with wide eyes just as Bilbo does the same. "Is this your knife?"

He points to the end table, where a knife does indeed lie in its sheath, and Bilbo recognizes it instantly—it's his mother's, the knife he gave Drogo. He blinks at it stupidly for a moment, wondering how it could have possibly traveled to Rivendell.

"It's Drogo's," she says, something desperate in her tone as she reaches for the knife, snatching it out of Thorin's reach—though he had made no indication of wishing to touch it. "He—he told me to be safe, and gave me his knife."

Bilbo sees no reason to correct her—does not want her to think he might be asking for it back—and only turns back to Thorin, who has a rather odd expression on his face. "It will serve you well," he says eventually, bowing his head as Primula looks on. "That was smithied by dwarven hands—treat it with care, and it will live to protect your children and grandchildren, as well."

His mother carried a dwarven knife? Even Bilbo didn't know that; he only knew that she had prized it for the intricate ivy curling round the hilt and the sheath, the fact that it was a memorial of her travels, in her younger years, before she married his father. But now, of course, is not the time to question Thorin about it, and it's clear that Primula is rather attached to the knife. He has no qualms about leaving it to her, especially now that he has Sting—but he may ask to borrow it, if only to bring it to one of the dwarves and ask if they might know where it came from.

"Thank you," Primula says to Thorin, a little unsure, and a ghost of a smile appears on his face.

"We have some toymakers among us," he says, nodding to Paladin and Esmeralda, who in their sleep have moved slightly toward Bilbo, grabbing at his pants and shirt with tiny hands. "If you think they would enjoy something to play with, I'm sure neither of them would mind crafting a few things for them."

Primula blinks, glancing to Bilbo, and he realizes suddenly that she still has no idea of who Thorin is. "This is Thorin," he says hastily. "We're—ah, we're traveling together for a while, with several other dwarves. Gandalf wanted to speak with Lord Elrond—that's why we're here."

"Oh," she says, her voice falling a bit. "So you're not staying?"

"We'll be here for a few more days," Thorin says immediately, and Bilbo sees Gandalf turn, appraising, "but—yes, we will need to move on."

Primula swallows back on a sob, grasping for Bilbo's hand, and Thorin looks to him, then. "Master Baggins, I would have a word later, if you are available," he says eventually, and Bilbo blinks, nods.

"I'll—well, I'll come find you in our quarters later."

Thorin stares between the two of them for a moment longer before nodding, bowing slightly again to Primula before letting himself out. Gandalf follows soon after, promising her again that no harm will come to them here.

Bilbo almost wishes his friends had stayed—Thorin, certainly, has experienced such grief as Primula saw and felt in the Shire, that even Bilbo—reeling from the news—cannot understand. And Gandalf—well, he is certainly frustrating, and not always entirely helpful, but Bilbo thinks the little ones would love to be distracted by some small magic tricks, given the opportunity.

But they have left him alone with the children; Primula is not comfortable with their presence. He watches the closed door for a moment before turning back to her, pulling her again into an embrace.

Drogo is dead—Frodo, his beloved nephew whom he would do anything for, is now nothing but a ghost, known only to him. And this is crushing, devastating, one of the worst things he can imagine—but Primula is here, gripping at his shirt and dampening his shoulder again though she's obviously trying to control herself. Frodo is gone but Primula is here and desperate for comfort—and after what has happened, he must do what he can, and grieve later.

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She came to Ered Luin nearly sixty years ago.

Thorin remembers her clearly; after all, how often have hobbits ever left their plush and safe lands to the south? The rumors spread first from the guards at the gate, who let her in after a spirited discussion; then, from the pub. There, she entered, ordered a drink, and asked where she might find a place to sleep for the next several days.

Many dwarves had never seen a hobbit before, but there was nothing else she could have been. She was smaller than even the smallest of adult dwarves, utterly clean-shaven, and did not wear boots, even though the summer was burning hot and the outer city's cobblestone must have been scorching on her soles.

