Summary: Thorin Oakenshield saved Bilbo Baggin's life when he was a child, and Bilbo has been under the impression that they've been engaged all these long, lonely years. But when Thorin returns, he doesn't seem to have the slightest memory of Bilbo, let alone their engagement. Bilbo is sad and confused, but determined to win Thorin's favour on the dark, winding roads ahead. Based upon a lovely meme prompt. This can alsobe found on AO3. xoxo

Pairing: Thorin/Bilbo

Warnings: Violence, some language, eventual smut, angst, canon-divergence!

A/N: This is the chapter that was never meant to be! *dramatic music* I was intending to make a vague reference about a conversation Gandalf and Bilbo once had... and ended up writing it. -_- Oh well. Thorin and co. will turn up next chapter.

Chapter Two

Bilbo Baggins took careful aim, grasping the smooth stone in his pudgy fist with supple strength. The brown-hued bird he'd set his sights on continued twittering away happily to it's colleagues, blissfully unaware of Bilbo's watchful eye tracking it's every minute movement.

He breathed in slowly through his nose, cocked his arm back, then flung the stone as hard as he could at his target with devastating accuracy. The stone struck the bird squarely on breast. It rose to the air in a flurry of wings, screeching shrilly as it flew off, accompanied by a multitude of it's fellows.

Bilbo leapt to his feet, punching the air with his victory. He hadn't missed a single target all afternoon! He knelt and selected another stone.

"What on earth are you doing, Bilbo Baggins?" A familiar, irascible-sounding voice inquired sternly.

Bilbo startled and twisted about (nearly whacking his toes on a stump in the process) to face the tall, grey-clad wizard looming behind him. The stone clutched in his hand promptly tumbled back to the ground. He laced his fingers behind his back and attempted to appear inconspicuous.

"Nothing," he stammered a little too quickly, voice pitched several octaves higher than usual. "Just admiring the trees. They look so beautiful this time of year."

"Don't lie to me Bilbo Baggins. I saw you throwing rocks at those birds." Gandalf pointed an accusing finger at him.

Bilbo blushed down to his toes with shame. "I didn't hurt them, just scared them a little."

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows seemed to bristle. "That's no excuse! I'd like to hear you explain that to Radagast, if he ever caught you. He'd have transfigured you into a rabbit for a month for such insolence."

But Gandalf's anger seemed to dissipate even as he spoke, and he leaned heavily upon his staff, gaze sharp on Bilbo. "That was a exemplary shot, nevertheless. You have a keen eye."

"Thank you," Bilbo replied uneasily, both cautious and pleased. He began edging in the direction of civilisation and out of Gandalf's line of sight.

"Where do you think you're off to?"

Bilbo shrugged non-committally. "Just walking."

"No need to flee on my account." Gandalf lowered himself to the tree stump and adjusted his frayed robes, laying his twisted staff across his knees. "Your father sent me for you," he explained. "He informed me that you were meant to be sitting out in the garden – resting, not off chasing elves and climbing trees. I see now that you've been doing neither."

Bilbo scuffed at the ground with his toes. "It was boring."

"Indeed." Gandalf's eyes slid past him, and he seemed amused. "What are those supposed to be?" he barked, gesturing with his staff to where several slender branches were piled in a small, defeated heap; leafless and splintered. "Were you trying to start a forest fire, as well?"

"I was trying to make a sword," Bilbo confessed with defensive embarrassment. "But I haven't the skill."

"And then you decided to throw rocks at innocent creatures instead, I suppose," he said, causing Bilbo to blush again. "But what would you be needing with a sword?" Gandalf inquired curiously, eyes glittering with patent amusement.

Bilbo's hand jumped to the linen bandage adorning his head, and a bashful, unwitting grin lit up his face. "For my journey to the Blue Mountains. When my betrothed returns, I must be ready to face the dangers of the road."

He saw by the glint in Gandalf's faded blue eyes that this wasn't news. "Ah, yes," he hummed deeply. "Your mother told me that she is quite pleased with your prospects."

Bilbo smiled, flushing with pleasure. "He could return at any time. I have to be prepared," he told Gandalf earnestly.

Gandalf eyed him with immense interest, pondering his words. "Hand me that branch over there; it will make an admirable sword. Well... a practise sword anyway."

Bilbo seized the branch he'd indicated and passed it over, watching with astonishment as Gandalf pulled a carving knife out of the folds of his threadbare robes and set to work on it. Smooth curls of wood floated serenely to the grass at Gandalf's booted feet, forming a layer of soft golden-brown shavings. Bilbo plopped down on the ground beside Gandalf, sifting through the shavings with his fingers, resigned to having the wizard keep him company.

"So, tell me more about your suitor. He's a dwarf, I hear."

Bilbo sensed a deeper significance behind the inquiry that surpassed simple curiosity, but he couldn't begin to guess at what it might be. "I don't know much about him myself, only that he hails from the Blue Mountains. I think he's a smith," he added.

"Hmmm, is that right?" Gandalf muttered. "Did he provide a name?"

"Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo said with indecent reverence.

He recalled three nights previously when his mother had tucked him into bed after plying him with camomile tea and a toasty dressing gown. The fireworks had still been bursting from miles off, painting the shadow-darkened walls of his bedroom with flickering plumes of colour; splashes of cheerful greens and flaming reds, majestic purples and enchanting gold.

