Chapter Text
Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was a respectable hobbit who would cheerfully have described himself as middle aged. As such, he was not fond of snow. Oh, it was very beautiful, certainly, draping the soft green hills of the Shire in a blanket of glittering white – beautiful even when falling, the flakes swirling and settling in the lamplight – but apart from that it was a nuisance, and made going about one’s business really rather trying. On this particular Tuesday, for example, it had snowed during the night, and Bilbo had almost called off his plans to go to the market in Bywater for fear of getting cold and wet and generally miserable. But in the end, the day was sunny and bright – almost too bright, the sunlight glancing off the snow, sharp and cold – and Bilbo braved the journey. Nonetheless, he left much later than he had originally intended, and that was entirely the snow’s fault.
It was not entirely the snow’s fault that Bilbo did end up getting rather wet and cold, after all. Partly the snow, certainly, but there would certainly never have been any snow melting down Bilbo’s neck if it had not been for the crowd of unruly youngsters who began an unusually large snowball fight just outside Bywater shortly before dark – as it happened, just at the time that Bilbo was starting for home. Bilbo could remember a time when he might have joined in the fight voluntarily, but that time had been many years ago, before his parents had died. Such activities were for children, and, since he was not particularly fond of children, he tended to keep away from them. Not that children were so very bad, of course – their charming games and their cherubic voices and so on – but he found that both games and voices tended to retain their charm best when kept at a safe distance.
Unfortunately, the snowball fight was not at a safe distance. In fact, it criss-crossed the road from Bywater to Hobbiton, with seemingly every child in the Shire involved, not to mention some of the younger adults, too, so that it was impossible to avoid. Bilbo hurried on his way as quickly as he could, but he nonetheless was hit by not one but three snowballs in the time it took him to traverse the battlefield, and his mood was not at all improved by the delighted giggles of the child who scored a direct hit on the back of his neck. He took careful note of the child’s identity – though in truth it was not easy to tell, given how wrapped up they all were – and planned grimly to inform her mother at the first available opportunity.
In the end, though, Bilbo did not inform the child’s mother, or indeed really remember the snowball fight at all by the following morning. Because something else happened on his way back from Bywater that caused all trivial thoughts and annoyances to be entirely wiped from his mind. He was trudging along, feeling most disagreeable, wet and cold, and angry with himself for having left so late that he would have to walk much of the way back in the dark, when he heard, from the shadowy bushes to the left-hand side of the path, a noise that sounded like a child in pain.
Well, Bilbo might not have been overly fond of children, but he was not, at heart, an uncaring hobbit. Nor was he a particularly brave one, as he would happily tell any and all who might care to ask, and as I’m sure you can imagine, a plaintive noise in the silence of a snowy dusk can sound rather ghostlike, or, at the very least, like it might be made by some wild creature. So Bilbo stood very still, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, and listened. He was in two minds: the first told him that he had heard a bird, or a cat, or maybe nothing at all (or possibly a ghost), and that he should hurry home before he got any colder (or before he happened to see a ghost). The second told him that he could not possibly leave if there was any chance that there was a lost child out there in the freezing darkness. And it was this second part of his mind that won out, despite his quailing heart, for as I have sad, he was not hard-hearted, despite his somewhat curmudgeonly nature.
So he stood listening, and it seemed to him that the whole world held its breath, silent as it can only be on a winter’s night when snow lies thickly on the ground. And then, he heard it again: a breathless whimper, so quiet that had he not been listening so carefully, he might not have heard it at all. But hear it he did, and it certainly was no bird, nor cat either (though some part of his mind insisted that it still might be a ghost). It was a child, a young one at that, and Bilbo immediately gave up on feeling afraid, and concentrated instead on feeling concerned. He moved into the bushes, light-footed and silent – though why he should be so, he was not quite sure. Certainly it would have made sense to call out – but he did not. Perhaps he was simply still a little troubled by the (obviously ridiculous!) notion that something supernatural might be afoot; at any rate, he did not speak, but just crept through the bushes, straining to see in the dark, until he came to a little clearing.
