Archive of Our Own

Inside the Lonely Mountain, a huge festival unfolds. The vast halls echo with music, laughter, and the low hum of conversation as people from every corner of the realms gather for this momentous occasion. It is an unusual sight, outsiders rarely witness a dwarven ceremony, for the dwarrow are famously secretive about their culture. Yet today is different. Today marks the coronation of their new king. And, for the first time in dwarrow history, this is not because the old king has died, but because he has chosen, astonishingly, to retire.

Fíli, once a young dwarf with barely a whisper of hair upon his chin, now wears a beard that would make his Longbeard ancestors proud, thick, golden, and intricately braided, adorned with gleaming beads that speak of his deeds and standing. He moves through the grand halls clad in royal regalia, every step deliberate, the heavy fabric of his cloak whispering across the polished stone.

At his side walks his husband, Prince Consort Ori. Gone is the odd bowl cut of his youth; his hair now flows in well-groomed waves, styled with the same intricate braids once worn by his older brother Dori during the Great Quest. The two walk together toward the thrones, their hands brushing occasionally in quiet reassurance.

All eyes follow them as they approach. Upon the dais, King Thorin Oakenshield waits. His once raven-black hair has turned to a dignified silver, his shorn beard grown thick and lustrous, a proud echo of Durin’s line. At his side stands Bilbo Baggins, his bright copper curls now touched with silver, his eyes still sharp and warm. The years have lined their faces, but both remain strong, their bond as visible as the crowns they wear.

When Fíli and Ori reach the foot of the thrones, they kneel. Thorin’s deep voice fills the hallowed halls for what will be the final time as king.

“From the House of Ri, I give you the son of Zhori, Ori the Wise, your new king consort!”

Ori rises with a steady smile. Bilbo steps forward, removing the crown from his own head, a delicate circlet shaped like mountain flowers, wrought from fine metal. He sets it aside, lifting instead a heavier circlet of gold and silver, set with runes and deep-hued gems. Placing it upon Ori’s brow, he leans in and murmurs, “I don’t know why you’d want such a heavy crown, Ori. You’ll regret it in the long meetings.”

“I’ll manage,” Ori replies with a grin, and Bilbo’s smile widens in return.

Thorin watches them with a faint, knowing smile before speaking again. “From the House of Durin, I give you the son of Víli, Fíli the Lion!”

Fíli rises to his feet. Thorin lifts the crown prepared for him, a masterwork of dwarven craft, depicting a raven in flight. Its design recalls the Raven Crown once worn by Thrór, though tempered with a simpler elegance, befitting the new king’s own style. As Thorin sets it upon Fíli’s head, the hall resounds with the sound of dwarrow and guests alike cheering their new rulers.

“I don’t think I’m ready, Uncle…” Fíli whispers once they are close enough, his voice low and tight, afraid that anyone else might overhear his doubts.

“You are,” Thorin replies without hesitation. “Bilbo and I have faith in you. We know we made the right choice in crowning you.” His voice softens as he gives a warm, reassuring smile, the kind that has steadied Fíli since he was a boy.

Fíli blinks rapidly, trying to push back the tear threatening to spill. He exhales, shoulders relaxing slightly. Together, the two newly crowned dwarrow walk toward the twin thrones and take their seats, with Thorin and Bilbo settling beside them.

Thorin rises, his deep voice carrying through the vaulted halls. “May your wisdom grace us all until the remaking of the world! Hail King Fíli! Hail King Consort Ori!”

“Hail King Fíli! Hail King Consort Ori!” the people roar in reply, clapping and stomping their boots against the stone. The sound rumbles like distant thunder through the Lonely Mountain.

Fíli and Ori exchange a glance, nervous, yes, but their hands find each other, fingers entwining. The simple contact steadies them. Their spines straighten. Their breathing evens.

Fíli stands, his voice now strong and resonant. “My people! I thank King Emeritus Thorin and King Consort Emeritus Bilbo for serving Erebor all these years. May your days be filled with happiness and prosperity! Let this celebration be in your names!”

The crowd answers with another great cheer. Thorin and Bilbo step down to join the audience, their hands brushing together as they move.

The festivities begin in earnest. Music bursts forth, deep drumbeats, bright fiddle tunes, and the glittering pluck of harp strings. The scents of roast meats and spiced ale drift through the air. Dwarrow, elves, men, and hobbits alike mingle and dance, laughter spilling in warm waves beneath the golden glow of the great braziers.

Watching from the edge of the crowd stands what appears to be a small man, though he is no man at all. This is Frodo Baggins, prince of Erebor. His cheeks are dusted with a short, neat beard, his raven hair cropped and curling at the edges. His eyes are a brilliant, piercing blue. He stands shorter than most dwarrow, yet taller than most hobbits. Despite the fine craftsmanship of his royal attire, he wears no shoes, hobbit-like, his feet broad and furred, though noticeably smaller than those of a full hobbit.

Frodo is a dwobbit, the son of Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins. His birth was met with confusion among the dwarrow, but never with anything less than joy. Though his features echo Thorin’s, his mannerisms are pure Bilbo, or so most claim.

He sighs as his gaze drifts to his fathers, who are dancing together in the center of the hall. Despite their age, they move with surprising agility, laughing as the music quickens. The sight warms him, but also tightens something in his chest. Soon, they will leave Erebor for Bag End in the Shire, and he will remain here.

The thought sits heavy in his heart. It feels less like they are moving away and more like he is losing them, and he is not sure he is ready for that.

Frodo’s mind drifts back to his childhood visits to Hobbiton, and a fond warmth stirs in his chest. He remembers the rolling green hills that seemed to stretch forever under the bright summer sun, the scent of freshly baked bread wafting from open windows, the laughter of the hobbit half of his family as they bustled about their cozy homes. And, most of all, he remembers his best friend, Sam.

He hasn’t seen Sam since coming of age. Their paths had parted when duty called Frodo back to Erebor. Though his mixed heritage makes him ineligible for the throne, he is still a prince of the Lonely Mountain, and his responsibilities rarely leave him the freedom to travel to the Shire.

The last time he saw Sam, Frodo had still been a fauntling. Their age gap of twelve years had meant nothing to them, they had chased each other through the fields, climbed the apple trees, and shared stolen seedcakes as though the world was theirs. Now, he wonders if Sam believes he has been forgotten.

Letters help, of course. He writes often, but ink on parchment can never replace the warmth of a friend’s voice or the way shared laughter feels in the moment.

His musings are suddenly cut short when thick, familiar arms wrap around him from behind, giving him a hearty shake. He turns, only to find himself face-to-face with a broad grin framed by a massive russet beard.

“Cousin Gimli,” Frodo says, already half smiling despite himself.

“Aye, cousin!” Gimli booms, his eyes bright with mischief. “What’s got you so glum, eh? It’s a celebration! Go on, drink till your heart’s content!”

“Ah, cousin, I was just…” Frodo hesitates, then sighs. “After this, my fathers are going away to the Shire, and I… I will miss them dreadfully. I knew this day would come, but still…”

Before Gimli can reply, a tall, slender figure approaches, his long golden hair catching the light like spun sunlight. Legolas greets them with a kind smile.

“Frodo,” he says gently, “we’ve already promised, we will help escort your parents to the Shire ourselves. This is not a final goodbye. And even after they’ve gone, you can still speak to them by raven.”

“I know,” Frodo murmurs, his voice low, “but… it won’t be the same, you know?”

Gimli laughs, shaking his head. “You’re too much of a daddy’s boy, Frodo! I can’t stand when my Adad coddles me, it’s embarrassing! But you? You drink it in like it’s the finest ale in Erebor!” He shudders theatrically, though the corners of his mouth twitch with a grin. Gimli, who could be mistaken for his father Glóin if not for the lack of gray in his hair, has never quite learned how to fend off his father’s overbearing affection.

“I do not!” Frodo protests, his voice pitched just high enough to make it clear he absolutely does.

