Hi everyone! Thank you for the lovely reviews for the last chapter – I'm sorry for the wait! These last three weeks have been crazy for absolutely everyone, myself definitely included, and I hope with all my heart that you are safe, and okay, and that if you're unwell you feel better very, very soon. Please forgive any typos in this chapter!

Chapter One Hundred and Eleven: Messages to the Mountain

Ehren did not do well with grief.

He had learnt as much at the tender age of sixty-two. For nearly three months, he had waited with great impatience for Fíli and Kíli to return from their travels to Lake Evendim – their parents had been friends even before the fall of Erebor, and so Ehren had grown up with the two princes among his closest friends.

But then Fíli had returned, and Kíli had not.

The shock and the grief had been unlike anything young Ehren had ever imagined, and it took almost a whole week for him to manage to speak again. It was strange – with anything else, any other pain or heartache, Ehren could talk for his kingdom, but grief, it seemed, stole his words away from him.

With every loss that had struck him since, his words flew away again. Losing Soren had been almost impossible, unbearable, and then Glóin told them that Austen and Auden had been slain in the mountains. Then, Ehren had felt like his ribs had broken around his lungs.

But that was nothing to now.

His inner circle of friends was shattered. Soren was dead, and the twins were dead, and Alfr was dead. Kíli was paralysed, and Ari was crippled, and Jari and Fíli and Bragi were coping with a strength Ehren could not understand.

And his Aunt Nora was dead, and his uncle was fighting for life in the Healing Halls, and his mother's wounds were healing so horribly achingly slowly -

And Ehren's adad was dead. Gone. Forever. His father.

His Adad.

And now with his mother and uncle in the Healing Halls it was just Ehren, Ehren who was falling apart and struggling to just breathe and trying to look after his cousins – his cousins who he had been avoiding since returning to Erebor, selfishly, guiltily, because the name Seren sounded so much like Soren, and Soren was gone.

But Seren and Ren were only in their sixties, and they were grieving their mother and terrified for their father and they were floundering and they needed him –

And Ehren was so afraid that he was going to fail them. He was not like Fíli or Jari or Bragi – he did not know how to turn off his fear for the sake of his younger kin. He was not a brother. He was just Ehren. He did not know what to do.

It was what had brought him here, to the cold, harsh air outside the mountain before dawn even had a chance to break. Here, no one could see him, and how much of a mess he was. His tears were freezing against his cheeks, and the wind was whipping around him so viciously that the ravens were all huddling in their roosts, glaring out at the weather, and it was still preferable to Ren walking in on him sobbing again.

Stoicism had never been a strength of Ehren's, and here, he did not need to try. On a day like this, the clouds were too heavy and grey to be of any use to a watchman, so he was alone, save for the birds. The tower he stood upon was the highest point of the mountain accessible from the inside, and had housed most of the ravens who usually dwelt at Ravenhill since the siege began. Sticking so far out from the rest of the mountain, Ravenhill itself had been an early target for their enemies, and though there were no longer any foes in sight, the birds were yet to return to their home.

Snow began to dance in the icy wind, clinging to Ehren's eyelashes, and he wrapped his arms around himself tightly. It did not stop the hollow sickness in his stomach. He had only stopped sobbing a few minutes ago, but already his breaths were beginning to hitch again, and his throat was heavy with tears. He did not know how to cope with it, with any of it – he did not know how to put aside his emotions and get on with things, he did not know how to swallow his tears long enough to talk.

At least on the road he had not had a choice – he had to keep moving or he would doom them all. Now, in this strange new day to day of healing and rebuilding, he was completely and utterly lost. He wished with a fierce ache that he was more like Fíli or Jari, or that he could at least ask them how they did it, but that was impossible.

If it was not enough that Jari was mourning Austen and Auden, he was also trying to look after Ari, and Fíli had the entire kingdom to worry about, and Kíli besides it. Asking Bragi how to hide emotions for the sake of a younger relative seemed beyond cruel, and though he had often been described as blunt as a mannish blade, Ehren was never cruel. And with his mother so hurt and his father – his father – there was no one left to talk to.

No, Ehren did not cope well with grief at all.

"Master dwarf!" The caw of the raven was so unexpected that Ehren jumped out of his skin. The raven laughed, a squawking sort of a sound, and fixed his dark gaze upon Ehren. "Observant, aren't you?"

Ehren blinked, his eyelashes brushing snowflakes onto his cheeks. "What?"