And there he found not one child but two. They were somewhat indistinct in the darkness, one standing and one sitting. The standing one was larger, perhaps ten, bending over the other. The sitting one Bilbo would have guessed from size alone to be six or so, and it was huddled over, breathing in a way that told of some illness of the lungs.
“Sh,” the older one whispered. “Someone will hear you.”
“Ahem,” Bilbo said then, having ascertained that these were definitely not ghosts. “What are you doing hiding out here? It’s getting dark, and you should be getting home to your–”
He never completed his sentence, for the moment the older of the two children heard his voice, he whirled, casting about in the gathering gloom before lighting on Bilbo. There was the sound of sliding metal, then, and the boy was suddenly holding a knife in his hand. A long one, at that – certainly no kitchen knife, but a small sword, designed with only one purpose in mind.
“Get away,” the boy growled, moving so that he was between Bilbo and the smaller child, blocking him completely from view.
Bilbo took a hasty step back, raising his hands in surrender. “Now, now,” he said. “There’s no need for that. I just wanted to see if I could be of some help.”
“Well, you can’t,” the boy said. “Go away.”
Bilbo, who had never once in his life been confronted by someone wielding a sword, let alone a child doing so, turned on his heel to go. But as he did so, the smaller child made a quiet, pained noise, and Bilbo paused, staring into the darkness, listening to the thick sounds of congested breathing behind him. The children were not from Hobbiton, or Bywater, either, and that meant they were a long way from home. Bilbo blinked at nothing, imagining the scene tomorrow if two children were found frozen to death, and how he would feel if that happened. Then he turned back.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, “but it sounds like your friend is ill.”
“Don’t talk about him,” the older boy said. “I told you to leave us alone.”
“Indeed you did,” Bilbo said, trying to judge whether to move closer or not. “But I’m afraid I can’t. I’m sure it will snow again tonight, and much as I would love to go back to my warm hobbit hole, I just can’t leave you out here with no shelter, more’s the pity.” He paused. “It’s just up the hill, by the way. My hobbit hole.”
“I don’t care where it is,” said the older boy, but his voice wobbled a little, and Bilbo understood suddenly that he was younger than Bilbo had thought. “We’re fine, go away.”
“Are you sure?” Bilbo asked, and he took a cautious step forwards. The blade, which had been drooping slightly, was suddenly raised again, glinting in the faint moonlight.
“I’ll gut you like a fish,” the boy growled, his voice suddenly deeper and his cadences slightly different, as if he was imitating someone else.
“Oh, dear,” Bilbo said, and if he was honest with himself, he was genuinely frightened. But at the same time, he was concerned, and determined by now to make sure these children found their way home to their parents – though preferably without anyone doing any gutting on the way. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want that. But now look here. I live just up the hill.” He gestured in the general direction of Bag End. “Just up the hill, you see? I have a nice hobbit hole, with a big fire in the living room, and lots of hot water for baths. You’re obviously quite upset, but I’m sure your parents would be very unhappy to know you were out here all on your own. And your friend really does sound ill. I’m sure a night outside won’t be good for him at all. So why don’t you just come with me? I’m just a hobbit, certainly not dangerous in the least. Why, I don’t think I even own a weapon, unless you count garden implements. Wouldn’t you prefer to be eating dinner in front of the fire rather than out here in the snow?”
The boy just stood there, his little sword raised. He didn’t speak, but the flash of the moonlight from the blade showed that his hands were not very steady, and Bilbo, despite his fear, felt a pang of compassion.
“It seems you have two choices, then,” he said. “You can either trust that I neither wish to hurt you nor am capable of doing so, and come into the warmth; or you can stay out here all night, and quite possibly freeze, or at least get as ill as your friend – but at least you won’t have run the risk of being clouted with a hoe! Now, which is it to be?”
There was silence in the little clearing, except for the wheezing breaths of the smaller boy. And then, at last, the older one straightened up, though he didn’t put away his sword.
“Can you get up?” he murmured to the smaller boy. “Come on. Take my hand.”
The smaller boy struggled to his feet, assisted by the elder, and then they turned to Bilbo, the elder still with his sword in one hand.
“You go first,” he said.
