Archive of Our Own

“So here’s the thing,” Bofur carefully said at last, and Bilbo felt a cold spike of dread plunge into his stomach. After a full half-hour of circling around some point of contention unknown but palpable to Bilbo, posing faux-casual questions about crafts and wares and hobbit heritage that all seemed utterly inane a full year after the Battle of the Five Armies, it seemed Bofur was finally coming to the point.

Surely only one sort of bad news warranted such delay.

“Who?” Bilbo demanded urgently, his heart both racing and frozen all at once. “Who’s hurt? What’s happened?”

“No one, nothing!” Bofur said quickly, holding both hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Everyone’s fine and all’s well as last I heard, I swear!”

Bilbo sighed in equal relief and exasperation, but still found himself thoroughly out of patience. “Right. Good. Well, that’s- that’s awful of you, giving me a scare like that! Stop fluttering around whatever news you have and tell me, then, before I can think of something worse to have befallen us!”

Bofur winced, which was not encouraging, and did not speak fast enough to stop Bilbo’s worrying. More orcs? More spiders? Their alliances had failed? Another dragon was attacking? Dreadful possibilities raced through Bilbo’s mind at dizzying speed, until Bofur’s next words cut right through his mounting panic like Sting through spiderwebs:

“It’s you!”

Bilbo blinked, trying to make sense of that for a moment. “...Me?” Terrible understanding struck him a second later, and he said very cautiously, “Is this about the, ah, actions I took before the battle? I know Thorin retracted the banishment, but I did still-”

“No, no, that’s all water under the bridge,” Bofur hastened to reassure him, which was certainly a relief, but left Bilbo even more confused than before. Bofur blew out a frustrated breath, but his fidgeting hands betrayed his true agitation. “It’s… Alright, let me try it like this: Bilbo, you’re not a dwarf.”

Despite waiting a few beats, no more information seemed to be forthcoming. Bilbo finally replied dryly, “Yes, I had noticed.”

“‘Course,” Bofur said with a nervous laugh. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Bilbo. We’re mighty fond o’ you by now, you know, what with you savin’ our hides so many times and bein’ such a loyal friend and... Anyway, the other nobles are arrivin’ from the Blue Mountains in a few weeks. Stuffy lot, you know, twice as bad as Dori in a huff and as flexible as granite, ‘specially when it comes to modern ideas about changin’ our ancient traditions. And, uh, it’s been a month since it warmed up again and Bard’s folk all went down to Dale.”

A dwarf, raised on direct opinions and bold speech, might have been confused by the juxtaposition of such seemingly unrelated facts. But Bilbo was a Baggins of Bag End, and he knew how to read between the lines for the true things someone would never dare say to one’s face, but would present in the middle of a flowery bundle of words like an orange lillyhatred amid zinniasaffection.

“...And I’m not a dwarf,” Bilbo repeated in quiet realization. He was the only non-dwarf remaining in the reclaimed kingdom after the harsh winter, and though he begrudgingly respected the secrecy of Dwarvish lore and languages at the Company’s insistence, it seemed that even those unbreakable bonds of fellowship would not be enough for the very traditional incoming nobles.

Bilbo was no longer welcome in the Mountain.

Before Bofur could say something truly unbearable - like gently offering his sympathies - Bilbo clapped his hands together and did his utmost to summon some false cheer. “Well! I must say it’s been an excellent adventure, indeed! I’m sure I need to be getting on back to my garden anyway - probably overrun by weeds by now, after so long away - so I’ll be off to the Shire, I suppose. I shan’t take advantage of your very kind hospitality any-”

“No, no! You’re not a dwarf yet!” Bofur loudly interrupted.

“...‘Yet’?” Bilbo repeated incredulously. “What on earth do you mean, ‘yet’? I’ll not be undergoing any sort of magic trickery from Gandalf, and I mean it! I’ll have you know I’m perfectly happy as a hobbit, and-”

“No magic, though I do think you’d look mighty fetchin’ with a beard,” Bofur said with a hint of his usual humor, though it quickly faded again as he continued. “It’s not exactly popular, but we’ve had the odd outsider married into a clan, or even an abandoned human child adopted in a few times... What I mean to say is, legally you’re not a dwarf. But I can help you change that! And then you can stay in the mountain!”

Preoccupied with the possible implications of being legally a dwarf, Bilbo did not immediately respond with equal enthusiasm as Bofur clearly hoped.

“Right. Yes. Um… Bofur. Is this… a marriage proposal?” Bilbo asked very, very delicately.

Honestly, he ought to take offense at the look on Bofur’s face. If it wasn’t such a relief to see he might have shouted about such unwarranted repulsion, but Bilbo graciously let Bofur speak instead. The dwarf continued grimacing as he scratched under his lucky hat and sighed, “I’m makin’ a real mess of this. No, not marriage, ‘course not! Like I’d get in the way of your moony-eyed pining over the grumpiest bastard east of the Fant'ânAnduin; a major river.”

Bilbo felt heat rush to his ears, but as socially adept as any gentlehobbit had to be, he just lifted an eyebrow and said evenly, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“Sure,” Bofur snorted, not fooled in the slightest, but he let the old argument go without further comment. “No. I’m, uh… Well.” He shuffled his boots and gave Bilbo a nervous but genuine smile at last. “I guess I’m just lettin’ you know that I would be very proud to call you my brother in a legal sense and not just a battle sense, if you’d like to take me and Bombur up on the offer.”

“Oh Bofur, that’s very kind of you! And Bombur, too, of course,” Bilbo added with a return smile.

“So you’ll accept?” Bofur said eagerly, and though he was plainly excited, it still came out a shade too quickly. With all the experience of an older cousin to countless mischievous Tooks, Bilbo’s eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion.

“...What’s the catch?” he asked warily.

“What, don’t you trust me?” Bofur joked, His slightly-too-wide smile deflated when Bilbo just quirked an eyebrow at him. “Alright, so, there may be a few conditions. Being subject to dwarven law, and swearing lifelong loyalty to the new family, and of course there’s a bit of a ceremony- Look, what matters is you’d get to stay, and you could finally learn Khuz-”

“You dirty cheat!” a sudden voice cried, and Bilbo and Bofur both spun around to see Ori at the end of the hall, clutching a bundle of papers and rapidly growing red in the face. “You- you scoundrel! That’s cheating and you know it!”

“Cheating?” Bilbo echoed, at the same time Bofur protested, “It is not!”

“Balin brought this up ten minutes ago and yet I find you here already trying to poach Bilbo before everyone even knows!” Ori shouted, stomping up to stand beside Bofur and jab a finger at his chest, looking very much like Dori.

“It’s not poaching if the rest of you lot are too slow to extend an offer-” Bofur tried to argue, but Bilbo cleared his throat very pointedly until both dwarves looked at him again.

“I think one of you had better explain. Properly,” he said firmly.

Bofur and Ori exchanged a look, and then reluctantly for beckoned Bilbo to follow them.

— 𓂃🖊 —

In the year since the great battle to reclaim Erebor, the Company often gathered for meals in their own private hall adjacent to the royal quarters. Usually, their long table was raucous with conversation and laughter, but tonight, all fourteen faces were drawn and grim. A quarter already knew why Thorin had called them forth, and the rest were nauseous with worry over what new problem could possibly be so concerning.

“The Council has ruled that no non-dwarves may be permitted permanent residency in the Mountain,” Thorin announced without any sort of introduction or small talk.

The Company burst into cries of outrage immediately, and Bilbo had rarely been so grateful to be among dwarves, who as a whole tended to say exactly what they thought and get straight to the point about it. At least the awful anticipation was over, though a new dread settled into his gut in its place.

“They can’t!” Dori near-snarled, slamming a usually-gentle hand onto the table and silencing the rest. “Bilbo has earned the right to this mountain more than any of those gilded popinjays!”

“Agreed,” Balin said calmly, raising a hand in a silent plea for patience. “Which is why we have already found a solution, as long as Bilbo is agreeable.”

All eyes turned his way, and Bilbo swallowed once, squaring his shoulders as bravely as he could. “Well! I have already faced down a dragon in this mountain once before, so a dwarven Council should be much less intimidating, if no less irritating. What must I do?”

“You must be made a dwarf by law,” Thorin said, his determination plain in the set line of his jaw. He looked seriously at Bilbo as he explained, “Though rare, there are two ways an outsider may be considered one of our own: through either marriage or adoption.”

Bilbo’s mouth went a bit dry, all the moisture instead somehow instantly relocating to his palms. “Marriage!” he echoed a bit faintly.

“Or adoption,” Balin repeated patiently.

“As I must continuously remind Bard’s advisors, I am not a child,” Bilbo snapped, rather more bitterly than he’d intended.

Balin raised an eyebrow and gave him a stern look uncomfortably reminiscent of Bilbo’s father. “We know that, laddie. If you’ll let me explain…” Embarrassed by the outburst, Bilbo sat back and silently waved a hand for him to go on. “Thank you. As I was going to say, adoption into a dwarven clan can be for anyone, even adult dwarves.”

“Why would an adult need to be adopted?” Bilbo asked. The table went even more quiet, and he got the sense he’d just asked an uncomfortable question. It was a sense Bilbo had unfortunately grown more used to after a year living among dwarves.

Dori finally leaned forward, his expression guarded. “The reasons are many. But most commonly, an adult dwarf is adopted by another family to separate themself from some dishonorable act of their own kin. Once they are no longer considered family, the dishonored name would cease to affect the dwarf’s own honor.”

“But everyone would know that they are still kin,” Bilbo pointed out in confusion. He was surprisingly met with matching expressions from most of the dwarves around him.

“No, like he just said - they wouldn’t be kin anymore,” Gloin said with a frown. “That’s the whole point of the adoption!”

Bilbo opened his mouth to complain that explanation was clear as mud, but Balin’s tongue was faster. “It is likely different among hobbits. But among dwarves, a name is everything. A dwarf’s legal family affiliation is more binding than blood is to most races.”

That was nearly opposite from the hobbitish way of obsessing over who had which blood relations, but Bilbo could see the merits of the dwarvish system. He still had several questions (principle among those, he hoped some sort of record existed to prevent close relations from wedding), but he supposed the specifics weren’t pressing.