She was taken in by a family with a room to spare for the week that she stayed, because what need would Ered Luin have for an inn? She didn't seem to spend much time there, though, but for the three meals dwarves eat as a family, when they can manage it; she relished mealtime and took to the dwarves' version of it with a hearty enthusiasm. Many noted, though, that when she was out in the streets, admiring the stonework of the underground tunnels or staring up at the sky, she nearly always had a snack in hand.

Thorin was wary when she first arrived (their colony was barely four decades established, and she could have been more than she claimed to be), but even he, by the end, rather grudgingly admitted that she was akin to a small hurricane, full of enthusiasm for life and learning whatever they would give her about their culture. "I've never met a dwarf before," she said every time someone asked. "I just came of age, and eventually I'm probably going to settle down—but I'd like to see a bit more of the world before then."

She found her way into the forge a couple of days after she arrived, and Dwalin had nearly been too surprised to be gruff when he asked her what she could possibly need in such a place. "I'd like to order a knife," she said, smiling charmingly at the two of them and the apprentices on duty (including Fíli, a few years too young, yet, for a true apprenticeship). "I know dwarven craftsmanship is beyond compare, and if nothing else, I'd like something to remember this place by."

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Thorin has created hundreds of knives in his life, but he recognizes his own craftsmanship when he sees it, even decades later—even in lands where he would never expect to see dwarven handiwork. He never saw Belladonna Took after she left Ered Luin for the east, laden down with hearty food and several gifts for her family and a new knife. Though he hasn't fully forgotten about her, she has not so much as entered his mind, after so many decades, after everything that's happened. But that knife—very few dwarves would ever order such embellishments, and seeing it again (even so unexpectedly) reminds him instantly of who commissioned him for it.

He supposes it's not unreasonable that Belladonna is related to this Drogo, who gave Primula the knife (whose death Bilbo seems to be taking particularly hard). But it's still rather a surprise—something that he finds himself lost in in these few moments before he returns to the Company, leaving Bilbo alone with his kin. Primula was small and exhausted and obviously wary of him despite Bilbo's reassurances; the other two—the children—were barely larger than dwarven babes, small and fragile and curled around each other for protection and comfort.

Survivors of an attack on their country—Thorin saw himself, a century and more ago, in Primula's traumatized eyes, and wishes he could do anything at all to take that away. But he knows he cannot—knows that even Bilbo cannot, because her friend has been killed and her family was attacked, and her life has been forever altered.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose and parts with Gandalf at the Company's rooms, letting himself in and bracing himself for the barrage of questions. And it's true—everyone looks up expectantly when he enters, but they must see something on his face, because none of them say anything. Dwalin stands quickly, his face draining of color as he only stares at Thorin's face.

"Thorin?" Kíli asks, breaking the silence. He turns toward his nephews, and their faces are grave in a way he only rarely sees.

"The Shire was attacked," he says, to swears and barely-contained violence against the surrounding furniture. "Three children—Bilbo's kin—came here with a Dúnedain Ranger, who asked Elrond for aid."

"How bad is it?" Bofur asks, his eyes wide, as he twists his hat between his fingers.

"The Ranger said it is likely under control," he says. "Dís mobilized a portion of our army in their defense. However…"

He finds that he doesn't know what else to say, here, and nobody else seems to, either. As he glances among the Company, Thorin sees Ori wiping at his eyes; Glóin holding his face in his hands—Fíli's face is a frightening, chalky white as he sits heavily on the bed.

"Do the children need anything?" Bombur asks suddenly. "If they're—injured, or—"

"They seemed unharmed physically," Thorin reassures them. "The two younger ones, however, likely don't realize what's happened. I will defer to Bilbo and Gandalf on this, but if we can do anything to help them, I would request we do it, to the best of our abilities."

"Of course," Bofur says instantly. "How old are they? I'm sure we could—find some good wood 'round here, carve them up some toys—"

Bifur nods instantly, his eyes lighting up a bit at the thought of making toys. "Barely out of toddlerhood," Thorin says, estimates, because he has no experience in dealing with young hobbits. "The elder, Primula, seems near her majority, but also understands the situation much better."

"Aye," Óin says gravely, his lips pressed thin. "We'll be here several more days, then?"

