Happy New Year! I hope that you all are looking forward to 2018, and that it is a wonderful year for you. Thank you for all your support in 2017, and all the years before :D One of my resolutions is to stick to an update schedule of Mondays and Fridays, so you should get two chapters a week! They may be slightly more updates before we catch up to where the we were before, but Mondays and Fridays are the set days.

Anyways, without further ado, I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Carers of Kin

Bifur had spent most of his life caring for children that shared his blood. None were his own, yet his little brothers, his cousins and now his nephews and nieces all shared a bloodline that bound them through years and sorrows.

He had grown up caring for his brothers, teaching and playing and brawling with them as all the best brothers do. Only his sister, Billa, had been older than he was, and that was not by much. So, for the most part, he was the big brother. And it was a role that he adored. It was as natural as breathing to him.

Bifur's father had been a twin, and very close to his brother, so Bifur spent plenty of time looking after his younger cousins, too. When a famine had taken away his pregnant aunt, his uncle and cousins had moved into Bifur's house, and Bifur had helped with the little ones all the more. They had hardships and griefs, but they had each other.

Bifur had only been a hundred and one, only one year past coming of age, when he had woken in a strange room, and learnt that there was an axe embedded in his skull. Learnt that his family had been slaughtered. His parents, and his uncle – gone. His sister. His brothers, Bilfur and Bivur, and little Biorr, who had only just learnt how to tie his shoes. His cousins, Boa and Bodur. They were dead. All dead. Of his whole family, only three had survived – Bifur, and the youngest of his cousins. The only two that his own mother had been able to hide before the orcs came down upon them. Cut her down where she stood.

Bofur and Bombur.

He had gone from a family of twelve to a family of three in one day. But he still had children under his care. No matter how wounded he was, how difficult his injury made his life, he knew that he had to look after Bofur and Bombur. And he had done it – through fits that left him twitching on the floor to breaks with reality itself, he had looked after his cousins. In turn, they had looked after him.

Slowly, he got better. Slowly, Bofur and Bombur grew, until they no longer needed a babysitter. Eventually, Bombur was having babes of his own, and Bifur began to care for them. He may not know what life there could be for one as addled as he was, but he knew what he had to do for his family.

And he knew his cousins, better than they knew themselves.

Despite what they would have the world believe, Bombur and Bofur were both predictable, at least to one who knew them well. They often made Bifur proud, and did things that impressed him, but he was never really surprised.

Of course, Bofur would cry at the loss of a hat and not the breaking of a bone – pain did not bother the young dwarf half as much as sadness. Of course, Bombur would fall in love with a fussy eater – he appreciated kindness and an open heart far more than he did food, and he would live off nothing but bland vegetables if it would make his Marta happy.

Bombur's children were much the same. Of course, Ola would refuse to speak in Iglishmêk with Uncle Bifur – her hands were always far too busy fidgeting with a little toy or piece of string or her hair, and she knew that he could understand her just fine. Of course, Bróin would run off with Nelly and Frodo in a valiant (if stupid) effort to save his family, and the world – the boy had never feared harm to himself, and had been an adventurer since birth.

But Bifur was surprised by Bofin.

"I'm coming with you, Uncle Bofur."

"You most certainly are not," Bofur said firmly, folding his arms over his chest. "I told you – when the elves say it's safe enough, you're to go back to the Shire and stay with your siblings. They need you, Bofin."

"No," Bofin swallowed, shifting awkwardly on his large feet. Bifur's eyebrows rose as his surprise grew. His nephew had not voiced any desire to come while they were in the meeting room, but now, alone with Bofur and Bifur, he was insisted. Bofin was the last dwarf he would associate with petulance, and when he said 'no,' he always had cause. "No, I have to come with you. I have to make sure Bro is safe. If I was you, and Adad had run off, you'd follow."

"Aye, but you're not me, and Bróin's not your father." Bofur paused, tugging on his moustache, and then added more gently. "He's my responsibility, not yours, I've told you that, lad. I'll bring him home."

