Mr Boggins of Bog-End

In a world where Thorin Oakenshield dies in the Battle of the Five Armies, but his young nephews do not, Bilbo opens his door one fine morning and finds Fili and Kili on his doorstep. Presented with two broken, war scarred dwarves, Bilbo is at a loss for what to do. Meanwhile back in Erebor things have gone from bad to worse: King Dain is not all people hoped he would be, a dangerous dwarf hungry for power. But with Thorin killed in battle, the location of the princes unknown and Lady Dis missing, the throne is his. Of course, there are those still loyal to the line of Durin, and they know things cannot be left to continue as they are. They will not give up all that Erebor was and could be, not to a dwarf like Dain and not without a fight. A rebellion is brewing within the mountain, but with Dain's talent of making those he does not like disappear, and with no one to replace him, things are looking bleak.

I do not own the Hobbit.

"Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go

To heal my heart and drown my woe

Rain may fall, and wind may blow

And many miles be still to go

But under a tall tree will I lie

And let the clouds go sailing by"

Adventures, Bilbo Baggins would tell you, were very risky things.

They drew you in, see: enticed you, gave you glimpses of the world and promised you so much more. They were addictive, because no matter how much you saw there was always more out there to be explored. You could see more than most people ever would in a month, yet even one hundred years would not be enough to state the curiosity.

They could change you, for the better or for the worse. Journeys of self discovery, some could be called. You might find yourself more knowledgeable, more daring, more courageous, or more caring by the end of one.

But maybe you would see or hear something you rather wished you hadn't. Learn something you would have been happier not knowing, whether it be about the nature of the world outside your doorstep, something about yourself, or something about someone else. Adventures could be nasty, rotten things - they made you late for tea. Many perils lay out there, whether they be from other less than savoury folk, wild animals, weather, or treacherous terrain. It was a dangerous business, stepping out your front door.

Yet, despite the trials that lay ahead, the adventure called you further, further away from home, away from everything you had ever know. Of course, there was always the unfortunate possibility that you would find something you loved out there. Something you would end up having to leave behind when you finally turned your head to home. Perhaps it would be something that would cause you pain and conflict in your heart, presenting you the dilemma of having to choose between what you had, and what could be. Or perhaps you would gain, and then feel the hurt of loss, have it ripped away from you against your will. Something. Someone. Somewhere. Gone. And he wasn't coming back.

Bilbo Baggins knew all of these pains: indeed, he had found something he came to care for on his adventure. He had lost, lost more than he ever had before. He'd also had his choice of staying, and he hadn't. He'd left them behind.

You couldn't miss what you'd never had, but it seemed the things you acquired unexpectedly by chance, things that you had not realised you wanted and that you had perhaps for only a short amount of time, not near enough to comprehend what had been given to you - those were the things it hurt most to lose. Those things that were often snatched away just as suddenly as they were given to you.

Bilbo certainly hadn't expected thirteen dwarves to waltz into his house one summers evening, he hadn't expected to be pulled out into an adventure. But they had, and he had been, and there was no denying that each and every one of his dwarvish companions had wormed their way deep into his heart. They were his friends, brothers, even.

They went through much together, and by the end he would have rather died than see any of them come to harm. Anything to keep them safe. Anything, even if that meant giving up their trust and care for him. He would have preferred they hate him, despised him, cursed him in anger, than see them dead. So he had betrayed their confidence. He had given Bard the Arkenstone. And it had not been enough.

There had still been a battle. Blood had still been spilt. Bilbo had stood among the lines of men and elves, and all he had been able to think of was finding the company. 'Protect them' the whispered words in the back of his mind, for really they were worth more than anything else to him then, and he knew: he would take any blow meant for them willing. He just prayed they lived, they had come so far, they meant so much...

Yet, for all he would have given, they had been hurt regardless.

He had woken up after being knocked unconscious hours after the end of the battle on the bloodied field, invisible, head throbbing, surrounded by the dead. He remembered running into the fight, but nothing that had occurred after he had dug Sting deep into his first adversary's heart.

He remembered stumbling over bodies, calling out to the figures he saw searching the field in the distance, for some time not realising that they could not see him. He remembered being led to the camp where the injured were being treated, he remembered being told he needed to lie down, that he was hurt himself. Then Oin was there, and Gloin and Nori, drenched in blood. Then Gandalf appeared and told him to follow quickly because Thorin was dying and wanted to speak with him, Thorin was dying and there was nothing he could do about it, it was too late and then Thorin was gone and he wouldn't see the life in his eyes ever ever again-

Oin and Gloin were back, speaking words of comfort that were meant for themselves as much as he, and he was clinging to Nori, not caring that the orc blood covering the dwarf was getting into his hair. Ori and Dori were only a little hurt, they told him when he said he just had to know then and there, and Bifur was okay too. Bombur had gotten away with a knock to the head, and Balin just needed rest, that was all. Dwalin was not so good, but he was strong. Bofur was in a bad way, Nori told him, and Fili and Kili's situation was grim, said Gloin. Oin told him to get some rest, Bilbo had cried.

It had been eight months to the day, and it haunted him. He had stayed there, in Erebor, long enough to see Dwalin walk again, to watch Bofur's strength return though not his smile, long enough to be assured that while they most definitely would not be the picture of health for quite some time, Fili and Kili would pull through, the line of Durin was strong. Then he had left, quite suddenly without so much as a word to anyone. He was not good at goodbyes, and feared that if presented with one the dwarves may ask him to stay, and he did not want to be tempted by such an offer, he belonged in the Shire: he was a Baggins of Bag-End.

When he had gotten home he had proceeded to buy back all of his possessions from sticky fingered others, and had slipped back into everyday life and the community with as much dignity and grace as could be summoned. He was no longer half so respectable as he had been in others eyes: cracked, mad, but most retained a good opinion of him and welcomed him back happily with fond smiles and gifts of food.

He tried not to show them how different he was, how much his journey had changed and affected him. It was hard to fit in, and he knew things would never be the same as they had, for he himself was not the same.

For long weeks he read and gardened and cooked and smoked his pipe, lived his life as he had done for many years, and didn't speak of his adventure. If he had the desire to leave and visit the elves and see mountains he did not take action on it. He was determined to stay put, to be a hobbit and not let himself get hurt like he had been ever again.

It had been a fine morning when it had happened, with clear blue skies and a warming sun - a day so similar to that one when it had all began. Bilbo had been heading outside to read a book of his that he had read many times before, his hand just reaching for the doorknob when the knock had come.

He had opened the door, already cursing whichever relative it was to be that interrupted his plans for a quiet day, but had found himself not met by another hobbit, but by two beings that much taller than himself, and very familiar beings at that. Dwarves, on his doorstep, for the second instance in his life. Any greeting he might have uttered quite left his mind from all the surprise he felt, and he would not be able to deny he stared rather long and hard without a word, rude as it must have been.

He had finally been brought out of his stunned silence by the elder of the two, who dipped his head with much less vigour and enthusiasm than he had on their first meeting, and with much less light in his eyes.

"I do hope we're not imposing, Mr Boggins."

There was not a laugh from any of them.

He raised his head and the younger stepped forward, shoulders slumped as if carrying a weight none so young should have to bare, and for all the world looking impossibly small and vulnerable for someone taller than Bilbo himself.

"May we come in?"

Adventures, Bilbo Baggins would tell you, do not always end well.