He finds some piece of himself in this land of green, rolling hills and round, wooden doors. It's a shock and it slides into place so easily that it feels wrong at first. So much of his life has been spent trying to smooth rough edges and hide away the things that made him less of a dwarf. He couldn't make his beard grow in thicker or make his nose or ears larger. He was too proficient with a bow to give it up. There were far too many things that didn't fit, that forced their way into holes that were never meant to hold them. He never expected to find somewhere a part of him might not be so out of place.

The inhabitants of this peaceful, little place are strange with their bare faces and round bellies. There are no jewels adorning their homes and the only gold in their clothes is in the form of thread, but still they seem content. They laugh and drink and smoke. They visit with their neighbors over picket fences and chase loose chickens back to their coops. They eye the strangers traversing through their lands with suspicion but they do not stop them. That would take too much effort, and the dwarves seem to pose no immediate threat. Everywhere he looks there are children, gaggles of them. They peer out from round windows and around the trunks of the wide oak trees. They giggle and dance away when he waves. He knows he's not the only one to marvel at their abundance.

This place is wholly strange and wondrous.

It has been many decades since he was their age. Many long years since he laughed with the complete carelessness that youth granted. They were a long-lived race but the burdens of their forebears were laid on them young. Time waits for no one, and it does not care that a child should have his time to grow and learn and play without the cares of the world set heavy on his shoulders. It calls for retribution. It sings out for the reclaiming of a lost home. It will whisper to anyone with the ear to listen.

He was raised in the mountains, grew up surrounded by stone walls and the legacy of a family carved out of the rock beneath their feet. Life was not easy for the exiled line of Durin and though they had found refuge in the west the memory of Erebor lay like a weight on their hearts. It didn't matter that he had never seen it, that he'd never known any home but the one in Ered Luin. It was their inheritance and their burden.

For as long as he can remember he would close his eyes at night and dream of wide open skies, of lands stretching out before his feet. It called to him and he wondered if it was the way his kinsmen described the stone singing beneath their own. He listened intently for that song, and he convinced himself he heard it, but if he ever truly did it was always a distant murmur. No one else had ever had dreams like his and it seemed to unsettle them when he asked. Despite the whispers that he was as slow as he was odd he knew that they didn't ease his way through a world that he should have fit into. His differences made others uncomfortable and it didn't take long for him to stop asking altogether.

But Kíli was not touched like they rumored him to be. He knew they looked at him differently, whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear. But his eyes were sharp and his ears, though small, were keen. There was little that escaped his notice. When his uncle had mentioned his quest to reclaim their ancestral home he knew it was his chance to escape the ideas painted of him. Maybe if he proved himself, maybe if they reclaimed their home and he became a hero they wouldn't think he was so unlike them.

Fíli nudges him out of his thoughts as he bangs his fist against the round, green door.

When it finally opens with a soft creak they're looking upon a hobbit that appears as if he had been interrupted while preparing for sleep. His curls are tousled and he looks put out even before they've bowed and introduced themselves.

"You must be, Mr. Boggins!" Kíli exclaims with delight and their host seems less than impressed.

"It's Baggins," the hobbit corrects, but they're already pushing their way in through the door and the smial is unlike anything Kíli had expected. The craftsmanship is solid; the tooling in the round wooden doorways speaks to a skill one would never expect of the soft people in this green land. There are no precious metal adornments or jewels set among the molding but Kíli can tell it is made with love and care. It is all very different from what he's used to but it's pleasant—warm even.

"It's nice, this place," he says. "Did you do it yourself?"

The hobbit looks up from where Fíli is unloading his weapons into his arms and answers in the negative in the same breath that he protests at Kíli wiping his feet on—"That's my mother's glory box! Can you please not do that?!"

The hobbit is fussy about his things, but it's amusing rather than annoying. He worries over his plates and bowls. He faints at the thought of going out his door, though in all honesty Bofur's bit about the dragon probably didn't help. It's no huge surprise when he refuses to sign the parchment that Thorin thrusts into his hands but if Kíli's honest with himself he's a bit disappointed.

After their host has disappeared down one of the many hallways the company spreads out and begins to bed down for the night. The morning will come too soon along with the start of what promises to be an arduous journey. Despite that and the fact that Fíli and he had been on the road for a week already Kíli wanders the halls, too intrigued to sleep so soon.

