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The trail leading away from the hidden valley of Imladris was a grueling vertical climb, a winding ribbon of shale and ancient stone that mocked the weary legs of those who traversed it. Behind them, the ethereal music and the scent of pine and starlight were fading; ahead, the Misty Mountains loomed like jagged teeth against a bruised sky.
Dori walked near the rear of the line, his heavy boots rhythmically crushing the loose gravel. His silver-grey hair was perfectly braided, his cloak pinned with the precision of a master jeweler, but beneath the impeccable exterior, his heart was a chaotic mess of grief and resentment.
He was losing them.
For years, his life had been a singular mission: keep Nori out of the dungeons and keep Ori out of the gutter. He had been mother, father, and warden to them both. He had sacrificed his own comforts to ensure Nori had enough to pay off his "debts" and that Ori had enough ink and parchment to fill his books.
But since the Quest began, the tether had snapped.
Nori was constantly at the front of the line, whispering in low tones with Dwalin about scouting patterns or trading dark jokes with Bofur. He didn't look back to see if Dori was keeping up. He didn't check in for his evening tea. He was a shadow, slipping away into the independence of a soldier, leaving his older brother behind in the dust.
And Ori, sweet, naive Ori, was even worse. He was following Balin around like a devoted pup, soaking up tales of old kingdoms and legal precedents. When Dori tried to straighten Ori's hood or remind him to button his tunic against the rising chill, Ori would pull away with a huff of embarrassment, his face turning as red as his knitted cap.
"I'm not a child, Dori!" Ori had snapped that morning when Dori tried to offer him an extra piece of dried fruit.
The words still stung, a cold needle in Dori’s chest. He felt redundant. He was a protector with no one left to protect, a caregiver whose wards had outgrown his reach.
Dori’s bitter internal monologue was interrupted by a soft, rhythmic scuff-thud, scuff-thud just ahead of him.
Bilbo Baggins was struggling.
The Hobbit was a shadow of the cheerful creature who had fussed over lace doilies back in the Shire. His huge, hairy feet were leaden, dragging through the dirt. His head was nodding, his eyes blinking slowly as if the very air were made of thick syrup. The "Elven hospitality" had been wonderful, but the sudden shift back to twenty-mile marches on uphill terrain was breaking him.
Bilbo swayed. His knees buckled slightly, and he let out a tiny, pathetic whimper of exhaustion that he clearly tried to swallow. He looked small. He looked fragile.
In that moment, Dori didn't see a burglar.
He saw the way Nori used to look when they were hiding in the cold cellars of the Blue Mountains, shivering and small. He saw the way Ori used to trip over his own oversized boots when he was just a lad learning to walk. The slope of Bilbo’s shoulders, the soft curls of his hair, the stubborn set of a jaw that was clearly fighting a losing battle against sleep, it was all too familiar.
The instinct hit Dori like a physical blow. His hands, calloused from years of fine smithing and heavy lifting, twitched.
"Master Baggins," Dori rumbled, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet afternoon.
Bilbo startled, his head snapping up. "Oh! Yes! Quite right, Mr. Dori. Just... admiring the rocks. Very... stony, aren't they?" He tried to take a step forward, but his foot caught on a root, and he tipped precariously toward a steep drop-off.
Before Bilbo could even gasp, a hand like a vice gripped the back of his coat.
Dori didn't just catch him; he hoisted him upright with a single, effortless motion.
Dori was often the subject of jokes within the Company for his "finicky" nature, his obsession with tea, and his polished manners. But the Company often forgot that Dori was, quite literally, the strongest Dwarf in the huddle. His strength was not the explosive, aggressive power of Dwalin, but the terrifying, immovable endurance of the deep earth. He had a freakish, hereditary trait that allowed him to lift boulders that three other Dwarves couldn't budge.
"You are asleep on your feet, lad," Dori said, his tone shifting from polite to maternal in a heartbeat.
"I'm fine," Bilbo slurred, his eyes already drifting shut again. "Just a bit... the sun is very bright, isn't it?"
