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xhanisai · 4 years

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SALTING AROUND AT THE SPEED OF SOUND

AO3 / FFN

Summary: Introducing!!!!

The! Ultimate! Salt! Fic! Ever! IN ZA WARUDO!

Featuring Dumb Noir getting taught a lesson about boundaries, Perfectnette getting friends and love interest(s), and LILA GETTING HER ASS HANDED BACK! HOW COULD YOU RESIST SUCH A WONDERFUL FIC?

(All in all, a crack fic on salt fics to bring our spirits up~)

Disclaimer - I've actually only read like one sentence of a salt fic and fucked off afterwards so everything I'm basing off in this fic is purely from exaggerated rumours and gossip about the salt corner THEREFORE if anything here looks familiar or if it seems like I'm taking the piss out of a specific story, it's all just one big coincidence. >:D ~(x)~ . . . Of all locations to settle on for the beginning of this amazing, wonderful, fucking fantastic story, it's established on the Eiffel Tower. Cliched but wonderfully ironic for the phenomenal heroes of Paris. On the beams, higher than the naked eye could see, Ladybug and Chat Noir were... Arguing. The feline hero had his partner's wrist clasped in an iron hold, digging those deadly claws ever so slightly into the soft flesh, piercing the supposed indestructible suit with a creepy grin- "Wait- hold up a second. I would never, NEVER hurt My Lady! Not even unintentionally! And what's with that face I'm making!?" Oh SHUT UP Shit Noir! Let me carry on writing my fucking story jeez! Stop breaking out of character and keep following the script! Anyways~ The skinny, pasty assed hero- "This script sucks..."- -TUGGED Ladybug closer to him, grin widening like he won the lottery as his demonic looking eyes perversely drank in the sight of the clearly uncomfortable looking heroine in his grasps. His face leaned into hers, only coming closer as she tried her best to lean back with a grimace. "Just one kiss Bugaboo~ one kiss won't hurt..." His grip tightened on the appendage, making the girl wince painfully. "Come on Chat Noir...let go! I have already told you, I'm in love with someone else. You seriously need to back off!" Ladybug whimpered, tossing away all her badassery and ability to suckerpunch a fuckboy in the face because hell yeah it ain't relevant to this sexy fic- "You're right Chaton, this script does suck lmao"- IGNORING WHAT THE CANON LB JUST SAID. Ehem. Like a defenseless little shoujou manga protagonist, Ladybug felt tears sparkle in her eyes and pure sadness washed over her frail body before Fuck Noir dipped her into a romantic pose and smashed his lips against hers with soooooo much passion and tongue and teeth and- . What. On. Earth. Oi you stupid cat! Watch where you're putting your hands on the girl! Yikes! What do they teach these Europeans!? Break it up already you hormone riddled boobs! "Oh Minou~ You're so daring~" "Just for you, My Lady~" STAY ON SCRIPT YOU BRATS! Hmph! Carrying on. Suddenly, herculean strength riddled through Ladybug's blood, falcon punching Bitch Noir off her and off the tower, thus HenchBug™ was born. Panting and wiping her lip with her thumb in a really really badass way (YOU KNOW THAT EPIC WAY THAT ANIME CHARACTERS DO TO WIPE THE BLOOD OFF THEIR LIP, RIGHT? RIGHT? ex deeeee), MachoBug swept towards Pussy Noir's broken twiggy body at the bottom of the tower. "You disobeyed me for the umpteenth time, Noir." BadassBug uttered cooly, keeping a blind eye to the growing crowd around her and the mangled up flesh on sticks at her feet. The black and yellow mess didn't respond. "Lo-oooool cos I'm dead!" WE'LL PRETEND WE DIDN'T HEAR THAT EITHER. Anger coursed through Ladybug's veins as all those traumatising memories and moments she had with her horrific partner flashed through her brain like an old window's movie maker AMV with Evanescence's 'Bring Me Back To Life' song blasting at full volume. The conveniently arrived Alya at the front of the crowd live streamed everything on the WadyBwog, babbling about ice cream scoops. "Every time we met up, you'd always make unwanted advances to me. You'd always force a kiss on me. You even slapped my thicc™ ass a few times- once to the beat of fucking Nyan cat!" The hive minded crowd surrounding them 'oooed' and 'aaahed', some snapped a selfie with what's left of the black cat. "Therefore," The sun auspiciously shone behind MariBug, giving her an ethereal, angelic look as she carried on her lecture. "I now deem you unworthy of the miraculous." BugBug fluttered her eyelashes with so much pain as if reciting those words killed her whole generation and their dogs and their hamsters. "Hand it over to me or else I'll force it off you." All of a sudden BuffBug™ was back, bitch slapping CryBabyBug away and menacingly placed one foot on the carcass. "Wow I think she forgot that you're dead Chat Noir," THE HIGH TENSIONED MOMENT REMAINED UNBROKEN AS FAKEBUG- oof- Ladybug rolled her eyes with annoyance at the disgusting boy's silence and immediately knelt down to yank the miraculous off his bony fingers- "Never!" The catboy sprung back to life before anyone could breathe, clutching his hand to guard his ring ferally, froth seeping out of his teeth and fangs gnashing against one another- "Looks like I'm a vampire with rabies now, Bug." "Since when did you have fangs?" "Since two seconds ago-" OH MY GOD YOU TWO! SHUT UP AND LET ME WRITE! Zombie Noir leapt back with a hiss, faux ears and tail twitching with indignation and summoned the ancient destruction power whilst BossBug spun her yoyo around in battle formation, ready to call for her lucky charm anytime soon. Cat and Bug kept up the intense eye contact as that cowboy music from the good, the bad and the fugly played in the background (cheers Lahiffe mah d00d!). "You don't want to become my enemy, do you, Chat N00b?" The heroine spat, bones clicking in place as she stretched her fingers when she and the lad in black circled each other slowly. The crowd and Alya were casually chilling in the background, the latter still narrating about an epic ice cream scoop. "Heh, I won't need to be the enemy if you don't touch MY ring... Milady~"- "MON DIEU! C'EST 'MY LADY'! C'EST N'AI PAS 'MILADY'!" THAT'S THE POINT YOU STUPID CAT! Break out of character one more time and I'll castrate you and feed your teeny tiny *censored* to the dogs! "...My Lady? Is my *censored* small? :(" "If your *censored* was small, you'd never have been able to make me scream at night, Minou~ ;3" ":D"

Regardless! The pussycat feinted to the left before dodging the razor sharp wire of his Lady's (not) yoyo, whipping out his baton (not the tiny one either) and swiftly used it to vault himself away like the coward he CLEARLY is. "You'll never get me alive, THOT!" Was the last thing that small dick energy minded cuck yowled and fled with his tail between his legs. BigBug let out a yell of rage™ and slammed her fist on the ground, branding the sloppy concrete job with a crater as the shockwaves caused the audience to let out a little 'DAYUMMMMMMMM'. "Lol I thought the geezer was dead hahaah! Yo Ladybuggy, mah homie, you and kitty cat did the shame shame already or nah?" Alya, the lil hoe, leant into the heroine's personal space with a crazed grin. She only received a middle finger from the annoyed Asian. (MMmm Mmmm yEAH YEAh trANSiTION so SEXYYYY) Now, it is conveniently time for Marinette's afternoon classes. The exhausted girl dragged her feet up those weird ass spirally steps that could break ankles JUST by looking at them and made it to her classroom, only to pause at the shouting she was hearing behind the door. "Oh boy, time to unleash the kraken..." Silence Adrien! You're not supposed to have appeared yet! Dumb ass blondes these days smh... "HEY! >:0" With a deep breath, the raven haired girl pushed the door open only to be met with what could be best described as a clusterfuck. Tears welled up in her eyes as the remains of her sketchbook (which looked like it had a trip in a paper shredder) was dumped all over the floor. She snapped her head back up only for her heart to literally shatter when she was met with a furious Alya Motherfuckin' Césaire. "Marinetti DupainGhetti. This. Is. Your. Punishment." Alya's glasses flashed sinisterly as her lips curled up into d i s g u s t . The rest of the class mirrored a similar look, acting as if poor little Cheng vored everything they loved and cherished. All except two people. That witch BITCH Lie-la smirked secretly as she cowered behind Alya and the wimp, spineless little shitty Dumbdrien whimpered on his desk, pretending that nothing was happening. "P-P-Punishment for wh-what?" Babynette sobbed, clutching her shoulders as if to hug herself and make her look smaller than she is. She darted her eyes towards the model, begging him internally to say something, anything! Alas, Bitchdrien only looked away guiltily, his thin chapped lips sealed shut. Marinette couldn't believe her bad luck. First there was an akuma attack, then she was assaulted by her shitty partner for the millionth time and now this? "Punishment for bullying our lord and saviour, Lila of course! How dare you make such a sweet girl like her suffer!?" Alya roared, using the power of the seven chaos emeralds and twenty dragonballs to go super satan and pinned Sweetienette against the wall with an elbow. Her hair fizzed with animosity and her eyes gleamed in a demonic red colour- "Dieu...you just had to drag my best friend into this too, huh?" "You'd think this writer is sane enough to know that I'd cataclysm anyone that dared to harm Ma Princesse, non?" "The writer? Sane? Good joke."- IGNORING STUPIDNETTE AND BLOODYDRIEN- Alya snarled, bruising our sweet little angel's poor skin with her brute strength whilst the rest of the class watched without a question. The sausage haired wench munched on some greasy ass popcorn as she watched the show whilst Shamedrien became one with the floor, a perfect doormat for us queens to stomp on. "You tripped her all the time when no one was watching, aggravating her shattered kneecaps. You plagerised her designs, ruining what's left of her sensitive self esteem and dammit don't even get me started on all those rumours you attempted to spread about her, smearing her celebrity status! I've never hated anyone more than you, BITCHINETTE!" Alya harrumphed and then shoved Brokenette against the wall again, possibly snapping her spine and stormed back to her new bestie. "Mon Dieu your best friend just murdered you..." "Mon Dieu my best friend just murdered me..." Tosses a knife at the duo to make them shut the fuck up. Everyone else applauded the psycho journalist for putting Poornette in her place, even Stinkdrien cos he can't handle peer pressure- BAM! . . . "HOW DARE YOU HURT MARINETTE DUPAIN CHENG!" A tall, stern looking boy slammed the door open, scooping Deadinette in his arms and blew out steam through his nostrils like a bull. Everyone le gasped as the girl suddenly turned into Alivenette and embraced the stranger like he's her long lost lover (Aiyeeeeeeeeeeee mUH O-T-FUCKING-P! K Y A A A! EVEN THOUGH WE KNOW JACKSHIT ABOUT HIM). "BELIX BRAGRESTE! You saved me~ Don't hurt my homiesexuals please- they're all brainwashed by the sausage haired girl..." The blackberry haired angel begged, tugging on Belix's sleeves. "I didn't do anything-" Uglydrien was quick to defend himself only to melt back down into a doormat by Belix's dark glare, ripping out what spinal tissue the model had left. "Damn straight you didn't do SHIT." Bragreste swiftly delivered a power-kick against Assgreste, yeeting him to the moon and then turned towards the rest of the f00king class, rolling his sleeves up. "As for you nerds...I'm gonna chop you all up into mincemeat and EAT you all with my spaghetti!-" "I'm here Marinette!!!" Another lad swooped in through the door, hips swaying to the beat as 'Luka Luka Night Fever' plays in the background and then posed! Why it's none other than the obviously best written, best character, best BOY in the world: RUKA COFFEE- sorry, I mean Luka Couffaine! He strummed his guitar a few times, nodding and humming as if he was conversing with the beautiful instrument whilst bokeh dots and pink sparkly glitter floated around him. "Ah~ my guitar said that everyone's being a bitch ass motherfucker to our beautiful designer! Come with my Mari~ Take my hand and I'll take you away from this school!" The lycee student didn't wait for her answer and grabbed the star struck girl oh SO romantically~ "No! She should move schools with me!" Belix Bananagreste snatched Nettie back possessively, just like a cat. It was then that the girl decided that when she managed to snatch the black cat miraculous back from the loser that currently wielded it, she was going to give it to Belix- "Ugh don't fuck with me..." "Shhh. You're supposed to have been yeeted to the moon, Chaton," "Marinette please just throttle the writer already-" AND THEN! SUDDENLY! Erm... Errr... AHA! Suddenly all these people from some furry superhero universe came flooding in through the door, yelling insults and real truths about LIE-LA and protecting my best girl Maribear like a boss! Heroes like Gamien and Dason Bob and that guy and err, the other guy and yeah AND THEN they all began to BEAT UP that BITCH LILA and then- "Oh no she's losing it, Adrien I don't think this will last any longer..." "No kidding!" THEN JAGGED STONE CAME FLYING THROUGH THE WINDOW, JAMMING OUT HIS LATEST SONG ABOUT HOW LILA IS SUCH A LIAR AND EXPOSED EVERY SINGLE THING SHE DID TO BEST GIRL MACHONETTE! THEN ALL THESE OTHER KIDS FROM THE SCRAPPED PV UNIVERSE CAME IN VIA A CONGO LINE AND MARINETTA DECIDED TO GIVE THEM THE OTHER MIRACULOUS COS WHY NOT!? AND THEN CHLOE BECAME MARINETTE'S NEW BFF COS HELL YEAH I LOVE VIBING WITH PEOPLE WHO BULLIED ME AND MY PEERS FOR FOUR YEARS STRAIGHT AHAHAAHAH QUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENS- "Adrien, I'm going to kill her. She needs to stop." "Go on then~" AND THEN! AND FUCKING THEN! SCEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW!!!!!! . . . [Error 404: The following writer has unfortunately met her demise through unknown means. We apologise for any inconveniences. Please keep scrolling as we clear up the mess. Have a good day.] . . . "Huh...that was anticlimactic...now what?" "You go off snogging my rejected predecessor and the guitar boy? >:(" "As if I'd go for anyone other than my silly kitty!" ":D" . . . ~(x)~ A/N: I am never EVER writing anything this cursed AGAIN! How can you bash anyone but the villains in this series!? Damn! I can't even say I'm sleep deprived! This is the most fucked up shit I've written and I'm super alert oof!