Ears growing redder by the second, Bofin shook his head, and Bifur felt his own head began to tilt slightly to the side, as if that would help him understand. "I have to come with you.

"Why?" asked Bifur, and Bofin's soft green eyes flickered to the older dwarf's face. "Why do you wish to go? There is no dishonour staying, you know that. You know others are more capable of protecting your brother – you do not like to travel rough, little one."

"I have to," Bofin insisted, twisting his hands in his shirt the same way that Bombur used to when he was talking about anything important. "Gandalf says there is room for me. And if I stay, I, I won't be able to forgive myself."

"Forgive yourself? What is there to forgive?" Bofur stared incredulously at his nephew, who did not answer. "I told you – you ought to go back to the shire. You're of more use there, I'm sure of it."

Bifur stared intently at Bofin. The boy, though nowhere near the girth of his father, was larger around the middle than your average dwarf, and his round face often saw him confused for the younger sibling when he stood beside the taller, more toned Bróin. Not only in looks did he resemble Bombur – Bofin was soft spoken and gentle (save when he bickered with his siblings) and he did not much like hardships or hunger, even if the easier road bore less fruit.

"All I need is enough to fill my plate," Bombur used to say, when Bofur spoke of quests and treasure hunts and riches. "No need looking for coin to fill my pockets." It was a philosophy that Bofin had always shared.

But if he was this determined to go…

"You may come," said Bifur, and both Bofur and Bofin stared at him in shock. "If you do not wish to tell us why, I will not pry, but this is important to you, I see. Not simply a thought that this is what you should do." He looked at Bofur as he finished speaking, and he seemed to both shrink and age a hundred years in the same moment. His laughter lines looked more like wrinkles, and his eyes were heavy with grief. His mouth was tight with worry, with no room for his usual smile.

Bofin glanced at him, then back at Bifur, and bit down on his lip.

Finally, Bofur nodded. "Go and put together a pack, and put on your mail." He said dully. "We ride at dusk, you've got two hours. If you're sure."

Bofin bowed, and hurried away, but there was no trace of the eager joy of a child allowed to go on an adult trip. Instead, his hurry was solemn, meaningful and strong and yet somehow still gentle. It reminded Bifur of the great eagles, and how their strength was undiminished by the soft down of their feathers.

As soon as Bofin was gone, Bofur whirled around, his eyes misted with fury and fear. "What on earth did you do that for?"

Bifur sighed sadly, putting a hand on Bofur's arm. His cousin looked away. "Bofin is not acting on a whim, nor is he acting without knowledge of the consequences. You know that."

Bofur let out a hollow laugh, still refusing to meet Bifur's eye. "Bombur's gonna kill me. And he'll be right to! First letting Bróin slip through my fingers and then taking Bofin into danger like this – he'll kill me, and he'll be right to."

"No." Bifur frowned heavily. If Bombur reacted with anger or violence, Bifur would be surprised indeed. "He will understand. Bofin is seventy-two – little younger than Kíli on the quest."

"And look what that quest did to him," Bofur protested, finally meeting Bifur's gaze. The terror alone was enough to strike Bifur in the gut. "Let alone the physical tortures he went through! The nightmares, the mind sickness – it damn near killed him."

Bifur did not try to argue against that. Bofur was right, and Bifur had long thought it so. Instead, he sighed. "I do not want Bofin to go. It hurts my heart to see it. But he is like his father. He is not protesting for the sake of it, nor moving because he feels it will bring him glory. He will go, or he will regret it until the day that he dies."

"And if he dies on the road?"

Bifur's heart stuttered, and he closed his eyes, holding tighter to Bofur's arm. "If – at least he would have the dignity of choice. He is not a child, Bofur. Many younger than he have gone to war."

"And now lay in graves."

"It would crush me, if anything were to happen to either of those boys," said Bifur sharply, shaking Bofur's wrist. "It would kill me. But that does not make this decision wrong."

Tears began to tip out of Bofur's eyes. "I, I think you're right, Bif, but, by Mahal I wish that I didn't."

"I know." Bifur could feel his own tears tickle his lashes.