Mantles were lined with framed pictures of smiling faces. Two old pipes, lovingly cleaned and well-used sit below a painting of two hobbits who shared many of the same features as Master Baggins. His parents, Kíli muses to himself. In the kitchen the pottery they had thrown about earlier much to the hobbit's chagrin had been polished and neatly replaced; not by them—their host must have done it while they were discussing their journey. He remembers the protest, the shout about it being his mother's.

"What are you doing?"

Thorin is watching him from the doorway and Kíli flushes to have been found out. He feels like a kid again, caught in the forge without permission or sneaking off to the market instead of sitting through Balin's lessons.

"I was just having a look around," he admits.

"You should get your sleep instead of pawing through the halfling's knick-knacks," Thorin admonishes, but his tone is gentle, as gentle as he gets now. When Kíli nods with his eyes still firmly on his feet his uncle pulls him into a hug. "Come, we've an early start and your mother would have my hide if you didn't get some sleep while you can."

He lets himself be guided back to the living room where they had spread their bed rolls in front of the hearth. He wants to ask if they see the same things he does, but he knows from experience that the inquiries will be ill-received. He saw the way his uncle regarded the hobbit as well. He would be a burden, he'd heard Thorin tell Dwalin in muttered Khuzdul. Best he stay here.

Kíli wants to disagree but that will earn him nothing but his uncle's ire.

Look around, he wants to tell them. He is living in memories!

Fíli's already half asleep when Kíli settles in next to him, but he turns over and bumps his forehead against Kíli's shoulder. "Alright?" he asks around a yawn.

"Alright," Kíli assures him even if he can't assure himself.

Still, when they set off the next morning before the sun has fully risen something nags at him.

He doesn't figure it out until the rolling green hills begin to give way to woodlands and a shout catches up to them. The hobbit—Bilbo Baggins—is running towards them, contract in hand.

"This is a surprise," Fíli murmurs to him as Balin reviews the contract and welcomes the newest member of their company with a wink.

"Is it?" Kíli asks, his voice distant. He misses the look his brother gives him.

His thoughts wander back to a cozy hobbit hole, and to a soft creature that should have liked nothing better than to stay there before his warm hearth, surrounded by his heirlooms. Maybe there was more to the little hobbit than the rest of the company seemed to think.

Maybe it wasn't so surprising after all.

O~o~O

Among a company of rather nosy individuals it's nearly impossible not to overhear things. Even though his mother always told him it was rude to eavesdrop—though she was especially practiced at the art—Kíli can't help himself when Gandalf begins speaking about hobbits to an inquisitive Ori. Bilbo, not to be outdone by the old wizard, joins in to add his own two cents, seeing as he's the hobbit after all.

"Oh no!" Bilbo was saying, "As I told Gandalf—not that he listened—we hobbits are none too keen on adventures. Make you late for dinner, they will."

The grey wizard stops puffing on his pipe and looks over at his companion. "I listened, my dear Bilbo. I always listen."

"Listen and disregard," the hobbit grumbles and Ori bites back a smile. "Hobbits are a simple people and are quite happy in the Shire. We value books and a warm meal, or seven, and good ale," he explains to the young dwarf who looks at him with unmasked interest. The youngest Ri brother has a preference for ancient tomes and scripts to swords and axes, but he has found his place among their people and company. He may look soft in his knitted scarves but no one doubted his worth. His beard grows and he had found his comfort in the mountain's embrace.

But Ori doesn't ask the question Kíli wants the answer to, instead asking about tradition among hobbits.

Kíli listens to their exchange but doesn't urge his pony forward to join in. He drinks in Bilbo's explanation about their parties and markets. About them giving gifts on birthdays instead of receiving them. About their seven daily meals. There's fondness in Bilbo's voice and a longing Kíli's not sure he's ever truly known. When the hobbit looks back over his shoulder it's not to glance at the dwarves behind him. His eyes settle on some far distant place. "I wonder why he came then."

"What are you on about?"

Kíli looks up at his brother and realizes he had been musing to himself aloud. "Oh, nothing."

"You know you can tell me anything," Fíli persists and earns a grateful smile.

His older brother had always been steadfast in his support of Kíli. In the eyes of the fair-haired Durin he was never less of a dwarf for his undesirable features or odd habits. He always had an ally in the form of his brother and it had been a lifeline to him in more ways than one.