“So, if a dwarven family adopted me, I would be legally considered a dwarf?” Bilbo checked, and he received a nod from Balin. “I see. Well. What would that mean for me, to be a dwarf in the legal sense?”

“You would be under my protection,” Thorin said instantly. “As King Under the Mountain, all my subjects have certain rights, which you would share.”

“Including the right to fully learning our language,” Balin added with a knowing look at Bilbo, who had rather shamelessly spent the past two years trying to pick up the forbidden language with only moderate success and rather severe universal disapproval.

Bilbo tapped his foot on the floor as he thought the offer over. “I assume I’d also be subject to dwarven laws, so whoever adopted me would need to offer a comprehensive overview of what sorts of things would get a clueless hobbit thrown in a cell or called to an honor duel or- or some other such nonsense.”

Across the table, Ori was scribbling on a scroll so quickly that he completely ignored the drop of ink that leapt up to stain his nose. His hand didn’t falter for even a moment as he said absently, “Consider it done. Any other stipulations you would require?”

“Are you drafting a contract now?” Bilbo asked, and then huffed at his own foolishness. Trust dwarves to make something as lovely as joining a family into some big competitive, complicated, legally-tangled mess! “Of course you are, I don’t know why I asked. Er, no, there’s nothing else I can think of. Hobbits don’t have royalty, you know, so I’m not entirely sure how well I’d do with a king.” He glanced up the table and happened to meet Thorin’s intent gaze, and Bilbo found himself adding quietly, “But I suppose I’ve managed much better with one than I’d have expected.”

“Oh, one thing you ought to know,” Fili said casually, leaning forward and looking pointedly at his uncle for some reason before continuing to Bilbo, “Marriages within the same family or family line are prohibited for the usual reasons, but that same law excludes adopted family members from marrying within their new family as well.”

“Mostly because it would get confusing, I expect,” Kili added, his eyes also darting to Thorin. Bilbo followed their looks with confusion, but Thorin was just glaring at his nephews. Nothing entirely unusual there.

“As long as that’s understood by all of us,” Fili said smoothly, “Please allow me, as the Heir Under the Mountain, to extend the Line of Durin’s formal-”

Thorin interrupted with a voice like cold iron, “The Line of Durin is henceforth forbidden from offering adoption of Master Baggins.”

Loud protests rang out from most of the Company, which ought to have been flattering, but Bilbo’s stomach plummeted. Thorin would no longer meet his eyes, determinedly staring around at seemingly anyone else, and Bilbo dropped his gaze to the table.

He and Thorin had spoken only haltingly about the events prior to the battle, and only while Thorin was stuck half-dead in a healing tent, but it seemed the Arkenstone incident was more of an issue than Bilbo had been hoping. For a moment, Bilbo felt very small and very alone in the room of people he’d privately considered closer than family for some time.

“But that removes almost all of us!” Gloin managed to shout above the rest, and the overall volume finally lowered into disgruntled muttering.

“All but the Ri’s and Ur’s,” Thorin agreed in a measured tone. He still would not look at Bilbo.

The two families in question were hastily conferring amongst themselves, two groups of three clustered on each side of the table like anxious birds. Bilbo twisted his hands in his lap for a moment, caught up in his own ridiculous hopes of Thorin… No matter. The desires he’d hidden for a year and a half were plainly impossible.

Bilbo forced his own nerves to settle with a deep breath and a determined straightening of his spine that his Grandmother Baggins would be proud to see, and cleared his throat pointedly until he had the room’s attention. “I am honored by this proposed solution, but perhaps I’ve already overtaxed your hospitality. If no families can adopt me after I… ahem, for any reason, that is, then I can of course return to the-”

A loud chorus of disagreement drowned out the end of Bilbo’s sentence, and then two pieces of paper covered in messy runes were shoved toward him with all haste.

“On behalf of the Family of Ri-” Dori began loudly, but Bofur near-shouted at the same time, “Speakin’ for my cousin with his permission, the Ur Family-”

“-we would like to formally extend-”

“-would be honored to have you join us in kinship-”

“-an offer to adopt you as a brother and provide-”

“-for the entirety of our lives-”

“-with bonds unbreakable after-”

“Stop, stop!” Bilbo cried, waving his arms, and the overlapping speeches ground to a halt. He glared exasperatedly at each family group, and then slid the papers back to the middle of the table. “My friends, I cannot hear anything if you’re braying at me from both sides. Besides-” he pointedly tapped the papers, “-you’ve forgotten I cannot read anything in Cirth runes. I give you my word as a Baggins - oh, and I’d like to keep my hobbitish family affiliations in some capacity even if I’m swearing myself in as a dwarf, but the point is! I give you my word that I will consider both your offers fairly during the next week, and then I will offer my final decision once you provide contracts I can comprehend.”

The Ri’s and Ur’s all looked rather abashed at their lapse of sense, but Bilbo supposed it was in eagerness and could be excused. He smiled at them after he made his point, and said more gruffly, “And, well. I’d be very glad to call any of you my family, legally or otherwise. As I have grown very fond of you all. Ahem.”

To his surprise, his pitiful show of reserved sentiment seemed to have quite the impact. Dwalin reached over and pounded him on the back firmly, and Oin seemed to be tearing up.

“Well said, Master Burglar,” Thorin said lowly, and gave Bilbo a brief, tiny smile.

In that moment, Bilbo would have liked nothing more than to be annoyed with the emotional whiplash Thorin had just inflicted upon him. Unfortunately, his petty instincts were quite thoroughly smothered by the breathless warmth blooming outward from his chest that always accompanied any of Thorin’s smiles turned in Bilbo’s direction.

Thus distracted by his personal follies, Bilbo failed to notice the way each of the two families then glared at each other. Dori’s expression was a silent challenge that Bifur met with equal strength, while Nori’s calculating gaze swept for weaknesses and Bofur crossed his arms with unusual seriousness. Even Ori and Bombur, two of the mildest-mannered dwarves by hobbit standards, were each shrewdly observing the opposite family with matching determined frowns.

“One week,” Bifur grunted in Khuzdul.

“One week,” Dori agreed shortly.

They shook hands over the table as Bilbo tuned back into reality, and the hobbit frowned a little at the battle-ready postures on either side of the table. He should have known nothing with dwarves would be ever be easy.

— 𓂃🖊 —

“Protection,” Bofur muttered to himself, flipping the visor down on the metal helmet with a clang that rattled his skull. He wished his lucky hat fit underneath, not just as his usual talisman, but as much-needed padding. “Can’t do the other things, but protecting is easy. Easy. Like a pickaxe through coal. Just keep him alive and don’t sweat to death yourself.”

The plate armor rattled and clanked like a rattly cart full of loose scrap metal, but Bofur knew the heavy - and hot - armor was a necessary component of his part in their plan. The Ur family’s plan (which was mostly Bombur’s plan, to be fair) only needed three days to prove their best three qualities to Bilbo and thus convince their favorite hobbit to join their family forever. So Bofur had encased himself in metal and loaded about sixty pounds of weapons on top of that, and the mere sight of him at Bilbo’s side should send any shady dwarves running.

Unsurprisingly, Bilbo heard him coming. No need to knock on the door, even, for a curly-haired head was already curiously sticking out into the hallway with a bemused expression. In answer, Bofur lifted up the metal visor and grinned, which only widened as Bilbo’s jaw dropped.

“Mornin’, Bilbo!” Bofur said cheerfully. “Ready to get goin’?”

“Bofur?” The hobbit gaped incredulously and looked Bofur up and down, taking in the shining silver plate mail etched with angular runes that covered Bofur very literally from head to toe. “What in Yavanna’s name are you wearing?”

Bofur laughed. “I know hobbits don’t go in for warfare much, but I thought you might recognize ‘armor’ by now!”

Bilbo fixed him with an exasperated look. “You know what I mean, you daft creature! I’ve seen you in actual battle with less armor than this. Is it… ceremonial for something?”

“Have you ever known me to stand on ceremony? ‘Course not! I said I’d escort you ‘round the Mountain today, and this is just the best protection possible.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo, brow furrowing. “Is it likely to be very dangerous to walk about today for some reason?”

“No, nothin’ like that,” Bofur said quickly. “Just, eh, no harm in bein’ prepared, right?”

“...Right,” Bilbo agreed doubtfully, but still stepped out and closed the door behind him. They set off at a hobbit’s pace, which would have normally been a bit slower than a dwarf’s, but Bofur found he struggled to keep up with Bilbo’s shorter strides now that his own were weighed down so thoroughly. By the time the reached the Market Hall, Bofur was blinking sweat out of his eyes and huffing for breath like a war boar.

Bilbo’s worried sideways looks had grown more and more frequent as Bofur failed to respond normally to conversation, but Durin’s balls, Bofur didn’t remember the Mountain being so hot before, and he couldn’t manage more than a smile (hidden completely behind his visor) and a weak reassuring wave (that looked rather more like a chopping execution of a fly in his metal glove-thing).

“Just keep him alive and don’t sweat to death,” Bofur muttered to himself again, but this time Bilbo’s head tilted upwards.

“Did you say something?” he asked politely, and Bofur shook his head as best he could manage.

“Me? Nope! Just a stoic protector, I am, guarding you very effectively from all harm!” Bofur said cheerfully.

“...Is this because you’ve lost some ridiculous bet?” Bilbo guessed, but before Bofur could deny it, a loud cheer went up not ten paces from them.

Both turned at the sound, and through the narrow gap in his faceplate, Bofur made out a dwarf hefting an impressively large boulder up to chest level, arms bulging. After another moment of straining and encouragement from the small crowd of onlookers, the dwarf bellowed in effort and managed to raise the heavy stone over their head.

A very familiar head, Bofur realized at the same moment Bilbo gasped.

“Goodness! I knew he was strong, but I had no idea Dori could lift something like that!” Bilbo said in obvious awe.

Bofur opened his mouth to agree, equally impressed by the feat of strength, but then he caught sight of another familiar face. Nori was standing just to one side of a stone column, visible to Bofur but not to Bilbo, and he was smirking like a dragon on a pile of gold.

