Chapter Text
epilogue.
Smaug had his own natural cave, and the firedrake glanced at him as Thorin looked up, then he snorted as Bilbo hurried over the rocky ground. "Sorry I'm late," Bilbo offered, and let out a squeak as Thorin pulled him over for a kiss.
"I presume that you have an appropriate excuse," Smaug rumbled, though there wasn't malice in his tone as the dragon resettled himself, clearly impatient. On his flanks, the deep wounds from the Necromancer War were already turning a light scarred white.
"I went to look at Gíslaug's egg," Bilbo admitted, and when it was Thorin's turn to snort, added dryly, "Well, I haven't seen an egg so large before. Why, it's bigger than Myrtle!"
"Many things are bigger than a little steamer," Smaug retorted, though there was a little wry humour in his tone. Now that Myrtle too had the run of Erebor, she had used it to visit Gíslaug, and also, rather to Bilbo's surprise, to check in on Smaug when he had been recovering. A week wouldn't pass without a loud squabble about something or other, and even Thorin seemed to be growing used to it.
"She'll be strong enough to fly again soon as well," Thorin added. "Lord Elrond has removed the stitches on that wound."
"It wasn't a good time to get with egg," Bilbo said, with a meaningful glance at Smaug, who pointedly ignored him.
"Where is Myrtle?" Thorin asked curiously.
"With little Frodo, hopefully keeping him out of trouble." It was a full-time job by itself: hobbitlings had stores of energy, and Frodo's Brandybuck blood showed itself at the worst of times. Bilbo's mood deflated a little at the reminder of the orphan child whom he had decided to adopt on the spur of the moment. Bag End was still in disarray, despite Myrtle packing up as much as they could before taking the trip to Erebor.
"Very much like his uncle then," Thorin noted, amused, and Bilbo arched an eyebrow at him.
"Just for that, I think that your new nephew or niece is going to be extra difficult to manage," Bilbo retorted, and from above there was a sudden pealing of a great bell, and around them, the answering roar of firedrakes, greeting the birth of a new addition to the House of Durin.
Bilbo clapped his hands around his ears at first, then ended up hugging Thorin tightly, laughing, their kiss bright with joy; they were still kissing when Dís was borne down on a litter, pale and weary but proud, with Gunnar clasping her hand tightly, her other hand holding a small bundle carefully to herself.
"A boy," Dís said, as she beckoned for Thorin to approach. "His name is Fíli."
Gently, Thorin took the baby from her, which kicked and grabbed at a silver bead on his beard with a chubby hand. Bilbo peered - the child had a little, fine scruff of golden hair, and he stared at him with wide-eyed curiosity, then upwards, towards Smaug, as the firedrake leaned down, turning his one good eye towards the child.
"Skyborn child, this is Fíli, of the House of Durin," Thorin said formally, in draconic, then in Westron, as the child, unbelievably, burbled and laughed.
"Greetings, Fíli," Smaug rumbled, as softly as the firedrake could, but even at the thunder of his voice, the child laughed again. The firedrake drew carefully back, and Thorin kissed the baby boy on his forehead and passed the bundle back to his sister. Gunnar clasped arms tightly with Thorin, even as Bilbo carefully hugged Dís and got to hold the baby, and then Dís had to leave, bone weary - though not before she made some comment in the dwarven language that made Thorin scowl and Gunnar wince, and she handed the child to her mate with a fervent kiss that made Thorin's scowl worsen in brotherly disgust.
"The child didn't cry. That's a good sign," Bilbo said tentatively, when Dís was safely out of earshot. "Myrtle's going to regret missing this."
"She would," Thorin agreed, staring after the exit, lost in thought, and Bilbo nearly flinched back as Smaug lowered his muzzle, nudging Thorin as gently as he could - which still meant shifting Thorin forward a few steps. Thorin reached over, to rub a palm over the ridges of his eye, the great golden orb flicking to glance at Thorin, then to Bilbo, and the firedrake rumbled something before pulling away and turning to head back towards the forges.
Thorin shook his head slowly, watching his dragon go, and Bilbo noted, wryly, "You were thinking of offering to step down, weren't you?"
"It was a possibility," Thorin noted, then amended, "Should Dís' son present as an omega. After all-"
"Did Smaug tell you that you were being silly?"
"He told me that he expects me at Court on the morrow," Thorin replied, and managed a faint, lopsided smile, "Which I suppose is his way of doing so, yes."
"You're both impossible," Bilbo retorted, though he allowed Thorin to draw him over for another kiss. "And we are not engaging in anything improper in your dragon's den. I mean it, Thorin!"
