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The road to the Shire had not changed, though the Dwarves who walked it certainly had. Dwalin, Balin, Fíli, and Kíli moved through the rolling green hills of Hobbiton with the heavy, rhythmic tread of mountain-folk. They were dressed in travel-stained leathers and fine furs, their braids adorned with silver and gold that caught the afternoon sun.
It had been nearly five years since the fires of the Lonely Mountain had been quenched and the crown restored to Thorin’s brow. In those early years, the ravens had flown thick between Erebor and Bag End, carrying letters of gold-dust and garden seeds. But kingship was a jealous master, and the rebuilding of a kingdom left little time for parchment. Eventually, the letters became shorter, then rarer, until a silence of two years had stretched between them.
"Do you think he's still cross about the spoons?" Kíli asked, adjusting the massive pack on his shoulders. "I heard from a wandering merchant that Lobelia finally got her hands on the silver."
"Bilbo isn't one to hold a grudge over cutlery, brother," Fíli said, though his brow was furrowed. "I’m more concerned that he stopped writing entirely. It isn't like him."
Dwalin grunted, his hand resting on the pommel of his axe. "Hobbits are sturdy, but they aren't made of stone. Maybe he just grew tired of us."
They reached the familiar round green door of Bag End just as the sun began to dip. The garden, once a riot of manicured color, looked... different. It wasn't overgrown, exactly, but it was functional. Cabbages grew where snapdragons once stood, and the hedges were shorn for utility rather than beauty.
Balin stepped forward and knocked.
The door didn't fly open with the usual flustered hospitality. Instead, there was a long pause, the sound of several locks turning, and then the door creaked open just a fraction.
Bilbo Baggins peered out. He looked older, far older than five years should have made him. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, and his waistcoat, once taut and proud, hung somewhat loosely on a frame that had lost its comfortable Shire-padding.
"Yes? What is-" Bilbo stopped. His jaw dropped. The lantern in his hand wavered. "Balin? Dwalin? Fíli... Kíli?"
"In the flesh, Master Burglar!" Kíli cheered, stepping forward to wrap the Hobbit in a rib-cracking hug.
Bilbo let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. "Oh, my goodness. Oh, you're here. You're actually here."
They were ushered into the smial, but the usual bustle of "tea and seed-cake" was absent. The hallway was cluttered with small wooden blocks and tiny, knitted blankets. Bilbo seemed frantic, clearing a space on the sofa while simultaneously trying to put a kettle on.
"Forgive the mess, please, I wasn't expecting... I mean, I’m so glad you’re here, but I haven't baked in days, and the larder is a bit of a shambles-"
"Bilbo, lad, sit down," Dwalin rumbled, placing a massive hand on the Hobbit’s shoulder. "We didn't come for the cakes. We came for the company."
As Bilbo sank into his armchair, a tiny, muffled sound came from the shadows of the hallway. A soft patter-patter of feet so small they barely registered on the floorboards.
A child emerged.
The Dwarves went deathly still. They were used to Dwarven toddlers,stout, sturdy things with thick limbs and booming voices. But the creature standing in the doorway was the tiniest thing any of them had ever seen.
Frodo was barely three years old, a slip of a thing with a wild mop of black curls and eyes so blue they looked like shards of the sky. Because Hobbits were already small, a Hobbit toddler was practically ethereal. He looked like something made of starlight and dandelion fluff.
"Dada?" the tiny voice squeaked. It was a high, fragile sound.
Frodo didn't walk toward the strangers. Instead, he scrambled across the floor with frantic speed, diving into Bilbo’s lap and burying his face in the Hobbit’s waistcoat. He clung to Bilbo with a desperation that made the Dwarves’ hearts ache, his tiny hands fisted in the fabric.
"It’s alright, Frodo, it's alright," Bilbo whispered, his hand immediately moving to stroke the boy's hair. The exhaustion on Bilbo's face softened into a look of fierce, protective love. "These are friends. These are the Big People I told you stories about. The ones with the sparkly beards."