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unpeumacabre · 6 years

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love is blindness: chapter 1

There was a click as Bilbo thrust open his door and glared out on Dwalin’s grave face. “Did Thorin send you?” demanded Bilbo, too incensed to care about propriety. “He wants to see you,” rumbled Dwalin. “He’s sorry.” “I like that!” shouted Bilbo. “Oh, I like that, very much! Well, you can tell the king, he can bloody well come and tell me himself, if he can find the time out of his busy schedule, and if it so pleases him!” and he slammed the door in Dwalin’s face. * Things have changed ever since Thorin's gold-sickness, and Bilbo no longer knows what to think of his relationship with Thorin. When he becomes the object of affections from a new dwarf friend of his, Thorin's seemingly-easy acceptance of their relationship both infuriates and confuses him. or, the one where Bilbo is courted, and Thorin doesn't want to interfere, bc he is NOT a dark fuck prince, and he wants Bilbo to be happy most of all.

there will be an eventual bagginshield happy ending though, don’t worry :)

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Bilbo/Thorin, Dwalin/Ori very slightly, at the end

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr messes up the formatting)

Count: 15k

next chapter is already done and will be out next week!

this started out as one sentence in my notes: i must counter dfp thorin somehow

& over the course of conversations w aidan (mistergoblin on ao3, @daddysdevito on tumblr) where we both ranted about our mutual hate for common portrayals of thorin and bilbo in fics, somehow i came up with this monster. so thank you aidan for the beta and for our conversations :) guys check him out, he's amazing

It all started with the gifts.

Or rather, Bilbo supposed, it started with Thorin Bloody Oakenshield. Had started with that dinner to celebrate the reclamation of the mountain, with the Ered Nimrais, Ered Luin, Iron Hills, Ered Mithrin and even Orocarni royalty in residence, when Thorin had lifted Bilbo’s hand to his mouth, and named him Khuzdbâha, Dwarf-friend.

Some days Bilbo could still feel a ghostly imprint of Thorin’s lips against the back of his hand. He rather thought Thorin had been drunk at the time, because there hadn’t been any such incidents since then.

So, yes, Bilbo supposed the whole affair started with Thorin’s hand in his, and the warmth of his smile…

A pompous knock on the doors of Mr Bilbo Baggins, Ringwinner, Luckwearer, Barrel-rider and Khuzdbâha, woke the hobbit from his slumber one early morning in June. Bilbo looked at the clock on his wall and groaned. Half-past five - a full half hour before he usually rose and took breakfast. What could possibly be so urgent as to demand his attention at so early an hour?

Pulling his dressing-gown tightly around him, he stumped grumpily to the door and yanked it open.

A little beardling of roughly forty years stood before his door, a wilful smile on his face and his hands outstretched. On his palms was placed a large war-helm, intricately decorated with sharp geometric designs and a veritable excess of rubies and diamonds and other unnameable stones.

Bilbo just squinted at it, and thought it was rather too early in the morning to face this sort of nonsense.

When a few seconds had passed with no response forthcoming from Bilbo, the beardling’s mouth twisted into a petulant scowl.

“A delivery for Bilbo Baggins,” he said, shoving the helm at Bilbo insistently. “Are you Bilbo Baggins?”

“Yes, but I fail to see…”

“Then this is for you, Mister Baggins, isn’t it?” the beardling said, rather pointedly this time. Bilbo took the package.

He watched the little dwarrow trot down the hall and disappear somewhere into the gloom. Bilbo wondered if the gift was, perhaps, from one of the members of the Company. Or, dare he hope, from a certain dwarf king?

The thing was, Bilbo had seen neither hide nor hair of that particular dwarf since that dinner with the dwarrows of the other clans. When Thorin had given Bilbo rooms in the royal wing, Bilbo had rather thought it had meant Thorin would be popping around occasionally for a drink or two.

Well, Thorin was busy. It wasn’t an easy task being the ruler of a kingdom rich in coin, but not in resources or people - not yet, at least. And these days it seemed like Thorin was far too busy to afford attention even to his dear friends, the dwarrows of the Company, much less time to spare for an unimportant hobbit like himself.

So Bilbo shut the door behind him, and went to find Balin.

The king’s advisor was always up before the crack of dawn, as was his custom, and so Bilbo’s knock on his door was answered promptly. He looked at the helm in Bilbo’s hand, and his face changed.

“I think you’d best come in, Bilbo,” he said kindly, and relieved Bilbo of the helmet. He set it down on an adjacent table and gestured for Bilbo to sit.

“Did you receive this gift this morning?” Balin asked, sitting down and offering a chair to Bilbo. Bilbo nodded. “It was delivered by a little beardling,” he answered. “Do you have any idea as to its origins? I have to admit, I’m completely stumped as to why anyone would wish to gift me with such a… such a… such an extravagant present. Is it anyone’s birthday today, perhaps? Or,” he continued slowly, his brow furrowing, “a practical joke? I must say, I thought most dwarrows rather above immature tricks like this…”

“It’s no prank, laddie,” Balin said, shaking his head, “neither is it a birthday present. It’s a courting gift. These designs on the helm are of the Ironfists, an eminent clan from the Red Mountains, and this sigil,” here he lifted the headpiece and indicated a small insignia imprinted in the centre of the helmet’s visor, “’tis the sigil of the dwarven prince Zdenek.”

“A courting gift?” Bilbo exclaimed, his mouth falling open in disbelief. “But I hardly even know the dwarf! Why, all I remember of him is that he sat across from me during Thorin’s celebratory dinner, and that he had a rather excessively-flamboyant coat. I spoke barely two words to him the entire evening!”

Balin looked at him. It was a pitying gaze. “One thing you must understand, Bilbo,” he said kindly, “is that for Thorin to name you Khuzdbâha - it was no small feat. Few outside our people are granted this title, and Thorin is a king especially known for his reticence and slowness to trust. As the new leader of Erebor, a kingdom rich in gold, Thorin is vulnerable, and there are many who would seek to take advantage of the trust he gives so rarely.”

“So what you mean by that…” Bilbo said slowly. “I am seen as a useful shortcut to influencing the throne of Erebor? But that’s ridiculous!” He found he suddenly had to sit down, and cover his face with his hands to hide his confusion. “I am hardly as dear a friend to Thorin as that,” he said, his voice forlorn. “There are others - you, Dwalin, the princes… even Óin and Glóin, as relatives to Thorin, would surely be seen as more suitable candidates through whom Thorin can be wooed.”

A hand rested gently on his back, and Bilbo looked up at Balin, whose eyes were as warm and understanding as ever. “I think you are underestimating the value Thorin places in you, Bilbo,” he murmured. “He values your friendship greatly. No less than before your giving of the Arkenstone to Thranduil and Bard.”

Privately Bilbo thought his words to be untrue. If his friendship were treasured by Thorin to such an extent, surely they would have seen more of each other in the past month, instead of the endless meetings and council sessions which had diverted Thorin’s attention. Surely the celebratory dinner would not have been the first time Thorin had gazed upon him with such warmth in his eyes (as it had been). Surely Thorin would have deigned to speak more than the word or two spoken in passing greeting to him over the past few months.

“Talk to him, laddie,” Balin advised. “Let him know of your troubles. For this will not be the last courting gift you receive unsolicited, and Thorin has the power to protect you from further propositions.”

Bilbo nodded, but in his heart he resolved to keep the matter to himself. Perhaps there would not be so many presents as all that. Surely Balin was exaggerating, the old pessimist that he was. And Bilbo felt sufficiently comfortable in the fact that, as a hobbit, his natural physical repugnance and oddities to the dwarrows who knew him not would outweigh any political capital gained with Thorin through his friendship. There would be no more gifts, he was sure.

There were more gifts. In copious amounts, and all in bad taste. It was absurdly clear, now that he knew what to look for, that none of these dwarrows sought to court him due to any interest in his personality, or who he was. Bilbo was gifted with necklaces dripping with precious stones that would have hung around his neck like millstones, bracers with intricate designs of which he understood little, and even a multitude of throwing daggers upon which he had almost cut himself. These were presents of an utterly unhobbitly nature, and as such he felt no qualms at all about very firmly telling the messengers who brought the gifts that they could take the presents and shove it right up the senders’ -

Unfortunately, the deluge of gifts did not slow, and in fact, seemed to grow larger by the day. Soon Bilbo began to recognise some of the repeat offenders by name. Prince Zdenek of the Orocarni was one, the dwarf who had sent the initial gift, and who was fond of gifting war implements Bilbo had absolutely no interest in using. Lady Ardris of the Iron Hills was another dwarrow who refused to take no for an answer, and sent increasingly-extravagant jewelleries on a daily basis. And then there was Lord Wili, a distant relative of Dain Ironfoot, who insisted on sending self-composed poems extolling the virtues of his dwarven axe and singing rhapsodies to Bilbo’s ‘jewel-laden caverns’.

At least the last poem had given Bilbo a bit of a laugh. Wili was, if anything, creative about the words he could get to rhyme with ‘mine-shaft’, and as a writer, Bilbo could admit to being entertained by bawdy word-play.