"I feel I've failed them." Bofur's voice grew thicker. "Bróin and Bofin, both feeling they have to go, that their elders aren't enough, that I'm not enough, and Sam – my Sam's going to make a shield of himself I just know he is, Bif, and I can't-"

Bifur pulled Bofur into a crushing hug, and his cousin embraced it with the ferocity of a dying man. Bifur could not really answer him about Bróin or Bofin or brave little Sam, because the same fears were plaguing his own mind.

But Bifur was used to caring for his family, and so he said all he could. "You are not a failure. Our boys are simply stupid."

Bofur's laugh was a little stronger, as was his grip around Bifur's neck. Then he sighed, heavily, and pulled away, wiping at his eyes. "Ah, Bif… What've we gotten ourselves into?"

Bifur smiled sadly and shook his head. "I am proud of you."

"Aye," smiled Bofur, with a half-hearted, "so you should be."

Then Bofur took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, twirled his moustache and straightened his hat. He painted a smile onto his face that almost turned the wrinkles back into laughter lines, and wore the cheerful mask even when Bofin saddled his pony and slipped silently into the darkness outside Rivendell with the rest of them.

And Bifur was not surprised.

It would be so much easier if she did not love the baby.

If she did not love the baby, Dís would not mourn when it was lost. And it would be when – the last four pregnancies had resigned her to that. She was not young, and it seemed that it a babe of mixed blood was never meant to be. If she did not love the baby, that would not hurt so much.

If she did not love the baby, it would be easier to hide the growing bump beneath the leather corset that doubled as body armour, for it would not feel that it a was secret worth keeping.

If she did not love the baby, it would be easier to blame it – if Frodo had not guessed, if the sweet, stupid little boy she had long thought of as a son had not noticed the headaches and nausea she had so desperately hid, would he still have taken the ring? She was not sure, but if she did not love the baby she could blame it, and hate it for driving Frodo to such extremes.

She could hate it from stopping her from pledging to join Bilbo and Kíli in the first place.

If she did not love the baby, she would not be burdened by her decision to follow Frodo. Dwarven women stayed active throughout most pregnancies, but this was not a leisurely hike. They were riding fast as their ponies could manage, but only when darkness gave them cover, and an added risk of jostling or falling. There was no conversation, save murmurs and whispers when they paused and hid during the day. No breaks, save a quarter hour at midnight to feed and relieve themselves. If she did not love the baby, her heart would not lurch and every stumble of her pony's hooves, and she would not carry the guilt of wondering if saving one child would lose her the other.

But Frodo was alive, and she knew this. The poor soul in her womb would probably never live, even if she confined herself to bedrest for the coming months. If she did not love the baby, it would not hurt so much. But even though she loved her baby, she knew that she had to put Frodo first. He was in more danger, yet she had a greater chance to save him.

So she had steeled herself, and ridden forth from Rivendell. Gandalf was their leader, and rode at their head. He had cast some sort of tracking spell – she neither knew nor cared to know the ins or outs of it – but described a pale light on the ground where Frodo and the others had trodden. It would allow them to match the trajectory, he said, without being forced to use daylight to discern tracks, or follow them exactly. It would make it less obvious that they were following at all.

She hoped. They rode in a group of sixteen – bigger than she might have liked, given that they were attempting to go unnoticed, but not so big that secrecy was impossible. After all, it was only one more person than there had been during the Quest for Erebor, and stealth had been important there, too. The main difficulty they had was hiding so many ponies and horses during times of rest, but Glorfindel and Erestor – the elves that had accompanied them – helped often with that. They would coax the beasts down to the cover of bushes or trees, or remove their baggage to make them appear as a wild herd. Along with Gandalf, their knowledge of the land meant that a cave, or at least rocky formation or cluster of trees, could offer the company a more secluded place to rest.

A selfish part of Dís wished that their group could stay so large forever, but it would not. As soon as they caught Frodo – if indeed they managed it – Bilbo, Kíli, Nori, Bofur and Bragi would follow Gandalf and Glorfindel to Mordor. With the help of their remaining companions, Dís and Fíli would corral Frodo and the others, and hasten back to Erebor.