"Hmm," Thorin did, however, stop trying to unbutton Bilbo's waistcoat, instead pretending to inspect the brass buttons curiously. "How long are you staying, this time?"
"At least a couple of weeks? Bard invited us to look at how Dale is going, as well." At Thorin's contemplative look, Bilbo added, dryly, "You have responsibilities as Erebor's ruler, Thorin. You can't take two weeks off."
"I am King and I should be able to do what I want," Thorin retorted, though there was a wryness to his tone, as he led Bilbo insistently up towards the stair.
Despite Bilbo's best efforts, the return to Thorin's chambers had been highly improper, to say the least, but his attempts to remonstrate were stifled in hungry kisses by the time they reached the bed. His poor brass buttons were long forcibly misplaced, and his hands, despite his irritation, were urgent still, helping Thorin eagerly with his armour until the final pieces were pushed from the bed, then he turned Thorin around on the sheets and licked a playful stripe up between Thorin's rump, over his pink, slick hole.
Thorin let out a muffled sound that was suspiciously close to a yelp, and then he was squirming and groaning as Bilbo followed the lick with another, rougher one, until he had Thorin trembling and gasping in the dwarven language, his face slack with ecstasy. Bilbo ignored the shaky grab Thorin made for him and kissed him deeply, tasting his slick, curling his tongue, ignoring his own aches as Thorin choked and cried out his name, shoving his hips back against Bilbo as he spilled thickly and untouched over the sheets.
"Oh," Bilbo murmured, though he had to clear his throat a few times as Thorin slumped on the sheets, breathless and wide-eyed. At Thorin's questioning stare, Bilbo carefully pressed his palm against Thorin's slowly softening prick, and grinned. "I did have other plans for this."
"Later," Thorin retorted roughly, turning onto his back and spreading his thighs, "I want something else right now with yours."
"You are most tremendously demanding," Bilbo shot back, though he obliged and sank deep with a shaky breath, keeping the pace slow despite Thorin's growls and grabs at his hip, until his stroking palms stiffened flesh beneath his fingers again.
2.0.
Beside the egg was a surprisingly young dwarf omega, perhaps only a little older than Thorin, stout and with a russet beard, dressed in full armour and furs despite the heat of the forges. "Dáin Ironfoot," the dwarf introduced himself.
"Pleased to meet you, I'm Bilbo Baggins, um, and-"
"We've already spoken to him," Myrtle replied, amused. "He's the son of Lord Náin of the Iron Hills, Thorin's second cousin."
"Oh." That explained the vague resemblance.
"I was with my father on Barazanthual during the Necromancer War," Dáin said proudly, then he carefully and absently stroked the shell of the egg. "They have gone ahead of me to the halls of Mahal, but they would have been pleased. My cousin has paid my House a great honor."
Bilbo glanced over to Myrtle, who gave him a little shake of her head. Ah. One of the far too many who had fallen, then. If Dáin had survived, that was a miracle in and of itself.
"I see," Bilbo said awkwardly, and Myrtle rolled her eyes at him, but thankfully, little Frodo chose that moment to save him from embarrassment, by piping up, "Can the baby dragon hear us already?"
"Aye, so it can," Dáin smiled at Frodo. Dwarves liked children, having few of their own as a race. "Your voice, mine, your uncle's, and even Myrtle's and Gíslaug's."
"And how long before we can to see it?" Frodo asked, as Bilbo scooped up his nephew hurriedly before Frodo stumbled over to try and touch the egg. Gíslaug had already been very generous, allowing people who weren't part of her crew, her companion or her egg's future companion to visit, but he didn't want to push his luck.
"Months yet," Dáin looked up over to Gíslaug, then back to Bilbo. "If Gíslaug is willing, we could ask you over for the hatching. There'll be a ceremony."
"For the birth of a firedrake?"
"Usually there's a celebration of some sort, no matter what sort of dragon it'll be," Dáin agreed cheerfully, "But there may be a bigger party this time, if only because the egg is of Smaug. Besides, I don't know what ye think of us dwarves, but we do like t'have a knees up with plenty of beer, and this is as good a reason as any."
"We'll love to come," Myrtle bent slightly, allowing Frodo to be hoisted up to her saddle, out of reach of mischief.
"We'll bring presents," Frodo said quickly, his face screwing up in thought. "We'll have to have a great think!"
"'We'll have to give it some thought'," Bilbo corrected absently, and raised his eyebrow when Frodo stuck out his tongue at him. Prim - poor, late Prim - had let her boy run rather wild, and as much as Frodo was a joy to have around, he could also be rather trying.
