Chapter Text
“I can’t find anymore ornaments! I think we got them all!”
Bilbo secured the knot he was tying, shutting the box that housed the tree skirt and glancing up. “You sure about that, lad?”
“I’m positive!” Frodo circled the tree once more, crawling on his hands and knees. He popped up with a satisfied grin. “Every last decoration is gone.”
“So they are,” Bilbo nodded. He moved to ruffle Frodo’s hair, just as a loud knock sounded at the door. “And just in time, too! Would you mind getting the door?”
With an excited yelp, Frodo ran to the door and was soon dragging a ruffled-looking Samwise into the sitting room by the hand. “Can we play outside now?”
“Are you sure you’re prepared for an adventure out there?” Bilbo returned, raising a conspiratorial eyebrow at Samwise’s parents, who had followed their young son in, appearing quite flushed and windswept themselves. The last thing Bilbo needed was for Frodo to catch a chill after rolling around in the snow all day.
Bell Gamgee came quite chivalrously to Frodo’s rescue, squeezing Bilbo’s arm with a smile. “I’ll make sure his hat and coat stay on,” she said as she began to shoo the young hobbits back towards the entrance. “You two be careful with the needles there. And don’t forget to sweep, Bilbo!”
Hamfast chuckled as his wife bustled the children back out into the cold, armed with proper winter attire and a large container of warm tea. From the window, Bilbo watched Frodo skip down the path leading away from Bag End, turning to throw a haphazard wave in the direction of the smial before following Sam into the field.
Bilbo sighed. “Well, then. Shall we?”
One tedious hour later, the elegant pine tree that had stood in their living room all season was sheared of its branches, laid on its side in the yard around the back of Bilbo’s property. Hamfast was crouched by the steadily growing pile of firewood, taking a breather after having had the first go with the axe, while Bilbo was having his own turn, grunting with each determined stroke.
“Frodo seems to be in good spirits,” Hamfast muttered, taking a sip out of a flask he pulled from under his coat.
Bilbo paused, wiping his brow and shaking his feet to rid them of some snow. “He’s had good and bad days,” he said in response.
Hamfast nodded understandingly. “It’s the first Yule without…”
“Yes,” Bilbo answered, reeling back for another swing, “without his parents.”
“Mmm.”
The sound of the axe hitting the tree again, and again, and again filled the air. Bilbo hardly registered the fact that he had nearly chopped through half of the trunk before Hamfast cleared his throat loudly. “Save some for the rest of us, will ya.”
Bilbo blinked. “Right, er,” he rolled his shoulders back, turning the axe to pass its handle to his friend, “sorry about that.”
Hamfast let out a loud sigh. “Bell and I agree, you’re doing a wonderful job with Frodo. It’ll take time for the boy to adjust, but he couldn’t have a better guardian than you.” He grabbed the axe, clasping Bilbo’s shoulder with the other hand. “When was the last time you did something fun for yourself, for a change?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Bilbo laughed. In one smooth motion, he patted the hand on his shoulder before shrugging it off and swiping the flask in Hamfast’s coat pocket. “As you both well know, I have my books, my long walks through the forest, my garden, and one very precocious nephew. I would say I am quite busy with enough things to want to pursue something simply for the pleasure of it.”
“I don’t doubt that, but it’s been a long year for you, Bilbo,” said Hamfast, shrugging, and Bilbo probably took a larger sip from that flask than he meant to, for he could have only been imagining the look of sympathy in his friend’s eyes. “I just wish that this time next year, you’re spending the end of the season doing something better than chopping up your Yule tree.”
Bilbo huffed, taking another swig. “That’s a lot of hope to place on the turn of a year, my friend.”
—
Bilbo hadn’t been lying when he said that Frodo had his good days and bad days. Today was one of his bad days.
He didn’t want to regret taking Frodo to the market that day, cooped up inside as they had been with the earliest of spring rains emptying over The Shire for the past couple days. What he did regret was stopping to give Lobelia Sackville-Baggins the time of day when she barked a snide “Good afternoon!” at them as they left the deli.