"If Bilbo wants us to stay," Balin says suddenly, and many in the Company turn to him in surprise. "I would not be surprised, Thorin, if our burglar wishes to return to his home."

He has thought of this—he considered this the moment he realized what had happened. And he would not blame Bilbo for it—not for a moment—but from what they discussed earlier in the week, he doubts it will happen. Bilbo had seemed hell-bent on finishing this quest of his, whatever it may be; he's determined that he's the only one to do it, even, and has told no one else its details.

Bilbo is distraught, but Thorin knows his friend—and he thinks that he will not abandon them now. Even beyond his own quest, he had seemed sincere in his promises to help them retake Erebor and keep Fíli and Kíli alive. Thorin knows Bilbo enough, at the very least, to think that he will continue on. It may not be in a hobbit's nature to exact revenge, but he's sure he would try to honor his friend's memory—to prove to the world that he isn't going to give up.

If Bilbo wishes to return to the Shire, Thorin will respect his decision—but he dearly hopes that it will not be the case.

.

.

Bilbo seeks them out several hours later, when Thorin has long assumed he will spend the night with his kin. His eyes are exhausted and shot through with red, but many of the Company look heartened to see him as he closes the door quietly behind him.

"What can we do, lad?" Balin asks after a few moments, and his desire to help is echoed in the rest of the dwarves' faces as they look to Bilbo.

"I think—your offer of toys is very kind," Bilbo says, blinking before turning to Bofur. "Paladin and Esmeralda are very small; they don't need anything intricate. Just something to play with and occupy their time until they can go home. Gandalf thinks they will be here for a couple of weeks."

"And the elder? Primula?" Balin asks, his face growing a bit grimmer. Bilbo looks away.

"She's very scared, and she misses her family. I don't think any of you will be able to help, unfortunately—but if you can, I'll certainly let you know."

Everyone seems a bit disheartened by this, but Thorin knows that these are Bilbo's relatives—they need to defer to his judgment. "Might I have a word, Bilbo?" he asks after another beat of silence.

Bilbo looks to him, staring for a moment before nodding slowly. He turns and walks silently out the door, and as Thorin looks at his hunched back, it looks as if he's aged decades in the last several hours. He breathes deeply, claps Balin on the shoulder as he stands, and follows Bilbo into the hall.

"We—have been discussing," Thorin says haltingly, not entirely sure of how to approach this but determined to give Bilbo the option nonetheless. "If you wish to stay here with your kin, or return to the Shire, none among us would hold it against you. Do not feel obligated to our quest—every one of us understands losing a home."

Bilbo sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and hugging himself, rocking back on his heels. "It's crossed my mind," he says quietly. "I've got decades before…" he trails off, swallows. "But I promised you my help, and no Baggins ever goes back on his word. After all, there's nothing I can do at home, but if I can help ensure you reclaim Erebor…"

"We can manage," he says immediately, frowning just a bit. "I know the particulars of the quest—likely more than you, if it has been so long. And I refuse to make the same mistakes as the last time."

Bilbo looks up to him, then, weighing his response. "Why was the Shire attacked?" he asks, and something in his voice reminds Thorin a little too much of himself, asking Thrór the same question of their own home. "What could we have changed so much that…?"

He doesn't seem able to finish the thought, but Thorin understands him anyway. With what small things they have done so far, the world has changed so much; what will happen once they survive the battle, once—?

"Drogo was—" Bilbo chokes, here, and wipes quickly at his eyes. "He was my cousin, you see. And—he and Primula had a son, before. Who was very dear to me." He swallows. "I never had any children myself, never really settled down after I returned from Erebor. But Primula and Drogo, they…they died in a boating accident, when Frodo was small. And I took him in as my heir."

Thorin thinks, tries to imagine losing the possibility of Fíli and Kíli ever being born—and finds that the immediate, wrenching horror swooping through his gut is telling enough. "If you want to stay with Primula, none of us will blame you," he says again, stronger this time, but Bilbo shakes his head sharply, suddenly, and looks up, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"If Frodo is dead then I have to—I have to do this. There's truly no one else who can."