Bilbo also suspected that foisting off the boy on Bofur was probably not a very good idea, especially when Frodo started all but shrieking with laughter when Ósorgr pulled faces at him, but they did have an appointment in Dale.
Siloratan was curled in silvery loops, occasionally interjecting when Legolas laughed - Bard was stumbling over Quenya, sounding as though he was mangling the delicate language even to Bilbo's untrained ears. The King of Dale looked up in relief when Bilbo landed, striding over to shake his hand after he dismounted. "What news?"
"Little since our last visit. The new princeling's lungs grow in depth each day," Bilbo said wryly. Sturdy as the Palace was, he could still hear it whenever young Fíli threw a tantrum. It had to be a dwarven thing, to get out all that was noisy and capricious in them when they could not yet walk, and become sober and stolid thereafter.
"You could stay here," Bard offered, though he grinned, and Legolas added at the same time, "You could stay in the Greenwood."
"I don't know," Myrtle noted mildly to Bilbo, "Which place would you rather have Thorin declare war on?"
"We could take them," Legolas said, and glanced up when Siloratan nudged at his shoulder, and translated. The dragon thought about this for a long moment, eyeing Myrtle, then Erebor, and leaned over, gently pushing Bard with the side of his snout a few steps towards Bilbo. Legolas laughed again, slapping his palm against Siloratan's silvery flank. "Father wouldn't be pleased that you think that way."
Siloratan sniffed, and curled up again, and they managed to go through almost half of lunch before the long-suffering raven arrived, perching on the back of the chair beside Bilbo and giving him a plaintive look.
"You can tell Thorin that I'll be home after lunch," Bilbo told it primly, and at its ruffled feathers, offered it a strip of steak at the pinkest part. Its great beak clacked over the meat, and it swallowed before leaping back up into the air.
Siloratan peered at him, then spoke to Legolas, who translated, amused, "Siloratan says that dwarves are careful never to let go of their good fortune."
To his consternation, Bilbo found himself blushing, and he muttered, "Well, um," even as Myrtle sniffed and helped herself to more pastries.
"It's good counsel in general," Bard declared, leaning over to curl his fingers over Legolas', and the Prince smiled, warm and bright.
3.0.
When Myrtle had calmed Hamfast down and then soothed an alarmed Dandelion with another cup of tea, she eyed Paladin firmly. "No. No more arbitrary responsibilities. Look what happened the last time!"
"Yes, well," Paladin looked a little shamefaced, "What happened was that we helped rid the world of a Great Evil, or something like that, didn't we, Gandalf?"
Gandalf arched a whiskery brow at them, settled in firmly for warm tea and biscuits the way an itinerant wizard only could. "Yes, of course."
"You never told us how that went," Esme said as politely as she could, but behind her chair, Yarrow leaned forward, eager for the story.
"Well," Gandalf harrumphed, "Once the Necromancer was fully distracted, we breached his stronghold with the Lady Galadriel's Nenya, and cleansed it."
"The end?" Paladin asked doubtfully.
"The end," Gandalf agreed, and drank his tea.
"Surely there was more to it than that," Bilbo began, always with his love of stories, "You took armies with you! All of the Men of Dale who were armed, all of the ground Elven and Dwarven troops. Surely-"
"The end," Gandalf repeated, raising his eyebrows. Certainly even Bard had been shaken by whatever he had seen in Dol Guldur - try as Bilbo might, he hadn't been able to pry the story out of the king. "There's some things that no manner of gentle folk ought to know about."
"But that's not fair!" Yarrow wailed.
"Fair's nothing to do with it, Yarrow," Gandalf retorted severely, "And don't you start, Bilbo Baggins. And don't you and Scabious go poking about in the ruins," Gandalf added, transferring his stern gaze to Scabious, who visibly flinched.
"We weren't even thinking about it," Paladin said defensively, "Much."
"And we were talking about Bilbo becoming the Mayor," Scabious added hastily.
"Oh? What's wrong with the current one?"
"He's getting a little on in years." Paladin supplied, and Gandalf huffed. "Begging your pardon, your immortalship."
"Your mother should have named you 'Scamp' like I suggested, Paladin Took," Gandalf muttered, though there was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "Well, why not?"
"Why not?" Bilbo echoed, horrified, "Why, I've had quite enough of politics and talking to's and arranging things, I have. I want to stay quietly in Bag End with little Frodo and try never to end up in another battle again, ever."
Myrtle nodded vigorously.
"In Bag End?" Esme asked, amused.
"Well, between here and there," Bilbo scowled at her, but she merely smirked and picked up another macaron. "Frodo doesn't mind, and Ori does a better job of teaching him his letters than any tutor here in the Shire."