“Pity, that one,” she had said, nose upturned and looking at Frodo as if he were a runt. “He deserves a real family, not to be shackled up in a place that makes him so lonely.”
“He has a real family,” Bilbo ground out through gritted teeth. “And Bag End is all the more cheerful for our homemaking, leagues beyond whatever I imagine you would have done with it should my father not have denounced your husband in his will for being a bully and a cheat.”
Bilbo could handle Lobelia, but her casual cruelty was the most unwelcome thing for a young lad running a simple errand with his uncle, and it was all Bilbo could do not to throw his basket down in frustration after she had finally left.
Crouching down to Frodo’s level, Bilbo tried to find his eyes under his ducked head. “Frodo? I’m sorry about that. You know you shouldn’t mind folk like her, who are generally unhappy and only wish ill on others.”
Frodo sniffled, and Bilbo cursed Lobelia in his head, thrice over. “Would you like to go back home?” he asked.
His nephew only shrugged.
Bilbo let out a long breath, thinking and reaching back into his memory for the last time he had seen the widest grin split across Frodo’s face. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we see if we can gather the right ingredients for some mincemeat pies?”
That drew Frodo’s head up, and Bilbo silently cheered despite the way Frodo’s big blue eyes still shone with unshed tears. “Isn’t that a Yule dessert?”
Bilbo smiled, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping at his nephew’s face. “Who says we can’t bring a little bit of that joyous spirit to any other time of the year?” He straightened up, holding his hand for Frodo to grab as he turned them back towards Bag End. “The first thing we must do, to be sure, is make sure I have the right cookie cutters handy. On principle, my lad, your grandmother’s pies must each be topped with a properly-shaped star…”
—
Bilbo wiped his hands of crumbs, absently reaching for a third pie as he stood at the kitchen window, watching the broad-shouldered figure retreat down the hill towards town. The pie dough was a bit fluffier than Bilbo would have normally made it, but he wouldn’t have changed a thing.
For his first time baking, Thorin had done rather well.
The dwarf reached the bottom of the hill, pausing at the large oak tree. Turn right, Bilbo tried to project to him, sucking in a breath when Thorin took a couple steps in the wrong direction before stopping and heading the opposite way.
Bilbo shook his head with a chuckle, turning back to the rather gargantuan pile of pies they had managed to prepare that evening. He divided the pile in half, setting one half in the middle of the kitchen table for Frodo to pick at over the next few days, while the other half went into a large basket for the Gamgees. Treats sorted, the only things left to put away were the new cookie cutters, just finished drying from after he rinsed them earlier.
He held one up against the lamplight. Dwarven crafts were really something to behold—Bilbo remembered his mother chiding him as a tween, after he had run home yelling about the scary-looking folk who had set up a new business in town one spring day. “You’d do well not to judge strangers simply because you don’t know them,” Belladonna had said.
“I don’t trust them,” Bilbo had complained. “Their fires are big and they have all these big weapons hanging outside their stall.”
“Dwarves are excellent crafters.” Belladonna had then pulled out a small knife from somewhere in her skirts, which Bilbo now chuckled to think of. “There’s more to them than meets the eye.”
Well. That much was for certain.
Bilbo tried and failed to push away the memory of Thorin reaching over to tickle Frodo after the boy had flung a dusting of flour in his face, Frodo laughing while Thorin swung him up and over the kitchen bench before plopping him back down, poking at his nose.
“Gracious, Baggins,” he muttered to himself, “get it together.”
“Get what together?”
Bilbo startled, so lost in thought as he was. “Oh my dear boy, what are you doing up? I thought you were sleeping already.”
Frodo quirked his lips, coming further into the kitchen and returning the lazy embrace that Bilbo offered. “I’m not tired,” his nephew said. “Can I have another pie?”
“Frodo! It’s much too late for a snack.”
“But there are crumbs on your robe! You just had one!”
Bilbo glanced down at his front, noting that the boy was, obviously, correct. “You’re much too clever for your own good,” he chuckled, gesturing toward the pile on the table. “Alright. Just one.”
Frodo grinned, reaching for a pie and—ah. There was that happiness Bilbo had been after.
“Will he come back?” Frodo asked around a large bite of pie.
