Archive of Our Own

The entire mountain buzzes with joy, and the halls are adorned with bright colors and intricate designs. Yet, these decorations seem peculiar for dwarrows to craft. Instead of their usual complex geometric patterns, glittering with precious gems and metals, the halls are decked with wooden carvings, fresh flowers, and delicate paper crafts, things decidedly un-dwarven in nature. There is a reason for this unconventional choice: they are celebrating a special day dedicated to the only non-dwarf who resides within their mountain home, Azsâlul'abad, known in Westron as the Lonely Mountain and in Sindarin as Erebor.

Bilbo Baggins of the Shire: Child of the Kindly West, Luckweaver, Mr. Lucky Number, Clue-finder, Ringwinner, the Magnificent, Webcutter, Stinging Fly, Elf-friend, Barrel-rider, Burglar of the Company, Mad Baggins, and Thief. These and many more titles belong to the lone hobbit of Azsâlul'abad, but the one that holds the most significance to the mountain’s inhabitants is this: Consort of Azsâlul'abad.

Thorin Oakenshield adores his husband beyond measure, so much so that, despite Bilbo’s bashful protests, he declares the hobbit’s birthday an official holiday of the mountain. Balin aids him in convincing Bilbo, pointing out that many royals of the past have had their birthdays honored in a similar way during their reign. Bilbo, of course, is far from pleased by the notion, but when he sees the excitement on the faces of his friends and family during the planning of the first celebration, he relents with a resigned sigh. He hopes, though in vain, that this tradition will fade and allow him quieter birthdays in the future.

Years pass, and Azsâlul'abad’s dwarrows continue to celebrate his birthday with the same boisterous enthusiasm. By now, Bilbo has completely given up on the dream of a subdued affair.

This year, however, the festivities are even more vibrant, more extravagant, and louder than ever before. The reason for this heightened celebration is nothing short of miraculous: Bilbo Baggins, due to the fae ancestry passed down through his Tookish maternal line, is carrying Thorin’s child.

The news is met with overwhelming joy and astonishment. Thorin, who had long resigned himself to the idea that he would never father a child, is utterly overcome. The fact that his beloved hobbit has given him such a gift leaves him shedding happy tears, a sight that no one begrudges. The entire mountain shares in Thorin’s delight, their jubilant cheers echoing through the halls.

But like all pregnancies, it came with its own challenges. Nine months earlier, Bilbo was constantly tired and weak, which caused paperwork to be delayed. The frequent need to excuse himself to urinate during important meetings made progress slow, and Balin had to pick up the slack. He constantly reassured Bilbo that it was fine, he was with child, and he needed to take it easy.

Despite the hobbit’s best efforts, it was never easy. Thorin often woke to the sound of his lover vomiting nearby each morning. Bilbo’s mood swings were a force to be reckoned with; one moment, he would be sweetly snuggling against Thorin, and the next, he would be screaming into his ear. This would usually be followed by a tearful apology as Bilbo begged Thorin not to leave him.

To make matters worse, Bilbo’s food cravings were the stuff of nightmares. Hobbits were well known for needing more food than most races, so Thorin had ensured their stores were well-stocked. But pregnancy brought an increased appetite and aversions to most foods common in the mountain. Waking up in the middle of the night to a hobbit begging, crying, or outright demanding traditional Shire meals was not something Thorin enjoyed. Worse, despite wanting to fulfill Bilbo’s cravings, they had limited access to the desired dishes.

Things improved slightly after the first trimester passed, six months earlier, or so it seemed. The pregnancy was progressing slower than expected for a hobbit but faster than it would for a dwarf. Much to Óin’s chagrin, they had to consult an elven healer. Thorin, of course, would rather have died than ask King Thranduil for help, and Lord Elrond was simply too far away. Thankfully, Tauriel, his niece-in-law, was also a skilled healer. Being immortal had allowed her the time to pursue many crafts before finding her passion as a warrior. So when Bilbo began complaining about heartburn and indigestion, she worked alongside Óin to find a solution.

Bilbo’s pain and discomfort filled Thorin with guilt. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for the hardships his beloved was enduring. The back pain, leg cramps, swelling, and countless other discomforts plagued Bilbo, and Thorin resolved to ease his suffering however he could. He personally prepared baths for him and often massaged his aching body. Thorin even asked Balin to delegate some of his responsibilities to Fíli and Kíli under the guidance of his sister, Dís, so he could spend more time caring for Bilbo. Dís readily agreed, taking the opportunity to properly train her sons in the intricacies of courtly duties.

Thorin, however, never felt any true guilt because his hobbit was all smiles and laughter despite his complaints. His mood swings had subsided during this trimester, and he was more like himself. Bilbo shared with Thorin all his dreams about their child, the names they could give him, the Shire’s traditions surrounding childcare. When he felt their baby’s kicks, Bilbo’s face lit up so brightly that any dark thoughts Thorin had were banished. “Stop brooding, dear, and why don’t you pick up that harp of yours and sing to me and our baby?” Bilbo would suggest, and Thorin, utterly helpless against his hobbit’s requests, always complied. He plucked a simple melody and sang softly, his serenade only interrupted when Bilbo felt another kick. Thorin rushed over to feel it, and both soon-to-be parents marveled at the liveliness of their child. In those moments, Thorin truly believed everything would be alright.

That sense of peace, however, faltered as the third trimester began, three months earlier. Darker thoughts crept in when Tauriel and Óin brought grim news. Due to the nature of their child, who carried dwarvish blood, the baby would likely be too large for Bilbo’s body to accommodate. For the safety of both Bilbo and the child, they strongly recommended seeking help from King Thranduil, or, at the very least, allowing Tauriel to reach out on their behalf. Fearing for his lover and their baby’s lives, Thorin reluctantly permitted Tauriel to write a letter to the Elvenking.

To Thorin’s great surprise, Thranduil sent his own son, Legolas, to assist. Legolas explained that his father had a genuine fondness for Bilbo, finding him to be one of the few diplomats he actually enjoyed speaking with.

As a royal elf, Legolas had access to extensive knowledge and training, which made him well-equipped to assist with the pregnancy despite being centuries younger than Tauriel. By this time, Bilbo’s belly had grown dangerously large, making the baby seem more like a tumor than the miracle it truly was. Thorin hated himself for even thinking that way, but how could he not? Bilbo could barely move and was confined to their shared bedroom under the sheer weight of their child. Every breath he took was labored, as though he had just run a marathon. Sleep eluded him, thanks to the restlessness of their baby.

Thorin couldn’t help but feel as though the Valar were punishing Bilbo for loving him, as if their union, two different races coming together, had defied divine will.

But Bilbo, ever so kind and brave, soothed Thorin’s worries with gentle words. He reassured him that the pain and difficulty were normal for any pregnancy, that he would never regret loving Thorin, and that the Valar were not punishing them. On the contrary, Bilbo believed their child’s very existence was a blessing, a sign of divine favor. Their deities, Yavanna and Mahal, were also spouses, and their union mirrored the love between the two of them. Surely, Bilbo argued, the gods celebrated their bond.

So he told Thorin to let go of his guilt, to embrace their love and their child without regret. If Thorin still felt remorseful for “knocking him up,” Bilbo teased, he could plan a grand celebration for his upcoming birthday.

And this is why the festivities are more vibrant and joyous than in previous years. On September twenty-second, Bilbo finds himself in the royal dining hall, reclining on a couch adorned with silks and feather-filled cushions. The couch is decorated with beautiful flowers and depictions of ancient dwarven heroes, brought in just for the occasion. Within arm’s reach is a grand table laden with an array of Hobbit-style meals: freshly baked seed cakes, honey-drizzled scones, and crusty loaves of bread accompanied by creamy cheeses and churned butter. There are heaping bowls of mashed potatoes and roasted root vegetables, seasoned with garden herbs, alongside platters of grilled mushrooms and crispy bacon. Whole roasted chickens, spiced sausages, and hearty beef pies sit proudly at the center, while pickles, jams, and tangy chutneys provide bursts of flavor. For dessert, there are treacle tarts, berry trifles, and apple crumble served with fresh cream, all complemented by flagons of ale, cider, and mulled wine to toast the revelry.

Bilbo instantly recognizes the dishes and gasps in delight. “Oh, Thorin! You didn’t have to-”

“Bunnel,” Thorin interrupts with a tender smile, “this day is for you. I know how much you miss your home. Every time you have a craving, it’s for the taste of the Shire. Bombur and the other royal chefs feel no slight in your homesickness. Enjoy it, my dearest.”

Thorin grabs one of the honey-drizzled scones and gently brings it to Bilbo’s lips. The hobbit blushes, his cheeks and ears turning a charming shade of pink, knowing full well that this is how hobbits flirt. Bilbo allows his dwarf to feed him, and the sparkle in Thorin’s eyes grows as he continues to indulge his beloved.

“Uncle Bilbo! Uncle Bilbo!”

Bilbo laughs warmly, despite the twinge of pain in his abdomen that soon fades. He looks up to see Fíli, Kíli, Gimli, and a gaggle of pebble-dwarrows rushing toward him with bright smiles, their hands full of presents. The adult dwarrows follow close behind, carrying gifts of their own. Fíli presents a finely wrought silver tankard etched with intricate runes, perfect for Bilbo’s evening ale. Kíli offers a compact but exquisitely decorated lockbox, ideal for storing small treasures. Gimli hands him a glowing blue gem set in a simple pendant. Other gifts follow: a sturdy belt fashioned from braided leather and adorned with a polished buckle, a small but elaborately carved pipe, a whetstone engraved with a protective rune, and many more, including presents from the elves.

Bilbo thanks each of them with genuine warmth, offering them gifts in return: scarves embroidered with dwarvish runes and flowers symbolizing protection and bravery.

The dwarrows understand why Bilbo gives gifts on his birthday, it is a cherished Shire tradition. They treasure these tokens, knowing the hobbit bestows them only on those he holds dearest. Each flower embroidered on their scarves carries a meaning in Hobbit lore. The gladiolus represents strength and victory, perfect for a warrior’s indomitable spirit. Red carnations symbolize admiration and bravery, honoring steadfastness. For the craftsmen, anemones convey inspiration and anticipation, reflecting their endless pursuit of creativity. Protea, with its bold, sculptural form, speaks of transformation and resourcefulness, while the iris signifies wisdom and artistic skill, a blend of intellect and creativity.

After the gift exchange, his loved ones scatter across the dining hall. Bilbo watches as Balin and Dwalin keep a watchful eye on the pebbles, who excitedly wave their wooden weaponry around, amused smiles gracing their faces. Óin is busy trying to give Gimli some tips on how to please a partner, while Glóin attempts to stop his brother’s unsolicited advice. Fíli and Kíli laugh as they play their fiddles, their mother, Dís, dancing joyfully to her sons’ lively music.

Bilbo feels another wave of pain ripple through him, though it subsides quickly. His attention shifts to Ori, who is frantically swatting at Dori’s attempts to clean his face, while Nori takes advantage of the distraction to swipe food from Dori’s plate. Across the hall, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur are already deep into a drinking competition, and have somehow managed to convince Legolas and Tauriel to join in.

And then there is Thorin, his sweet king, dressed in royal garments. Yet, unlike the rest of his court adorned with gems and precious metals, Thorin wears decorations of flora, personally chosen by Bilbo himself. A bracelet of blue cornflowers encircles his wrist, symbolizing hope and steadfastness, a tribute to his unyielding loyalty to his people. Sprigs of rosemary are woven into his surcoat, a nod to remembrance and the enduring memory of his lineage. Around his shoulders rests a garland of yellow marigolds and white heather, marigolds for his strength in times of grief, and heather for protection and admiration. Twined around his arm is ivy, emblematic of resilience and eternal bonds, a poignant reminder of his commitment to kin and homeland. Finally, braided into his hair and beard are delicate forget-me-nots, a symbol of the true love he and Bilbo share.

The only metal on Thorin is in the beads in his hair, signifying his status, and the silver crown on his head, a masterful dwarven creation shaped like oak branches, in honor of his epithet, Oakenshield.

“Thorin, you’re as handsome as ever. I can only wish I could say the same for myself,” Bilbo says, smiling ruefully. Normally, he would dress more elegantly for a party, but their baby does not allow for such luxuries. Instead, he wears loose, baggy clothing, with only his crown, a realistically shaped flower crown, adorning his head. Not that anyone minds, least of all Thorin, who always finds his hobbit beautiful.

“Bilbo, my little consort-” Thorin begins, but he pauses when Bilbo raises an eyebrow at being called little . The dwarf chuckles, correcting himself. “My apologies, my appropriately sized consort. You are a masterpiece. I can see why Mahal chose Yavanna to be his wife when she could create works of art such as yourself.” He nuzzles his beard against Bilbo’s cheek, making the hobbit giggle. They part briefly, only to come together again for a soft, tender kiss.

With Thorin close by, feeding him the delicious food Bombur and the others have prepared, Bilbo feels happy and content. Watching his loved ones celebrate the day of his birth warms his heart. “Thorin, thank you for this. I-”

Suddenly, Bilbo tenses, letting out a sharp cry as a wave of pain surges through him with a force far stronger than before.

“Óin! Tauriel! Legolas!” Thorin calls out, though he doesn’t need to, his voice is already drowned out by the commotion as the three rush toward them. Thorin steadies Bilbo, his arms strong yet trembling as he tries to support his hobbit. “It’s okay, gabshel. You’ll be alright. Look at me. Take deep breaths, Bilbo,” he says, desperately trying to stay calm despite the rising panic in his chest.

But his calm shatters completely when he hears Bilbo’s pained whisper:

“Thorin… it hurts…”

In a daze, Thorin watches as Dori and Dwalin carefully carry Bilbo out of the room on a stretcher, with Óin presiding over the scene. “Quickly but carefully! Don’t drop our hobbit!” the healer barks.

Tauriel and Legolas go ahead to prepare everything they need: arranging the bed where they will place Bilbo, gathering cloths to clean the blood, boiling knives and other tools, double-checking the herbs and potions, and preparing warm water and linen cloths to clean and swaddle the baby once it arrives. The room buzzes with activity, but Thorin barely comprehends what is happening. He is not a healer and has no knowledge of their craft; all he knows is that Bilbo is in pain, even as Dori and Dwalin handle him with utmost care while moving him onto the bed.

Thorin swiftly moves to Bilbo’s side and reaches for his hand, but Óin intercepts him. “Wash those hands first, your majesty!” the healer orders sharply.

Thorin opens his mouth to argue, but Óin’s stern glare silences him. Gritting his teeth, he does as he is told, knowing it is better to follow instructions. Thorin has never been the most compliant patient, often ignoring the warnings of healers due to his stubbornness. But this is different. His own life is not at stake, his beloved and their child are.

By the time Thorin makes it to the basin filled with warm water, Tauriel and Legolas are already scrubbing their hands clean, swiftly returning to Bilbo’s side. Óin, having already sanitized his own hands, begins inspecting the tools. Thorin hurriedly washes his hands, rubbing them clean and then coating them with some kind of paste the elves had prepared. The moment he finishes, he takes his place beside Bilbo, determined to do whatever he can, even if it’s just holding his hobbit’s hand and whispering encouragement despite the rising panic in his chest.

“Ghivashel, look at me,” Thorin says softly, his voice trembling despite his effort to sound calm. “Take deep breaths.”

Thorin’s heart skips a beat when he meets Bilbo’s eyes. His hobbit’s gaze is usually so expressive, the colors shifting with his emotions. Calm, serene moments reveal a beautiful shade of blue. When Bilbo is angry or frustrated, his eyes darken to a deep brown. And when he is joyful or laughing, they sparkle with vibrant green. But now, Thorin sees icy grey, a color he has only ever witnessed when Bilbo is truly afraid.

“Thorin…” Bilbo whispers, his voice strained and trembling.