“Kukhfakhuflittle shit,” Bofur breathed, honestly more impressed than angered. Of course this was no coincidence: Dori’s show of strength was a display, set up specifically for Bilbo to view one of the best qualities of the House of Ri.

“Did you see that, Bofur?” Bilbo asked excitedly, plainly oblivious to Nori giving a cheeky little wiggle of his fingers at Bofur before he slipped back into the crowd.

A bit belatedly, Bofur replied at last, “Aye. I absolutely did.”

— 𓂃🖊 —

“...and are unlikely to strike before Midwinter, though I’ll keep an eye on ‘em just in case,” Nori finished proudly. His report on threats to Bilbo’s life had been thorough and detailed as no other could possibly manage, and he knew it.

Bilbo blinked at him with an unreadable expression and wide eyes, completely speechless.

“I brought this news to you first, even before Dwalin,” Nori added enticingly. There was no greater show of loyalty from a spy than that, as everyone knew, and Nori knew it would be an excellent point for the Ri family.

“Oh,” Bilbo said finally, looking a bit pale. “Surely you ought to tell Dwalin first, though, as he’s in charge of the Company’s guards?”

“Right, but I’m loyal to you on this matter,” Nori emphasized patiently.

This did not seem to please Bilbo as much as expected, as the hobbit’s brow just furrowed a bit further. “Thank you,” he said finally, though it came out with more of a questioning lilt at the end than Nori would have liked.

Point made, Nori decided that would have to do for today, and took his leave with a bow. He ought to make the same report to Dwalin anyway, not that anything seemed particularly urgent. Bilbo was well-liked in the Mountain given all he’d done for the Longbeards, and frankly, for the world by ousting a dragon from its nest with naught but wits and words.

So Nori was pleased with the blow he’d dealt to the Ur family’s attempt to snag Bilbo, up until a few hours later, when he slipped into the Company’s private dining room and froze in his tracks. Bifur - via Bombur’s faithful translations - was telling Bilbo in great detail of his most heroic deeds from ‘Azanulbizar and last year’s battle. Begrudgingly, and only in the privacy of his own mind, Nori had to concede Bifur was a very accomplished warrior, and his bravery and skill were undoubtedly impressive as a show of his line’s valor.

He might have allowed Bifur to continue describing his courageous feats for that respect alone, if not for the next slight movement that drew Nori’s eye.

Standing in the kitchen doorway, positioned behind Bilbo’s back, Bofur grinned and twiddled his fingers in a mockery of the same wave Nori had given yesterday.

“Ufsalu rukhsson of an orc,” Nori hissed under his breath, and then, for good measure, signed it in Iglishmek in Bofur’s direction.

Bofur just grinned back, and signed across the room, ‘May the best family win.’

Oh, they would. Nori would make sure of it. He strolled fully into the dining hall with a casual innocence, and after offering a few friendly greetings to the others present at the large table, he stopped by Gloin.

“Oh, Gloin! I thought you’d be over with Bifur tonight,” Nori said with very convincing surprise.

Gloin paused in his conversation with Balin and squinted up at Nori. “Bifur? He’s already talkin’ with his cousin and Bilbo, seems like. Why would I be there?”

“You didn’t hear?” When Gloin shook his head, Nori went on, “Ah, no matter, then. Bifur’s over there tellin’ tales of the best feats of ‘Azanulbizar, is all. Think he’s on about some lad who killed two orcs at once.”

As expected, Gloin puffed up immediately, eyes darting over to Bifur’s small group. “He mentioned my wife’s better kill already, did he? Four orcs downed in a single blow! She wields her axe as easily as a bird uses its wings!”

“Eh… Maybe he’ll come back to her deeds,” Nori said with a careless shrug.

“Come back?! Nay, I’ll set that straight right away!” Gloin cried, and rose from the table at once. “Oi! My Namli was a hero, I tell you, we’d have lost that battle without her, and she was only-”

Nori grinned as Bifur was cut off by Gloin’s forceful torrent of praise for his wife, and happily went to get himself a plate of food. Bofur was still in the doorway, mouth open in shock, but he recovered as Nori approached.

“That’s cheatin’, sending Gloin in like that!” he protested quietly.

“I don’t remember agreein’ to any rules,” Nori retorted, his smirk undiminished. “You said ‘let the best family win,’ and the best family is just usin’ all the tools at hand. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

“But Gloin can’t take Bilbo into his family! He ought to be a neutral party, don’t you think?” Bofur tried to argue.

Leaning in menacingly, Nori’s smirk darkened. “Don’t like bein’ beaten, hm? Then either do somethin’ about it… or stay out of my way.”

Bofur seemed to be startled into speechlessness, for once, and Nori stepped past him with ease. Maybe winning Bilbo over wouldn’t be as easy as Nori first thought, but that just meant he’d have to get a little… creative.

— 𓂃🖊 —

The halls of the Mountain were never still, even an hour before the first bell rang. Bombur normally nodded polite greetings to fellow culinary workers heading to other kitchens, patrolling guards nearing the end of the night shift, and the odd group of revelers stumbling and singing their way home.

But today, Bombur was up an extra hour early, and he did not spare a moment’s pause for the occasional dwarf he passed. Bilbo would be joining the Ur’s for breakfast, and it was up to Bombur to uphold their family’s honor and cook the highest quality dwarven fare. His chance to get Bilbo as a new family member might all depend on the quality of his three-meat potato hash.

“‘Adadfather, slow down!”

Bombur kept his pace as he looked over his shoulder and impatiently waved his daughter forward. “Keep up! There’s no time to lose, Mabur!”

“The sausages are hardly going to roll off without you!” she grumbled, but obediently hastened to match Bombur’s pace even on her shorter legs. “When’d you get so fast, anyway?”

“About the same time I heard the first warg running after me, I think.”

Mabur huffed, but didn’t turn away quite soon enough to hide her quick smile. She was at the age where a dwarfling’s parents were so embarrassing, even when one went on a legendary quest with the king. But Bombur didn’t begrudge her the unimpressed act - he remembered how tightly she’d hugged him when they reunited, and that had told him all he needed to know about her true feelings.

They reached the kitchen reserved for Company use in record time, and Mabur started efficiently tending the furnaces while Bombur began pulling out various pans and bowls and utensils. Preparation began smoothly with his daughter assisting, and Bombur’s hopes for the morning’s breakfast soared.

Until Mabur came back from the pantry empty-handed and frowning.

“You said the sausages were next to the cured ham, right?”

“Aye,” Bombur confirmed, frowning back. He moved back from testing the heat of the oven and gestured for Mabur to show him where she’d looked. She faithfully led him to the larder, and as soon as the door opened, Bombur felt a cold sweat start beading his brow.

Sourcing the best quality ingredients had taken the past two days and a lot of gold and legwork, but once it was done, Bombur had thought his part of the Ur’s family plan was practically mithril-strong. As the king’s personal chef, Bombur would definitively prove their family could provide for Bilbo.

Or rather, he would prove it if his meticulously stocked pantry wasn’t in utter, shocking disarray.

Leafy tops of vegetables poked out next to the flour. Baskets of fruits were scattered among the shelves without method. Cheeses, once arranged by taste palette and age, were carelessly shoved off to one side of the wrong shelf. Worst of all, the finest cuts of meat appeared to be missing, until by chance Bombur saw one package tucked inside a loaf of yesterday’s bread that had been intended to be today’s dry breadcrumbs.

In the midst of the horrid mess stood a single barrel (with the label scratched out - was it ale? Wine? Vinegar?) with a note that explained everything:

Hope you enjoy hunting for your food as much as preparing it.

-N

The paper crunched in Bombur’s fist, his breaths coming faster in mingled rage and anxiety. Durin’s beard, untangling this chaos would take hours, but trying to cook at the same time as searching would lead to burned food and under-stirred sauces-

“Should I go to the markets, ‘Adadfather?” Mabur asked worriedly, surely noticing his rising anger and panic.

His family were depending on him. Bombur took a deep breath, and boiled his emotions down into condensed, furious determination. He gave his daughter a clap on the shoulder and said with all confidence, “No, not to worry, Mabur. The savory ingredients we needed are gone, but see here - the powdered sugar and honey are at hand, as are several fruits. If I cannot display how hearty my meals are to nourish the stomach, then I will create sweet works of art to dazzle the eye! Come along, 'azghithlittle warrior, and we will show that Ur’s are not defeated so easily!”

With Mabur’s help, Bombur was able to switch tracks without much issue. Instead of a hearty brown loaf of bread, he twisted seed-speckled dough into small, round shapes of nesting birds. A meat and cheese egg scramble became a delicate omelet studded with peppers and mushrooms. And instead of a main cut of meat with gravy, Bombur carefully formed tiny fruit tarts bursting with ripe blackberries and brushed with sweet honey.

By the time Bilbo walked through the dining room door - precisely in synchrony with the chiming of the second bell - a lesser Man-made table would have been bending and groaning under the weight of all the foods Bombur and Mabur had presented.

Bilbo stopped in his tracks, mouth falling slightly open. “Gracious greenery! In all my life, I never…” He looked at the chefs suddenly, absolutely beaming. “Bombur, Miss Mabur! This is outstanding! I had not expected dwarven dishes could compete with a hobbit’s on presentation alone, but you have swiftly corrected me. This is as fine a meal as I would see at a party in the Shire, and I’m certain will taste just as wonderful.”

“‘Adadfather already provided you with filling foods on the road,” Mabur spoke up eagerly, and Bombur startled a little, “So we thought you would benefit from seeing his finer skills as well. He is a master of his craft, in every regard.”

Bombur had to hug her. He pulled her to his side under one arm, ignoring her half-hearted grumbly complaints, and whispered a thanks over her head.

Blinking a little rapidly, Bilbo smiled back when Bombur turned around again. “Shall we taste your creations, then, Master Bombur?”

The spread was intended for Bilbo, but somehow the hobbit convinced both Bombur and Mabur to sit with him and sample the dishes. Bilbo was effusive in his praise of every dish, complimenting subtle flavors and observing technical details with a level of skill Bombur had not expected, but only seemed to improve Bilbo’s opinion of the meal.