“It’s true,” Legolas says with a sigh, his lips curving in quiet amusement. “Even I get embarrassed when my father coddles me. And he—” the elf shakes his head, a rare flicker of exasperation crossing his otherwise serene features “—nearly declares war on anyone who so much as shows a hint of interest in me.”

Frodo blinks. “That’s… extreme.”

“How do you even enjoy it?” Legolas asks, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“Again, I do not!” Frodo protests, crossing his arms. “I’m just not embarrassed by my fathers loving me, is all! You two should be grateful!”

Gimli and Legolas exchange a glance before bursting into laughter.

“It’s serious!” Frodo insists. “I’m losing my parents and you’re laughing at me!”

“Oh, relax, Frodo. They’ve still got a few decades left in them,” Gimli says, waving a dismissive hand. “How about you enjoy your freedom once in a while, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Legolas adds, his tone warm but teasing. “Aside from being a Prince of Erebor, your only other identity is being your fathers’ son. You need a life outside of them.”

“Hey! I have a life!” Frodo rolls his eyes, though his lips twitch with a reluctant smile. It’s not like he’s a workaholic like his Adad Thori—… well, perhaps he is. Tsk.

“How long has it been since you saw your hobbit family?” Legolas asks, raising a fine brow. “Perhaps it will do you good to get away from Erebor for a while.”

“You are a dwobbit, Frodo,” Gimli says matter-of-factly. “Being stuck inside the mountain too long will make anyone cranky. Everyone knows King Consort Bilbo gets all riled up if he’s cooped up in here for too long.” He deliberately uses the title, despite Bilbo’s retirement, just to see Frodo’s eye twitch.

Frodo bites the inside of his cheek, thinking it over. Maybe they’re right. Maybe he has been working himself too hard. And maybe, just maybe, a proper break would do him a world of good.

A day passes, and now it is the morning before Frodo and his fathers leave for the Shire. The entire family gathers around the great dining table for what will likely be their final meal together, at least for some time.

The warm glow of the chandeliers pools over polished plates and steaming dishes. Balin and his husband Dori sit together, cheerfully recounting the celebrations of the day before, their voices overlapping in familiar rhythm. Across from them, Dwalin and Nori lean close, clearly betting on something, judging by the pile of copper coins between them.

Fíli, despite now being king, sits patiently as his mother, Dís, fusses over his hair. His husband, Ori, watches with barely concealed amusement. Kíli slouches a few seats down, dreading his own turn in Dís’s chair. His wife, Tauriel, tries, unsuccessfully, to hide her giggles at his misery.

Further along, Bofur is attempting to keep Bombur’s lively nephews from launching peas at each other. Bombur himself is preoccupied with serving portions large enough to satisfy a troll. Bifur, seated near the end, is being spoon-fed by his husband Óin, while Bilbo and Thorin exchange bites of their own food, smiling at some private joke.

At one end of the table, Glóin and Gimli sit glumly under the watchful eye of a determined hobbit, spearing their vegetables with all the enthusiasm of condemned men.

The air hums with warmth, laughter, and the clatter of cutlery. It is a scene of absolute normalcy, almost too normal. Frodo glances around, a strange pang twisting in his chest. Isn’t this supposed to be the last time they will all sit together like this? Shouldn’t there be speeches, tears, something to mark the moment? Instead, life moves on as it always has.

“Frodo, what’s wrong?” Bilbo asks, his brows knitting in gentle concern.

“It’s just…” Frodo hesitates, frowning. “Papa, you and Adad are going away…”

“You’re coming with us too,” Thorin reminds him through a mouthful of roast meat, gesturing with his fork as if that settles it.

“I know,” Frodo says, his voice softer now, “but I’m not staying there with you. Once you’ve settled in, I’ll be coming back here. And I… I can’t help feeling like I’m losing you both.”

“Oh, my sweet darling,” Bilbo says warmly, reaching to rest a hand over Frodo’s. “You aren’t losing your Adad and me. We’ll always be just a raven away. And you can visit us whenever you like.”

“Besides,” Bofur chimes in with a laugh, “it’s usually the other way around. Parents are the ones fretting about losing their children!” He grins knowingly. “It’s true, you are a daddy’s boy, aren’t you, nephew?”

“I am not!” Frodo protests, lips curling into a reluctant pout. Despite having no blood ties to half the Company, they are all family to him. In his heart, every one of them is an uncle, or, in most cases, an overbearing uncle.

Thorin’s expression softens, his deep voice carrying a rare tenderness. “Oh, Frodo, my sweet son. You know your papa and I will always love you, wherever we may be.”

“I know…” Frodo murmurs. There’s no real reason to fret; he’s an adult now. He should simply smile, wish his fathers well in their retirement, and let them go without fuss. Still, the thought of returning to Erebor without them makes his chest ache.

He thinks back to his conversation with Legolas and Gimli. Perhaps they’re right, maybe he should learn to temper his work ethic, take time off now and then. Maybe then he could visit his parents more often, and the distance wouldn’t feel so heavy.

The meal continues as the conversation shifts. Balin now directs his updates about the kingdom to Fíli and Ori, rather than to Thorin and Bilbo. The young king and his consort look understandably nervous, but their family reassures them with quiet words and claps on the back. Frodo watches them and feels certain, Fíli will make a fine king, and Ori will stand as a loyal and wise partner. Their love for one another burns with the same fierce devotion his parents share.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll ever find that kind of bond for himself. Ridiculous, first he broods over his parents, and now he’s contemplating his love life. Or rather, his lack of one. He shakes his head and focuses instead on the journey ahead.

When the last plates are cleared, the goodbyes begin. One by one, the family embraces Thorin and Bilbo, promising to write often and visit whenever possible. Frodo lingers in his hug with each of them, holding tight.

The next moments pass in a warm blur, final words, clasped hands, laughter tinged with sadness, until, at last, the company is loaded into the caravans. The road stretches out before them, leading west.

Frodo rides alongside Gimli and Legolas, their task clear: escort the former King and Consort, his fathers, back to the Shire.

The journey from Erebor to the Shire passes swiftly thanks to the well-kept trade routes linking the Lonely Mountain to Ered Luin, with the Shire nestled neatly along the way. Maintained jointly by several kingdoms, the road is wide, clean, and blessedly free of bandits or orcs.

Even so, they take a few detours beyond the main route. One such stop is Beorn’s garden, where the towering skin-changer greets his old friends with a smile as wide as the Anduin. His great bees hum lazily in the summer air, and the scent of fresh honey and warm earth fills the air.

Bilbo still can’t fathom how Beorn looks exactly as he did decades ago, without a single grey hair or crease of age upon his face. Perhaps it’s the same mystery that surrounds Gandalf, their long-time friend, another who seems untouched by the years. Maybe, Bilbo muses, those who spend their lives around magic live longer than most.

They stay a week in Beorn’s company before moving on, their wagons rolling toward Rivendell.

The arrival there brings joy to both Frodo and Bilbo. The silver waterfalls gleam in the sun, and the scent of pine and blooming gardens drifts through the air. Thorin, once so distrustful of elves, has long since softened, becoming friends even with Lord Elrond himself. Thranduil, however, remains… an exception.

Still, they are welcomed warmly, the dwarrow swearing to be on their very best behaviour. This lasts only so long; within a week, several pieces of elven dinnerware mysteriously vanish from the dining hall and reappear, cracked, under the guest beds. The dwarrow make a hasty pact to be well on their way before the elves discover the damage.

They linger in Rivendell for two weeks, the air filled with songs, stories, and the occasional quiet political meeting. Even in retirement, Thorin and Bilbo find themselves drawn into matters of trade and alliance.

When at last they set out again, the signs of the Shire begin to appear.