“I know, I know! You’re doing well,” Thorin reassures him, his own voice cracking slightly. He feels Bilbo’s grip tighten around his hand as Óin approaches the foot of the bed, pushing a small table closer. The table is laden with sanitized tools, cloths, herbs, and potions, neatly arranged and ready for use.

“Those damn idiots wouldn’t get out,” Óin jokes, trying to calm Bilbo down. The hobbit manages a weak laugh, fully aware that the Company would have crowded into this room if they didn’t know it would hinder the procedure. “Alright, laddie, I’ve helped Lady Dís bring Fíli and Kíli into this world. You’re in good hands. And if you can’t believe me, believe the stories about these knife-ears.” He gestures to Legolas and Tauriel, who have grown close enough to the dwarrows that the term now carries no malice.

The two elves are diligently taking Bilbo’s vital signs: counting his breaths to measure respiratory rate, checking his blood pressure by wrapping a cloth around his arm and using an odd-looking metal disk attached to a tube leading to their ears, gauging his temperature with a palm to his forehead, and monitoring his heart rate by pressing a hand gently to his chest.

“I trust you, Óin. I’m just… well, scared,” Bilbo admits, his voice wavering. He keeps his gaze fixed on Thorin’s face, knowing that behind his stoic calm lies a storm of emotions mirroring his own. “This will be the first time I-”

“No more words, laddie. How are you feeling?” Óin interrupts. Without warning, he suddenly inserts his fingers into Bilbo’s opening. Thorin’s body tenses, his teeth gritting as he barely restrains himself from lunging at Óin. He knows this is a necessary part of the process but still finds it difficult to watch.

“Oy, elf, come check this out,” Óin calls out.

Legolas leans over to examine what Óin has found. “Fascinating. It resembles a cervix that’s almost fully dilated. It won’t be long now.” He glances at Tauriel. “Tauriel, how’s the baby’s position?”

Tauriel, who has been carefully palpating Bilbo’s stomach, answers, “The baby is in a cephalic position, perfect for delivery.”

Thorin listens but doesn’t comprehend. What in Mahal’s halls is a cervix? He tunes out the technical terms, focusing instead on his beloved. “You’ll be alright, bunnel. I won’t leave you,” he promises. When Óin hands him a bowl filled with a concoction, Thorin nods and holds it to Bilbo’s lips. “Drink slowly,” he urges.

Bilbo grimaces at the taste but obeys, swallowing the mixture that leaves him feeling slightly numb yet warm. “Ugh, that is just vile,” he mutters.

Legolas waits for a few moments before lightly pinching Bilbo’s thigh. “Your majesty, can you feel this?” he asks.

Bilbo frowns in confusion, concentrating on the sensation. “A bit, but it’s like… being poked through a pillow, if that makes sense,” he explains.

“Alright, every time you feel like you need to take a shit, push,” Óin instructs bluntly.

“Remember to breathe between each attempt,” Tauriel adds gently.

Thorin watches as Bilbo nods, his face contorting with effort and pain. The hobbit’s hands grip his tightly, knuckles white, before he stops to pant heavily. “Deep breaths, love,” Thorin encourages softly.

Bilbo nods again, drawing in deeper breaths before trying once more. This cycle repeats for what feels like an eternity. Thorin fights back a frown as frustration gnaws at him, noticing the lack of progress despite Tauriel massaging Bilbo’s stomach to aid the process. His heart aches at the sight of Bilbo’s tears, the pain etched on his face. He also notices Tauriel and Legolas exchanging grim looks before they nod in silent agreement.

“Óin, it’s time,” Tauriel says quietly.

Óin hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line, before he sighs and steps away. Thorin watches him retreat, confusion mounting, when Legolas suddenly lifts Bilbo’s shirt to expose his swollen stomach. The elf begins spreading a cool, viscous liquid over the hobbit’s abdomen. Thorin’s brow furrows, unsure of what Legolas is doing, when Tauriel hands him a bowl filled with a mixture that carries a familiar, earthy scent.

“Bilbo needs to drink this,” she says firmly.

“Hear that, ghivashel? Drink,” Thorin says gently, thinking the mixture will give Bilbo the strength for another attempt. He carefully pours it to Bilbo’s lips. The hobbit sips it slowly, though his eyelids begin to droop almost immediately. A soft yawn escapes him, and before Thorin can piece together what’s happening, Bilbo falls into a deep, unnatural slumber.

“Poppy?!” Thorin’s voice rises in alarm as realization strikes. His wide eyes dart to the elves, disbelief and anger boiling within him. “Why would you make him unconscious when he needs to push? What are you doing?”

Before anyone answers, Óin returns, carrying a glowing knife, its blade still warm from the forge, his focus fixed on Bilbo’s exposed abdomen.

“No!” Thorin bellows as understanding dawns on him with a chilling clarity. He lunges forward instinctively, his panic now fully ignited. He has heard of this barbaric technique-cutting the mother open to extract the baby. Among men, it is a last, desperate measure, often dooming the mother to death. “You will not touch Bilbo!” he roars.

But Tauriel is ready. Anticipating Thorin’s resistance, she moves with swift precision, her boot striking his shin hard enough to make him stumble. Grabbing his wrist in the same motion, she twists it deftly and forces him to the ground, pinning him with surprising strength.

Óin shouts over the chaos, his voice sharp and commanding, “DWALIN! DORI! GET THORIN OUT OF HERE!”

“NO!” Thorin roars, trying to rise, but Tauriel proves why she was Thranduil’s guard captain. Dwalin and Dori rush into the room, and for a moment, Thorin believes they have come to aid him in protecting Bilbo. But to his horror, they move to him instead, grabbing his arms and dragging him away from the table. His heart sinks with the realization, they have planned for this.

“NO! TRAITORS! BILBO!” he screams, thrashing violently.

“Calm down, Thorin! Bilbo will be alright!” Dwalin grunts, straining to hold the struggling king. He grabs one of Thorin’s shoulders, trying to keep him restrained as Thorin’s powerful limbs flail and strike out.

“The elves know what they’re doing!” Dori hisses, gritting his teeth as Thorin’s fist clips his jaw. “Óin wouldn’t let this happen if it wasn’t necessary!”

Deep down, Thorin knows they are right. Óin would never allow this unless he believed Bilbo could survive. But in this moment, logic is meaningless. All Thorin sees is Óin holding a glowing hot knife, inching closer to his beloved hobbit. He screams and thrashes harder, his desperation boiling over. “NO! BILBO! NO!”

To Thorin’s brief relief, Óin sets the glowing blade aside. But the reprieve shatters as time seems to slow. Legolas picks up a smaller knife and, with practiced precision, makes a horizontal cut across Bilbo’s abdomen. Thorin swears he hears the sound of his hobbit’s skin tearing like parchment. His chest heaves with fury and terror, vile Khuzdul curses spilling from his mouth. He wishes the elf and everyone complicit in this horror a gruesome demise.

His rage intensifies when Legolas sets down the bloodied knife only to retrieve the glowing one. As the hot blade approaches Bilbo’s wound, Thorin roars. Dwalin and Dori’s hold falters, but before he can break free, Gloin and Bifur rush in, bolstering their grip on him.

“TRAITORS!” Thorin bellows, his voice breaking with raw anguish. “HOW DARE YOU?!”

The scent of burning flesh fills the air, searing itself into Thorin’s memory as the glowing blade cuts deeper into Bilbo, reminding him of the time when Smaug burned down Azsâlul'abad. The pristine white sheets darken, turning crimson with blood. Thorin’s vision blurs with tears as he struggles against the hands restraining him.

“BILBO! BILBO!” he cries, his voice hoarse, as the dwarrows manage to drag him from the room. The last thing he hears is the door clicking shut as Óin locks it.

Outside, Thorin fights with all his might, shouting for the guards to arrest or kill the traitors who dared harm his consort. But none move. His shouts falter as he realizes the horrible truth, everyone is complicit. They have all chosen to risk Bilbo’s life for the child. A child Thorin now sees as a curse.

“They are sacrificing him!” Thorin yells, his voice cracking. “They’re killing him for a child none of us have even met! It isn’t supposed to be like this! I never wanted this!”

His mind spirals, consumed by grief and fury. He clenches his fists, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “The Valar curse me for loving outside my race! They see our love as an abomination! They send this child to kill him, to tear him from me! This is no blessing!” He tilts his head back, his voice shaking the very halls. “CURSE MAHAL! CURSE YAVANNA! CURSE EVERY VALAR FOR SENDING ME A CURSE DISGUISED AS A BLESSING! THAT FOUL CREATURE IS NOT MY CHILD! THAT KIN-SLAYER WILL NEVER BE MINE!”

The dwarrows holding him freeze, their faces stricken with shock at hearing such blasphemy from their king. For a moment, no one knows how to respond. The air grows thick with silence, broken only by Thorin’s ragged breaths.

Then, a figure steps forward. Dís, calm but firm, wraps her arms tightly around her brother, pulling him into an embrace. “You don’t mean that, Thorin,” she says quietly, her voice steady as a rock.

Thorin collapses into her hold, his strength spent, his anger giving way to a deep, hollow despair. He allows the tears to fall freely now, the fight drained from his body. Fíli and Kíli join their mother, wrapping their arms around their uncle, anchoring him as he breaks down completely.

All sense of dwarven pride forgotten, Thorin sobs openly. His voice quivers as he prays through his tears, “Forgive me… forgive me. Mahal, Yavanna, anyone… Save my hobbit. Save my child. Don’t take them away from me. Not yet…”

Thorin has no idea how long it has been since he was dragged out of the room, hours, minutes, or mere seconds? All he knows is that his voice is hoarse, his throat raw from screaming, and his tears have long since dried by the time Óin finally opens the door. Without hesitation, Thorin rushes inside, his heart pounding with a desperate hope that the Valar have heard his plea.

What he sees stops him in his tracks, stealing the breath from his lungs.

There, propped up on the bed, is Bilbo, pale and visibly exhausted, but alive. And cradled in his arms is the smallest baby Thorin has ever seen. For a moment, all the pain and terror are replaced with awe.

Gently, Tauriel places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him closer to the bed. Her voice is soft, filled with warmth. “You have a healthy son, Uncle.”

“A son?” Thorin whispers, almost disbelieving, as he sits carefully on the edge of the bed. His eyes are fixed on the infant nestled against Bilbo’s chest, suckling fiercely. The baby has Bilbo’s fair complexion and soft curls, but Thorin’s own raven-black hair and striking blue eyes. His tiny ears, slightly too large for his head like most dwarven babes, end in a delicate point, a mark of his hobbit heritage. Thorin notices the faintest hint of stubble on the baby’s chubby cheeks, and his heart clenches when he sees the baby’s large, furry feet.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says gently, breaking his reverie, “you don’t have to be afraid of him.”

The hobbit’s smile is warm and inviting, and he gestures for Thorin to come closer. Thorin hesitates for a moment, his gaze dropping to the sutured wound across Bilbo’s abdomen. Guilt gnaws at him as he takes a tentative step closer before sitting beside his beloved. Carefully, he wraps his arms around Bilbo and the child, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, as if they might break under his touch.

“I’m sorry…” Thorin chokes out, his voice trembling as he presses a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead.

“For what?” Bilbo asks, surprised. There’s a hint of exasperation in his tone, as though he already suspects Thorin is blaming himself for something nonsensical again.

“I did this to you…” Thorin’s hand hovers just above the newly sewn wound, his expression dark with self-reproach. His voice drops to a whisper. “If you were with another hobbit, you wouldn’t have had to suffer this. The wound… the months of pain… All of it is because of our-”

“Ah!” Thorin yelps as Bilbo suddenly reaches up and grabs his ear, giving it a sharp twist. The unexpected gesture snaps him out of his spiral of guilt.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Bilbo says firmly, narrowing his eyes at him, “it takes two to make a baby. I’m as much to ‘blame’ as you are for this. And don’t you dare say you regret any of it. Nine months it took, nine months of waiting for him to finally be with us.”

He gestures toward their son, who has stopped suckling and is now staring up at Thorin with wide, watery eyes. The baby looks on the verge of tears, his tiny face scrunching as though he can sense his father’s earlier rejection. Thorin feels his heart ache at the thought. He bites the inside of his cheek, ashamed of his earlier outburst.

Lowering his head, Thorin presses his forehead gently to his son’s. His voice is low, filled with emotion. “I will never regret you. You are a blessing from the Valar. May they forgive me for my words earlier…”

Thorin smiles as he hears his son giggling, feeling tiny hands grabbing fistfuls of his beard. Bilbo chuckles at the scene before asking, “What do you think we should name him?”

“Frodo,” Thorin replies quickly, catching Bilbo by surprise.

“You want to give him a Hobbitish name, Thorin?” the hobbit asks, raising an eyebrow.

Thorin gently pries himself free from his son’s grasp before meeting Bilbo’s gaze. “Yes. If I remember correctly, Frodo means ‘wise’ in Hobbitish, doesn’t it? I believe it’s fitting. The wisdom of my sister and yours allowed me to see who he truly is, the most precious gift,” he says, gently running a hand through his son’s soft hair. The baby giggles loudly in response.

Hearing this, Bilbo can only smile. “You are quite foolish sometimes, Thorin, yes. I suppose our son can help keep you grounded. What do you think? Do you like the name Frodo?” he asks their son, who responds with a happy squeal. “I think that settles it. Welcome to the world, Frodo Baggins.”

Half an hour later, or perhaps more, Thorin watches as Bilbo and little Frodo yawn in unison. “Let’s get you to our bedroom,” he says softly, taking Frodo from Bilbo’s arms. He marvels at how easily he can hold the baby with one arm but, choosing caution, uses both to carry him.

“Ah yes, I should rest. Tell the others I’m sorry I won’t be awake for the rest of the festivities,” Bilbo says as he stands, slightly unsteady on his feet. Tauriel steps forward to steady him.

“Thank you, darling,” Bilbo says with a warm smile. “You can go back to your husband now. I’m sure he’s eager to hear about his youngest cousin.”

“I believe Kíli will understand if I escort our favorite uncle to the bedroom first,” Tauriel replies with amusement. Thorin rolls his eyes playfully as the four make their way to the royal chambers. Legolas and Óin ensure the others don’t crowd them, for which Bilbo is grateful. As much as he loves his dwarrows, they can be overwhelming, and the operation has left him weak from blood loss.

Once in the bedroom, Tauriel politely takes her leave while Thorin gently places Frodo in the crib he crafted himself, the bedding lovingly sewn by Bilbo. With Thorin’s help, Bilbo changes into fresh clothes for bed. He frowns as he notices how tight his old clothes feel, but Thorin kisses his cheek softly.

“You were and still are an exquisite masterpiece, Bilbo. A little extra padding doesn’t change that,” Thorin murmurs.

Bilbo flushes and playfully swats at him. “Oh hush, you!” he giggles as Thorin suddenly scoops him up and tucks him into bed. Normally, Bilbo would protest being handled like a child, but with Thorin, he always feels bashful, and nothing changes that.

“Sleep, love. I’ll go let everyone know how you are and that today is not only your birthday but also our son’s,” Thorin says, kissing him sweetly before leaving the room, a spring in his step.

As Bilbo slowly closes his eyes and allows sleep to take him, the mountain erupts in joyous celebration. The news of the newly born prince spreads quickly, filling Azsâlul'abad with cheers and song.

Time passes, and the first snow of winter is about to fall. The mountain is merry and grand during this time, with the harvest from Dale providing enough to fully stock their storages, with extra set aside for future use. Frodo continues to win the hearts of everyone within and beyond the mountain. The Company falls in love with the young lad at first sight, sparking a playful competition over who will become his favorite uncle, a contest that makes Frodo giggle.