Everything was going perfectly, until Ori arrived with a tense smile and a very official-looking scroll in his hand.

“I apologize for interrupting,” he said a little nervously.

Bombur (and Mabur, he was proud to see) glared harshly back, but Bilbo waved him over with very good cheer. “Not at all, not at all! Come, Ori, have a seat! You absolutely must try these honeyed pecan rolls.”

“Oh, they do look very good,” Ori said earnestly, before he schooled his expression back to seriousness once more. “Ahem. Er, I have something to show you, Bilbo. Here.”

Without any further ceremony, Ori unrolled the scroll he carried. It was nearly as wide and tall as his whole torso, written in very fine, smooth black ink and gilded with gold leaf around the edges. Two signatures in glittering green decorated the bottom of the scroll, and Bombur’s heart sank a little as he recognized the seal at the top.

“It’s lovely,” Bilbo said neutrally. Then, a little more curiously, “What is it?”

“This is proof of my status,” Ori said proudly. “The Ri family is very well connected despite not being nobility ourselves, as this shows. I am employed as a Master Scribe directly working with Seneschal Balin son of Fundin.”

Bilbo gave Ori a slightly amused but puzzled look. “Yes? I already knew you’re a scribe, and I do know who Balin is.”

Ori flushed a little. “Aye, of course. I mean, yes. It’s just… this is official. Proving my high status in the court.”

Higher than anything the Ur’s can offer went unsaid, but Bombur silently bristled all the same.

“I see,” Bilbo said, with the air of someone who very much did not. He smiled at Ori anyway, and patted the seat next to him again. “Thank you for showing me, but now you really must try this! Why, I’d ask for the recipe if I was a bolder hobbit!”

Bombur practically leapt at the chance. “You may have the recipe, Bilbo. It would be my honor to share it with you.”

Bilbo blinked at him in surprise. “You would share it so freely?”

“It was my master’s recipe, my distant cousin Hrambur,” Bombur said quickly, “Not one I invented. He taught me himself how to make it, and I have faithfully reproduced it many times to his satisfaction.”

“It’s a family recipe?” Bilbo said, looking at the roll with new awe.

Confused, Bombur exchanged a look with Mabur, then even Ori. “...In a sense, aye. I will write it down and give it to you whenever you like.”

To the three dwarves’ surprise, Bilbo coughed heavily and then dabbed at his eyes, blaming them for watering. “Thank you. That would mean a lot to me. Family recipes are very highly valued in the Shire, you know. There’s little hobbits like more than food - this meal was wonderful, and now you offer me a recipe your own cousin created and held dear… I already half feel like part of the family!”

Bilbo laughed, but Bombur was struck dumb. The words ‘there’s little hobbits like more than food’ kept echoing in his head.

“Hobbits don’t value strength or status. You value food. And home. And good cheer,” Ori said slowly, obviously having the same realization as Bombur.

“Oh yes. And good manners, and flowers, and pipeweed when we can get our hands on it!” Bilbo agreed readily.

Bombur stared at Ori, sharing their joint shock. And then as one, they both scrambled to move. Ori made some excuse and bolted, and Bombur knew he couldn’t keep up even with all his practice running from wargs.

But he didn’t need to. “Mabur,” he said lowly, “Run to Uncle Bofur or your mother. Tell them to start looking into flowers and hobbit-y things as quick as you can. We’ve been going about this all wrong!”

— 𓂃🖊 —

Two years with dwarves led to Bilbo witnessing many behaviors he considered quite strange, but even for dwarves, the Company were acting even more oddly than usual this week. Bilbo had assumed Bombur’s meal was meant to sway him to choose the Ur’s as his new family, but he had no idea why Bofur suddenly took up wearing heavy armor or why Ori was suddenly so interested in his own high status.

By pure happenstance, Bilbo got his elusive answers by employing the very skills he’d been originally hired for. He was stealthily making his way down to the Company’s kitchen, hoping to pilfer a few more of Bombur’s truly excellent pecan rolls, when he heard low arguing in the dining hall. Months spent lurking invisibly in Thranduil’s halls had created instincts Bilbo had still not fully shaken, and so he automatically dropped into a crouch and eased close enough to eavesdrop, cautiously keeping to the shadows of the hallway.

“Look, alright, it’s plain enough we both know… you know, the thing that we aren’t willin’ to say!” Bofur was saying exasperatedly. “Besides, you called me here to speak in private. What did you want?”

“Fine!” Nori’s voice replied, twice as snappish. “I want a truce!”

Bilbo waited silently, wishing he could risk seeing either of his friends’ expressions. What truce would be needed while Erebor was at peace?

“You want a truce,” Bofur repeated skeptically.

“Aye, you heard me,” Nori bit out.

“Why? You undermined Bifur’s valor by sendin’ in Gloin, sabotaged Bombur’s larder before the breakfast - why propose a truce now?”

Nori sighed while Bilbo’s mind raced to piece together the full picture. “You know why! Bombur’s refused to let Dori into the kitchen’s tea supplies, Bifur’s been scaring off Ori’s new little scribe friends, and you’ve been ruinin’ my reputation in the pub!”

“Figured I was just usin’ all the tools at my disposal,” Bofur replied smugly. “I mean, you did say I should do-”

There were the sounds of a short scuffle, and then Bilbo heard a thud and Bofur make a small grunt. He debated whether he should reveal himself, but dwarves tended to brawl over the smallest grievances and no one had died yet…

“You aren’t as stupid as you look,” Nori huffed, and then. Oh. Oh.

They were no longer fighting, Bilbo realized with a blush, judging by the rather wet sounds and heavy breathing going on just on the other side of the wall.

“So, does this mean we’ve got a truce?” Nori asked, and did something that made Bofur groan.

“Aye, truce!” Bofur gasped, and Bilbo started to slip away as quietly as he’d come. “No more interferin’ from either side!”

Well. Bilbo thought he now understood why his dwarves had been acting so oddly the past few days. And a few more things besides.

— 𓂃🖊 —

The kettle was about to shriek, and so was Dori. Bilbo’s arrival was imminent, and yet Dori still hadn’t been able to find the exact blend of tea he’d meticulously prepared last night. Nori had assured him and Ori that the Ur’s would no longer be an obstacle to their plan to secure Bilbo as the newest member of the House of Ri, but what if one of them had snuck in and stolen the tea blend? Everything would fall to pieces-

A knock at the door brought Dori out of his spiraling thoughts, and he hurriedly tugged his clothing back into impeccable order. He had secondary options. This would be fine.

“Dori, so good of you to invite me over for a proper spot of tea!” Bilbo said once the door opened, and smiled in genuine pleasure. He was dressed as well as Dori, in his second-best waistcoat decorated with tiny embroidered versions of Sting around the collar and hem.

“The honor is mine, to have you join me at my table,” Dori said formally, and led Bilbo inside the parlor to the two plush chairs arranged around a perfectly-tailored tablecloth. Like Bilbo’s waistcoat, it and the leaf-embroidered napkins were all crafted by Dori’s own hands.

Bilbo made appreciative small talk about the cloth work, as the dwarves understood was polite for hobbits, and in turn Dori complimented Bilbo on the quality of his most recent political work. If not for the monumental outcome weighing on Dori’s mind, the teatime would have been truly lovely.

The kettle did whistle after a few minutes, and Dori politely excused himself to fetch it. While in the small kitchenette, he heard another set of footsteps enter the open doorway, followed by the much more unwelcome sound of Bofur’s cheerful voice.

Dori nearly dropped the steaming kettle in his haste to exit the room, storming into the parlor again with a fearsome glare already set in place. Bofur met Dori’s aggressive entrance with two hands raised sheepishly, an apologetic smile on his face.

“Dori! Ah, listen, I just was told Bilbo was on the way here, I didn’t mean to interrupt anythin’, honest!” he said quickly.

That guileless expression might work on most dwarves, but Dori had raised Nori. He kept up his disapproving glare until Bofur’s cheer wilted a little, and then relented with a huff. “Well, you’re certainly here now. Would you… like some tea?”

“Oh no, thank you,” Bofur answered very wisely. “I just wanted to gift those to our favorite hobbit, and with that done, I said I’d be on my way! Right, Bilbo?”

For the first time Dori noticed Bilbo was holding a fistful of flowering plants. They were plainly meant to be some hobbitish token of appreciation, though the usefulness of cut greenery escaped Dori’s knowledge. The colors were pretty enough, varied and bright, and a tasteful black ribbon wound the long stems together just under the bushy leaves.

“Bofur,” Bilbo began slowly, his eyes not leaving the plants, “What… I beg your pardon, but I must demand you tell me: what on Yavanna’s good earth is this meant to mean?”

Obviously just as confused as Dori felt, Bofur reached up and scratched at the side of his head under his hat. “Er. It’s flowers? And hobbits like flowers?”

“Yes, obviously!” Bilbo said impatiently. “But what do you mean by giving me dogsbanedeceit next to hazelreconciliation? And this is an oakleaf geraniumtrue friendship, plain enough, but it’s mixed in with all this foxgloveinsincerity! What exactly do you mean to imply?!”

With Bilbo’s anger increasing for utterly incomprehensible reasons, Bofur wisely took a step back out the doorway. “Nothin’! I mean, nothin’ bad! We - the family, I mean - just thought you’d like some flowers! Those are the nicest we could find, and Bombur’s wife gave us that lovely little ribbon.”

“Oh.” Bilbo deflated almost instantly, and looked from Bofur back to the flowers with a new crease between his brows. “You’re dwarves. Of course. How silly of me to- Ahem. Thank you, Bofur, they’re… lovely. Very thoughtful of you.”

Warily, Bofur nodded back. “You’re welcome. Enjoy your tea!” And Dori could honestly not think ill of him for fleeing back down the hallway again.

Bilbo turned back around with a strangely conflicted expression, gently pinching one of the colorful leaves at the top of the bundle.

“Do they need soil?” Dori asked as knowledgeably as he could, but at the words Bilbo seemed to come out of his private reverie and chuckled as he looked up again.