For Frodo, it is more beautiful than memory. Rolling green hills, flecked with wildflowers, unfurl beneath a soft sky. Hobbits laugh in the distance as they tend their gardens or hang laundry in the warm breeze. He remembers it all, the sights, the sounds, but the scents catch him most off guard. The sweetness of fresh blooms, the buttery richness of baking bread, the yeasty aroma of pies cooling on windowsills. The air hums with joy, and though it is so unlike the deep stone halls of Erebor, there is a familiar sense of home.

Frodo can’t help but smile. At long last, he will see his hobbit kin again.

“Ah, it’s been a long time since I’ve been here in these hills,” Bilbo says, leaning out of the caravan window, his eyes gleaming with nostalgia. “It takes me back.”

“Ah yes, our new home,” Thorin replies with a matching smile. “I am so excited to start this new chapter with you, amrâlimê.”

“You won’t get lost again, will you, Thorin?” Bilbo teases, a spark of mischief in his tone.

Thorin laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Oh, Bilbo! I wouldn’t! And even if I did, you would look for me, wouldn’t you?” He leans close, brushing his nose against Bilbo’s.

“Of course I would, honey,” Bilbo says softly, tilting his head so their foreheads meet. “I would search for you to the ends of the world, for I could not live without you.”

Thorin closes the distance, and they share a kiss, the caravan creaking gently beneath them as the green hills of the Shire roll ever closer.

“How sweet,” Legolas says, watching the happy couple ahead of them.

“Dísgustin’,” Gimli mutters with exaggerated sarcasm, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, please. Let my parents enjoy themselves,” Frodo says, shaking his head fondly. “If I remember right, Bag End should be along one of these roads… Ah, yes, I can see Bagshot Row from here. I wonder if my friends still remember me.”

“Of course they would,” Legolas replies with a gentle grin. “How could anyone forget the odd hobbit child with facial hair?”

“Hey! I looked adorable with my whiskers!” Frodo protests, glaring at the elf while rubbing at his current beard stubble.

“You called those whiskers? Bah! Barely a hair to be seen!” Gimli bellows, letting out a deep, unrestrained laugh.

“Boys, stop squabbling,” Bilbo calls from the front. “I can see Bag End, and it seems we have a welcome party!”

As the caravan rolls into Hobbiton, hobbits line the lane, waving and calling greetings. Bright bunting flutters in the breeze, and the scent of fresh-baked bread and apple tarts drifts from the tables set out near the green door. No hobbit can pass up an excuse for a celebration.

The carriage comes to a stop, and Bilbo hops down first with surprising agility for his age, Thorin following close behind.

“Bilbo! It has been far too long!” cries Drogo Baggins, striding forward with open arms. His face is lined but warm, his brown curls touched with silver.

Drogo and his wife, Primula, have been the caretakers of Bag End in Bilbo’s absence, and they will continue to live in the smial even now that the true owners have returned. The place is far too big for just Bilbo and Thorin, and besides, Bilbo has long since arranged for Drogo to inherit Bag End one day. Best to keep it safely out of the hands of certain grasping relatives.

“Drogo! My, you’ve grown!” Bilbo says with a wide grin, clasping his cousin’s hands in both of his. “You remember my husband, don’t you?” he asks as Thorin steps forward.

“Oh, of course! He terrified me the first time we met,” Drogo admits, grinning sheepishly. His words draw laughter from all around, especially from Frodo, who knows the story of how Drogo fainted dead away at his first sight of the King Under the Mountain.

“And do you remember my wife?” Drogo asks teasingly as Primula joins them, her green dress swaying as she hurries forward.

“Welcome back, Bilbo! It’s so good to see you again!” Primula says warmly. “And I do hope you two haven’t forgotten me.”

“Oh, of course we do! We’re not senile yet,” Bilbo says, swatting playfully at them.

“Now, where’s Frodo? I would love to see that boy again!” Primula scans the crowd before her eyes land on Gimli. Her face lights up. “Oh! Bilbo said you were growing out your beard, but I didn’t think he meant as large as your Adad’s! And you’ve grown so tall! Did you dye your hair red too? You look quite handsome in that shade!”

Gimli sputters, his face flushing crimson beneath his beard.

“That is not our son,” Thorin says, trying to hold back his laughter. It still escapes in a few undignified snorts.

“Aunt Primula! That’s cousin Gimli, son of Glóin, one of Papa’s dwarrow!” Frodo calls as he approaches, laughter in his voice.

“Oh, there you are!” Primula exclaims. “My, you’ve grown, really grown! You’re almost a giant, Frodo!” She ignores his height protest and squeezes his cheeks anyway, making him groan good-naturedly.

“And who is this?” Drogo asks, turning toward Legolas.

“I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm,” the elf says with an elegant bow. “A dear friend of Frodo’s.”

“Well, a good friend of my nephew is a good friend of ours!” Primula declares cheerfully. “Come, enjoy the party!” She sweeps them toward the bustle of Hobbiton’s celebration, where tables overflow with pies, cheeses, roasted meats, and enough ale to keep every hobbit happy for hours.

As they walk, Gimli leans toward Legolas. “Why didn’t you say you were the son of King Thranduil?” he mutters.

“I may love my father,” Legolas says dryly, “but he doesn’t need an ego boost.”

Gimli chuckles in approval.

Frodo ignores them, sticking close to his fathers as they move through the crowd. He reintroduces himself to relatives, greets old neighbors, and politely tolerates a few hobbits he’d rather avoid entirely. His parents, however, seem to be thriving in the spotlight, Bilbo swapping jokes while Thorin stands proud beside him, shaking hands with curious Shirefolk.

Then Frodo’s mood brightens, two familiar faces are pushing their way toward him through the crowd. Pippin and Merry! His younger cousins, the same mischief-makers he used to chase across fields and orchards when he could still visit regularly.

“Why! Look at you two!” Frodo says, grinning wide. “You’ve both grown!”

The boys now stand at a respectable height, their curly dirty-blond hair catching the sunlight and their gray-blue eyes sparkling with the same youthful energy he remembers. They look so alike that Frodo might have mistaken them for brothers instead of cousins.

“You’re the one who looks like a giant!” Pippin teases, flashing a cheeky smile.

“What did they feed you over at the mountain!?” Merry exclaims, eyes wide with mock astonishment.

“Nothing special,” Frodo replies with a smug grin. “I just have really good genes. So, unlike me, you two will stay as runts.”

Both cousins freeze, expressions shifting from shock to outrage. They start sputtering protests, tripping over each other’s words, until Merry points an accusing finger at him and Pippin throws down the gauntlet.

“That’s it, roughhouse, now!” Pippin declares.

“Oh, you two are adorable,” Frodo says, chuckling, “but maybe grow a few more inches before you start challenging me.”

The remark sparks another round of indignant yells.

“Now, Mr. Frodo, that’s not very nice,” says a voice behind him, warm, familiar, and just enough to make him pause mid-laugh.

Frodo turns, and the sight that greets him steals the breath from his lungs.

There stands a hobbit with a round, handsome face framed by sun-kissed curls the color of ripe wheat. Hazel eyes, bright yet gentle, study him with shy warmth. His build is sturdy, the kind most would write off as soft, but Frodo’s trained eye knows better; there is strength there, the kind earned from long days of real work. A faint tan line at his wrist hints at hours spent outdoors, sleeves rolled up in the garden.

“Samwise Gamgee,” the hobbit says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I hope you remember me.”

“Sam… Sam!” Frodo stammers, his pulse skipping. “Y—you look… wonderful.”

He’s not sure why his chest feels tight. He’s seen stronger men, there are dwarrow back in Erebor with arms like tree trunks, but Sam’s presence has a different weight to it. Something warm. Something disarming.

“H—how are you?” he manages, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Oh, you know, same old me,” Sam says with an easy smile. “Though I’m a working hobbit now. Finished my apprenticeship with my papa, and now I’m Bag End’s gardener. I hope it’s to your liking, even if it’s a bit humble compared to gardens in your kingdom.”

“Oh, trust me, dwarrow have no sense for greens,” Frodo says, grinning a little too brightly. “The garden looks lovely. Truly, it’s amazing.”