But enough was enough! It had gotten so bad that Bilbo had briefly considered raising the issue to Thorin because, as Balin had so kindly pointed out, if anyone could put a stop to it, Thorin could. When Bilbo and Ori had been discussing the restoration of the library one Tuesday afternoon, they had turned the corner and walked straight into Thorin and his retinue. Bilbo had opened his mouth to speak (because just that afternoon he had received a distinctly phallic-shaped gold fountain, and surely there was no going lower after that).

Then Thorin had noticed them and said, rather distractedly, “Ah - Ori and Master Baggins, good afternoon. Kolmar, if you have the estimates for the weaving guild, you can put those on my desk by tomorrow. And Tryggwi, gather the numbers for the mining expedition, you know how Bofur goes on if they’re not delivered on time - “

And Bilbo had promptly closed his mouth, his cheeks red, and scurried past the group of dwarrows.

Eventually, things came to the point that even Dwalin noticed, and came to speak to Bilbo about it.

“Laddie, ye’ve got to get Thorin to do something about this,” was the first thing he said. Bilbo glared at him.

“I’m not going to involve Thorin in this,” he declared. “I can handle it myself. It’s only a couple of dwarrows, after all.”

“What’re ye going to do?” asked Dwalin, and he sounded genuinely curious.

Bilbo huffed. “I’m going to… I’m going to give them a stern talking-to, that’s what I’ll do!” he exclaimed. “No hobbit should be disrespected like this. Why, if you could only see the awful THINGS people are giving me… oh, right, you tripped over one on your way in. That one’s from Wili. He’s fond of gifts with puerile, penile innuendoes. Perhaps it’s his name. Some sort of unconscious desire to prove himself worthy of such an epithet… but the point is, it’s not right, treating a good gentlemanly hobbit like this. I’m going to talk to them and… and… and tell them off!”

Dwalin nodded seriously. “Aye,” he said, “and when that fails, you’ll talk to Thorin?”

“I am not talking to Thorin Bloody Oakenshield!” fumed Bilbo.

“Why’re ye so opposed to asking Thorin to help ye out?” Dwalin asked. “Ye know he could solve this in a pinch. Be more than happy to, in my opinion.”

“Well, you have your opinion, and I have mine,” Bilbo sniffed. He abruptly wilted, and placed his hand on a nearby chair to steady himself. “And my opinion’s that I’ll not be bothering Thorin about this matter. Not when he’s so busy with the upcoming diplomatic expedition from the elves, and the three-month anniversary dinner for Erebor’s reclamation, and the million other things kings are responsible for. I’m not going to bother him about my problems, not when he has so much to do.”

“Laddie,” Dwalin rumbled, “ye know Thorin would drop everything at the drop of a dwarven war helm to help ye out. Especially if it concerns dwarrows courting ye against your will.”

“That’s not true,” said Bilbo, weakly. “If that were true, then why haven’t I seen - I thought, after the gold-sickness - no. He’s busy, Dwalin. I mustn’t bother him about these unimportant things.”

“He’s a fool,” said Dwalin sternly, disapprovingly.

“I refuse to talk about this anymore,” Bilbo said stubbornly, and stumped off to find elevenses. Honestly! Dwarrows! An empty-headed, dragon-licking, gravel-skinned bunch, the lot of them!

In the end Bilbo had no choice in the matter. He supposed it was a cruel twist of fate in recompense for the names he had called Dwalin in his head. Although he had felt rather sorry afterwards, and baked Dwalin a fresh batch of cookies as an apology.

The fact was, Bilbo had been happily going around his normal business, when he realised that his button had come off and fallen to the ground. Being fond of the golden buttons Dori had painstakingly sewn back onto his burgundy waistcoat, he had bent to retrieve the button, and in so doing, became privy to a conversation he would rather have avoided.

It seemed that dwarrows were, as with most other bigger races, not immune from the remarkable ability of hobbits to blend into the furniture. As Bilbo straightened up, he realised that firstly, he had stepped into a small, dark side alley sheltered from the main passageway. And secondly, that Prince Zdenek, of the Ironfist clan, had stopped just outside the entrance to the alley, and was in the middle of a very deep conversation with another dwarf.

“And he won’t accept any of your gifts? Disgraceful!” said the second dwarf, in a loud and rather scandalised voice.

“Yes, well, what can one do?” Zdenek said, with a magnanimous sigh. “It is difficult for a halfling to recognise the great honour heaped upon him when a dwarf of my eminence deigns to court him. Then again, it must be the prolonged exposure to those dwarrows of the house of Durin. A magnificent bloodline, that’s to be sure, but…” he leaned his head closer to the other dwarf’s, and, with a smug smile, made a circling motion with his finger round his head. “Recently a little touched in the head, no? Such a pity that so exalted a line should fall prey to the vagaries of illness.”

“They’ve always been a queer lot, the Longbeards,” said the other voice. Bilbo thought it rather a nasty voice, grasping and eager to please. “When they sought our help, I think you were right to turn them away. Your father was far too weak to do so. After all, what could they have offered us? They did not bring much of the mithril from Erebor with them, and even so, they are a jealous people. They would have kept the best of the lot, and saved us their meagre leftovers. Best that you sent them away before they could drag the rest of us down with them.”

Best that they left before they found themselves in a nest of vipers like yours! Bilbo snarled in his head. So Zdenek had been one of those responsible for refusing aid to the Ereborean refugees when they had been rendered homeless by Smaug. He was about to step out of the alley and challenge them to take their words back, when, suddenly, he felt a warm hand at his back.

Thorin stood behind him, accompanied by Dwalin and another guard, and dressed in his usual finery. His eyes were cold with fury, and his hand shook. Bilbo could feel the heat from his hand radiating through even the thick fabrics of his clothes, and he found that he could not move.

The conversation continued, Zdenek and his companion clearly unaware of the unseen listeners.

“But surely the gifts you gave the halfling were not crafted of your own hand?” asked the other unknown dwarf. “I do not recall seeing you in the forges of Erebor. Nor did you bring any of your crafts with you from Halrubínu.”

Zdenek scoffed, his tone derisive. “As if I would grace the palm of a queer-looking creature as that with the honoured works of my hands! What you speak of is errant foolishness, Stráhek. No, the halfling likely knows little of our most sacred customs, and will be happy enough with works bartered from other smiths.”

“Your marriage will bring great sadness to many of the dams and dwarrows who court you, my prince. And yet there are many also who strive to win the hand of the halfling. The gifts - ”

Zdenek waved his hand dismissively, and sneered down at Stráhek. “’Tis impossible for any dwarf to best Zdenek Keen-eye, prince of the Ironhills, slayer of the Orocarni. Once the halfling recognises my virtues he will all but grovel at my feet to earn my hand in marriage.” He sighed, and turned his attention to one of the many gemstone-encrusted rings that encircled his thick, stubby fingers. “The only thing I regret is that I should have to stoop to such heights to elevate the repute of our great house. To marry a halfling? And such odd, queer looking creatures they are too.”

Well, that was a little bit hurtful. Bilbo blinked, and unconsciously his hand clutched at his chest.

But the dwarf was not done with his tirade. “Those tales of the halfling’s bravery, and of how they earned him his place beside Thorin Oakenshield - I believe them not,” he scoffed. “It is plain he bought his way to eminence, not with gold, for he has none, but by the spreading of his loins. Why else would such an unworthy, unimportant, effably witless - “

Bilbo was bowled over. The hand burning a hole through his back abruptly disappeared, and Thorin swept past him in a flash of opulent purple robes. Zdenek was suddenly and quickly elevated above the ground, with Thorin holding his collar in a very firm, and unyielding, grasp. Stráhek let out a shriek and attempted to scuttle off, but was soon waylaid by Dwalin’s war-axes placed threateningly in his way.

“Lord Zdenek,” he said, and his eyes were as chips of ice. “I urge you to consider your next words very, very carefully. You speak of a hero of Erebor, one who carries the favour of the heirs of Durin, dwarrows who happen to be your liege.”

Zdenek spluttered. His face was turning a curious mottled colour, and his mouth moved shapelessly as if he were trying to form words. Heedless of his discomfort, Thorin yanked the dwarf closer, till they were nose to nose, and stared into his eyes.

“And what did you mean,” he said very softly, “when you said you were courting him?”

Bilbo stumbled to his feet and placed a hand on Thorin’s arm. Thorin started, abruptly, looking at Bilbo as if he had forgotten the hobbit was there, then almost unconsciously, his hand relaxed and Zdenek fell to the floor with an unceremonious thump. He coughed violently, clutching at his throat and staring with wide, fear-filled eyes at Thorin.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty!” he cried, scrambling hastily backwards on his bum as Thorin prowled towards him. “I - I knew not of which I spoke - I meant no disrespect to the halfling - “

“Dwalin,” Thorin said. There was a curious inflection in his voice that made Bilbo turn towards him, but Thorin was not looking at him. “Kindly return Lord Zdenek to his quarters. And please inform King Zdenka that the terms of our trade agreement may need to be renegotiated, and that I will meet him tomorrow in the council chamber to discuss our new terms.”

“But - you can’t do that!” screeched Zdenek. His gaudy robes had fallen off his shoulder in the scuffle. As a result he looked rather smaller, and strangely diminished, in Bilbo’s eyes, crouching ignobly at Thorin’s feet like a creeping loathsome worm. “The terms have already been negotiated! You cannot change your terms because - because of a halfling!” he spat.

“Your vitriol has no place in these halls, Master Dwarf,” Thorin said coldly. “I believe your father is the king, not you. I deal with dwarrows of calibre and nobility, Zdenek, qualities I am afraid you sorely lack, and I have not the time for spoiled princelings who seek to slander and defame one of my - one of this kingdom’s dearest friends. Dwalin?” he turned to the guard.

“With pleasure,” Dwalin growled. He gripped Zdenek’s shoulder, lifting him to his feet bodily and dragging him down the hall, along with a screeching and wailing Stráhek.

Only then did Thorin turn to Bilbo.

“You are unhurt?” he said, gently. Bilbo blinked, then looked down at himself in puzzlement.

“He did not touch me,” Bilbo answered, confused. Thorin let out a gravelly chuckle, tinged with surprise, as if the sudden moment of levity had startled even him.

“No, Master Baggins - I meant, did his words do you harm?”

“Oh! Well,” Bilbo paused and considered the question. The twinge that had appeared in his chest at Zdenek’s words had quite passed, soothed in the face of Thorin’s obvious ire on his behalf. He shook his head. “No, I’m quite alright. It would take rather more than Master Zdenek’s unkind words to irk me.”

“Good,” Thorin said quietly. “I am glad of that.”

There was a slow, sure warmth in Thorin’s eyes as he gazed upon Bilbo, a kind of curious tenderness which did funny things to Bilbo’s insides. It inspired some strange deep ache in Bilbo’s chest, for he had not seen that expression on Thorin’s face for quite some time, not since - not since -

It was quite a discomfiting feeling, so he cleared his throat and tried for a reassuring smile. “I assure you I’m quite alright. You don’t need to fuss over me so, Thor - Your Majesty.” He made the correction rather hastily, having always referred to Thorin by name in his head, but he suddenly thought the epithet more appropriate.

Immediately Bilbo regretted the change, for it was as if a wall had suddenly descended over Thorin’s eyes. Thorin stepped back, inclining his head formally, and Bilbo found himself fiercely missing the heat of his body.

There was a moment of awkward silence, as Thorin tried to recompose himself, and Bilbo called himself some rather rude names in his head.

“You did not tell me there were dwarrows courting you,” Thorin said at last. Bilbo started.

“Oh! Well - yes, I suppose I didn’t. To be honest, I thought I could manage the situation on my own, but just declining the gifts didn’t work. I don’t know why these confounded dwarrows insist on being so bloody stubborn - a no is a no, and repeatedly heaping me with gifts won’t change my answer! And to learn that dwarrows were courting me to earn favour with the throne of Erebor - why, it made me furious, it did, thinking that there were dwarrows out there trying to use you in such an underhanded way - well, Dwalin said - “ Bilbo realised he was wringing his hands in nervousness, and forced himself to tuck them back into the pockets of his waistcoat.