His father had lingered in the door frame, brass suspender buckles gleaming in the low-burning hearth fire. He had shifted from foot to foot, grimacing forlornly. Before putting Bilbo to bed they'd wrangled an explanation of his injuries out of him. When he'd told them that his saviour was a dwarf his mother had grown incredibly boisterous whilst his father (who was not a talkative hobbit at the best of times, unless it was to coin a phrase) had grown utterly mute.

After ascertaining that the duvet was draped perfectly across his shoulders, his mother had sat on the edge of his bed and carefully brushed his fringe back from his eyes. Her face had been brimming with pride as she'd spoken to him of valiant Took deeds – recounting battles won, and the unions of various great aunts, uncles and grandparents who'd fought side by side in battle. Bilbo had heard them all before, many times over, but now they seemed to hold a deeper meaning to him, beyond heroic family legends.

"You know it's a sign," she'd informed him knowledgeably, "that you'll marry. When one saves the life of another, it leaves it's mark; an unbreakable bond. Believe me, this Oakenshield will be back one day."

This statement had been followed by the soft shuffle of his father's feet, and when Bilbo had looked over, he'd seen him retreating down the hallway, muttering about tidying up the kitchen. Bilbo had felt sorry for making him uncomfortable, but it couldn't really be helped. After all, the most adventurous thing his father had ever done was marry a Took, and that had been quite enough for him.

Bilbo's mother had sighed and kissed him goodnight after that, promising to look in on him again in an hour or so, and whisked off after her husband. Bilbo had lain awake long afterwards, lost in a haze of wonder, fervour and mysticism. A squirming, excitement had warmed his belly as he pictured Thorin Oakenshield's face, imaging all the adventures they'd have together. He'd miss the Shire, and his family, but it would all be worth it.

He hadn't had a peaceful night's sleep since.

Bilbo was pulled from his remembrance by the abrupt halt of Gandalf's hands. The wizard was frowning, the lines creasing his brow deepening.

"Oakenshield..." Gandalf murmured speculatively, eyes gazing through Bilbo and the world around them as if they weren't there. "Was he travelling alone?"

Gandalf was certainly asking a good deal of questions.

"I think so. Heading for Bree, I'd imagine." Then it dawned on Bilbo. "Do you know him?" His voice nearly broke in his excitement.

"No," Gandalf said after a brief pause. "I am afraid I don't know him."

Disappointment washed through Bilbo, seeping into his bones and lodging heavily in his chest. "Oh..."

Gandalf shifted on his tree stump and resumed carving, observing the sudden gloominess that had flooded his countenance. "Would you like me to tell you of the Lothlórien elves?" he asked suddenly, clearly in an attempt to cheer him.

Bilbo perked up at it all the same. "Yes, please."

Gandalf chuckled, and raised a grizzled eyebrow as he began speaking; filling Bilbo's head with talk of the Silvan elves, the incredible forests of Mallorn trees, and vague tidbits concerning Galdriel and Celeborn. Bilbo didn't understand most of it, but he enjoyed listening all the same.

By the time Gandalf had finished his narrative some twenty minutes later, he'd also completed the rather small sword. He presented it to Bilbo with a grand flourish, hilt first. "There you are!"

Bilbo grasped the hilt with delicacy, and brandished it. Though crudely hewn and blunt, it was thin, light, and well-balanced, twice the length of his forearm. He whipped it through the air with a sharp swish, smiling expansively. "Thank you," he breathed.

"You're very welcome," Gandalf said, rising from his seat with a protest of limbs. "Remember, you must practise every day or you shan't improve. Now come along, or your father will have my hat."

"Can you tell me more about the Eldar?" Bilbo asked shyly, trotting quickly to keep up with Gandalf's longer strides, turning his first sword in his hands and inspecting the point. He wondered when he could have one with true steel.

"Certainly!" Gandalf exclaimed, digging out his pipe. "Though, in all my years I don't believe I've met such an inquisitive hobbit."

Despite his gruff tone, Bilbo sensed the compliment there and listened with awe to Gandalf's stories all the way back to Bag End.

Over the ensuing years, Thorin – to Bilbo's dismay – did not return, but for a time Gandalf's visits to the Shire grew almost daily, and he always made a point of stopping in to see Bilbo. They would walk together beneath the stars and speak of elves and forgotten happenings. Sometimes Gandalf regaled him also with the histories of men and dwarves, but Bilbo found those to be ponderous and less interesting.

As Bilbo approached his tweens, Gandalf's visits gradually lessened until eventually they vanished entirely, and even his face faded into obscurity in Bilbo's mind. The older he grew the less he played with wooden swords, practised stone throwing, studied maps, and traversed the uncharted paths and forests of Hobbiton. When his parents died and he fell early into his inheritance, Bilbo put aside most of his childish notions, becoming the respectable hobbit his father had always longed for him to be.

However, as vigorously as he denied or pretended to forget his erstwhile fancies, always in the back of his mind, he knew that he was simply waiting. Waiting – sometimes patiently, often restlessly – for the day when Thorin Oakenshield returned to the Shire for the purpose of claiming his hand.