Sam’s smile deepens. “Ah, well, it was hard work, but I’m glad you like it. I even picked out the seeds for these flowers myself, you know?”

Frodo’s mind betrays him with a thought so scandalous he has to physically shake his head to banish it. “I don’t just like it,” he says quickly. “I love it.”

Sam beams, and Frodo feels something dangerously close to giddiness bubbling up inside him.

“Oh, Frodo! I’m so glad you came back!”

He turns toward the new voice and finds a hobbit lass stepping forward, her golden hair catching the light. Blue eyes sparkle as she smiles at him. Frodo recognizes her instantly.

“Rosie? Is that you? Why, you’ve grown beautifully!” he says, offering the compliment warmly.

Rosie giggles, cheeks blooming pink. “Thank you, kind prince.”

Frodo smiles back, but the warmth falters when he catches Sam’s face, there’s a faint flush there, and it sends a surprising spark of possessiveness through him. It’s an odd, almost irrational flare of anger, quickly shoved aside when a sudden weight slams into him.

“Frodo! Welcome back!” booms a voice, rich with laughter.

Frodo staggers but quickly recognizes the sound. A large hobbit with a mop of brown hair and merry brown eyes crushes him in a hug.

“Fatty!” Frodo grins, returning the embrace. Among other races the nickname might sting, but here in the Shire, a generous layer of chub is a sign of comfort and prosperity. “My, you’ve grown, in both ways!”

“Oh, thanks! I do my best not to get too dangerously round, though,” Fatty chuckles, patting his stomach. “Me and the lads go on walking holidays to keep the worst of it off. You should come with us next time!”

“I’d love to,” Frodo says honestly, “but I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.”

The words cast a brief shadow over his friends’ faces, there and gone in a heartbeat.

“Ah, guess the life of royalty isn’t as perfect as the songs make it sound, eh?” Merry says with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“At least you’ve got a princess, though… right?” Pippin pipes up, curiosity shining as always.

“Sadly, no,” Frodo replies. “While most royal families arrange marriages, ours never has. Thankfully.”

“Oh, but surely someone has caught your eye?” Rosie presses, her tone bright with hope.

Frodo makes the mistake of glancing at Sam. For the briefest moment he imagines him in deep Durin blue, the color of Erebor’s royalty, and heat floods his cheeks.

“Nope! No one at all. Not a single one back in Erebor!” Frodo laughs, a shade too loudly.

Merry and Pippin exchange a knowing look that makes his stomach drop. Across the way, Legolas, those cursed, keen elven ears catching every word, smirks and leans toward Gimli, whispering something that makes the dwarf bark a laugh. Oh yes, Frodo is in so much trouble .

He scans the crowd for escape and finds his parents deep in conversation with Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo. Judging by the cheerful tone, they’re in the middle of describing all the ‘improvements’ made to Bag End.

“Oh, the forge is finished now, and of course the bigger bathtub as well,” Primula says brightly. “Can’t have Mr. Thorin here getting cramps when he should be relaxing!”

“And the bed,” Drogo adds with a wink that makes Thorin clear his throat.

“Oh, excellent.” Bilbo blushes lightly, letting out a small, almost bashful giggle that makes Thorin chuckle under his breath.

“I do hope you two remembered to soundproof the bedroom, like we asked,” Thorin says with mock seriousness.

The couple bursts into laughter.

“Oh, we saw the blueprints,” Primula replies, eyes twinkling with mischief. “And told ourselves we’d be fixing up our own bedroom too.” She lets out a playful giggle.

Frodo does his best to pretend this conversation isn’t happening, stepping forward quickly. “Oh, Papa! Adad! Should I start carrying our luggage inside?”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you, my boy,” Bilbo says, eyes crinkling with amusement, “but I think you should take a break from all the traveling and say hello to everyone first.”

“I’d rather do it now… before a certain relative comes by.” Frodo fakes a cough, shooting Bilbo a pointed look.

Bilbo frowns, then sighs and nods. “Alright, but don’t do it all on your own. Ask for help!”

“Understood.” Frodo waves goodbye and makes his escape, slipping through the crowd toward the carriage.

But he fails to notice the two pairs of eyes tracking him from across the lawn, Merry and Pippin, grinning like cats who’ve spotted a plump mouse.

“So,” Merry begins, voice brimming with mischief, “you said no one back in Erebor caught your eye…”

“Does that mean someone here has?” Pippin finishes, matching Merry’s grin.

“Hahaha! Of course not!” Frodo insists, though his nose gives the tiniest twitch, the exact same tell his papa has when lying. Unfortunately, Merry and Pippin know it all too well.

“Who is it?” Merry asks innocently.

“Is it me?” Pippin wiggles his eyebrows.

“Yeah, right, you’re still a child,” Merry snorts, earning himself a glare from Pippin.

“I’m quite mature for my age!” Pippin huffs, puffing up his chest.

“Says who?” Frodo laughs, shaking his head.

“Oh, is it Rosie?” Merry presses, ignoring Pippin’s indignation.

“No, it isn’t,” comes Gimli’s voice as he strolls over, grabbing a few bags from the carriage.

Legolas joins a moment later, effortlessly lifting two more bags. “Bilbo told us to help you,” he says smoothly. “And yes, I heard the conversation. So… who caught your eye?”

“No one!” Frodo snaps, letting out an annoyed sigh, but his nose twitches again.

“You’re lying. Your nose is twitching,” Gimli observes, his deep voice utterly deadpan.

“Is it Fatty?” Pippin asks brightly.

Legolas opens his mouth to protest the nickname, then remembers hobbit culture and wisely closes it again.

“No, wait, It’s Sam, isn’t it?!” Merry suddenly blurts.

Frodo freezes. His ears burn, his cheeks flare crimson.

Merry and Pippin erupt into cheers, smacking their palms together in a victorious high-five.

Frodo groans. It was only a matter of time before they figured it out, but now he knows the rest of his stay in the Shire is going to be far more complicated thanks to them.

Frodo leans against the window frame, watching Sam in the garden with his father. Sunlight glints off the fine sheen of sweat on Sam’s skin as he works. Frodo’s eyes trace the shift and flex of muscle beneath his shirt when he pulls up weeds, the way his breeches tighten when he bends forward. His gaze follows a bead of sweat as it slides down the curve of Sam’s neck, disappearing into his collar. Frodo lets out a dreamy sigh.

“You should just ask him out already,” Gimli says suddenly from behind.

Frodo startles so hard he topples from his seat with a thud. “Do not do that!” he snaps, glaring up at the dwarf while scrambling to his feet.

“Frodo, you and your papa sneak on people without even trying all the time,” Legolas chimes in, his tone light but his eyes amused. “Even us elves, which is saying something. But I agree with Gimli: you should start courting Samwise.”

“There is no way I’m courting Sam. He’s just so… he’s so…” Frodo trails off, glancing back toward the garden, his expression softening.

“You’re a prince,” Gimli reminds him, “part hobbit, part of a dwarven kingdom, and not in line for the throne. No one will think ill of such a match.” His tone is warm, almost fatherly.

“Not to mention,” Legolas adds, “you’ve known Sam most of your life. You understand his character better than anyone else. He’s not the sort to end a friendship just because a courtship didn’t work.”

“I know that,” Frodo admits with a groan, “but it would still be… awkward. And I’ll be moving back to Erebor soon. All it would do is make parting harder.”

“Still,” Gimli says, “wouldn’t it be worth knowing if he feels the same?”

“Whoa! Love is a big word right now!” Frodo protests, cheeks coloring. “I just think he’s handsome. And cute. And… and…” His voice trails off as his mind drifts again, imagining the warmth of Sam’s arms around him, the smell of earth and grass lingering on his skin.

“Frodo?” Legolas’s voice pulls him back. “Are you alright?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m fine!” Frodo laughs nervously, his nose twitching, a tell neither elf nor dwarf misses. “I’m just… hungry. Anyone else hungry?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turns sharply and makes for the kitchen, clearly seeking a distraction in the form of something to nibble.

