Summary: Thorin Oakenshield saved Bilbo Baggin's life when he was a child, and Bilbo has been under the impression that they've been engaged all these long, lonely years. But when Thorin returns, he doesn't seem to have the slightest memory of Bilbo, let alone their engagement. Bilbo is sad and confused, but determined to win Thorin's favour on the dark, winding roads ahead. Based upon a lovely meme prompt. This can also be found on AO3. xoxo

Pairing: Thorin/Bilbo

Warnings: Violence, some language, eventual smut, angst, canon-divergence!


Chapter One

Thorin Oakenshield didn't possess many opinions concerning the Shire, nor it's rather peculiar inhabitants. It was simply a region he was obligated to pass through every now and again while he went about his business. He had hardly ever lingered more than an hour, and rarely had doings with it's people.

That changed briefly on a warm, sunny day in early autumn.

Thorin was trudging along a crude dirt path that wound it's way through the admittedly idyllic country. Everything was very green; lush with vegetation, trilling birds and fluffy, scurrying creatures. The air was congested with the heady scents of freshly cut grass and sun-baked blossoms. It felt as if the entire land was revelling in the final days of heat and light.

Sunset was a less than an away and Thorin's belongings had begun to weigh heavily on his shoulders. He had many miles yet to travel, and his thoughts strayed fleetingly to The Green Dragon, several miles back into Hobbiton. But he had decided against it already, preferring to work his way around the outskirts of the settlement, thereby avoiding many of the dwellings and the numerous, distrustful stares he would have received. He could abide a few lonely weeks on the road to Bree. Bofur had taken up temporary residence there, and The Prancing Pony was a much more welcoming establishment to their kind.

He rounded a bend and wide, largely unpopulated lands materialised before his eyes - a familiar sight. They stretched out ahead of him in rolling hills and hollow dips, dotted with plant-life, rife with unknown travellers and dangers. He felt unaccountably weary, thinking of the relatively short journey before him. There really was nothing to be done aside from pressing on; just as always.

Thorin was just passing a dense patch of greenery, mere centimetres from leaving Hobbiton behind, when he heard the sharp snap of a breaking branch, a child's startled yelp, and then a splash accompanied by a sickeningly hollow thunk.

He halted at once, listening intently. When there was no pained groan or splashing footsteps to be heard, he dropped his laden pack unceremoniously to the ground and crashed his way through the undergrowth. Just beyond the tree line was a bubbling, stony brook cutting a cheerful path beneath the leafy shade. A small body lay face down in the shallow water, unmoving.

Chest constricting, Thorin didn't hesitate to rush in. Though hardly reaching his calves, the water thoroughly soaked his boots, socks and trousers as he grabbed the wee hobbit lad round the middle and hauled him from the brook.

To Thorin's immense relief, the moment the hobbit's face was freed from the water he began to cough and splutter, releasing a pitiful moan.

"Be still, little one," Thorin admonished, as the sopping hobbit began wriggling weakly in his grip. He held the lad to his chest gently, but firmly as he waded out of the water and walked back to the lane. Thorin patted the halfling squarely on the back every now and again as the poor thing expelled more water from his lungs.

It wasn't until they were back on the path and standing safely next to his pack, that Thorin looked down to inspect the wee hobbit in the fading light. In addition to nearly drowning, there was also a painful lump on the hobbit's forehead, and a large gash at his temple that was bleeding profusely. Thorin realised his own front was already splattered with scarlet.

When Thorin pressed the sleeve of his tunic over the shallow but gushing wound, a pair of large blue-grey eyes peered blearily up at him through a nest of sopping blond curls. The hobbit blinked, then frowned, nose wrinkling as he saw that Thorin was indeed a dwarf.

"What were you doing, you foolish thing?" Thorin rumbled, more relieved than angry as he knelt slowly and drew a scrap of cloth from his pack; all the while keeping a tight hold on the lad. It was a spare cloth, for polishing his weapons, but he supposed this was as worthy a use as any.

"Here, hold this to your head."

The hobbit did as he requested, the dazed look in his eyes only becoming more pronounced the longer he gazed at Thorin. It was beginning to feel disconcerting. Thorin briefly attempted to set him upright on the hard-packed earth, but the hobbit tilted severely, like a sapling in high wind, and Thorin had to catch him up once more.

"What were you doing climbing trees with night approaching?" Thorin asked again, hoping the lad hadn't lost the power of speech.

"Keeping watch for elves," the hobbit said at last, voice faint. "They journey this way sometimes."

"Is that right?" Thorin was always less than pleased to hear any tidings of any elf. He heaved his pack over one shoulder with difficulty while his other arm clutched the thin span of the hobbit's hips.

"Yes... I fell trying to climb down. The fireworks are starting soon. I suppose I shan't be going now." He looked so downcast that Thorin had to bite back a bark of agitated laughter; it reminded him so of Kíli when Thorin had private talks and training sessions with Fíli.