“Well, obviously, since I’m the only one who knows the way,” Bilbo said. He was rather nervous to turn his back on the sword, but at the same time, even he would have a difficult time walking backwards to his hobbit hole, and so he was forced to do so. His neck immediately started prickling, and he set off at a fairly brisk pace, not because he was afraid, but because he was cold (and also a little afraid). He didn’t look behind him until he heard the sound of quiet voices, and turned to see that the smaller boy had fallen in the snow, and the elder was helping him back to his feet. After that, Bilbo moved a little more slowly, but nonetheless, they were only halfway up the hill when he heard a soft thud, and turned to see the smaller boy had fallen again.
The older boy knelt down, now, whispering urgently to the smaller one. But although the little one tried valiantly, he didn’t seem to be able to regain his feet, and at last, the elder stood, glancing from Bilbo to his friend.
“I can carry him, if you want,” Bilbo said, even though really he wished to do nothing of the sort. “If he can’t walk.”
“Don’t come near him,” the older boy growled, and then, apparently having made some kind of decision, he sheathed his sword and bent, gathering the smaller boy into his arms, settling him on his hip. He picked him up with some difficulty, being not a great deal taller than him, though certainly broader in the shoulders. Then he tried to find some way to draw his sword again, but it became quickly clear that he could not manage to hold his friend with only one arm. He stood, silent, breath frosting in the moonlight, clutching his friend to him. And Bilbo decided he wouldn’t offer to help again, but instead would make for Bag End as fast as possible, so as to make all of this easier.
“Come along, then,” he said, and turned, trying at once to be hasty and to be slow enough that the boy, now heavily burdened, would not fall too far behind. And at last, he came to his own front door, and pushed it open, hurrying to take off his wet cloak and go to stoke up the embers of the living room fire. He left the door open behind him, but didn’t wait for the two boys to arrive. Better not to focus too much attention on them, he decided. At least until the older one stopped being so ready with his sword.
Once the fire was again licking up the chimney in bright tongues of flame, Bilbo hastened to set water to heat for a bath, and then went to the hall to see what had happened to his not-particularly-welcome guests. As it turned out, they were both there, the older boy standing in the hallway, still carrying the younger in his arms. The door was still open, and Bilbo, in his haste to shut it, didn’t even remember that he was supposed to be keeping his distance.
“Well, what is the point of having an indoors at all if you’re just going to let the outdoors come inside?” he asked, tutting to himself and sweeping the sprinkling of snow that had drifted in back outside where it belonged. Then he turned, and found himself suddenly confronted with the reality of his young guests. Or rather, his guest. The smaller boy was almost entirely hidden, bundled up in a soaking cloak, only a wisp of dark hair to be seen. But the older, staring unblinkingly at Bilbo, was very much visible. And he was not a hobbit child.
“I’ll be blessed,” Bilbo whispered. The boy was absolutely filthy – in fact, they both were – but nonetheless, it was immediately clear from the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his hair, the heavy boots he wore: this child was no hobbit, nor a man-child. Although Bilbo had never seen one in person, he was immediately sure that this boy could only be a dwarf.
“How did you come to be so far from home?” Bilbo asked, almost without meaning to. The nearest place where dwarves were known to live was Bree, and that was several days’ travel. “Where are your parents?”
The boy just stared at him. His face looked hollow under all the grime, as though he hadn’t been eating well for some time, and he had a rather dazed look in his eyes. Looking more closely, Bilbo saw that his cheeks were a little flushed, and began to suspect that it was not only the younger boy who was ill.
“Well, never mind that,” Bilbo said. “Come, come. The fire is in the living room. I’ll get you some blankets.”
And he hurried off, collecting two blankets from the cupboard, and then, after a moment’s thought and the memory of the soaking wet cloak of the younger boy, collecting two more. When he got back to the living room, he found that the older boy was sitting with the younger one in front of him, propped up against his chest and facing the fire. He’d drawn his sword again and laid it beside him, close at hand. Bilbo eyed it nervously.
“Here, then,” he said, holding out the blankets, and then laying them down within reach. “I’ll make us something to eat.”
And he fled to the kitchen.
When he got back, having made a pot of hearty stew and set it on the stove to cook, he found that the dwarves – he assumed the little one was a dwarf, too, although he’d seen almost nothing of him as yet – were still in front of the fire. The little one was lying down, now, wrapped in all four of the blankets over his soaking cloak, and shivering nonetheless. The older one was still sitting up, shoulders rigid.