His quest—and Thorin bites back a question, again, as to what it entails. Now is not the time, and anyhow, if Frodo was somehow involved in that, the last time, he absolutely understands Bilbo's need to do it now. "We will help you in any way we can," he says, reaching briefly to lay a hand on his shoulder. "All you need to do is ask."

Bilbo exhales heavily, reaching up to wipe at his face, and does not answer. "I should go back," he says. "The little ones woke a while ago—and Primula…"

"Aye," Thorin says immediately, "you should."

Bilbo stares up at him a moment longer before nodding, walking away down the hall with tightly clenched fists and trembling hands.

.

.

The next morning, there's a quiet knock on the Company's door that makes many of them jump in surprise. Most of them slept restlessly, and late into the night Thorin saw Bofur and Bifur up by candlelight, fiddling with tools and bits of wood they scrounged from the elves.

Thorin calls for their visitor to come in, unsure of who it is (Bilbo, after all, would just let himself in). But to his confusion, it is their burglar in the doorway, a nearly sheepish look on his face as he holds two smaller creatures by the hand. He recognizes them after a moment as the hobbit babes he saw sleeping last night—and their eyes are wide as they look around at the dwarves.

Fíli, next to Thorin, has stilled, staring at the two of them with his mouth slightly open. The others seem to have similar reactions; Kíli is staring with a wonder usually reserved for a new bow or the opportunity to travel; even Dwalin has sat up a little straighter, his hands still from where they have been oiling one of his axes. "Um," Bilbo opens with, "When I said I was traveling with dwarves, Paladin insisted he come to meet you. And Esmeralda wasn't about to be left behind."

None of them seem to know how to respond to this immediately—not until Glóin chuckles, deep and throaty, and Paladin's head snaps toward him. "I thought you said all hobbits were wary of outsiders," he says, smiling kindly at the children. "Suppose the babes are less so?"

Paladin draws himself up, puffing out his tiny chest in a way that makes Kíli's face split into an adoring grin. "Da always says Tooks need to be brave! And I've never seen a dwarf before!"

"Well, what do you think?" Glóin asks, a gently teasing grin on his face that reminds Thorin of how he once talked to a younger Gimli. Paladin does a slow scan of the lot of them, considering, before nodding decisively.

"You're really hairy," he says, as if personally affronted, and Fíli bursts into laughter, at that.

"You've got more hair on your feet," he points out, when Paladin turns to him, pouting. "You're not allowed to point fingers!"

Paladin pauses, glancing between Bilbo's feet to the boots covering the dwarves', and seems not to know how to reply to this. "Hey," Bofur says suddenly, and both children turn as he holds something up for them to see. "I don't know what kinda toys the elves have given you, but I reckon me and my cousin could make better ones! You want to test them out?"

Esmeralda's face lights up, and she disentangles her hand from Bilbo's as she hurries forward. Paladin squawks at being left behind, rushing to catch up with her. Thorin watches to make sure the two of them have the children well in hand before turning back to Bilbo, who looks utterly exhausted as he walks further into the room, only to collapse onto Thorin's bed. "Are you all right?" Balin asks, concerned, and he nods, rubbing at his eyes before looking up to him—and Thorin, who steps closer.

"Esmeralda woke up in the middle of the night crying for her parents," he says, quietly, so neither of the children hear. "And I doubt Primula slept much at all. There's…not much I can do for them, I know, but I feel like I should, and…"

He cuts himself off, his voice cracking, and Balin's face falls; he puts a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, but he doesn't look at him, rubbing at his face again, glancing to the children when Esmeralda shrieks over a toy boat. "You're giving them stability," Balin says quietly, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder. "And familiarity—and right now, that's the most important thing for them to have."

"But we're leaving," Bilbo says, and Balin sighs.

"Thorin told me of your decision," he says, and Bilbo's eyes flicker to Thorin briefly. "And don't mistake me, Bilbo, we appreciate it—more than you know—but if you think your cousins need you here…"

Bilbo is silent for several moments, thinking, before his opposite hand comes to rest on Balin's, on his shoulder. "Thank you," he says, "but I think I may be more needed on the road. I'll be home soon enough to help where I can, but I've already promised you my help."