The raven cawed again, flapping its wings and pointing its beak towards the sky. "Visitor, incoming."

Ehren followed the bird's beak with his eyes, peering out at the grey-white haze of sky around him. Sure enough, there was a dark smudge on the horizon, growing larger by the heartbeat, and Ehren stiffened, tightening his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Is it friend or foe?" he asked.

"It's a bird," squawked the raven.

Ehren would have rolled his eyes, if he had the energy to do it. "That's not what I asked."

"But it's only answer I can give you," the raven scoffed, ruffling its feathers. "I can't tell if someone's good or evil just by looking."

Well, what use are you then? Ehren thought, but he did not say it aloud. Dís got very angry when folk irritated the ravens. Instead, he said, "What kind of bird is it, then? Can you tell that?"

"Can't you?" said the raven, and Ehren scowled.

"Oh, shut up."

The raven cawed indignantly, and Ehren drew his sword. The bird gave a frantic squawk.

"It's not for you!" Ehren grumbled, watching the shape of the bird grow closer. After another few heartbeats, he could make out the distinctive shape of an owl, and he narrowed his eyes. "Not the traditional servant of the enemy…"

The raven simply gave a 'hmph,' and turned away from him. Then, with a flourish, he took off, flapping wildly against the wind and heading for the approaching owl. A flurry of squawking and hooting filled the air, and then the raven forced its way back, settling beside Ehren once more and shaking from beak to tail.

"It's a friend," the raven said. "Message for the king. From Mirkwood."

"For the king?" Ehren watched as the owl flew closer, buffeting from side to side with the wind.

A few moments later, the owl landed, collapsing onto the side of the mountain with a dull hoot. Its wings stuck out at odd angles, and its chest heaved and fell fast as a hummingbird's wings.

"Is it alright?" Ehren asked, sheathing his sword and crouching down hesitantly.

"Tired," squawked the raven. "Fool should've known better than to fly in a storm like this."

"Will it be alright?" Ehren pressed. He half wanted to reach out and stroke the trembling bird, but he was not nearly so good with animals as Aria or Bragi. When he tried to help, he tended to get bitten.

"Just fine. A little rest and food and she'll be right. Fool." The raven hopped over to the owl, and then glared up at Ehren. "Alright, dwarf, take the message. I'll look after this 'un."

"Are you sure?"

The raven let out its squawking laugh once more. "Let the birds care for the birds, dwarf. Take the message."

Ehren reached gingerly down towards the small, leather pouch tied to the owl's leg. The bird hooted, its beak moving towards Ehren's hand and he hissed, drawing it back quickly.

"Dwarves…" scoffed the raven, hopping over and unpicking the knot with his beak. Taking the pouch himself, the bird strutted across to Ehren and placed it – rather too dramatically – on the ground. "There. Fool."

"Why did I even bother coming up here?" Ehren muttered, and the raven cawed.

"No idea."

For a moment, Ehren stared at the pouch. It did not look elvish in make – the stitching was far more obvious, more practical, and when he turned it over, he saw a familiar sigil – a brown handprint enclosed in the print of a bear.

The Beornings.

The memory of the stench of smoke and sweat and blood hit Ehren so hard that he choked on it, and he swallowed, pushing his way back through the door into the mountain. Locking it behind him, he nodded quickly at the guards and bustled past them. His frozen limbs protested as he forced them into a run, making for the Royal Chambers by every shortcut he knew.

The corridor leading up to the chambers still bore the signs of the battle – the floor was scorched and cracked, and in some places there were still dark bloodstains, but Ehren tore right past it. The guards at the bottom of the staircase stepped forward.

"My Lord Ehren? Is everything alright?"

The title sent a shard of iron into Ehren's heart, and he shook his head. "It's fine. I have news for the king, please let me past."

"Of course." The guards bowed and stepped back, and Ehren jogged up the stairs two at a time.

He was a Lord now. He was a Lord because his adad –

He shuddered, and opened the door to the royal chambers, making his way down the dark, familiar hall to Thorin's door. Dawn was still an hour or two away, but Ehren was not sure that this could wait. He raised his fist to knock, but then he paused.

In all his life, he had never seen Thorin so worn down as he had been through the past week. The king was clearly exhausted, and the wounds he had won in the battle were not exactly minor…

But if the news was urgent…

He sighed, and rapped on the door. A few moments later, the gruff voice of the king grumbled out. "Who is it?"