Bard and his family personally arrive to deliver a gift for the dwobbit: soft silk of the highest quality, which Bilbo eagerly uses to craft Frodo’s clothing. Even Thranduil visits, bringing a small wooden bird that sings a sweet tune. Dáin, unable to come because of the approaching winter, sends a raven bearing his gift: a jewel-encrusted pacifier. Bilbo feels conflicted about this extravagant gesture, but his dwarrow family is delighted, so he decides it’s acceptable. Overall, the mountain is filled with joy and excitement as preparations for Durin’s Day continue.

But Thorin notices that despite the laughter and happiness their son has brought, Bilbo seems quiet and withdrawn. Though he still smiles and laughs with everyone, there is a faint dullness to it. The hobbit’s temper is shorter than usual, and he becomes uncharacteristically untidy in his appearance. He also stops going to the kitchen to cook, a pastime he once loved. Thorin assumes this is due to the busy preparations for Durin’s Day and brushes aside his concerns.

However, Bilbo begins disappearing when he isn’t needed, and Thorin often finds him alone with Frodo. Sometimes, he even wakes in the middle of the night to see Bilbo cradling their son, singing soft lullabies. Thorin wants to ask him about it, but the endless tasks for the celebration leave him little time to do so.

One day, during a meeting with Bard to finalize plans for Durin’s Day, one of the men suggests that after the celebration, Thorin and Bilbo join them in Dale to honor those who fell in the battle against Smaug. At this, Bilbo suddenly breaks down in tears.

Everyone in the room is stunned into silence as Thorin gently guides Bilbo out.

“Ghivashel, what’s wrong?” Thorin asks softly, his voice filled with concern.

Bilbo only sobs harder, clinging to him tightly. Thorin embraces him, his worry deepening. “Bunnel, I’m here. Whatever is troubling you, we can face it together.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” Bilbo confesses, his voice breaking. His legs give out, and he collapses to the floor, held upright only by Thorin’s steady arms.

“Talk to me, bunnel,” Thorin implores, his heart aching at the sight of his husband in such distress.

“I don’t know… It’s just… Thorin, I feel so overwhelmed when I shouldn’t be. I feel sad for no reason… I cry and get angry so easily, even when I know I don’t have to. I just feel… empty… worthless. I mean, look at me! I’m not the hobbit you married! I’m dirty, fat, a horrible halfling! And now that I’ve given you a son, I’m going to be replaced, and I-”

Thorin cuts off Bilbo’s spiraling rant with a gentle kiss, silencing his words but not his pain.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says softly, pressing their foreheads together, “I know what you’re feeling… and it is your mind telling you lies. My sister was the same after giving birth to Fíli and Kíli. It’s true that you have changed physically, but my dear, your heart is the same as ever. I married you for that, not for your looks. Though, I must confess,” Thorin adds with a soft smile, “they certainly helped.”

Thorin holds Bilbo gently as the hobbit cries in his arms, his own heart aching with love and concern.

Afterward, Thorin takes Bilbo to see Legolas, Tauriel, and Óin for advice. Together, they recommend easing Bilbo’s responsibilities and bringing in Alrís, Bombur’s wife, to help. A trusted dwarrowdam, Alrís has raised a veritable army of children and is an experienced wet nurse. She is also a dear friend of Bilbo’s, making her perfect for the role. Dís herself offers to take over some of Bilbo’s duties.

When Bilbo protests, Dís pokes his nose gently and says, “We’re family, Bilbo. Let me help you. I know what you’re going through, it made me feel guilty too, for feeling the way I did after giving birth to such wonderful lads. But remember, Bilbo, what we’ve done. We gave birth and brought new life into the world. That is no small feat. It takes a toll on us, and we need time to recover. You especially, as your pregnancy was far more difficult than mine. So rest, Bilbo. Let us and Thorin take care of you.”

Bilbo tears up again but nods, allowing his family to care for him in this vulnerable time. He feels deeply grateful for their love and support.

When Durin’s Day arrives, no one utters a word of complaint about the consort’s absence during the celebration. The dwarrows understand well how much pregnancy can take from their mothers, and now they honor Bilbo’s recovery as they celebrate another year of prosperity under his and their king’s rule. Many send gifts to the consort, carefully chosen with his healing in mind.

The gifts include practical items like herbs and food, but also very dwarrow-specific offerings such as intricately crafted jewelry. Bilbo tears up when he examines the gemstones, realizing the thought and care that went into their selection. Just as the Shire has a flower language, dwarrows have a gem language, and every stone speaks to their wishes for his recovery.

There is rose quartz for unconditional love, lepidolite, amethyst, and aquamarine to soothe his turbulent emotions, carnelian for vitality, citrine for joy, smoky quartz for protection, moonstone for motherhood, which makes him chuckle, for in their eyes, he is indeed a mother, and chrysoprase and rhodonite for emotional healing.

Seeing how much the kingdom now wishes for his well-being, especially when they once scrutinized his every flaw, Bilbo is overwhelmed by how far his relationship with them has come. Tears flow freely as he realizes the depth of their acceptance, and their heartfelt gestures remind him he is no longer alone.

Months pass as winter rages on, and Bilbo feels he has recovered enough to resume caring for his son, Frodo. He heads to Alrís, who is currently entertaining Frodo with a rattle.

“Oh, Bilbo! Are you here to see how Frodo is doing?” Alrís asks warmly.

“I am indeed. I can see he is doing well,” Bilbo replies with a smile, reaching down to gently scratch Frodo’s soft stubble. The dwobbit giggles, grabbing onto his Papa’s fingers.

“Indeed! He will grow up to be a fine prince!” Alrís says cheerfully. Bilbo is about to suggest that she take a break so he can look after his son, but the wet nurse’s next comment stops him in his tracks.

“I will raise him well for you two, so you can focus on your royal duties without worry.”

“Pardon?” Bilbo blinks in confusion.

“Why, it’s only natural I would! You have a kingdom to help manage, after all! No time to raise a child! That’s why I’m here,” Alrís says with a kind smile.

Bilbo stiffens, realizing that what he thought was a temporary arrangement to help him recover is expected to be permanent. Excusing himself, he walks away, guilt churning within him. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to raise Frodo. I’m his Papa. I gave birth to him! But because of his supposed weakness, they’ve deemed him unfit to care for his own son. The weight of that thought crushes him, and silent sobs escape his trembling lips.

Weeks pass, and Thorin notices that Bilbo’s dreary mood has returned, worse than before. Bilbo zones out during meetings, grows increasingly lethargic, and, most concerning of all, begins skipping meals. His once-rounded figure becomes thin and frail, worrying Thorin deeply.

Determined to help, Thorin asks Dís and Balin to rearrange their schedules, clearing a morning for the two of them to spend together. Now, as the sun rises, Thorin finds Bilbo at the window of their bedroom, watching Alrís with Frodo in the courtyard below. Bilbo waves softly, even though they don’t notice him, and Thorin sees the persistent sadness in his eyes.

Gently, Thorin guides Bilbo away from the window and toward the bath. One of the servants has already filled the tub with steaming water, and Thorin begins removing Bilbo’s nightclothes.

Bilbo giggles softly as Thorin undresses himself in turn. “As much as I enjoy this, Thorin, we have to get going if we want to keep to our schedule. I’d rather not give Balin another migraine.”

Thorin chuckles as he answers, “Ghivashel, for today, we can take our time. I have arranged with Balin and my sister, Dís, to give us the morning to ourselves.”

“Oh,” Bilbo replies softly, pausing in a way that makes Thorin uneasy. Normally, when they have free time, Bilbo lights up, eagerly listing activities he wants them to do together. His silence now is troubling.

“Bilbo, what’s wrong?” Thorin asks as he gently guides his hobbit toward the water.

The question seems to snap Bilbo out of his thoughts. He looks up at Thorin, hesitating before saying, “Can we give Alrís the morning off? And go to Frodo?”

Thorin frowns, puzzled by the request. Memories of helping Dís raise Fíli and Kíli resurface. The crying, the sleepless nights, the constant mess, it was anything but enjoyable. “Alrís will be fine, love. She can handle Frodo. If she couldn’t, she would have told us.”

Thorin immediately senses he’s said the wrong thing when Bilbo frowns but doesn’t argue. Instead, the hobbit presses himself into Thorin’s chest, burying his face against him. “I know…”

“Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs, wrapping his arms around him and running his fingers through Bilbo’s curls. “Tell me what’s wrong. It pains me to see you like this.”

Bilbo lets out a heavy sigh but doesn’t answer right away. Thorin knows his hobbit well enough to recognize when he’s struggling to find the words, so he holds him close, patiently waiting.

The room is quiet except for the sound of water as Thorin gently scrubs Bilbo’s skin. At last, Bilbo’s voice cracks as he speaks. “I feel like I’m failing him…”

“Failing who, bunnel?” Thorin asks, striving to keep his worry from creeping into his voice.

“Frodo,” Bilbo whispers. “I know I’m not the one breastfeeding him because I have to work. I know I’m not the one losing sleep to care for him because I need my wits for meetings. I know I’m not playing with him because I’m needed elsewhere. But… This isn’t how I pictured myself when I learned we were going to have him. I feel like I’m not a parent, Thorin. Just an oven he came out of.”

“And we’re so far from the Shire… How will Frodo know about hobbit culture? I know he doesn’t need it, but I… I want him to. I know I was weak before, Thorin, but I can raise him. Please, let me raise our son…” His voice breaks, and his words dissolve into sobs. Through the tears, he manages one more sentence, “No one from the Shire sent a letter either…”

Thorin pulls Bilbo close, the truth of his consort’s words cutting deep. He realizes his own mistakes, he has placed Azsâlul’abad above his family. It is what has been ingrained in him since childhood: duty before all else. But Bilbo, his beloved consort, wasn’t raised with such notions. He grew up believing that parents face the struggles of raising children together .

Thorin reflects on his own joyful memories of helping Dís with Fíli and Kíli: playing games, singing lullabies, and celebrating their milestones. If he continues prioritizing his kingdom over his family, he will miss all of those moments with his own son. Worse still, he has let Bilbo believe that Frodo can thrive without knowing his hobbit heritage, a failure Thorin cannot forgive himself for.

“Bunnel, no. You haven’t failed him. I have,” Thorin says firmly. “I forgot he’s a dwobbit, not just a dwarf. He has a side I’ve failed to nurture, your side. I promise you, from now on, we will raise him together . No more wet nurses. Fíli and Kíli are old enough to help us. And once Frodo is older, we will visit the Shire regularly. Let him see the green hills that nurtured your mithril heart.”

“My hobbit, this foolish dwarf of yours begs your forgiveness.”

“Oh, Thorin…” Bilbo sniffles, wiping his tears. “I thought you would… That I… I should have been honest. I should have complained earlier, but I didn’t want to burden you, not with everything the court and kingdom demand from you.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says with a tender smile, “if you and Frodo are burdens, then Mahal and Yavanna are merciful because you are the easiest burdens I have ever carried.”

Bilbo bursts into laughter, the sound lifting Thorin’s heart. The dwarf leans down to kiss him gently, then adds, “Besides, we are already an untraditional pair. It won’t be strange to raise a royal prince in an untraditional way.”

“Does that mean we can go to Frodo now?” Bilbo asks, his voice alight with excitement.

“We can,” Thorin replies, grinning, “but first, let me apologize properly.”

With that, Thorin showers Bilbo with kisses, eliciting delighted giggles that dissolve into moans as the morning becomes theirs alone.

Bilbo sips his herbal tea as he and Thorin inform Alrís about their new arrangements. Naturally, Alrís expresses her concerns, but Thorin reassures her with a warm smile. “I’ve helped raise two princes, and Bilbo has looked after his fair share of relatives. We’ll manage. And if it becomes too much, we promise to call on you for babysitting.”

“Well, this won’t be easy, Your Majesties, running a kingdom and raising a child, but the two of you have done the impossible before, especially with my husband. So, I will gracefully retire,” Alrís says with a laugh.

“I will miss you, Alrís. I hope this doesn’t affect our friendship,” Bilbo remarks, his voice tinged with sadness.

Alrís laughs brightly. “Oh, Bilbo! Of course it won’t! If anything, I’m glad you told me how you felt. As your friend, nothing pains me more than the thought of hurting you, even unintentionally. I’m happy you were honest with me. Our friendship isn’t that fragile. Please, do keep inviting me over for tea.”

Bilbo smiles, pulling Alrís into a heartfelt hug. The dwarrowdam hugs him back tightly before stepping away with a cheerful farewell. “I’ll surprise Bombur and the children with a big, hot meal when I get home!” she calls as she leaves.

“She and Bombur will fit into Hobbiton so well,” Bilbo remarks softly once Alrís is gone, leaving them alone with Frodo, who sleeps soundly in his cradle.

“Frodo will too,” Thorin replies, his voice full of promise as he begins undoing his beard braids. He carefully places the decorative beads to one side, his movements piquing Bilbo’s curiosity.

“Cupcake, what are you doing?” Bilbo asks, tilting his head. Thorin chuckles at the endearment. It had taken him some time to adjust to being called pastries, but he now knows that, for hobbits, being compared to food is a deep expression of affection, much like being called a gem is for dwarrows.

“I’m making a mebarmababnulzant, bunnel,” Thorin replies with a smile, his fingers deftly weaving his beard into a familiar pattern, one he remembers from childhood. It’s the same style his old nanny used to wear when Dís and Frerin were as small as pebbles.

Bilbo wrinkles his nose, sifting through his Khuzdul lessons. “A… cradle braid?” he asks hesitantly.

Thorin chuckles, nodding. The hobbit steps closer, watching intently as the intricate pattern begins to take shape. After a moment, curiosity overtakes him. “It’s a bit like basket weaving, isn’t it? Want some help, love?”

Thorin’s expression softens. “It would please me greatly if you did, amrâlimê.” He settles himself on a low stool, allowing Bilbo better access to his beard. With the hobbit’s nimble fingers guiding him, the intricate braid begins to take shape.

“So you’re planning to carry Frodo in your beard, my dear?” Bilbo asks, his voice tinged with both fondness and amusement.

“Indeed,” Thorin replies. “It is tradition. Men may use soft fabrics to create slings for their children, but we dwarrows carry ours in our beards. Do hobbits follow the same practice as men?”

Bilbo tilts his head thoughtfully. “We do, in a way. The slings are passed down through families. My mother, bless her heart, gave the one she used for me to one of my aunts. It’s been passed along ever since, and if I’m not mistaken, Drogo has it now.” His words trail off into a chuckle as he focuses on finishing the braid.

By the time they’re done, Thorin’s thick, luxurious beard, now longer and fuller since Azsâlul'abadr’s reclamation, has been transformed into an elegant cradle braid. The strands are woven into a sturdy yet soft hammock-like design, forming a gentle, curved basin under his chin. Symmetrical ropes of hair loop upward to frame the cradle, giving it a snug and protective look. Bilbo, ever the perfectionist, even tucks a few small stuffed toys resembling their Company friends into the design.

Thorin raises a brow at the additions. “Do dwarrows always carry their children this way? I’ve seen cribs, so I assume they’re used too.”

“You assume correctly,” Thorin says, adjusting the braid carefully. “Both parents weave their beards into mebarmababnulzant. In raising children, dwarrows pause their crafts, believing child-rearing to be the greatest craft of all, an honor entrusted to us by Mahal. Our children are rare, and so they are precious. Royals like myself are granted an exception, as Mahal tasks us with guiding our people and maintaining prosperity, even while raising a family. That is why we’re allowed nannies.”

Thorin catches Bilbo’s slight frown and adds quickly, “But I doubt Mahal will mind me bending the rules. After all, I married one of Yavanna’s children and follow her traditions in your honor.”

Bilbo’s lips twitch into a playful smile. “Are you saying Yavanna, in all her grace, is a rather... overbearing wife?”

Thorin’s eyes gleam with mischief. “If she’s anything like you, ghivashel, then yes.”

