Chapter Text
Three days.
Three days.
They had been 'guests' of the elves of Lothlórien for three days. And Galadriel of the Golden Wood had so far refused to see them.
Even Gandalf had been unable to pin down his old friend, stalking about muttering under his breath about this, that and the other. So far, the Elf who had escorted them, Haldir, had been stern in his confining the -quite expanded- Company to guest accommodations, and the few times they had seen the Lord of the realm, named Celeborn, he had been coolly unimpressed with them. Even Thranduil was being treated quite atrociously- by Bilbo's Hobbitish standards of polite hosting, at least.
"Three days," Thorin growled, pacing back and forth across the balcony garden Bilbo was sprawled in. "Three days!"
"I know," Bilbo sighed. "You've said that at least a dozen times this morning. At least it's a change from yesterday’s 'It's been two days!'. I appreciate our diverse conversational topics."
Thorin snarled and kept pacing, right up until Bilbo sighed again, long and suffering, and Thorin... wilted. Jittering in place for a moment, he huffed and stalked over, collapsing onto the grass beside Bilbo.
"All this way to talk to this blasted sorceress and she won't even see us!"
"I know."
"I'd think it was because we are Khazâd, but even Gandalf and Thranduil cannot convince an audience out of her ridiculously unfriendly entourage!"
"I know."
"This is important, I don't even know what we are going to do without her advice."
"I know."
"Three days!"
"I. Know."
Thorin rolled his head to take in Bilbo's expression.
"Apologies, love," Thorin said, reaching over to take one of Bilbo's hands and press a kiss to his knuckles. He kept a hold of the hand while falling silent, feeling Bilbo relax some into the odd grass in the little bower in which they were hidden.
He really was supposed to be letting Bilbo rest. The day they had arrived, they had been greeted not by the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood, but by Lord Elrond of Rivendell, which had been more than a little shocking, and a whole lot worrying. By their reckoning, Elrond should most definitely be in Rivendell, and they'd had many conversations about what they could have done to have changed that- no conversation in which they had come close to any decent conclusion. About all Elrond had said on the subject, was that Galadriel herself had summoned him many weeks previously, though he himself confessed to not yet knowing why. It was both a comfort and a worry that Galadriel had called him here to meet them.
For their first meeting, though, besides being more than a little shocked, Bilbo had been... well. His encounter with the Elven Lord had been rather odd, even with Thorin's prior knowledge of events. Caught between feigning unfamiliarity and joy at seeing one of his closest friends, Bilbo had been overly nervous and become quite upset, to the point of swooning a bit into Thorin's arms, much to Bilbo's later embarrassment.
Lord Elrond, however, had taken the time to use his special skills upon Bilbo's half-enfeebled form to determine if his seemingly frail state was from illness. Which, surprisingly enough, it had been.
Thorin had felt absolutely wretched when he had realised that his tiny husband was still not well from his near-death and drowning at Tharbad. A mild infection had set into his system, Elrond had told them, leaving him weaker and more easily tired than normal. In retrospect, Thorin should have noticed and known himself that something was wrong- hadn't Bilbo half collapsed in exhaustion running from the Orcs across the plains? It should have been obvious.
But he'd missed it.
"Stop that," Bilbo said abruptly, and Thorin blinked, rolling his head to meet Bilbo's frown. He'd honestly thought that Bilbo had been dozing, having relaxed and wriggled and stilled as he did when settling in for a nap. Obviously not.
"Stop what?" he asked, rolling a little towards Bilbo's relaxed frame.
"Stop doing that frowny 'I have disappointed myself with my own actions' thingy. I don't like it. Stop it."
"Yes, Honoured Consort-King," Thorin said very seriously, before spoiling it by rolling his eyes. Bilbo glared, and Thorin planted one finger in between Bilbo's furrowed brow. "I should not have been keeping you awake. You're supposed to be resting, my precious one."
Bilbo huffed, wriggling with displeasure.
"Honestly, all this fuss over me and I am perfectly fine-"
"Lord Elrond said," Thorin began, but Bilbo made another huffed noise and swiped one hand through the air sharply.
"Elrond is an old fuss pants," he said.
Thorin let loose his own humph, reaching to hold onto the waving hand, bringing it to him for a brief kiss.
The most amusing thing -and the only entertainment to distract from their predicament- since they had arrived, was watching Bilbo around Elrond. He couldn't help himself, really; Elrond had been one of his closest friends, and he had lived with the Elf for the last few decades of his life, been closer, really, to the Lord of Rivendell than to anybody else in his lifetime. Thorin included. After all, as much as Thorin and Bilbo's relationship had been deep and fierce, it had also been short, a mere year together before Thorin had been taken from this world. His time with Elrond, however, had been much longer, and of an emotional depth of a completely different kind than that which he had shared with Thorin.
And so Bilbo was caught in a never ending swing of holding himself stiff and distant from Elrond, and subconsciously falling back into an easy bantering tone of affection with the confused Elven Lord. The reactions that Thorin's little husband had been pulling from the normally inherently-calm Lord had been downright hysterical, especially the way that every time Bilbo caught himself reverting to treating Elrond as he had pre-time travel -snarky and familiar and gently berating in the way only close family could be- he would become more than a little flustered, blushing a brilliant red and stuttering something ridiculous and practically running from whatever room they were in. It didn't help that Bilbo and his behaviour were evidently fascinating to Elrond, who sought out Bilbo at every available opportunity, only for the interaction to play out again, and for Elrond to grow even more intrigued by this Hobbit that treated him as a long beloved friend.
Thorin, therefore, found himself in the strangest of circumstances, bouncing back and forth from anxiety at the delay and Galadriel’s refusal to see them, through hot anger at the delay and Galadriel’s refusal to see them, to wild amusement at the comedy his husband was providing for his entertainment.
"Stop laughing," Bilbo huffed beside him, and Thorin tried to muffle his giggles, he really did, but he could not help himself.
"His face," he chortled, rolling himself over to sling a leg over Bilbo, "at breakfast, when you told him off for taking the last of the cheese scones, and cursed him with exceptionally bad gas for the day!"
"Oh do shut up," Bilbo said, radiating displeasure, face slowly turning pink as Thorin's guffaws increased.
