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The quest for the Ring was a heavy burden, but for Gimli, son of Glóin, it was about to become a logistical and existential nightmare. It began on a cold morning in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, a place where Dwarven eyes are keenest and the secrets of the earth tend to reveal themselves.
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The Fellowship was breaking camp. Gimli was sharpening his axe when he caught sight of Frodo Baggins tucked away behind a large grey boulder. The Hobbit was holding a small, polished hand-mirror and a sharp elven blade.
Gimli watched, confused, as Frodo carefully scraped the edge of the blade against his jawline.
"Master Hobbit?" Gimli called out, his voice echoing. "What in Durin’s name are you doing? You’ll cut your throat with that toothpick."
Frodo jumped, nearly dropping the mirror. He looked at Gimli, his face flushed a bright pink. "Oh! Just... grooming, Gimli. A bit of maintenance."
"Maintenance?" Gimli stomped over. "Hobbits don't grow beards. My father, Glóin, spent a year with your uncle Bilbo, and he swore the man was as smooth-faced as a polished river stone."
Frodo looked down, his hand hovering over a small patch of dark stubble. "Well, I’m... a bit of an outlier, I suppose. It runs in the family. On the other side."
Sam, Pippin, and Merry were nearby, packing the ponies. They exchanged a look, the kind of look kinfolk give when a long-held secret is poked by a stranger.
"He’s always been a bit 'un-Hobbitish,' Mr. Gimli," Sam muttered, not looking up. "Taller than the rest of us, for one. And his hair, black as a coal-seam. You don't see that in the Shire. Mostly browns and sandy blondes."
Gimli squinted. Now that it was pointed out, Frodo was taller. His shoulders were broader, his jawline more defined, and when he walked, he lacked the characteristic "shuffle" of a Hobbit. He stepped like a warrior …. or a King.
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The suspicion grew into a full-blown crisis of the mind during the trek through Moria. When the Fellowship was resting after the skirmish in the Chamber of Mazarbul, Frodo’s shirt had been torn by an orc-spear. Beneath the linen, a shimmer of light caught the dim glow of Gandalf’s staff.
"Mithril!" Gimli gasped, falling to his knees as if in prayer. "A coat of starlight! I have seen its like only once in the old drawings of Erebor."
Frodo pulled his shirt closed, looking embarrassed. "It was Bilbo’s. He gave it to me before I left Rivendell. He said it was a gift from a dear friend."
Gimli’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew that coat. Every Dwarf in the Lonely Mountain knew the story of the mithril shirt Thorin Oakenshield had gifted to his "Burglar." It was a kingly gift, a dowry of sorts, whispered about in the taverns of the mountain. All the dwarfs knew of the love between the two that couldn't be because of the distance
Gimli looked at Frodo, really looked at him. He saw the way Frodo gripped his sword, the way his eyes flashed with a stubborn, cold fire when he was angry. It wasn't Hobbit-fire. It was the fire of the forge.
By my beard, Gimli thought, his axe nearly slipping from his hand. He isn't Bilbo's nephew. He’s Bilbo’s son. And if that coat is what I think it is…
Gimli spent the rest of the journey to Parth Galen in a state of quiet panic. He watched Frodo with the intensity of a jeweler. He noticed that Frodo’s feet were less hairy than a normal Hobbit’s. He noticed the way Frodo’s voice dropped into a gravelly register when he was exhausted.
The King Under the Mountain has a son, Gimli realized, his head spinning. And he's currently trying to throw a cursed ring into a volcano.
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The War of the Ring ended. The King was crowned in Gondor, and the Fellowship began the long journey home. Gimli, bound by his oath of friendship to Legolas and his curiosity as a Dwarf, accompanied the Hobbits as far as the borders of the Shire.
But he couldn't leave it. He had to know.
When they arrived at Bag End, the smial was as peaceful as ever. Bilbo was there, older now, sitting in a sun-drenched chair. Frodo immediately went to him, kneeling at the old Hobbit's side. Frodo was uncharacteristically clingy, leaning his head against Bilbo’s knee, his hand clutching Bilbo’s sleeve as if afraid the elder would vanish.