Bilbo lets out an indignant laugh and swats his arm, prompting Thorin’s deep, hearty laughter to fill the room.

The noise wakes Frodo, who whimpers softly and blinks his eyes open. Bilbo quickly scoops him up from his crib, cradling him gently. “Oh, I’m sorry, my little sprout. Your Adad and I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says soothingly.

Frodo makes a contented sound and snuggles into Bilbo’s embrace, but moments later, his contentment gives way to sudden cries. Concerned, Bilbo sniffs at him briefly, checking if his dwobbit son needs a change. Smelling nothing but Frodo’s familiar scent, he realizes the true reason for the cries. Smiling, he lifts his shirt to let Frodo latch on and start nursing.

Thorin watches the tender scene, his heart swelling with warmth. He chuckles softly when he hears Frodo’s quiet purring while he suckles. Time passes peacefully until Frodo finishes, yawns deeply, and nuzzles closer to Bilbo’s warmth. Thorin steps forward, carefully taking Frodo from Bilbo and settling him into the cradle braid he wears.

Frodo squirms briefly, searching for a comfortable position, until he finds it by nestling close to Thorin’s chest and hearing the steady rhythm of his Adad’s heartbeat. His tiny form relaxes, and with another soft yawn, he drifts off to sleep.

Thorin’s smile fades as Balin enters the room. “Thorin, it’s lunchtime. You need to-” Balin halts mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing when he notices the cradle braid and the dwobbit prince nestled within it. “Thorin, where is Alrís? You’ve got a nanny for that.”

Thorin meets his advisor’s gaze calmly. “Balin, Bilbo and I no longer require Alrís’ services. We’ve decided to raise Frodo ourselves,” he explains with a soft smile, drawing Bilbo closer.

“But-” Balin’s eye twitches as Thorin cuts him off.

“Have Fíli and Kíli handle the rest. I’ve already missed too much time with my family. Please, Balin. Let us have this,” Thorin pleads.

Balin looks ready to argue but falters when Bilbo glances up at him with large, teary eyes. The older dwarf lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine! If you two are determined to wear yourselves out balancing royal duties and parenting, be my guests. But don’t expect me to join in your madness,” he huffs, spinning on his heel. Yet as he leaves, Thorin and Bilbo catch the soft smile tugging at his lips.

Bilbo laughs softly. “He’s not wrong. We’ll definitely be giving them more work. Maybe I should bake something to thank them.”

Thorin kisses him, his smile wide and full of love. “They’ll manage, Bilbo. The kingdom is thriving, and our friends are more than capable. They’ll help us, even if they grumble about it.”

With a soft laugh, Bilbo wraps his arms around his husband, the two of them holding their dwobbit son between them. Frodo, nestled close, listens to the steady rhythm of their heartbeats and sleeps peacefully, cocooned in their love.

Years have passed, and Bilbo is concerned about Frodo’s slow growth, while Thorin worries about the opposite, Frodo’s rapid development. Due to Frodo’s unique biology, neither of them knows how he will age, as there are no records of other ‘dwobbits’ in existence. The only known hybrid race, the half-elves, cannot provide insight either, as their other parent is an immortal elf. For now, the two have agreed to take things as they come.

At present, Frodo has grown into a loud and rambunctious little thing. Both parents agree that, at the age of eleven, he is ready to play with other children.

“It’ll be good for him to be around his peers, Thorin,” Bilbo says.

“I believe so. Gimli has promised to keep an eye on him,” Thorin replies with a smile.

Gimli, Gloin’s son, has grown into a fine dwarven warrior, capable of holding his own against his older cousins, Fíli and Kíli. When he learned that his youngest cousin needed a personal bodyguard, he eagerly volunteered.

“Wee Frodo is family! It’s only right I protect him!” he declared. His enthusiasm touched Bilbo and Thorin’s hearts. However, to avoid any accusations of favoritism, Dwalin insisted Gimli undergo the same rigorous selection process as the other dwarrows vying for the position. Gimli welcomed the challenge and emerged victorious, much to his father Gloin’s pride, so much so that Gloin wept tears of joy when his son endured the longest sparring session against Dwalin.

And so, the royal parents watch as Gloin escorts little Frodo to school. The dwobbit looks back over his shoulder, waving his tiny hands. “Bye-bye, Papa! Bye-bye, Adad!”

The school is a typical dwarven center of learning. Young children start with basic education before progressing to advanced lessons and, ultimately, specialized programs where masters of various crafts select apprentices. This particular school, however, is unique. It welcomes students of other races, including humans and the occasional elf. This inclusivity is part of Bilbo’s vision for an open Azsâlul'abad, fostering strong alliances and friendships with their neighbors. He believes this integration will ensure goodwill among future generations.

Frodo is sure to make new friends there. However...

“I worry for him, Thorin,” Bilbo confesses, his voice tinged with anxiety. “This will be the first time he’s been away from us for such a long time. What if something happens to him?”

Thorin gently kisses his husband’s forehead and offers a reassuring smile.

“Ghivashel, our pebble will be safe. He is inside the mountain, and Gimli is with him. No harm will come to him,” Thorin murmurs, pulling Bilbo closer and wrapping an arm around his hobbit. “But I will miss him dreadfully. I still remember those days when we went to court meetings with Frodo in my mebarmababnulzant, either sleeping or playing. He grows up too fast.”

“Oh, sweetheart… I miss those days too,” Bilbo replies, his voice trembling. “Our little sprout is growing up, and I don’t think either of us is ready.” He fights back a sob, but Thorin holds him tightly in an embrace.

“It was always going to happen, bunnel… We must remind ourselves that Frodo will come back,” Thorin says, though he can feel the sting of tears in his own eyes.

Nearby, Balin and Dwalin stand awkwardly, witnesses to the heartfelt moment. The two brothers exchange a quick game of rock-paper-scissors to decide who will remind the royal couple of their duties. When Dwalin loses, he silently groans in frustration, while Balin smirks at his victory.

“Bilbo! Thorin! You have meetings to attend!” Dwalin calls out, breaking the tender atmosphere.

The royal couple turns to glare at their friend, clearly annoyed by the interruption. But after a shared sigh, they nod in resignation. Parents they may be, but they are also king and consort, and the kingdom’s affairs wait for no one. Together with Balin and Dwalin, they head back inside to attend to their duties.

The trip to the school is a quick one. Gimli ensures he has a firm but gentle grip on his younger cousin’s hand as they walk. Many dwarrows and a few humans greet them warmly as they traverse the streets. Thanks to the openness of the royal family, no one hesitates to approach the young dwobbit prince to say hello or offer Frodo snacks. Gimli watches closely, subtly checking for poison, though he finds none. The citizens of Azsâlul'abad are happy and thriving, and any dissent regarding a hobbit consort had been resolved long before Frodo’s birth. Still, better safe than sorry. Besides, Frodo enjoys sharing his treats with his cousin.

When they arrive at the school, Gimli observes the bustling scene of first-time students being dropped off. The air is filled with the loud cries of children, lamenting their parents’ apparent "abandonment" on this momentous first day. Gimli glances at his young cousin, worried he might join in the cacophony.

But Frodo, accustomed to loud and crowded environments after years of being carried around to court meetings and royal functions as a babe, is all smiles. He seems unperturbed, even amidst the wails of dwarven and human children around him.

“Um... cousin... you doing alright?” Gimli asks, a bit unsure how to process Frodo’s calm demeanor. He isn’t about to admit it, but he himself had been teary-eyed on his first day of school, convinced his parents had abandoned him.

“Yeah! Papa said school is an adventure! And I get to go home and tell him all about it!” the young dwobbit replies cheerfully, flashing his older cousin a huge grin. Gimli feels his heart melt at the sight of Frodo’s infectious enthusiasm.

“And you’re a brave lad for going on this adventure by yourself, Frodo,” Gimli says with a warm smile, leaning down to pat his cousin’s shoulder.

“I’m not alone! I have cousin Gimli with me! You’ll save me if I’m in trouble, right?” Frodo asks, his large blue eyes brimming with hope. Gimli draws on his warrior’s discipline and pride to resist the urge to pinch his cousin’s cheeks.

“Of course I will, Prince Frodo,” he replies, settling for patting the young dwobbit’s shoulder again. Frodo giggles loudly, his laughter lighting up the moment. “You’re a very brave prince to go on this adventure.”

Frodo giggles again before darting toward the school, pausing at the door to wave enthusiastically. “Bye-bye, Cousin Gimli! I’ll make sure to tell you lots of stories!” With that, he disappears inside.

Gimli waves goodbye and turns to join the other guards stationed outside. The school is attended by both noble and commoner children, human and dwarven alike, as it is open to all. Like Frodo, many of these children have guards accompanying them. Gimli recognizes several of these guards, having trained and served with many of them. He realizes he won’t be bored during his vigil, though his training has made him perfectly capable of standing still for hours without distraction. It’s just a bonus that he’ll have familiar company.

Frodo has always loved reading and learning, a trait he inherited from his Papa Bilbo. He adores sitting on his Papa’s lap, listening to stories, both fictional tales and real histories. He also enjoys when Adad Thorin teaches him, often learning Khuzdul and Westron under his steady guidance. His two parents have very different teaching styles. Papa Bilbo brings stories to life with dramatic voices and showers him with praise when he gets something right. Adad Thorin, on the other hand, is more reserved but equally loving. His lessons are calm and steady, and though he doesn’t offer effusive praise, he often pats Frodo’s head with a quiet affection that speaks volumes.

Given this background, it’s no surprise to anyone who knows Frodo that he is thoroughly enjoying the lesson the elven teacher is giving. The lesson focuses on Westron letters and how to read them, accompanied by colorful pictures and songs. Frodo is already familiar with much of the material, having practiced reading with his parents before. He even remembers the song that accompanies the letters, a melody from his Papa’s homeland, the Shire. With a beaming smile, Frodo sings along with the elven teacher and the other children:

“A is for Apples, red and round,
B is for Bunnies, hopping the ground.
C is for Cabbage, growing tall,
D is for Ducks, that quack and call.

E is for Eggs, for breakfast we share,
F is for Flowers, blooming everywhere.
G is for Grass, so soft and green,
H is for Hills, the prettiest you’ve seen!

I is for Insects, buzzing so small,
J is for Jelly, the tastiest of all.
K is for Kites, flying high in the sky,
L is for Lamps, glowing warm nearby.

M is for Mittens, to keep fingers warm,
N is for Nests, where birdies are born.
O is for Oats, in a hobbit’s sweet pie,
P is for Ponies, trotting right by!

Q is for Quiet, on a sleepy night,
R is for Rivers, sparkling bright.
S is for Sun, that shines on the trees,
T is for Tea, with biscuits, please!

U is for Umbrella, for rainy days,
V is for Veggies, in garden bays.
W is for Wheels, on a cart that turns,
X is for eXtra, the pie my heart yearns!

Y is for Yarn, that’s spun for fun,
Z is for Zoom, watch the squirrels run!”

After the literacy lesson, the children move on to a game involving numbers, this time led by a dwarven teacher. The activity uses wooden blocks and numbered, color-coded cards. Each group selects a card and must build a tower using the correct number of blocks in the same color as shown on their card. Frodo, being smaller than most of the children, helps his team by gathering the blue blocks needed for their tower.

“One... two... three... four... five...” Frodo counts, but he pauses, pouting as he runs out of fingers on one hand. “What comes after five?”

“Seven, right?” a human child asks as they work on the tower’s base.

“No, it’s six! Seven comes after six!” a dwarven child replies cheerfully, stacking the next layer.

“So this tower is six blocks? Is that right?” Frodo asks uncertainly, still pouting.

Another smaller human child checks their card, which shows the number six. “Yes, it is!”

“We did it!” Frodo cheers loudly. The group celebrates as their tower stands, completed. While they sit down to rest, the dwarven child runs off to inform the teacher that they’ve finished.

“Is it true you’re the prince?” one of the human children, the shorter one, asked.

“I am!” Frodo replied confidently.

“What’s it like?” the taller human child inquired curiously.

“It’s nice! Adad and Papa carry me everywhere!” Frodo giggled. “And Cousin Gimli stays with me all the time!”

“My dad carries me too!” the shorter child said happily.

“My dad doesn’t, because he says I’m getting too big to be carried,” the taller child added with a confident smile. “I’m bigger and stronger now, so I don’t need to be carried anymore!”

“Woah!” Frodo and the shorter child stared in awe at the taller child.

“You guys need to be carried because you’re small!” the taller child teased cheekily.

“Am not!” the shorter child shot back. “The prince is the smallest in class!”

“I am not! Papa and Adad said I’m big enough for an adventure!” Frodo retorted, frowning.

“Big enough? You can’t even reach the teacher’s knee!” the taller child pointed out.

“Yes, I can!” Frodo pouted.

“No, you can’t!” the shorter child chimed in.

“Yes, I can!” Frodo cried out, louder this time.

When the dwarven teacher finally arrived at their corner with their dwarven classmate, Frodo suddenly lunged forward, hitting the teacher at the knee to prove his point. The unexpected lunge caused the teacher to yell in surprise as they stumbled backward and fell right onto the group’s tower.

“Frodo Baggins! What has gotten into you?!” the teacher exclaimed, sitting amidst the toppled blocks.

Gimli is unsure why the elven teacher has specifically called for him, but he quickly realizes it must have something to do with Frodo. Without hesitation, the dwarf follows.

“What’s wrong with the prince? Is he hurt? The prince is smaller and more delicate than most children! Is he-”

“Mr. Dwarf, the prince is alright. A bit bruised b-” The elf winces slightly.

“Bruised?!” Gimli bellows in horror.

“-but he is being tended to,” the elf finishes calmly, though slightly strained. “As well as the teacher he... assaulted.”

Gimli’s jaw drops. His sweet, innocent, tiny cousin, the dwobbit prince Frodo, assaulted a teacher? A full-grown adult? That small creature? ...Did he win?

As if reading Gimli’s mind, the elven teacher continues, “The young prince suddenly lunged at my colleague’s legs while they were walking to their corner. My colleague couldn’t dodge in time, and they tripped. That’s how they got injured.”

“O-oh, my cousin-” Gimli catches himself quickly, remembering where he is. “-I mean, his highness Frodo enjoys hugging people he adores. The royal family has likely spoiled him, being so careful around him when he should be careful himself. In any case, I must apologize for his behavior. I will speak to him about this incident. May I see him?”

The elf raises an eyebrow, then chuckles lightly. “Mr. Dwarf, are you here as the prince’s guard or his guardian?”

“Guard,” Gimli declares, straightening his posture.

“I see how close you are to the prince, Mr. Dwarf. I am not judging. In fact, I’m glad he is so open, even with you. I was afraid he might be scolded harshly; I’ve seen traditional dwarrows who are more... inclined toward tough love. Let me show you where he is.”

The elf leads Gimli to a door and stops. Opening it, Gimli sees his young cousin silently weeping, mumbling apologies to the dwarven teacher seated nearby.

“Oh, dear child, it’s alright. I’m alright. It’s just a light scrape,” the dwarven teacher says gently, trying to console the dwobbit while applying a cold compress to his bruise.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to… I just wanted…” Frodo sobs, his voice breaking as he curls into himself.

Gimli steps forward, his heart aching. He gently scoops up the dwobbit, ensuring Frodo’s injury remains elevated.

“I’m taking you home, Frodo,” he says softly, pressing his forehead to Frodo’s in a comforting gesture. The dwobbit clings to Gimli’s beard, still crying.

“Like you said earlier, I’m here to save you from trouble.”

After offering apologies and farewells to the teachers, Gimli carries Frodo out. Together, the cousins begin their walk back to the castle, Frodo burying his face in Gimli’s beard, his sobs gradually subsiding.