"And then when you realised what you'd said," Thorin gasped, hugging Bilbo's stiff form to him, "and tried to backtrack, and you said, you said-"
Bilbo sighed, trying to cross his arms across his chest, but with Thorin holding onto him, more managing a crossing of wrists over his stomach.
"You said," Thorin tried, but it was too much, and he was gurgling too much, only managing a strangled "bum" and a hiccupped "nice elf" before he was howling, burying his face into Bilbo's shoulder, stomach contracting with the force of his laughter.
"Oh do get off, you wretched Dwarrow!" Bilbo cried, face flaming, pushing on Thorin's shoulder half-heartedly before he collapsed into easy chortles himself.
Thorin hugged his Hobbit further into his arms, and tried to think of anything but a flustered Bilbo babbling about whether an Elvish bum was a smelly bum or not, lest his stomach muscles tear under the strain of his belly-deep laughing, choosing instead to attempt to name the stages of brass production in his head until he calmed enough to speak.
Pulling back enough to look down at Bilbo, Thorin grinned, leaning to rub his nose against his husband’s.
"I do love you," he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye before he caught another guffaw and tilted his head back, still laughing.
Dwalin stood at the other end of the odd garden-in-a-tree, staring at him as if he had never seen him before. Thorin, however, was past the point of composing himself for company, and waved his shield-brother over, letting Bilbo push him off in a show of impatience and shuffle back to sit against an odd little step in the garden.
"Hello Mister Dwalin. Ignore him, he's an imbecile. What has brought you to this fine garden?"
Dwalin humphed, eyes roving over the little bower suspiciously. Apparently, the Dwarrows were not impressed with the concept of a city built within branches of trees, no matter how magical, and had been muttering about structural support and load bearing and such since they had arrived. While Bilbo thought a garden built into the ginormous branch of a tree was wonderful, Dwalin seemed to lean more towards inherently suspicious.
It did not help that Nori seemed determined to frighten the poor Dwarrow out of a few decades’ growth by waiting until they were both standing under a particularly hefty bough and then slyly musing aloud on the exact number of different ways that death could be caused by falling from a broken tree limb; or, with almost perfectly feigned seriousness, starting a discussion about the likelihood of a tree trunk collapsing whilst someone was ‘trapped’ in one of the funny little rooms within. Dwalin spent a lot of time sidling nervously about with a death grip on his axes.
"It's been three days," Dwalin suddenly grunted, and Bilbo groaned loudly, palm meeting his forehead with a loud smack.
Thorin grinned briefly, but it faded under the reminder, and he sighed and slumped.
"There is nothing to be done about it, so I suggest you enjoy the time to rest," Bilbo said a little sharply, but he rose to fetch a plate of sweets to put down on a nearby surface, and pushed Dwalin gently to sit by Thorin.
"How can you be so fine with the delay?" Dwalin asked with a great deal of frustration, angrily stuffing a fruit-packed bread into his mouth whole.
"I'm not," Bilbo said with his own load of frustration. "I am not on the least bit happy. I'm frustrated, and confused and oh so worried."
"Well, you don't seem it," Dwalin grumbled, and Bilbo flopped back into his mossy nest.
"What's the point when the lot of you won't stop grumbling?" Bilbo muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes.
The two stayed fairly silent at that for a while, before they started whispering just low enough that Bilbo could not quite catch what it was they were whispering about, though whispers soon turned to hisses, and then a tussle that upset the last of the sweets, by the sound of the crash followed by Dwalin's roared curse, Thorin's flippant insult and an increase in thumps and expletives.
"My, my," Elrond's voice made Bilbo sit up, his eyes opening wide as the elf lord strolled into their little bower. "Seems quite the disagreement."
"I'm not disturbing Bilbo," Thorin said quickly, and then blushed, back straightening and face twisting to something more dignified and distinctly scowly. Elrond smiled, but said no more, simply standing and observing them keenly, hands folded behind his back.
He had that face on. Bilbo knew that face. He was busy coming to all sorts of conclusions and being too curious for his own good.
Bugger it.
Bilbo tittered nervously and jumped to his feet.
"He is not disturbing me at all, but I may just take myself off to bed, hmm?"
"I find it odd," Elrond said idly, before he could turn, "the familiarity which you adopt in my presence. It frightens you a great deal, to know me so well. I do not remember you, though."
Bilbo stopped dead, eyes wide and caught in place.
"Er.." was about all he could manage. Honestly, he should have anticipated this; Elrond was never one to allow a topic to be tip-toed around for long.
"Gandalf tells me that you are far more than you appear. I wonder at this. Do you treat him as you do me? How do you know us, Hobbit of The Shire?"
Great budding bullsacks. Nosy elves.
"Look," he said, pointing one recriminating finger in the air and lifting his chin. "You can just stop that right now."
"Stop what?" Elrond asked innocently, head tilted in fascination, wandering slowly around Bilbo. Oh he knew that tactic. Casual meandering while he studied his subject from all angles.
"Oh., you think you can play the innocent game with me of all people! Well, I'll not be falling for your shenanigans. Stop fishing for details, you wretched busybody. Oh bother! How Erestor puts up with you, I've never understood."
"You know the Lord Chancellor of Rivendell, Erestor, my kinsman and the most trusted of my advisors?" Elrond asked, fascinated, and Bilbo made a strangled noise of an animal trapped, eyes widening as he realised he had done it again. Blast it!
"...No?" he offered tentatively. Elrond's eyes brightened with further interest, and Bilbo coughed harshly, waving Thorin away when he stood in concern.
"Must rest, else I may relapse, good day!" he blurted out and made for the safety of his and Thorin's room and away from any opportunity for Elrond to expand his interrogation.
Nosy flipping elves.
Once safely behind the slammed door and propped up in the lovely, soft, far too wide -though comfortably low, which Bilbo was certain was not such a nod towards the shorter of their Company, but more the style of bed favoured in the Golden Wood- bed, Bilbo made no move towards resting. No, he had something else more important to attend to. Thorin would likely keep Elrond distracted for him for a while, and then Thranduil would no doubt be appearing soon to flounce about and complain about being ignored by the Lord and Lady of this realm. As well as the very strange new sort of-friendship that was developing between Thranduil and Thorin, there was also the absolutely bizarre version of aggressive flirting that happened between Elrond and the Mirkwood King whenever they were in the same room, and that would also keep the others from bothering him a while, caught up in that most interesting show. It was a shame to miss the entertainment, but... No, right now, he had sneaking to contemplate.