Thorin’s brows descended like a black cloud down upon his blue eyes. “Dwalin knew?” he growled, almost incredulously. “He did not tell me. Mahal, when I get my hands on that tree-humping, dung-eating - “

“Oh, no, no,” Bilbo was quick to reassure him, “it wasn’t Dwalin’s fault. I expressly forbade him from telling you.”

Thorin stopped moving, and just looked at him. It was a hurt expression, and Bilbo did not like the way it looked on Thorin’s face. He rushed to explain.

“I didn’t want to bother you - ” He stumbled over his words. “You were so busy and everything - with the elvish expedition, and the upcoming celebration, and what seemed like a thousand different things - you know, I barely even see you anymore! Well, that’s not your fault, I suppose. You’re off doing kinging things. I understand. I didn’t want to bother you with my tiny problem. I thought I’d be able to resolve it on my own, you see. Except, well, I couldn’t.” Bilbo thought it rather for the best that he left out of the explanation the awful feeling which had swept over him when Thorin had so casually brushed past he and Ori in the halls. After all, on later reflection, he had decided that the feeling was likely guilt at even having thought of bothering Thorin at this inconvenient time, and had dismissed the thought accordingly.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said softly, “I will always have time for you. I am truly sorry that I gave you cause to doubt this.” He looked rather forlorn and tragically regal at the same time, with his great shoulders drooping and his mouth twisted angrily.

Bilbo forced a smile, and patted his shoulder where he could reach. “It’s not your fault, Thorin,” he said, deciding it would be best to address Thorin as such before it resulted in more incidents of the sulking nature. “Now cheer up! This matter’s come to an end now, and we’ll not see any more of these rascally suitors, I hope. I do appreciate your help, Thorin,” he said earnestly, slipping his hand back into Thorin’s, and trying to ignore how right the sensation felt. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the incidents before.”

Thorin was looking down at their hands clasped together. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet Bilbo’s, and this time they were hard and unyielding as rock.

“No,” he promised, “they will certainly not bother you again.”

“No,” Bilbo said firmly. “One dwarf is quite enough.”

Thorin glared at him from under stormy brows. “Master Baggins,” he growled, drawing himself up to his full height, and around Bilbo, the guards cowered back instinctively. Thorin made an impressive figure when angered and fully roused. “You do not know these dwarrows like I do. For them to have pressed their suit on you so insistently, and completely unsolicited - they are clearly careless of your feelings, and might potentially do you harm. Although we cannot detain them - “ (though we certainly tried, his tone implied) “we can try our best to stave off any attack they might make on your person.”

“With four dwarf guards I’ll certainly stave off most dwarrows!” spluttered Bilbo, refusing to be cowed. He drew himself to his full height also - though admittedly far less intimidating - and crossed his arms, forcing himself to stare straight into Thorin’s eyes. “I most certainly refuse to be saddled with four guards. Firstly, I hardly believe any dwarf, even the ones who have shown me such discourtesy, would resort to physical force to convince me to accept their suit. No, I am far from important enough to warrant such measures.” He held up a hand to silence Thorin as the king tried to interrupt, and Thorin shut his mouth with a mutinous expression. “Second, there are far better things for the guards to be doing - we’re shorthanded when it comes to repairs and restorations as it is already! And lastly,” he added pointedly, “I can take care of myself, Thorin. You of all people should know that.”

Thorin ran his hand through his hair in frustration, having evidently given up on intimidating Bilbo into submission. “I know that!” he snarled. His voice abruptly became softer, quieter, and he stopped pacing around the room, to look at Bilbo. “And well do I know that, Master Burglar. But I can assure you that, while giving you four guards may seem a tad excessive to you, it would certainly make me -” he caught himself, coughed - “make us feel better. The dwarrows of the Company, I meant. It would make us feel better, to know that you were adequately protected against any threats.”

“ One guard, Thorin,” Bilbo said sternly. “You may pick the guard, if you like. But know that if you try to have me subtly followed by more guards I will not have it, and I will tell Dís that you expressly and knowingly disobeyed my request.”

“Dís would take my side,” Thorin muttered petulantly, but it was a moot point - both of them knew Dís would likely side with Bilbo in any argument, largely because she felt he was the only one in Erebor with any semblance of good sense.

“Fine,” Thorin said at last. “One guard it is then.” He leveled Bilbo with a narrow glare that said he was far from satisfied with the conclusion of the argument. Bilbo ignored it. The exhilaration and adrenaline thrumming through his veins from his discourse with Thorin were, at the same time, both strange and painfully familiar. He had had many such arguments with Thorin on their journey, of course, petty tiffs over pipeweed and dinner and who was to have first watch, but these interactions had been distinctly lacking since Thorin had assumed the mantle of King Under The Mountain. It had not occurred to Bilbo until now how much he had severely missed these little seemingly-insignificant moments.

Bilbo met Thorin’s eyes. They looked at each other for a moment, and suddenly Bilbo felt an ache in chest. Where did we go wrong , he wanted to ask. When I stole the Arkenstone from you? When you held me over the ramparts and threatened my life? When I looked in your eyes and realised I didn’t recognise the dwarf I saw standing in front of me?

The gentle light in Thorin’s eyes from the dying embers of the fire flickered and danced, and for a moment Bilbo’s eyes went to Thorin’s lips - he thought, no, he so dearly wanted -

“Your Majesty,” coughed one of the guards, and Bilbo had never wanted to kill someone so dearly in his life.

Thorin withdrew abruptly and turned away. “Yes?” he said, sounding completely unaffected, and Bilbo quietly lifted a hand to his chest to still the thundering of his heart.

“Lady Dís is here,” said the offending guard. Bilbo had some rather uncharitable thoughts about, say, picking up the poker from the dying fire, and perhaps, thrusting it straight through the blasted dwarf’s heart. That would teach him to interrupt when Bilbo and Thorin were -

Were what? Having a moment?

Bilbo suddenly realised he was being rather silly. He and Thorin did not have moments, goodness no. Thorin was a lovely heroic king with a regal birthright stretching all the way back to the first dwarf sent by Mahal, and a most attractive mien, and Bilbo was…

Well, he was a foolish old hobbit, that was all, and foolish old hobbits did not have moments with tragically beautiful kings.

Besides, the look in Thorin’s eyes had likely been exasperation at his stubbornness. Oh dear, Bilbo fretted, he did so hope he hadn’t offended Thorin. He never knew what to say to Thorin nowadays, and sometimes he did let his temper get the better of him, forgetting that things were not as they once were.

While he had known of Thorin’s blue blood and his exalted status while on the journey, it had never really sunk in, and he had been as insolent as he wished with Thorin, with few consequences. Now the reality of Thorin’s birth was far clearer, with that awful crown and his awful kingly robes and how his attention was split between Bilbo and what seemed like every Yavanna-damned dwarf in Erebor!

But Bilbo was being selfish, he realised. He could not expect to have as much of Thorin’s attention as before. Thorin had a responsibility to his people - he had always had - and it was simply the responsibility of a king to treat all his subjects equally. Bilbo ignored the sharp pain in his heart at the thought. Yes, he would simply have to accept the fact that he was no longer as important to Thorin as he had been before.

Perhaps it was all for the best, he told himself, and tried to surreptitiously wipe at the edges of his eyes. His betrayal had rather shaken Thorin, had shaken him deeply, made him doubt who he could and couldn’t trust. It was one of the few things Bilbo had regretted about the whole affair - causing Thorin pain, that was. He remembered Thorin’s expression as he had held him off the ramparts all too clearly.

Perhaps he should really try to stop calling Thorin by his name and start addressing him by his proper epithet. He did not know why it irked Thorin so - perhaps some strange fancy of his - but it was the proper thing to do, after all. Yes, he would have to stop thinking of Thorin by his name in his head as well. It was only proper to start calling Thorin the King Under the Mountain. Only it was such an awfully long name…

Oh, bother! Bilbo had to wipe at his eyes again. Thorin’s - the king’s - rooms really were uncommonly dusty. He should have a word with the chambermaids, to tell them to dust more often - or rather, he should tell Balin to tell the chambermaids. It was not proper for one of his status to comment on the state of the royal rooms, not proper at all…

Oh, Bilbo thought furiously, how he absolutely despised that word!

Bilbo was having his breakfast in his rooms when there was a knock at the door. He opened the door to find a stranger on his doorstep.

“Hello!” said the stranger. He was a very funny-looking dwarf indeed. He had on the uniform of the palace guard, but he wore a large blue scarf that covered his neck and most of his chin. His hair was bright yellow, like flax fibre, and hung in an elegant halo around his head. His beard was one of the simplest Bilbo had ever seen - barring the king’s, of course - with the hairs of his beard gathered in a loose knot with an iron clasp and peeking out the bottom of his scarf. He had a fair face, for a dwarf, with ruddy cheeks, a clever mouth, and warm brown eyes.

He smiled at Bilbo. It was a merry smile, and Bilbo found himself inexplicably smiling in return.

A beat of silence passed, and Bilbo was suddenly aware that he was wearing only his dressing gown, having been unprepared for company. He hastily pulled close the edges of the gown, feeling an uncanny sense of déjà vu, and cleared his throat.

“And you are…?” he asked politely, when it seemed there would be no name forthcoming.

Immediately the dwarf swept down into a merry bow, revealing a large hefty mattock strapped to his back. He stood upright again with much jingling of his armour and scraping of his leather garb.

“Oddvar, son of Virdar, at your service!” he said smartly. “I am to be your new guard, Lord Baggins.”

“Goodness!” Bilbo said uncomfortably. “Lord Baggins? Why, I am not so esteemed as that. You must call me Bilbo, since it appears we will soon be spending much time together. I am afraid I am not dressed for company, but if you don’t mind my rudeness, you might want to come inside for a cup of tea?”

“Well, strictly speaking, Master Bilbo,” Oddvar said, a very stern expression on his face, “us guards aren’t allowed into the royal quarters. We’re supposed to stay outside and watch for intruders and ruffians and the like, you see. But,” he said, and his face suddenly split into another of those likeable grins as he leaned forward with a conspiratorial air, “I certainly won’t say no to a strong cup of tea. Only if it is to stay strictly between us, Master Baggins. I’m sure you won’t go telling on me now, would you?”

Bilbo’s eyebrows shot up. Then he burst out laughing.

“You insolent dwarf,” he said, unable to hide his smile, “I hardly know you, and yet you presume to put on airs? Well, I suppose you simply must come in now.” He opened the door a little wider and Oddvar strode in, ducking to avoid the ceiling, as he was rather a tall dwarf.

He sat down at the low table where Bilbo had been taking his meal. Bilbo prepared another plate heaped high with scones and slathered with fresh butter and jam from Dale.

Oddvar was an uncommonly polite dwarf, for he thanked Bilbo for the meal, and ate neatly with little mess. Bilbo squinted at him.

“Are you sure you’re a dwarf?” he said skeptically. “I have never met a dwarf who didn’t have half of his food in his beard by the time he finished his meal.”

“I am indeed an uncommonly unusual dwarf,” said Oddvar solemnly, as he carried his plate to the kitchen and washed it up. Bilbo poured them both a cup of tea, and they sat at the table again.

“You are from Ered Luin?” asked Bilbo, watching Oddvar over the rim of his cup, and observing the way he fiddled absently at the clasp at the end of his beard as he drank his tea.

“I was one of the refugees from Erebor who settled in Ered Luin, yes,” Oddvar replied. “I would have joined the Company on their journey, for I was eager to reclaim our home, but for my mother. She was sick with consumption when the king sought my help, and I could not in good conscience leave her sick and helpless while I went gallivanting halfway across Middle Earth.”