"Ori," Gandalf repeated reflectively, "Dwalin's alpha?"
"I think so," Bilbo frowned. "Maybe not yet." Ori had fussed over Dwalin after the battle, and then they had disappeared somewhere before Bilbo could check on them. Aðalstein had seemed unconcerned, and although Dori had looked suspicious, he had been busy helping to coordinate the triage teams. "They're happy."
Ori had seemed happier and more self-confident after that, at least. There was someone for everyone after all. Thinking this over, lost in his own thoughts, Bilbo nearly missed Gandalf's question.
"And you, old friend?"
"Definitely," Bilbo said, and arched an eyebrow of his own when Gandalf continued to watch him thoughtfully. "What are you doing next, Gandalf?"
"Ah, there's always something for me to get up to here and there," Gandalf said vaguely, and Esme peppered him with questions even as Myrtle nudged Bilbo's arm. He petted her snout, stroking up to the horns on the bone ridges, and breathed out. This weekend. They'll go again to Erebor this weekend.
4.0.
"Your Majesty should be at Court," Bilbo told him, though he scooted over to let Thorin sit down, and leaned into the embrace as an arm snaked behind the small of his back.
Thorin snorted. "Court is not in session today. It's a firedrake's Hatching Day, after all. You should be at the party."
"Your sister's watching Frodo," Bilbo shrugged, and smiled lightly. Dís was taking to Minding Frodo with the same aggressive determination as she did anything else in life - Bilbo knew little Frodo would be kept strictly in line. "I wanted to sit with his parents for a while."
Drogo and Prim weren't technically buried here - like the other Shire casualties, what was left of them had been reverently laid to rest in the Greenfields - but this was closer than most, Bilbo felt, as he knocked out his pipe. Both Prim and Drogo had been felled by arrows, their bones shattered on the empty streets of Dale where they had landed, and Bilbo shivered at the memory, at the empty devastation he had felt when Paladin had numbly identified their bodies. War was the most horrific beast of all.
Thorin's arm tightened, and lips pressed briefly and comfortingly against his ear; couched in the scents of his dragon and his omega, Bilbo breathed out, warm and calm, and reached over to pick up Thorin's free hand, turning it palm up, pressing his thumb over the calluses. "When she was a little sprog, Prim believed that you could read a person's future on this," Bilbo traced what she had laughingly called a life line on Thorin's palm. "How long they'll live, how many children, who they'll mate with, that sort of thing."
"Did you believe it?" Thorin looked at his palm curiously, then grabbed Bilbo's, turning his palm up against his, comparing the lines.
"No." Bilbo said, with a laugh that sounded forced, even as Myrtle murmured, "Prim made up a lot of things when she was a hobbitling. Once she made us all hunt for the moon! She said that it had dropped into a lake. Poor Drogo swam out to see it, and almost drowned. Dandelion was in such a state."
"Poor Drogo," Bilbo echoed, looking up at the stone, as he tucked the pipe away. Offerings had little gifts had been left at the foot of the stone, mostly flowers. Myrtle and Bilbo had left a little bag of baccy, of Prim and Drogo's favourite Hornblower blend.
"Tell me about what she said," Thorin prompted gently, and Bilbo roused himself enough to trace out the life line, the heart line, the head line and the fate line. "You're selfish when it comes to love," Bilbo noted, amused, "And you're… what's this bit, Myrtle?"
She squinted. "Introverted, creative, many children? I can't remember," she declared, sounding subdued as she looked up at the stone, then she seemed to shake herself out of it, leaning over to spread her own clawed palm beside theirs.
"Wrong hand," Thorin told her, and she sniffed.
"Prim said that dragons go with their left." There were no lines on dragonscale, of course, but Thorin pretended to pay attention as Bilbo traced imaginary ones over Myrtle's palm.
"See that," Myrtle whispered, her wings arched around them both, "This bit's all the same. It means we'll be together for a very long time yet."
"Many children?" Bilbo asked, amused, as Myrtle carefully grasped Thorin's hand and turned it this way and that, then Bilbo's.
"I don't remember how that one was meant to go," Myrtle nuzzled Bilbo gently, then Thorin. "And maybe we should check Smaug's, but I think we'll be just fine."
Thorin eyed Myrtle with some surprise at the mention of Smaug, but she had already curled up around them both, clearly intent on dozing off on the sand. And so, instead, Thorin kissed Bilbo's temple instead, then his ear, then the corner of his mouth until Bilbo, laughing, turned to meet him. Entwined, entranced, they kissed and kissed until the sun came up, splashing golden over their future.