Over his rather long- for a Hobbit- life, Bilbo had become rather adept at the fine skill of sneaking. As far as he was concerned, it was an art form, and jolly fun, too, when there were nosy relatives about. And while he'd had his ring to rely on, well, it wasn't as simple as becoming invisible and becoming totally unnoticed, oh no, there were footprints and shadows and noises to give himself away if he was not careful, and people often knew by instinct that another was nearby if you were too obvious. It was making one's whole being unnoticeable, inconsequential that was the trick. And often, the ring had seemed such a bother to him, a heavy weight not worth the moment to slip it on -some part of himself sensible enough to recognise it as the danger he now knew it to be- and so he had developed the inborn skill that all Hobbits had for disappearing at opportune moments, and developed it into an art beyond that of his kinsfolk, not merely blending in to his surroundings, but actually becoming invisible. He was quite marvellous at it, if he did say so himself. Elrond had never caught him pranking him, not once, though he had always known who it had been that had played mischief upon him, and retaliated in kind.
Bilbo had learnt quite a few sneaky tricks from the old fussy pants, after all.
Oh how Bilbo missed his friend.
Having Thorin know him from their second meeting was a blessing and a miracle gifted to him by the Valar, it really was, and a puzzle at times. He and Thorin had loved each other fiercely the last time, to be sure. Bilbo's entire world view, his entire reason for being had shifted long ago, moved to a grumpy Dwarrow from the moment those ridiculous iron boots had stomped through his door. They had become the focus of each other's lives from that very night, even before they had finally gotten to the business of kisses and endearments, eyes permanently set on each other well before admitting the depth of their feelings. He supposed, in retrospect, their relationship was hasty, even as it was unconditional and heartfelt, but they had been on a quest that had a very low chance of survival, and neither of them had ever hesitated to commit themselves.
Despite that, they had not just been two very different people with very different life experiences, but two different species, even, and the differences had been startling and the disagreements epic from the beginning. They had fought and disagreed and loved, and hurt each other again and again, and it was a wonder that the Company had not thrown them both of a cliff at the earliest opportunity, really. In time, they would have settled and gentled and fallen into the easy rhythm of living as one, but their chance at that had been taken, cut short before they had reached that point.
So it was odd, this time around, to find that they had moved past the point of easily flared tempers and misunderstandings, and finding themselves behaving as if they had indeed spent those approximately seventy-nine years together rather than separated by the divide of life and death. Intellectually and emotionally, Bilbo was almost seventy nine years older, and Thorin had spent those years in healing and recovery in Mahal's halls. That being said, Bilbo still found himself experiencing the oddest of moments, startled silent by himself and his husband, that they could be as Bilbo had always dreamt they would have been, understanding and cherishing and gently delighting in each other's presence, hearts in tandem, thinking and breathing as almost one entity, aware of each other at all times. Perhaps it was the parting that had contributed, both very aware of the gift that being together was, and unwilling to bother with silliness when they had each other to wonder over.
There had not been a moment since Thorin had stepped into Bag End for the second time that Bilbo had not been filled with gratitude at higher powers allowing the two of them to come together again, no matter the cost. He really hadn't. He shouldn't want for anything more.
He just really missed his very best friend.
Oh, he missed them all, really. The Company was exactly the same, and they had accepted him easily as a friend to them, but there were moments that Bilbo found himself... frustrated. And sad. There was so much he remembered, not just from the quest that had changed them from a group of misfits, to family, but of the lives that came after. As far away from him as they had been, letters had flown thick and fast between them, and they had indeed come for tea, many many times over the years, faithfully appearing at four in the afternoon, grinning and so pleased to be presenting him with a tea cake or a basket of good biscuits purchased on their way up the hill, mindful of afternoon tea etiquette they picked up to please him. Memories of all of it, always there, and always bursting to come forth at the most inconvenient of times.
Balin would sit beside him and say something that made Bilbo open his mouth to apologise for not returning that last book, ask after his latest apprentice and the awful pranks Balin would subject the poor lads and lasses to, enquire into how Dís was doing, or berate his friend for dying in those stinking caves of Moria, how could you do that to poor Dwalin, to me, to what was left of our family?.
Bofur would be laughing and Bilbo would want to ask for another story of his sons that did not yet exist -four in total, and all as cheeky and kind as their da- and his single beautiful daughter. Bofur had almost burst with pride to sire her -and all of them, really- with the loveliest, shyest Dwarrow Bilbo had ever met since Ori. Fara was a lovely lady from the Blacklock clan, skin dark and eyes bright and twinkling, and a tinker by trade who had become Bifur's best friend less than a minute into meeting, hearing Bofur tell of it, and the family was a happy, albeit mischievous one. Bofur had always had such wonderful stories to tell of them.
At story time by the fire, he would start to reminisce on the time Nori had caused a Shire-wide kerfuffle on a visit when he had stolen all Lobelia's spoons (as revenge for Bilbo's, he had told him), a farmer's lamb (that had appeared in the back room of a tavern two days later), almost every mathom in the local museum (not that anybody had noticed until they had caught him), six of the Brandybuck children (willing captives, apparently, and just as mischievous) and two fruit pies off Mrs Proudfoot's window sill (plum pies), and had the bounders chase him back and forth the Shire a whole afternoon- ending quite well, once the Brandybuck matrons had thanked him for the impromptu babysitting, and he'd charmed Mrs Proudfoot with a large basket of fresh-picked berries and an 'acquired' crate of lovely fresh mushrooms (and hadn't Bilbo had a word or two to say about that? If Nori was going to be scrumping from the local farmers, he could at least have the decency to steal mushrooms for Bilbo).
Or the time Dwalin came for his eleventieth birthday with all twelve of his children, and a dozen Ereborian guards -and jugs of Ereborian Ale- courtesy of King Dain, all gratefully welcomed guests who'd helped him pack to leave the Shire for the very last time, Dwalin who'd been so good with entertaining Frodo with tales of far-off Dwarf kingdoms, Dwalin who'd sat in a field and drank a whole jug of Ol' Gaffer's moonshine with him on the eve of his birthday and cried with him, laughing and sobbing on each other's shoulders in memory of a long gone Thorin, Dwalin who'd teased him all the way to Rivendell for the old hood and cloak he had worn, too big and not really green anymore, leant by the other on their quest so long before, Dwalin who'd regaled his children with the tales of their quest again and again, the young ones hanging onto every word of the King they had never known, and heard of a thousand times before from their da.