"It's Ehren, my lord," he called back, and almost immediately the door opened. Thorin was wearing a dressing gown, and leaning heavily on a staff, but as soon as he saw Ehren his face crumpled.

"By Durin," he murmured, "are you alright, lad?"

Taken aback, Ehren shook his head slightly. "What? I'm fine, I – I'm sorry to wake you, Thorin, but I have this. I was taking some air, up by the ravens, and an owl delivered it. I think it is from the Beornings, I thought it might be important."

Thorin stared at him for a long moment, before taking the pouch. "Come in."

"Oh, I…"

The king stepped back, raising his eyebrows at Ehren in a silent command, and Ehren nodded, stepping inside Thorin's chambers. Almost at once, he caught sight of himself in the mirror that hung by Thorin's front door, and he winced. No wonder Thorin had asked if he was alright – his eyes were so red and puffy it looked as though he had suffered an allergic reaction, and the red bite of the cold on his cheeks was broken only by the tearstains still clinging to his skin. There was still snow caught in his hair, and his nose was running like a toddler's.

Quickly, he rubbed at his cheeks until the tearstains blurred away, and ran his sleeve over his nose, and then he followed Thorin into the living room. The king lit the lamps, and nodded at a large, blue armchair. A little awkwardly, Ehren sat. If he were to make a list of those he would most hate to see him in such a state, his king would be right up there.

Putting the pouch down for a moment, Thorin limped over towards a small table and poured out two small glasses of whisky. Ehren accepted his gratefully, fighting the urge to down it in one. Thorin eased himself down onto the sofa and took a drink, and then he took up the pouch. With a sigh, he opened it, pulling out a small scroll of paper. With a trembling hand, Ehren sipped at his drink, watching as Thorin's eyes darkened, and his face grew pale.

"Iklifumun mê," he swore, dropping his head into his hands.

"What?" Ehren asked, his heart clenching. "Thorin, what-"

Thorin thrust out the paper and Ehren grabbed for it, throwing down his glass on the coffee table so fast that half the liquor inside splashed out. He smoothed out the scroll, but for a moment his hands shook so badly that he could not read it. He rested the paper on his leg. The top of the letter was dated from two days ago – the third day after the battlte.

King Thorin,

We have heard of the battle that befell you – it hurts my heart that your people have suffered so, but I am grateful beyond words that you won the battle. We have also heard from the eagles of another victory – Isengard has fallen. We don't know how, or who it was that defeated Orthanc, but they say that they saw Gandalf and several lords of men riding to treat with Saruman. According to the eagles, the wizard and his group then headed south-east, towards Edoras.

Since our retreat into the Woodland Realm the orcs of the Misty Mountains have been pouring into our lands, and have joined with the orcs of Dol Guldur. They have been marching on Mirkwood, and though they have yet failed to get close to breaking into the Woodland Realm the battles have been fierce. The way to the west now seems as full of orcs as Mordor.

What is more, we also received word from the east from a different flock – the war is far from over. Great armies march both from Mordor and towards it – enough that we might face a second wave of foes from the east. You must be prepared, Thorin.

Good luck.

Grimbeorn.

Ehren read the words three times, and horror curled around his gut. "There – there could be another siege? Another battle?"

"And Isengard has fallen," said Thorin, his face still in his hands.

Ehren frowned. "I thought that was the only bit of good news in the whole letter?"

Thorin looked up, and his eyes were dark with fear. "If Isengard has fallen, the only cards that Saruman holds are Nelly and Bróin – if they are even alive."

Ehren blanched, looking back at the letter. "Oh… But Gandalf – it says that they saw Gandalf at Isengard, and then they saw him leave it – he, he wouldn't leave them there!"

"Unless he did not know they were there."

"But you said they were his only cards – how would Gandalf not know?"

Thorin shook his head, rubbing his jaw. There were tears in his eyes, and his hand trembled. "But then who can I send to try and retrieve them? Who would go with so many orcs in the west, so little chance of actually finding them? Nori is not going anywhere, and Bofur and Dori could not go alone – not against such odds. I would send an army if I could, but if there's a second wave…"

"Maybe… maybe I could go?" Ehren said quietly, staring down at the letter.

Thorin looked up, staring at him for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he shook his head. "No, lad, I don't think so. We need you here – your mother needs you. Not to mention your cousins, and Fíli – Fíli needs you, too, lad. I think it'd be best if you stayed here."

