AN: Thank you to everyone reviewing, it means so much to me.

KEYnote: In groups of just dwarves, they are speaking in Khuzdul, elves with elves are speaking Sindarin (plus Estel, Bilbo, and Fíli with them). Except, Fíli no longer speaks Khuzdul, so he no longer understands the other dwarves unless they a speaking the common speech.

Chapter 5 - Dwalin Wins a Bet

Bilbo stared at the mural, grief constricting his heart.

Elrond stood beside him as he processed the story he had just been told.

Staring at the crown of Sauron, Bilbo asked, "This legacy will fall to Estel?"

The pair had grown up together, and where Estel had matured faster, there was a higher than average chance that they would see nearly the same number of years.

Which had been a great relief to Bilbo who had feared his lack of like-ageing friends.

"Yes, the One Ring remains lost," Elrond said. "It may pass him by, but I doubt it."

"You fear it," Bilbo corrected, looking up at his old friend. "Do you ever regret not pushing the fool in with the Ring?"

Elrond let out a huffed laugh, "I did, before Estel came to me. Perhaps selfishly, I do not regret it."

Bilbo nodded, understanding all too well. He would love his son beyond reason.

Of course, he would always wish better for his son, wish that he had never endured the tragedies he had, even if that did not include him. But for his own heart, his adoptive son had made his life worth living.

oOo

The party broke up as soon as the elves could walk under their own strength again. Their goats, marvellous creatures that they were, had found them down the other side of the mountain.

Dain gifted two of them to the two ladies. As much as Arwen seemed ready to deny the extra aid, the burns around her wrist seemed to weigh on her. Her brothers graciously accepted on her behalf.

Onward they went to Thorin's Halls with quite the tale to tell.

Despite being early, they were welcomed warmly.

oOo

Glorfindel was agitated. He did not want to take Fíli back to the dwarves.

The dwarves who had drawn a dragon to themselves and twice woken balrog.

Of course, he knew that part of this was the insecurity and rawness within himself.

Where all the others, Arwen chief among them, who had lent their light to felling the balrog were recovering, Glorfindel found himself to be… not faded, but not recovered.

He felt as he had in his first life, before he was second born. No longer did he believe that anyone would mistake him for one equal to Mithrandir. He was as he had been first-born, an ordinary elf. Only he was exhausted and found his mood quite suffered for it.

Elves were taught that memories would sustain them. When you could walk through a memory, when you could taste the air of that time, when you could hold and be held by those you loved, when the emotions you felt then were as real to you now, they were taught to believe that memories would endure for eternity.

Look to the stars, they are like us, even in death, their light remains.

But what they were not taught, what they tried never to linger on, never to ponder too long, that the memories of pain and grief last just as long, remained just as real.

Glorfindel held onto the memory of Bilbo and Fíli greeting him upon their return.

Fíli had been in the middle of finishing a birthday gift for Estel and had not seen Glorfindel's veiled exhaustion.

But Bilbo had.

Bilbo gave him space only reluctantly. And when Glorfindel found himself turning in early for the night, he found his son by his side reading books aloud to him, distracting him from his worries and his knowledge that the magic he had lost was not to come back.

On one hand, it was a relief to be freed of such a burden, on the other hand, there was no comfort in losing power when the world was growing darker.

"Adar?" Bilbo asked as he set aside the book. "Adar, what is wrong?"

Often Bilbo disguised him from Bungo Baggins as the Sindarin Adar and the common for his birth parent my father.

Glorfindel sighed, patting the bed beside him and his elfling-sized son climbed up beside. While Bilbo was indeed a full-grown hobbit, he would always be one of his. One of his fauntlings, Bella's light.

It still amazed in how over two thousand years, the way the light of Valar appeared in his direct descendants.

Bilbo and Bella were just like his first daughter, as 'half-elf and half-hobbit' hadn't truly proved possible, at least with a hobbit mother. All his descendants had been hobbits, some taller than others, but by all appearances, full blooded hobbits.

The exception had been the light and love of the larger world.

The very thing that gave the Took lineage such an infamous name within the Shire.

"Adar?" Bilbo asked again.

Glorfindel hugged him, "I feel my age."

Bilbo rested his head on his shoulder, "Elves may be immortal, but they are not ever-lasting."

Even stars die, Elrond had told him once out of the blue.