Letters with Dori, and visits from Bombur's children, countless gifts sent from Bifur, many visits from Glóin, and more letters from Óin. All his beloved family, all so much between them all, and none of it known.
The memories were there, in Bilbo's head, and he could do nothing with them. They were the Dwarrow-kin of his heart for approximately seventy-nine years, but for them, he was the odd little husband of their King and nothing more. And to further add to the weight, twenty years living in Elrond's household searching for peace and battling madness, had led him to a relationship with the elf that almost defied description. They were family and beloved friends and confidants in times of trial and co-conspirators in their own brand of mischief, and right here and now, Elrond's counsel was something he yearned for.
It was something he was not going to get though, not until Bilbo could speak to the other with no secrets, and Bilbo was not even sure if that was possible yet. They had agreed, he and Thorin, and Thranduil as well, once they had spoken to him, that it was best not speak to anybody of what they had experienced, until they had spoken with Galadriel and sought her counsel. One thing Thranduil knew to be true was that Bilbo and Thorin had been compelled to seek her, and he had been instructed to make sure to bring them to her if need be. He did not, however, know why. And was furious on their arrival when she had refused to see them.
Which was the crux of his problem. He needed to find Galadriel. If he were in his original time, then Elrond would have made the perfect partner in crime. The elf was a fellow sneakster, a mischief maker and adventurer at heart, but tempered by time, responsibilities, and countless tragedies to possess a wisdom and calm insight into most situations. Bilbo could sneak with the best of them, but he had no idea where to find Galadriel in a city of trees, of winding stairs and balconies and bridges between branches, and hidden nooks and secret gardens and all sorts of surprising rooms. What little he could remember of Elrond speaking of visits to the wood, of Elohir and Elladan and Arwen on their visits to their Grandmother, and the even smaller little specks of Frodo's rambling of the place when he was too old and vague to really listen, was not near enough to guess at where to find one single Elf that he had never actually met could be hidden. For all he knew, she could be in the next tree over, or half a forest away.
No matter how careful he was in taking himself away for a spot of exploring, it would not be long before he was missed by their not-so-discreet watchers, and found and returned. And if he pushed things too far, their confinement in this place could become more severe, and then where would they be?
Nonetheless, Bilbo had quite had enough. Thorin had only been vocalising exactly how Bilbo was feeling. Time was rushing away from him, and rather than an enlightening respite from their travels, Lothlorien was beginning to feel more like a mistake. He was clamouring to move, to proactively move to accomplish the goal that was apparently the reason they were here. It was an itch, a rise of something almost like breathlessness in his breast, an ugly petulant anger lingering just below the surface of his forced calm, this urge to go, and get it done. The sooner he got this done, the sooner he could try for a future with his Thorin, if they didn't die in the process, of course.
Sneaking in no particular direction it was. There was no way he could sit and do nothing any more.
***
'Escaping' their guest suite was not the problem in the end. The Elves had not noticed him leave. Apparently they had not been watching the Company as closely as Bilbo had thought.
Really. Not.
"Go back," he insisted quietly, flapping his hands at his followers.
"Where you going, Auntie Bilbo?" Talli asked, peering around the next corner and practically jittering with far too much excitement.
"Nowhere. Go back to the rest of the Company."
"But we want to explore too!" Kíli said loudly, bouncing in place, eyes wide and pleading and did they think him stupid? 'Exploring'. More like 'Cause as much mischief as we can get away with'.
He groaned and rubbed his eyes tiredly, groaning again when he opened them again to see the boys looking very serious and worried.
"Everything is fine, I am fine, you need to go back up to the guest quarters before Thorin brings the whole forest down looking for you," he insisted. All three snorted at him. Snorted. Oh, he was telling their mothers about this.
"No way," Fíli said. "Thorin would skin us alive if we let you wander off on your own amongst elves."
Bilbo rolled his eyes, but Kíli and Talli were both nodding seriously, and really, what did they think was going to happen to him here? The elves may sing him away? Honestly.
Nonetheless, he ignored them and crept on, carefully taking the smaller dimmer bridges and paths amongst the bows of the great tree, trying to remember anything Frodo had said about Galadriel and her woods. There had been something about a mirror, but that was about all he could recall of his boy's stories, the rest lost to the drifting of an old man's mind.
A crossroad appeared, and Bilbo paused, ignoring the whispered arguments behind him over who had just stood on whose toes. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. Really, he had no clue in which direction to head, but down seemed to be the thing most right to him at the moment, so that might be the way to go. And if he followed that path there, and then down that bit there, then maybe-
"Why are you not in the area assigned to you?" the elf that appeared asked sharply, disapproval strong over his compelling features.
"Whoa, it's the pretty one again," Kíli said, and the elf's glare seemed to darken a hundredfold. "You think it's a lass?" Kíli whispered, and Bilbo's eyes widened at the look of pure murder that crossed the elf's visage.
"Oh, it's, um, Haldir, isn't it?" BIlbo asked brightly, stepping forward and away from the boys. Luckily, the elf's stare moved from the cowering boys to himself, and one eyebrow arched at him imperiously.
"You may call me Marchwarden," he said blandly.
"Right, shall do," Talli said, stepping forward and slapping the elf on the shoulder in a show of geniality. "So, Haldir, what do you do for fun around here?"
"Marchwarden," Haldir told them sharply, and Fíli grinned at him.
"Right, right, but fun, Haldir, where's the fun at? Because we are bored, bored, bored."
"Marchwarden," Haldir insisted, but Kíli was already leaning over a balcony, legs waving as he lifted himself clean off the ground.
"Hey Haldir, what's down there?" he asked loudly, and promptly slid down the banister, and Bilbo took one careful, quiet step backwards, and another.
"Sorry 'bout him!" Fíli said with a grin to Haldir, before bouncing off -literally, from rail to rail- after his brother.
Bilbo took another step backwards.
