There was something very dark and very wrong about Drogo and Primula's smial, but Bilbo couldn't figure out what it was. He was sore all over still. The various aches and pains complained without him ever having moved in the blankets he was encased in. The sheets seemed scratchier than he remembered. Primula had very nice bed settings for the guest room, and it wasn't done to give visitors the utility blankets unless one had no other choice.

Bilbo didn't know what to do but he had to open his eyes. Instead of the roof of the smial, he found a ceiling of stars overhead. For an instant, he relaxed, thinking he had merely fallen asleep on the picnic. Then horror pounced. Their boat had gone adrift in the Brandywine, and he had been helpless to do anything about it. If the absence of the rolling black waves from his memory told true, this was the third time he had lost himself. Without the oars, they had been at the mercy of the river, which only grew in ferocity as they were hurled downstream.

He hadn't seen any sign of Drogo or Primula, but he had seen trees by the dozen uprooted and swept away. The first time he'd woken up, a Ranger had been riding along the bank calling to him. Panicked, he'd yelled back, but he would be doomed to unconsciousness again. The next time, he'd tried to line the floor of the boat with the picnic blanket. They had been taking on water and he didn't want to worry-

- Frodo!

Bilbo jolted with alarm, and was about to leap up from his blanketed cocoon when a sound froze him. Voices. On the instant, he knew they were not Hobbits' voices. They were too deep and, more telling, in a language he did not understand. Several things fell into place then. Someone had fished him out of the river. Someone had bundled him up at their campsite and not in a respectable house or inn. They were out in the wilds. Still that was all unimportant in his mission to find Frodo.

Slowly, Bilbo narrowed his eyes and turned his head towards the sound of the voices. He listened carefully over the sound of his pounding heart and found they weren't immediately before him. The last embers of a fire were dwindling just to his left. There were four bedrolls too, two of which were empty. The other two held sleeping figures, though they looked too large to be Hobbits and too small to be Men. Dwarves, then? The Blue Mountains were not that far away. If they came around the Shire, or from the southernmost part of the range, they would reach the Brandywine at some point if they were going east.

He spotted something else that made his heart skip. Frodo's salamander! It's glass eyes glimmered faintly in the embers and Bilbo recognized it at once. He scanned the area around the campfire and found those familiar dark curls peeking out from under a jacket. It looked as if Frodo had been made a bed out of a blanket and some old clothes. He had been situated safely between the two sleeping, as anyone going to or from the faunt's bedroll would pass one or both of them. The Dwarves were taking care of him, then. Or, at least, keeping an eye on him.

It didn't take Bilbo much longer to find the source of the voices. Two burly dwarves were having a discussion in their own language further off. One sounded angrier than the other, and the conversation was quite heated for one held at such a low volume. Even worse, one of them was gesturing with an axe!

Bilbo took a few steadying breaths and tried to listen for other things, other clues to what kind of situation he found himself in. Blood rushed in his ears fast and fierce as the river. He didn't like the look of the angry, armed Dwarves, and he had to know how he and Frodo were to return to their kin, if-... if-

He pushed the grim thought from his mind and focused on the task at hand. The thunder of the Brandywine was easy enough to hear, although it did not reassure him at all. Light snores from the middle of the camp let him know the Dwarves near Frodo slept soundly enough. Maybe he had a chance. The arguing Dwarves were far enough away from the center of camp that they might not see. If he was quiet enough and quick enough, he could take Frodo and run. The soft snort of what was undoubtedly a horse or pony to his right had him briefly reconsidering. But, even the best trackers needed light to go by. There was still a chance he would not be outpaced or even detected before dawn.

Bilbo steeled his resolve. He was sore, tired, likely concussed, and he'd missed at least three meals but he had to do this. The memory of the brigands on the East Road was too fresh. He couldn't let Frodo come to a similar fate. For all he knew, he was the only one left to protect the faunt. Whatever else Hobbits might be, they were loyal and responsible. He wouldn't let Frodo down. Not even if it meant his life. Maybe they could run, find another Ranger, get word to Buckland or else get to safety with the kind but aloof Men who patrolled the bounds. He'd always had a fondness for the Rangers, few they were in number and seldom enough seen. They would help him if he could find them.

Bilbo nodded to himself once. He checked the arguing dwarves again- they had quieted down but were still engrossed in the debate- and took a deep breath. Maybe he ought to be thankful for once in his life about his mother's Tookishness. It was the last puff of the bellows that stoked his plans into flame.