Dwalin leaned forward, his curiosity getting the better of his stern nature. He held out his hand,a hand that had shattered Orc-skulls and moved boulders. It was nearly as large as the child’s entire torso.
"Can he speak?" Dwalin asked softly.
"A little," Bilbo said, gently coaxing Frodo to look up. "He’s... he’s had a hard time of it, Dwalin. He’s very shy."
Gently, Bilbo lifted the boy and handed him toward the warrior. Dwalin’s breath hitched as he took the child. Frodo sat perfectly in the center of Dwalin’s palms, his tiny hairy feet dangling over the edge of the Dwarf's life-line. He looked like a doll carved from porcelain.
Frodo looked up at the tattooed Dwarf, his bottom lip trembling. He didn't cry, but he reached out a tiny, shaking hand and gripped Dwalin’s thumb, holding on for dear life.
Over the next few days, the Dwarves began to notice things that troubled them.
They noticed that Frodo never let Bilbo out of his sight. If Bilbo moved to the kitchen, Frodo was a shadow at his heels. They noticed that the boy had night-terrors, waking the entire smial with high-pitched screams that only subsided when Bilbo rocked him for hours.
They noticed the water.
Kíli had tried to draw a bath for the lad after he’d gotten dusty playing in the garden. The moment Frodo saw the steam rising from the tub, he went into a state of absolute, paralyzed terror. He didn't just cry; he shrieked, his face turning pale as bone, his tiny body shaking so hard Bilbo had to wrap him in three layers of dry wool just to get him to stop hyperventilating.
"His parents," Bilbo explained that evening, his voice hollow as he sat by the fire while Frodo slept fitfully in a basket nearby. "Drogo and Primula. They were on the Brandywine river... a boating accident. Frodo was on the bank. He saw them go under. He saw the water take them."
The Dwarves sat in a heavy silence. They knew the weight of loss, but to see it in a creature so small felt like a sacrilege.
"And where are the others?" Balin asked, his keen eyes scanning the quiet smial. "The Shire is a place of 'extended families' and 'meddling neighbors,' as I recall. Why has no one come by to help you with the lad? You’re exhausted, Bilbo. You’re barely eating."
Bilbo looked down at his tea, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup. "They don't come," he said quietly.
"What do you mean, they don't come?" Fíli snapped. "You’re a Baggins! You’re the Master of Bag End!"
Bilbo let out a dry, bitter laugh. "I’m 'Mad Baggins,' Fíli. I’m the one who went away with Dwarves and came back with stories of dragons and gold. I was already a pariah when I returned. They thought I was dead, and they were quite disappointed when I wasn't."
He sighed, glancing at the sleeping child. "When Drogo and Primula died, there was no one else to take him. The Brandybucks have their own brood, and the Bagginses... well, they said a bachelor shouldn't be raising a child. They called it 'bad manners.' They said it was 'disrespectful' to the memory of the parents to have a 'madman' raising their son without a wife to provide a proper influence."
"So they just... left you?" Kíli asked, his voice rising in anger. "They left a toddler with a grieving man and turned their backs?"
"They cross the street when they see us coming," Bilbo said, his voice trembling. "They whisper that Frodo will turn out just as 'queer' as I am. No one comes for tea. No one offers to watch him so I can sleep. I’ve been raising him alone for eighteen months."
Dwalin looked at his massive, scarred hands, then at the tiny boy in the basket. The fury in his chest was a cold, hard thing. In the mountain, a child with no parents was the responsibility of the whole clan. To abandon a babe was the greatest sin a Dwarf could commit.
Fíli and Kíli stood by the window, watching a group of Hobbits walk past the gate. The Hobbits looked up at Bag End, saw the Dwarves standing there, and immediately hurried their pace, muttering and shaking their heads.
"They aren't even looking at him," Kíli hissed. "He’s a child! A tiny, beautiful child, and they treat him like a plague-bearer."