“No, not this kind. I’d like to set them in a cup of water, though, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Dori assured him politely, and returned to the small kitchen, where surprisingly, the jar full of last night’s perfect tea blend winked at Dori from the cabinet of drinking glasses. A little more charitably, Dori allowed the thought that Bofur’s unexpected interruption was perhaps not entirely unwelcome, after all.

— 𓂃🖊 —

Bifur was too old for this shit. Not too old to run from wargs and slay orcs of course - he wasn’t the oldest of the Company, not by a margin of at least half a century - but he was far too old to be sucked into petty social schemes like this one.

Of course he wanted Bilbo to join his family. That singular hobbit had more courage in his little finger than some dwarves held in their whole bodies, not to mention his stories were downright captivating. Especially if he got a little tipsy. But all the backstabbing and secret plots and now the truce negotiations Bofur had apparently been attending near every night were too much for Bifur to care for.

At least his new job was easy. Telling coherent stories was a little harder than it used to be, what with a big hunk of metal interrupting his thoughts halfway through his skull, but Bifur could carve a pipe in his sleep. And even better, he thought Bilbo wouldn’t have to shake himself awake while receiving this gift.

“Here,” he grunted in Khuzdul, despite knowing Bilbo couldn’t understand him. Not like he had another option. Bifur held out the pipe he’d finished carving that morning, a lovely light color reminiscent of oak without the dense weight. Delicate acorns and oak leaves twined around the bowl, but shifted to the usual runes for health and peace and curses on thieves that most dwarven pipes bore.

Bilbo took the pipe carefully - as if it were so poorly made as to break! - and examined every inch with wide, appreciative eyes. “Bifur… This is beautiful! I’ve never seen you work in such organic shapes before.”

“You’re a hobbit, aren’t you? You’re a farming folk,” Bifur replied. Then he very intentionally closed Bilbo’s hand around the pipe and pushed it toward him.

“For me?” Bilbo gasped.

“Who the fuck else,” Bifur muttered, but nodded anyway.

Bilbo beamed up at him, and gave him a little bow. “Thank you very much! This is a stunning example of your expert craftsmanship, and I will be most honored to use it this evening and spread the word of your skill.”

Dragon-charming tongue, indeed! Bifur coughed awkwardly and shrugged, hoping it conveyed something acceptably polite. He must have been successful, because Bilbo immediately turned to Nori who’d just entered the hall with a quick, “Nori! You must look at this pipe Bifur made me, it’s simply gorgeous-”

“Bilbo!” Nori said, startled but pleased. “I actually wanted to tell you about what Freki and Gron were found doing, actually, I just heard the latest from Freki’s older sister-”

Gossip was what Nori offered, Bifur supposed with a grin of his own. Honestly, the rest of his family should have caught on to the real ways to win over their burglar: food, pipes, and juicy gossip.

In practice, dwarves and hobbits weren’t really all that different.

— 𓂃🖊 —

Six days after the Company meeting that incited this whole feud, Ori clutched his final gift for Bilbo to his chest and tried to breathe. This was his last chance to really pull Bilbo over to their side, to convince him to join the Ri Family in law as well as heart. He’d assured Nori and Dori that the gift he had prepared would secure Bilbo’s favor for good.

Ori didn’t like lying to his brothers.

“Ah, there you are!” Bilbo sighed, dropping an armful of books and scrolls down on the table next to Ori. “I was beginning to think I’d gotten turned around again. Though I must say, the luxury of losing my way in a library is not lost on me! Truly, you have a marvelous collection of texts, even though I cannot read three quarters of them.”

There was no more time to delay the inevitable. “I think this might help with that,” Ori said softly, and placed a freshly-bound book at the top of Bilbo’s pile.

Curiously, Bilbo picked it up and glanced at the title. Ori saw the moment the meaning really sank in, because Bilbo blinked and more slowly re-read the cover embossed in both silver Westron letters and angular Cirth runes.

“Chosen Tongue: A Khuzdul Primer for Dwarf-Adopted Adults,” Bilbo read aloud, tracing the runes with one finger. He looked back up at Ori with emotion welling up behind his eyes, though no tears fell. “I’m not adopted yet. You don’t even know which family I’ll choose!”

“I know,” Ori acknowledged quietly. “Dori would say it’s irresponsible to give it to you before the ceremony. Nori would say I ought to use it as leverage against your decision. But… whether you agree to be my brother tomorrow or not, I still want you to have this. Because you’re my friend, and I want you to be happy even if you don’t choose us.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to respond, but a sniffle interrupted him before he could even begin. Ori followed Bilbo’s gaze to a bookstack behind him, and then a crying Bombur emerged with a small wooden box held in both hands.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Bombur said through a watery voice. “I just brought somethin’ for Bilbo. But Ori - you’re right. It was so easy to get caught up in the competition, but I don’t want to lose sight of what really matters. And that’s Bilbo getting to stay, no matter who he stays with!”

“Bombur, Ori! I never doubted your true intentions,” Bilbo said quickly, getting to his feet only to awkwardly hover as if still unsure how to comfort a crying dwarf. “This- this minor feud seemed to be in good fun, or as close to it as a feud can be, I suppose. I just don’t know how I’m ever going to decide between two sets of my dearest friends! Perhaps I should be grateful for Thorin’s ban on the Line of Durin from adopting me, after all.”

Ori felt a pang of real sympathy for Bilbo. He hadn’t thought about how much emotional pressure they’d put on his shoulders with this decision. There was a way Ori could fix that, he saw immediately, no matter how little he wanted to do it.

But like a few days before, Bombur had the same realization. And he looked at Ori with such devastating understanding and kindness as he said without hesitation, “Choose the Ri’s.”

“What?” Bilbo and Ori chorused, the former confused and the latter breathless.

“Choose the Ri’s,” Bombur said again, his voice strong even as teartracks shone above his impressive mustache. “We Ur’s have never been as well-off as we are now, what with the favor of the king and our parts of the treasure. But even when we didn’t have much coin or status, we had plenty of kin to support us. I have children, and my wife and her parents. I have Bofur, and our mother, and even Bifur came to live with us when his partner died and- and we’ve been such a large family!”

“Large?” Bilbo echoed, almost to himself.

“The Ri’s only have each other,” Bombur continued undeterred, in the most words Ori had ever heard him speak at once. “Three brothers with decades stretched between them, struggling like everyone else in the Blue Mountains but with no other kin to rely on.”

“We managed,” Ori felt honor-bound to protest.

Bombur lowered his fiery head in apology. “Of course, and I don’t mean to imply otherwise. But it’s got to be harder, and much lonelier.” He looked at Bilbo again, and then slowly came forward and pressed his forehead to the hobbit’s like a farewell. “I… I won’t retract our offer, because we would love you as a fellow Ur. But we would love you as a Ri, too, and there are far fewer of those. I think they might need a hobbit’s touch more than most.”

For once, even silver-tongued Bilbo seemed to be speechless. In the stunned silence, Bombur pulled back, and pressed the little box into Bilbo’s hands before bowing respectfully.

“I give this to you freely,” Bombur said with a last sniffle. “And no matter what you decide, you will be family to us all.”

Ori and Bilbo watched him go, struck still and mute by the gesture for long minutes in the quiet library.

“Only the three of you?” Bilbo asked gently.

“Aye,” Ori croaked. He did not offer further explanation.

Bilbo ran his hands over the small wooden box, and fortunately did not press Ori for more. “I assumed there were more of you. Extended family in another mountain somewhere, or… I don’t know. Hobbit families are very different. And much, much larger.”

“I thought you said you were your parents’ only child,” Ori said, trying unsuccessfully to curb his curiosity. “Were you not a family of three?”

At once Bilbo’s nervous hands stilled on Bombur’s unopened gift, and had to clear his throat twice before he was able to speak. “Yes. When you put it that way… Yes. We were an unusually small family. The three of us.”

The parallel did not need to be pointed out in words, and Ori could see Bilbo was growing overwhelmed. Hobbits didn’t seem to handle their emotions as well as dwarves, strangely. Ori took a slow, deep breath, and then gestured to the box Bilbo still held. “What is it?”

Bilbo took a settling breath of his own, and regained his composure as easily as donning a helmet. He smiled weakly at Ori, and said with forced cheer, “Let’s find out, shall we?”

With obvious care, Bilbo opened the lid and set the box down on the table. He withdrew no jewelry or quill or trinket as Ori had expected, but a small, thick card in carefully-printed Westron. Bilbo glanced at it, then set it down on the table as though it were made of thin glass. And then, burying his face in his hands, the gentlehobbit who’d unflinchingly faced a dragon suddenly burst into tears.

Ori reared back in shock for a moment, then hastily leaned over to read the top of the small card that caused such a reaction.

Hrambur’s Honeyed Pecan Rolls

(For Bilbo, with love from Bombur. May this be the first of many Dwarvish recipes to fill this both this box and your plate.)

“Oh,” Ori said softly, his own eyes watering.

“I do not know what I’ve done to deserve you. All of you,” Bilbo sniffled. He produced a handkerchief and wiped his eyes hastily, almost in irritation. “I never experienced such kindness from my own extended family in all my life. So many of them wished I’d just go bother the other side of the family instead, and now here you are, fighting over who gets to keep me in their- Oh! It’s too much for a queer old bachelor!”

On pure instinct, Ori threw his arms around Bilbo. Hobbits - or at least their hobbit - didn’t seem to like touch all that much. But Ori was a dwarf, and moreover, he was a dwarf who knew what it was to be rejected and alone, and he couldn’t let Bilbo believe himself unworthy for another moment.

“You will never be alone again,” Ori vowed, solemn as stone. “On my word as a Ri, and on Bombur’s word as an Ur, neither family will begrudge you this choice. We will always stand by you, Bilbo. And dwarves do not make such oaths lightly.”

No, this was probably not what their family members would have done. But Ori was much more satisfied that he and Bombur had handled their last gifts in their own way.

— 𓂃🖊 —

At the start of their journey, Bilbo never would have imagined how much he would grow to enjoy spending time with these dwarves. Whether it was tea in the mornings with Dori, or quiet afternoons reading in the library with Ori, or evenings with Nori sharing stories and Ale.