"Hey, Haldir, you don't mind if they do that with their knives, do you?" Talli said brightly, smacking the elf in the shoulder again, and pointing off downwards to where the boys were doing probably unspeakable things that Bilbo would have to halt his escape to yell at them for, so he didn't bother looking.
"Marchwarde- No! Don't do that!" the elf called angrily, taking off after the boys, and Bilbo silently scarpered in the opposite direction, over a walkway and down a gracefully spiralling staircase, and through a long hall -hiding behind a statue or two when elves drifted past- and down another path and through a lovely little airy room and into a garden.
While the balcony gardens out of the guest quarters where they resided were absolutely beautiful, this was magnificence on a level that was nothing short of magical, and for a while Bilbo could do nothing but stand and stare. But the view did not change, and the grass beckoned his feet, and his fingers reached ever so tentatively to brush against the blooms bursting all about him, and Bilbo wandered in shock and delight for long minutes, self-appointed quest quite forgotten for the moment.
On his knees in front of a bed of a tiny delicate flower he had never seen before, it took him a while to notice that he wasn't alone, an Elf sat still and silent on a bench nearby, and Bilbo almost leapt in fright at the discovery.
"Ah, Lord Celeborn," he tittered nervously. "I was just admiring your garden. It is astoundingly beautiful."
Clear blue eyes studied him intently.
Bilbo had spent 20 years living in a city of elves, a race that had perfected the art of 'bland' into their expressions. Despite that, Bilbo had never had a terribly difficult time reading the emotions on any particular elf, not even Erestor, Elrond's uptight chief advisor, and that was one elf that even Elrond had a hard time reading. Even after all that time learning to understand elves and become comfortable amongst them, Bilbo was having a heck of a time reading anything off of this one. Celeborn had perfected 'bland' and moved right along to icy.
"Nainawenie."
"I'm sorry?" Bilbo asked tentatively. His Quenya really had become quite rusty what with disuse, old age and senility. He'd have to do something about that.
"The flowers. Lament of a maiden."
"Oh," Bilbo said, a little stupidly. "Funny sort of name for a flower," he said with a nervous little laugh, hoping for a smile from the blank-faced lord.
"The blossoms are down-turned," Celeborn said. "And while now they are a pale white, when wet, they are somewhat translucent. The tale told is of a gentle Maiden so struck by grief, the Valar themselves heard her cries, and by the magic of Nienna her tears turned to blossoms as they fell, in the hope that the beauty would lessen her sorrow."
"One would think she would know better," Bilbo said, quite without meaning to, and blushed when Celeborn raised one enquiring eyebrow at him. Well, at least his facial muscles had shifted somewhat. "Nienna, She Who Weeps. For a Valar that sorrows, surely she should know that a pretty trifle is no distraction from the grief of true loss."
"She does," Celeborn, and oh, look, the ghost of a somewhat-approving smile. "However, Nienna is also Valar of courage. She knows that sometimes, one merely needs a small sign of hope to find the courage to continue on."
Bilbo hummed an agreement, fingers ghosting over the mass of tiny white blooms.
"That I can understand," he said quietly.
"Do you?" Celeborn asked, back to intently studying him. Bilbo lips pursed, not entirely sure what to say to that, and settled on a strange shift of his shoulders that may have been a shrug.
"Don't we all," he said, when the Lord still seemed to be waiting for an answer.
Celeborn made a noise that was mostly a hum, but not really any sort of agreement, and settled in to watching him closely again. Bilbo turned back to the garden. While he primarily grew vegetables and herbs himself, he kept quite a few ornamentals for the pride of a lovely, well kept garden -mostly thriving well under Holman's expert hand- and Bilbo still knew his way around his garden well enough to marvel at the work of art that this garden was. There were so many blooms he knew absolutely nothing of, mixed with common perennials, and some rare annuals, even some ornamental vegetables used for colour, a planters paradise, it was. It would make more than a few Hobbit enthusiasts green with envy.
Quite near to Celeborn was a small patch of what Bilbo knew must be a variety of Lavender, judging by the delicate perfume, but the stalks were longer, the colour several shades lighter, and the tiny flowers along the stem more ruffled that any Shire variety he had ever seen. They were butted all about the base of a bed of tall, dark shrubs, and edged with a wonderful little flower that cheerily budded in many hues of white, pink and almost-blue, in single and double-headed blooms no bigger than his thumbnail. He wondered idly if Celeborn would let him take a cutting or seven.
"Why won't she....?" he trailed off, not meaning to ask the question, even as he was unsure as to what exactly he was asking, and Celeborn shifted uneasily beside him, startling Bilbo in the odd show of discomfort. Still, he said nothing, and Bilbo sighed.
"We aren't here to, to.... We only wanted a little advice. I thought she might know. Know what to do." He sat back from the garden, folding his legs in front of him and regarding Celeborn solemnly from his place on the grass. "I don't know what to do," he told the elf, a lot more morosely than he had intended.
A dragonfly flitted through the air about his head, and he watched its progress, a great sense of weariness settling over him. His body might be young again, and while he wasn't as he was when he had died, his mind still felt somewhat tired out. Especially at times like this. When he felt like he was floundering along without grace or clear purpose.
"You are not what I expected," Celeborn said all of a sudden, eyes distant and troubled, shifting restlessly again. Quiet for a long time, though Bilbo knew he was searching for words and waited patiently.
"My Lady has ever been the epitome of glorious," he finally murmured, face twisting into a frown at odds with his words. "There is none fairer, or more good in their heart than my Lady. I have seen her weeping in sorrow and seen her righteous in fury, delighted in her smiles and her easy laughter, her gentle soul a balm for my own. She has been a strong and just leader of our people, a nurturing mother, a tender grandmother. A warrior, a defender of this earth, a staunch ally of light, friend to all of good soul, noble or humble. I never thought I would see her brought low."
The stalk of the flower he'd touched to admire almost bent under his tightening fingers, and Bilbo released it hastily, gulping loudly.
"I don't understand," Bilbo admitted hesitantly.
"I was prepared to dislike you, despite the seemingly noble goal of your quest. You carry great evil into my home, and you muddy the sight of my beloved. She finds no rest, and there is great fear in her that I have never seen before, a panic and a displacement in her view of the way of things. Hesitance, uncertainty. Doubt in herself. I should loathe you for it, have you driven from my woods."