“How awful,” Bilbo said, feeling the statement rather inadequate. “How is your mother now? Did she travel here with you?”

“She passed two months ago,” Oddvar murmured quietly.

“Ah.”

They sat together in quiet silence for a few moments, then Oddvar made a visible effort to perk himself up.

“Well, Master Bilbo,” he said, with a smile, “what will your schedule be like today? I imagine an important personage like yourself would have many responsibilities in and around the mountain?”

Bilbo shook his head, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and wrapped his hands tightly around the cup I his hands. “I don’t have many responsibilities in Erebor. Just a few visits to friends today, I’m afraid. I’m not a very important person, you see.” Then, to stave off the platitudes which often followed such statements when he made them to his friends, he hurriedly added, “I suppose you know the reason why you’ve been employed as my guard?”

Oddvar nodded vigorously. “Overeager dwarrows hoping to cement their position and gather favour with our esteemed king through gaining your hand,” he growled. “You mustn’t fear, Master Bilbo. I will take good care to protect you from any unwanted solicitations.”

Bilbo waved his hands around in the air eloquently. “Nonsense!” he said, in a dismissive tone. “I’m quite sure it will amount to nothing, and that I’ll have wasted a large part of your time. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that any dwarrows would be driven to take action against me simply because I spurned their suit.”

“I think you quite underestimate your own attractiveness, Master Bilbo,” replied Oddvar, cocking his head and smiling. “We of Ered Luin have heard the tales of the role you played in the reclamation of Erebor, and many were present when King Thorin named you Khuzdbâha. ‘Tis a great honour none have been given since the time of Durin the Third, for we dwarrows are a fiercely private race who hold our secrets close within our kin and our peoples, and your title is surely an indication of the high esteem you are held in by our king.”

Bilbo felt rather pleased by the praise, although he rather thought Oddvar’s estimation of his importance in Thorin’s eyes rather exaggerated.

“Be that as it may,” he said primly, “most of my time is now spent in idleness.”

He averted his eyes and stared into the fire. “I wish I had my garden again. When first the dwarrows came to Bag End it was the height of spring, and the snapdragons were but freshly-bloomed. I wonder how my gardenias are doing,” he murmured, now mostly to himself. “Quite a fuss my mother made, when my father planted those fickle plants. Difficult to care for, and as capricious as the worst hobbit lass, and yet when they bloomed the fall my parents passed they were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” His memories of that autumn were clear as crystal - the snowy blossoms of the gardenias blooming hesitantly from the thick green shrubs at the edge of his father’s plot, the cold crisp air of the nights, the tears he had shed sitting on the bench in front of Bag End and remembering the sound of Belladonna’s laughter.

He hadn’t thought about his parents for a while. Hadn’t thought about his garden and his father’s beautiful gardenias, hadn’t thought about his lovely empty smial all dusty and quiet without his care, hadn’t thought about his soft armchair and his plush carpets and the old musty map of Rivendell hanging in his father’s study.

Perhaps he ought to start a garden. Certainly Erebor needed more greenery and growing things. He was going to go mad one of these days, surrounded with nothing but cold, silent rock and the artificial bright light of the crystal lamps. He needed the sun, the birdsong, the feeling of soil sifting under his bare feet; for he was a hobbit, and hobbits were not made to spend their lives in mountains and under stone.

He would ask Thorin - no, no, he would ask Balin. He would not trouble the king with this. He already felt somewhat of a burden, what with the whole courting debacle, and was now rather furious at himself for making a fuss out of what would surely have tided over in a few weeks if he’d just kept a level head and not blurted everything out to the king the moment he’d been questioned on the matter -

“You have worked with plants?” Oddvar said, and Bilbo’s head snapped around. He had completely forgotten about the other dwarf’s existence, and the question startled him.

It took him a few seconds to compose himself, before he could answer.

“I had a garden back - back in Bag End. In Hobbiton,” Bilbo answered, politely.

Oddvar leaned forward with a quick movement, propping himself on his knees and with a sparkle in his brown eyes which, now that Bilbo thought about it, contained a hint of a very familiar mischief. “You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “Master Bilbo, I must admit, I accepted this post partly out of curiosity, for halflings are such strange creatures - never before have I met a halfling, and I dearly wish to know more about you and your curious folk. Would you tell me more about yourself? That is,” he added with a grin, “if I’m not being too insolent. I wouldn’t like to offend you, after all, Master Bilbo.”

His excitement was contagious, and Bilbo found his mood unexpectedly bolstered. He smiled, glad of the distraction from his strange maudlin mood, and the unexpected interest in his species, for not many dwarrows outside the Company had expressed such attentiveness to him, and even deigned to speak to him. So it was thus that he began his lecture.

“Well, Master Oddvar, for a start, we do not like being called halflings, for we are not half of anything, much less men, who coined the derogatory term. It is far more polite to refer to us Shire-folk as hobbits, supposedly from the old Westron word Holbytlan…”

Unexpectedly, the king sought Bilbo three days later, and invited him for a meal in his quarters.

“I feel that I have been remiss in my treatment of you,” Thorin told him, in a rather intense sort of way, having cornered him in his chambers as Bilbo prepared to set out to meet Balin for luncheon. “You are a friend of mine, and yet I have not spoken to you proper since - well, since - “

“Yes, quite,” said Bilbo hastily, as he sensed that Thorin was about to say something maudlin, involving a topic which both were quite determined to avoid. “Tomorrow? I will be there.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” agreed Thorin. “And perhaps we could make it a weekly feature?” he murmured quietly, almost shyly. Bilbo blinked in surprise at the unexpected invitation.

“Oh - well, of course,” he said, and ventured a smile at Thorin. “I would love to have dinner with you tonight, Your Majesty.”

Thorin returned his smile, but it looked brittle and strangely sad. “Good,” he said, and took an abortive step forward, as if he had wished to come closer, but had ultimately thought better of him. Bilbo hovered awkwardly at the door, unsure if Thorin had more to say to him, or if they were done.

“If that’s all - “

“Bilbo - “

They spoke at the same time, and cut off their sentences abruptly. Bilbo stared at Thorin, feeling sweat bead on his brow. Thorin made a strange gesture with his hand, somewhere between a gesture forward and an exasperated wave of his hands, and Bilbo took it as his cue to speak.

“Balin’s expecting me,” he said, feeling his fingers tighten where they held onto the edge of the door. “I’ll just - I mean, we’ll see each other tonight, won’t we?”

“Yes. Yes, we will,” Thorin said, his smile looking more like a grimace now. He stood and edged his way out past Bilbo, where Oddvar stood, looking curiously at the both of them. “Good morning, Master Baggins. I look forward to seeing you tonight.”

When he had shut the door behind Thorin, he suddenly turned to Oddvar, who had followed him back into his rooms.

“When I’ve finished luncheon with Balin,” he said, realising his tone was unusually brusque, and making an effort to soften its edge, “won’t you show me round Erebor? I haven’t actually seen most of it, you know. I’d like to see some of the rooms which have been restored.”

Oddvar’s raised eyebrows registered his surprise, although he nodded. “But, Master Bilbo…” he ventured. “There are far more qualified dwarrows to be your guide. Lord Balin, perhaps, or one of the dwarrows from the Company. Or King Thorin himself. For him to visit you personally and invite you to dinner…”

Bilbo frowned. “I know not why I received such an invite,” he admitted, “although I must say it is both welcome, and extremely confusing! Why, I haven’t received such overtures of friendship from the king since we had - since we had our argument.”

“You mean, during his gold sickness, when he found out you gave the Arkenstone to King Bard?” asked Oddvar.

Bilbo looked sharply at him. “How did you know that?” he said, leveling him with a suspicious gaze. Surely there were few who knew of the events on the battlements that day. Where could Oddvar, a simple guard from Ered Luin, have heard about the incident?

“Oh - er, I’ve heard things here and there,” Oddvar said quickly, although he wasn’t quite quick enough to hide the startled flash in his eyes. Bilbo side-eyed him dubiously, but he met Bilbo’s gaze with an all-too-innocent smile.

“Hmm,” Bilbo said at last. He had too little time to ponder on this mystery, for Balin awaited him in his chambers, but he would certainly think on this further. What an interesting dwarf Oddvar, son of Vidar, was turning out to be…

Dinner with Thorin was a quiet and peaceful affair. Bombur, now the head chef of Erebor, served them dishes of dwarf-make but with hobbit-y touches, such as a delicious seed cake baked from Bilbo’s own recipe, and a lovely vegetable stew which Thorin made a valiant effort to get through. While their conversation had started out stilted and awkward, Bilbo was delighted that, over the course of the meal, their words flowed more easily, and a semblance of their past relationship began to return.

After the meal they retired to the armchairs by the fire. Bilbo began to stuff the barrel of his pipe and peeked at Thorin, sitting opposite him, from under his lashes. Thorin was puffing quietly at his pipe, his eyes closed, and humming in contentment.

“I hear you’ve spoken to Balin about setting up a garden in Erebor,” Thorin said, suddenly. Bilbo nodded.

“Yes, he said I could set it up on the eastern side of the mountain. There’s a little alcove there which isn’t being put to use, so he gave it to me. You… You don’t have any objections, do you?” Bilbo asked hesitantly.

Thorin shook his head and exhaled, the smoke pouring from his lips in a rather decadent fashion. Bilbo felt himself starting to sweat under his waistcoat. The fire was burning low, the flickering flames casting shadows along Thorin’s ruddy skin.

“It will be difficult to set up a garden in a mountain,” he said at length, “though it is not without precedent.”

“Yes, Balin told me,” Bilbo replied eagerly. He had been so enthused by the notion of his very own garden that he had practically bombarded Balin and Ori with questions as to how it might be arranged. “There was a garden in Moria, supplied with light by strategically placed mirrors and crystals, and rather elaborate, by all accounts. I thought I might take inspiration from there as to the finer logistics of the matter.”

Thorin nodded, his gaze fixed intently on the fire. “The gardens of Tharâkh Bazân, the jewel of Khazad-dûm,” he said, his voice quiet and far away. The Khuzdul words sent a shiver down Bilbo’s spine, said as they were in the deep guttural rumble of Thorin’s voice. “Though I know little of plants and trees, even I have heard of these gardens. ’Tis named Durin’s Garden in Westron, for Durin in his first incarnation built it deep within the passages of Durin’s Way. Although dwarrows may happily live their whole lives under the depths of a mountains, even the hardiest of us sometimes long for the touch of the sun on our faces, and the sight of the green things that grow on this earth. Thus Durin constructed this most magnificent of gardens, with help from the elves of Eregion - or Hollin, as it was then known.’

‘He filled it with the rarest and most exotic of trees and blossoms, and throughout all corners of the garden he installed great pools with water clear and cold, taken from the springs that feed naturally into the base of Zirakzigil. Over the years, the walls were etched with tales of the dwarven heroes who had made their mark in the battles of the Second and Third Ages against the Orcs of Gundabad and Angmar. In the centre of the garden was there placed the statue of my ancestor, the last king of Moria - Náin the First, who fell by the hand of the Balrog that slaughtered his father. Before we lost our kingdom, it was many a lore-master and academic who visited Khazad-dûm to look upon the many beautiful and rare plants that were so arranged in Tharâkh Bazân. It was the envy of many races, and one of the prides of our people - that, even deep underground, the masterful craftsmanship of the dwarrows could bring forth green things to grow, and that they could survive under our untutored hands.”

By this time, his eyes were half-closed, the tone of his voice dreamy and reverent. It was as if in his mind’s eye he saw the great halls of Moria once more before him, those soaring ceilings and the weathered carvings on the walls of his ancestral home, which he knew and loved purely from the stories of his scholars alone. As Thorin spoke, Bilbo had a sudden vision of this named underground garden.