As king, Thorin cannot leave the meeting, but Bilbo is able to and is currently holding his poor, sleeping dwobbit son close to his chest. He notices the dried tear stains on Frodo's cheeks as he listens to Gimli recount what happened.

“Frodo was teased about his small size, said he couldn’t even reach his teacher’s knee. So he tried to prove he could but got too excited and accidentally hit their legs, causing them to stumble. The teacher’s fine, though, and didn’t seem mad at Frodo,” Gimli explains, his tone a mix of sadness and frustration.

“Thank you, Gimli, for looking out for Frodo,” Bilbo says softly, using a napkin to gently wipe the tear stains from Frodo’s cheeks without waking him. He sighs, wondering if he should have kept Frodo home. He knows that, because of Frodo’s lineage, he would be smaller than the other children, and children, he reflects, have no tact.

“They should be punished,” Gimli grumbles, but Bilbo shakes his head.

“I know the teachers there, I personally chose them. They’re kind but strict. They would’ve already addressed the children involved. Besides, children are unfiltered in their words and thoughts. Frodo is the same. They don’t mean harm,” Bilbo says with a sigh. He reaches out and gently takes Gimli’s hand, recognizing the guilt in the dwarf’s expression. Gimli feels as though he has failed Frodo, not just as his bodyguard, but as family.

“Gimli, it isn’t your fault. He’s safe. A bit bruised, yes, but he’s fine. These things happen. Even you had bad days at school.”

Gimli’s frown softens slightly as he recalls his own unfiltered brashness as a child. He was a spitfire, often rude without realizing it. “Will Frodo be alright?”

“Frodo is fragile, but not that fragile,” Bilbo chuckles, trying to reassure him, though he too is worried. He remembers the loneliness of being a Tookish child in a neighborhood full of Bagginses. Yet, his parents’ love had given him a happy childhood, and he is determined to do the same for Frodo. He knows Thorin feels the same. Together, they will ensure Frodo has more happy memories than sad ones.

Gimli nods again before the door opens, and Thorin enters.

“Gimli, thank you for bringing Frodo back. You’re excused,” Thorin says.

Gimli hesitates, feeling he should stay with Frodo, but Thorin smiles gently and presses his forehead to Gimli’s. “I’m not angry, Gimli. In fact, I’m proud of you. But this is a matter for my husband and me.”

Taking a deep breath, Gimli nods and excuses himself. Thorin then takes a seat beside Bilbo.

“Amrâlimê, I think we might need to pull Frodo out of school,” Thorin begins.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a bad day,” Bilbo responds immediately.

“It’s just… it’s not safe. We-” Thorin tries to continue, but Bilbo interrupts.

“You’re the one who said he’d be safe, and he is. He will be,” Bilbo says, holding Thorin’s hand gently. “Thorin… it’ll be alright.”

Thorin sighs heavily. “We’ll ask Frodo if he still wants to go. If he doesn’t, we won’t force him. How about that?”

Bilbo smiles and chuckles. “You’re finally being diplomatic. Very well. We’ll ask Frodo if he wants to keep going to school or not.”

Thorin nods as their conversation shifts to more neutral topics, like their royal duties or plans for their individual hobbies, with a few flirty exchanges sprinkled in as they wait for their son to wake. It takes a few hours before the dwobbit stirs, slowly waking up.

“Papa? Adad?” he calls softly, feeling the familiar warmth of his Papa’s embrace.

“Hello, little sprout. Did you have a good nap?” Bilbo asks gently. Frodo nods, sitting up in his lap and rubbing his eyes.

“Where’s Gimli?” Frodo asks, glancing around for his cousin.

“Gimli went to his room. He’ll be there for dinner,” Thorin answers, and the dwobbit nods. “Did you enjoy school?”

“I did! I sang, played a game, met my classmates, and the teachers were nice! We built a tower!” Frodo exclaims happily, though his expression soon falls. “But I hurted my teacher…”

“Oh, pebble…” Thorin lowers his head and presses his forehead gently against Frodo’s. “Do you still want to go to school? I heard you were teased. If you don’t want to go anymore, you don’t have to.”

“No! I want to go! I had fun! And Papa Bilbo always says that if I do something wrong, I should apologize! I’ll apologize! Papa! Can you help me make my sorry cookies?” Frodo pleads, looking up at Bilbo with wide, earnest eyes.

“Of course we can, Frodo. We’ll bake your sorry cookies together. And Adad can join us,” Bilbo replies warmly.

“Really?” Frodo’s eyes widen with excitement as he turns to Thorin, who nods with a smile. Frodo lets out a joyful squeal, and the two parents chuckle as he begins to chatter animatedly about his day at school.

When dinner time arrives, Frodo eagerly shares his story again with the rest of the family. The royal couple notices Gimli relaxing at the table, reassured by Frodo’s cheerful demeanor, while Gloin gives his son a supportive pat on the back.

A year passes, and Frodo is now twelve years old. Thorin tries to convince Bilbo that Frodo is old enough to travel and finally meet the other half of his family in the Shire.

“Bunnel, our pebble is grown enough. And I know you miss the green hills. He will be safe, I assure you. The roads between Azsâlul'abad and Khagal'abba are well-paved with all the trade we do,” Thorin says, talking about the Blue Mountains, also known as Ered Luin.

“I’m just worried. He’s still young, and he’s part hobbit. Thorin, you know we aren’t built for travel! It’s true I miss Hobbiton and Bag End, but…” Bilbo sighs, knowing deep down that Frodo should meet the rest of his family.

“Bilbo… he has to meet his grandparents,” Thorin says gently. Bilbo’s eyes snap up to meet his.

“Oh, that’s… You can’t just… Thorin…” Bilbo groans, finally nodding. “Alright, alright, we’ll visit the Shire this year. I’ll write to Drogo and Primula about our visit. It’s only right.”

“I’m sorry, but you know I’m right,” Thorin murmurs, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. Bilbo glares in response, making Thorin chuckle. “Tell you what, we’ll make some detours on the trip. What do you say?”

“Even Rivendell?” Bilbo asks with a cheeky grin. Thorin sighs but nods.

With the decision made, they begin their preparations. Fíli, Kíli, and Dís will manage the kingdom’s affairs with Balin’s help. Dwalin will lead the guards accompanying them. Óin insists on joining, eager to learn about Rivendell’s medicine. Gloin, busy with his duties as Master of Coin, cannot come, but his son Gimli will join as Frodo’s personal guard. Dori remains behind as Guildmaster of the Weaver’s Guild, while Nori stays in Azsâlul'abad to fulfill his role as Spymaster and assist the royal family. Ori, however, decides to come, eager to write about hobbits.

Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur will also join, planning to visit relatives in Khagal'abba along the way. Tauriel, too, will accompany them, eager to reconnect with friends in Rivendell.

When they share the news with Frodo, the dwobbit squeals in excitement. He can hardly contain his joy at the thought of meeting his hobbit relatives, whom he knows only through letters.

“I’ll get to meet Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo?” he asks eagerly. From all his relatives in the Shire, those two write to Frodo more often than the others, making them his clear favorites.

Bilbo would normally remind him that they shouldn’t have favorites, but considering he once helped Frodo burn letters from the Sackville-Bagginses without reading them, he lets it slide.

“Yes, Frodo! We will be meeting them! And they are excited to meet you!” Bilbo smiled as he patted Frodo’s head. Frodo was growing fast, and Bilbo no longer needed to lean down to do so. Chuckling, he hugged his son, who had thrown his arms around him. Bilbo could only respond by hugging back. “Go and get ready! Gimli will help you.”

Frodo squealed happily once more and dashed away to pack, with Gimli following close behind. Thorin smiled and took Bilbo’s hand so they could prepare as well.

The packing was swift, and soon their carriage was ready. They would be joining a caravan filled with merchants and dwarrows traveling to Khagal'abba to visit relatives. The royal family had traded their usual extravagant attire for practical traveling clothes, reminiscent of the ones they had worn during their great Journey. This was to help them blend in with the other dwarrows in the caravan. The guards, while allowed to wear armor, refrained from donning the decorated armor that marked their rank in Azsâlul'abad’s military. Instead, they appeared as simple mercenaries hired to protect the caravan. However, since Bilbo was the only known hobbit and Frodo the only known dwobbit from Azsâlul'abad, they would spend most of their time inside the carriage to avoid drawing attention.

“Look at you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you all like this,” Bilbo said with a smile, noticing how his friends resembled the traveling company they had once been. He chuckled at the memory, and the others, including his husband, laughed, sharing in the nostalgia of their Journey despite its hardships.

“Don’t worry, amrâlimê. We’re taking the roads this time, and it’ll be a safer journey,” Thorin assured him with a chuckle, leaning in to kiss his husband. Together, they watched Frodo, with Gimli’s help, feeding the Ereborean mountain goats that would pull their carriage. “I won’t let our son, or you, be in danger.”

“Very well, you silly dwarf. Make sure you keep yourself safe too.” Bilbo kissed Thorin again. Thorin growled playfully, making Bilbo laugh as he swatted at him. It was a lighthearted beginning to their journey.

This trip proved to be far smoother than their renowned Journey. The roads were well-maintained, and they were well-stocked and well-protected by both guards and merchants. They paused briefly at Dale, where Bard and his family welcomed them warmly. Frodo was thrilled to see familiar faces and enjoyed a delightful game of hide-and-seek. He especially enjoy playing with Bard who has given the throne to his son Bain and had plenty of time for Frodo because of it. However, their stay was brief, lasting only a day, as they picked up human merchants and guards to join their caravan.

They soon arrive in Greenwood, a place still familiar to Frodo as his parents are sometimes invited here for special occasions. Thranduil, as usual, gets on Thorin’s nerves, and Thorin does the same to him, with Bilbo making sure their bickering doesn’t devolve into petty squabbles, especially with Frodo around. Legolas is delighted to play with Frodo, laughing and listening intently as the young dwobbit eagerly shares his stories. Gimli, meanwhile, avoids the elven prince, his face turning red whenever they are near each other. Thankfully, they only stay for a single day, picking up elven merchants and guards to join the caravan.

Thorin stays true to his promise. As they approach Beorn’s territory, their group veers off the main path. Some members of the caravan glance at them but say nothing, as it’s not uncommon for groups to separate from the caravan. Beorn welcomes them warmly, having been informed of their arrival by his avian friend and the raven Bilbo sent ahead.

Frodo has never met Beorn or any shapeshifter before and is initially extremely shy, hiding behind his family. But when Beorn invites him to pet his animals, and even himself in bear form, the dwobbit’s confidence quickly grows. Soon, Frodo is happily chatting with Beorn, sharing stories about school, family, and his favorite books, all while perched comfortably on Beorn’s lap. They stay with Beorn for about a week before setting off again, following his directions to swiftly rejoin the caravan.

Their next stop off the main road is Rivendell, much to Thorin’s annoyance. Lord Elrond and his family welcome them warmly. Thorin howls with laughter when Frodo bluntly declares that Rivendell elves are much lovelier than Greenwood elves, leaving Bilbo staring in shock at his son’s candor. Elrond’s sons, Elladan and Elrohir, find the comment hilarious, as does Arwen, who giggles softly. Even the human Estel laughs. Seeing how friendly both Bilbo and Thorin are, as well as his knowledge about the personalities of the pair, Elrond told the truth about the human within Rivendell and the couple promises to keep it a secret. Frodo adores Estel, trailing after him throughout their week-long stay. Óin is thrilled with the elven medicines he collects before they rejoin the caravan at Bree.

In Bree, Frodo encounters hobbits other than his Papa for the first time, and it terrifies him. Bilbo and Thorin hold him close, quickly realizing why. Frodo is a dwobbit, likely the first of his kind, and the naturally nosy hobbits can’t help but stare whenever they see him. The constant attention unsettles Frodo, robbing him of any enjoyment of Bree. Despite Thorin and Bilbo’s efforts to protect and comfort him, Frodo refuses to leave the carriage for the rest of their stay, overwhelmed by the invasive questions and unrelenting stares. “I promise you, Frodo,” Bilbo says gently, holding his son close, “not all hobbits are like that.”

When they finally reach the Shire, the hobbits stop and stare, not at the dwarrows, who often pass through on their way to Khagal'abba, but at Bilbo, whom they haven’t seen in years, and at Frodo, the dwobbit. Since Bilbo knows these hobbits, he chats with them amiably. “Meet my son and my husband,” he says proudly. The hobbits quickly crowd around the carriage, offering congratulations and peppering them with questions. Frodo begins to feel overwhelmed, but Bilbo keeps him close, expertly deflecting any invasive queries. Thorin tries to do the same, though his approach is far less diplomatic than his husband’s.

It gets worse when they finally arrive in Hobbiton, as news travels fast and Bilbo’s family is already there waiting. To Bilbo’s surprise, even his Took relatives have managed to make the journey from Tuckborough to meet them. Thorin knows his in-laws are numerous, but the sheer number of them makes him feel dizzy and terrified in a way no battle ever has. Frodo feels the same, his small frame practically vibrating with nerves.

Seeing his family turning into jello from all the attention, Bilbo quickly ushers them into Bag End, shouting as he goes, “I’ll introduce my dwarven family and son to you all in an orderly manner, via meal times! Expect letters from me soon! Stop crowding my husband and son! And no, cousin, Gimli is already promised to someone else!”

Primula laughs as Drogo firmly shuts the door behind them, blocking out the sound of their family’s chatter outside. “Bilbo! Cousin! You’re a celebrity here, you know!”

“I can see that, Prim! Drogo, good to see you! This is my husband, Thorin, and my son, Frodo!” Bilbo replies with a laugh as he introduces his family. He then takes his time introducing the rest of his dwarven friends and family: Dwalin, Gimli, Ori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and his niece-in-law, Tauriel.

“Oh? Not all of them?” Primula asks, noting that the group is smaller than the number of dwarrows Bilbo often mentions in his letters.

“Honey, Bilbo already explained in his last letter why some couldn’t make it,” Drogo reminds his husband gently. The couple giggles before turning their attention to Frodo.

The young dwobbit looks up at them with wide eyes and softly says, “Um… hello… Uncle Drogo… Aunt Primula… I’m Frodo! Thank you for always replying to my letters!”

Bilbo and Thorin immediately notice the way Primula and Drogo’s expressions soften, their hearts melting. The couple exchanges knowing smiles, already suspecting that the pair might try to ‘kidnap’ their dwobbit son before the visit ends.

The unpacking begins in earnest, the air filled with the sound of chatter and laughter. Bilbo, Primula, and Drogo dominate the conversation, sharing the latest gossip from Azsâlul'abad and the Shire. Naturally, much of the talk revolves around Bilbo’s son Frodo and his husband Thorin.

By the time they finish unpacking, just in time for afternoon tea, the doorbell rings. Bilbo sighs and rolls his eyes. “I haven’t invited anyone yet!”

“Not you, but I did!” Primula laughs, opening the door to reveal the Gamgees. Bilbo cheers as he recognizes his old friend Hamfast.

“Hamfast! Look at you! I knew you were sweet on Bell! And oooh, your sprouts are beauties! Hello there!” Bilbo leans down, grinning as he greets Hamfast’s children. He has already memorized all their names. “You must be Hamson. And you would be Halfred. And this beauty is Daisy. And this lovely lass is May. And this… is Samwise.” He gently pokes each child’s nose with a smile, earning a chorus of giggles. But then he pauses, noticing the baby in Bell’s arms, the youngest of the Gamgee family, Sam.

“Oh, my apologies! Let me introduce my own family!” Bilbo laughs and proceeds to introduce his husband, Thorin, his son, Frodo, and the rest of their party. Thorin watches fondly as his hobbit husband chats with his old friends and family, enjoying the joy radiating from Bilbo after so many years apart.

“...What an ugly baby,” Frodo suddenly says when Bell leans down to introduce Sam.