“Come on, Frodo,” Gimli calls after him. “It’ll be good for you, and everyone else. You brood just like your Adad.”

Frodo shoots him one last glare before disappearing around the corner.

“Me and Adad do not brood!” Frodo snaps before pausing, only to realize that, in tone and delivery, he sounds exactly like Adad. The resemblance makes Gimli’s smirk widen. Frodo huffs. “Besides, it’s just a fleeting attraction. It’ll vanish as soon as I’m back in Erebor.”

“But if it doesn’t,” Legolas counters smoothly, “then you’re only hurting yourself.”

“It will,” Frodo insists, rolling his eyes as he strides into the kitchen. “Trust me. I’ll be fine.”

Inside, the warm air smells faintly of bread and tea. His papa and adad are still in animated conversation with Aunt Primula and Uncle Drogo, the four of them gathered at the table. Frodo slows, catching the thread of his fathers’ story.

“…and there I am on my knees,” Bilbo says, his voice trembling yet steady enough to carry the weight of memory. “Hands pressed to the open wound, trying to keep his insides where they belong. I prayed to Yavanna to save him, because I hadn’t told him yet. Not how much he means to me, not that I love him… or that when I thought of home, it was him I pictured, not Bag End anymore.” Tears shine in Bilbo’s eyes as he leans into Thorin’s side, one arm wrapped tightly around his husband.

Thorin’s deep voice rumbles, thick with emotion. “And there I was, praying to Mahal not to take me so soon. Begging forgiveness for ever threatening the life of my other half. I wanted the chance to tell him that no treasure could compare to him, that he had my heart, my soul, all that I am. And if I were not a king, I would have gladly grown old with him. I loved him, plain and simple.” He presses Bilbo closer, kissing the tears from his cheeks even as his own eyes glisten.

“And then what happened?” Drogo leans forward, holding his breath.

“Did you die?” Primula blurts before realizing her slip. She flushes when Drogo shoots her a look. “Right, of course not, you’re here. Um… so what happened?”

“Well,” Bilbo continues, voice soft, “the giant eagles came. They flew us to a medical camp, where Gandalf and Thranduil worked to save him. But Thorin and his nephews never woke for a month. And I—” his voice wavers “—I wanted to return to the Shire. I was terrified to see him die. If I left before that happened, I could pretend… pretend he lived.”

“But he stayed,” Thorin says, taking over gently. “For that entire month, he stayed by my side. He tended me, cared for my nephews, and his strength carried me until I woke… and the first thing I saw was him . Only a fool would ignore a sign from the Valar, so I pulled him into a kiss and told him I loved him, and that I would never, ever leave him again.”

Bilbo laughs wetly through his tears. “And then he promptly coughed and passed out because he’d torn half his stitches with that sudden grab.” He nuzzles against Thorin’s beard, smiling through the ache in his voice. “I called for Óin, and, well… after that, we were inseparable.”

Drogo and Primula both let out a heartfelt “aww” at the sweet story, but Frodo feels his stomach twist. His face pales for a moment. He knows this tale well, though what his fathers tell now is the gentler version. He has seen the battle records, read the eyewitness accounts, seen the sketches of wounds so severe they should have left his Adad cold in the ground. His cousins had been in dire shape too, but Thorin’s injuries had been the worst. By all rights, Papa should have been a widower before they had even spoken a single word of love to one another.

It had taken a near-death experience to finally push them into action.

And Frodo Baggins is not about to follow that example.

“Alright, I’ve decided,” he says suddenly, startling his friends. “I’m going to court Sam, because life is too fleeting, and I am not going to leave him a widower!” His declaration is met with stunned silence and a very confused look from Gimli.

The dawn of a new day spills golden light into the living room, where Frodo pauses in the doorway. His parents sway in each other’s arms to the gentle, tinny tune of an old music box. Thorin’s hand rests firmly at Bilbo’s waist, guiding him with surprising grace for a dwarf his age, while Bilbo’s laughter rings soft and unguarded. There is no stiffness in their movements, just joy, easy and whole.

Frodo smiles at the sight, reluctant to interrupt such a tender moment. But he has a request, and he knows if he doesn’t ask now, he might lose his nerve.

“Adad, would you mind if I use the forge?”

“It’s a family forge, dashat ,” Thorin replies cheerfully, spinning Bilbo with a flourish that makes his husband chuckle. “There’s no need to ask permission.”

“Just make sure you come back in time for your meals!” Bilbo adds, beaming as Thorin pulls him back into a warm embrace.

“Thank you, Adad. Thank you, Papa.” Frodo bids them farewell, then heads to the forge with purpose.

Gimli has already delivered the large iron ore he requested, and it is a beauty, rich, dark, and promising in its weight. Frodo runs a hand over its surface, feeling the cool grit beneath his palm. This will be Sam’s courting gift. And nothing says I cherish you quite like a weapon forged by one’s own hands.

He remembers the two of them as boys, wooden swords in hand, charging through the fields in mock battles. A real sword now feels fitting, an echo of those days, but tempered with the weight of something deeper.

He starts by roasting the iron ore in the forge, layering it with charcoal to burn away impurities. The bellows creak under his hands as he stokes the fire hotter, hot enough to glow white, the heat curling against his skin. Hours pass before the ore yields a bloom, a spongy, glowing lump flecked with slag.

He hammers it on the stone anvil, each strike ringing sharp in the still air. Sparks leap and fade like fleeting stars. When the bloom cools, he reheats it, folds the iron, and hammers again, over and over, until the metal grows strong, layered, and true.

From the refined iron, Frodo shapes a billet, a rectangular bar that will become the sword. He heats it until it blazes red, then works the steel into a blade: tapering the point, smoothing the edges, and forming the tang for the hilt.

The blade must be normalized, so he cycles it through heat and air-cooling three times, evening its structure. Then comes the most delicate part, hardening. He heats the steel until it thrums at the critical temperature, then plunges it into oil. The forge hisses, and the scent of scorched oil curls around him. He knows even a master smith can make a fatal error here, but the blade emerges whole.

Tempering follows, gently heating the blade to ease its brittleness while preserving its strength. Once cooled, he polishes the metal with sandstone, drawing out the keen edge and removing the scars of hammer and fire.

The hilt comes next, wood for the grip, warm and sturdy under his hands. The crossguard and pommel are shaped from iron, carved with care, and secured with rivets. He fits each piece together until they feel like one.

At last, Frodo takes a finer whetstone to the blade, coaxing out its final polish. The steel gleams under the forge light, every line crisp and true. He leans close, etching dwarvish runes along its length, protection, bravery, honor , each stroke cut deep and certain, as if the words themselves will guard the one who holds it.

When he lays it down, the sword hums with purpose. It is more than steel. It is his heart, shaped and tempered into something Sam can hold.

Ordinarily, a sword of this quality would take days, sometimes weeks, to make. But Frodo knows a few dwarvish secrets passed down from Thorin himself, and with those, he forges it within hours. By the time he steps out of the forge, grime-streaked and glowing with satisfaction, the sword is cradled carefully in his hands like a newborn.

He heads straight for Gimli. The dwarf takes it without a word, examining the blade from tip to hilt.

First test, sharpness. Gimli swings the blade in one smooth arc and severs a hanging rope with a single, clean slice. “It will cut,” he declares.

Second test, durability. He drives the blade into a thick animal bone with a sharp crack. The steel comes away without a chip or bend. “No chipping, no bending. Very well done.”

Third test, lethality. Gimli sets upon a pig carcass, slashing, thrusting, and twisting the blade through bone and sinew. When he’s finished, he steps back with a nod. “It will kill.”

“So… I can give it to Sam?” Frodo asks, almost bouncing in place.

“Aye! I think he’d like it!” Gimli says, nodding eagerly.