Bilbo felt his eyebrows rise. “I’m… I’m not sure. Did you have fun tonight?”
Frodo nodded vigorously. “Can we ask if Thorin will come to dinner tomorrow?”
“Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed, though he felt his heart skip a little. “I don’t know, Frodo, they do seem quite busy down at the smithy—”
“Well, could we go there tomorrow? And say hi?”
Bilbo blinked at his nephew. The last thing he had expected was for Frodo to take such a liking to a near-stranger, let alone a dwarf so handsome as Thorin. “I don’t see why not, lad,” he replied, telling himself it was for the sake of Frodo’s happiness that he agreed to this. “Now come, let’s get to bed. We’ll have to be up early to get ahead of the others at the smithy tomorrow.”
Besides, he still needed to make sure that the handsome dwarf was paid.
—
The tomatoes this year were among the best that Bilbo had seen. He cheered aloud as one larger than his fist was uncovered near the bottom of a particularly flourishing plant. Surely, this would take the prize at the market competition tomorrow!
He stood, taking the tomato and holding it up against the morning sunlight, turning it around to assess its firmness, its colour, to look to any possible imperfections that the judges may find—
“Started the harvest without us?” a deep voice called from the front gate.
Bilbo smiled, carefully placing the tomato in his basket and skipping down to greet Thorin, only to yelp as the dwarf hugged him so fiercely that he was lifted from the ground and swung around in a circle. “Thorin!” Bilbo cried. “The tomatoes!”
He felt Thorin’s laugh rippling against his chest as the dwarf set him back down gently. “Your priorities never fail to astound me,” Thorin said, bending down to plant a kiss on Bilbo’s forehead.
It wasn’t the early summer heat that had Bilbo’s face flushing then. “I have not lost the Top Tomato prize in over seven years,” he said, holding out the basket for Thorin to see. “I don’t intend on breaking that streak.”
“Nor should you,” Thorin replied, poking at Bilbo’s harvest so far and nodding gravely. “I shall smite down whoever thinks to challenge you for the title.”
Bilbo laughed, shoving at the dwarf. “You’re hopeless,” he said.
“Careful, you’ll make me regret taking the day off from the forge.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” Bilbo said proudly. “You’ll find nary a raw vegetable in today’s lunch.”
Thorin’s eyes unashamedly lit up, and the dwarf scooped him up again in a great hug. “For that,” Thorin grinned, “I’ll harvest the entire garden for you.”
“Well, that’s no fun for me, and now that will make me regret having you here all day.”
Thorin laughed again. “Mad hobbit,” he murmured, bending down for a kiss that Bilbo was only too eager to meet him for.
Just as their lips met, a loud CAW sounded from the distance. Bilbo felt Thorin tense up, drawing away with a barely suppressed groan. “Don’t feel bad,” Bilbo said, patting Thorin on the chest, trying to reassure him there was genuinely nothing wrong. “They just miss you.”
“My family has too many things to do to be missing me,” Thorin said under his breath.
They looked to the direction of the bird’s cry, watching as a raven came swooping across the meadow towards the other side of the hill. “Will you…?” Bilbo asked.
Thorin pulled away, following the path of the raven. “Excuse me, love,” he said as he hurried around to the back, out of view.
Bilbo sighed. He wondered at the relationship Thorin must have with his family—he spoke so highly of them at times, bringing up a silly prank from one of his nephews or mentioning the kindness of his mother. The letters that came with Ereborian ravens, however, always seemed to bring a sense of unease to Thorin, and he would retreat to the study for a long while, emerging looking less than settled.
Bilbo knew better than to ask after his private affairs, but he couldn’t help but wonder at the source of such discomfort. He probably would get the beginnings of an answer if he prodded at it today and—
No, he shouldn’t. He trusted Thorin.
If there was something wrong back home, the dwarf he loved would tell him.
—
A rather melodious chorus of birdsong pulled Bilbo out of sleep. He slowly untangled himself from the heavy limbs that were draped over him, heeding the fact that Thorin was a terribly light sleeper.
Indeed, just as Bilbo slid off the bed, Thorin blinked awake. “Bilbo?”