Bilbo's statement hit him with even more ferocity. He tipped his back to keep the tears from spilling.

Bilbo would never see a third century and yet he could look at an elf who was twiceborn and see the fragility of life.

Bilbo mock scowled up at him, "I know what you're thinking, Adar. But twice-born means you died and could parish again. I know most elves don't like to linger on the death in the future, but you have experienced death."

Glorfindel rested his cheek on Bilbo's curly head, wondering and knowing that it had been that death and rebirth that had him living Yavanna's children.

Hobbits knew life and death, knew how to nature life in the months meant for growing and resting in the months where all green things die or sleep.

Glorfindel laid a kiss on the crown of Bilbo's head, "Change is coming, my son. I am not prepared, and for that I am sorry."

"You are not alone," Bilbo assured him, settling against his side.

But I might be soon, Glorfindel thought forlorn.

He could not continue his silence, he owed both his sons better than that.

Yet for one more night, he held onto his selfishness.

oOo

"Cousin!" Dain greeted with a traditional head butt.

Thorin smiled, he was last to be greeted so they were all able to sit.

Dain's soldiers had dispersed to their own families.

The table was more cramped than normal but Thorin had lost too many to be bothered by the lack of elbow room.

Dain had dug into his food, Frerin and Dís were, as usual, the light of the conversation.

However, once Dain had satisfied his initial hunger, he smirked at Thorin.

He knew that smirk.

That was the expression they shared as dwarflings when they were about to be chased out of the mountain by their incensed mothers.

"What?" Thorin asked.

"You owe me, cousin."

"For what?" Frerin asked.

"For solving your diplomatic disaster with elves of Rivendell," Dain said smugly.

"Pay up," Dwalin said, holding his hand out to his brother.

Balin scoffed, "That wasn't a real bet. It was a rhetorical statement."

"Not so rhetorical now, is it?" Dwalin challenged who seemed cheered that his contrary nature had stumbled over the most absurd bet ever met.

"You're not even going to ask how?" Dain asked.

"Dain," Dís said. "For you to not kill elves is a diplomatic achievement."

"Yes, but I solved your issue," Dain said. "I met Lord Glorfindel myself, which I don't think you have."

Thorin leaned back in his seat, "Well tell us the story. I'm assuming you're crossed over the Misty Mountains at some point, seeing as you're two months early."

Dain smiled at, a flash of teeth. "Aye, but we didn't get halfway up."

"Start at the beginning," Frerin whined.

Little Gimili was bouncing in his seat.

"The elves confronted us when were were passing the Golden Wood. Glorfindel was in the greeting party and I thought it would be best not to refuse if there was a chance of repairing our relations." Dain shook his head, "I met the Witch Queen, her consort, and her grandchildren. She is a magnificent creature." Here he winked at Gimili. "Her family all shone with starlight, and I mean that literally."

"There hasn't been dwarrow in those woods since Durin III," Dís said.

"Aye, they were kind, if strange in the way of their kind. They fed us well. The Lady and her grandchildren had intended on making the journey to Rivendell soon, so they offered to escort us over the pass."

Thorin looked away, he knew the pass he spoke of and the people he had lost at the foot of it.

"What was Glorfindel like?" Kíli asked.

Dain shook his head, "He was the wrong elf to insult. Apparently, he's head of one of the twelve highborn houses. He might not be a king, but the others treated him as Lady Galadriel's equal. Killing his daughter was akin to killing an elven princess."

"What happened on the pass?" Oin asked, growing impatient.

"We were attacked by orcs at the Morning Gate," Dain said. "On both sides."

Dwalin crossed his arms, unimpressed, everyone else waited on bated breath.

"Tharkûn, Gandalf the Grey was also with us," Dain added off-handedly. "He and the Lady Galadriel knew the password and we escaped into Moria."

Kíli gaped, "What about the balrog? Durin's Bane?"

Balin shook his head, "No one has seen that thing since it killed Durin IV."

Thorin said nothing, it was more accurate to say that no dwarf had seen the inside of Moria and lived to speak of it since Durin's Bane had chased them out.

"Oh, it's still there, or it was," Dain said with a grin. "And I'll say that the tales of elvish magic and the rage of wizards don't do them justice. Though one of their guards informed our party consisted of royalty–who were only royalty in the first place–due almost solely to their process in their witchy ways and that of their forefathers."

