A/N: So, I'm really sorry about how long this took! Life got quite crazy. I'm going to do my best to stick to at least weekly updates from now on, though. Thanks for your patience, and I hope this was worth the wait.

This one is for everyone who wanted more Frodo and Thorin interaction. I promised I'd get to it eventually!


Bilbo was in a cooking frenzy. This mood seemed to strike him about every ten days, and it made Frodo terribly nervous. Bilbo would simply wake up of a morning and set upon the kitchen with an almost violent determination, as if he had an entire army to feed by midday. He would bake, stew, boil, and pickle without rest until some mysterious point at which he decided there was now enough food in the pantry. Satisfied, he would collapse for the rest of the day with a book, too exhausted to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Frodo had quickly learned to stay out of his way when he was in these moods. Most of the time Bilbo liked having help in the kitchen, and unless he was being tasked with a particularly dirty bit of tidying up, Frodo enjoyed helping him. But on these mad days, Bilbo would reject all offers of assistance with a snappish, "Yes, you can help by keeping out of my way!"

So that Thursday morning, Frodo was curled in a corner of the kitchen with a beautifully illustrated volume of birds and beasts of the Shire. He had positioned himself far away enough from Bilbo to be unobtrusive, but close enough that he would be on hand if Bilbo did actually need him to do something, like run out to the market to get a missing ingredient or pick an herb from the garden. Normally he would have loitered in the dining room, to put a little more distance between himself and his cousin, but that space was presently being occupied by none other than Thorin Oakenshield.

Occupied was a highly appropriate term. Thorin had spread out several maps from Bilbo's collection on the dining room table, and spent the morning covering them with little chips of semi-precious stones and then moving the chips back and forth. Frodo had no idea what he was doing, but the heavy furrow in his brow indicated that he found it extremely absorbing.

Occasionally, Thorin would get up from the table, wander into the kitchen, and grab some of whatever Bilbo was cooking. This earned him a succession of evil glares that he completely ignored. Frodo was greatly impressed by this display of bravery. Orcs and trolls were something of an abstract concept to him, but Bilbo on a cooking day was a danger that he understood and respected.

Frodo tried to keep his attention on his book, but he was fascinated by the mystery of the maps. Normally he would have asked Bilbo to explain, but today the interruption was not likely to be well received. Sometimes Frodo wished he had a little more of Merry's daring. He was sure that if his friend had been here rather than back in Buckland, he probably would have marched right up to Thorin and asked directly. On the other hand, Frodo seemed to spend most of his time trying to keep Merry out of trouble, so he wasn't sure what would happen if neither of them knew how to be careful.

He gazed longingly at the maps. Finally, curiosity won out over caution, and he tiptoed into the dining room for a closer look. Thorin was staring at a map of Erebor and its surroundings, arranging pieces of amethyst around the Lonely Mountain and the city of Dale. A much larger number of turquoise nuggets were positioned around Esgaroth and the Long Lake. Since Thorin did not seem to object to his presence, Frodo moved even closer.

"These are my dwarves," Thorin said suddenly, pointing at the amethysts. He jabbed a finger at the turquoise. "And these are an orc horde come down through the Grey Mountains."

Frodo began to understand. "It's a battle?"

Thorin grunted an affirmative.

"A battle that already happened?" Frodo guessed.

"A battle I hope to never see," Thorin said shortly. "But if it happens, my plans will be in place. I'm checking every direction the enemy might come against a defending force of our current numbers." He pointed at the amethysts again. "When I've finished, I will do it again with different numbers of orcs and with my estimates of how many warriors Erebor will have in fifty years."

Frodo gazed down at the arrangement of dwarves and orcs. He didn't understand the strategy Thorin was setting up, but there seemed to be a lot more turquoise than amethyst.

"There's a lot of orcs," he said. "Isn't there anyone else who could help you? Like…the Big Folk in Dale?" He remembered just in time not to mention the elves. Bilbo had cautioned him that Thorin could be sensitive on the subject of elves.

Thorin shook his head. "I cannot count on outside help. It is true that we have fought alongside the men of Dale before, and likely will again, but I am determined that Erebor should be able to defend itself alone against any foe." He patted a full pouch on the table, which clinked. "I do have some 'Men' in here. But it is likely that I will be responsible for their defense. I need to be prepared for that as well." Seeing Frodo's confused look, he elaborated. "I am the lord of a fortress city, the most defensible spot in the entire region. That means that if war comes to our corner of the world, the people of Dale, Esgaroth, the surrounding settlements, and possibly even our kin from the Iron Hills will show up at my door seeking shelter. They will bring warriors and supplies, but not enough. I have to be able to deploy them, defend them, and feed them at very little notice. That is the responsibility of the King Under the Mountain. They love my smiths and my gold, but not as much as they love my walls in these troubled times."

"Responsibility," mused Frodo. It wasn't something he had given much thought to, except for when an adult was telling him he lacked it. In Brandy Hall, he hadn't even been allowed to have a pet. But Thorin had to be responsible for the lives of thousands of people. No wonder he was so serious all the time.

