A/N: This one is for englishtutor, who requested another LotR fic. I'm so grateful for all of your support through the many years I've been posting on this site!


There was an authoritative ring on Bilbo Baggins' doorbell. He sighed, setting aside his paperwork (yes, he was actually alive, thank you very much, and his property was still definitely his, regardless of what the Sackville-Bagginses may say) and pushing back his chair. He considered ignoring the door: he was quite sick of solicitors and gossip-mongerers interrupting his long-awaited peace. But then the bell rang again, and he heard some deep-throated muttering and heavy stamping feet shifting on his doormat.

Those were no hobbits at his door.

Bilbo fingered his ring in his pocket as he nervously peeked out his window. He had no desire to confront any of the Big Folk: if he waited long enough, they might leave. But it wasn't Men or Elves at his door. It was Dwarves.

Hundreds of them. He could see them trailing down the road through the Shire for as far as he could see through his study window. Dwarves, dwarrowdams, even dwarflings. All were laden down with bundles and packs, and all were covered with a fine sheen of road dust. It was a miracle that he'd not noticed their presence sooner.

They're returning to the Lonely Mountain, he thought with a start. That was, after all, the whole point of the Company and Quest. To return the people of Durin to their homeland. It was one thing to know and quite another to actually see it happen, of course. Similar to how a dragon is a very interesting topic of discussion until it is staring at you with an eye larger than you are.

But why were the dwarves knocking on his door? All of the ones he knew were half a continent away in Erebor. Bilbo cautiously turned the knob, careful to stand to one side in case his visitors had the inclination to pile upon his welcoming mat like the last clumsy bunch.

Bilbo thought he knew dwarves. He had traveled and fought with thirteen of them for months. He knew silly dwarves and serious dwarves, greedy dwarves and generous dwarves, clever dwarves and dim dwarves. But the dwarrowdam on his doorstep was unlike any dwarf he had ever met.

She was regal.

Not like Thorin, with his brooding majesty, remnants of a royal heritage lost, although he could see hints of his stance in her posture. Not like Kili, with his deep-set pride and overzealous patriotism, although he sensed her loyalties were no less fierce. And not like Fili, with his quiet strength and loud entitlement, although he could see something of his personality in her sharp blue eyes.

She was like all of them, and yet not like them at all.

"Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins, at your service, your highness," he bowed low in the dwarven fashion. He knew the proper motions and posture for royalty: Balin had taught him for Dain's coronation. Bilbo was sure his execution was rusty, but hopefully she would not take offense.

He saw her eyes widen a fraction in surprise before she answered with deep bow of her own. Balin wasn't familiar enough with the intricacies of dwarven culture to know the full meaning behind the subtle gestures, but he was sure he did not deserve the honor they implied. Especially not from this particular dwarrowdam.

"Dís, daughter of Thrain, at yours."