Chapter Text
your heart is cold (but we will warm you)
chapter one
drums
The Fell Winter had been the worst storm to ever befall the Shire.
Like a thief in the night, ice had crept bitter and pale across every corner of the West. It stole across Hobbiton, sealing over smials with layers of frost, and deviled snow and wind followed behind: blankets of white, blizzard teeth. Everything once lush and green was chilled grey, stiffening up dead, and with the white flurries from the north had come cold, bitter and crueler than anything the Shire had ever known.
Fear came, too, as it was wont. Fear of starvation as crops withered, fear of the wolves that bayed at dusk, fear of the rumors-- whispers that Bree had been besieged by rogue Orcs crossing over the frozen Brandywine River, that the soldiers of the Enemy had been spotted near their outskirts. Hobbit bones grew stiff, bellies slowly emptied, and Shirelings wilted, dying flowers beneath their winter. Without the Rangers of the North and the grey wizard Gandalf, the many hobbit families that had graced starvation and sickness that winter may not have survived. So many, still, had not.
Bilbo remembered, even now, that wretched year when he could never be warm. The constant shivers, feeling so cold that he hurt, blue-tipped ears and fingers pulsing-- when the air chilled enough he could see his breath cloud even in the embrace of his bed. Bungo and Belladonna had been adamant on keeping him trapped inside Bag End, refusing his every attempt to leave the warmth and safety of their home despite his smial-fever. They had known far better than he, but inside, all Bilbo could see was how afraid, how trapped, they were too.
Gloom and a reserved terror had taken the Shire in a hard, icy fist during the Fell. Hobbits had starved, weakened with fever, slipped into void in the snow-quiet nights. His father had been one to also fall ill, and it had been one of those moments, when Bungo had been slow to wake one frosty morning, that Bilbo had realized that they could die there. That he, his mother, and his father would not survive the ice and the hunger and cold, and that one day they could fall asleep in their beds and not wake again. A part of his innocence had died that day.
But he could never forget the how it felt, to be suffocating in his own home. The sickly feeling of being trapped, restless, confined, that had braced in his limbs like a vice. That year he’d become just as quiet and miserable as the weather outside. Looking out his window in Bag End, years later, Bilbo felt the memory of that loss, that fear, seep into the marrow of his bones. Wind buffeted the walls of his warm hobbit home without relent, making the wooden foundation above him creak and moan, and heavy rain smattered against the glass window in angry torrents. The outside world was blurred to a point of no recognition.
He hated it. Profusely.
Where the Fell Winter had been cold and snowy, this storm was violent, drenching. The monsoon had hung over the Shire in a unending shower for days now, and as it approached the three week marker hobbits began to murmur grave tidings- talk of flooded gardens and rising rivers, tragic drownings as the Brandywine and the Stockbrook rose. Yavanna save us from the floods, they whispered. Their fear rivaled even the dread of that damned winter so long ago, and it stirred up grim memory beneath Bilbo's skin.
Bilbo sighed as he stood, heart sinking in his chest. It was barely midday of the seventeenth straight day of the storm and still the rain fell, still the black, shadowed strait above hung over the Shire, a mass of darkness rolling through the night.
He longed for the sun. Missed warmth on his face, light in the grass, the yellow glisten of morning light in dew drops. The golden crest of afternoon sun bursting across the faraway mountains, the whisper of summer warmth across his skin and through his curls: all this rain keeping him here, locked away...it was enough to drive him mad. Eventually he turned away from the window with a scowl. At the spry age of forty, Bilbo was just entering the peak of his life, with unruly, golden curls and bright, keen eyes one of the many testaments to his young age. But trapped in Bag End as the storm boomed and blustered outside, with damp air laboring his every movement, he felt the withered, aching age of eleventy.
Shuffling down the cool floors of his hallway he soon fell into the familiar pattern of pacing, having picked up the habit sometime in the last year. Keeping his eyes from wandering to the portrait that hung quietly in the corner, Bilbo swallowed roughly, thinking of all the habits he had acquired in these last long months. Gnawing at his bottom lip, wiping unconsciously at his face to brush away long absent tears, waking in the night with his heart in his throat and his mother's face behind his eyelids.