Balin grimaces, looking up to Thorin in something like confusion, but he must shake his head. Bilbo does not want anyone to know of the truth of his quest, and after all, this is his decision to make. "If you're sure," Balin says, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder before letting his hand fall away.

Bilbo smiles, then, and nods to Balin. "I am."

"Uncle Bilbo!" Paladin says suddenly, excited, and Bilbo's smile grows a little wider, turning to his little cousin. "Mister Boofur made you!"

"Boofur" looks particularly pleased with himself as Bilbo glances incredulously to him, but takes the figurine Paladin shoves at him, inspecting it. As Thorin looks as well, he can tell that it is indeed a decent likeness of their burglar—right down to the waistcoat and furry feet. "When did you have time to make this?" he asks Bofur incredulously over Paladin's head, and the dwarf's face splits into a weary grin.

"Don't think either of us got more than two hours' sleep last night, but it's worth it—we've never had the chance to make toys for hobbit babes before!"

"We're not babies," Esmeralda butts in, a little indignant, though she's busy trying to balance three dwarven figures on the boat. "Paladin's almost a tween!"

Thorin is skeptical—he's unsure of what a tween is, but referring to Bilbo's bemused face, he can assume they're a little older than these two. "Primula's a tween. You and Paladin have a ways to go, yet," Bilbo corrects gently, and Esmeralda scowls adorably up at him for a moment before turning back to her toys.

"Bifur here's got another surprise for you two, if you'd like," Bofur says suddenly, and Paladin's eyes light up, snatching the figurine back from Bilbo's hands before returning to his sister. "If you'd like to see?"

"Please?" Paladin says, loudly, and Thorin can see several of the other dwarves looking on in curiosity as Bifur rummages around under a blanket, soon emerging with two stuffed toys—bears, by the looks of them. Thorin's not sure where they found the materials for such things, but Esmeralda's shriek approaches ear-shattering levels as she reaches for the nearer one.

"Don't be rude," Bilbo says to her, as if on reflex, and Esmeralda only looks slightly chastised, straining for the bear before Bifur relents with a huff and sets it gently in her lap. Thorin is a little amazed how instinctive Bilbo seems to be with the children, when he—who helped rear Dís' sons—still feels rather awkward around them. But, he supposes, with large families common in the Shire, Bilbo must have plenty of experience with them—even though he's never sired one himself.

Paladin looks equally excited—though they squabble briefly over who gets which bear, despite the fact that they seem largely equal, they eventually settle down, and Paladin hugs his bear to his chest as Esmeralda continues stacking figurines onto the boat. Soon, Bilbo is dozing on the bed, leaning against Balin's shoulder before he gently redirects him to a pillow; Thorin feels himself relaxing, strangely enough, amid the noise from Bofur's corner. He and Bifur are encouraging Esmeralda's quest to fit all of the figurines onto the boat at the same time, which seems a lost cause, considering the sheer number of hobbits and dwarves they managed to carve in one night. Paladin's attention seems to be wandering (though his grip on the Bilbo figurine and the bear have not loosened), and he's staring around at the rest of the dwarves curiously as they, largely, do the same.

Esmeralda eventually abandons her boat after everything has toppled over a dozen times; she looks around for a moment before her eyes land on Ori, who's working in his little notebook—drawing the children, Thorin would hazard a guess, though he cannot see the sheet from his angle. She wanders over, her eyes bright, and asks him loudly whether he likes to draw.

Ori jumps badly, glancing to a still snoring Bilbo before nodding tentatively to her. "I haven't met very many hobbits before," he explains to her. "I'm drawing you and your brother so I can remember you—if that's all right, of course," he adds hastily.

But Esmeralda's face lights up, and she cranes her neck to look at the page he's working on. "You're really good!" she gasps, reaching for the notebook, and Ori hands it to her carefully.

"Thank you," he says, and his face grows a bit pink; Thorin catches a quick, approving look from Nori as Esmeralda carefully turns the pages of the notebook, looking through it with progressively wider eyes. "That's Uncle Bilbo!" she says suddenly, and when Thorin looks over again, there is indeed an impressive likeness of Bilbo on an earlier page.