Frodo lets out a whoop of delight, spinning once before remembering himself. He wipes the gore from the blade until it shines again, wraps it neatly, and sets off for Bag End at a brisk pace.

Sam is in the garden when Frodo arrives, bending over a neat row of marigolds. The morning sun catches the edge of his straw hat, and for a moment Frodo forgets to breathe. Mahal’s beard… he’s radiant.

“H—Hi, Sam!”

Sam straightens, smiling warmly. “Hello, Mr. Frodo. What can I do for you?”

“I… I have something for you.” Frodo shifts awkwardly, trying, and failing, to hide the long, wrapped bundle behind his back.

“For me?” Sam’s brows lift in mild confusion.

“Yes! Here!” Frodo blurts before his courage can falter, thrusting the package into Sam’s hands.

Sam unwraps it slowly, revealing the sword. His eyes widen, not in delight, but in… puzzlement. “Oh. Um… thank you, Mr. Frodo. But… why a sword?”

Frodo’s smile falters, the hopeful warmth draining from his face. “Well… I remembered how we used to play with wooden swords as children, and I thought… maybe you’d like a real one.”

“Oh—oh, it’s a fine gift!” Sam says quickly, though his voice wavers. “I’ll, uh… I’ll find a place to display it in my smial.”

“You’re welcome,” Frodo replies stiffly, before turning on his heel and marching back into Bag End.

Once inside, he shuts the door, leans against it, and slides down to the floor with a groan.

It hits him like a blow, he is trying to court a hobbit , not a dwarf. In the Shire, a weapon is not a romantic gesture. Unless one is a Brandybuck or a Took, swords are less ‘declaration of love’ and more ‘what on Middle-earth do you expect me to do with this?’ And Sam is a Gamgee.

Frodo buries his face in his hands. He needs another plan.

It takes Frodo a few days of pondering before the answer finally comes to him, thanks to Legolas’ suggestion: Gardening tools.

“It’s perfect!” he exclaims. “Sam’s a gardener, he’ll use it every day, and he’ll think of me each time he does! Just like how Papa still thinks of Adad whenever he uses the tools Adad gave him, all those years ago, after the incident with the mithril shirt. Thank you, Legolas!”

Legolas smiles at the hobbit’s sudden burst of excitement. “No trouble at all, Frodo. I do hope Sam likes it. I’m certain you’ll craft a beautiful set, just as fine as the ones your Adad made for your Papa.”

Frodo thanks him several more times before trotting off toward the living room to tell his parents he’ll be at the forge again. Legolas watches the dwobbit go, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips.

In the living room, Frodo finds his parents curled up together on the couch. Thorin lies with his head resting in Papa Bilbo’s lap, eyes half-closed, while Bilbo absently plays with his husband’s hair and reads aloud from a well-worn book.

“Bilbo rushed along the passage, very angrily, and altogether bewildered and bewuthered, this was the most awkward Wednesday he ever remembered. He pulled open the door with a jerk, and they all fell in, one on top of the other. More dwarrow, four more! And there was Gandalf behind, leaning on his staff and laughing. He had made quite a dent on the beautiful door; he had also, by the way, knocked out the secret mark that he had put there the morning before.”

“I don’t remember falling into Bag End,” Thorin remarks with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, right, I forgot,” Bilbo teases, eyes dancing. “Let me rewrite this, you came into Bag End and called me a grocer and then—”

Before he can finish, Thorin reaches up to catch Bilbo’s hand, the one still playing with his hair, and presses a soft kiss to it.

“Never mind,” he says with a low chuckle. “It’s perfect as it is, darling. And don’t let anyone know I was rude to my one and only.”

Bilbo giggles, shaking his head, and continues reading as though nothing had happened.

Like before, Frodo hesitates to interrupt, another tender moment he’d rather not disturb, but he has to speak up. “Papa! Adad! I’m going into the forge again!”

“Make sure to clean up when you’re done!” Thorin calls without opening his eyes.

“And be back for your meals!” Bilbo adds warmly.

Frodo nods quickly and hurries away, a determined spring in his step.

Gimli has been generous, supplying him with more than enough iron ore after the ‘sword incident,’ fully expecting Frodo would try again. Over the past few days, Frodo has already smelted and forged several billets while he debated what his second courting gift should be. Now, at last, he knows.

After a few moments of focused thought, Frodo selects one of the ore billets and slides it into the forge. The fire’s heat swells, licking at the metal until it glows a bright orange-yellow. With a pair of sturdy tongs, he lifts it out and sets it on the anvil, the smell of hot iron curling into the air. Hammer in hand, he strikes, each blow ringing sharp and true in the quiet forge.

The first tool he works on is a hand trowel. He flattens one end of the heated billet into a broad, spade-shaped blade, curving it slightly over the rounded horn of the anvil. He forges a neat, rounded tang for the handle, then moves to the grinding stone, tapering and sharpening the blade until the edge catches the light.

Next comes a transplanter. It’s similar to the trowel, but Frodo shapes its blade longer and narrower, designed for digging deep holes with minimal disturbance to the surrounding soil.

The third tool is a hand rake. He forges a flat bar, measuring and marking evenly spaced teeth, five in total, before bending them downward. A few quick punches with a chisel make the holes for securing it to a handle later.

The cultivator comes after, its tines sharper and more curved than the rake’s, each thick, pointed finger bent back into hooks using the anvil’s horn. Frodo tests the angle by sight, imagining Sam’s hand guiding it through stubborn soil.

For the weeder, Frodo forges a thin, narrow blade that splits into two prongs at the tip, like the forked tongue of a snake. He curves them slightly so they can slide under weeds and pry them free, roots and all.

Last, he crafts the pruners, two small, curved blades sharp enough to bite cleanly through stems. Once both blades are forged, he punches a hole through their bases for a central rivet, then fashions hardwood handles and a tension spring. Rivets hold everything together, the movement smooth and precise.

Each tool follows the same careful process: after shaping, Frodo reheats it to a bright orange, quenches it in oil, then tempers it to a light straw color for strength.

When it comes to the handles, Frodo uses hardwood he carves himself, the shavings curling at his feet. He burns holes for the tangs, fixes them in place with rivets and pins, then wraps each grip in cordage soaked in resin. For the finishing touches, he sharpens every cutting edge on a whetstone, sands the wood smooth, coats it in wax for protection, and binds the joints with resin for durability. Finally, he carves small decorations into the handles, floral patterns intertwined with potato blossoms, a private nod to Sam’s favorite crop.

It is slow work, far slower than forging a sword. Unlike blades, which Frodo has made many times, these tools are entirely new to him. More than once he frowns at a finished piece, dissatisfied, and tosses it onto the scrap pile. A week passes before he finally sets down his hammer, smiling at the completed set.

He wraps the tools neatly, his pulse quickening at the thought of Sam opening them. With the package tucked under his arm, he hurries toward the back garden of Bag End.

The summer air greets him like a warm breath, and he slows, then nearly drops the bundle entirely. Sam is bent over in the sunlight, his white tunic damp with sweat and clinging to his back, the fabric just sheer enough to hint at the muscle beneath. Frodo’s heart thunders. Oh, by Mahal and Yavanna… it is far, far too hot a day.

“Sam!” Frodo gasps, his voice coming out sharper than he intends.

Sam straightens from where he’s kneeling among the bean rows, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. “Oh, Mr. Frodo! Is there something you need?” he asks, smiling, radiant, warm, the kind of smile that makes Frodo’s lungs forget their job.

“No—no, not at all!” Frodo stammers, fumbling with the package in his arms. “I just… made these for you!” His hands tremble as he offers the set of gardening tools, each handle carved and polished to perfection. When Sam’s eyes light up, Frodo feels his chest swell with triumph.

“Oh, they’re beautiful! Look at the details!” Sam’s voice carries genuine delight as he runs a hand over the carved potato blossoms. “These are for me?”

“Of course! I made them with you in mind,” Frodo says, smiling so hard it almost hurts. This is it, finally, the perfect courting gift.