"Uncle…- papa," Frodo corrected himself softly, his voice tired.
Gimli stood in the doorway, his helmet in his hands. He cleared his throat. "Master Bilbo. A word, if I may."
Bilbo looked up, his eyes twinkling. "Ah, young Gimli. Son of Glóin. You have your father’s nose, you know. And his temper, I expect."
"Bilbo," Gimli said, stepping forward. "I have seen the mithril. I have seen the black hair and the height of this lad. I have seen him shave his jaw with an elven blade. Tell me the truth, as a friend of my house."
Bilbo looked at Frodo, then back at Gimli. He let out a long, contented sigh. "I suppose the secret has traveled far enough. I was going to tell him eventually, but it always kept slipping my mind”
Bilbo patted Frodo’s hand. "Frodo, dear, you remember the stories of the Mountain? The great King I told you about? The one who gave me the shirt?"
Frodo looked up, his dark eyes wide. "Thorin? You said he was a dear friend."
"He was a great deal more than a friend, Frodo," Bilbo chuckled. "He was... well, he was your other father. It’s a bit complicated with Hobbit-magic and Dwarven-stone, but you were the gift the Mountain gave us after the battle."
Frodo went perfectly still. Gimli let out a sound like a punctured bellows.
"I knew it!" Gimli roared, pacing the small hallway. "I knew that chin wasn't Shire-grown! Thorin Oakenshield has a son! A Prince! And he’s been eating mushrooms and living in a hole in the ground!"
"He’s a Baggins of Bag End first, Gimli!" Bilbo snapped, though his eyes were dancing. "But yes. He has the line of Durin in him."
"I have to go," Gimli said, turning on his heel. "I have to go to Erebor. Now."
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Gimli did not walk to the Lonely Mountain; he practically flew. He rode through the night, bypassed the taverns of Dale, and burst through the Great Gates of Erebor like a cannonball.
"THORIN! THORIN OAKENSHIELD!" Gimli bellowed, his voice echoing off the gold-leafed pillars.
Thorin was in the throne room, consulting with Fíli and Kíli, who were now seasoned princes. Thorin looked up, his brow furrowed. He was older, his beard longer and more silvered, but the fire in his eyes remained.
"Gimli?" Thorin asked. "What is the meaning of this? Has Gondor fallen? Has the Elf finally driven you mad?"
"You have a son!" Gimli shouted, pointing a finger at Thorin’s chest. "A son! In the Shire!"
The silence that followed was so heavy it felt as if the mountain itself were holding its breath. Fíli dropped his map. Kíli’s jaw hit the floor. Thorin stood up, his hand clenching the arm of his throne.
"A... what?" Thorin whispered.
"Bilbo’s lad! Frodo!" Gimli gasped, clutching his sides. "I’ve spent a year with him! He’s taller than a Hobbit! He has your hair! He has your eyes! He wears your mithril shirt! Bilbo confirmed it—he’s yours, Thorin! Your son!”
Fíli was the first to move. "I have a cousin? A Hobbit-cousin?"
"A Prince-cousin!" Kíli cheered, already heading for the door. "I knew Bilbo was hiding something! I knew those letters were too vague!"
Thorin was frozen. His mind raced back to the weeks after the Battle of the Five Armies, the strange, magical days spent with Bilbo in the healing tents, the whispered promises and the Hobbit-lore Bilbo had shared.
"Bilbo... he has my son?" Thorin’s voice was a ragged whisper. "And he didn't tell me? He let the lad grow up in a hole?"
"In a very nice hole, Thorin," Gimli corrected. "But the lad is clingy. He’s been through hell with the Ring. He needs his family."
Thorin didn't wait for another word. "Fíli! Kíli! Prepare the ponies! We ride for the Shire!"
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The Shire had never seen anything like it. Dwarves, for the rest of the Company had insisted on joining, led by a King in full regalia, thundered through Hobbiton.
They reached Bag End at sunset. Thorin didn't knock; he practically threw the door open.
"BILBO BAGGINS!"