Ehren hung his head. He was not exactly being any use to the people who needed him.

"Ehren…" the King paused, clearing his throat. Ehren glanced up, and Thorin opened his mouth, but then he closed it again and shifted up the sofa. Once again, the king paused, and then he reached out and took Ehren's hand. "Listen. I do not say that because I do not think you capable. You are a great warrior, and a great dwarf, and in any other time I would entrust to you any mission you volunteered for. But we need you here. Without Soren, Fíli needs someone he can trust, someone he knows, and there is no one better than you for such a job. What's more – this is not the way to escape your grief."

Ehren closed his eyes and looked away, but Thorin held his hand firm.

"I know you are struggling. I know you, Ehren. I may not be as articulate as Bilbo or show affection as my sister does, but still, I know you. I know that you feel that you are drowning, but you are not alone, Ehren, and you are allowed to flounder. You still have family here to lean on. And if you run from this now, it will catch you – it will catch you and it will be a thousand times worse when it does."

Tears burnt beneath Ehren's eyelids and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, not daring even to breathe. If he breathed, he would sob, and if he sobbed he was sure he would choke on the shame of it.

"Perhaps I should go and get Bilbo," Thorin said, a little awkwardly. "He's much better at this than I am."

"What – no!" Ehren's gut clenched and he opened his eyes, wiping them frantically. "I'm fine, Thorin, I'm fine!"

"You are not fine, nor would anyone expect you to be."

"I don't – please don't wake Bilbo, there's no need to – I'm sorry…"

Thorin shook his head slightly. "Do not be sorry, Ehren. Come – let me put on the kettle at least. A strong cup of coffee will do you a world of good, I'm sure." With that, the king rose, leaning heavily on his staff and limping past Ehren to the kitchen. At the edge of the armchair he paused, and squeezed Ehren's shoulder. "Hang in there, lad."

Ehren nodded, but the moment the king left the room he drew in a shuddering gasp, and the tears sprang back to his eyes. It took him another few minutes to calm himself down and coax the tears away, but eventually his breathing returned to normal. Thorin returned with a mug of the strongest coffee Ehren had ever seen, and he took it gratefully.

Thorin did not sit down again, instead choosing to lean against the back of the sofa as he sipped his own drink. "I must go. I must speak to Bombur and Vinca, and to Dwalin, and there are many other things inside the mountain that need my attention… But what I would ask of you, Ehren, is that – for now – you continue your duties of guarding Fíli. Will you do that?"

Ehren nodded, trying not to be obvious in the deep breath he drew. Thorin smiled sadly.

"Thank you. For the time being, I want you to take Seren and Ren, and move into Dwalin's home. Elza could use their help with Frerin and Eyja, and it will help you all keep busy."

"What? I can't – we couldn't impose, I-" Ehren felt his cheeks burn red as shock and shame struck his gut. He knew that he was not coping, that he was failing, but to have his king see it, to have his king give him a babysitter –

"Elza asked me yesterday if there was someone that could help," said Thorin firmly. "She suffered an injured arm in the battle, and lost three of her brothers – and still she is working night and day to provide warm clothes for the most vulnerable in our city. If Seren and Ren can occupy her children, that will be beneficial for them all. Especially as… Well," the king sighed heavily, "I mean to ask Dwalin if he would go with Bofur and Dori, should they still wish to try. This is not a punishment, nor a humiliation. It would be best for all of you."

"Very well." Ehren hung his head once more, and relief and shame began to war within him, but Thorin put a hand on his shoulder again, and after a moment the silence forced Ehren to raise his eyes.

"There is no shame in taking the hand of a friend to keep from drowning. There is only one way that we are going to survive this Ehren, and that is together."

Dís raced her face up towards the sun. The great, icy storm that had howled at the mountain almost a week ago had finally cleared, and though it was still cool, it was a great comfort to feel the weak warmth of the light on her face, and to breathe in the crisp air of the outside. There were more private places to do this of course, balconies and windows and mirrors, but anxiety had been gnawing at her brain for all of the ten days since the battle.

Never had she thought their gates would be so easy to breach – that they might stand there for one moment and be cast down the next. It terrified her beyond words, and now in her mind she saw the gates fall every time she closed her eyes.