“Shh,” Bilbo murmured, dropping a kiss on Thorin’s hand. “Go back to sleep. I’m just going to check on Gandalf in case he leaves early.”
An annoyed expression crossed Thorin’s face, and Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh. Evidently, whatever conversation he had last night with the wizard must have been characteristically frustrating. “Send him my regards,” Thorin said, before shifting again and shutting his eyes.
Bilbo followed the birdsong out the front door, where he found Gandalf sitting on the bench in front of nearly a dozen twittering birds. The wizard was whistling along with the creatures, and he only nodded at Bilbo in greeting as he went to sit beside him. After a moment, the song ceased, and Gandalf inclined his head toward the birds, who scattered into flight.
Bilbo had known his friend long enough to guess that the creatures were being sent off on some hairbrained errand. “Friends of yours?” he asked, only half-joking.
“That remains to be seen,” came Gandalf’s quizzical reply. “I need a message sent out for others to prepare for my arrival.”
Bilbo watched the birds disappear over the horizon. “You’re leaving today, then?”
“I will do my best to call upon you for Yule.” Gandalf pulled out his pipe, lighting it with only raised eyebrow. “I should hope you’ll be a much more enlightened hobbit than you are now.”
“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Bilbo frowned.
The wizard blew out a smoke ring. “Your mother was one of the most steadfast hobbits I knew,” he said in reply. “Of the values I knew she maintained, one was a ferocious trust in herself.” He turned to fix Bilbo with an unreadable look. “I trust that you will make the right decisions, when the time comes. Not just for the life you’re shaping with Frodo, but for your own heart.”
Bilbo held the wizard’s gaze for a moment before scoffing. “How I shall miss your riddles, my friend,” he chuckled.
Gandalf remained devoid of mirth. “I trust you’ll be careful, Bilbo,” he said simply, before asking an inane question about the seeding cycle of pumpkins with the approaching autumn.
Bilbo shook his head, nevertheless humouring his friend. Gandalf could be a baffling old man, at the best of times, but Bilbo knew that, more often than not, he usually spoke in circles of great schemes that had little to do with the affairs of hobbits.
—
Then again, the baffling old man could also speak some truth.
It didn’t make the heartbreak any less painful.
—
“Uncle Bilbo?”
Bilbo blinked, refocusing his eyes from where they had lapsed into the middle-distance. His hand cramped from where it had been cradling his chin for so long, and he started to massage feeling back into it as Frodo stared up at him from the carpet. “What is it, lad?”
“Er…” Frodo glanced down at the thick book before him that Bilbo had picked up at the market the previous day. A group of dwarves travelling from the Blue Mountains had set up shop in The Shire once again, though a few that weren’t running the smithy had erected a cart full of other crafts.
A timid-looking dwarf had seen Bilbo eyeing a stack of books in Westron. “These are some brief histories of the Kingdom of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain,” the dwarf had said kindly. “My brothers and I will be heading there in time to celebrate Yule.”
Bilbo had managed a small smile. “I know of the Kingdom, though I am less familiar with its histories.” Grimacing, he had added, “And its rulers.”
“Erebor is the greatest dwarf Kingdom in Middle Earth,” the dwarf had replied. “Could I interest you in this introductory text? It, well… it details the founding of the kingdom, sets out how things are organised and run now, and illustrates the lines of royalty.” The dwarf had blushed. “I… transcribed that volume myself. I’m hoping the Librarian’s Guild will accept me into their ranks once we reach the mountain.”
Bilbo told himself it was only because of the sweet dwarf’s humility that he brought the book home, gifting it to Frodo immediately and refusing to open it himself.
“There’s a royal family tree in here,” Frodo was saying now. “Thorin’s in it.”
“Well, of course he is lad,” Bilbo said, trying to keep his voice patient. “He’s a prince.”
“I know, but there’s more to it.” Frodo scrambled to his feet and brought the book closer to Bilbo’s face, showing him the chart that outlined Thorin and his siblings, denoting them each as prince or princess. “Look at the note beside King Thror.”
A dismal curiosity had Bilbo squinting at the words scrawled next to the name of Thorin’s grandfather: Cause of death: Goldsickness.