Although he had never looked upon it in his life, and never would, he could picture its magnificence now, in his mind, and more. He could imagine the beautiful plants and flowers which had once blessed those hallowed grounds, and which had surely fallen into disrepair and neglect. But although the image was inspiring, he rather thought for his garden -

Thorin suddenly opened his eyes as if he had heard Bilbo’s thoughts, and his eyes were very blue indeed as they gazed intensely into Bilbo’s own.

“But of course,” he murmured, “your garden will be a hobbit garden. Simple, and useful, and beautiful in its simplicity. Without dwarven splendour and flamboyance. I think that is altogether a good thing.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. “Well, yes - of course, my own endeavour would not be so ambitious. I hardly see my little hobbit garden filled with statues of dwarven kings and heroes and all. Just a simple affair, as you said - some herbs, flowers if I can find any, plants I had in Bag End, that’s all.”

“The resources of Erebor are at your disposal,” Thorin said formally. “Gold will be no object. You have a hard-won obligation to our treasure, after all.”

“Yes, I had thought of asking Bard for some transplants from Dale, and perhaps even the elves. Say what you will about them, they do have a way with plants, and I do need all the help I can get. As for the irrigation and lighting and all, Balin has been more than helpful in offering the aid of Erebor’s architects and smiths.”

“Hmm,” Thorin said. It was a pleased hum that reverberated around the room. “You must show me the garden once it is complete. While I am no connoisseur of plants or other growing things, I would be honoured if you were to show me the fruits of your labours.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said, suddenly finding himself rather breathless.

“It is good that you are finding something to do,” Thorin said softly. His eyes glinted in the firelight. “I had worried that you would be bored in Erebor, for I know you find little interest in our dwarvish hobbies and ways.”

There wasn’t really anything Bilbo could say to that, so he hummed in reply and blew out a smoke ring of a diameter he was rather proud of.

“And how is Oddvar?” Thorin asked, tapping his pipe against the arm of his armchair to get rid of the ash.

The thought of that strange dwarf brought an involuntary smile to Bilbo’s face. “He really is a most curious dwarf indeed!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I asked him to guide me about Erebor this afternoon, after I took my luncheon with Balin, and he brought me to the auction halls, of all places. Although it is only half-restored, already it is bustling with merchants and vendors from the dwarf settlements. It was a pleasant change to see the halls so filled with life, when previously it was laid waste to by Smaug. He took me to the food stalls to sample dwarven cuisine. I did not know Erebor specialised in ham, although it was an enlightening experience to try ham cured in the halls of the Lonely Mountain, certainly one no other hobbit can boast! And there was a quite strange dish, I think brought from as far as Dorwinion - some sort of pickled bat organ - I shudder to think what it could have been, though Oddvar assured me it was an exotic delicacy craved by many.’

‘He really was awfully kind, you know. He gave me this - “ Bilbo took out a package from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing a brooch worked with intricate designs of a purple gardenia. “He says he was quite inspired by my speech the other day on the beauty of my father’s gardenias, and was moved to craft this brooch for me last night! Although how he found the time to craft it I will never guess. Look, isn’t it beautiful?” he said excitedly, brandishing the brooch towards Thorin.

Although Thorin had been regarding him with a rather indulgent smile up until this point, as Bilbo proffered the brooch towards him, the smile fell from his face and his eyes seemed to harden.

“A fine piece of work indeed,” he said, with a blank expression on his face, and made no move to take the brooch.

Bilbo frowned at him. “You don’t want to take a closer look?” he pressed. “Why, I met Dori on the way here and showed him it, and he said it was marvellous indeed - in fact, I could hardly get him to part with it and return it to me, so taken was he with its beautiful craftsmanship! I did not know Oddvar was such a masterful craftsman. Perhaps I should commission him to make a gardening pail for my new garden. Something not too ostentatious, something simple and robust, that I could use…”

“I will make the pail for you,” Thorin said firmly. He dropped his pipe carelessly onto the floor and leaned closer.

“Master Baggins,” he said earnestly, his hands closing over Bilbo’s and hiding the brooch from view, as if he could not bear to look upon it, “I beg you to remember, you must be careful. Remember that there are many dwarrows who seek to win your favour and take advantage of you.”

Bilbo blinked up at him, and decided the appropriate reaction would be to give a nervous laugh. “That’s absurd,” he said. “Oddvar’s not - he’s not like the other dwarrows. He’s not trying to gain my favour in an underhanded way. Although I’ve only known him for three days now, I consider myself a good judge of character, you know. He’s - I’m sure he’s just being friendly and trying to get me to feel comfortable here, that’s all.”

Yavanna knows he’s done more towards that quarter than some I might name , he thought, although he immediately regretted his spiteful thoughts.

Thorin’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t say anything in reply, and leaned back into his chair. Bilbo felt the mood rather spoiled by this, and he stared into the fire, the earlier ease of his words lost. There was a silence for a good long while after that, not the comfortable silences of dinner, but a heavy one, heavy with words unspoken and unwilling.

As a result, Bilbo excused himself rather earlier than he would have liked. As he rose to leave, and stood by the door to say goodnight, Thorin abruptly came round the table and laid a hand on his arm.

“I apologise, Master Baggins,” he rumbled, and Bilbo felt a little dizzy from his proximity. “I must admit, my concern for you sometimes manifests in unpleasant ways. I am sorry if I caused you any discomfort.”

He had a contrite expression on his face, and Bilbo found himself softening. He patted Thorin’s arm rather awkwardly. “Well, no harm done, I suppose,” he said, shaking his head. “Just, I think you’re completely wrong about Oddvar, you know. He’s a good dwarf. Or I assume you know so, seeing as you’re the one who employed him to guard me, after all.”

“Dís was the one who recommended him to me,” Thorin said, looking still unhappy about the whole affair. “If it were up to me…”

“Yes, yes, I know, if it were up to you I’d be surrounded by four dwarrows watching over my every movement, every hour of the day,” Bilbo replied, smiling and meaning it as a joke, but he sighed as Thorin’s expression became even more forlorn and crestfallen. Wishing to end their evening not on so dour a note, he patted Thorin’s arm again - a rather patronising gesture, he now thought - and gazed up at him.

“I’ll see you next week then, Thorin?” he said quietly, deciding that perhaps, just this once, he could ignore his inner resolution to refer to Thorin by his kingly epithet. True to form, as Thorin’s name left his lips, the eyes of the king in question became warm and liquid as he looked intently down upon Bilbo. Thorin opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then he seemed to think the better of it, and smiled at Bilbo again. It was one of his genuine smiles, Bilbo had learned. Thorin’s smiles were few and hard-won, and once - long ago - before the whole gold-sickness debacle - Bilbo had made it a secret project of his to chronicle all of Thorin’s smiles.

Not many people noticed, but Thorin had crow’s feet lining the edge of his eyes, despite his relatively younger age, but perhaps not so unexpected if one considered that he had been orphaned young and left to fend for his people with few of his family left beside him. When Thorin smiled, the lines by his eyes would crinkle, ever so slightly, so while his mouth barely moved, one could tell he was smiling, if one knew him well, just by looking at his eyes.

It kindled all sorts of funny feelings inside Bilbo, deeply-buried feelings he had no desire to explore, so he quickly dismissed them and left the rooms with a hurried goodnight to Thorin.

Oddvar was standing outside Thorin’s rooms, chatting amiably with another of the guards. They both snapped to attention and looked rather guilty as Bilbo opened the door and stepped out, but although Thorin looked rather severely at the two of them, Bilbo simply laughed and gestured to Oddvar to follow him. He had learnt by now that Oddvar had a cheerful and voluble personality which was difficult to extinguish.

As they walked slowly down the passageway towards Bilbo’s rooms, Bilbo turned his head slightly to look back, an almost unconscious motion. The last he saw of Thorin was that large, regal figure, standing outside the doors to his rooms, one hand braced on the door frame, and his eyes hooded as he stared after Bilbo’s retreating back.

He was lit from behind by the firelight, and Bilbo had to suppress an involuntary shiver. Perhaps those feelings he had spoken of before were not so deeply-buried, after all.

As Bilbo had told Thorin, the location where his garden would be was in a small unused room which had previously been used for storage, and as such was located near the edge of the mountain to keep the temperature of the room low. There was a window situated quite high up on the wall, but Balin had told him that with the right angling of mirrors and the like, the chamber would be sufficiently well-lit for plants to grow.

Right now, the room was empty of any sort of equipment needed to set up his garden. The floor was paved with stone, so when he had first inspected the room the day after his dinner with Thorin, he had decided that the first order of business would be to lay down a deep layer of soil after stripping away the stone. With some careful planning, he was sure that the room could be turned into a nice little hobbit garden indeed.

When the materials arrived from Dale and the Elvenking’s Halls, Bilbo set to work arranging the garden. Although he had insisted that the builders take Erebor’s reconstruction as their priority, Balin had told him in no uncertain terms that Thorin himself had ordered them to focus on fulfilling Bilbo’s demands. After all, Balin had said reasonably, there were plenty of other builders to work on the restoration, and a few bodies would hardly be missed.

Thus it was that the architects and workers had toiled hard the past few days to deliver on Bilbo’s vision, and as a result the previously-dark and dank room was now filled with a warm, soft light filtering in from the window up high and reflecting off mirrors placed strategically on the walls. A path had been clearly paved based on Bilbo’s blueprint, and was surrounded on all sides by a deep, thick layer of soil suitable even for planting trees.

Bilbo smiled a pleased smile as he felt the sensation of the cracks in the paving stones under his feet. It was a welcome feeling, reminiscent of his own garden. Although he had not yet been born when Bag End was being built, the house having been a gift from Bungo to Belladonna to mark their wedding, he did remember how the garden had evolved over time. He remembered how, with each birthday of Bilbo’s, Bungo had laid down new paving stones to newer areas of the garden, and encouraged Bilbo to arrange the new plot of land as suited his imagination and his whims.

A few days ago Bilbo had written to Hamfast and told him of his decision to stay at Erebor permanently, where he belonged. He had added that he was leaving Bag End to his cousins Drogo and Primula Baggins, who had been newlyweds ere his abrupt evacuation from the Shire, and that Belladonna’s set of silver spoons and china set were to be given to the Gamgees as thanks for their years of loyal service.

It had also given Bilbo great pleasure to write that he wished to, in all sincerity and with all his love, donate to his favourite cousin Lobelia Sackville-Baggins that lovely figurine of a female wolfhound which had sat atop his mantelpiece next to his silver spoons for twenty years ever since it had been given him for his thirty-first birthday by his grandmother Laura Baggins, as he had found the resemblance between dearest Lobelia and that majestic figurine most uncanny. She had been admiring it most assiduously, after all, the twenty times she had invited herself to his humble abode to gently remonstrate with him about his life choices and his besmirchment of the Baggins name, and he was sure that she would make far better use of it than he!

The one thing he would truly regret the most about not returning to Bag End was that he would never get to see Lobelia’s reaction. Oh, perhaps she would keel over in shock, and that would be one problem solved for the rest of the inhabitants of the Shire. Well, a hobbit could certainly dream, couldn’t he.

He had also written to Hamfast and asked for some seeds from his garden, specifically seeds from Bungo’s gardenias, the barberry bushes around the edge of his garden, and some from the artichokes which had won him the Hobbiton village prize three years in a row. The missive had been delivered by raven, a large black bird named Linouac, who had side-eyed him most alarmingly at first before bending her head and snatching the message from him with her large claws. Bilbo hoped she wouldn’t give Hamfast too severe a shock when she delivered his letter, and hopefully he would receive his seeds from Hamfast in a month or so.