Dís stared, "What did they do?"

Dain scoffed in mock outrage, "They? I'll have you know I landed the final blow. Lost my best axe, not that I'm complaining with the result mind."

"The last blow to what?" Kíli asked.

Dain's smile was every bit the cat who found the cream, "Why Durin's Bane, nephew. Course, now Lord Glorfindel has slain two of balrog and I'd imagine that Tharkûn will think himself invited more than he does already."

They all stared at him.

" You killed a balrog; with an axe?" Kíli asked.

"Well," Dain said with false modesty. "The elves have protective magic, you see. Healing, protection, light, those sorts of things are their domain. I was told they can assist nature in taking its course sooner than it would without intervention. All this is to say, they were at a stalemate. Even Tarkun's magic is of a similar ilk. So I threw my axe, my intent and the mithril combined with their magic, it was enough to fell the beast."

"What became of its corpse?" Thorin asked.

"Hard to describe really, it being magic too," Dain explained. "The mithril mine is no more, that much is certain. The mine collapsed and melted down, and if that wasn't enough of a tale to tell, the light of the elves remained."

"Remained how?" Dís asked.

"The quartz in the caverns, all sorts, absorbed it. I don't know if the quartz has any special properties on their own as the magic seemed contained to its place."

Thorin shook his head, "Quite the tale."

Dain waved a hand, "One day our armies will be back up to snuff, today is not that day."

Thorin looked away, "Moria was never my home. Thank you, for making amends with the elves who broke no treaties with us. But I fear we now owe than an even greater debt."

Dain waved his hand, "Glorfindel asked that you talk to the Rangers and assist in whatever manner in protecting the Shire. Make an alliance with the Rangers and the Shire, amends made."

Thorin exhaled, "That we can do, trade from the Shire is necessary."

Dis raised her mug, "Well, let's celebrate the news that isn't completely ill."

And so they did.

oOo

Bilbo had had just about enough of Glorfindel's self-pitying mood swings.

"What is wrong, Adar?"

Motions uncharacteristically jerky, Glorfindel looked away to star over the edge of the pavilion as if admiring the view.

The view was as beautiful as ever, but Bilbo knew that the elf could hardly focus on it, knowing he was trapped in his own thoughts.

"I learned something from the dwarves we travelled with," Glorfindel finally said.

"Well?" Bilbo prompted, putting his hands on his hips. "Go on."

Glorfindel grimaced, "It will change everything."

"What will change everything?" Bilbo asked.

The next ten minutes proved to be as frustrating as replanting a strong-rooted shrub.

oOo

Fíli was pleasantly exhausted, feeling quite accomplished.

He had finished forging his gift to Estel who had loved the sword. They had spared for hours.

Having finished bathing, Fíli was ready for a long night's rest. He was delayed when he heard raised voices.

Two familiar voices.

Fíli hesitated behind a pillar, peaking around the corner, slowing down his breathing.

Sneaking up on either hobbits or elves was usually an impossible task, but the pair were exceptionally distracted and Fíli wasn't inexperienced.

Fíli couldn't remember if he had even seen his fathers this enraged with each other.

He missed what Glorfindel said.

But Bilbo went unnaturally still and his next words would change Fíli's life forever.

"Now wait a moment, you know who Fíli's kin are?"

Glorfindel huffed, "It matters not."

Fíli burst out from the shadows, almost against his will, "It matters!"

Glorfindel took a step forward, "Fíli, wait, my–"

"Tell me who they are!" he demanded.

"No," the elf said, his expression smoothing over into a frosty mask of the nobility. "No, they do not deserve you."

"That's not your choice to make," Fíli seethed. "Have you always known?"

Glorfindal remained quiet, which was answer enough.

Fíli felt his heart break, "You've been lying to me, this whole time?"

Glorfindal shook his head, his golden hair spilling over his shoulder, "No, your name is Fíli and it remains unsafe for you to travel to the Blue Mountains."

Fíli glared at him, "You stretched the truth too thin."

Glorfindel's stoic expression broke, "Fíli, do not go back to the dwarves."

"Why?" Fíli asked harshly. "Because I have no family to return to or because you hate dwarves?"

"Because we love you," the elf said, looking suddenly older than he ever had before. "Because your family lost you, they do not deserve you."