“Frodo, I’m sorry lad but I haven’t the faintest idea what goldsickness is.”
“Oh!” Frodo flipped to a later page of the book, nodding when he found what he was looking for. “Apparently it is a disease, a sickness of the mind that is caused by proximity to massive hoards of gold. King Thror succumbed to it, going mad, and Erebor was in shambles when the throne passed to his son, King Thrain.” Frodo glanced up. “But there is another note here saying that… Well, instrumental in Erebor’s recovery was the Crown Prince, Thorin.”
“I’m not sure why such a good prince would leave his kingdom for such a long time, then.”
“Maybe he needed a break?” Frodo asked innocently. “From literally rebuilding a kingdom! You’re always saying that all work and no play makes for a cranky hobbit.”
Bilbo closed his eyes briefly. “I’m sure it’s not as simple as that.”
“Did you ask him?”
“He made it quite clear that he needed to leave the day after the party.”
“Did he say he actually wanted to?”
“He’s a prince, Frodo, he was doing his duty.”
“But maybe he wants to still see you!”
“I doubt he’d ever want to see me again.”
Then Bilbo nearly jumped as Frodo groaned aloud, a dramatic noise that Bilbo didn’t think one so young was capable of making. “Why are uncles so dumb?”
Bilbo felt his jaw gape slightly. “Frodo Baggins, that is no way to talk to—”
“Wait!” Frodo interrupted, shoving the book into Bilbo’s arms and scurrying out of the living room madly. “He asked me to hold on to this when we bought it, but I forgot to give it to you after he left!”
“Frodo!” Bilbo cried, shutting the book quickly when Thorin’s name in thick gold lettering started to jump out at him from the open pages. “This is quite enough, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply but…” he trailed off as Frodo returned, the words dying on his tongue.
His nephew was holding up a coat that was nearly as long as him, but even despite the length there was no denying that the coat was custom-made for Bilbo. He stood, coming slowly to take coat from Frodo and admire the workmanship. He didn’t peg Thorin as someone who knew the intricacies of fine clothing, but knowing what he knew now, Thorin almost certainly had the finest tailors in his employ. Of course he wouldn’t settle for less than the best, and this coat was, well, perfect.
Bilbo fingered the gold buttons sewn in, and tears sprung to his eyes when he noted the motif of oak leaves and an acorn along each one.
“Why an oak tree?” Thorin had asked as they strode past the Bag End landmark, hand in hand.
“My mother used to say it symbolises resilience, persistence and determination despite any challenge,” Bilbo had answered.
The design on the buttons winked at him in the firelight.
“He made those in the forge,” Frodo whispered.
Bilbo nodded, holding the jacket close. “I know,” he said quietly. “Frodo, you know this… Even so lovely a gift does not excuse the fact that he lied. Not just to me, but to both of us. And you know it wasn’t a small lie, either.”
“I’m sure he’s sorry, though.” Frodo fiddled with a corner of the jacket. “I’m sure he has a good reason for all of this. Why would he have stayed for so long and avoided all his responsibilities as prince if he didn’t?”
Despite himself, Bilbo chuckled. “You’re too clever for your own good, you know?”
Frodo gave a small smile. “I miss him, Uncle.”
“Oh, Frodo.” Bilbo knelt down, gathering his nephew in his arms so that the jacket half-embraced them both. “I miss him, too. Terribly.”
“So why don’t we do something about it?”
Bilbo pulled back slightly, blinking away his tears to look his nephew in the eyes. Frodo was clever, yes, and young, but perhaps that youth saw more potential in the world than he was given credit for.
Gandalf’s words, spoken to him weeks ago now, echoed now in his head.
Bilbo felt his shoulders straighten as something resolved in his heart. “Do you trust me, Frodo?”
Frodo’s eyes widened. “Of course!” he said matter-of-factly.
“Right, well.” Bilbo let out a long breath, refusing to analyse this further and thinking instead if bringing over a fresh batch of mincemeat pies would endear the timid dwarf-scribe and his brothers to the great favour he was about to ask of them. “What do you say to a little adventure?”