Silently, Bilbo rolled from underneath his blankets until he was on his stomach in the grass. He was careful not to make a sound as he eased his aching bones up. The early spring dirt would do him a favor. He made not a sound as he crept low and near to the dying embers. The sleeping dwarves were just far enough away from Frodo for him to maneuver without stepping on anyone. It would be tricky getting the lad up without much noise. Bilbo would have to hope Frodo would be too exhausted from the ordeal to wake easily. Perhaps he would sleep through it altogether.

He ignored the stuffed salamander and gently- but quickly- scooped Frodo into his arms. The faunt stirred, but the barest whisper of reassurance was enough to settle him. None of the dwarves had noticed a thing. Bilbo was in luck. Now all he had to do was run, run like the wolves of the Fell Winter were on his heels.

He would follow the Brandywine. As much as thoughts of the river pained him, it was the surest way back to the Shire that he could think of. Bilbo would stick to the bank, keep an eye out for Rangers, and maintain a positively un-Hobbitish speed the whole way. If he was all Frodo had left in the world, such things could hardly bother him.

The grass was slightly damp under his feet. His panicked ears could detect the sound but he doubted if there was a keener set nearby. No change from the Dwarven camp. As soon as he judged the ground level enough and the emberlight far enough, Bilbo broke into a run. Once Frodo was awake, he could travel piggyback, but the danger was still too near to worry about such things. Bilbo charged clumsily along the bank, his arms full with his nephew and his thoughts on only the next footfall.

Had he not been in such a state, he might have paid more mind to his condition. Bilbo had cataloged his fatigue, hunger, and injury, but he had not considered the effect all three combined would have on him. The flight from the Dwarven camp was hindered then as vertigo pounced upon him. Vulnerable as he was, Bilbo swayed under the blow and stumbled trying to find his balance. One foot landed in too-damp earth. It crumbled under his weight and both Hobbits were pitched sideways toward the river.

Bilbo tried to protect his nephew in the fall. Frodo awoke and screamed. Several other things happened at once.

All Bilbo saw now was mud and darkness. He shielded Frodo as best he could as the bank of the Brandywine bowled them downward. They were lucky the descent was without rock or tree to add peril to the fall, but fear charged into Bilbo again when his back hit water. Heedless of his own hurts, he flailed from the waterline and tossed Frodo clear. The river had torn too many cousins from him this day. He would not lose another.

Voices reached his ears over the pounding of his pulse. Cries from Frodo sent him crawling forward again. He still had time. Frodo could cling to his back and he could run, he would run with everything in him.

"Frodo!" A voice called from above. Surprise froze Bilbo once more. "Frodo! Don't move, we're coming! You're safe now, lad, don't worry!"

Shadows jumped down the slope towards the bank where the two Hobbits sat in the mud. Bilbo couldn't rightly see anymore for the swimming darkness obscuring his vision. Still, he found Frodo and scooped him up. These dwarves may mean well, but they would have to prove that before they came anywhere near his nephew.

At least, Bilbo would have challenged them, if he'd been coherent enough to gauge their distance. Before he knew it, a large hand found his collar and he was being hoisted out of the mud like a wandering kitten. The motion scared him and Frodo both. Oddly enough, it seemed to ignite outrage in their other pursuers.

"Dwalin! Careful now, he's not a sack of potatoes!"

Bilbo heard something dark and grumbled, possibly "You mind your own potatoes, cook" before another hand came up under his knees. Had he not been afraid for his life, he might've found it comical that he and Frodo were now nested like stacking cups in the arms of a large Dwarf.

As it was, the change of events startled Bilbo into speaking. "I don't know who you are, but we have n-nothing but the clothes-"

"One of you tell Bifur to stoke the fire. They're covered in mud."

Bilbo was shocked into silence at being so rudely spoken over. Truth be told, he was shaking like a leaf and any warmth sounded wonderful, but to be talked around in such a manner-! The fire was being tended to further on ahead already. Bilbo could make out two shapes in the glow but things were still rather swimmy with moonlight and shadow. Frodo had stopped wailing, and Bilbo tried to pat his back comfortingly. It seemed that was all he could muster at the moment.

They really had not gotten far from the camp. Proper firelight illuminated the area and the two dwarves tending the fire. The smaller of the two wore a hat and looked upon the pair of them with a worried smile. The larger Dwarf, to put it bluntly, had an axe embedded in his head. Bilbo, too stunned to see such a thing was possible for a living being and too conscious of the lack of attention the other dwarves were paying this impossible wound, decided it didn't bear mentioning.

The big dwarf- whose name he had already forgotten- set him and Frodo down on a blanket near to the fire. Wide and worried eyes took in another large dwarf with a red beard as the four began to press in. He curled protectively around Frodo and bid them halt.

"Stop there, please." Bilbo's voice sounded hoarse and weak to his own ears but he would make his words count. "Thanks may be in order for pulling us from the river, but I would… like to know… who I am speaking to and-" he was forced to pause for breath, "-and how you came by us."