"Thorin will want to hear of this," Fíli said, his voice flat and dangerous.
Dwalin stood up, his armor clanking in the quiet room. He walked over to Bilbo and knelt,a position he rarely took for anyone other than his King.
"Bilbo," Dwalin said. "Pack your things."
Bilbo blinked, confused. "What? Dwalin, I can't go anywhere, I have Frodo, and the garden, and-"
"You have nothing here but a cold shoulder and a bunch of gossiping sheep," Dwalin interrupted. "You are a friend of the King. You are a hero of the Lonely Mountain. And that lad..." he gestured to Frodo. "That lad is a Durin in all but name now. We aren't leaving you here to wither away in the silence."
"We’re taking you back," Kíli said, a bright, fierce grin breaking through his anger. "To Erebor. We have nurseries that could fit ten smials. We have healers who know how to soothe a troubled mind. And we have thirteen uncles who will make sure no one ever whispers a word against that boy again."
Bilbo looked around his home,the home he had fought so hard to return to. He looked at the dust on the mantle, the empty chairs, and the lonely halls. Then he looked at Frodo, who had woken up and was reaching out his tiny arms, whimpering for Bilbo to hold him.
"But... the journey," Bilbo whispered, clutching the boy to his chest. "It’s so long. He’s so small. The mountains, the Orcs..."
"He will travel in a carriage lined with the finest down," Balin promised, stepping forward to take Bilbo’s hand. "He will have a guard of the best warriors in Middle-earth. And when he gets to the mountain, he will be a Prince."
Frodo looked at Balin, then at Dwalin. He seemed to sense the shift in the air,the sudden, overwhelming presence of protection. For the first time since the Dwarves had arrived, the boy didn't hide. He reached out a tiny hand and patted Dwalin’s bearded cheek.
"Prince?" the boy whispered.
Dwalin’s face softened into something unrecognizable. "Aye, little sprout. A Prince of the Stone."
The departure from Hobbiton was not a quiet affair. The Dwarves made sure of it.
They packed Bilbo’s most precious belongings into sturdy pony-carts. They draped the Hobbit in a cloak of fine blue wool trimmed with silver. But the most striking sight was Dwalin. The massive, tattooed warrior had fashioned a specialized sling of reinforced silk and leather across his chest.
Nestled inside the sling, right against Dwalin’s heart, was Frodo.
The boy looked like a tiny bird peering out from a stone nest. He felt the steady, powerful thrum of the Dwarf’s heart, the warmth of the furs, and the absolute security of being carried by the strongest thing he had ever known.
As they walked through the center of the Shire, the neighbors came out to gawk. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins stood at her gate, her mouth twisted in a sneer.
"Leaving, are we, Bilbo?" she shrieked. "And taking that poor boy into the wilderness? It’s a scandal! It’s-"
Dwalin stopped. He turned his massive bulk toward her, his hand resting on the hilt of his axe. He didn't say a word. He simply glared, his dark eyes burning with the ferocity of a dragon.
Lobelia turned pale and scurried back into her house, slamming the door.
Bilbo walked beside them, his head held high for the first time in years. He wasn't the "Mad Baggins" anymore. He was the companion of the King, and he was a father.
"Are you sure about this, Balin?" Bilbo asked as they crossed the Brandywine Bridge, leaving the Shire behind.
"Bilbo," Balin said, looking back at the tiny boy now fast asleep against Dwalin’s chest. "In the Shire, he is an unwanted burden. In Erebor, he is the future. Thorin has already ordered the master-smiths to begin work on a tiny set of Mithril-mail. The boy will never be afraid of the water again, for he will be surrounded by a mountain of stone."
They disappeared into the East, a strange caravan of warriors and a Hobbit, carrying the smallest treasure of the mountain toward a home where the hearths were always warm and the beards were always sparkly. And as Frodo slept, safe in the arms of a giant, he dreamed not of deep water, but of gold and starlight.