The conversation comes to an abrupt halt as Bilbo gasps in horror. Meanwhile, the other adult hobbits burst into laughter.

“Yup! That’s your son, alright!” Bell laughs, making Bilbo’s ears turn bright red. Thorin, sensing an opportunity to learn more about his husband’s past, smirks.

“Oh? What makes you say that?” Thorin asks, and Bilbo immediately begins frantically gesturing to his friends and family to keep quiet. But it’s no use, for the rest of the afternoon tea, they gleefully share embarrassing stories from Bilbo’s childhood.

When the meal finally ends and the Gamgees take their leave, Drogo and Primula somberly embrace Bilbo, whispering something to him. Thorin knows exactly what they are doing, but Frodo, watching in confusion, turns to Gimli for answers. Gimli only shakes his head sadly. Frodo looks to his uncles, who do the same, and even Tauriel refuses to explain.

Thorin picks Frodo up in his arms. “Come, Frodo. It’s time to meet your grandparents.”

“Oh! Will they be coming here?” Frodo asks excitedly.

Bilbo shakes his head. “No, dear. We’re going to them.”

“Oh! Will they like me?” Frodo asks excitedly.

Thorin and Bilbo chuckle. “They will love you,” Bilbo answers as the small group walks out of the smial. Frodo eagerly peppers his Papa with questions about his grandparents, and Bilbo happily answers. Thorin remains silent, as is his habit, but Frodo doesn’t think much of it. He does notice, however, the sadness lingering in his parents’ smiles.

Soon, they arrive at a peaceful garden dotted with many stones. Back in Azsâlul'abad, stones are often used for decoration, so Frodo doesn’t find it unusual at first.

“Here they are, Frodo,” Bilbo says softly, gesturing to two stones as Thorin gently sets Frodo down. The boy frowns, stepping closer to read the inscriptions: Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Baggins.

“Papa… Adad… Are they…?” Frodo asks quietly.

His parents nod, their expressions solemn. “... Are they with Uncle Frerin?”

Thorin hesitates, unsure how to explain the differences between dwarrow and hobbit afterlives to his young son. But Bilbo steps in. “No, darling. They now live in different places. But I’m sure they visit each other.”

“Okay… Can I give them flowers?” Frodo asks innocently.

When his parents nod, the dwobbit scurries off, searching for the perfect flowers.

Thorin presses a soft kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, leaning his against his husband’s. “I’ll go follow Frodo… Take your time and talk to your parents,” he murmurs before quietly walking away.

Bilbo stands still for a moment, taking a deep breath before kneeling by the stones. In the gentle silence of the garden, he begins to speak. He tells his parents about everything: how the Journey took him away from the Shire, how he fell in love, how he became a consort, how he got married, and how he now has a son.

“Papa… Mama… I’m so sorry it took so long for me to come back. So many things have happened, and I,  I’m so sorry. I wish you both were here to see me now, but I know Yavanna is taking care of you both in her gardens. I went on an adventure like you wanted me to, Mama. And I finally got married like you wanted me to, Papa. I can only hope you’re proud of the person I’ve become. I… I miss you both.”

His voice wavers as tears threaten to spill, but he holds them back, just in time to hear the sound of Frodo and Thorin returning. Frodo bounds toward the graves, his small hands clutching a handful of tiny blue flowers. “Here you go, Grandpapa Bungo! Grandmama Belladonna!”

Bilbo gasps when he sees the flowers and realizes what they are. Tears pour down his cheeks as Thorin pulls him close, holding him tightly as he sobs.

Frodo frowns in concern. “Do they not like the flowers I picked?”

“Oh, Frodo… they love these flowers,” Bilbo reassures him, his voice trembling as he pulls Frodo into a gentle embrace. He turns to the stones, his family gathered close. “Mama… Papa… This is my husband, Thorin. And this is my son, Frodo.”

Tears stream down Bilbo’s face as he looks at the graves, now adorned with delicate forget-me-nots, a symbol of love and remembrance.

Years pass by, and Frodo is now twenty-three years old. Both Bilbo and Thorin believe he is ready to take on official roles. While most hobbits begin their apprenticeships around the age of fifteen, dwarrows usually start theirs in their early thirties. As a prince, Frodo has been taught and trained from an even earlier age, but now he needs to contribute. His responsibilities will be small at first, of course, something like serving as an ambassador to their allies. Both Bilbo and Thorin agree that a diplomatic mission will give Frodo valuable experience.

What they do not agree on is which allies Frodo should visit. Bilbo believes Frodo should go to Greenwood or Dale, while Thorin thinks he should travel farther, specifically to Gondor. Their disagreement escalates into shouting, though it never turns physical.

“Gondor is a long journey from here! What if something happens to him?” Bilbo argues loudly.

“Gabshel, I know you’re worried, and so am I. But like our yearly trips to the Shire, this will be fine. It will be good for Frodo. And he will not be alone,” Thorin counters.

“But it’s so far away! It’ll be months before we see him again!” Bilbo replies, looking increasingly distressed.

“I know, but we have to let him fulfill his duties for Azsâlul'abad,” Thorin says gently.

“I know we have to. I know it’ll be good for him. But the dangers! Thorin, please, don’t let him go! Dale and Greenwood will be good enough,” Bilbo pleads with his husband.

Frodo steps between his parents. “Papa! Adad! Stop fighting! Papa, I know you’re worried about me, but Adad is right. Our alliances with Dale and Greenwood are strong. But with Gondor, it’s less stable. Papa, I am a prince of Azsâlul'abad, and I am proud to be one. Please let me do this. I promise you I will come home.”

If Frodo had said he would make them proud, Bilbo would have objected, reminding his son that he and Thorin are always proud of him, no matter what he does. Such words would have convinced Bilbo to never let him leave, fearing Frodo sought something foolish like honor or glory. But Frodo promises he will come home. He knows exactly why Bilbo hesitates to let him go.

Tears stream down Bilbo’s face as he embraces his dwobbit son, who is growing into a fine and gentle dwobbit. Thorin wraps his arms around both his husband and son, holding them close. “Frodo… my sweet little sprout… Very well. But you must take Sting and my mithril shirt.”

“But Papa! Those are yours!” Frodo exclaims in shock.

“I know. And I can do with them as I please. And I want you to take them,” Bilbo replies with a soft smile, kissing his son’s forehead. Frodo is nearly his height now, though Bilbo is certain he will outgrow him soon enough.

“Thank you, Papa,” Frodo says with a happy smile before running off in excitement. He loves an adventure, especially the yearly trips back to the Shire to visit friends and family. But he knows those roads well, and this journey will take him somewhere new. He is aware of the dangers too, but he is determined to return home to Azsâlul'abad, to his loving parents. With that in mind, he begins preparing quickly.

Bilbo sighs, leaning into Thorin for comfort, still worried but now resigned to letting Frodo spread his wings. Thorin pulls him closer, his voice warm and steady. “He will come home, Bilbo. Trust him. He isn’t a rash dwarf like me and the Company.”

Bilbo snorts at that. “Thorin! You know that’s not why I’m scared of letting him go. But yes, knowing he isn’t as foolhardy as you and our friends does help ease some of my worries.”

Thorin chuckles, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. His smile grows as he feels some of Bilbo’s tension melt away, even if only for a moment.

The day of Frodo’s departure arrives, and he sets out with a large contingent of guards, too many, in his opinion. He has to argue with Bilbo, insisting that it looks more like an invasion of Gondor than an ambassadorial mission. To his dismay, both his Adad and Papa agree that the number is appropriate. Frodo silently thanks Mahal and Yavanna for his Aunt Dís, who manages to talk sense into his parents, allowing him to leave Azsâlul'abad with a much more reasonable escort. He notices Gimli struggling to suppress laughter.

The early stages of the journey follow familiar roads. Frodo takes the opportunity to visit the royal family of Dale, enjoying a brief stay there. His next stop is Greenwood, where he watches with amusement as Gimli attempts (and fails miserably) to impress the elven prince. Despite Gimli’s blunders, Frodo notices that Legolas seems intrigued.

From Greenwood, the party follows the Anduin River. Passing through the Gladden Fields, Frodo hears of a settlement of Stoor hobbits nearby. Curious, he visits and is delighted to meet the cheerful folk, and even discovers a few distant relatives.

“Are all hobbits related?” Gimli asks, looking surprised as the Stoors of Gladden Fields warmly welcome Frodo. Frodo rolls his eyes in a playful manner but doesn’t reply. The group restocks their supplies before continuing along the Anduin River. As they follow the river’s winding path, Frodo catches sight of the breathtaking Lothlórien forest. The tall, golden mallorn trees glisten in the sunlight, and he yearns to enter and experience their splendor. However, they lack permission from the Lord and Lady of Lórien, and Frodo reluctantly decides against venturing inside, unwilling to risk making an enemy of them. With a heavy heart, he passes by.

Their journey brings them next to Fangorn Forest. Frodo has heard the tales of its living, ancient trees, dangerous to dwarrows, but he feels an unexpected pull toward the forest. There is an odd sense of kinship that stirs within him. One night, while camping near its borders, Frodo is on watch and notices something startling: a tree with a face. At first, it frightens him, but a strange calm follows. Tentatively, he raises a hand and waves. To his amazement, the tree waves back.

When Gimli stirs, waking for the next shift, the tree vanishes into the darkness. Frodo decides to keep this encounter to himself, planning to share it only with his Papa and Adad once he is safely home. He knows his dwarven companions would grow uneasy if they heard about it.

The next leg of their journey takes them through Rohan, where they finally tread on paved roads. The golden grasslands of the famous horse lords stretch endlessly around them, a magnificent sight. But it is here that Frodo faces his first real battle. As they travel, they spot a man riding at full speed, pursued by orcs mounted on wargs. Without hesitation, Frodo calls for his group to assist.

“Go!” he commands his guards, who charge forward to intercept the attackers. Frodo draws his bow, loosing a flurry of arrows that take down several wargs and their riders, evening the odds for the dwarrows. He thinks of his cousin Kíli and knows he would be proud. But not all the wargs fall. The remaining riders turn their attention to Frodo, spurring their beasts forward to attack.

Gimli lets out a thunderous roar, rushing to Frodo’s aid. With a mighty swing, he buries his axe into the neck of a warg mid-pounce, sparing Frodo from a vicious attack. Frodo scrambles to draw Sting, his small blade flashing in the chaos. An orc rider, knocked from his mount, snarls and rises, only to be struck down by the man they had been rescuing. With a clean, precise strike, the man cleaves the orc’s head from its shoulders.

“Estel?!” Frodo and Gimli exclaim in unison, recognizing their old friend.

“Call me Thorongil in these lands,” the man replies with a smile before turning to rejoin the battle. The three fight together in perfect rhythm. Thorongil’s sword work is controlled and powerful, with elvish footwork helping him weave around incoming blows. Gimli fights with unrelenting strength, his wild swings creating deliberate openings that lure orcs into fatal traps. Frodo uses his small size and agility to his advantage, darting in and out of range to deliver swift, devastating strikes before retreating to safety. His erratic movements leave his enemies bewildered and vulnerable.

The battle is soon won, with no casualties among their group, though a few are injured. As they make camp to tend to the wounded, Frodo, Gimli, and Thorongil gather around the fire, exchanging stories about their adventures during their time apart. Frodo begins to suspect that Thorongil is more than he appears, but he doesn’t press his friend, trusting Thorongil will reveal the truth in his own time.

With Thorongil’s guidance, they safely traverse Rohan and arrive in Gondor, eventually reaching the grand capital of Minas Tirith. Upon their arrival, Thorongil excuses himself, mentioning tasks that require his attention, but he ensures they are escorted to the castle. There, Frodo meets the noble and imposing Denethor II, the Ruling Steward of Gondor. During their conversation, Frodo finds Denethor to be both wise and kind. Frodo offers dwarven-crafted weapons to aid Gondor in its fight against the Dark Forces, a gesture that is warmly received.

During his stay, Frodo is introduced to Boromir and Faramir, Denethor’s sons, one already showing signs of adolescence and the other still a young child. Frodo delights in sharing stories of Azsâlul'abad, his travels, and the peaceful Shire. Gimli eagerly joins in, and together they reenact parts of their tales to the boys' delight. The death of their mother, Finduilas, has left Boromir and Faramir in a shadow of sadness, but their joy at Frodo and Gimli’s stories brings light back into their lives, even if just for a time. Denethor, seeing the happiness his sons derive from these unusual guests, overlooks the informal displays of storytelling and camaraderie, choosing instead to silently approve.

As their stay in Minas Tirith comes to an end, Thorongil reunites with Frodo and Gimli, carrying a familiar raven on his arm. The bird, Roäc, delivers a message for Frodo in a perfect mimicry of Bilbo’s voice: “Uncle Drogo and Aunt Primula would be so disappointed if you miss the harvest festival! Oh, my sweet sprout, you wouldn’t hurt them like that, would you?” Frodo blushes furiously as Thorongil raises an amused eyebrow at the raven’s uncanny imitation.

With their business in Minas Tirith concluded, the group takes the Eriador roads to head back to the Shire. Thorongil accompanies them, but Frodo and Gimli grow increasingly puzzled as they near Bree, where locals begin addressing Thorongil as Strider .

“How many names do you have?” Frodo finally asks.

“Too many,” Strider replies with a laugh.

Once they reach the Shire, Frodo and Gimli invite Strider to join them at Bag End, but the man politely declines. “I have other tasks to see to,” he explains with a gentle smile, before offering his apologies and parting ways.

Frodo and Gimli continue on to Bag End, while most of their guards remain at the Green Dragon. By now, Frodo is a familiar face in the Shire, and his presence no longer draws wary glances. Instead, the locals greet him warmly, calling out their hellos as he passes. Frodo smiles, recognizing every face, and remembers them all.

“Oh, Frodo! Your fathers are already at Bag End, waiting for you!” one of the hobbits exclaims.

“Glad you made it just in time for the harvest festival! It’s tomorrow!” another adds with a cheer.

“Thank you! I’m so glad I made it! I can’t wait for the celebrations!” Frodo cheerfully calls back, waving as he hurries toward his home in the Shire.

When he pushes open the familiar green door, his aunt Primula immediately pulls him into a hug. “Oh, Frodo darling! Welcome back!”

“And you, Gimli! You’re always welcome here as well!” Uncle Drogo grins as he wraps Gimli in a warm hug. Gimli laughs heartily, returning the embrace.

Hearing the commotion, Bilbo and Thorin peek out from the corner. Frodo’s smile brightens, though he can’t stop tears from welling up as he runs to them, throwing himself into their arms. Bilbo and Thorin hold their son tightly, Bilbo weeping with relief while Thorin smiles softly, though his glassy eyes betray his emotion.

“GIMLI!” Gloin’s booming voice echoes as he barrels into the room, tackling his son into a crushing bear hug. Drogo wisely steps aside just in time to avoid the chaos. “YOU’RE OKAY! I KNEW YOU WOULD BE!”

“A-ADAD! STOP! YOU’RE EMBARRASSING ME!” Gimli yelps, his face turning bright red, especially when he notices Fíli and Kíli snickering from the doorway. “ADAD!”

As time passes, they all gather around the table for a hearty meal. Frodo and Gimli recount their adventures, much to the awe and curiosity of their family. Frodo speaks about their relatives at Gladden Fields, prompting Bilbo and Primula to eagerly ask after them. When Frodo describes the beauty of Lothlórien and its magnificent mallorn trees, the hobbits around the table sigh wistfully, wishing they could visit, leaving the dwarrows puzzled.

When Frodo shares his encounter with the tree-faced being in Fangorn Forest, Gimli visibly pales. “A tree with a face?” he mutters, looking deeply unsettled.

Gimli then excitedly recounts Frodo’s first battle in Rohan, enthusiastically describing his skillful moves. Frodo flushes with embarrassment while Thorin listens with unmistakable pride, though Bilbo’s horrified expression shows his feelings on the matter.