"I..." Bilbo went to his feet, heart almost bursting from his chest from the sudden rush of fear. "Is it hurting her? Is the Ring hurting her? We... We must leave."
"She sees death," Celeborn said over him, talking almost as if Bilbo had not. "Death for all in infinite possibilities, and no future without darkness. This is deliberate. The future will not be tamed to her sight, an occurrence that never has happened upon her before. The loss of power is disconcerting. But," he finally looked at Bilbo, "the Ring hurts her not."
"I'm sorry," Bilbo said helplessly, but Celeborn simply shook his head ruefully.
"Apologise not for daring to defy evil and fight for the light of our world. You intend to destroy it, do you not?" He smiled then, at Bilbo's purposeful nod. "I wondered. Many have claimed so, but their hearts told otherwise. Yours does not. I can not fault you for seeking my Lady's advice and blessing for such a task."
"I am still sorry, for the sorrow it has brought your house," Bilbo said quietly.
Celeborn stared at him for a long time, still and silent as a statue.
"There is much guilt in you. Most unnecessary. My Lady is frightened, yes, uncertain. But the core of her is unyielding strength. She will find it in herself soon enough, and when she does, she shall seek you out. Rest a while. My home is your home."
"Sometimes guilt is well earned," he murmured quietly, turning away from the Lord when the Marchwarden Haldir appeared in front of him, looking absolutely furious. Judging by the sopping state of his clothing on this fine clear day, and the mud streaked up one side, the lads had not been gentle in their play.
"Oh dear," Bilbo sighed, surveying the poor elf. "Did they do that to your hair?" he asked, gesturing to the tangled knot on one side, some of the strands looking significantly shorter. And did Bilbo smell smoke?
Haldir said nothing.
"Well, we'd best get you cleaned up then, before you catch cold," he sighed, taking the elf's hand, "Or rather, the version of cold that you lot all claim is not possible because 'Elves do not get sick', even as you sneeze over innocent Hobbit's elevenses."
Haldir glared intensified, but Bilbo ignored him, and turned back to Celeborn.
"Lord Celeborn, I thank you for your time, and your conversation. Your garden is very beautiful. Do convey my warmest regards to your Lady." He sketched a deep bow, and then rose and tugged Haldir away, headed back out the garden.
"The guest wing is this way," Haldir said coldly, gesturing, and Bilbo shook his head.
"You need warm dry clothing, and I can fix your hair. Your personal accommodations are where our feet shall take us, and you'd better point the way, else we could end up anywhere!" Bilbo said brightly, tugging the elf along.
Marchwarden Haldir said nothing for a time, letting Bilbo tug him along in random directions for a long time, before he sighed loudly.
"Left down here," he said begrudgingly, and let Bilbo steer them along to his short concise instructions.
Haldir actually had a lovely home high in a tree with balconies all around, breezy and spacious, the common area artfully sparse in the way Elves tended to favour, abruptly turning to surprisingly cluttered when Bilbo managed to bully Haldir into allowing him into the bedroom.
"Bit of a magpie, hmm?" Bilbo asked, terribly amused. Little bouquets and odd little colourful rocks abounded on every surface, as well as several potted plants and drawings of trees and mountains and people. Also, teacups. None of them seemed to match, a mishmash of hues and patterns, but they were all very pretty. And everywhere. Dozens of them. A few even had tiny plants growing from them.
"Oh, you are adorable," Bilbo said, trying hard not to gush when the elf turned pink and scowled, grumbling under his breath. "No wonder the lads wanted to braid you up as their own. Where's your tub, then?"
"They said it was a friendship braid," Haldir said, and the petulance was not adorable at all. Not in the slightest, nope. Bilbo went back to steering the elf into the bathing chamber. "There was a story, and then they said- and we were comparing styles of bows, and I slipped, and -they said it was a friendship braid."
"They let Talli do it, didn't they?" Bilbo more said than asked, setting the bath to run and wondering at it thoughtfully. His father had done the plumbing for Bag End, and had tried to explain the workings of it all to Bilbo, not that he had ever caught on. He'd thought it had something to do with water flowing downwards, but the concept of how they made water run up a tree and into the bath was baffling.
"I am a Marchwarden of Lorien," Haldir fumed, and Bilbo nodded around the towels he was organising.
"Take off your clothes, Marchwarden," he said, and shoved the elf towards the bath.
"I am not to be treated thus," Haldir insisted, not seeming to notice that he was being so very obedient, even as he objected loudly.
"It is most definitely a friendship braid," Bilbo confirmed, shoving at the elf as he sat so he plummeted into the bubbles with a curse and a slapping splash. "But a lot of Rangers don't really braid, or care much about the care of hair at all, which is odd, considering how long and unkempt they let themselves get. Talli is learning, but hopeless. Very eager, though, I've been working several similar messes out of the boys' hair for weeks."
"Won't your husband disapprove of you helping another bathe?" Haldir asked testily, sticking his nose in the air, and Bilbo was sure he would object to being cooed at. The pout was adorable.
"If the lads have all but adopted you, that makes you all but one of our boys. Eru knows I need to spend a good portion of my day making sure they scrub behind their ears and combing the messes they call hair."
"I'm not a child," the elf cried, arms crossing over his chest, trying not to wince as Bilbo set to work in is hair, cringing with every little clump of hair that Bilbo worked loose of the knot.
"Are you sure?" Bilbo asked, slapping a cloth at the fully grown child, and carefully working the knot further apart. "You're acting like a child right now."
Haldir said nothing, swiping the cloth up and working at wiping away at the mud spattered all over himself. Bilbo winced when he worked a section of hair away that was most definitely singed a bit shorted.
"Do I want to know how fire came into play?" Bilbo asked, and grinned when Haldir's ears went very very red. "I see."
"Are you quite done?" Haldir asked snottily, but Bilbo ignored him, separating a little more out and working each of the strands smooth. He was getting quite efficient at sorting out messes like this. But then, even Thorin tended to let himself get a bit knotty at times. Bilbo was beyond pleased to see Thorin spending more time on his hair and his beard, which he had even let get a little longer in the last few weeks! The upkeep of hair was important to Dwarrows, and Thorin's personal care for himself spoke volumes.