Just then, Bilbo shouted from the kitchen telling Frodo to go down to the market and buy him some currants for a batch of scones. Frodo hurried to obey, only realizing on his way out the door that for the first time, Thorin had actually talked to him. And he hadn't treated him like a child, either, but like an adult old enough to understand the difficulties of kingship.


The market was Frodo's favorite thing about living in Hobbiton. Twice a week, the local farmers, butchers, bakers, and craftsmen put their wares on display. It might have been a small affair compared to the Big Market every Sunday in Michel Delving, where more serious business was transacted and goods from Bree and further outside the Shire were available, but the residents of Hobbiton took their market seriously. Almost every family in the village grew or made some offering (mostly of the edible variety), and would at least occasionally set up a table. To Frodo, it was paradise. Brandy Hall had been directly supplied with food and other necessities by the village of Bucklebury and nearby farmsteads of the Eastfarthing, importing from elsewhere in the Shire when necessary. Frodo had rarely had opportunity to stroll through rows of stalls and tables, taking in the sights and smells of all the Shire had to offer. As wonderful as a well-laden table was, nothing could compare to the pleasure of wandering through a market with a handful of coins from Bilbo burning a hole in his pocket. Should he buy some of the little meat pies? A peck of apples? It was so hard to decide.

Sometimes Frodo became so lost in serious contemplation of the alternatives that he would spend several hours without buying anything at all. The possibilities were as delicious as his actual purchases. Today, though, he was in something of a rush. It wouldn't do to keep Bilbo waiting. His cousin often gave him a little too much money for an errand, with a wink and the understanding that he should buy himself something extra, but right now the best plan would be to get Bilbo his currants before it got too late in the day. Also, if he hurried back, he might be able to take another look at Thorin's battle maps.

The line in front of the dried fruit seller's stall seemed unnecessarily long that day. Frodo gave his order to the assistant, and then settled down to wait. Impatiently, he scuffed his feet in the dirt and then picked up a little stick he found there, swinging it back and forth and imagining that he was a mighty warrior wielding a sword of Gondolin. He wondered where Gondolin actually was. Bilbo had probably told him at some point, but he had been more focused on battles and adventures than on geography.

A hand fell on his shoulder, making him jump. He wheeled around, dropping his stick-sword back into the dust. A mistake, he knew. A true warrior would never let go of his weapon.

A grey-haired older lady was peering down at him with a pinched and sour expression. Her hair was aggressively pinned up in a bun, with spiky hairpins protruding in all directions. Her dress was starched and ironed within an inch of its life. Frodo could tell that she was the kind of person who made a habit of beating young hobbits with the temerity to track dirt within a mile or so of her doorstep. He tried to take a step away from her, but her bony grip tightened on his arm.

"You must be the Baggins boy," she said. "The one from Buckland."

He nodded mutely.

"Living in Hobbiton, now, I hear?" This sounded quite accusatory.

Frodo nodded again, and made another attempt to squirm out of her grasp.

He would not have thought it possible, but her gaze became even more displeased. "Well, boy? Where are your manners? Didn't they teach you to greet relatives properly in Buckland?"

Frodo's tension was reaching an unbearable level.

"But I don't know who you are!" he practically wailed, sounding like a much younger hobbit.

She drew herself up to her full height, mouth working furiously.

"I?" she hissed. "I am Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and my husband Otho is the rightful heir to Bag End!"

Now he recognized her, mostly from Bilbo's less-than-flattering accounts, although he must have met her a few times at extended Baggins family gatherings. Her son Lotho was a few years older than him, and was a horrible boy who had delighted in tormenting his younger relatives at parties by snatching away their presents, even though they were things that he was too old to really want for himself.

Frodo tried to remember his manners.

"Frodo Baggins at your service, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins," he said weakly, extending his left hand to her, as his right arm was still immobilized by her grip. She ignored him.

"Is it true that there is a dwarf living in Bag End?" she demanded.

He sighed. Of course word would have got out. It was the Shire, after all, and gossip such as this would have been irresistible. Thorin hadn't exactly been hiding inside, either, although he had not ventured far from Bag End in the past few days. And while Merry hopefully possessed the good sense not to tell anyone who Thorin was, he might not have been able to resist dropping a few hints about Bilbo's mysterious visitor.

"We do have a guest," he admitted.

"A guest who is a dwarf?"

"Well, yes."

Lobelia looked as if she had just smelled something foul.

"I hoped he had stopped all that nonsense," she sniffed. "He used to have unsavory types coming and going at the oddest times, but we haven't seen any of them in years. But even then, they didn't stay for days and days. What is the family coming to? Nobody will believe the Bagginses are respectable now! A dwarf! Some no-good thieving tinker, I don't doubt, making his living off robbing honest folk."

"He's not!" Frodo snapped. "He's a very honorable person!"

"Hah!" snapped Lobelia. "What nonsense! What does a Buckland brat like you know about it? I hear they associate with all sorts across the river!"