Her hope was that by walking atop the battlements, and seeing the gate for herself, she might be comforted by the repairs and defences that Balin had been overseeing. It seemed to her that they had done a good job – the gate was not so much a gate anymore, as it was a great wall. Stacks of stone upon stone had been erected in the void in the middle of the gate, wide and strong and tall, and behind it had been wrought a great, iron fence.

It did make her feel a little safer, but she knew that few of the men shared such an opinion. They did not draw comfort from stone in the same way that dwarves did. She had little doubt that they felt rather like they were being buried alive. Bilbo had not said anything, but she was sure he felt the same.

She sighed, moving her hand down onto her stomach. One of the only comforts she had was that the babies had not grown less active after the battle. She had been so afraid that the stress of the situation and the contractions she had felt might have done them some damage, but so far there was no sign of that. When she had visited Tauriel, the elf had taken her hand and guided her to feel roughly where each baby was sitting.

"They all have a great deal of strength in their energy," she had said, smiling weakly at Dís. The elf's wounds were proving slow to heal, and she had not yet left her bed in the Healing Halls, yet still, Tauriel had worked to help the dwarven healers as best as she could.

"Have you ever seen it before?" Dís had asked. "Four babies?"

The elf had shaken her head slowly. "Not personally. But I have rarely been outside the borders of my own lands, and I am a warrior, more than I am a healer."

Funnily enough, that had not made Dís feel much better.

Drawing in another deep breath of cool, mountain air, she shifted her hand, and one of the babes moved beneath it. Despite herself, she smiled, and glanced towards the right. A few yards away, Bilbo and Balin were speaking to the guards, the former looking adorably serious as he nodded along with whatever was being send. A surge of affection rose in Dís' heart – whatever it was Balin and the guard were discussing, Bilbo had not a clue.

"Incoming!" someone called, and Dís' heart seized. "From the south-east – looks like a horseman!"

She pressed herself against the battlements, peering over towards the south-east. Sure enough, she could see a figure drawing closer with surprising speed. In a flash, Bilbo was at her side, and he took her arm.

"We, we should probably get inside," he said, a worried frown knitting his eyebrows together. "Dís-"

She hesitated. "What if it's news?"

"Then we will surely hear it at some point," Bilbo insisted.

"It's a single rider," she said slowly. "The threat is small, up here…"

"Yes, well, that's what we thought two weeks ago, isn't it?" Bilbo said tightly. "Please, Dís."

She glanced at him, her heart sinking at the fear on his face. "Of course…"

They retreated further into the mountain without speaking, leaving Balin on the battlements and passing Fíli with a quick smile as he ran the other way, and Dís tried to focus on breathing. It would be news – she was sure of that, but news of what? From where? About who?

It could not be about Nelly and Bróin – not two days ago, Dori, Bofur and Dwalin had set out on foot, and armed to the teeth, to make for Orthanc. It was a grim quest, a journey towards uncertain answers and inescapable peril, but none of them had hesitated in volunteering. The only delay in their leaving had been the forming of a surer plan.

Or maybe they had learnt something already? But then who would be returning, and where would they have found a horse?

It could be news of Frodo. Her heart staggered just at the thought of it.

Bilbo squeezed her hand, and she squeezed his back. Together, they silently made for Kíli's room.

"Amad!" he cried when he saw them, throwing down his book with a huge smile on his face. "Iola says she thinks I should be ready to try out the wheelchair soon, any day now!"

Dís could not help but smile, but before she could say anything Kíli's face fell.

"What's wrong?"

"Probably nothing," said Bilbo smoothly, poking Kíli's nose. "There was a rider approaching the gates. It's most likely a single rider and most likely news, but I didn't want to take any chances. I'm probably overreacting." Smiling wearily, he turned to Dís and nodded at the armchair by Kíli's bed. "I'll put the kettle on."

Trying not to cry at the sudden, sombre cloud that had passed over Kíli's face, Dís sat down and smiled at her son, taking his hand.

"Truly, Kíli, I believe your father is right on this. It was far away still when we left the gates, but it did not look like a Black Rider to me, nor anything so evil. I would have lingered there, if it would not have risked giving Bilbo a heart attack."

"I heard that!" Bilbo called from the kitchen, and Kíli gave a small smile.

"So," Dís smiled, trying to coax the conversation away from worry and fear. "Was it Iola that you spoke to?"

Kíli blinked. "What?"

"About the chair," she said, nodding towards the rather beautiful contraption in the corner. "Was it Iola?"