Bilbo did not mind assisting at that, either. Not at all.
"Not a terrible mess after all. I think that has done it," he finally murmured, reaching for the lovely carved brush on the stand and working it carefully through the lovely shining mane of hair. "You know, I think your hair may be even as pretty as Thranduil's? And he spends quite a time keeping his as spectacular as he can manage."
Haldir blushed again, but said nothing, and Bilbo handed across one of the lovely bottles of bath oil, and grabbed another to work through the hair, and then calmly set about weaving in the friendship braid that the lads had planned.
"You know," he said as he switched sides and worked a traditional Elvish braid down the opposite side of the head. The difference in braids would cover the fact that one braid was slightly shorter quite well. "The lads would be thrilled if you came to eat with them. And Kíli would love to spend some time learning some Elven archery. And you carry two blades, like Fíli, so I am sure he'd love to spend some time discussing the differences between Elven and Dwarvish styles. And Talli is interested in both, and must think you something special, if he managed to convince the lads to let him do the braids."
Haldir humphed loudly.
"Oh, you are determined that you are above things such as 'fun', aren't you? Well, that is just tough, isn't it. Dwalin will supervise, and probably Tratha and Halaron as well, and Thorin and myself. They won't pick on you so much then."
"I'm not- they didn't pick on me-"
"Of course they did, but it was all in good fun. Testing you to see if you'd still like them if they were as chaotic as they can get. It's all right, though, they like you. Come along then, get dressed, and you can play a while before dinner."
Haldir spluttered, incoherent with rage, and Bilbo flitted from the room before he had a chance to calm himself enough to challenge Bilbo's bossiness. As it was, he could clearly hear the muttered Sindarin, occasional ranting, coming from the bathroom, and then bedroom, from where he had retreated to the seemingly sparse living area, that was not so sparse as Bilbo had first assumed- finding many hidden drawers and chests and nooks and even lovely wooden boxes placed neatly under chairs. It was more than a little heartbreaking to find that someone that seemed to delight in beauty in the smallest things spent so much effort to hide a love of the aesthetically pleasing from any potential visitors.
"Right, off we go," he said when the elf stalked fully dressed into the room, talking over the dismissive that was bound to make itself known, and grabbing at one hand, yanking him from the dwelling and across a lovely arched bridge to a walkway, chatting all the while.
Aside from a little guidance in finding his way, Haldir stayed silent and stoic for the entire walk, not that Bilbo minded; the fellow'd had quite a rough day so far. No need to rub it in anymore.
For now.
As expected, though, the lads were still being berated, Thorin and Tratha were taking turns yelling at all three woebegone lads, lined up and sheepish. Bilbo wasn't exactly sure what Thorin was yelling, as he'd apparently reverted to Khuzdul, but it was scathing and reproachful enough in tone that Bilbo got the drift- as did Talli, as the boy shifted and sighed and hung his head even lower in tandem with the others.
"Honestly, Thorin, leave them be. They didn't lose me."
"Where have you been?" Argus demanded, appearing from off to the side, Elrond bearing down at him from the other.
"Aggravating a host such as those who house us now, is not what one would call wise," Elrond said, frowning deeply.
Dwalin appeared and shoved the two of them out of his way before he could say a thing, rounding behind him to hold Bilbo still by the shoulders, apparently so Óin could approach and look him over closely.
"How could I possibly be injured?" Bilbo wondered, taking the simpler course of letting Óin do his examining.
"The lads came back caked in mud and soot!" Dori fussed, tapping his foot on the ground, arms crossed in front of himself and looking very much like Bilbo's mother did when he'd been out into mischief for the day. Bilbo wondered if he had noticed that he and Halaron had taken almost exactly the same stance and expression.
"I had nothing to do with that," Bilbo said solemnly. "I was talking with Lord Celeborn, that is all."
"He gave you an audience?" Thranduil demanded, appearing behind Elrond, those epic eyebrows high in his forehead with pure disbelief.
"Well, not so much gave me an audience-" he began, and squeaked in a most embarrassing way when Bifur appeared and picked him up by the scruff, carrying him the few short metres to drop him into Thorin's grateful arms. "- as my sneaking into his garden while he happened to be there," he finished with a wry grin, smoothing a hand down Thorin's face. Silly old git would always worry, it seemed to be part of the very nature of him. "I don't suppose anybody saved me some lunch?" he asked hopefully when his stomach growled loudly.
"You think we sat and calmly ate when it was apparent you were missing?" Balin demanded, and stalked off muttering.
"I shall ring for the meal to be brought," Elrond said with a small glare he normally reserved for when Bilbo had done something to scare him. Old Bilbo, that was. Really, there was no reason for Elrond to be regarding him so, not with barely knowing him yet.
But then, he seemed to be getting a lot of glares from all sides, every single Dwarrow and Man gathered around in the little garden off their spacious tree apartments. And the elves. Sheesh. As one, they seemed to glare in aggravation at him and huff off, presumably to the small hall they had been taking their meals together in.
"Dear Bilbo, you are fast becoming one of the most entertaining creatures I have ever encountered," Gandalf mused, sitting off to the side and grinning about his ever-present pipe. "I cannot speak for the rest of your Company, Thorin, but I must tell you, I am having a most smashing time. Most fun I've had in years," he chuckled, taking himself off, singing to himself happily.
"That Wizard," Thorin sighed. "Well?"
"I think it's the time travel," Bilbo told him hurriedly, after a glance around the garden to ensure they had all left. "Celeborn says she can't see the future anymore."
Thorin swore.
"We came here to seek the advice of the one who could see the future! What good is this deviation then?"
"Celeborn implied- well. He did not say it, but I got the feeling he thought she would come to see us soon. And he thought it important we wait for that," Bilbo said with a sigh. Thorin raised one sceptical eyebrow and Bilbo shrugged. "He didn't say it at all, but I got the feeling he was thinking it."
"You got the feeling. That he was.... thinking it?" Thorin asked, and then sighed, burying his face in his hands.
"He knew of the Ring. Her sight can not be completely cut off, if he knows of it! She sent for Elrond, and she told Lord Celeborn our purpose here, when even Gandalf has been unaware."
Thorin hummed, staring off into the distance for a moment, mulling that over.