In the meantime, he had obtained several seeds from Bard and Thranduil. From Dale he had received simpler plants, broad beans and figs and sweet peas, which had been taken from Dale’s budding farmlands. Being the contrary arse that he was, Thranduil had sent simple herbs like parsley, sage and thyme, but coupled with exotic flowers completely unsuited to growing in limited sunlight. Bilbo sighed, and set those aside for a future project.

Oddvar had wandered into the garden after him, and was watching him curiously as he rooted around in the ground, placing the parsley seeds on top of the soil and sprinkling with a light dash of water from his pail. It was a beautiful shiny new watering pail, which had been delivered by Dwalin a day ago, and shaped, apparently, by Thorin. Although Bilbo feigned distress and concern that he had been an unnecessary diversion of Thorin’s valuable time, secretly he had felt rather happy at the gift. Evidently, when Thorin made a promise, he kept it, and Bilbo had carefully tucked the pail away in his closet for use when the seeds arrived.

“This is an odd-looking garden indeed,” Oddvar said mildly, after watching Bilbo trundle happily around his garden for a while.

“Odd-looking in what way?” Bilbo asked, making a mark on his blueprint where he intended to set up a crystal light.

Oddvar looked around with a faintly puzzled look on his face. “Well… It is not a dwarven garden, that is all. Nor is it an elven one, or a garden after the fashion of men. In our travels here from Ered Luin we saw many gardens along the way, many decorated with statues of stone and elaborate fountains, and in the case of men, strange deformed carvings which were intended to resemble goblins - or g-nomes, as they were called. Although you have had dwarven builders working on this day and night for the past few days, I see that you do not intend to place any of such decorations in your garden.”

“Well, Master Oddvar,” Bilbo said merrily, “this is a hobbit garden, might I remind you, not a dwarf garden, or an elf garden, or indeed one built by men. We hobbits are simple folk, and we see no need to augment the natural beauty brought by our fruits and vegetables and flowers, with artificial ornaments. No, keep it plain and keep it simple, is what my father always told me, and I intend to follow his advice.”

Oddvar still seemed ill at ease with the garden, and poked suspiciously at one of the plain walls. “Are you sure you would not like a carving done into the walls?” he pressed. “Perhaps one telling of your riddles with Smaug, or your forays against the spiders of the Mirkwood, or your prowess upon the battlefield of Erebor? You know I am a smith myself, and I am myself loath to leave so bare and valuable a canvas empty.”

“Well, my garden won’t appeal to many a dwarf, I’ll wager,” said Bilbo loftily, “but all the same I think I’ll keep it as it is. There were no gaudy stone statues or self-aggrandising carvings in my garden in Bag End, and I rather think I’ll keep it that way.”

Oddvar shrugged, and leant against the wall next to the entranceway. “It is your garden, after all, Master Bilbo,” he said, smiling, “and while I confess I do not understand the charm an unadorned chamber holds, if it holds value to you, then it is yours to do with as you please. Only - do not expect many a dwarf to seek this garden out at their leisure, is all.”

“You might be surprised,” Bilbo sniffed, and turned back to planting his begonias. Privately he agreed with Oddvar as to his last point - many of the dwarrows he had spoken to regarding his project had been skeptical, and often over-solicitous, regarding his decision to keep his garden to more of a hobbit style. Even Ori had tried to subtly suggest placing a small effigy of himself or his parents on a pedestal in his garden, an alarming notion Bilbo had immediately dismissed.

Well, many of the dwarrows, except for Thorin. Thorin’s easy acceptance of his decision, and indeed his broaching of the subject, had surprised Bilbo greatly. He had not expected Thorin to take his side in the matter, and it had been a pleasant surprise when he had done so.

Bilbo frowned to himself. It was a mystery, that was for sure, and one he found difficult to penetrate.

Oh, well. There was work to do on his garden, and Thorin was a mysterious, implacable, absolutely frustrating creature, as he always had been. Bilbo resolved to turn his attention to other matters, and indeed spent the rest of his afternoon quietly and happily tending to his burgeoning garden.

The next time Oddvar joined Bilbo in his garden, he had a gift for Bilbo.

“Oh, Oddvar! This is absolutely lovely!” Bilbo exclaimed, holding up the bracelet to the light. Privately he thought it a tad cumbersome and heavy to wear, but the roses carved out of amethyst on its clasp were truly a thing of wonder. He squinted at the intricate designs on the bracelet, which was fashioned after a twisting vine with red blossoms of roses and other fanciful, imagined plants (Oddvar was clearly no connoisseur of growing things). Then he realised that, like the brooch of gardenias, there were the cirth runes for ‘o’ and ‘w’ carved minutely into the gold.

“Oddvar,” he said sternly, “how have you had time to make yet another present for me? You barely leave my sight! Have you been shirking your duties? Or, perhaps, exerting yourself while you were supposed to be asleep? I cannot decide which is the lesser sin.” For Oddvar only left Bilbo’s side with another silent, sombre guard in his place during the night and early hours of the morning.

The dwarf shuffled his feet awkwardly, suddenly refusing to make eye contact with him. His normally ruddy cheeks flushed even further, and he tightened his jaw, as if unwilling to speak.

“It was no great trouble,” he said at last, through gritted teeth. “I… I already had the mould for the bracelet ready. It was a simple matter to pour the gold into the mould and add the roses. I hope you like it.” He glared fiercely at the ground, and suddenly Bilbo was reminded of Kíli when he had been caught trying to sneak his ‘pets’ into Bilbo’s room for safekeeping. He could not help but laugh at the image.

“I forgive you, Oddvar, though there was no great offence to forgive,” he said playfully, and dared to rest his hand on Oddvar’s arm. “’Tis a beautiful and fine piece of work. I appreciate it very much. Thank you.” To show just how much he appreciated it, he lifted his hand and slipped the bracelet over his fingers and onto his wrist, where the metal lay cool against his skin.

Oddvar looked up sharply. Bilbo started, wondering if something was wrong, but suddenly Oddvar’s face smoothed over, a mischievous smile formed on his face.

“Don’t I get a reward, then?” he asked cheekily. “For my hard work?”

The twinkle in his eye was so reminiscent of Bofur’s that Bilbo had to stifle another laugh. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and shook his head with a smile.

“Alright then, you insolent dwarf,” he said, “I wonder what reward you demand?”

“A hug,” Oddvar replied, after a short deliberation. “I have heard from those in the know that your hugs are a great treasure, given few and far between, and I would consider it a fine payment for my hard work indeed!”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows at the audacious request. A hug? Why, the gall of this dwarf, to ask for such intimacies! But, then again, it was such a beautiful piece of work, and he did very much like Oddvar and his cheer and the idiosyncrasies of his odd personality… Surely a hug would be no great imposition. A hug between friends, that was all, nothing harmless at all.

“Alright,” he said, with a put-upon sigh. “Come here, you big lummock.” He lifted his arms and wrapped them around Oddvar, who smelled, oddly enough, of smoked ham and a little bit of camembert cheese.

There was a sudden thud from behind him, and Bilbo startled, but Oddvar’s grasp was tight around him.

“What was that?” he said sharply, when he had successfully wriggled out from Oddvar’s hold. “Did you hear that? It sounded like someone - ” He turned around, fully intent on marching into the corridor, where the sound had originated.

“MUSHROOMS!”

Bilbo jumped about a foot in the air, and spun around to face Oddvar again, who had uttered the proclamation. He had a slightly panicked look on his face.

“What?” Bilbo exclaimed.

Appearing to compose himself, Oddvar offered him a quick smile. “Mushrooms,” he said in a more reasonable tone. “I was craving mushrooms. Shall we stop by the marketplace and see if Fathi is selling those marvellous mushrooms we sampled the other day?”

Bilbo frowned, and moved towards the corridor. “Just a moment,” he said, “I thought I heard - “

“No!” Oddvar shouted, grabbing his shoulder and stopping him where he stood. “I - I want mushrooms now. I am urgently craving Fathi’s mushrooms. Please, Master Bilbo, I am almost fainting from hunger. Shall we go to the marketplace? It might have just been a cave crawler, or one of those awful gredbyg, after all.”

Bilbo looked at him dubiously. Perhaps he was a trifle daft, a few peas short of a pod - or perhaps he did simply have a sudden craving for mushrooms. Bilbo himself did occasionally experience sudden desires for food, especially when the dish was as good as Fathi’s Fried Frostcaps…

“Very well,” Bilbo said at last, although he cast one last suspicious look at the corridor. The journey with the Company had taught him to ever be on his guard, and to always trust his instincts, but he supposed that if Oddvar, a trained guard of Erebor, hand-selected by Dís and Thorin to guard him, had dismissed any danger from that quarter… He might be making a mountain out of a molehill if he insisted on finding danger where there was none. It was probably some beastly denizen of the mountain, as Oddvar had mentioned, against which the dwarrows had been fighting a desperate battle recently.

Well, now he was craving mushrooms. Oh dear, he hoped there was still time for a visit to the marketplace before he was due at Thorin’s for their dinner that night…

“Ereborean smoked ham, as requested!” Bombur exclaimed with a flourish, setting the silver-plated dish down onto Thorin’s table.

“However did you manage to find smoked ham, Bombur?” Bilbo said, with a delighted smile. “Bofur was complaining earlier that there was none to be found in the marketplace earlier!”

Bombur laughed, a deep, booming sound which send tremors through the table. “I’m afraid that was all me, Bilbo,” he admitted merrily. “I bought the last of the smoked hams this morning - the lady Dís was craving sandwiches of ham and cheese for breakfast, and would not be put off by the knowledge that she would be depriving the rest of the citizens of such a necessity for the rest of the day! Besides,” he added with a wink, “I have heard from a funny little dwarf of your propensity for our hams. I thought it would be a nice treat for you, Bilbo.”

“Yes, Dís often has these strange whims and fancies of her. A mighty troublesome thing they are sometimes, too,” grumbled Thorin, as he poked half-heartedly on the salad Bilbo had pointedly piled on his plate.

“Don’t think I don’t see you trying to shove the cucumbers into your pockets, Your Majesty,” Bilbo said sternly, pointing at Thorin with an accusatory fork. Thorin looked up guiltily, and slid the cucumbers back onto his plate, frowning unhappily at having been thwarted. He had been grumpy ever since he had opened the door to admit Bilbo. However, he had gently rebuffed any attempts on Bilbo’s part to inquire as to the cause of his chagrin, and had also made a clear effort to pull himself out of his black mood. Bilbo decided it must have been a difficult day on the throne tending to the requests of the people - a malady which could only be cured by good food and good company, both of which Bilbo was determined he would provide this evening.

As Bombur bustled off to the kitchen to fetch the last dish, Bilbo assiduously shovelled more of Thorin’s favourite foods onto his plate and made sure to include plenty of mutton to make up for the salad Thorin had finally consented to eating. The affectionate smile granted him by Thorin in return more than made up for his bad mood earlier, although he still seemed perturbed, a frown creasing his thick brows and casting a shadow over his eyes.

“How is your work on the garden proceeding, Master Baggins?” Thorin said, and Bilbo swallowed to dismiss the twinge in his chest at being addressed in so formal a manner. He supposed it was only right, since he was now referring to Thorin by his kingly title, that Thorin utilise a more distant manner of naming him. But just because he knew it to be right hardly made it feel right to him, if he was being completely honest with himself…

And now Thorin was staring at him in confusion, having received no answer to his question while Bilbo had been brooding on inconsequential matters. Yavanna, Bilbo really was going senile, and at the tender age of sixty-two-or-something years.

“Things proceed apace,” he answered quickly. “Your dwarven builders are certainly efficient - we had the lighting system up and the soil laid down in a matter of days! I was really quite impressed with your workers’ productivity. I have begun work on the planting. Did you know Thranduil sent me orchids? Orchids, I ask you! What a ridiculous notion!”