Having been one of the few only children in the Shire, Bilbo had always longed for the companionship of a sibling. It seemed good fortune had smiled down upon him as now he found himself with three.

When the day of the ceremony finally arrived, Bilbo was beside himself with excitement. Dori had arrived at his door early that morning carrying a tea service and some small sandwiches insisting they had a bite to eat before leaving.

Next, he was whisked off to the Ri Families receiving room where Ori and Nori were already sitting, Nori fastidiously running a fine-toothed comb through Ori's hair.

“Now, we’ll have to do something with that hair of yours, but never you mind, I have plenty of ideas!” Dori declared with a determined glint that left Bilbo feeling slightly nervous.

“Is it true you’ve never even braided your hair before?” Ori asked curiously.

“Erm, I don’t think so, I never had any sisters and it’s considered very odd for male hobbits to grow their hair as long as mine,” Bilbo said, pulling a curl of his to demonstrate. Truly Bilbo had never meant for it to get so long, but after seeing the Company’s reaction to his declaration that it was about time he cut it, Bilbo decided perhaps that could wait for later. After all, it was not as if any of his family was likely to show up in the mountain unannounced and scold him for being unkempt.

“Just think of it,” Dori said, reverently patting the hobbit’s hair. “Bilbo’s first braids. Quick Ori, you should make a sketch of it!”

“I hardly think that’s necessary!” Bilbo smiled uncertainly as Ori began rummaging around in his sketching book.

“Now,” Dori said, slowly circling the Hobbit. “You’ll need a coming-of-age braid, and a family braid, and of course a braid to hold your Company bead. Oh! Do you want a braid to show you are open to suitors?”

Bilbo stared. “You can’t possibly think to do that many braids, I’ll look ridiculous!” Then, realizing he was in a room full of dwarrow who prided themselves on their particularly elaborate braids, added, “Since my hair is not anywhere near as long and thick as yours.”

“Nonsense, Hobbit hair can’t possibly be that different from dwarf hair,” Dori said with the confidence of a dwarf that had mastered even the most unruly of dwarven manes.

An hour later, Dori stared daggers at the braid as the hair quickly unraveled, flinging the small blue bead to the floor with a loud ‘ping.’

“Really Dori, this isn’t necessary…” Bilbo tried to soothe, all while his tender scalp ached.

“No, I’m going to make this work,” Dori insisted, rolling up his sleeves with the signature dwarven stubbornness that Bilbo both loved and dreaded. For the sake of his friends, he grit his teeth and resigned himself to more hair-pulling in the name of family bonding.

Mercifully, Ori and Nori proved to be a great distraction. Ori went into great detail about how small changes in shape and position of the braid could entirely change the meaning and had historically led to some rather comical misunderstandings.

Nori eagerly followed this with the story of how he had once been caught proudly wearing the king’s braids in front of both Dwalin and Thorin’s sister. An experience he found so hilarious that he had been arrested for it. Twice.

Another half hour passed before Dori procured a small pot filled with a sweet-smelling paste. To the immense relief of both Dori and Bilbo’s scalp, the braids finally began to hold their shape. Bilbo had to concede that it did look rather nice, although he fully intended to put his foot down on wearing so many braids for anything but the most special of occasions.

Before they arrived in the throne room where the ceremony would be held, Dori proudly presented each of them with matching coats. Being an accomplished tailor himself, Dori had a keen eye for style and had chosen a fashion to best flatter their various shapes and sizes. Bilbo was happy enough at the idea that he might soon have new clothes that didn’t scratch like the wool garments they had been given in Laketown.

A closer examination of the craftsmanship revealed carefully stitched words in golden thread sewn into the hem. As Ori explained it, it was a common practice to include blessings of safekeeping into the garments when gifting clothes to loved ones. He was even more excited to discover that the collar and sleeves were lined with velvety mink fur. Still unused to the chill of the mountain, Bilbo was certain it would become a staple in his wardrobe.

— 𓂃🖊 —

The ceremony itself passed by in a blur.

As it was virtually unheard of for a non-dwarf to be adopted into a dwarven household, the language barrier was a frustrating obstacle. Having only picked up on a few words of the Khuzdul language, Bilbo truthfully understood very little of it.

But when it was over, Dori and Nori and Ori declared him kin, and there was not a dry eye to be seen. The four of them wasted no time exchanging hugs and fond words. In Westron this time, thankfully.

For the rest of the night the celebrations continued. Endless rounds of well-wishers came to congratulate Bilbo and he was plied with food, song, and copious amounts of ale until Bilbo was feeling very merry indeed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo noticed Thorin standing to his feet. With a raised hand the raucous crowd faded to curious mumblings.

“Today we have witnessed the joining of a family. For seven months I have traveled with these fine folk, in peril and in safety, through joy and certain death. We would not stand where we are now without the bravery of these four in our company.”

The room filled with glorious applause, mugs raised in a toast. Bilbo felt warmed at being included in such a grand toast and warmer still as he leaned his weight back into the side of the new brothers beside him.

“Today we also celebrate our Hobbit as he becomes not only khuzdbâha,dwarf-friend but also nadad mabajbûnchosen brother.” Thorin said, with such fondness that Bilbo found himself a bit breathless. At once Thorin began to move, and it was not until he began to feel the sensation of Dori and Nori taking a step back that Bilbo realized Thorin was approaching him directly.

Solemnly Thorin made his way through the crowd of kin and friends and took Bilbo's hands in his. Quieter this time, he spoke, “I have known you for little more than a year, and yet as I have come to know you I have grown more certain that whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.”

Thorin paused, wetting his lips as he continued, “I would offer you my hand, and my heart, if only you would accept my courtship.”

Bilbo stood still, the dwarves around him had gone so quiet that he thought they might hear the beat of his heart as it fluttered wildly in his chest. After so many seasons of hopeful glances and heartfelt words, there was nothing to be done but to throw himself into his arms and kiss Thorin quite ardently.

Or at least, this is very much what he would have liked to have done. But when at last Bilbo had leaned forward on the tips of his toes to do just that, there was the jarringly loud clearing of a throat, and Bilbo's lips missed his target landing instead squarely on Thorin’s cheek.

Turning as one, they were startled to see Dori standing much closer than expected and looking just the slightest bit miffed. “Congratulations, we are delighted that you’ve finally asked our dear Master Baggins to court, especially on our very special day.”

Thorin stood a little taller, arm lowering from Bilbo’s shoulders to around his back. Dori’s eyes followed the motion, looking less than pleased.

From over his shoulder, Nori sullenly muttered “Certainly took your sweet time about it,” as he reluctantly handed over a small coin purse to Gloin who took it with a gleeful laugh. “Couldn’t have been a month sooner.”

“I told you,” Dwalin boasted, clapping Thorin on the shoulder. “Get him drunk and he’ll finally do it.”

“Ahem,” Dori cut back in. “Now that you will be entering a courtship, we will have much to discuss of course. It would be a poor choice to have done all the work of making Bilbo a dwarf only to appear unrespectable in his courtship.”

Bilbo frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Do hobbits not have rules for courtships?” Dori asked.

Bilbo thought about that. “Well yes, I suppose we do, but usually that is discussed between the parents of the courting couples.”

Nodding his head, Ori said, “It is similar for us dwarves, even more so with courtships within the royal family.”

Bilbo shared a quick glance with Thorin, who reluctantly nodded in agreement.

Dori stood a little taller and fixed Thorin with a serious look. “Seeing as he is our new nadad mabajbûnchosen brother and has no other family available to speak on his behalf, it is mine and my brothers’ prerogative to represent him and his best interests in this courtship.”

“That is all very well and all, but can’t this wait for tomorrow?” Bilbo asked in irritation, quite ready to be getting back to the handsome dwarf on his arm. But alas, it seemed that it was not meant to be as the rest of the night was spent receiving more toasts and congratulations and Bilbo did not see Thorin for the rest of the night..

— 𓂃🖊 —

As Bilbo woke, he was surprised to find himself laid out on a soft pallet in their family parlor. Thinking back, Bilbo couldn’t remember exactly how he had made it here, nor how he had found himself swaddled in a colorfully crocheted blanket beside Nori, who still snored on peacefully beside him.

A clink of porcelain made him turn to see Dori placing a tray with two cups of tea by his side. “I told you not to drink so much.“ Dori chided softly as he poured the tea.

Bilbo, who had no memory of any such conversation, groaned softly, he turned to gratefully accept the steaming cup, inhaling the welcoming scent of ginger and chamomile. The movement must have woken Nori, who began shifting and making his own protesting noises, and Dori tsked and goaded his younger brother into taking his own cup and a savory scone. “I do hope you had fun at least?”

Bilbo hummed half in agreement and half in enjoyment of the food.

“Well good, because we have a busy morning ahead of us.”

Bilbo stopped chewing. “We do?”

Nodding his head, Dori pulled out a carefully rolled sheaf of papers. “We are negotiating your courtship with Thorin today.”

“Oh?” Bilbo asked, and then wide-eyed exclaimed “Oh!” realizing with utter shame that he had actually managed to forget for a moment, and after such a heartfelt confession as well!

Eager to see Thorin, Bilbo rose and quickly began making himself presentable. Hopefully, he would have a moment to speak to Thorin in private. It didn’t feel right not to tell Thorin that he felt the same way last night.

Side-eyeing the large contract Ori was rolling up, Bilbo dryly said, “I certainly hope there are fewer stipulations about my funeral arrangements in this one.”

— 𓂃🖊 —

‘Contract’, Bilbo thought bitterly, was quickly becoming one of his least favorite words. Given what he knew of dwarves' love for contracts, he should have expected that it would drag on long past any decent hour.

Back in the Shire, the couples’ families would have worked out the basics over tea and been done in time for supper! But not dwarves, no! Every sentence needed a clause and every clause needed an addendum! And Bilbo was quite done with the whole thing.

In truth, part of Bilbo’s sourness stemmed from the fact that he had barely had the chance to give Thorin a fond hello before he had been practically dragged to the other side of the room by Dori.