"I'm certain you won't miss anything," Thorin said automatically, patience far beyond waned by the delay.

He hastened back into the depths of the Shire as fast as he was able without jostling the injured halfling too roughly. Not that Thorin thought the lad noticed much of anything. He was too busy putting pressure on his wound and leaning his head against Thorin's shoulder; he still seemed rather dazed. His free hand tangled in Thorin's long hair.

"Do you live in a cave?" the hobbit inquired, voice faintly slurred, when the silence had grown uncomfortably prolonged.

Thorin's thoughts flew immediately to Erebor. "No," he answered, feet backtracking through Hobbiton grudgingly. His boots squished unpleasantly with every step. "We live in the large caverns beneath Ered Luin. The Blue Mountains," he added for the lad's sake.

"Sounds like a cave," the hobbit muttered. Then, more brightly: "Do you grow things there?"

The question was rather startling. "We create things."

The hobbit sighed woefully, like he'd expected nothing less. "I have flowers and tomato vines to attend to before winter comes. I expect I can't bring them with us, though."

Thorin listened to the halfling's rambling with a growing smile behind his beard. "Us?"

"When we are married."

Thorin was truly in danger of laughing then, but wished to cause the halfling no further distress. "Why do you speak of matrimony? Aren't you a bit young for such considerations?"

"You saved me," Bilbo told him solemnly.

"I did save you," Thorin said quietly, mostly to himself. The bone-chilling image of that small body bobbing prostrate in the water (but with no one to fish him out this time around) came unbidden to Thorin's mind and he frowned deeply.

"That means we're bound to each other forever," the halfling informed him seriously. "All the tales say so."

Thorin regarded him with bemusement, never having heard any such thing. He hadn't known there was any hobbit lore to speak of!

"You'll want to stay in the mountains, I suppose." The halfling grimaced at his own words, a worry line appearing between his brows. "Is it cold there?"

And so, Thorin, deliberately ignoring the lad's folly concerning marriage (he must have hit his head harder than Thorin originally assumed), was goaded into telling all he knew of Ered Luin, which was a considerable amount. As he spoke of it, his mind consistently strayed to Erebor and his missing father.

The halfling proved to be an attentive listener in spite of his obvious concussion, drinking in Thorin's words eagerly and clutching one of Thorin's braids in a fat fist.

The black, jewel studded veil of night had fallen by the time they'd reached the centre of Hobbiton. It was unusually bustling with activity. At first Thorin assumed that the hobbits were forming a search party for the halfling in his arms, but the both of them were spared only passing, mistrustful glances from the other hobbits before they moved on, clearly intent upon something else.

"What's happening?" Thorin inquired.

The lad looked at him like he was daft. "I told you; fireworks. We nearly always have a show when Gandalf visits."

"The Gandalf? Gandalf the Grey?" Thorin asked, startled.

"Uh-huh."

The mere thought that the reputable, travelling wizard would visit the Shire to please it's people with a firework display was farcical; risible. Not nearly as risible as picturing the obstinate, robust creatures mixing up the explosive powders necessary to create fireworks themselves, however.

"Where is the nearest healer to be found?" Thorin asked, hoping that whomever it was would be free to take the halfling off his hands.

The lad pointed him in the right direction, looking about gloomily at his chattering fellows. "I hope I'm still able to go," he repeated.

Thorin didn't answer, simply hastened to the healer's premises, wending his way between the excited throng of hobbits with care.

The healer, a particularly fat, red-faced specimen, didn't mention either fireworks nor Gandalf, but Thorin saw the way her eyes lingered on the clusters of hobbits chattering boisterously together.

"C'mere then," she groused, snatching the halfling from Thorin's arms without bothering to evaluate the situation. "I'll make sure 'e gets 'ome alright, and that 'is injuries are well treated. This un's in 'ere all the time. I'll send for 'is parents straight off."

Thorin nodded. "Thank you." The Green Dragon was truly out of the question now. He didn't wish to be sought for an explanation by the halfling's parents. He readjusted his pack, contents hopefully none the worse for wear after being discarded so forcefully. Nothing sounded broken.

"Wait!" The lad called, as Thorin turned to depart for Bree again. "Tell me your name."

"Thorin," he called back, through the cacophony. "I am Thorin Oakenshield." As ever, he proclaimed his title with a conflicting mixture of pride, shame and defiance.

"I'm Bilbo Baggins," the hobbit shouted as Thorin retreated, voice thin, hapless; he was still grasping Thorin's scrap of cloth to his face like it was something precious. He yelled many other things, as well, but Thorin couldn't discern them and didn't go back to find out. He'd hoped to have already set up camp by this time and have a nice fire blazing; he wasn't wasting any more time.

Thorin sent the halfling one last forced smile through the crowd and lifted his hand in farewell before keeping on his solitary way.