Bilbo Baggins was a changed hobbit, if the dark circles beneath his eyes told you no better, and it seemed a long time ago when light filled his once bright and twinkling gaze. He’d been tested in all the ways a hobbit could withstand, far more than a hobbit still in the gripping sway of youth, and so far, no one yet had told him so.
A crack of thunder split the maw of rain outside, and Bilbo was almost proud to say that he did not jump at the sound. Light sliced jaggedly through the windows in a stolen moment of harsh white shadow, and through the window could be seen the outlines of monstrous clouds broiling in the night. Instead of filling him with fear, Bilbo felt only disgust at the sight.
Damn and confusticate this storm, he thought, inner voice a hiss. Stalking huffily through the hallways again, he cast a disparaging look towards the windows as if it would admonish the storm into cessation. If it didn’t stop raining soon, Bilbo would end up as mad as a loon. Stomping half-heartedly into the dining room, he plopped down noisily at the large dining table for the sake of it. Then he stared at the candle flickering placed steadily before him, his annoyance draining away to be replaced with apprehension.
It was so quiet in Bag End, now.
The empty hobbit-hole was a hollow shell of the home it used to be. When once it had been brimmed with laughter and warmth, it sat now quiet and cavernous, devoid of the rich life that once filled it and its current Master. Bilbo Baggins was tired. Tired of being tired, tired of the silence, tired of the ache that hung like a wet cloth over him, smothering the mirth from his lungs. He was young, yes, but the dark circles under his eyes spoke of an age-old pain, and Bilbo Baggins grew colder and more reserved up in his quiet hobbit-hole with every passing day.
Tomorrow marked the sixth month since Belladonna Baggins had died, and the sixth month since her son had felt life bloom in his heart.
The young hobbit swallowed, feeling the uneasiness in his stomach give way to the all-too-familiar tide of grief. He shook his head against it, a low and empty sigh dragging from his lips, and Bag End seemed to swallow the sound into its quiet, and that ached too.
Bilbo stared futilely at the bright flame in front of him, intent on burning away the tears at the back of his eyes. He winced, eyes watering as the light of the candle reflected a bright orange in his gaze, and a mounting hopelessness surged in his chest. He suddenly felt short of breath, as though his lungs had shrank within him, and something like panic strained against the floodgates in his heart. A desperate dizziness swept through him like a tidal wave. The sound of the rain, drums over his head, swallowed his thoughts and the aching emptiness in the home suddenly swelled, growing unbearable, all-consuming, a cacophony-- he couldn’t breathe, he needed to breathe-
Bilbo shot to his feet in a jerk, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenched his teeth. He moved swiftly to the front room, ripping coats from his coat rack and throwing them on. His breath came fast and ragged through his lips, bordering on hyperventilation, and he had to escape, run away, he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand this gaping silence. He just had to get out. Without a second glance to the warm fire and the empty home he was leaving behind, he wrenched open the door and stepped out into the deluge.
///
Instantly, he was slammed with a gale to send him off his feet. Shockingly frigid water roared down from the heavens to plaster his clothes to his skin and blind him, and wind fell like clay bricks upon his back. The flash of cold rain stole his breath from his lungs, stunning him still, and his mind emptied all at once to leave a single, terrible thought.
It's not enough. It's not enough.
Run farther.
Bilbo lifted his foot, taking a wavering step off of his stone entryway; the stone was slippery and wet beneath his hairy feet. The rain made it impossible to see but a handful of feet in front of him, and his descent down from his home to the street was painstakingly slow. Water seeped like blue fire through his clothes, gripping his skin in a chilling embrace, and by the time he reached the muddy stream of what used to be the road through Hobbiton he was shuddering in it, his small frame leaning and stumbling through the downpour like a tiny leaf on a tree limb. Bilbo gritted his teeth, refusing to turn tail and give up when he’d already come so far, and powered on to nowhere with the drive of a huffing bull.
He blinked furiously through the water that dripped from his hair into his eyes, breath coming faster as he worked his feet through the soft, slippery ground with uneasy squelches. The ground seemed to keep hold of his feet as though alive, intent to swallow him into their dark depths until he wrenched them free, and each step was more difficult than the last. And yet-- and yet the farther he got from Bag End, the lighter he felt. Aside from the crack and call of thunder around him, the night was empty, and if he squinted hard enough he could see the dark outlines of hobbit homes as he trudged past them.