“Well, that won’t do,” Bilbo said. The older dwarf turned to look at him, hand creeping towards the hilt of his sword. Bilbo sighed. “He won’t warm up in those wet clothes,” he said. “Neither of you will. Why don’t you have a bath?”
The dwarf scowled at him. “He’s all right,” he said. “He’s getting warm.”
Bilbo sighed again, more heavily this time. How he had gone from looking forward to a nice, hot bath for himself to looking after two ill and rather frightening dwarf children, he had no idea.
“Now, you look here, master dwarf,” he said, advancing towards the fire and doing his best not to flinch when the dwarf brought up his sword. “I understand that you’re frightened, but this is becoming ridiculous.”
“I’m not frightened,” the dwarf said, scowl deepening. “I could kill you in a moment.”
“Hmph,” Bilbo said, pausing in his steps. “Well, you probably could, at that. But I hope you won’t. It would be rather ill-mannered after I invited you into my home.”
The dwarf made no answer to this, watching Bilbo carefully.
“Well, now, not frightened, then,” Bilbo said. “Wary, perhaps. And with good reason, no doubt. But you have nothing to fear from me. You must let me help you, and your friend. You want to look after him, I can see that. Well, this is how you can do it: let me help him. I have no weapons – you can search me yourself, if you’d like.”
The dwarf lad held his gaze, unblinking. Then he heaved himself to his feet and came forward. The smaller boy, curled on the floor, made a murmuring noise of distress, and the elder glanced back at him, then quickly ran his hand over Bilbo’s arms, legs, stomach and waist. When he’d finished, he stood frowning for a moment, then nodded and turned back to the bundle of blankets that concealed his friend.
“He’s been getting worse for days,” he muttered.
Bilbo knelt on the floor, keeping a close eye on the sword. But it wasn’t raised in his direction, and he reached out and began to unwrap the blankets from around the younger child. The boy whimpered and tried to pull them back around himself, and the older dwarf immediately knelt down beside Bilbo, pushing his hands away.
“Sh,” he murmured. “Don’t cry. I’m going to get you warm.”
He peeled off the blankets, facing no further protest from the younger boy, who lay blinking blearily up at him. Another dwarf, indeed, Bilbo saw, this one dark-haired where the elder was fair, but just as gaunt-looking. He shuddered, curling up when the older dwarf tried to remove his sodden cloak, and then coughed a bone-rattling cough, eyes closed tight.
“Sh, sh,” the older dwarf said, stroking his hair. “We’re going to have a bath. That’ll be nice. We haven’t had one for a long time.”
Bilbo got to his feet, feeling a sudden wash of pity for these two children, even if one of them did seem determined to threaten him at every turn. Getting worse for days, the older one had said – who knew how long they had been out in the wilderness on their own?
“I’ll fill the tub,” he said, and hurried off.
By the time the tub was situated in front of the fire and filled with steaming water, the older dwarf had managed to divest the younger of his clothes, and now he sat, shivering and wrapped in a blanket, eyes glazed. Looking at them together, Bilbo suddenly understood that they were not just friends. It was clear, despite their differences in colouring, that they were closely related, most probably brothers. The older dwarf helped the younger to step into the tub, and then reached over to help him wash himself.
“Why don’t you get in, as well?” Bilbo asked. “I’m sure you could do with a hot bath, too.”
The older dwarf looked over at him, then glanced at his sword. Bilbo resisted the urge to throw up his hands.
“All right, how’s this?” he said. “I’ll go into the hall and close the door. It’s big and heavy, you see? So if I open it again, you’ll have plenty of warning, and you’ll be able to get your sword and wave it at me all you like. And in the meantime, you can have a bath. How does that sound?”
The older dwarf swallowed, brow creased in thought. Despite his intense suspicion and troubling level of aggression, Bilbo saw again that he was indeed very young. Young, frightened, and not very well himself.
“I’ll go then,” Bilbo said, hoping to make the decision easier for him. “I’ll see if I can find you something to wear.”