— 𓂃🖊 —

Afterward, Thorin rushed to intercept Bilbo before he could leave. “Bilbo.”

“Oh, hello Thorin, it's good to see you.”

“Were you heading somewhere?”

“Ah…” Bilbo said, looking back to where Ori was disappearing out the door. “Just to the library, but I’m in no rush.”

“Good.” Smiling, Thorin began riffling through his coat until he located a small wooden box, and handed it to Bilbo. “Now that all the paperwork is approved, I wanted to make things official.”

Letting out a confused noise Bilbo lifted the lid to reveal a delicate clasp made of a very familiar shimmering metal.

“For your courtship braid,” Thorin said, fingers gently drifting to the loose curls by Bilbo's ear.

“Ahem.”

Turning at once, Thorin and Bilbo were frustrated to see Nori looming behind them. “Oh, you have his courting bead already, excellent!” He exclaimed, plucking the box from Bilbo's hand, much to his dismay.

“Now, a word, Your Majesty, if you please.” Excusing himself, Thorin followed Nori a few paces away. "Now, how have you thought about what sort of braid you would like to do? I do have some suggestions if you haven't. “ This was emphasized with a pat to his own braided whiskers.

Confused and irritated, Thorin stood up straighter. “What is the meaning of this?”

With a grin, Nori replied, “As Bilbo's brother, I am offering to put your courtship braid into his hair.”

Growling, Thorin demanded, “It is my right!”

Nori paused and then made an exaggerated noise of surprise and shook his head. “Oh! No, that would be inappropriate, not the done thing at all!”

"This is going too far,” Thorin protested. “I do not see why we should be forced to follow traditions or practices that haven’t been observed since before my grandfather's time."

"Yes, well, you do want this courtship to be above reproach don't you?" Curtly, Thorin nodded his head. "And surely you don't think Bilbo to be unworthy of the extra work?”

“Of course not" Thorin grumbled reluctantly.

“Good then, you may braid his hair all you like-”

“Thank you Nori.”

“-once you are wed.”

Thorin fixed Nori with an irritated look. The thief did not look in the least repentant. “Now hold this, and you can instruct me while I fashion the braid.”

“You are enjoying this too much.” Thorin grumbled.

“I really am,” Nori agreed, sending a cheeky wave back to Bilbo.

Bilbo looked curious as they rejoined him, but did not ask as Nori gently began running his hands through the front section of Bilbo's hair.

“Now then, how many strands are we using?”

“Seven.”

Nori let out a snort, but quickly began sectioning out the strands.

Thorin’s eyes closely followed each step as he carefully directed Nori’s movements. The pointed tips of Bilbo’s ears pinked under his gaze and Thorin wondered what he might have done if his fingers had accidentally brushed them while weaving in his own braid.

Meticulously, he guided Nori through the steps. And when Nori tried to offer a suggestion, it only took a long narrowed look for to keep further comments at bay.

"Now,” Nori explained. “His hair is very fine, you will need to add something to it to make the braid hold." Obediently, Bilbo grabbed the braid as Nori motioned for Thorin to hand him the bead. Hesitantly, Thorin handed it over with narrowed eyes. The spymaster whistled as he handled the glittering bead, turning it back and forth as it shimmered in the light. “When you go out, you go all out, I’ll give you that much,” Turning back to Bilbo, he gave him a playful nudge. “If you’re not careful, before you know it, he’ll have you wearing all the sanzigiltrue silver; mithril on Middle-Earth.”

Finally, when he was done and the bead had been secured, Nori stepped back and allowed Thorin to see the final product. The braid sat softly against the hobbit’s cheek, strands like gold and copper twisted into an elegant plait. Thorin could think of nothing but how his fingers ached to touch it.

— 𓂃🖊 —

Since the announcement of his courtship to Bilbo, it would be fair to say that there had been a strain between himself and the Ri brothers. So when Thorin wandered into the library looking for Bilbo, and instead found Ori sitting by himself, Thorin froze. Slowly, Ori marked the book he had been examining and looked up.

“Oh, Thorin. Were you looking for Bilbo?”

Hesitantly, Thorin nodded. “We were going to take lunch together before my next meeting.”

“He just left.” Ori said, beginning to pack up his tomes.

Stiffly, Thorin attempted to continue that conversation. “Your apprenticeship with Balin, it is going well?”

“Yes, I'm learning all sorts of things., The library was surprisingly well preserved during Smaug’s attack.”

Thorin hummed, running a finger over one of the old leatherbound covers. “There was no gold or jewels to steal here. I suspect the Wyrm had no idea these rooms existed.”

Almost subconsciously, Ori hugged the books to his chest as if imagining thousands of years of writing and knowledge turning to ash under Smaug’s terrible flames. “I’ve wanted to be a scribe as long as I could remember. I always knew that it was my craft.”

Thorin bowed his head in acknowledgment. He did not know if Ori was craft-bound or not, but it was indisputable that Ori had always been destined to be a great scrivener.

Ori’s eyes grew distant. “When we were poor, Nori used to steal quills and parchment for me, and Dori would pretend not to notice.”

Taking a long breath, the younger Ri brother seemed to be steeling himself for something. Noticing the change in his tone, Thorin looked back at Ori, who had an unusually serious look on his face as he continued.

“Scribes don’t just preserve histories. We are also the ones who write them. A king’s legacy can rise or fall based on how he was remembered by his scribes.”

Holding the king's gaze, Ori stated firmly, “And history won’t look kindly on anyone who hurts a scribe's little brother.”

Pausing before he spoke, Thorin slowly said. “I admit, I expected this talk from your brothers, but not from you.”

Ori shook his head. “Dori is too polite to say it to you directly, and Nori isn’t likely to give you a warning if he ever truly believes that Bilbo is unhappy.”

“And so, if I were to hurt Bilbo, you would ruin my reputation,” Thorin concluded, and couldn't help but feel a fondness for the fearsome little dwarf.

“I would tell the truth,” Ori said honestly.

Affectionately, Thorin reached out to Ori and slowly pressed their foreheads together. Immediately, Ori seemed to sag in relief.

After a long while they pulled away, and Thorin gave him a heavy pat on his shoulder. “Truly, Bilbo could not have found three finer brothers in all of Arda, nor three better brothers to keep my marlellove of all loves safe.”

Ori cheeks colored and he looked away. “You really do love him.”

“More than I ever thought I could.” Thorin said with undisguised fondness.

Reassured and only a bit shaken up, Ori nodded his head, turning back to gather a collection of parchments into a tidy stack as he cleared his throat. “Good, then you can give these manuscripts to him when you see him.”

— 𓂃🖊 —

If Bilbo had to complain about anything (and he would), it was that his three brothers refused to allow him and Thorin even a moment alone. Much to his dismay, all attempts to bribe Nori and Ori into allowing them some time to themselves had been rejected in fear of Dori's endless nagging should he catch wind of them slacking in their duties. Dori was not one to let things go easily, once he set his mind to something. Additionally, Bilbo suspected that Nori was enjoying his newfound power over Thorin's love life a little too much, exercising it whenever possible, tutting and shaking his head in a mockery of his elder brother whenever Thorin and Bilbo were caught pushing the boundaries of propriety.

After having his every attempt to corner Thorin alone thwarted, Bilbo swore the Ri brothers must have a sixth sense for misbehavior. But he supposed after years of living with Nori, that was only to be expected. Ori, to Bilbo's disappointment, was no easier to convince than his troublemaking brother. And so, Bilbo decided there was nothing for it but to employ some good old-fashioned hobbit flirting.

Bilbo Baggins knew a thing or two about propriety, and like any good Hobbit, he also knew how to get what he wanted without compromising his reputation. One did not become known as both the respectable Baggins and a Tookish rake without learning how not to get caught.

— 𓂃🖊 —

“You won’t even notice I’m here,” Dori assured, moving his knitting to the opposite end of the long table and doing his best to appear busy while still keeping the king and future consort in his direct line of sight.

Resigned to another closely chaperoned meal, Thorin sat across from Bilbo who was currently enjoying a selection of small pieces of bread slathered in fruit jams. His eyes followed the slow swipe of the hobbit's pink tongue as he licked the sticky fruit from his fingertips.

“It never ceases to amaze me, the appetites of Hobbits.”

Looking up, Bilbo’s eyes met his with a questioning look, but something in his expression must have been telling. Because within a moment, Bilbo’s eyes darkened with interest. Looking around carefully to make sure that Dori wasn’t looking too closely, Bilbo subtly leaned back and nudged his foot bare against Thorin’s.

Confused, Thorin stared back at Bilbo who met his look with a mischievous smile.

“Did you know,” Bilbo began conversationally, slowly dragging the top of his foot back and forth against Thorin’s boot. “In my culture, it is considered very romantic for courting couples to feed each other from their own plate.”

Thorin was caught between the normalcy of the conversation and the oddness of Bilbo’s actions below the table. But, having spent two months now unable to touch Bilbo in any way, he had to admit that if felt pleasantly intimate. He swallowed thickly as Bilbo’s foot slowly dipped beneath the cuff of his pant leg, and then achingly slowly began to inch its way upwards. “I was not aware of that,” Thorin grit out, as he fought to conceal any sign of what was happening beneath the table.

A sudden rustling of fabric from Dori's way had both Dwarf and Hobbit sitting up a little straighter in their seats.

“Oh yes,” Bilbo said with practiced nonchalance. “My father all but begged my mother to marry him the first time she fed him her blackberry scones. He said that food always tasted sweeter off her plate.”

Thorin smiled softly back. It wasn’t often that Bilbo spoke of his father and mother, and it warmed Thorin’s heart to hear the fondness in Bilbo’s voice.“Would you allow me a taste, to see if he was right?”

Bilbo positively beamed and quickly selected a small bite-sized piece. Intrigued, Thorin leaned forward and took the morsel into his mouth, purposefully brushing his lips against Bilbo’s fingers as they retreated. Humming in satisfaction, Thorin watched as Bilbo pulled back, still staring at the finger that Thorin had so briefly kissed.

“Your father was right. It was sweeter.” Swallowing deeply, Thorin tore a small piece of buttered bread from his place and slowly offered it up to the Hobbit. “Here.”