Frodo opened his mouth. How he wanted to tell her the truth! But Bilbo had insisted that the resulting storm of gossip if Thorin's identity became widely known would be unbearable for all of them. The Shire-folk might not know where Erebor was, but they would be quick enough to associate "dwarf" and "king" with "gold", and be crowding around Bag End at all hours hoping for a peek or asking for a handout. Bilbo didn't care much for public opinion, but he valued his privacy—another trait that made him strange in the eyes of the Shire.

Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was still talking.

"No good will come of associating with such shady characters! You tell Bilbo—!"

Thankfully just then the shopkeeper waved to Frodo with the little parcel of currants, allowing him an excuse for a speedy escape.


On his way home, he kept thinking about swords. If he had one, surely people would stop backing him into corners and grabbing him and asking unpleasant questions. A real hero wouldn't be afraid of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, he imagined. Although, he couldn't imagine Bilbo whipping out Sting and using it to subdue gossipy relatives. Bilbo had showed him the little sword a few times, and even let him hold it once. But after Bilbo had caught him trying to take it to go show Merry, he had locked it away in a trunk, admonishing Frodo that a real weapon was not a toy and he hoped he would never have an occasion to use one.

What Frodo hadn't seen yet was Orcrist, and it had been sitting by his front door for days now. Thorin had left it propped there rather than to go armed in Bag End, although Frodo was sure that he had some other pieces of concealed weaponry. When he had inspected Thorin's boots the previous day, he had found a little sheath sown into the side of each one. He hadn't found the knives anywhere, though.

So after delivering the currants to Bilbo and retreating from the kitchen, Frodo found himself out in the hallway staring at the great curved sword in its scabbard. He could ask Thorin to take it out and show him, but that didn't seem quite respectful somehow. As Bilbo had said, a sword was not a toy.

But would it really hurt just to take a look at it?

Tentatively, he tried to slide the sword from its sheath. But he was too short in relation to the length of the blade, and merely succeeded in dragging the whole thing a few feet along the floor. It was surprisingly heavy. He could hardly lift it off the ground. Looking about him, he spotted a little table against the wall, and hopped up on it, propping the tip of the sheath against the ground. It wobbled dangerously, but he ignored it in pursuit of his goal. He yanked up with all his strength, and the sword slid free. For a moment, the Goblin-Cleaver was extended magnificently in front of him, the weapon of mighty warriors of Gondolin (wherever that had been), rediscovered in a troll-hoard, and now wielded by the heroic Frodo Baggins—

A sound in the doorway caught his attention. He looked up from the sword and saw Thorin Oakenshield standing there observing him, arms folded across his chest.

Just then, the rickety table collapsed, unable to bear Frodo's slight weight for any longer. Frodo slammed into the floor with Orcrist extended before him and skidded forward, leaving an enormous gash in the flooring. Cautiously, he uncurled his fingers from the hilt and picked himself up to regard the damage. It took a moment for him to gather his courage enough to look up at the sword's owner.

Thorin threw back his head and let out a roar. Frodo trembled. Then, he realized it was not a sound of rage. Thorin was laughing.


When Bilbo emerged from the kitchen half an hour later, with his last batch of scones finally out of the oven, he was met by an astonishing sight. Thorin was adjusting Frodo's grip on a stick of firewood, showing him a simple thrust and parry.

"My people mostly depend on strength in a fight," Thorin was saying, "But you will never have that kind of advantage, even when you're grown. Better for you to rely on your natural speed and agility. But even so, you should have some experience blocking the attacks of an opponent a great deal stronger than yourself."

Bilbo had been meaning to offer them some scones, but he took one look at Frodo's rapt expression and headed back into the kitchen to start dinner. He didn't want to interrupt.

Later, Thorin told him the whole story of Orcrist, the table, and the two-foot long scrape on the floor in Bilbo's front hall. Thorin had rescued his weapon from the young hobbit and set about supplying him with something less likely to cause permanent damage to the hobbit-hole and its inhabitants.

"I wouldn't have expected you to take an interest," Bilbo remarked. Thorin had seemed to take very little notice of Frodo so far.

Thorin's mouth quirked into a slight smile, but the expression was tinged with sadness. "It reminded me of my lads," he said. "At his age, they were getting into everything—the forge, the kitchen, the weapons. Keeping them out of trouble was impossible. You just had to try to steer their destructive capabilities towards something useful, or at least stop them from doing themselves too much harm."

Bilbo had known that Thorin had been the primary guardian to his nephews for much of their upbringing, but he had never really imagined Thorin with a rambunctious preadolescent Fíli and Kíli in tow. The image was unexpectedly touching, but also more than a bit frightening.

"I think you know a lot more about raising boys than I do," he admitted. "I'm a little out of my depth. I acted on an impulse, bringing Frodo here, and now, well...I'm responsible for him, aren't I? To be honest with you, it's terrifying."

Thorin shrugged. "It's like everything else. You do what you must."

Bilbo glanced down at where the stoneflower pendant was concealed beneath his shirt. He couldn't protect Frodo forever. One day, his heir might face challenges and dangers that he could not shield him from. But until then, wasn't his responsibility to keep him as safe as possible?


A/N: Thanks for reading! If anyone felt the lack of angsty BoFA backstory, don't worry, it will return next chapter with a vengeance.