Chapter Text
Bilbo let the delicate notes of the lyre lead him, with eyes closed and hands clasped behind his back. This was an easy show, one that gave him comfort to do - he had done it often enough. This street theater was not one that drew the most lively crowd, and that was exactly how the Hobbit preferred it. He wanted to take those who listened to him on a journey, an adventure of sorts, though this song was one of calm movement, like water. Plus, the smaller the crowd, the more confident he was that he could charm them. Too many prying eyes made him nervous.
He took a deep breath, was about to let out the first note, when it happened - winds like a hurricane, billowing in from the North, causing the wood of the stage to tremble. There were confused yells, murmurs, and suddenly there was fire.
Later Bilbo would say that it had been like the pine trees of the mountain had screamed in agony, the snaps so loud.
Later, he would recount the horror around him, men, women, Hobbits and Dwarves of all ages burning, a horrible smell lingering long after they were beyond recognition.
Later, he would cry for these strangers.
But now, in the blistering heat, all Bilbo Baggins could do was run.
Between archways and wagons he sprinted as fast as his feet could take him - which was fast indeed. It lasted anywhere between a lifetime and a minute, a flurry of dragon-shaped shadows and bone-melting fire, and then all that was left was the destruction. Bilbo watched from an alley corner, near the high-streets of Dale, as the gigantic red firedrake threw itself into the gates of Erebor. Its front talons scraped against the stone as it roared - the sound vibrated off of the Hobbits bones and he choked on his gasp as, with a blast of fire, the dragon burst into the palace.
Seeing nothing more than smoke in its wake, Bilbo closed his eyes and sunk down the wall he hid behind, feeling both small, numb, and so much more. He tried covering his ears to block out the roars, the screams, the sound of destruction.
If you asked Bilbo how it ended, he couldn’t tell you. He heard stories later, of the greed of dragons, of Smaug, and of the prince who not only rallied his troops, who tried and failed to save his grandfather the King. The prince who, with a great cry in the Dwarves native Khuzdul, pierced the Great Calamity’s belly, ending what could have been the downfall of his people.
All he would tell you, months after the attack, was that Prince Under The Mountain, Thorin, son of Thrain, Slayer of Smaug the Terrible, had saved them.
It took Bilbo months to bring himself to sing again. He sat in his room on the hill for a full day, not emerging even when his neighbors came to see if he had survived the desolation. The images of the mountain laden with smoke, dragon fire in the moonlight, trees like torches - all these things plagued his nightmares for many nights after, but eventually, like most things, the nightmares faded into blackness. He got on with it. Hobbits made do.
That period he wasn’t singing, much to the sadness of his usual venues, he focused on his gardening. He had great skill in produce that usually didn’t flourish in the city of Dale, things like berries and fruits - which he sold to the winemakers - and other vegetables such as tomatoes and pumpkins. A contrast to the usual greens and radishes, these above-ground growers did not usually find the region hospitable, much like hobbits.
But, much like this one particular hobbit, they dug their roots, and they persisted. With some tender care and a particularly talented green-thumb, Bilbo made a nice living off of his small market stall.
It was in this garden, on his knees tending strawberries, that he sang again.
Far over, the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep
And caverns old
Quietly, softly, his voice acted on its own accord. He almost slapped a hand over his mouth when he realized what he’d been doing. Blast it, he thought. He felt almost guilty, though he knew it didn’t make sense. It just felt… uncomfortable, to sing so soothingly when he had run like a coward just weeks before. Singing never helped anyone, he thought. And neither had he.
But he couldn’t stop himself. More and more his voice pushed through his lips against his will, and eventually his guilt became a numb sadness, which sat in the timbre of his voice forevermore. With that, at least, he knew he would never forget.
And only a few weeks later, with the same song being hummed in his throat, Bilbo had a visitor.
At first, he didn’t recognize the elder Man before him, in grey robes and a tall walking stick. He looked vaguely familiar, but Bilbo couldn’t place him. He almost hadn’t noticed the Man, if not for the pipe-smoke that had brought him out of his mid-morning humming.
Bilbo shuffled on his red garden bench, thinking of what to say to the tall being who was staring him down. He settled on a simple, “good morning.”
“What do you mean? Do you wish me a good morning… or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning? Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”
How horribly confusing and unnecessary, Bilbo thought, before politely replying, “all of them at once, I suppose…”
The Man gave nothing more than a noncommittal grunt, and yet continued to study the Hobbit as though he were trying to solve some riddle.
After a time, Bilbo asked whether or not he could help the Man. “Are you a new vintner in the area? I was sure I knew all the buyers in Dale but if I’ve been remiss in introductions I am terribly sorry-”
“No, no, please. I am no common winemaker. I am looking for someone to share in… a sort of adventure.”
This confuses Bilbo greatly, and his mind racing with images of fire and dragons, and he stutters. “A-an adventure? No, no no I think not. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things -” he quickly got up from his bench, began to pick at his blueberry bushes “- make you late for dinner!” He was just about to walk up to his door when the Man’s incredulous voice stopped him.
“To think I should have lived to be left at the gate by Belladonna Took’s son like some common button-seller, oh if she could see you now!”
“Excuse me, how do you-”
“You’ve changed Bilbo Baggins, and I would hazard to guess not for the better!”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Well, I should think you know my name, even if you don’t remember I belong to it,” the Man seemed to sadden a bit at that revelation.
“And that is…?”
“Gandalf! Gandalf meaning, well… meaning me!”
Bilbo thought a second, and remembered like a snap - or like a firework. “Not Gandalf the Wandering Wizard? The one who told such excellent stories, who… who…” Bilbo trailed off as he remembered the burial of his parents, specifically the tall, grey man who had flicked his wrists, covering the grave in mourning lilies and gladioli. The hobbit hummed, rather than speak the memory into existence.
They sat in a sad silence until Gandalf decided to break it. “Yes well, I’m warmed to find you remember something of me, even if it’s not the most pleasant of memories.” He looked Bilbo up and down once before he continued. “Yes, well, it’s decided. This will be very good for you, and very amusing for me. I shall inform the palace, be prepared to leave at dawn.”
“Inform where? What? Excuse me we do not-” he followed as the wizard turned to leave, “- we do not want any sort of adventure here, not from you or the palace not after-” Bilbo swallowed his next words.
“Perhaps,” Gandalf began softly. “Perhaps I should have been more clear. This is not a dangerous adventure, Master Baggins, but a musical one.”
Bilbo looked up confused. “Musical?”
“Yes, yes, not dangerous at all, unless of course the company of Dwarrow tends to frighten you,” Gandalf turned and smiled down at the poor Hobbit, all wide-eyes and well-placed curls. “No, my dear boy, you won’t be needing a sword but only your voice. You shall be the new singer of the Erborian Palace band.”