Dori looked ahead. Nori was a hundred yards away, laughing at something Kíli said. Ori was buried in a conversation with Balin, gesturing excitedly with a quill. Neither of them looked back. Neither of them noticed that the Hobbit was about to walk off a cliff.
A surge of protective fury washed over Dori. Fine, he thought. If they don't want my care, I shall give it to someone who actually needs it.
Without another word, Dori stepped behind Bilbo. He reached down, and with the same ease one might use to pick up a silk handkerchief, he scooped Bilbo Baggins into his arms.
Bilbo let out a startled "Oof!" as he was suddenly hoisted into the air. He found himself tucked against Dori’s sturdy chest, held securely by arms that felt like iron bars wrapped in velvet.
"Mr. Dori! Really!" Bilbo protested, though his voice lacked any real heat. "I can walk! I have perfectly good feet!"
"Your feet are moving in circles, Master Baggins," Dori said, adjusting his grip so Bilbo’s head rested naturally against his shoulder. "And I have strength to spare. My brothers seem to think they are mountain goats now, so I have nothing else to carry but my own disappointment. You will sit still and you will sleep."
Bilbo looked up at Dori. He saw the hurt in the Dwarf's eyes, the way he was staring at the distant backs of Nori and Ori. Bilbo might have been tired, but he wasn't blind. He recognized a heart that needed to be useful.
Bilbo let out a long, fluttering sigh. He went limp, his small hands clutching the lapels of Dori’s sturdy travelling coat.
"Well," Bilbo murmured, his cheek pressing into the soft wool. "If you insist. It would be... rude to argue, I suppose."
"Very rude," Dori agreed, his pace never faltering.
Despite carrying a sixty-pound Hobbit and a heavy pack, Dori’s stride didn't even slow. He walked with a machine-like precision, his breathing steady, his muscles barely noticing the added weight.
As the afternoon wore on, the rest of the Company began to notice the strange sight at the back of the line.
Thorin paused at a bend, his sapphire eyes narrowing as he watched Dori approach. He saw the silver-haired Dwarf carrying the Hobbit as if he were a precious heirloom.
"Is the Halfling injured?" Thorin asked, his voice echoing off the rock walls.
"He is exhausted, O King," Dori replied, not stopping, simply walking past Thorin with his chin held high. "And since some members of this Company are too preoccupied with their own importance to notice the welfare of our Burglar, I have taken the matter in hand."
Nori, hearing the pointed edge in Dori's voice, finally turned around. He saw his brother carrying Bilbo and felt a twinge of something that looked remarkably like guilt. "Dori? You want me to take a turn? That’s a long haul."
Dori didn't even look at him. "I am quite capable, Nori. Go back to your scouting. I wouldn't want to 'stifle' you with my concern."
Nori flinched, his sharp features softening. He looked at Ori, who was also watching, his ink-stained fingers twisting nervously in his scarf.
"Dori..." Ori started, stepping toward them. "I didn't mean to be cross this morning. I just-"
"Save your breath for the climb, Ori," Dori said, though he softened the blow by adjusting Bilbo’s blanket. "I have the Hobbit. He doesn't complain when I check his temperature, and he doesn't tell me he’s 'not a child' when I make sure he’s warm. We are perfectly content."
Bilbo was fast asleep now, his breathing deep and even. In his dreams, he was back in Bag End, but the hearth was replaced by the steady, radiating warmth of Dori’s chest.
Dori felt the weight of the Hobbit and felt a piece of his soul settle. He knew he couldn't hold onto his brothers forever. He knew that Nori was a man of the world and Ori was a scholar of the mountain. But in the quiet rhythm of the walk, with Bilbo’s head tucked under his chin, Dori realized that his gift ,his Strength wasn't, meant for war or for gold.
It was meant for this. To be the one who didn't let the small things fall. To be the foundation when others wanted to be the spire.
As the sun began to dip behind the peaks, casting long, violet shadows across the trail, the Company found a small plateau to camp for the night. Dori carefully lowered Bilbo onto a bed of soft moss, not letting go until he was sure the Hobbit wouldn't roll.