Few heads poked out to see the rather trodden looking hobbit wallow through the road, and fewer still held expressions of sympathy. As understanding as the hobbits of the Shire were to the hurt the young Master Baggins had experienced, it had been months since Belladonna had died. Becoming a recluse in his own home, tragedy or no, was still offensively unHobbitish in the eyes of more respectable hobbits of Hobbiton-- especially to the proud Sackville-Bagginses, relatives that always eyed Bag End with the gleam of greed in their stares and gossiped first about the odd, somber new Master of Bag End.
Wandering through the streets in the middle of the worst thunderstorm to ever hit the Shire, Bilbo thought, bemused, would do nothing to paint him in a brighter light.
Bilbo carried on nevertheless, clenching his jaw as water sluiced in waves down his cheeks, into his eyes, and soaked his curls to his head. Despite the cold and wind plastered his clothes to his body, he felt...better. Out of the stuffy, hollow Bag End, he felt like he was actually breathing-- living, as he worked his feet through mud, as he squinted against the stormy world around him. Sucking in a deep breath, spare droplets of water flying across his mouth, he found himself slowing to almost appreciate the torrents of water drowning him on dry land. The air was wet, chilly, fresh. His lungs bloomed in icy relief. He shivered despite this, gooseflesh shuddering down his spine, but Bilbo felt as if a noose around his neck was loosening. His breaths grew heavier and shakier, his lungs suddenly desperate, and Bilbo felt a sob break apart and dissolve through his wet lips: a choked, horrible noise of relief, of grief, of sadness, of loss. He closed his tearing eyes against the wind and let himself sway in the sheets of water and gale. Exposed, he let his chin drop, head bowing to let the sky shed the heavy rain upon his back. His control wavered and stumbled within him, fleeting through his numb grasp.
Let it go, sweetling.
The voice, one once lost in Bilbo’s dreams, trembled in his ears. He craned his neck upwards despite the rain, squinting up into the dark.
Let go, it whispered, and something worn finally broke inside the hobbit, an ancient dam crumbling to let the river through. Bilbo's face crumpled, and he let out a whimper, the maw in his chest gaping in quiet agony. Months of deepest grief began to leech from his eyes, every withheld moment, choked down cry bleeding out of him-- he shouted wordless, devastated curses in the night, weeping for his mother, his father, the hurt, for himself-- lonely, quiet, empty, alone, why did he have to be so- Warm tears shattered across his frozen cheeks, and Bilbo Baggins let himself break in two.
His throat eventually gave out. Eyes burning against the freezing rain, from tears or pain he couldn't discern, he sighed, so heavily he thought he'd collapse from it. His head dropped and his shaking shoulders slumped, pain fading and dying within him. Belladonna’s face flashed once in his mind, revived, and this time it was...better. The wound was fresh but no longer sick. It was uncaged. He wrapped his arms around himself, sucking in deep, tremulous breaths, and for the first time in months, he felt real. Well and truly there, alive, breathing.
Home.
The attractive idea of a flickering fire seeped into his cold-addled mind, and he found his feet moving once again through the soggy ground with vigor. Bilbo swallowed harshly, feeling himself grow steadier with each wavering step, and the lights from within the hobbit homes he passed blurred in his vision like he was once more gazing out the window, watching the world swirl into seamless shapes in the dark. He was approaching Hobbiton again-- Bilbo was dumbfounded by how far he had wandered-- and the chill from the rain had long since sank through his skin into his bones. His teeth rattled like the lip of a boiling tea kettle, and he sighed only to lose the sound in a crack of thunder.