Four dwarves stopped dead. The largest one scowled and looked as if he was about to protest when the red-bearded Dwarf addressed his comrades.

"Leave him some space. We're not cornering him."

Realizations that were beyond Bilbo's reckoning played out on the Dwarves faces. He wasn't sure what exactly had been a surprise to them, but they obeyed directions. He had no weapon, nor was he any sort of threat to them. But they were respecting his wishes. Absently, Bilbo noticed Frodo was looking a mess and started to work bits of mud and leaves from the faunt's hair. Now a few- reluctant looking- steps back, the largest one cleared his throat and addressed him again.

"We mean you no harm." The voice was deep, gruff, and surprisingly calm. "I am Dwalin, leader of this… group, at your service."

The dwarf with the hat took up before the silence could become awkward. "This here is Bifur," he began, introducing the one with the axe. Bifur smiled and waved without speaking. "I'm Bofur- at your service- and this is my brother-"

"-Bombur," the last dwarf finished, "at your service, and your family's."

Bilbo had an inkling the words were customary, yet the tone with which they were delivered meant a great deal to him. Now that he was more alert and less foggy with panic he was starting to notice things. He noticed none of the Dwarves had a hand to their weapons. None had the cruel or calculating expressions of the brigands he'd run across. No, they all looked concerned more than anything- save for this Dwalin, who looked more cross- and seemed to be willing to give him the space he needed.

He was badly shaken, but the only polite thing to do would be to introduce himself. Momentarily he paused his fussing with Frodo's hair. "Well-" he began again with some effort, "Well, it is very nice to meet you all. Masters Dwalin… Bifur, Bofur and Bombur. I am Bilbo Baggins, and this is my nephew Frodo-..." It struck him then, that one of them had called to the lad by name from the bank. "Though it seems you were all acquainted with him already...?"

True enough, Frodo was looking at the burly lot without fear. The faunt was terrified, certainly, but not with their present company. It occurred to Bilbo what a very foolish thing he had just done, and how very badly it could have turned out for them if he had his dizzy spell nearer to the river, or if he'd hit his head on something again, or-

"Aye." The red-bearded dwarf Bombur said with a smile. "The lad was awake when we found you both."

"A very brave lad." Dwalin interrupted. "Calm for the most part. Told us who you both were and… more or less where you'd come from."

"I see." Bilbo did, somewhat. Frodo was still a faunt and likely had not provided them with more useful information than his name. Bilbo was still shaking all over and subsequently having a hard time with his focus. Bombur- a very pleasant looking dwarf- approached the stewpot over the fire. He lifted it from where it hung and approached with- Bilbo had never been so relieved to see a washcloth in his life! It would hardly do to go anywhere the Brandywine at this time of night, but they were both so covered in mud-!

"Oh," he exclaimed, "thank you! I have… taken a few too many knocks on the head of late, or I never would- Frodo, dear heart, you are a mess and we must see to this mud." The water was only lukewarm but Bilbo was more than willing to lose himself in menial activity. Frodo allowed Bilbo to help him out of his shirt, to pour water over his hair, and even to scrub behind his ears. He was uncommonly well-behaved until something caught his eye.

The axe one, Bifur, had been puttering about in the background and reappeared with a blanket and something else- Frodo's salamander, held out from a respectful distance. With what was no doubt a gobsmacked expression, Bilbo took it. The toy was quickly crushed in Frodo's arms.

"I… Thank you." He didn't know quite how to shape his words. After the events of the day, everything had such a weight to it. It seemed as if the fire was a tent-pole keeping the canvas of darkness from trapping and crushing them all underneath. These dwarves were keeping the threat steadily aloft. Bifur only smiled as if he could sense some of the inner turmoil.

Feeling much safer and more rational than he had a few minutes ago, Bilbo started to coax Frodo up and away from his lap. He wanted the faunt fully dry, and he wanted a chance to wash up as well. The performance of propriety engulfed his other worries and hid away his mounting anxieties.

"It's alright, dear lad, we're alright. It was a scary little tumble to be sure, but it's over."

Frodo picked up his head and fixed Bilbo with a heartbreaking expression. No understandable words came forth, but Bilbo tried to smile and wipe his nephew's tears. The dwarves- ever present now they were- remained silent. They let Bilbo see to his nephew without interruption. Frodo had been distracted by the washing up, and by his toy. But even ones so young had to have an outlet. His nephew was small, but it did not make his fears or his feelings any less.