At Thorin’s blank look of incomprehension, Bilbo sighed exasperatedly and clucked his tongue. “Orchids,” he explained patiently, “are most pernickety and finicky plants when grown outside their natural habitat. They require much careful adjustment of their surroundings, and I have little expertise in the growing of orchids, so the seeds were practically useless to me! … Sit down, Your Highness, this is not a matter meriting your intervention, although I know you’re practically raring for an excuse to tussle with Thranduil,” Bilbo said peevishly, interrupting Thorin’s attempt to stand and leave the table.

Thorin growled and seized his fork and knife. He carved brutally into the mutton steak on his plate, as if imagining the cut of meat to be Thranduil’s thin, beautiful, vicious face, and chomped ferociously on a piece of the mutton he brought to his mouth. Bilbo winced.

“That blasted elf,” he grumbled, once he had satisfied his need for catharsis. “He probably intended insult through it. You know he never does anything without considering the consequences and every inference that can possibly be drawn from his actions.”

Bilbo sighed to hide his grin at having successfully diverted Thorin’s attention from whatever had been troubling him that day - Thranduil was always a safe target to divert Thorin’s anger onto, since it was a visceral, satisfying hatred the dwarven king had for him.

“Well, you know what he’s like,” Bilbo remarked casually in reply. “Once I have settled the main part of my garden, I will plant his orchids in the centre and perhaps invite him to my garden to see for himself precisely how they are flourishing. I think I will write to Elrond to ask if he has lore-masters familiar in the art of orchid-growing whose expertise he is willing to lend to me…”

At that moment, Bombur trotted back into the room.

“And Fathi’s Fried Frostcaps, as requested,” he declared with a triumphant smile, placing the plate of the most exquisite mushrooms Bilbo had ever seen in front of him. Bilbo hurriedly placed his hand over his mouth to keep himself from drooling, although it was a very near thing.

“Bombur!” he cried, in awe. “You are a magician. How did you possibly know that I was craving Fathi’s mushrooms?”

Bombur winked mischievously at him. “No magic, I’m afraid,” he said, “just a very well-informed little spy.”

Thorin smiled obligingly. “Then we must know the name of this spy, so we know who to thank for satisfying Master Bagginses’ palate this evening,” he said, laying his hand on Bombur’s arm. “Or is that to stay a secret?”

“No secret, Your Majesty,” said Bombur, with a twinkle. “Oddvar, son of Vidar, is his name - he has been most diligently giving his attention to Bilbo’s needs, and indeed it was he who informed me that, due to an excess of time spent in his garden this afternoon, he and Bilbo were unfortunately unable to procure some of Fathi’s famed mushrooms for their consumption before Bilbo was due here for dinner. In fact,” he remarked, whipping out another plate from behind him, “I am to take this plate of mushrooms to him as well, to thank him for his information. Enjoy your meal, Bilbo, Your Majesty.” With that, he swept off with the same unnatural speed and litheness which had so surprised Bilbo upon initial acquaintance with the rotund cook.

“Oddvar,” Thorin muttered, and Bilbo was surprised to see that the dispirited frown had returned to his face.

Then Bilbo remembered that Thorin had been suspicious of Oddvar their previous dinner - inordinately suspicious, in Bilbo’s opinion - and he sought to hastily divert Thorin’s attention, to avoid further distress on Thorin’s part.

“Won’t you try a mushroom?” he said quickly, and scooped up a large spoonful of the aforementioned fungi, gesturing in a rather frantic way towards Thorin’s mouth. “They’re really quite good! I spoke to Fathi yesterday evening, and he said he was doing a roaring business. He picked up the technique in the Shire, you see, and actually, now that I come to think of it, I remember old Bodo Proudfoot’s family recipe for fried mushrooms being rather the same sort of thing - “

A swift touch to his wrist stayed his movement suddenly, and stopped him in his ramble. Bilbo looked at the thick hand on his wrist with a growing sense of foreboding, and indeed Thorin’s hand lay on the bracelet forged by Oddvar that now ringed his wrist.

“How came you by this?” Thorin said, and his voice was curiously soft, devoid of emotion. Bilbo looked warily at him.

“A gift from a friend,” he hedged. “Look, Thorin - “

“The maker’s mark is unfamiliar to me,” Thorin continued, his hand on Bilbo’s wrist gentle, but stern, “but I recognise the runes. This is another gift from Oddvar, is it not?”

“Well, yes,” Bilbo admitted, seeing that the cat was out of the hobbit hole. “He gave it to me earlier this afternoon.”

“I see.”

Thorin’s expression was blank, and he removed his hand from Bilbo’s wrist. The motion left Bilbo feeling strangely bereft.

There was a silence for a few moments, another of those tense silences that seemed to punctuate all of their recent interactions. Thorin ate quietly, keeping his eyes on his plate, the clinking of his cutlery inordinately loud in the quiet of the room.

At last he spoke, and he seemed to find the words difficult to shape. “Master Baggins,” he said, his tone steady and very, very calm, “Oddvar is a good dwarf, as far as Dís and Dwalin were aware. But I must warn you still to be careful. There might be others you know not of - some other plot - “ He seemed to lose his eloquence and his courage then, and his mouth set in an unhappy line.

Bilbo tried a carefree laugh, although it came out sounding twisted and odd. “You need not worry,” he said, and his voice was strangely brittle. “As you said, Oddvar is a good dwarf. He means me no harm - why, he is just a friend to me! He is not cut from the same cloth as Zdenka, or Ardris, or Wili. Why are you so concerned, Your Majesty? Are you worried he is trying to court me? What an absurd idea!” he added, meaning it as a joke to defuse the tension.

A heavy silence, and Thorin averted his eyes.

Bilbo laughed again, but this time it was a shrill laugh. “You cannot mean that!” he said incredulously. He stood from the table and put his hands on his hips, suddenly feeling unaccountably angry with Thorin, this contrary, insufferable king who saw enemies at every corner and sought to warn him off one of the few friends he had in Erebor - no, Bilbo would not have it, no he would most certainly not!

“Oddvar is my friend, and no more,” he said severely. “Any carnal aspect to our relationship is, I quite assure you, quite out of the question! And further to the point, Master Dwarf - “ here he quite expected guards to charge into the room and clap him in irons for his insolence, but when no such guards were forthcoming, he forged on: “ - you have no right to control who I can and cannot befriend! You may be King Under the Mountain, Thorin, but I can assure you, I am a grown hobbit and can choose my company as I please. Even if it be to eschew your company in favour of that of Oddvar, son of Vidar!”

Thorin stood, towering over Bilbo, his face now a mask of anger and wroth. “I can assure you, Master Hobbit,” he thundered, “that I have every right, as your king, and the leader of the Company with whom you travelled to Erebor, my kingdom!”

They stood, toe to toe, staring furiously into each others’ eyes, but Bilbo refused to submit, and suddenly it was as if something broke inside Thorin, for he turned and lifted one hand to cover his face. Bilbo could no longer see his eyes.

“If - If that’s who you want, what you want - I want the best for you,” he said, softly, forlornly. “I want you to be safe.”

And I want you to be mine, Bilbo thought, with a sudden, bitter, agonising passion, but we can’t all get what we want, can we?

Completely incensed, and utterly finished with Thorin, Bilbo stomped angrily from the room and slammed the door behind him.

“Dull-witted, brainless, fucking dwarrows!” he screamed, as soon as he had reached his quarters and shut the door firmly in a very bewildered Oddvar’s face. Futilely he slammed his fists against the wall of his chamber, but as they were made of solid rock, there was no satisfying feeling of the wall giving way under his fists afforded to him. When pounding against the wall brought him no comfort, he flopped down on his bed and tore at his sheets, almost crying in frustration.

Finally, when thrashing about and screaming his throat raw had exhausted him, he lay silently on his bed and thought. He thought, mainly of Thorin, and how Thorin’s hand had trembled as he had held it over his face.

What an unutterably complex, and completely frustrating dwarf! More intensely than ever Bilbo longed for a return to their relationship before it had been destroyed by the gold sickness. More deeply than ever Bilbo regretted his betrayal and his use of the Arkenstone, for it seemed to have formed some unassailable rift between the two of them. Bilbo did not know if Thorin could ever bring himself to trust Bilbo again.

Quietly, and almost unconsciously, his hand crept to his old robes, which he kept on his dresser beside his bed. The cold touch of metal on his fingers soothed him, and on a sudden impulse, he grasped the set of rags which had doubled as his clothes and wrested them to lay across his lap.

The little gold ring lay in the tangle of brown cloth between his legs. Suddenly he very much wished to put it on, to turn invisible and escape from Erebor, to escape from the net of anger and pain which had drawn itself close around Thorin and he. To leave for the green hills of the Shire where he belonged. Because, try as he might, he would never be a dwarf, and Thorin would never be a hobbit, and if he remained in Erebor, surely he would wither away. It would a simple matter indeed, to put on the ring and disappear - he could pack his things in a jiffy, they were laid out neatly in his room after all - put on his pack and run to Dale, where he could surely sneak onto one of the myriad boats sailing to the Brandywine -

It would be simpler even, to put on the ring and creep into Thorin’s chambers, where he surely was, still, to approach that broad, strong back and place his clever hobbit fingers around the hilt of Sting - one thrust, and he would be rid of the source of his unhappiness in one fell swoop -

Bilbo slammed his fist against his head, and tasted blood in his mouth. The copper tang helped him recover his senses, and remembering the thoughts that had been running through his head, he almost fell over himself scrambling backwards and away from - what? Himself? He knew not. How such vile thoughts had entered his head -

His hand closed unwittingly over a small, inconspicuous lump in the pile of brown rags, and he blinked.

Slowly, hesitantly, Bilbo drew the acorn out of the pocket of the robe, and stared at it.

Why, he remembered this well - an acorn from Beorn’s garden, was it not? Was it not the acorn he had presented to Thorin, in the midst of the king’s gold sickness - the acorn he had told Thorin would find its place in the garden of Bag End?

Slowly the fog of anger and confusion began to clear from his mind. His fingers gripped tightly around the small round seed in his hands, and suddenly it was clear to him what he must do.

Leaping out of bed, he went to the door and peered out. True to form, Oddvar had been replaced by Bilbo’s nighttime guard, a surly, unspeaking dwarf who had not deigned to give his name. This dwarf preferred to position himself facing the corridor that ran outside the royal rooms. As such, he did not notice as the door of Bilbo’s room swung slightly outwards, leaving a gap just big enough for a small-bodied hobbit, and then swung close silently.

Bilbo knew from experience how to avoid attention from others when sneaking around under the cloak of invisibility accorded him by his ring. Thus it was with little difficulty that he reached the small, inconspicuous door that marked the entrance to his hobbit garden.

Hurrying to the centre of the room, where the moonlight from the window reflected directly onto a large, deep plot of soil, Bilbo squatted and pulled the acorn from his pocket. Here was where he had intended for the orchids sent by Thranduil to grow, as the gaudy centrepiece of his garden, a sort of subtle triumphant ‘fuck you’ gesture to the Elvenking, but now he had a different plan.

With trembling fingers he laid the acorn in the ground and covered it with soil. Beside the plot of land was neatly placed his lovely little golden pail, carved by Thorin, and greatly treasured by him. In it still was water taken from the springs that fed into the depths of Erebor. Bilbo sprinkled the spot where the acorn had been planted with water from the pail, and smoothed his fingers gently over the soil.

There , he thought, feeling a lump form in his throat. At least I will have something of mine, and Thorin’s, to treasure. For the acorn had been as much a part of Thorin as it had been a part of Bilbo, a shared trinket that had represented their friendship and fondness for each other.

Bilbo slipped back into his bed that night, and dreamt of Thorin’s smile.

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