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'I beg your pardon?'
Bilbo winced, thinking back over his words and biting his lip. All he had said was that the looms of Barderbraith made the best cloth in Middle earth.... ah.
No one, of all his acquaintance, did indignation better than Dori. He somehow seemed to grow in both height and breadth, almost floating off his toes in outrage. His intricate braids trembled, the beads scattering the light. He was as filthy and work worn as the rest of them from rebuilding Erebor, yet somehow he still looked better dressed and barely had a hair out of place. How he did it, Bilbo didn't know. And now he would probably never find out, because Dori was going to gut him with a needle the size of his forearm.
'Remember, Brother,' Ori said, hastily stepping between Dori and Bilbo. 'Master Baggins won't know of our cloth. How could he? He's younger even than me!'
Bilbo grimaced, holding back his protests that he was an adult, thank you very much, and quite respectably aged. It wasn't his fault dwarves lived far longer than hobbits. Still, Ori had a point. From what he had heard, the Ri family had once made the most fantastic fabrics, but that was before the fall of Erebor, which had been under the tyranny of Smaug for well over a century.
Dori harrumphed, deflating. 'That is true.'
'It's not just about the weaver,' Nori explained, clapping Bilbo's shoulder. 'The Ri family invented a special kind of loom. Rare and difficult to make, they're not the kind of thing you could carry out when a dragon attacks.'
'Couldn't you build new ones?'
Dori's sigh was mournful, and he spread his competent hands in muted dismay. 'We tried, many a time, Master Baggins, but we never quite succeeded. There were many theories about the wrong materials and such, but we never got to the bottom of the mystery.' A hint of tears glimmered in Dori's eyes. 'There are some days I fear we will never again be as we once were.'
Dori's words haunted Bilbo through the next few days. It drove home how the dwarves had lost more than just their home when the Dragon came to Erebor to. They had lost an entire chunk of personal culture along with it, and some of those wounds may never heal.
Besides, he felt like a big-mouthed-Bracegirdle for what he had said. Hobbits took pride in causing offence when the insult was deserved. Bilbo had spent many a day relishing a well-orchestrated put-down to those ridiculous Sackville-Bagginses, but it was another matter when you inadvertently hurt a friend.
Perhaps that was why, when he was quietly toiling away clearing out some of the old workrooms, a bulky shape in the gloom caught his eye.
He was no weaver, but he still knew a loom when he set eyes upon it. Or at least, he could recognise the similarities between ones he had seen and this glorious leviathan. Smeared as it was in dust and grime, it looked like a slumbering giant, and Bilbo quickly grabbed his cloth, setting up candles and reflectors so he could better see what he was looking at.
It was certainly not a ramshackle thing: not that the dwarves would ever make something less than perfect, but this? It looked exquisite. He ran his hands along the bold, woven engravings, his heart stirring when he noticed the intertwined strands mimicked the pattern of Dori's beard braids. With careful fingers, he probed the wood and breathed a sigh of relief when it remained solid and unyielding. He had half-feared it would be spongy with rot, but it seemed whole, and to his uneducated eye, nothing appeared to be out of place.
'Bofur, can you get Dori for me?' he asked. 'I think he needs to see this.'
'O' course. You'll be all right on your own?'
'I'll be fine,' Bilbo promised, setting to work with his cloth and bucket, mopping up the worst of the grime off the floor and sorting the other junk into what still had use, what could be repaired, and what was fit for nothing but the fire. He did not touch the loom. Wood like that needed knowledgeable hands and oils and all manner of things, and he would not be the one to bring the last edifice of the Ri family legacy crashing down through carelessness.
It took a while for Bofur to return with Dori, and by the time he came trotting back through the door, the room looked almost respectable, even if Bilbo himself looked like he'd been rolling in the dust like a contented sow. Still, the filth was worth it to see the way Dori's pace slowed, his eyes growing huge in his face as he stared at what Bilbo had unearthed. He snatched in one quick breath, like he'd forgotten how his lungs worked, before reaching out with unsteady hands to stroke them over the various bars and uprights.
'Is it what I think it is?' Bilbo asked, a smile blooming when Dori turned to him and scooped him up in a tight, desperate embrace. 'I'll take that as a yes!'
'Thank you, Master Baggins,' Dori whispered, and in his simple gratitude there lay a whole host of meaning. The loom, Bilbo knew, was far more than just an object to Dori. It was both a way of life and a connection to his past: more valuable than gemstones and gold. 'Thank you.'
'I was wrong.' Bilbo swallowed, running his hand down the cloth over his torso. It draped beautifully, light as mist beneath his touch yet still warm in Erebor's chill. The delicate silver weave sparkled every time he breathed, yet its fragile appearance was a lie. It was as solid as his mithril vest, and twice as lovely.
Today, he and Thorin would be wed, and both of them would be dressed in the first fabric to have left the famous looms of Ri in more than one-hundred and seventy years. It felt momentous, like a fairy-tale, and Bilbo's lips quirked in a grin as he looked up into Dori's proud face.
'It's exquisite. The weavers of Barderbraith could only dream of this skill.'
Dori smiled, inclining his head in proud acknowledgement as Bilbo straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. In an hour or two, it would be official. He and Thorin would be joined, and as well as the love of his life, Bilbo would be claiming a kingdom and all the treasures that it held. Not the gold and jewels, which were nothing but shine. No, when he thought of treasures, he thought the smiles of his friends as they rediscovered lives and histories they thought were lost to them forever. That was what they had won back from the dragon. Not merely Erebor's wealth.
They had reclaimed their home.