And he scurried off, and closed the door firmly behind him, taking a moment to mourn for the warmth of the fire. But there was a great deal to do if he was to properly accommodate his guests, and so he set fires in the hearths of two of the guest rooms, then went rifling through his wardrobe, looking for something the children might be able to wear. The little one could wear one of Bilbo’s ordinary shirts as a nightshirt, certainly. The older one was more difficult. He was shorter than Bilbo, but Bilbo had the feeling he wouldn’t take kindly to just wearing a shirt. So he found a pair of old trousers, soft with wear and worn through in places, and turned the hems up, stitching them in place with a deft hand. By the time he had finished, he was sure the two dwarves must have got themselves clean, and so he went to the living room door and knocked cautiously.
“Master Dwarf,” he called, “I’ve brought some clean clothes for you to wear.”
There was a silence, and then the heavy door creaked open a crack and the dwarf’s hand appeared. Bilbo handed him the clothes, and he slipped away again, closing the door behind him. Bilbo waited what he thought was a decent amount of time, then knocked again.
“Are you ready?” he called. “I’ll come and get us some food.”
Another silence, and then the door opened again. Bilbo stepped through to find that the two dwarves were back in front of the fire, dressed in their new clothes and much cleaner-looking. The little one was once more barely visible, bundled up in blankets and leaning against his brother’s chest. Bilbo slipped across the room to the kitchen, stirring the stew and then serving it up into two bowls and collecting a plate of bread. He would eat later, he decided, once he’d managed to get his two guests into bed.
Back in the living room, he knelt by the fire a reasonable distance from the dwarves and stretched out, holding the bowls out. The older dwarf eyed them for the briefest moment, and then reached out and snatched them. He rearranged himself and his brother so that they were facing each other, the little one propped up on the side of an armchair. Then he managed to exhume a little hand from in amongst all the blankets and put a spoon in it.
“There’s food,” he murmured. “There’s food, we’ve got food now.”
The little dwarf, though, didn’t seem to understand, staring at his brother with that glazed expression. The older one watched him, face creased in worry.
“Come on,” he whispered, shooting a hunted glance at Bilbo. “You’ve got to eat or you won’t get better.”
He waited another moment, then took the spoon from his brother’s hand and spooned up some stew. “Open your mouth,” he said, and the little one obediently did so. The older dwarf carefully fed him the spoonful of stew, then repeated the process. Bilbo watched, rather fascinated despite himself. How old was the little one, he wondered? He knew so little about dwarves – certainly nothing about how quickly they grew, or how long they lived. Indeed, he would not have recognised these two as being so had he not been sure that there was nothing else they could be. At most, he had heard that dwarves were dangerous, warlike, not to be trusted – although, since hobbits were generally of the opinion that no-one born outside the Shire was to be trusted, perhaps that was not such a useful description. And of course, Bilbo had already discovered, rather to his own discomfort, that even young dwarves could certainly pose a threat. But watching how this dwarf took such great care to make sure his brother was fed, and warm, and safe, even to his own detriment – for certainly he must have been very hungry, too – Bilbo thought perhaps that they were not so wild and savage as the few stories that passed around the Shire made out.
At last, it seemed the little dwarf could eat no more, his head lolling on his chest. And at this point, the older dwarf turned to his own bowl of stew. He had none of the hesitance of the little one, but tore into the food as though he had been starving for days. The bowl was empty before Bilbo had even had time to stop being amazed at the ferocity of the dwarf’s appetite, and then the dwarf picked it up and licked it clean, before finishing off his brother’s food as well.
“Well,” Bilbo said, causing the dwarf to start a little, as if he’d forgotten Bilbo was there. “I suppose you’d like seconds, then?”
The dwarf eyed him silently, then picked up his empty bowl and held it out. Bilbo took it, unsurprised by now at the lack of anything resembling a thank you, and went to the kitchen. He filled it as full as he could without spilling it, collected more bread, and then returned to the living room to find the younger dwarf whispering something to his brother. As soon as he entered, the elder shook his head.
“Sh,” he whispered. “He’s back.”