"Of course," Ori says instantly. "He's—he's traveling with us, and has been so kind since we left. I thought it was only right that I draw him, too."

Esmeralda makes an approving noise, looking quickly through the rest of the pictures before handing it back to him, though she looks a little wistful. "Do…you like to draw, too?" Ori asks, obviously unsure of where to go from here, and she perks up.

"Mama says I'm really good, too!" she says. "Do you have another pen? Could I draw with you?"

Ori blinks but nods gamely, digging through his pack at his side before emerging with a pen and a stack of loose paper. She looks utterly elated, and sets her bear down carefully beside her before putting the paper on the ground, setting to it with a vengeance.

He glances back over to Bofur and Paladin, who—in these few moments—have somehow recruited Fíli and Kíli to some indecipherable game involving the dozen figurines and Paladin's bear. Fíli and Kíli are lying on their bellies on the floor with Paladin, moving the toys around with a vengeance as Bifur looks on and laughs. As Thorin watches, Paladin throws himself across Fíli's back, knocking the breath from him—but Kíli only laughs harder, and Fíli doesn't seem particularly chagrined about it, himself.

Thorin frowns as he thinks, suddenly, of Primula—but he supposes Bilbo wouldn't have left her alone if he thought she wouldn't be all right. Perhaps that was his plan: get the children distracted and give her a few hours of peace and quiet. It's obvious enough that the Company is more than willing to do this—as Dori leans over to Esmeralda and compliments her near-unintelligible art, as Dwalin wanders toward Paladin and asks whether he'd like a more dangerous dragon to fight than his bear. (How he figured out the point of their game, Thorin will never know.) The children—they're innocent, still, and apparently have no idea of what has happened to their home and kin. But Primula—he worries for her, remembers the dark place many of his relatives fell into, after Erebor's fall—and though he thinks he should not seek her out himself, he wishes that they could do something.

Balin's face is creased in amusement as he watches his brother roar and stomp after a shrieking Paladin, but Thorin can see worry behind his old friend's eyes as well—and as he looks on, Balin hums quietly. "Our burglar is certainly something," he says, his gaze sliding to Bilbo for a moment before he looks up to Thorin. "Has he said anything to you? It's obvious he cares for these children; I'm surprised he's not returning to the Shire."

Thorin hesitates; telling Balin just enough likely won't hurt anything, and may even help, to have someone else at least a little more understanding of what he needs to do. "He hasn't told me any details," he says, and Balin's brows rise, "but it sounds like there's something he needs to do to the east, as well. He swears it won't interfere with our quest," he adds quickly, and Balin looks more skeptical still, "but he seems very intent on completing it. I have promised him our help, should he ever need it."

Balin nods a bit, peering up into Thorin's face for a moment before sighing. "We can spare a few days here," he says, "but soon we will have to leave."

"I know," Thorin says, and glances to Bilbo as he begins to stir. "I have told Gandalf as much—and Master Baggins."

Balin nods again, but says nothing more when Bilbo sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes before glancing between the two of them, jumping a bit as Dwalin roars again. "How long have I been asleep?" he asks, slurring a bit, and Balin smiles gently.

"Perhaps half an hour," he says, reassuring. "Your cousins have been well-occupied—you have nothing to worry about here."

Bilbo looks about, a little bemused, at Paladin now piggy-backing on Fíli—at Esmeralda head-to-head with Ori, comparing drawings. "I suppose so," he says, a relieved little smile on his face. "Thank you—all of you. I was hoping they could be distracted for a while before we have to leave."

Balin's smile grows a bit wider. "Right now, I'm wondering who are truly the children, here."

Bilbo snorts, then glances to the door. "I should check on Primula," he says, a bit more sober. "She wanted to sleep, promised me she'd be all right for a while—but I didn't mean to leave her alone for so long."

"We'll keep Paladin and Esmeralda occupied," Balin promises, and Thorin nods; Bilbo's smile grows a bit warmer, and he nods to them, waving at the others as he stands, quickly leaving the room.