"I'm so sorry to have frightened you, Frodo." Bilbo said at last. "You see, I was frightened too. But it sounds like you were much braver than me! You minded your manners and… and were very brave while your Uncle Bilbo made the very poor decision to run off in the dark." He smoothed back Frodo's hair. "Now you're all clean and I'm still silly and covered in mud."

"Twas a fool thing to do." Dwalin interjected, expressing Bilbo's thoughts succinctly. "You could've been-" he paused with a glance at Frodo, "-in serious trouble if you'd gone farther off."

Bilbo tensed. Frodo was sniffling quietly in his lap but the fear of the danger had not yet faded. He felt more than foolish. Here these Dwarves had likely risked life and limb to rescue them from the river and he'd run off moments from waking. Bilbo cleared his throat and glanced between the four of them.

"Yes, well…-" He couldn't maintain eye contact with any of them. The washcloth was swiftly back in his hands and he began battling mud in an effort not to have to look.

Bombur politely redirected the accusation. "We can't blame him overmuch, Dwalin. What would you have done waking up in strange company, injured, and with a little one to care for?"

Dwalin made no reply to this, save a grunt. After a moment of silence, the burly dwarf took up again. "How came you into the river in the middle of a flood?"

It was not a question Bilbo wanted to answer. Not with Frodo in earshot, not with the possibility of never seeing his cousins again hanging over his head. But his reticence spoke loudly enough. There were raised eyebrows and pointed looks among the dwarves around the fire. Dwalin sensed his discomfort and coughed.

"By that I mean… where in the Shire have you come from?"

It was not the smoothest diversion but Bilbo was grateful for it. "Buckland." The words made it out through the washcloth on his face. He scrubbed hard once and pulled his composure back. "We… we came from Buckland, if we are not still in it."

The dwarf with the hat- Bofur, it was- shook his head. "I'm afraid you're not, anymore. We're a ways south of that, at Sarn Ford if you've heard of it." When Bilbo's eyes bugged, he hurried on, "But you made it all the way in the boat, safe and mostly dry. Anyways, we can't sing the praises of your brave young Frodo enough! After all, he helped us reel your boat in."

Frodo had calmed immensely, but Bilbo couldn't be sure exactly what the faunt was feeling. Not in the presence of company anyway. Frodo was at the stage where he would be energetic and playful most of the time, yet find himself overcome with shyness at the strangest moments. His nephew was now using his salamander as some sort of shield, pulling it down over his eyes and peering from behind it intermittently.

Still, praise was praise. If Frodo didn't answer, Bilbo would have to. "Truly?" He looked around the fire and found no hint that Bofur was lying outright. "It seems as if I have missed much of an… missed much excitement."

The Baggins fussiness and the Tookish pig-headedness had kept him on his (metaphorical) feet thusfar, but Bilbo was fading. Shock, terror, and dread battled alongside propriety against a growing weariness that might be too much to shake. More for Frodo's sake than his own was he pushing his limits. Had he not his dear nephew to protect, Bilbo would've fainted dead away ages ago.

He started at the sudden sound of Bifur's voice, yet-unheard up until now. The large Dwarf spoke softly in what Bilbo presumed must be his native tongue and Bofur listened. They were family, but for the life of him Bilbo didn't remember how. All family save Dwalin. It made his heart ache a little. The four of them, traveling together, on some family outing by the Brandywine that hadn't met the misfortune of his- Before he knew it, his eyes were filled with tears. Bilbo turned away so the rest- but mostly Frodo- wouldn't see.

"Perhaps, Master Baggins," Bofur addressed him quietly from across the fire, "we've had enough talk for the evening." He cast a meaningful look back at Bifur, who nodded. "It has been a long day, and not much can be done in the dark hours of the night."

It seemed as if either Bifur or Bofur or both had read his mind. Or read his face, tired as he was and with hardly a shred of composure to get him through it. Bilbo nodded his assent.

"That- that is a wonderful idea, thank you. Most gracious of you…" He found himself wringing out the washcloth once more before fiddling with the buttons on his own shirt. Primula's bandages were well applied and intact, if not sopping wet like the rest of him. Bilbo settled for wiping the rest of his face and neck. He was grateful for the sudden silence the dwarves settled over the camp. One last scrub and he set the towel over the rim of the stewpot. The blanket Bifur provided was soon around his shoulders.

"Thank you." Bilbo began again, leaning and then reclining before he was sure if he'd finished speaking. Shadows played tricks with the light and sounds came softer to his ears than they were meant to. But Frodo was right there. Frodo maneuvered the blankets until he was safe in his Uncle's arms and under four more watchful pairs of eyes.

Bilbo felt a pang of guilt that he should be sleeping safely while he knew not whether his cousins lived. But the day had simply been too much. Far more gently this time Bilbo fell out of awareness.