Fíli's heart sank, "So I do have a family… My brother, I knew that I had a brother, is he alive?"

Glorfindel, once more did not answer.

Anger won out over the heartache.

"You had no right!" Fíli bellowed, shattering the peace of this realm, of this place he considered more home than Bag End.

He had considered.

"Fíli," his father, no, Bilbo said. "Please, calm down, no one did this to hurt you–"

"You knew too!?" Fíli all but screamed.

"No, my son, no, of course not, I just–"

"You just what, hate the dwarves too?"

" Never ," his father said. "But I'm sure Glorfindel had his–"

"You're taking his side in this!?"

"No, I'm on your side. But the elves are as much your family as the dwarves, as much as I–"

"No," Fíli snapped fighting back tears. "You're not my family, you're not my father. You're a coward. Neither of you has ever loved me if you could do this to me if you could keep me from my true kin and justify it."

Bilbo was freer with his tears, his sorrow twisting the knife into Fíli's chest as the hobbit reached out to him.

Fíli turned away from the hobbit who had raised him, "I'm going with the Rangers to the Blue Mountains, and I never want to see either of you again."

He was halfway down the hall when he heard his father sob.

Bilbo hadn't cried like that when his own parents died.

Fíli hardened his heart against them.

He had a brother waiting for him to return to, his true home awaited.

oOo

Bilbo could not remain among the elves.

He could not forgive Glorfindel nor himself for the blind faith he had placed with the elves.

Bilbo still wished he could remain at his son's side.

How foolish.

How pitiful.

A hobbit.

A mere halfling believing he had any right to be father and guardian of a dwarf.

The trip home was a lonely one.

He walked on foot without escort, half hoping something would find him and eat him along the way.

So of course, nothing did.

Nothing.

What a word.

What a way of being.

Galadriel had warned him of this, of placing his identity on another.

Fíli was gone, and knowing his stubborn son, knowing how deep this betrayal would cut him, Bilbo knew he would never see him again.

It was in Fíli's nature to be accepting of others, but he trusted so very few that those who betrayed him were never forgotten and never forgiven.

So Bilbo Baggins was nothing now. Not a son nor a father.

When he returned to Bag End, he found it emptied of all furnishing save for his writing desk, the portraits of his parents on the wall, and his bookshelves.

Why those things? he wondered. Why did they look untouched?

And if he had been presumed dead why wasn't anyone living here? It was a beautiful smial after all even if unattended and undusted.

Then it hit him, it finally sunk in what he had come 'home' to.

Bilbo was a rarity among hobbits, no siblings, very few first cousins, and no friends to speak of but his gardner who saw himself as more employee than equal no matter how Bilbo impressed upon that they were, in fact, equals.

No, Bilbo Baggins had been raised to be a respectable hobbit, but he had always been a bit different.

Too mannered to get on well with his Tookish relatives and too Tookish to get along with 'gentle' hobbits with enough money to gossip and not enough reason to commit to any sort of work or passion.

He had grown up sooner than most, his mother his best friend and fiercest champion.

Until the Fell Winter, when she had died and a little dwarfling had become his entire world.

The friends he made among elves and the other big folk had been for Fíli's benefit more than his own. Yes, he had dearly loved many of the elves and felt respected by them but they were always something a bit a part.

Men were untrustworthy and even the ones he liked he trusted less their alliences too.

Perhaps he could name Tom Bombil a friend and Beorn but both preferred to be friends for tea not sustained house guests.

No, Fíli had become Biblos purpose. Fíli's happiness and well being his only mission.

One that he had failed quite extrudarly.

Maybe the Shire had been right about him after.

Mad Old Baggins.

Cursed Baggins.

He shut the door behind him and found a place by the cold harth to lie down.

He would come to realise that in the years that had passed the stories of him and his 'bastard son's had curdled.

Few remembered Fíli, after all, even fauntlings aren't so enamored with adults to trust that a dwarfling was wicked as all that.

But that Bilbo Baggins had something to do with his mother's murder? That he had been consorting with Big Folk to perhaps get the title of Thain of the Shire?

Well that, was quite the story indeed. The one that stuck, Mad Old Baggins, the hobbit of Bag End who had been too long on an adventure that left him familyless in the end.

oOo

Fíli didn't look back, though he wanted to, as he followed the ranger to the slopes of the Blue Mountains.