"Kí."

"I know," Kíli says and shrugs. "It's nothing. Really."

If anyone notices that he is quieter than normal they don't say anything though he doesn't miss Fíli's questioning glances when his older brother thinks he isn't looking. If what Bilbo says is true then he should have had no reason to run out his door. He should have had every reason to stay safe in his home. So why would he sign the contract? Why would he come?

He's not left with much time to ponder it that evening when two ponies manage to disappear with nary a sound. Even when Bilbo appears out of the falling darkness clutching two bowls of stew Kíli is too preoccupied with the missing ponies to realize this is the first time he's had as good an opportunity to talk to their burglar.

"Shouldn't we tell Thorin?" Bilbo asks when they tell him what has happened.

Fíli immediately cuts in. "Let's not worry him," he says. "As our official burglar we were hoping you would look into it."

The look on his face says he wanted to do anything but look into it but he swallows hard and casts his eyes around. "Well I suppose…" He steps up beside Fíli and gestures to the uprooted tree. "It had to have been something big, to have done that—you didn't hear anything?" he asks looking up at the older of the brothers. The look on his face says he has all sorts of questions focused around what exactly had distracted them so thoroughly that they didn't notice two ponies being carted off.

When it's clear he isn't going to get an explanation, or even an acknowledgment he blows out a breath. "Well something large had to have uprooted these trees." Kíli makes a noise of agreement from behind him. "Something large and possibly quite dangerous…"

He doesn't know how right he is.

Mountain trolls are slow, and stupid, but there are three of them and only one of their burglar. It shouldn't be a big surprise when they catch him, he's unsuited for dangerous situations, and they had sent him into danger without so much as a knife. He has a way with words but his three captors don't have the wits to be fooled. Kíli knows he has to make amends and he can't do that if their burglar gets made into a stew by the trolls. He doesn't think he just acts.

"What were you thinking?" his uncle hisses at him later, after they've been freed from their sacks and he's pulled both of his nephews into a tight, if short, hug. "You could have gotten yourself killed rushing in like that alone."

He wants to protest, it seemed only right to leap to the hobbit's defense, but his uncle isn't looking for an explanation or an excuse. No, after seventy-odd years Kíli knows Thorin is only looking for him to agree and promise not to do it again—until he does it again. So Kíli gives his uncle what he wants with a nod and mumbled promise and the matter is set behind them.

There is another he owes but there is no time for it in the moments that follow. They are pursued through the plains and it is only by the quick thinking of not one wizard but two that they manage to escape at all, even if escape means finding refuge with the elves.

Thorin's irritation sets everyone on edge even as they settle in for their stay. Gandalf seems insistent that the help they need to read the map will only be found here and while it would please Thorin to no end to set their backs to the unwelcomed hospitality they can't risk crossing the mountains if in doing so they leave the only person who might have the skill to tell them where the door lies. Kíli doesn't mind so much. Aside from the green food and interesting definition of music it's not such a bad place, and they can sleep easily for a change.

"Thank you."

The voice startles him from where he'd been leaning over a railing watching the river dash among the rocks far below. Bilbo had approached without a sound and was standing at the railing just to his right.

"You—I—What?"

The hobbit smiles and leans against the railing at his side. "I meant to thank you for coming for me when the trolls caught me. You rushed in on your own, and you didn't have to."

It takes Kíli several long moments before he's assured himself that the hobbit is being sincere. "But I meant to apologize to you!" he exclaims and they both stare at each other for a long second as each processes what the other had said.

"Well then perhaps you can accept my thanks, I will accept your apology and we can be done with it?" Bilbo suggests, garnering a nod from the young dwarf.

Kíli wants to ask all of his questions at once and Bilbo looks as if he doesn't want to leave but the silence stretches between them and the hobbit finally clears his throat and bobs his head, "Right then, good talk."

The question is out of Kíli's mouth before he has time to phrase it in a way that doesn't leave Bilbo stuttering to a stop with his mouth agape and irritation flickering in his hazel eyes. "Why did you even come?"

Kíli wants to kick himself. He hears how it sounds but that's not how he meant it and he tries to stop the other man but the hobbit is already marching away and Kíli's protests die on his tongue.

You moron, he scolds himself and shakes his head.