The heavens above rolled again, the sky flickering with lighting that arched through the clouds like jagged cobwebs, and it was then when Bilbo realized the thunder itself was growing louder and faster in his ears. Beats rumbled in growing tempo, shaking the ground beneath his feet, and the hobbit whirled in alarm just in time to throw himself to the side. A dark rider roared past him on a short horse, missing Bilbo's small form by a hairsbreadth, and Bilbo yelped, splashing hard into the mud. Gasping, he whirled with eyes wide as the rider continued undeterred, his horse speeding off on the road and sending loam flying through the air with each lifted hoof. Bilbo spluttered, wobbling to his feet before shaking the dirt from his soaked curls, and stared after him. His heart hammered in his chest as he sucked down air, rattled with how close he came to being trampled.
What is a rider doing in the Shire? The last hobbit to ever ride a horse in Shire history was Bullroarer Took at Battle of Greenfields, historically knocking the Goblin chieftain’s head clean from his shoulders in victory; hobbits-- with their admittedly minute stature and predilection for walking-- were not riders, and horses could only truly be found as close as Bree. Bilbo watched, mind spinning, as the horse and its rider were swallowed in the dark and rain, and the curious Tookish side of Bilbo’s blood reared its head for the first time in what seemed an age. He trembled again, the cold jarring him from his daze, and the Baggins side of his lineage quickly chimed that he was, in fact, in the middle of a monsoon and that standing much longer out here might freeze him solid.
Bilbo was inclined to agree. He trudged forward once again, limbs shuddering with lingering shock as the lights of Hobbiton came reassuringly into view. Thunder boomed once again and the hobbit couldn’t resist looking behind him, his eyes wide looking for another rider.
But only darkness, marred by the downpour of rain, met his eyes. He paused, briefly, and was already lifting a pale foot to carry on when something flashed at the corner of his eye, shifting in the stark white of lightning's shadow. He narrowed his eyes, wiping them futilely with a dripping, clammy hand, and stared uselessly into the dark. A tense beat, with only rain and thunder filling his ears, and then- there. Bilbo squinted into the deluge and caught the distinct shift in movement in the bushes lining the west side of the road, leaves moving against the wind.
The Tookish curiosity in him emerged again, and before Bilbo realized the rashness of his actions he was cautiously approaching the bush, his mouth slightly agape as he inhaled. His heart thudded loudly in his ears, so loud that it nearly overcame the cacophony of rain around him. His feet sank unappealingly into the mud, but a hobbit was a hobbit, and Bilbo was silent through the night, creeping upon the bush without sound. When he finally approached it and, gently pushing aside the wet leaves, he peered inside and... nearly fainted.
“By the Valar,” he breathed.
Crouching terrified in the wet bush were two wee children, soaked and trembling. They shook violently, spasmodically, eyes bright with fear even in the dark. Bilbo gasped at the same time as they did, and one immediately grabbed the smaller and shoved him behind protectively, wide eyes huge with terror. Obscured in the bush the hobbit could make out very little, only that before him-- in the middle of a bloody monsoon -- were two children, practically toddlers, staring at him with absolute horror. Bilbo froze at the fear in their eyes, mind emptying with disbelief.
What in the name of Eru were these children doing out in a storm of this magnitude?
Before Bilbo could blurt out a question or even form an articulate thought, the suddenly familiar sound of a charging horse broke through the wall of rain in his ears. Head jerking to the right, he saw two more horses in the distance, the steam huffing from their nostrils making them out as dark, dangerous. The hobbit heard another gasp and he saw the two younglings freeze solid, their wide eyes locking on the horses with fear so powerful that Bilbo, in turn, felt afraid. Confused and frightened and at a loss, with dark riders coming upon them like lightning and the tiny children crouching in the bush like terrified rabbits, Bilbo did the only thing he could.
He dove into the bush with them.
///
The horses halted with sharp yanks at their reins, hot breath puffing through their nostrils as they stamped the mud, anxiously lifting their hooves and sending mud flying. Bilbo covered his mouth with a numb hand, feeling the two childlings quiver next to him. He quickly knelt into the soft, loamy mud, hiding further in the shifting leaves, and swiftly caught his breath, needlessly holding a finger to his lips to tell the children to be quiet.
Surely they hadn’t seen me, he thought desperately, staring as the riders circled their horses-- or were they ponies?-- on the road so they could face one another. The rain is too thick, surely they hadn’t. The fear in the children’s eyes was enough to inspire his own worries, and mad ideas skittered through his brain like droplets across a slanted roof. Were they soldiers, mercenaries, traders? The riders didn't move to climb from their steeds, and instead the strained thread of voices could be heard through the night.