He was nervous, not simply because this would be the first time he met with other dwarves since the nightmares of the Fell Winter, but because he was going to be meeting with the King of Ered Luin, Thorin Oakenshield.

Estel's human family had been Rangers in the east, and it was them, after thirty-odd years, who had gotten Fíli an audience with a dwarf.

The problem had been getting a dwarf to listen to them when they had no name. Rightfully or wrongly, Bilbo and the elves had all been cautious about giving away too much information lest it fall into the wrong hands.

However, King Oakenshield was known for his honour and dedication to his people.

Besides, he already had Glorfindel's confirmation that he did indeed still have a living family.

Fíli left his hood where it was when one of the King's guards, Dwalin son of Fundin, greeted them at the massive entrance to the Halls of Thorin.

Dwalin said nothing to him as he led him through torch-lit halls.

They did not seem to match the descriptions dwarven halls in the elvish books about them. The geomatic carvings were beautiful but lacked ornamentation.

Fíli avoided the flashes of memories he had, a female who he knew to be his mother bleeding out on the floor and the screams of a boy named Kíli he knew to be his brother.

And a father whose light he had watched fade from his eyes as Fíli laid in a pool of their blood.

Dwarves scared him. These halls scared him. He hated the dark and he hated the cold. There was nothing but ill memories here and the family he had been so certain had been killed. But it was too late to turn back now, not when he had come so far.

The night was growing old enough that there weren't many dwarves out and about and none of them gave Fíli a second glance though some nodded to Dwalin in respect.

"Through here," the guard said after they had gone deep, too deep, into the fortress.

Fíli swallowed and was shocked by the sense of familiarity and safety that filled him as he crossed the threshold.

The dwarf who did not look up at their entrance was known to him.

Sorrow clipped at the heels of hope as pulled back his hood.

Dwalin let out a punched exhale of breath.

Fíli glanced at him, the guard's eyes were wide with recognition.

"State your business," the dwarven King said without looking up.

Fíli swallowed before explaining, "Thirty years ago, I was taken from my family by another dwarf."

The King's head snapped up, his hard expression melting away to dumbfounded shock.

"My adoptive father killed him but–"

The King stood, rounding the table.

"I only know that I had a brother, Kíli," he said in a rush, taking a step back as King Thorin Oakinshield gently caught his wrist.

"Fíli?" Thorin breathed. "Oh, Fíli."

Fíli had a moment to feel the rightness of that name before he found himself in a crushing hug.

He froze, unsure of how to respond before he felt the King trembling.

Having been raised by a hobbit, Fíli's instinct was to give comfort. It was oddly natural to bring his arms up to hug the dwarven king back.

Why a dwarven king was hugging him was anyone's guess.

Why it felt like returning finally home, he feared to know.

oOo

Thorin was certain he hadn't heard what the dwarfling said correctly, until he looked up and saw a young reflection of Frerin.

Thirty years.

He had the child in his arms before he could rightly worry that he might be overwhelming the child could cross his mind. His nephew was half grown but alive, alive.

Fíli was home.

Finally home.

He pulled back to cup the dwarfling's face in his hands. He had the same ice blue eyes as Mori had had. His cheeks were soft, his beard had not even begun to grow in yet.

"Fíli," Thorin breathed, unbelieving. He had lost hope so long ago.

Once more catching the child's hand, he beckoned, "This way." He pulled him toward the side door to his office that led to a passage that connected to his family's apartment.

He caught Dwalin's gaze, the emotions in his eyes confirming to Thorin that this was real.

Truly real.

He did not let go of Fíli's hand as he entered the main room that boasted a seating area, space for a dining room table, and a full kitchen.

Most apartments in the Blue Mountains didn't have kitchens, it was a luxury that Thorin didn't feel he deserved but refused to give up for his sister's sake.

Ered Luin had been among the oldest settlements but time and wars had taken their toll.

" Dís!" he yelled when he didn't see her. "Dís!"

"What do you want!?" his sister called back, her heavy steps stumping up the stairs from the lower floor where the bedrooms were.

"Dís," he breathed as she came into view, glaring at him with great hostility.

He hadn't raised his voice toward her since they'd lost Fíli.

Stepping aside, Thorin watched the devastation cross his sister's face before her mind caught up with who she was seeing.

"Fíli?" she whispered.