Bilbo carefully schooled his face as he accepted the bite, tongue only briefly flicking against Thorin's thumb as it retreated. Bilbo hummed in approval and pleasure.

Dori, who had dropped all pretense of not listening in asked. “Do Hobbits really?”

Freezing, Bilbo and Thorin turned back to Dori, whom they had nearly managed to forget about entirely. “Do Hobbits what?”

“Feed each other as part of courtship?” Dori repeated, having lost interest in his knitting.

“Well yes, that's a big part of it” Bilbo added, reluctantly removing his foot from Thorin’s. Much to the Dwarven King's disappointment. “But there's much more than that of course…”

As Bilbo's attention was diverted entirely by answering Dori's questioning until at last there was a loud knock on the door and Balin arrived to take him to his next meeting. Shoving himself out of his seat, Bilbo paused his explanation, and for a wild moment, Thorin imagined himself lifting Bilbo's chin and kissing him heedless of whether or not Dori was watching.

Instead, he took Bilbo's hand and placed a gentle kiss to his fingers before turning and storming from the room before Dori had the chance to complain.

— 𓂃🖊 —

“We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning,” Balin announced, and only years of formal court training kept Thorin from standing and shouting, Thank Mahal. A kingdom still in the midst of rebuilding took hours of work at every level of society, and Thorin was normally very grateful to do his part in making the mountain a home for all his people.

Today, Thorin was selfishly more concerned with his personal frustrations. He hadn’t seen Bilbo in nearly two days, and had to contend with the fact that as soon as he next did finally manage to steal a few moments of his beloved’s time, one of the other Ri brothers would undoubtedly be closely monitoring their every move like a loud, squawking watch-raven.

Was it so wrong to hold Bilbo’s hand? To run his fingers through Bilbo’s unruly curls? To share a true kiss at last? Thorin longed for any touch the overprotective brothers permitted, and rather more besides. He had agreed to be patient, to show Bilbo the respect he was due, but it was plain the hobbit was growing equally irritated by the repeatedly enforced distance over the past few months of courting.

Unfortunately, Thorin’s frustrated thoughts overtook his usual situational awareness as he swept out the back door of the meeting hall on a shortcut back to the half-restored royal wing. Thus, he startled and reached instinctively for a knife when a forceful grip closed on his left arm and dragged him sideways into a dark niche of the hallway.

“It’s me!” Bilbo hissed, just in time for Thorin to stop the trajectory of his dagger on its way into Bilbo’s gut.

Thorin had to take a moment to calm his pounding heart, sheathing the dagger with a very pointed click. “Bilbo. In the future, if you wish to startle a dwarf so, I suggest you first don more armor.”

“Sorry,” Bilbo said, not sounding terribly worried about how close he’d come to disembowelment at his partner’s hand. “Now come along. I’ve worked very hard to arrange this opportunity for us, and I’ll be very cross if you ruin it at this point!”

“What opportunity?” Thorin asked, dutifully following Bilbo down a side hallway.

The hobbit turned over his shoulder and grinned, a slow, wicked thing that made Thorin’s breath catch. “Notice anyone missing from our usual time together?”

Right there in the middle of the narrow corridor, Thorin froze. He looked warily over his shoulder, but upon seeing no watchful brother there either, he turned again to Bilbo with a different sort of excitement pounding in his blood. His eager hope was reflected back in Bilbo’s dark eyes, and without bothering to respond in words, Thorin seized the moment he’d been waiting for ever since the contract had been signed. He swayed forward like iron to a lodestone, gaze locked on Bilbo’s lips, and barely managed to catch himself at the last moment.

“Bilbo, may I-” he managed to croak out, but then Bilbo surged forward the rest of the way in answer.

Mahal, it was even better than Thorin had imagined, and he had imagined it at embarrassing length. The heat seared through him more powerfully than dragonfire, pooling in his gut and thrumming through his veins. Bilbo’s lips slotted against his own like a bespoke key to the lock on his heart, and Thorin pressed closer and closer until air punched out of Bilbo’s mouth directly into his own as they backed into a wall.

“Wait,” Bilbo gasped, and Thorin pulled back, breathing like he’d surfaced from the depths of the Long Lake.

“My apologies-” Thorin began hoarsely, and then, surprisingly, he was kissing Bilbo again.

“Don’t you dare apologize for that, Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo breathed, sounding just as dizzy with happiness as Thorin was. “No, I said ‘wait’ because I have a room for us. With a lock.”

The implications of that made Thorin nearly stagger, but he contained himself to a long breath. Unfortunately, this let him breathe in Bilbo’s scent more deeply, an intoxicating mix of pipeweed smoke and sweat and the gentler herbal soap he bought from Dale.

“You want this,” Thorin realized dumbly. “Me.”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. Then he reached upward, where he slowly and very intentionally tugged the end of Thorin’s king braid with a playful smirk. Even that small touch to Thorin’s hair had him stifling a moan, and by the look on Bilbo’s face, that was entirely purposeful. “Yes, you daft thing. I have wanted you since the moment you stomped into my smial. I have wanted you when you snored at night around a campfire, and when you walked into a tree in the pouring rain. I wanted you when you were locked in a dungeon, and when you were speechifying in Laketown, and spilling wine at the victory feast, and oh, a hundred times since!”

He drew closer and mouthed along Thorin’s jaw toward his ear, which made Thorin promptly forget how to form words. “Want you? Thorin. I have never stopped wanting you.”

“Room,” Thorin ground out, keeping his hands away from Bilbo by the shreds of his willpower.

The hobbit smirked, but his pupils were wide and dark. He pulled back as well, tugging Thorin along by the hand once it was clear Thorin could hardly walk straight.

“You know, if we’d done this the old-fashioned hobbit way, this would have happened a lot sooner!” Bilbo said conversationally. Thorin hoped this elusive room with a lock and no brothers wasn’t much further.

“Sounds better than the old-fashioned dwarf way your brothers insisted upon,” Thorin rasped with what little of his wit remained.

“Modern hobbit weddings are much more of a to-do,” Bilbo went on breathlessly, hastening down a maze of passages with much more surety than Thorin ever had in navigating. “Lots of planning, and waiting, and baking. The old way was simply to disappear with your lover for a year, and when you returned, you were considered married, simple as that!”

“Like you running off with me for the quest?” Thorin asked without thinking, and Bilbo stumbled as he spun to gape at Thorin in shock.

“Ha! Oh, if my relatives could see me now! Married in the old hobbit way to a dwarf!” Bilbo seemed utterly delighted at being technically married by his people’s ways, and Thorin was struck by a rather impulsive notion.

He cleared his throat, and said cautiously, “The modern dwarven marriage is very simple. An exchange of vows, braids, and beads before a family witness.”

Bilbo made a face, and then moved along once more, still holding Thorin’s hand. “Sounds a lot nicer than this traditional dwarven way. It’s slow as molasses; no disrespect meant to your culture.”

“None taken,” Thorin said, perhaps a little too fervently for a dwarf king meant to uphold those traditions.

“If my brothers wouldn’t throw you out on your head, I’d say bother all this courting nonsense and skip to the braids!” Bilbo went on, waving his free hand irritably.

Thorin’s breath caught again, and he said softly, “Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do!” Bilbo replied immediately and squeezed Thorin’s hand. He smiled back at him with such love radiating from his face that Thorin was nearly bowled over by the brightness. “I love you, Thorin. I want us to be married, and not just because my foolish brothers are much too eagerly playing the boulders in our path.”

“Then let us be wed at once in the new dwarven way as well!” Thorin said, taking a quick step to land in front of Bilbo. “Surely one of your middle brothers would agree to be our witness, if you persuaded them with your silver tongue? They cannot both be as traditional as Dori.”

Bilbo reflexively shook his head, and Thorin’s heart sank, but then Bilbo paused. He stared at the wall for a moment, unseeing, and then said slowly, “Actually. You may be on to something with that.” He raised his eyes again, a sparkle of mischief there that Thorin instantly both loved and felt terribly wary of. “In case I’m wrong, though… To the room first?”

“Room first,” Thorin agreed, and practically sprinted down the hallway hand-in-hand with the cleverest of hobbits.

— 𓂃🖊 —

“Engagement beads?!” Dori fumed. He looked like an overripe tomato about to pop, Bilbo thought with genuine concern.

“Congratulations,” Nori said, his expression somewhere between proud and annoyed. Unfortunately, this made Dori round on him like a warg scenting blood, and Bilbo winced in anticipation.

“You did this!” Dori accused, jabbing a finger in Nori’s face. “You- You helped them sneak off and complete their contracts with your sneakery-”

“I didn’t!” Nori shouted back at equal volume, looking genuinely offended for once. “I took my honor as a brother seriously! I never left them alone, I never let them kiss, I never let them get bloody engaged-”

“Then I suppose you can tell me who did?!” Dori snarled, poking Nori in the chest. “No! Of course not! Because you let this happen, you lying, sneaking-”

“He’s not lying,” Ori said with steely calm, and the room fell silent, all eyes turning to the youngest dwarf in the room. The scribe stood, and with deliberate slowness, fixed Dori with an unyielding glare. “They waited long enough, Dori. They did all we asked and more, for months, and it was unfair to torture them into waiting longer. It was me who helped them get engaged. And more besides.”

Bilbo leaned lovingly into his husband, grinning blissfully. Thorin was tense at his side, but he still squeezed the arm around Bilbo’s waist comfortingly.

“More. Besides?” Dori repeated curtly.

“Oh, much more,” Bilbo finally said, and boldly swept aside Thorin’s curtain of dark hair to reveal the brand-new marriage bead glinting just under the engagement bead. Touching his lover’s hair so intimately was as much a declaration as the actual beads, he’d been well-informed. “I’ll have you know we are properly married in the ways of both dwarves and hobbits! And actually elves, too, if you must know.”

Silence reigned for a short, sweet moment.

And then all four dwarves were shouting, while Bilbo grinned, happier than he’d ever been before in his life.

Yes, dwarves were strange. But here, among his family and his new husband, he thought he could get used to it.