It would be a road wrought with peril, but it would be safer than Mordor.

Her heart felt like it was being struck by an anvil, but Dís rode with her head held high and her emotions locked deep inside. They would have to be if her family were to escape this doom alive. Soon, too soon, she would be sundered from Kíli and Bilbo. Perhaps forever.

Dís gasped, her hand flying from the reins to rest upon her stomach. Then, again, she felt it.

A familiar fluttering sensation, a feeling like bubbles rising through her belly.

Again, it came, so soft she might have missed it, but unmistakeable.

The baby was moving.

Dís closed her eyes, and dragged her hand back to the reins.

It would be so much easier if she did not love her baby.

As it transpired, Odo the pony could keep up with the wolves. Frodo was convinced that it was sheer stubbornness, learnt from his master. The pony would often lag towards the bag of the group, but if ever someone suggested it was slowing them down, Gimli would dig in gently with his heels and the pony would throw back its black mane, snort in annoyance and trot to the front of the group.

In a way, it reminded Frodo of Uncle Thorin.

However, despite Odo's brave speed, they did not reach Hollin the day after tomorrow. Instead, it was the day following that – a week to the day after they left Rivendell. Frodo did not mind a little leeway on their proposed schedule. Even as they had written it, studying maps and making calculations and plans, they had left some wiggle room. As it was, when they were travelling to and from Erebor, it usually took them two or even three weeks to reach this point, if they had passed through Rivendell.

Usually, they did not. It had long been safer to pass through the gap of Rohan than try and cross the Misty Mountains with wagons and children, so more often they took the Green Way, straight from the Shire to the river Isen.

As such, Frodo did not know Hollin well, but he liked the land. There was a rich, wholesome air about it, and they had passed through it this year. Bilbo had wanted to visit Rivendell on the way to the Shire, though it had delayed them. Frodo suspected that he had been hoping to run into Gandalf.

No. Frodo could not think of Bilbo and Gandalf. The guilt burnt his heart too strongly, no matter how firmly he believed in his cause.

The ring, his beautiful ring, was so precious to him, so dear already, and already he loathed it. And loathed the idea of anyone taking it from him. Bilbo would likely never forgive him. Frodo knew he would just have to live with that, and he knew that he could live with that, as long as Bilbo was alive.

Instead, he turned his attention back to Hollin – the trees, the grass, the clear air. It was peaceful, quiet.

It was very quiet.

Frodo did not notice how quiet it was. He simply rode until the sun had almost waned, and then slipped from his wolf's back and slumped down next to Sam at the campfire. It was Bróin's turn to cook, and everyone's moods were a little lighter. Having no sign of pursuit from friend or foe had taken a little of the stress from their hearts, and Frodo felt comfortable beneath the early moon.

It reminded him of a long time ago, of a night when Bilbo was not angry at him, and when he felt safe as can be beneath the stars.

Frodo could not get comfortable in bed. It was too big, too soft, and he was too alone in the room. His feet dangled above the floor for a moment, and he whimpered, dropping down onto the floor. He sniffed, and held tightly to the blanket his mama had made him.

Would Uncle Bilbo be mad if he got up already?

Maybe not. Not if he said it was a nightmare –

He padded slowly down the hall, but Bilbo's door was open and there was no one in there. Frodo swallowed. He had not been alone in months. In forever.

A draft ruffled his hair, and he peered up the hall. He could hear chattering, quiet talking between Bilbo and Kíli, and Frodo sighed in relief. He hurried down to the front door, and saw Bilbo sitting on the path outside, between Fíli and Kíli. They were all staring up at the sky.

Frodo swallowed. "Uncle Bilbo?"

"Come here, Frodo," Bilbo said warmly, holding out his hand. Frodo scampered over, and clambered into Bilbo's lap. "Look!"

Frodo looked up at the sky, and gasped. There were stars flying across the sky, flying like fairies! He had never seen stars fly before. Uncle Bilbo's arms wound around him, and Frodo snuggled down into his lap, getting more comfortable.