"Mom?" Fíli asked in the common speech, destroying any doubts in Thorin's heart.

Dís made a sound caught somewhere between a bellow and sob as she launched herself at her long lost son.

Fíli didn't hesitate to hug her back.

Thorin looked a lot like his sister, to the point where they had often been mistaken for twins, though Dís's beauty far superseded his own.

Kíli looked like them both while Fíli looked like their Frenin with his golden hair.

"I thought you were dead," Fíli said, voice heartbreaking in his apparent uncertainty.

Dís pulled back to cup Fíli's face just as Thorin had, their resemblance was more noticeable, both because of Fíli's more delicate features and because Dís was clean-shaven for the same reason Thorin kept his own short.

For many dwarven women, whether they grew a beard or not depended on personal preference. Since the fall of Moria and the subsequent fall of Erebor, many of their women chose to be clean-shaven. Beards for their men were a representation of status and honour, for their women it was more about beauty than status.

In harder times, their women shaved so it didn't get in the way of their duties or counter-wise, they grew them to better hide their gender when dealing with men and elves.

For the line of Durin, Thorin and Dís shaved for the ruin their people had been led to by their fathers.

Tears fell freely from Dís's eyes, "I fought for you, Fíli. Know that I fought for you. But they attacked in the middle of the night–"

"I remember you bleeding out," Fíli whispered. "I remember Kíli screaming. I did have a brother, right?"

Thorin's heart twisted. He didn't know who had rescued his nephew but it was clear why there may have been reluctance to return him to the Blue Mountains.

What was there to return to if he thought his whole family was dead? Fíli had been so young, did he understand the depths of betrayal he had been swept into?

"Kíli is alive," Dís said. "Your brother was injured but he lives. He has missed you more than anything in this world."

Fíli's face scrunched with the clear effort not to cry, "I missed you both too."

Dís laughed, wet but relieved as she wrapped her arms around him once more, "Thorin is my brother, your uncle. You don't remember him?"

Fíli shook his head, meeting Thorin's gaze, cheeks pink as he leaned into his mother. "I only remember flashes of being taken. I don't think you were there."

"I wasn't," Thorin agreed, familiar shame clawing at his throat. "I tried to follow. But there by the time I caught up the wolves had destroyed the traitor's corpse. I looked for you, but there was no sign beneath the snowfall that you could have survived."

"Wargs," Fíli corrected.

Dís tensed, "Wargs killed him?"

"No, the wargs didn't kill him, my father did–er adoptive father. His mother was killed by my kidnapper when she tried to help me. My adoptive father was the one who killed him. Um, father didn't survive, did he?"

Dís shook her head wordlessly.

"He was killed that night," Thorin explained.

"Who do I owe thanks to for saving you?" Dís asked.

Fíli expression dimmed some. "Bill Findel, he– we didn't know who we could trust and he didn't want to travel more than needed when I was small."

"You were raised by men?" Thorin asked.

Fíli arched a brow, his expression one that belonged to an older dwarf. "You sound surprised."

"I'm surprised he was willing to raise a dwarfling," Thorin explained. "Most men are not so kind hearted."

Fíli nodded, "He's a scholar. He would have brought me back to the Blue Mountains after the winter had passed if he hadn't been worried about dwarven politics. We–well there aren't many dwarves seen near Rohan in the last few decades."

"You were raised in Rohan?" Thorin asked, he hadn't travelled that fair since that fateful night had distorted their lives.

Fíli nodded, expression tight.

Whatever would have been said was interrupted by the main door opening, Kíli kicking off his boots as he came in, Balin behind him.

Their brown-haired prince had his cloak and weapons off when Balin exclaimed, "Prince Fíli!?"

Kíli nearly tripped over his own feet as he spun to face them and his jaw slackened as he stared at his little brother.

Fíli, for his part, blinked at his older brother.

Kíli crossed the room, looking between his mother and brother before asking in a tone too quiet, "Fíli?"

"Hi," Fíli responded. "Kíli?"

Kíli caught both in a fierce hug, and Dís folded herself around them.

Thorin joined them, his broken heart beating as if it could knit itself back together.

Some wounds would never heal, but where life remained, hope for a brighter tomorrow bloomed.

oOo

AN: Dram, folks, drams. Thoughts, llamas, or feedback, pretty please?