"Oh! Yes, she's been speaking with Tauriel, and they think it should be alright to try, very soon," he said, excitement kindling a little behind his eyes as he spoke. Soon, his enthusiasm spilt out as he told Dís yet again of all the features his brother had crafted into the chair, and she let herself get swept away by his joy.

A shrill whistle rose from the kettle, and then the door crashed open. Dís jumped, and then her heart dropped as Fíli appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily. His cheeks were flushed pink as though he had run all the way from the gates, and there was an almost unreadable expression on his face.

And there were tears in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Kíli demanded, concern tightening his voice. "Fee-"

"A message," Fíli said, his voice shaking a little. "We, we have received a message, from Gondor, it – we won! The war – it is over, Mordor has fallen – Mordor has fallen, and… and they did it. They did it, they destroyed the Ring!"

For a fraction of a second, relief bloomed in Dís' heart, but it was quickly overcome by dread. The winning of the war would not account for the fear on her son's face. "What else?" Her words came out as a whisper. "Fíli, what else?"

Fíli swallowed, and a tear rolled down his cheek. "The messenger had one letter from Aragorn, who is now the King of Gondor, and another from Gimli. Gimli wrote that Merry and Pippin were safe, injured, but safe, and… and he said that he knows Nelly, Bróin, Frodo and Sam all reached Mordor, together."

Dís heart twisted. "Nelly and Bróin were with them?"

Fíli nodded, and his lip trembled. "Gimli doesn't know what happened in Mordor, if they were all together when the Ring was destroyed, but… But when it was, Mount Doom… it erupted, and they don't know… they don't know if… They're looking, but…"

She closed her eyes.

Her little dwobbits were wonders, but they could not outrun a volcano. If they were there, if they were together at the end of it all the chances of their surviving –

The chance that –

"Does Thorin know? Bombur, Vinca, do they know?" she asked softly.

"Yes, Thorin's with the messenger now," said Fíli, though his voice was a little muffled, and when she opened her eyes she saw that he was already in Bilbo's arms, his face buried in the hobbit's neck.

"It… it should have been me, there," Bilbo whispered, his face slack and his eyes wide and hollow with grief. "I should have been there…"

Dís flinched and Fíli shuddered, and on the bed Kíli gave a small whimper.

"But, but it's not hopeless," he protested weakly. "They – you said, you said they couldn't find them yet, they might be fine. They might be alive! We don't, we don't know where they've looked or how far, they might be alive!" He looked up at Dís, a desperate pleading in his eyes, and she nodded slowly, stroking his hair.

"You're… you're right, love," she murmured. "We can't give up hope for them, not… not now…"

She felt arms wrap around her from behind, a tangled mess of Fíli and Bilbo, and she rested her cheek against them, using every ounce of self-control that she had to keep breathing, slow, and deep, and steady. Grief was coiling around her, tugging in a violent attempt to bring her to pure and utter despair, but she had to fight it, she knew she had to. She had to hold hope for Frodo, and Sam, and for Nelly and Bróin. And she had to keep calm for her babies.

If she accepted that Frodo was gone, that her sweet little hobbit son was dead, she knew where grief would drag her, what depths she would fall to. She had been through it once before, and she did not think she had the strength to carry one baby through that hell, let alone four. She had to cling to hope. She had to.

"Besides," Kíli mumbled, rubbing his nose across his sleeve, "if anyone could get out of a scrape like this it'd be those raised by the most insane, reckless, adventurous families known to both dwarf and hobbit."

Bilbo gave a weak chuckle. "Es…especially when Frodo has brothers like you two… They'll be alright…"

One of the babies gave a hefty kick, and Dís tried to smile, wiping at her tears. "I think the babes agree with you, Bilbo," she said.

"Are they kicking?" sniffed Kíli, and she took his hand, placing it where the baby now seemed to be dancing. Wonder lit in his eyes, and tears broke free down his cheeks. "Oh… they're… they're so strong!"

"Just like Frodo," Fíli whispered. "And Sam, and Nell, and Bróin."

"Just like our dwobbits," Bilbo agreed.

And the baby kicked.

I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you think, I would really, really appreciate it!

Until the next time, please stay safe and take care of yourselves. I honestly care so deeply about each one of you, and to be super cheesy and paraphrase my own chapter, the best way we are going to get through this is together. I'm here if you need to vent, or if you want someone to fall down the rabbit hole of crazy Tolkien theories with you to distract you from what's going on outside.

All my love.