“Any sign of ‘em?” A gravel-deep voice boomed through the din, guttural and scratchy. The maw of the downpour forced him to raise his voice to a shout in order to be heard.
“No,” the other rider called out, his voice as equally deep. His broad, powerful shoulders hitched under the rain, and his hood obscured his face. “Where are those Void-damned brats?”
Bilbo felt his gaze drawn to the younglings crouched beside him, their tiny forms shaking so hard that the leaves around them rustled, and his dread was confirmed. The riders were searching for the children. And judging from the sheer terror that emanated from them, along with the less than kindly tone the rider had adopted in reference to them, the riders were not their proper guardians. Bilbo looked back at the riders through the bush leaves, his blue gaze narrowing as a foreign feeling of protectiveness slid across his heart. His pulse threaded furiously in his veins, anger mixing with fear, and he strained his sensitive hobbit ears to catch for anything more.
“-then where in Mahal’s name could they be?” one thundered, his cavernous voice laced with a scalding anger. “Damn Karoc for letting them out of his sight, we’ll never find them in this blasted storm.”
“Taroc will have our beards if we don’t!”
Mahal. Our beards. Bilbo’s mind raced, taking in the sight of the riders perched on their horses, their smaller height. His jaw nearly dropped in realization.
Dwarves.
Dwarves were in the Shire. In Hobbiton.
Looking over at the children beside him, with their figures obscured with leaves and rain, Bilbo's mind reeled in revelation. Could they be dwarflings? Impossible to tell from there, he looked once again to the riders, and an enlightening flash of lightning revealed that poking through the riders’ hoods in intricate braids were actually large beards, sopping wet and bushy. Dwarves, oh Yavanna, dwarves in the Shire.
And they were hunting younglings.
Bilbo Baggins, what have you gotten yourself into? his Baggins-blood bemoaned. His prudent Bungo-sense was silenced as his Took side suddenly charged front and center, rising in his chest like the mounting tide. His fists clenched at his sides, cold pale knuckles turning white with the force.
We must get away from them. We must get to Bag End.
“They won’t last long in this storm,” the first rider barked, and there was a thread of smugness beneath the anger in his tone that twisted in Bilbo’s gut like a blade. “If we don’t find ‘em soon they’ll both be as dead as coffin nails. No big loss either, we’ve been playin’ with fire too long, keepin’ ‘em alive.”
“Taroc won’t share your views,” the other grunted, but there was resignation in the growl of his voice. “But we shoulda traded ‘em months ago. Don’t know why we had ta come all the way to this halfling hovel, trekkin’ halfway ‘cross Middle Earth just for two dwarfling runts. No treasure’s worth the pain in my arse from all this damn riding.” His voice slipped into a snarl. “But if we don’t find ‘em that’ll be the least of my worries.”
“It’s his fool brother’s fault,” the rider hissed, venomously.
“You know Taroc doesn’t listen ta reason when his brother’s involved,” the other retorted. “But we’ve wavered too long. The longer it takes ta find 'em the smaller chance we’ll find ‘em breathin’.” His voice twisted in indifference, as if that outcome was more preferable, and in that moment Bilbo was nearly overcome with horror and outrage.
“If we find 'em at all,” one growled as he straightened in his saddle, wiping water from his face, “But if we do--” A pale gleam of a smile could be seen in the dark, and Bilbo felt true fear pierce his heart. “-those brats’ll regret th' day they was born.” The two riders snapped their reins, and with twin high-pitched whinnies from their steeds, they flew off into the night, their horses’ hooves slamming into the swampy ground like war drums.
It wasn’t until the sounds of their leaving faded into the rain that Bilbo turned to stare at the two younglings next to him. Two fearful pairs of eyes found him, one blue and one brown. The larger one had scooped the younger one into his tiny arms somehow, clutching the latter so tightly his little hands turned white, and the mere sight made Bilbo’s heart turn to porcelain in his chest. Without further thought, Bilbo's decision was made.
“Let me take you somewhere safe,” he whispered.
end chapter one