He stayed there for a moment, straightening Bilbo’s waistcoat and smoothing his hair, his hands lingering with a gentleness that defied his massive strength.
Nori and Ori approached quietly, standing on either side of their older brother.
"He reminds you of us, doesn't he?" Nori whispered, looking at the sleeping Hobbit.
Dori didn't look up. "He reminds me of a time when I knew where I stood with you both. Before you decided that my care was a burden."
Ori knelt down, tentatively reaching out to touch Dori’s hand. "It’s not a burden, Dori. We just... we wanted to show you we could stand on our own. So you wouldn't have to carry us anymore. We wanted you to be able to walk without a weight on your back."
Dori finally looked at them, his eyes shimmering in the twilight. "You fools," he breathed, his voice breaking. "Don't you understand? Carrying you is how I walk. Without you to look after, I am just a Dwarf with too much strength and nowhere to put it."
Nori sat down heavily, leaning his shoulder against Dori’s. "Well. You can carry the Hobbit for the rest of the week if it makes you feel better. But you’re still making the tea tonight. No one makes it like you do."
Dori let out a long, shuddering breath, a small, silver-braided smile finally appearing. He looked at Bilbo, then at his brothers.
"Very well," Dori said, his voice regaining its usual fussy, aristocratic lilt. "But if I find a single ink-stain on these blankets, Ori, you’ll be sleeping on the bare rock. And Nori, stop looking at the Hobbit's pockets. I know you've already 'borrowed' his spare button."
Nori grinned, flipping the silver button back to Dori.
As the fire was lit and the tea began to whistle, the tension that had been building since Rivendell finally snapped. Dori was still the strongest, and his brothers were still pulling away, but for one afternoon, a sleepy Hobbit had bridged the gap. Dori sat by the fire, his muscles finally relaxing, knowing that while he couldn't keep his brothers small, he would always be strong enough to catch them if they fell, and he had a certain Hobbit to thank for reminding him of that.
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An added scene cause this is a bit too short
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The trail toward the High Pass was narrowing, the air growing thin and biting. The Company was making good time, but the pace was relentless. At the very back, Dori moved with the steady, unyielding grace of a mountain slide.
He was carrying Bilbo again.
The Hobbit was fast asleep, his head tucked under Dori’s chin, his small, furry feet dangling over Dori’s thick forearm. To Dori, Bilbo felt like a bundle of feathers; the added weight didn't even cause a bead of sweat to break on the Dwarf's brow. He looked as prim and proper as ever, his silver braids unmoved by the wind, his expression one of calm, maternal focus.
"This is ridiculous," Dwalin grumbled, falling back from the vanguard.
The great warrior of the Company was a mountain of muscle and scars, his knuckles tattooed with the history of a hundred brawls. He stopped in the middle of the path, forcing Dori to halt. Dwalin looked at Bilbo with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.
"The Halfling isn't a porcelain doll, Dori," Dwalin growled, his voice like grinding gravel. "He’s a member of this Company. If he can't walk his own miles, he shouldn't be here. Put him down. He needs to toughen up."
Up ahead, Nori and Ori stopped dead. Nori’s eyes widened, and he instinctively took a half-step back. Ori’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his slingshot. They were the only ones who truly knew the depths of the well Dwalin was currently poking with a very short stick.
"Master Dwalin," Dori said, his voice dangerously polite. "The Hobbit is resting. I am not hindered. I suggest you return to the front before you lose your place in line."
"I'm not asking, Dori," Dwalin stepped forward, his massive hands reaching out to grab Bilbo’s collar to haul him out of Dori’s arms. "Let the lad walk."
It happened faster than the eye could follow.
Dwalin’s hand had barely brushed the Hobbit’s coat when Dori’s free hand, the one not cradling Bilbo, snapped up. Dori’s fingers closed around Dwalin’s wrist with the finality of a steel trap.