Kíli leant against Bilbo's shoulder and took Frodo's hand, and Frodo gave a happy sigh. This was much better than a big, lonely bed.

He heard the heavy, clumping footsteps of the dwarves coming down the hall, and he looked up to see Bofur and Nori emerge. Bofur sat down at once beside Fíli, and after a moment Nori said a bad word and sat beside Kíli.

Yawning, Frodo tucked his blanket up to his chin. Bilbo shifted him, to make it more comfortable. The moon was as big and round as a shiny silver coin, and the stars flew across it, and slowly he closed his eyes.

After a long moment, he heard Bofur speak. "My grandmother used to think they were bad omens…But my father used to claim that they were signs of hope. I never knew which to agree with."

"Maybe they're neither…" said Kíli's voice."Maybe they're just dancers."

"Dancers?" yawned Nori.

"They do look like they're dancing…" Fíli agreed, and Frodo thought so too.

"Wait," Aragorn said, jolting Frodo back to the present. He looked up, and stared at the man, who was getting to his feet. "What is that? Legolas?"

Frodo turned and looked over his shoulder. His frowned – silhouetted in the darkening sky was a large, dark shape, or many shapes, he could not be sure. His hand moved to his sword.

"A gust of wind?" suggested Gimli, though he did not sound like he believed it for a second.

"It's moving fast." Boromir stood up. "Against the wind."

"Crebain, from Dunland!" Legolas cried, turning wildly to Aragorn, who immediately barked out, "Hide!"

With a start, Frodo dropped his dinner and dove on the fire with Sam, stomping it out with his bare feet. Grabbing his pack, he wheeled around to look for somewhere to hide, only to have his ankle pulled out from underneath him. He crashed onto the floor with a startled 'umph!', and was then swiftly tugged beneath a nearby bush.

"Sorry for the gravel rash," whispered Bróin. "You were hesitating, cousin."

Despite himself, a small smile flickered across Frodo's face, and he poked Bróin's nose with his toe. The pain was stinging, but he knew it was temporary, momentary in fact. And unimportant.

Beneath the leaves, he saw the scrambling feet of the others disappear one by one. He held his breath, and felt his hand clench around the ring that hung around his neck.

Frodo closed his eyes.

A few moments later, he heard flapping and squawking, just overhead. He felt Bróin stiffen beside him, but they did not move. Not even when the noises stopped, and they were left to the silence. It was fully dark before anyone moved again.

"Come," Aragorn called quietly, after what felt like a lifetime. "The coast is clear. But I suggest we travel in the dark now – these lands are being watched, and our steeds will have been seen."

Frodo crawled out on his belly, and found he could see just a little in the light of moon. The wolves, horses, and pony were restless, back pawing at the ground, and the others were slowly coming out from beneath rocks and bushes of their own.

"By who?" asked Pippin, crawling out of a nearby bush with twigs in his hair and a look of annoyance to rival the steeds. "What's a crebain?"

"Crebain, they are birds – crow like, with sharp eyes." Aragorn shared a meaningful look with Legolas, a look that Frodo did not like. "They may well be spies of Saruman."

Frodo groaned, and kneaded his eyes with his fists. He had been looking forward to sleep. "We must leave, then, now."

"Must?" Aragorn shook his head. "No. But I would recommend it."

"We shall," Nelly declared, sighing heavily. "If we ride hard through the night we can rest in morning, with a better place to hide, if we draw close enough to the mountains." At the men's hesitance, she added, "The wolves and pony did worse on the way to Rivendell. They can cope with another ride now."

Denahi howled softly, and then nuzzled Merry's neck and nudged his waist.

"They're ready to go," Merry said, smiling wearily.

Pippin sighed dramatically. "Let's just get on then. I'm tired, and I want to go to sleep." With that, he climbed on top of Fíli's wolf, Sokka, and let his eyes begin to droop. The wolf gave a laugh-like huff, and then stood and waited patiently for the others.

So, they rode through the night, and only Pippin slept.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please do let me know what you think, your feedback means the world to me :D The next one should be on Friday, so until then, take care, and HAPPY NEW YEAR :D