"Alright. I've followed you when you were even more vague as to your perception. Let's feed you, shall we?"
Bilbo hummed, but followed, turning the thought over in his head. Even knowing that Lady Galadriel had no insight to the future for them, no matter how frustrated he was to be stuck here for the moment, he was still certain that they were meant to stay until they talked with her. No matter how infuriating it was to wait.
Thorin must have sensed his mood, as he plonked Bilbo down in a corner, waved away all that wandered close, and fetched Bilbo a plate, not even causing any more fuss than a deep scowl when he noticed Haldir in the centre of the troublesome three, and Ori bouncing over to join in and chatter away at the elf excitedly.
Bilbo turned his attention to his meal, and ate carefully and slowly, head down and contemplating a lot of not really much at all for a long time, barely noticing when Thorin upped and left with Bilbo's empty plate, and came back with a tea service, merely accepting his cup and leaning into the warm steadiness that was Thorin, and watched the room descend into an impromptu party when Bofur pulled his pipe and Dwalin made his fiddle seem to appear out of nowhere, and a sing-song -and then rousing dance- ensued.
"He reminds me of me," Bilbo said suddenly, a long while later, curled into Thorin's side, and Thorin hummed enquiringly around his pipe, eyes on a strange slow, measured dance that Bifur was doing opposite of Glóin, the dance seeming more like a competition of control and deliberate movements than anything. "Haldir, he reminds me of myself," he said absently, turning his attention back to the lads in the corner, animatedly talking weapons, by the look of the drawings sketched across Ori's spread parchments.
"How so?" Thorin asked after a moment, tightening his arm around Bilbo to draw him further into his warmth.
Bilbo shrugged but didn't reply for a long time. Instead, he watched the lads some more. After a while, the subject of their debate changed, Bilbo wasn't sure to what, and then changed again, and suddenly, Fíli, Kíli and Ori were attempting to teach Talli and Haldir a game involving a pile of polished stones on a hastily sketched grid, Ori slapping at hands and berating the lads when Thorin's nephews starting juggling the stones. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Ori was quite a bit older than the other two, since his placid nature let them run roughshod a lot of the time. Woe betide them if they played up too much around him though, as he was forged in his brother's image, and turned into a miniature Dori complete with epic scolding and well-aimed smacks at the slightest provocation.
"Elrond told me once, that no matter how old a person gets, one is never too old to realise they've been behaving like a rash young fool. You'd think living past 130 years of age would make me a little wiser than the average Hobbit, but it really didn't."
"I am fairly certain I died a right foolish git, at the age of 190, and despite another 80 years of living on in the Halls of Mahal, my sister can still make me feel a child with a single look," Thorin mused drowsily.
"We should have brought her the first time," Bilbo agreed. He had only met her very briefly the last time, and only after Thorin and the boys were long gone. He was sure that prior to having the soul of her ripped away, she was a force to be reckoned with. "I can just see how well she would have tolerated you after we took Erebor."
"I wouldn't have died in battle, that's for sure," Thorin said with a wry grin. "She would have beaten me to death for my stupidity well before that."
Bilbo huffed, but said nothing. The frisson of panic and fear he normally experienced when his mind strayed to that awful event was a lot less than it was normally, and Bilbo let the jest at his husband's demise pass. What was done was done and all that tosh.
It certainly helped that Azog was well and truly dead, now.
(Though he most definitely had to deal with Bolg as soon as possible.)
"It took me a long time, after you died, to stop hating Hobbits," Bilbo admitted quietly. "I came home.... I was so lonely. So sad, so angry, all the time. And the Shire. It hadn't changed. Nothing had changed! My whole world had been torn asunder, and there were all my fellow Hobbits, fighting over my armchair and my dressing gown, and gossiping behind their hands, and I was so angry.
"They were petty in the face of all that had happened to me, to the ones I loved. And they were happy with their mundane little unchanged lives, and it was infuriating. How dare they have their happiness when mine was gone forever? How dare they tut over the braids in my hair, or the fur of my coat, and then toddle on home to their loved ones in their warm smials and sleep well, when I was so very empty inside?"
Thorin tugged him closer still, practically into his lap, and buried his face into Bilbo's hair.
"I'm not angry anymore," Bilbo assured him, patting Thorin's knee. "I just realised how silly I was. I took all that resentment, and I sort of... spent eighty years living in defiance of the happiness and the disapproval of others. I went off on adventures whenever I wanted without a wick of notice to anyone, I was as rude as I wanted in the most polite and impolite ways, I played hide and seek with unwitting relatives who came looking for me, I slept late and threw gauche parties and revelled in starting odd rumours about myself. I had Dwarrows and Elves and Wizards as guests and never made any bones about it. I won't say it wasn't a good life, or that I took no satisfaction from it. I just have to wonder how much better it would have been, if I hadn't been busy feeling superior and pushing all my fellow Hobbits away."
Thorin snuffled into his curls a while longer, and Bilbo let him.
"Where is this coming from?" Thorin asked finally, and Bilbo leaned back to rub his nose alongside Thorin's great honker.
"There is something about Haldir. I look at him and see somebody that keeps himself separate from the people around him. Like he is a devoted servant to this land, but not a part of it. I don't know," Bilbo shrugged, when Thorin moved far enough back to frown at him, "he seems so shocked that the boys want to play with him. Like he is not used to people wanting to spend time with him. I just recognise the look of him, and it reminds me of myself, among but not a part. It's not right."
Thorin sighed, long and loud and thumped his head back against the wall behind him.
"An Elf? You want to add an Elf to my Company?"
"Well it was likely that we were going to be keeping Thranduil and his extras anyway... probably," Bilbo said. "Another one can't hurt."
"It can hurt, it can hurt me in my very soul, Bilbo. Elves, part of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield? It's a travesty."
Bilbo rolled his eyes, and abruptly started to laugh, Thorin's ridiculous sorrowful expression becoming more and more ridiculously pouty the more Bilbo laughed.
He could have happily sat there and giggled with his stupid husband, and kissed that silly nose, and the pout right off his face, but for the group of sombre Elven guards that trekked into the small dining hall where they were gathered, the assembled Company -and extras- falling silent at the intrusion.
"Bilbo Baggins," the elf in the lead said sombrely. "My Lady will see you now."
***