The conversation shifts to Gondor, and Frodo shares his impressions of the steward Denethor and his bond with Boromir and Faramir. Bilbo and Thorin seem particularly interested, nodding thoughtfully as Frodo expresses a wish to visit the brothers more often.

When Frodo mentions Estel’s many names, his parents exchange a meaningful glance, but Frodo decides not to question it, filing the observation away for another time.

As they happily chat, a knock comes at the front door. Thinking it’s one of his relatives eager to see him, Frodo opens it, only to be greeted by a group of fauntlings he dearly misses. Sam, now eleven, has grown into a kind and thoughtful sprout. Meriadoc, more often called Merry, is an excitable nine-year-old who never stops asking for stories. What truly makes Frodo’s eyes widen, however, is the sight of a baby cradled in Merry’s arms.

“Um… Merry, cousin dear, who is this baby?” Frodo asks, blinking in surprise.

“It’s Pippin!” Merry exclaims proudly, holding the infant up as though he’s a trophy. “I promised him I’d let you meet him as soon as you came back! And I always keep my promises!”

“He’s Peregrine Took,” Sam explains with a frustrated pout. “Merry here thought it’d be a great idea to nab him from Mr. Paladin Took! I told him it wasn’t, but he wouldn’t listen!”

The Tookish side of Frodo can’t help but laugh loudly, though the absurdity of the situation nearly makes him double over. His amusement is cut short when Primula appears behind him and screams in shock.

“Merry! Why do you have that baby with you!?” she cries, her voice full of alarm.

“Hi, Aunt Primula! May we come in?” Merry asks sweetly, putting on the most innocent smile he can muster, as if he hasn’t just committed kidnapping.

When Drogo arrives to see what has caused his wife to scream, he spots Merry holding baby Peregrine, goes pale, and faints on the spot.

“So fainting is a Baggins trait,” Gloin observes with a smirk as he helps Drogo back to his feet.

“Oh, hush!” Thorin snaps at Gloin, though his own lips twitch with suppressed laughter.

Bilbo sighs, rolling his eyes with fond exasperation. “Come in, boys! Fíli, Kíli, go fetch your uncle Paladin. Tell him we have his son and the... kidnapper.”

Frodo chuckles as he leads the fauntlings to his room. Despite their age difference, he feels incredibly close to these young hobbits and is proud to call them friends. It’s always a joy to be around them. Tomorrow’s festival will be even more fun with them there. He stops abruptly when Sam’s stomach lets out a loud growl.

“O-oh, sorry. I haven’t had elevenses…” Sam admits, his face turning pink.

Frodo only smiles warmly. “Let’s go get something to eat then.”

Sam turns an even deeper shade of red, while Merry cheers, accidentally jostling Peregrine in his arms. The baby wakes up with a loud, angry scream.

“Oh dear. I hope Paladin gets here soon,” Bilbo mutters, rubbing his temples.

Frodo just beams, his heart full, grateful to be home again.

The day of the harvest festival arrives, bringing life and color to the Shire. The festival is a vibrant gathering of hobbits and their wares, with stalls bursting with the season's bounty and a sense of merriment that fills the air. Tables are laden with golden loaves of freshly baked bread, pies steaming with apple and blackberry fillings, and wheels of creamy cheese wrapped in cloth. Farmers proudly display baskets brimming with bright pumpkins, earthy potatoes, and carrots as long as a hobbit’s arm, while brewers offer wooden casks of frothy ale and spiced cider, the air thick with their malty aroma.

One stall glimmers with jars of honey, strawberry jam, and pickled onions, while another entices visitors with a dazzling array of handcrafted pipes and brightly dyed woolen scarves. The sound of fiddles and laughter mingles with the hum of cheerful chatter as a troupe of jesters entertains near the fire-roasted chestnut stand. Everywhere, lanterns hang ready to glow warmly once the sun sets, but for now, the golden sunlight bathes the festival, illuminating flushed, smiling faces. The Shire seems to hum with the joy of a community celebrating the fruits of its labor.

Frodo clutches the hands of his parents, his face alight with excitement. Much to Bilbo and Thorin’s delight, Frodo isn’t one of those children who feel they’re too old for parental affection. Their friends and family are scattered throughout the festivities, blending so seamlessly with the Shirefolk that no one bats an eye when they notice a few dwarrows manning stalls of their own. Most of these are filled with toys and instruments, and Bilbo even spots Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur with their kin running a large stall that sells lifelike toys powered by hidden gears.

Frodo’s gaze shifts to his aunt Primula and uncle Drogo, who are chatting with the Gamgees near a game stall. The game involves throwing balls at a moving basket; the heavier the basket, the bigger the prize, often a collection of fruits and vegetables. Samwise, noticing Frodo, beams and waves enthusiastically.

“Mama! Papa! Can I go join Frodo?” he asks eagerly.

“Of course, Sam. Remember to be nice,” Bell replies, patting his head. The fauntling dashes off toward Frodo and his family, his small feet barely touching the ground.

“Hi, Mr. Frodo!” Sam greets shyly, his cheeks pink with excitement, a sight Frodo finds absolutely adorable. “Can I join you for the festival?”

“Oh, you can, right, Papa? Adad?” Frodo looks up at his parents, his eyes bright with hope. Bilbo and Thorin exchange amused smiles before nodding their approval.

As Frodo and Sam head off together, Bilbo’s gaze is drawn to a nearby stage where musicians play a lilting melody. Beside the stage, a clearing has been set for dancing, and couples sway gracefully to the music. Bilbo’s face softens with a warm smile.

“Frodo, dear, can you watch over young Sam for a bit?” he asks gently. “Your Adad and I would like to dance.”

“I can! Go ahead, Papa! Adad! I went on an adventure, I can handle taking care of a child!” Frodo exclaims enthusiastically.

“I’m not a child!” Sam protests, pouting indignantly. His outburst only makes the three adults chuckle.

Thorin smiles warmly. “Frodo, if you and Sam need anything, find us here in the clearing. All right?”

“Yes, Adad! Sam and I will come straight to you if there’s any trouble,” Frodo promises, beaming as he watches his Papa Bilbo laugh while his Adad Thorin sweeps Bilbo away to dance.

Frodo lingers for a moment, watching his parents move together with joyful ease, their love evident in their bright smiles and the way they stay close. Then he turns his attention back to Sam. “Come on, Sam. Let’s see what the festival has to offer!”

The two wander from stall to stall, reveling in the festivities. Frodo treats Sam to all manner of snacks, dried fruits, juicy meat skewers, and flaky pastries. He even buys Sam a few toys from his uncles Bofur, Bombur, and Bifur. As Bofur hands over a hopping frog toy powered by a small spinning gear, he grins and says, “He’s smaller than you were at that age, Frodo.”

Sam pouts at being called small, but his face lights up as he watches the frog toy spring to life. Giggling, he chases after it, with Frodo laughing and following close behind.

As they roam the festival, Frodo notices Merry darting by, laughing uproariously with baby Pippin held tightly in his arms. Behind them, Uncle Paladin sprints after them, shouting, “MERRY! GIVE ME BACK MY SON!”

Frodo wisely steers Sam in the opposite direction, knowing better than to get involved in that chaos. The two pass their time joyfully, playing games, sampling treats, and admiring the stalls. When they return to the clearing where the dancing continues, Frodo finds his parents a bit winded from all the excitement.

“I’ll be taking Papa Bilbo back to Bag End so we can rest,” Thorin says with a knowing smile, one that suggests ‘rest’ might involve more than just relaxation. Bilbo flushes pink when he notices that Frodo is catching on.

“Oh! And I saw Gandalf earlier!” Bilbo quickly changes the subject, his tone cheerful. “He’s going to set off his fireworks tonight! Go find him and say hello, Frodo.”

“Oh! Gandalf! I can’t wait to see him! Let’s go, Sam! Let’s go say hi to that wandering wizard!” Frodo says excitedly, tugging the faunt along. As they head off, Frodo pauses, his cheerful expression slipping into a groan. He had noticed his Papa’s earlier flushed face and the way Thorin carried him off. Yavanna help us , he thinks, I hope they remember to drink their tea. Papa’s too old to be carrying another sibling!

Frodo shakes his head at the thought. Bilbo had given birth to him when he was seventy-seven, for Yavanna’s sake! Frodo has no idea how his Papa manages to stay so youthful and spry, though it might have something to do with their Took bloodline. It’s well-known that the Tooks are descended from a fairy, and their longevity is legendary.

Shaking off his musings, Frodo focuses on enjoying the festival with Sam. The two spend more time exploring the lively stalls, their laughter blending into the merriment around them, until Frodo finally spots a familiar figure near a pastry stall.

“Gandalf! There you are!” Frodo cries out joyfully, waving as they approach.

“Hello, Mr. Gandalf!” Sam chimes in with a cheerful wave.

The wizard turns with a warm smile, holding a sweet pastry he has just purchased. “Ah, Frodo! Sam! What are you two young ones doing all by yourselves?” he asks, his tone gentle as he pays for three more sweet buns. He hands one to each of them before taking one for himself.

“I’m not that young, Gandalf,” Frodo retorts playfully, grinning as he takes a big bite of the sweet bun. “I’ll have you know I completed a diplomatic mission to Gondor. And I did a good job, too!” His grin widens, and Sam nods enthusiastically. Frodo had shared the story with Sam, and Merry and Pippin, the day before, carefully tailoring the tale to make it child-friendly.

“Mr. Frodo took down orcs!” Sam adds proudly, his small chest puffing out with admiration.

Gandalf chuckles, his eyes twinkling with fondness. “Did he now? Well, I’m sure Erebor is fortunate to have a prince as brave and capable as you, Frodo.”

The wizard watches with amusement as the two youngsters devour their sweet buns in large bites, nearly swallowing them whole. Gandalf, meanwhile, takes a smaller, more measured bite of his own.

After a moment, Frodo glances up at Gandalf with a curious expression. “Gandalf, may I ask you something? Do you happen to know a certain man? I met him as a child in Rivendell, where he called himself Estel. Then, during my journey to Rohan and Gondor, he insisted I call him Thorongil. And when we got close to the Shire, he changed his name again, to Strider. Do you know who he is?”

Frodo’s earnest gaze meets Gandalf’s, the hobbit certain that the wizard will have the answers to his questions.

“Oh, my apologies, Frodo dear. I do not know a man by that name,” Gandalf replies, though the glint of amusement in his eyes suggests otherwise.

“Fine then, keep your secrets,” Frodo says with a fond roll of his eyes, well aware of the wizard’s penchant for mystery. Gandalf’s laughter rumbles in response, deep and merry.

“Is it true, Mr. Gandalf? You’re going to do a firework show tonight?” Sam asks eagerly, his eyes wide with excitement. Gandalf nods, much to the faunt’s delight.

“Indeed I am,” Gandalf says, his smile softening. “And I’ll make sure to start before your bedtime.”

“Really? Thank you, Mr. Gandalf!” Sam squeals in delight, hopping on the spot.

“Now off you go!” Gandalf chuckles, giving them a playful nudge. “You two young ones can surely find better company than an old man like me.”

Giggling, the pair runs off, their laughter mingling with the festive sounds around them. They continue to enjoy the sights and delights of the festival as the sun dips below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in deep shades of amber and indigo. Lanterns begin to flicker to life, their warm glow casting a gentle light over the bustling crowd.

After a while, Sam tugs at Frodo’s sleeve. “Wait here for a moment, Mr. Frodo,” he says shyly before darting off. He soon returns, hands tucked firmly behind his back. Frodo raises an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. Peeking behind Sam, Frodo stifles a laugh as he spots a small red rose, a token of passionate love.

Frodo chuckles knowingly, realizing the rose must be for Rose Cotton, the young fauntling Sam often plays with. Frodo finds it endearing; for someone so young, Sam has quite the romantic heart.

“Shall we go see the fireworks?” Frodo asks, his tone light. Sam nods shyly, his cheeks dusted with a faint blush.

The two make their way to the clearing where couples had danced earlier, now transformed into a viewing spot for the fireworks. Gandalf stands at the center, his tall figure illuminated by the glow of his staff. He raises it to his lips, blowing softly at its tip until it ignites with a dazzling light.

The crowd falls silent as Gandalf casts the light skyward. It soars higher and higher, shrinking to a distant speck before exploding into a breathtaking cascade of colors and shapes. The fireworks take on fantastical forms, shimmering dragons, blooming flowers, and even dancing figures that appear to float down among the spectators. The children squeal with delight, chasing the glowing figures as they drift like fleeting dreams.

Frodo is so captivated by the fireworks that he barely notices the gentle tug at his pants. Blinking, he glances down to see Sam looking up at him with wide, shy eyes. “Yes, Sam?” he asks, leaning closer when Sam mumbles something too softly to hear. “Can you repeat that?”

Sam takes a deep breath, his cheeks flushed as he thrusts the red rose towards Frodo. “Mr. Frodo Baggins! Can I, Samwise Gamgee, court you?” he blurts out, his voice trembling with both excitement and nerves.

For a moment, Frodo simply blinks in surprise. He had been certain that the rose was meant for Rose Cotton. The unexpected declaration leaves him scrambling for a response.

“Um…” Frodo’s nose twitches as he carefully considers how to let Sam down gently. At twenty-seven, Frodo is still considered young for a dwobbit, a unique mix of dwarf and hobbit, but he’s old enough to understand the boundaries between them. With no other dwobbits to compare himself to, his family gauges his maturity loosely, likening it to that of a teenager. Sam, however, at eleven, is unmistakably a child. Hobbits don’t even reach their teenage years until fifteen.

Sam’s proposal, while endearing, is clearly inappropriate.

“Sam,” Frodo begins softly, kneeling so he’s at the faunt’s eye level. “I love you, but not in the way you want me to. You’re still a child, and I’m much too old for you. You have a good heart, and one day, you’ll make someone very happy. But I’m afraid I’m not that someone.”

Sam’s face falls, his bottom lip trembling as he looks down, clearly on the verge of tears. Frodo’s heart clenches at the sight, and he hurriedly adds, “B-but! Maybe I’ll change my mind in a few years! Why don’t you ask me again once you’re an adult, yes?”

Frodo inwardly sighs, hoping this would offer Sam some comfort while allowing time for him to grow out of his infatuation. After all, he reasons, Sam likely views him as a storybook prince, an idealized figure of romantic fantasy. It’s a passing phase, surely. One day, they’ll both look back on this and laugh. Perhaps Frodo will even tease him about it.

Sam’s head lifts, his tears replaced with an expression of determined resolve. “Ok! When I become an adult, I’ll ask again! I promise!” he declares, holding up his pinky.

Frodo smiles softly, relieved. He hooks his pinky around Sam’s smaller one. “Alright. I’ll wait for that day.”

The awkward moment resolved, Frodo lets out a quiet breath of relief. They turn their attention back to the dazzling light show Gandalf is providing, the spectacle once again pulling them into the magic of the festival.

Years pass, and Frodo Baggins, now thirty-seven years old, is considered a full-grown adult as a dwobbit. With hobbits coming of age at thirty-three and dwarrows at forty, he and his parents, Bilbo and Thorin, agree this is an appropriate age to declare him an adult. There are no other dwobbits to compare to, but Frodo’s maturity and character affirm their decision.

As an adult, Frodo finally allows himself to say the colorful words he’s overheard from his uncles, despite Papa’s best efforts to shield his innocent ears. “Shit! Fuck! Goddamnit!”