Then Sam speaks again, and Frodo’s heart stutters.

“Did you make a set for my papa as well?” Sam asks, still beaming, still holding the tools like they’re a treasure.

“Pardon?” Frodo blinks, caught off guard.

“Well, because he and I are your gardeners,” Sam explains patiently. “That’s why you made tools for us, right?”

Frodo freezes. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Gaffer Gamgee’s sharp, assessing gaze from across the garden. In one horrible instant, he realizes Sam thinks this is simply a thoughtful gift to his employees, a token of thanks for their hard work. Not a courting gift at all. And if he explains, he risks making the Gaffer feel left out, or worse, awkward. The last thing Frodo wants is to sour the opinion of the man whose blessing he’ll eventually need.

“Of course,” Frodo says smoothly, lying through his teeth while his nose gives an involuntary twitch. “I’ll just… go and get Gaffer’s set.”

He bolts back inside Bag End, grabs the second-best set he made, hastily wraps it, and rushes back outside. “Here you go, sir! Your set!”

Gaffer’s face softens into a rare, wide grin. “I love it, dear boy! Thank you! The ones I’ve had have been rusty for a while now.”

Relief washes over Frodo, warm and dizzying. He’s scored a point with Sam’s father, at least. But as Sam returns to admiring his own set, Frodo’s stomach sinks.

Another gift given. Another failed attempt at courtship.

Blast it all, how in Mahal’s name is he supposed to win Sam’s heart if the hobbit doesn’t even realize he’s being courted?

Frodo sprawls across the living room couch, groaning in defeat. His mind turns in endless circles, trying to think of something, anything, he could give Sam that would clearly show romantic intent. But every idea feels wrong. Everything he imagines could be taken as something else entirely. How is he supposed to make it obvious?

He could just say it aloud, of course, but that would be dreadfully improper. And Sam Gamgee deserves something far better than a clumsy confession.

Weapons, the finest and most heartfelt of dwarven courting gifts, had failed already. Among dwarrow, such a gift is a solemn promise, I will protect you, even when I am not there , for a crafted blade is seen as an extension of the maker’s very self. But hobbits don’t share that belief.

The second-best option, gems and jewelry, would be even worse. Among hobbits, such a gift is often taken as an insult, implying the receiver looks too plain and ought to adorn themselves. Context could change the meaning, yes, but without it… disaster.

He could, perhaps, make something tied to Sam’s work. But that, too, was dangerous. Last time, Sam had thought the gift was meant for both gardeners, himself and the Gaffer. Frodo shudders. No, he’s not going through that again.

“Aaaagh! I can’t think of anything at all!” Frodo bursts out, slamming his forehead onto the desk with a dull thunk .

The door creaks open. Gimli peers inside, eyes cautious. “Um, Frodo… would you like a snack? Your papa made blackberry pies, and I do think you need a break from… all that .” He waves vaguely at Frodo’s slumped figure.

“Thank you, cousin,” Frodo mutters into the desk before pushing himself upright.

Joining Gimli at the door, Frodo feels utterly discouraged. Maybe a full belly will help lighten the weight on his heart. Together, they make their way to the kitchen.

The air is thick with the warm, sweet scent of blackberries and pastry. At the table, Papa Bilbo, Adad Thorin, Uncle Drogo, Aunt Primula, and Legolas are already enjoying generous slices.

“Oh, there you are, darling! I was worried you hadn’t smelled the pies. You must have been busy,” Bilbo says with a fond smile as he cuts two more slices.

“Thank you, Uncle!” Gimli grins and plops down beside Legolas, already reaching for his fork.

“Thank you, Papa,” Frodo says softly, sighing as he takes his seat.

“What’s wrong, dashat ?” Thorin’s deep voice carries quiet concern. He reaches across the table and takes Frodo’s hand, his thumb brushing over the knuckles. “Are you still sad that we’ll be apart for a while?”

Frodo can’t help but smile faintly at the gesture, warmed by the steady comfort in his Adad’s touch—even if it does nothing to solve the hopeless tangle of his heart.

“No, Adad, it’s not that,” Frodo says, shaking his head. “I know you and Papa deserve your peaceful retirement here in the Shire, and I can always visit. It’s just…” He falters, chewing on his bottom lip, debating whether to tell them. It would only burden them, and he hates the thought of doing that.

“Is it because of your failed courting attempts with Sam?” Bilbo asks, voice calm and gentle as he pours Frodo a cup of tea.

Frodo freezes, staring at him in shock. Of course Papa would know. Across the table, Thorin’s brows draw together, his expression one of surprise cause unlike Bilbo, he didn’t notice.

“Oh, darling,” Bilbo says, deep voice warm but firm, “our boy is well past the age to start taking an interest in someone! I was beginning to worry I’d never have grandchildren!”

“Wait… am I going to have grandchildren?” Thorin’s face softens into a slow, pleased smile as he starts picturing them, small hands, dark curls, bright eyes.

“Papa! Adad! That is far too soon!” Frodo yelps, his voice cracking in sheer embarrassment.

“Oh, but at your age, you should already have children,” Aunt Primula teases, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Indeed, you should be giving your fathers little ones they can hold,” Uncle Drogo adds with an approving nod.

“N—no, please! I’d like to enjoy my youth a little longer,” Frodo stammers, his face now as red as ripe tomatoes.

“I can never understand conversations like this,” Legolas chuckles, leaning back in his chair as though to distance himself from the whole topic.

“That’s because you’re from an immortal race,” Gimli mutters with a deadpan expression, shoveling another generous forkful of pie into his mouth.

“Alright, enough of that,” Bilbo cuts in, his tone carrying just enough authority to hush the room. “I need to help my son.” He makes a shooing motion, sending everyone except Thorin out of the kitchen so they can talk in peace.

When the room settles, Bilbo leans forward, his eyes sharp but kind. “Now, what seems to be the problem, dear? What exactly is making courting Sam so difficult?”

“Is it the metal?” Thorin asks suddenly, leaning in with a spark of excitement. “I can write to your cousin Fíli and have him send mithril ore.”

“Um… no, Adad.” Frodo shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “It’s… I can’t figure out a proper courting gift. I tried a sword first, then gardening tools, but both failed.”

“But why?” Thorin frowns, baffled. “Those should have worked! Your smithing skills are those of a master.”

Bilbo chuckles softly, sipping his tea. “Because, dear, hobbits don’t court the same way dwarrow do. But you’re courting a hobbit. And tell me, what’s the best way to a hobbit’s heart?”

Thorin’s expression shifts as the realization clicks. Frodo only frowns in confusion.

Taking a slice of pie by hand, Thorin leans close to Bilbo, his voice dropping into a low, suggestive rumble. “Through his stomach.”

Bilbo smiles, leaning forward to take a bite from the pie Thorin holds. “Exactly.”

Frodo stares at them, frozen in dawning shock. Of course! He’s part hobbit, he should know this! Food is sacred to hobbits. For dwarrow, a gift as fleeting as food might only suggest a passing fancy, but for hobbits, it’s a promise, an unspoken vow to provide and care for someone. And offering food by hand? Among hobbits, that’s not subtle at all, it’s a direct, blushing, heart-pounding invitation to bed someone. Which explains perfectly why his parents are now giving each other those unmistakable bedroom eyes.

With that mental image lodged firmly in his head, Frodo does the only sensible thing, he bolts from the table before they can get any worse.

As he strides away, memories start bubbling up. He remembers, faintly but vividly, how in the Shire a courting gift of a hobbit’s favorite food always carried clear intent. And Sam… Sam’s favorite had always been anything made with potatoes. But that was years ago, people change. What if Sam likes something different now?

Then it hits him, blackberries. They both loved them as children. They’d spend afternoons picking until their fingers were stained purple, then carry home baskets brimming with fruit. That memory… that shared connection… yes. It’s perfect.