Bilbo refrained politely from rolling his eyes – as if finding out the little one could talk would somehow cause him to have an advantage over them – and held out the bowl and bread. The older dwarf took them from him, and there followed a repeat of his earlier ravenous performance, perhaps slightly less vehement this time, and then, perhaps not. Partway through, though, he paused, and offered up a piece of bread to his brother. The brother took it and put it in his mouth, but seemed to exhausted or too ill even to really chew, and only eventually swallowed with some effort. The older dwarf then sat in silence for a short spell, watching his brother with a worried frown. Eventually, though, it seemed he decided that, whether his brother would eat more or not, there was no sense the food going to waste, and so he polished off the rest and sat, empty bowl clutched to his chest, watching Bilbo with eyes that looked dark in the firelight.
“I think perhaps your friend needs to go to bed,” Bilbo said, for now that he had discharged what he considered his most important duties of offering food and warmth, he was eager to remove these strange dwarf children from his immediate vicinity as quickly as possible. “I’ve plenty of space. I can take him, if you want.”
The offer was barely out of his mouth when the older dwarf had set down his bowl with a clatter and shifted closer to his brother, putting one arm around him and groping for his sword with the other. Bilbo raised his hands hastily.
“Or not,” he squeaked. “Not is perfectly acceptable, as well.”
The older dwarf blinked at him, as though he was having some difficulty keeping his own eyes open. The younger had clearly already fallen asleep, leaning heavily now on his brother.
“Why don’t I show you?” Bilbo asked. “The beds are soft, and there are clean sheets and plenty of blankets.”
The older dwarf considered this for a moment, then slowly got to his feet, lifting the younger and settling him on his hip. He was really not tall enough to carry even such a small burden, and Bilbo marvelled that he had managed to carry his brother all the way up the hill to the hobbit hole. But it was clear he would accept no assistance, and so Bilbo took up a lamp and led the way.
When he came to the guest rooms he had opened up for the two dwarves, he pointed.
“You can put him in here,” he said, “and you can go next door.”
The dwarf immediately shook his head, clutching his brother closer. “I’m going with him,” he said.
“Hm,” Bilbo said. He hadn’t considered this possibility, although of course it now seemed obvious that the dwarf would not be separated from his brother. “Well, I think the bed is big enough. But the more you stay with him, the more likely you are to catch his illness.”
As if in warning, the younger dwarf launched into a series of painful-sounding coughs. But these only caused the elder to hold him closer still. “I’m going with him,” he said again, voice shaking but face full of stubborn determination.
“Oh, well, if you must,” Bilbo said. He ushered the two dwarves into the larger of the guest rooms, and the elder dwarf quickly set about making his brother comfortable in the bed before turning and staring at Bilbo.
“I’ll be going then, shall I?” Bilbo said, and, when no answer was forthcoming, “My name is Bilbo, by the way.”
The dwarf nodded minutely, but made no other sign that he’d heard, and certainly none that he had any interest in telling Bilbo his name in return. Bilbo sighed.
“Well, good night,” he said, perhaps rather snappishly, and slipped out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. He stood in the hall for a moment, wondering how on earth the day had turned out so unexpectedly. Two children – dwarves! – beneath his roof, one of them too ill to talk and the other too suspicious. It was all very vexing, to be sure.
But at least they were in bed, and as long as the older one didn’t decide to cut his throat in the night out of pure spite, Bilbo supposed that everybody was safe for the time being. So he pattered back down the hall, and spent some time in the living room in glorious solitude, eating his dinner and trying to read his book. He found himself quite distracted, though, and jumping at every little noise, and so eventually he decided perhaps he ought to go to bed, too.
Sleep was long in coming that night, Bilbo tossing and turning and wondering where the dwarves had come from, where they were going, and how they had come to be in such poor states of health (and, perhaps most importantly, when he would be able to get rid of them). But at last, long after midnight, he drifted off, and dreamed of whirling snow and flashing knives, until it was almost a relief to be woken by an insistent knock at his bedroom door not many hours later.
He groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and climbed out of bed, lighting his lamp with fumbling fingers. The knocking came again, urgent-sounding, and Bilbo yawned.
“Yes, all right,” he said. “There’s no need to make such a fuss.”
He threw open the door, and found the older dwarf child on the other side, looking dishevelled and very worried.
“Mister, help,” he said. “He’s getting worse.”