Bilbo was in the kitchen, making tea. He poked his head out, looking completely unphased. "Oh, hello Thorin. You’re late. I expected you three days ago. Gimli always was a fast traveler."
Thorin ignored him, his eyes searching the room. He saw a young man standing by the fireplace.
Frodo was dressed in a simple brown tunic, but even in the dim light, he was striking. He was taller than any Hobbit in the Shire, his shoulders squared in a way that screamed of the Blue Mountains. His hair was a wild, curly mass of obsidian black.
Frodo looked at Thorin, and for a moment, it was like looking into a mirror. The same stubborn set of the jaw. The same deep, brooding eyes.
"Frodo," Thorin breathed, stepping forward.
Frodo looked at Bilbo, his hand reaching out to catch his father’s sleeve. He was still overwhelmed by the trauma of Mordor, and the sight of this massive, armored King was terrifying. He pulled closer to Bilbo, hiding half his face behind Bilbo’s shoulder.
"It’s alright, Frodo," Bilbo whispered, patting the lad's arm. "This is him. This is your other father."
Thorin stopped a few feet away, his heart breaking at the sight of the boy’s fear. "I did not know," Thorin said, his voice soft, a tone he reserved only for Bilbo. "Frodo... I would have been there. I would have carried the Ring for you if I could."
Kíli pushed past Thorin, his eyes beaming. "Look at him! He’s got the nose! Fíli, look at the nose!"
"And the hair!" Fíli added, grinning wildly. "Welcome to the family, cousin! We’ve brought you a pony! And a sword! And a much better axe than Gimli’s!"
Frodo blinked, his grip on Bilbo’s sleeve loosening as he looked at the two energetic Princes. "I... I have a sword. It’s called Sting."
"An elven blade?" Kíli pouted. "We’ll fix that. We’ll get you a proper Dwarven blade, etched with your name. Frodo, Son of Thorin."
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The small kitchen of Bag End was never meant to hold so many Dwarves and two Hobbits. It was absolute bedlam.
Glóin was crying into his ale, hugging Frodo’s arm and telling him stories of the journey. Bombur was trying to cook a five-course meal in Bilbo’s tiny fireplace. Dwalin was sitting in a corner, eyeing Frodo’s height with a nod of approval.
"He’s a sturdy lad, Bilbo," Dwalin grunted. "Good bone structure. He could swing a war-hammer with a bit of training."
"He’s a scholar, Dwalin!" Bilbo snapped, though he was smiling as he watched Thorin.
Thorin had managed to get Frodo to sit next to him on the bench. He was showing Frodo the royal signet ring, explaining the history of the House of Durin. Frodo was still clingy, his shoulder pressed firmly against Bilbo’s on his other side, but he was listening. His dark eyes were fixed on Thorin with a growing sense of wonder.
"You really are a King?" Frodo asked softly.
"I am," Thorin said, his hand resting tentatively on Frodo’s shoulder. "But more importantly, I am a father who has missed so many years of his son’s life. I have much to make up for."
"He’s a Baggins of the Shire, Thorin," Bilbo reminded him, pointing a wooden spoon. "He’s not moving to a cold mountain."
"Then I shall build him a smial in the Mountain!" Thorin declared. "A hole with gold-plated doorknobs! He shall have the finest library in Middle-earth!"
"I’d like that," Frodo whispered, finally letting go of Bilbo’s sleeve and reaching out to touch the fur on Thorin’s cloak. "But I think I’d like to see the stars first. Without a dragon or a dark lord in the way….”
Thorin smiled, a deep, soulful expression that made Bilbo’s heart skip. "Then we shall see them together, my son."
The Company erupted into cheers, raising their mugs so high they hit the low ceiling of Bag End. Gimli sat in the middle of it all, grinning through his beard. He had survived the Ring, he had survived the Orcs, and now he had survived the revelation of the century.
"I told you!" Gimli shouted over the din. "I told you it was the mithril! You can't hide a King’s blood, even under a Hobbit’s waistcoat!"
And as the fire crackled in the hearth of Bag End, the line of Durin was finally whole again, half-stone, half-Shire, and entirely, chaotically perfect.