Frodo peeks into the kitchen to make sure the coast is clear. The chairs where Bilbo and Thorin sat are now empty. He suspects, grimacing slightly, that they’ve gone off for some ‘affectionate cuddling.’ All the better; he has the kitchen to himself.

Despite his lapse in hobbit courtship customs, Frodo has never forgotten how to cook from the heart. He’d spent countless hours in the kitchen with Uncle Bombur and Papa Bilbo. And now, those memories start returning in warm, hazy fragments as he gathers what he needs for a blackberry pie.

For the filling:

• Three and one-quarter cups of fresh blackberries
• Juice from half a lemon
• Half a cup plus one tablespoon of superfine sugar
• Two tablespoons of cornstarch mixed with a little water into a smooth paste

For the pastry:

• One and one-third cups all-purpose flour, plus extra for dusting
• Seven tablespoons diced butter
• One-quarter cup confectioner’s sugar, plus extra for dusting
• Half a cup ground almonds
• Grated zest of one lemon
• Two egg yolks

Frodo moves with purpose, until he reaches for the blackberries. The bowl is empty. He frowns, then searches the pantry. Nothing. He checks the cool storage. Still nothing.

He’s making enough noise for the door to swing open. Drogo pokes his head in. “Frodo, what on earth are you looking for?”

“Blackberries!” Frodo says, a little too desperately. “I’m looking for blackberries!”

“Oh, dear,” Drogo says, wincing. “You won’t find any more. Your Papa Bilbo used the last of them for the pies earlier.”

Frodo sags, his shoulders dropping, a picture of defeated longing.

Thankfully, Aunt Primula, who has been listening from the doorway, tilts her head and says, “Why not use blueberries instead?”

Frodo freezes. Blueberries. Of course! He and Sam had picked those together as children, too. It still carries the same shared meaning.

“That’s perfect! Thank you, Aunt Primula!” Frodo scoops her up in an impulsive hug, spinning her around before planting a grateful kiss on her cheek. She laughs and pats his shoulder.

“Good luck baking your courting gift,” she says with a fond smile, slipping away.

“Don’t you dare drown them in sugar!” Uncle Drogo calls over his shoulder as he follows her. “You want to taste the berries, not hide them!”

Frodo takes a deep breath and gets to work. First, the pastry dough. In a large wooden bowl, he crumbles the flour and cold butter together with his fingers until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. The scent of butter is already thick in the air. Next, he stirs in the confectioner’s sugar, ground almonds, and bright lemon zest. Two egg yolks go in, and with steady hands he kneads until the dough comes together in a smooth ball. He wraps it in cloth and sets it near the cool stone wall to rest for a quarter hour.

While it rests, Frodo paces the kitchen, his stomach tightening with nervous energy. He’s baked dozens of pies before, but never one this important. Never one meant to say I love you .

When the dough is ready, he dusts a wooden board with flour and begins rolling it out with a smooth, steady rhythm. He cuts off a smaller portion for the lattice top and sets it aside. The larger piece he presses gently into a greased shallow iron pan, working it up the sides and trimming away the excess.

Now for the filling. Frodo tips half the blueberries into a small cauldron, along with lemon juice and sugar. Over the low, steady heat of the hearth, the berries begin to burst, releasing their dark, sweet fragrance. After five minutes, he stirs in the cornstarch paste, watching the mixture slowly thicken to a glossy jam. The smell makes his mouth water, but he clenches his jaw. This is for Sam.

When the filling cools enough, he spoons it into the tart shell, the deep purple glistening in the light. The remaining fresh blueberries he scatters over the top like jewels. A quick brush of water along the pastry edge, then he rolls out the reserved dough, cutting it into even strips. One by one, he lays them in a neat crisscross lattice, pressing the ends down firmly.

The tart goes onto a flat sheet of iron and into the brick oven. The air soon fills with the warm, buttery scent of baking pastry mingled with sweet berry steam. Frodo rotates it halfway through the thirty-minute bake, ensuring it turns an even golden brown.

When the time is up, he slides it out carefully. A quick test with the tip of a knife comes out clean, perfect.

“Excellent,” he murmurs, a small triumphant smile tugging at his lips.

He lets the tart cool just enough before dusting it with confectioner’s sugar. Beside it, he places a small flask of honeyed milk in a basket, tucking in a cloth to keep everything warm.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Frodo heads toward the Gamgee home, determination in his stride.

Unbeknownst to him, Legolas and Gimli, having witnessed his earlier frustrations and heartbreak, exchange a conspiratorial glance and follow him at a discreet distance.

“Use your elven ears to listen in, won’t you?” Gimli mutters.

Legolas lifts a brow, feigning scandal. “You would dare ask me, a prince, to eavesdrop?” He gasps theatrically, then smirks. “Alright.”

At the front door, Frodo’s heart hammers so hard he’s sure it can be heard from the other side. He knocks quickly, barely breathing. The door opens to reveal Gaffer, who blinks in surprise.

“Mr. Frodo? What are you doing here? Something wrong with the garden?”

Before Frodo can answer, Gaffer’s eyes land on the pie in his hands. A slow, knowing grin spreads across the old hobbit’s face.

“Oh! I see now! Which of my children’s caught your eye, then?”

Frodo’s face turns crimson. Still, relief blooms in his chest, at least he has Gaffer’s blessing. “S—Sam…” he stammers.

“I thought so.” Gaffer spins toward the smial’s interior, cups his hands to his mouth, and bellows, “SAM! GET OVER HERE!”

He disappears inside, still hollering. Frodo’s stomach churns; every bit of nervous tension he’s been holding starts boiling over until he’s practically hyperventilating.

Behind the hedge, Gimli winces. “No need to tell me what’s happening, I heard that.”

“I thought so,” Legolas mutters, rubbing his poor ears.

Moments later, Sam emerges, looking baffled. “What’s gotten into the old hobbit…? So, uh, Mr. Frodo, did you need something from m—” His voice cuts off as his eyes fall on the basket of food. His cheeks flare pink.

“Ah—yes, Samwise Gamgee…” Frodo’s voice drops almost to a whisper. “I would be honored if you join me for a picnic.”

As a prince of Erebor, Frodo has faced battlefields, fire, and the crushing weight of diplomacy, but none of it has ever terrified him quite like this. Why is confessing so much harder than combat? No wonder it took Father and Papa a near death experience to admit their feelings!

“I—I’d love to…” Sam says, ducking his head. “I’ll just, um… tell my parents.” He disappears inside, only to reappear moments later, looking shy but determined.

“So, um… shall we?” he asks, holding out his hand.

Frodo nearly bursts into song as he takes it, his blush so deep it could rival ripe cherries. “Where do you want to eat?”

“Anywhere we can enjoy ourselves,” Sam answers.

Frodo swallows down the giddy sound threatening to escape him.

“Is it going well?” Gimli whispers, peeking over the hedge, and nearly giving away their position.

“Yes. Extremely well,” Legolas replies, tugging the dwarf back by his collar. “I think we can stop spying on our best friend. For now.”

“Oh, good. Ugh, who knew courting rituals were so hard?” Gimli grumbles.

“They can be,” Legolas chuckles, “but they’re worth it.”

Gimli rolls his eyes. “I guess. So… how do elves court, anyway?”

“Well,” Legolas says with a faint smile, “we begin by offering a song. If the other writes one in return, the courtship is accepted.”

Gimli nods, trying to look casual while keeping one hand firmly in his pocket, where a folded music sheet rests. He’s been working on it for weeks with Bilbo’s help. He’s just relieved to know his information was correct.

Legolas, of course, blessed (or cursed) with his remarkable hearing, already knows. He’s even enlisted Bilbo to help him turn it into a duet, planning to surprise Gimli. It will be a song for the ages.

“So… do you think Frodo will return to Erebor?” Gimli asks abruptly, desperate to change the subject.

“Honestly? No. I think he’s staying right here,” Legolas says with quiet amusement.

“Better write back home, then,” Gimli laughs.