And why is he cursing? He remembers thinking Sam’s childhood proposal was adorable but inappropriate. Now, at twenty-five, Sam stirs feelings in Frodo that still feel entirely inappropriate. Following in his father’s footsteps, Sam has become an apprentice gardener at Bag End. Years of hard labor have given him a strong, masculine frame, broad shoulders, calloused hands, and sturdy legs. Frodo insists to himself that this can’t be the reason for his feelings. After all, plenty of dwarrows are more muscular and rugged. No, it’s the rest of Sam, the round, dimpled cheeks, those soft golden-brown curls, and warm hazel eyes, that haunt Frodo’s dreams and make his heart race.

Frodo groans, pulling a pillow over his face. No one in the family must ever know. He’s a grown dwobbit dreaming about a teenager, for Yavanna’s sake! May Mahal strike me down before I do anything to tarnish the family name!

Yet Frodo knows that Sam’s appeal isn’t just physical. He’s grown into a kind, down-to-earth, and gentle hobbit. Sam treats Frodo not as a prince, but as a friend. Though he addresses him as “Mr. Frodo” out of respect, there’s always warmth and fondness in his tone. Frodo never feels the weight of his title with Sam. Around him, Frodo is simply himself, a dwobbit, a neighbor, a companion.

The realization hit hard one morning when Sam offered him a baked potato. Frodo had caught himself wanting not just the meal but the moment, every morning , with Sam by his side. That’s when it became clear: Frodo Baggins is in deep, uncharted waters.

He tells himself it’s all in vain. Sam, he’s certain, is sweet on Rose Cotton, Rosie, as the hobbit affectionately calls her. Any childhood infatuation Sam once had for Frodo must be long gone, just as Frodo had wanted it to be. Rejecting him back then was the right thing to do. It had to be. And yet, knowing this doesn’t stop Frodo from feeling like a fool.

As if that weren’t enough, there’s the looming weight of his station. As a prince of Azsâlul'abad, Frodo is expected to marry someone of equal or higher status to strengthen the kingdom. But then he scoffs at the thought. Who am I kidding? His own parents defied such expectations. Thorin married Bilbo for love, not duty, and they would never force Frodo to do otherwise. Even his cousins Kíli and Fíli chose love over politics, Kíli with Tauriel, and Fíli with Ori. Azsâlul'abad is stable; it doesn’t need alliances forged through marriage.

None of that makes Frodo’s current situation any easier. And so, as he lies in bed, tossing and turning, he makes a decision. He will stop attending the family’s annual visits to the Shire. He’ll tell Papa and Adad he needs more training from Balin and Dwalin and will resume visiting only once he’s sorted out his feelings. It’s for the best. He can only hope the letters he sends to his hobbit relatives will convey how much he still loves and cares for them, despite his absence.

It will be hardest for Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo, who are like a second set of parents to him. But Frodo is convinced this is the right course of action. He refuses to risk being labeled a pervert or, worse, tarnishing his family’s name. Distance , he tells himself firmly, is the only way forward.

Years pass, and at forty-five, Frodo Baggins has grown into a dwobbit prince beloved and respected by the people of Azsâlul'abad. Yet, eight years have gone by since he last saw the green hills of the Shire or the beloved relatives he left behind. Each letter he receives from them pains him, filled with warm words and gentle inquiries: When will you visit again? He always replies with affection but never a promise to return. His parents worry over him, unable to understand why he no longer joins them on their annual visits.

Now, as Bilbo and Thorin prepare for this year’s journey to the Shire, Bilbo sits in Frodo’s room, coaxing his son to join them.

“Frodo, dear sprout, why don’t you come with us this year?” Bilbo asks softly, taking Frodo’s hand. His gaze is filled with longing, though Frodo now towers over him, taller than his Papa, though still shorter than his Adad. “Your Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo miss you terribly.”

“I know, Papa,” Frodo replies, forcing a tight smile as he attempts to make light of the situation. “But someone has to stay behind and make sure Cousin Fíli doesn’t declare war on another dwarven kingdom.”

Bilbo chuckles weakly at the jest, but Thorin, who has been silently observing from the corner of the room, finally speaks. His deep, measured tone carries a note of authority Frodo knows well.

“Frodo, pebble, come here,” Thorin says, his voice calm but firm, the tone he uses during training when something important needs addressing.

“Yes, Adad?” Frodo hesitates but steps closer, slightly startled by his father’s directness.

Thorin looks at him with piercing eyes. “Frodo, my son, what are you running from?”

The question catches Frodo off guard, his breath hitching in surprise. “Adad, I’m not running from anything,” he says, laughing nervously. His nose twitches, a telltale sign of his unease, one Thorin knows all too well. Bilbo notices it too.

They both see through him, but Frodo clings to hope that they’ll let it go. That hope crumbles as his parents step closer, their expressions softening. Without a word, they pull him into their arms.

“Frodo,” Bilbo says gently, his voice filled with unwavering love, “tell us. You know that your Adad and I will love you no matter what.”

Frodo’s resolve falters. His parents raised him to be strong, but also to never fear vulnerability with those he trusts. And he trusts them more than anyone. His chest tightens, and a silent sob escapes him.

Seeing their son in distress, Thorin and Bilbo guide him to sit on the bed. They take his hands, worn yet steady hands that have guided him his entire life, and wait. Frodo knows he cannot lie to them, not when their love and patience wrap around him like a shield against his inner turmoil.

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words, until Frodo finally takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know where to begin, but he knows this: he cannot carry this burden alone any longer.

So Frodo begins to tell the truth. He speaks of the day Sam proposed to him as a fauntling, of the feelings he developed when Sam became a teenager and he an adult, and of how he had kept away from him ever since, knowing his feelings were wrong. Tears spill down his cheeks as he confesses, “I’m a horrible being, wanting to do that to someone so young… Yavanna should refuse to let me enter her gardens. Mahal should close his halls to me for how wretched I am.”

His voice cracks as he breaks down, his body trembling with the weight of his guilt. His parents remain silent, and in that silence, Frodo feels his fears confirmed, that they, too, must think him a wretched thing. But then their arms tighten around him.

“Frodo, dear,” Bilbo says softly, patting his son’s head in the way he used to when Frodo was a child. “What you feel is not wrong or bad. When Sam was just a faunt, you weren’t attracted to him in that way, nor did you encourage his feelings. You were kind and careful.”

Thorin’s deep voice follows, steady and reassuring. “And when he grew older, it wasn’t his body that drew you to him. It was his heart. You love him, Frodo, not with lust, but with a longing to share your life with him. To wake up beside him. To grow old together. That is not vile. That is love.”

Frodo shakes his head, ready to argue, to insist that they’re wrong and that he is vile. But Bilbo presses on, his gentle voice unwavering.

“And to protect him, you stayed away. You’ve been carrying this burden alone, but a truly vile person wouldn’t have done that. You protected him because you love him.”

Bilbo wipes the tears from Frodo’s face, his touch warm and familiar. “And now, darling, take this.”

Thorin hands Frodo a folded letter, its weight as light as the hope etched in their expressions. Frodo hesitates before opening it, sniffing as he unfurls the parchment. Inside is a pressed white rose, a symbol of pure love, enduring and steadfast, and a potato flower, its simplicity unmistakable. Frodo’s heart stutters, his breath catching as he recognizes the symbols. Quickly, he begins to read the letter.

Dear Frodo Baggins,

I hope this letter finds you well. Things here in the Shire are the same as always. Rosie seems to be sweet on Fatty. The rest of the Conspirators and I congratulate him, and I truly believe he’ll treat her well.

As for other news, Merry and Pippin are still giving Farmer Maggot a fair bit of trouble—but it wouldn’t be them if they didn’t.

Now, for myself: I’ve finished my apprenticeship and am officially a gardener in my own right. Your Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo have employed me, just as they employed my father. It feels strange working as equals with him, but it’s exhilarating, too.

I am now of age, Frodo, and I believe I once made you a promise when I was a faunt—that I would court you when I became an adult.

First, I must thank you for not accepting my courtship back then. I was just a child and thought myself far more mature than I was. You set boundaries, and I’ll always be grateful for that. As I grew, my childish feelings for you faded, and I even experimented in my youth. I’ve rolled in the hay with male and female hobbits alike, and I was even sweet on Rosie for a time. But none of them were ever right .

One day, I gave you a baked potato—just a simple gesture of friendship—but the way you smiled at me, Frodo... It stayed with me. That smile woke old dreams, but they were different this time. No longer a faunt’s dream of being swept away by a prince, but a grown hobbit’s dream of a simple, shared life. I dreamt of waking up with you, cooking with you, and growing old with you.

When I decided to court you again, you stopped coming to the Shire. Your parents told me it was because you were training with Balin and Dwalin now that you were an adult. My heart broke, but I understood. I even thought about joining your parents’ caravan to Azsâlul'abad to see you, but my parents talked me out of it. They reminded me that you were fulfilling your duties, and that I might be a distraction.

They were right. At that time, I still had growing to do. But I promised myself that when I came of age, I’d try again.

And now, Frodo Baggins, I am of age. I am ready, and I ask you this: Will you allow me, Samwise Gamgee, to court you?

Frodo’s hands tremble as he finishes the letter, his heart pounding with emotion. Tears blur his vision again, but these are not the tears of guilt or shame he shed earlier. They are tears of relief, of joy, of love.

For the first time in years, Frodo feels as though a weight has been lifted, the burden of his feelings replaced by the hope of something true and good.

“Frodo, do you wish to join me and your Adad to visit the Shire?” Bilbo asks again. This time, Frodo nods with enthusiasm.

“Yes… I do. But can we postpone it? We’ll still go this year! I just need to… to… to make a courting gift,” Frodo quickly adds, noticing how his parents’ faces fall before brightening at his reason. His voice grows quieter as he explains, shy but earnest.

“Would you need help, son?” Thorin asks with a warm smile.

Frodo shakes his head at first but then pauses. “I would love your help, Adad. But it’s only appropriate that I make it myself,” he replies, his tone determined despite his shyness.

Thorin and Bilbo exchange knowing smiles and agree. Their annual visit to the Shire can wait. After sending a letter to their Shire relatives explaining the delay, Frodo dives into crafting his courting gift.

Months pass, and Frodo works tirelessly. He makes countless attempts, scrapping, destroying, and discarding many along the way. He seeks advice from his Papa, Adad, and uncles about techniques and finer details of crafting, but he never lets them directly help with the project.

By the time the gift is complete, winter has arrived, and their journey to the Shire begins. Gandalf, their old family friend, is more than happy to escort them on the snowy path.

As they travel, Frodo realizes he’s never seen the Shire in winter. Typically, the family returns to Azsâlul'abad for Durin’s Day and to prepare their mountain home for the cold months. Thorin and Bilbo assure him that this year, and in the winters to come, they’ll enjoy the Shire’s snowy season instead.

The landscape transforms before Frodo’s eyes. Familiar paths are blanketed in snow, turning everything into a serene, white wonderland. Frodo marvels at how the snow changes the land’s beauty, his excitement bubbling over despite himself. Bilbo and Thorin chuckle, watching their son behave with the same wide-eyed wonder he had as a faunt. Frodo blushes when he catches himself being overly giddy, though Gimli only smiles, remembering the days when Frodo wasn’t embarrassed by his enthusiasm.

Throughout the journey, Frodo practices presenting the chest that holds his courting gift. Gimli volunteers to help, though his “help” is more mischievous than constructive.

“Stop making faces!” Frodo snaps, his cheeks reddening as Gimli stifles yet another laugh.

“It’s not corny!” Frodo protests louder, clutching the chest protectively.

“It is! Why are you comparing him to a fruitcake?!” Gimli howls, doubling over in laughter.

Frodo’s face burns crimson, and he lunges at Gimli, sending them both tumbling into the snow. They wrestle playfully, their laughter echoing through the crisp air. Bilbo and Thorin stand back, watching with fond smiles.

They finally cross into the Shire lands, and as soon as they reach Hobbiton, familiar faces greet Frodo. Some are older and more mature than he remembers, while others are entirely new, like the children running about. His hobbit relatives quickly surround him, bombarding him with affectionate questions: How has he been? Is he eating well? Does he have someone special in his life? Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo beam with pride at how well he has grown, though they fret over the scars from his encounters with orcs and other dark forces. Frodo reassures them with a warm smile. “I’m a capable warrior,” he says. “It would take more than that to bring me down.”

Time seems to slow when Frodo’s eyes fall on Sam. The hobbit has filled out since Frodo last saw him, his sturdy muscles now evident beneath a soft layer of fat, and his tanned skin is marked with deeper lines from years of labor under the sun. Yet his warm smile remains unchanged, and those hazel eyes still sparkle with familiar fondness.

“Welcome back to the Shire, Mr. Frodo,” Sam says, his voice deeper and huskier with age, sending a pleasant shiver down Frodo’s spine.

“Sam, I-” Frodo begins, reaching for the chest to present his gift, when a snowball suddenly pelts him from the side.

Whipping around, he spots his cousins Merry and Pippin grinning mischievously, each carrying an armful of snowballs and already preparing to launch more.

Reacting with the instincts honed from battle, Frodo ducks just in time. The snowball meant for him hits Gimli square in the face instead. Gimli bellows in mock outrage, scooping up an enormous amount of snow in his powerful arms to create a boulder-sized snowball. Chaos erupts as everyone scrambles away, and a free-for-all snowball fight begins. The older hobbits smile knowingly and retreat indoors, leaving the younger folk to their snowy revelry.

Snowballs fly in every direction, accompanied by shrieks of laughter and the occasional groan from a direct hit. Merry and Pippin scream as Gimli chases after them, his massive snowball ready to flatten them both. Meanwhile, Frodo and Sam work together to build a defensive wall of snow, pelting their friends and family from behind it. Rosie squeals as a snowball soars toward her, only for Fatty to leap in front of her dramatically, taking the hit with an exaggerated groan. “I shall avenge you!” Rosie cries, before dissolving into giggles with Fatty at her side.

The snowball fight carries on for what feels like hours until everyone is thoroughly exhausted. One by one, they retreat to their homes to warm up and rest.

Inside Bag End, Frodo sits by the window with Sam, enjoying a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Only when Bilbo and Thorin exchange knowing smiles does Frodo realize he’s still holding Sam’s hand. With a jolt, he pulls away, his cheeks reddening, though Sam chuckles softly. The two share an awkward laugh before settling into a companionable silence, watching the snow fall outside.

Finally, Frodo takes a deep breath and retrieves the chest. He hands it to Sam with a shy but determined expression. Sam looks at the finely crafted box, his eyes widening as he runs his fingers over the smooth wood.

“Mallorn,” he whispers in awe, recognizing the rare grain. As a gardener, he’s heard of the legendary tree, though he never dreamed of seeing its wood in person. When he opens the chest, his breath catches. Inside is a stunning set of gardening tools. The metal gleams with the soft glow of mithril, and the handles, crafted from the same mallorn wood, are intricately engraved with patterns of flowers and vines.

“Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo begins, his voice trembling slightly but clear, “I, Frodo Baggins, Prince of Azsâlul'abad, son of Bilbo Baggins, son of Thorin Oakenshield, present you with my courting gift.”

For a moment, Sam can only stare in stunned silence. His fingers hover over the tools, tracing their craftsmanship with reverence. When he finally looks at Frodo, his mouth opens, but no words come out. Time stretches between them, and Frodo’s nose twitches nervously.

Noticing this, Sam gently sets the chest aside. He cups Frodo’s face in his hands, his calloused thumbs brushing against Frodo’s cheeks, and leans in to place a soft, tender kiss on his lips.

Frodo smiles into the kiss, his nerves melting away as he leans closer, deepening the embrace.

From across the room, Thorin and Bilbo watch with quiet pride, cuddling closer together as their son shares this moment of love.

“We raised him well, didn’t we?” Bilbo murmurs, nestling into Thorin’s arms.

“Aye, we did,” Thorin replies, his voice soft as he presses a kiss to Bilbo’s hair. “Our Frodo has grown into the fine dwobbit we always hoped he’d be.”

They hold each other close, content in the knowledge that their son’s heart is finally at peace.