Dwalin’s eyes flared with shock. He tried to pull back, but it was like trying to move a rooted oak. Dori didn't even shift his weight. He didn't drop his pack. He didn't even disturb Bilbo’s slumber.
With a flick of his wrist and a casual, singular heave of his arm, Dori slung Dwalin away.
The strength behind the movement was terrifying. Dwalin, a Dwarf weighing nearly three hundred pounds in full plate and gear, was tossed through the air as if he were made of straw. He crashed into a soft embankment of shale several yards away, tumbling in a cloud of dust and startled curses.
The Company went silent. Thorin stopped and stared. Kíli actually dropped his bow.
Dwalin scrambled to his feet, his face red with a mix of fury and genuine bafflement. He looked at his wrist, where the faint, darkening bruises of Dori’s fingers were already beginning to bloom.
Dori merely adjusted Bilbo, who had let out a soft, sleepy sigh but remained unconscious. "I told you, Master Dwalin," Dori said, his voice as smooth as tea. "The Hobbit is resting. Do not touch him again."
Later that evening, as the camp was being set, the atmosphere was thick with a new, wary respect. Dwalin sat by the edge of the fire, rubbing his wrist and staring at Dori, who was currently busy boiling water for Bilbo’s evening wash.
Glóin leaned over to Nori and Ori, his voice a frantic whisper. "Did you see that? He tossed Dwalin like a sack of grain! I knew Dori was sturdy, but that... that wasn't normal."
Nori let out a low, jagged chuckle, his eyes darting to Dwalin, who was clearly eavesdropping.
"You think that was something?" Nori whispered, loud enough for the warrior to hear. "Dwalin’s lucky. Dori went easy on him. He didn't want to wake the Hobbit."
"Easy?" Bofur chimed in, leaning closer. "He threw a warrior of the Line of Durin twenty feet with one arm!"
"Back in the Blue Mountains," Ori added, his voice small but solemn as he sharpened a quill, "there was a Dwarf, a debt collector for the local trade guild. He was being... well, he was being very unkind to a widow in our block. Dori told him to stop. The fellow didn't. He tried to shove Dori aside."
Nori grinned, a sharp, wicked thing. "Dori grabbed him by the belt and threw him. Not into a hedge. Through a brick wall. Two layers of solid masonry. The fellow survived, but he walked with a limp for the rest of his days. We had to move three times after that because the guards were too scared to arrest Dori, but they didn't want him in the district."
Dwalin’s hand stopped rubbing his wrist. He looked at Dori’s back, the way the silver-haired Dwarf was delicately pouring water into a basin, and felt a cold shiver.
"It’s a good thing for all of us that the Hobbit is here," Ori murmured, looking over at Bilbo, who was now awake and leaning contentedly against Dori’s knee while Dori brushed the dust from his hair. "Dori has a lot of... energy. Protective energy. Usually, he spends it all worrying about us, and that makes him uptight and prone to snapping. But he’s focused it all on Master Baggins now."
"Aye," Nori agreed, nodding toward their brother. "The Hobbit is like a pressure valve. As long as he's there for Dori to fuss over, Dori stays polite. If Dwalin had actually managed to wake Bilbo up by grabbing him? Well, we’d be looking for a new vanguard, because Dwalin would currently be embedded in the side of the Misty Mountains."
Dwalin looked at the Hobbit, who was currently giving Dori a sleepy, grateful smile as Dori handed him a warm biscuit.
For the first time in the entire journey, Dwalin didn't think the Hobbit was a burden. He realized that Bilbo Baggins was the only thing standing between the Company and a very polite, very silver-haired Dwarf who could apparently dismantle them all with his bare hands.
Dwalin looked at his bruised wrist, then at Dori, and quietly moved his bedroll to the opposite side of the fire.
"More tea, Master Baggins?" Dori’s voice drifted through the camp, sweet and gentle.
"Thank you, Dori," Bilbo chirped. "You really are the most helpful Dwarf I’ve ever met."
"Think nothing of it, dear lad," Dori replied, casting a single, diamond-sharp glance toward Dwalin. "Think nothing of it at all."