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The night was alive with noise as Thorin ordered the setting of camp. Bilbo remembered a time, not too long ago, that this would cost him hours of sleep each night, the chirping of bugs making his skin feel phantom legs crawling on it, and the crowing of birds from beyond the Shire sounding far from familiar, farther still from safe.
That night, however, Bilbo caught a relieved sigh escaping him as he laid down his blanket and bags in a comfortable nook (one without too much dust, of course - he was very much still a hobbit above all else). The noise in his ears, he had learned some time after their battle with the wargs, was most preferable to silence. Silence was nervousness, the world waiting with baited breath. Silence was the sound of a larger predator, ready to make itself known. But noise, it was… well, it was exactly that, he supposed.
Speaking of noise, Bilbo could have sworn he heard water running as they were searching for a resting place - it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago, could it? His hand drifted to his water pail. It was frighteningly light, not enough to last him more than another day. That’s being generous, too, he thought unhappily.
Well, then, it was easily fixed. He made a note to explore the area around the clearing once everyone was fed.
“Bilbo,” Bofur called, as if right on cue. “Help us with stew, will you?”
Bilbo stood, smiling, with a short nod and a wave of his hand. A funny place to be, this was, and he couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath.
Since the battle on the cliff, there had been a large shift in the collective demeanor toward him, from all members involved. One of tolerance to… well, something else. He was no longer a friendly but fumbling companion, in their eyes - or perhaps he still was, but one that had wet his blade with orc blood. He knew that he was on not yet of the same standing as the rest of his companions - and it did not necessarily bother him that in his short amount of time with the company he had yet to make a fearsome reputation for himself, after all, he was a Baggins of Bag End and perfectly content to have the lowest number of kills under his belt. He had respect, and a newfound sense of security along with it. If the company had mixed emotions over it all, he didn’t blame them one bit. Goodness gracious, he had plenty of trouble adjusting to the idea himself.
Bilbo knew they were all trying to figure him out, and perhaps none with so much effort as he was himself. Now more than ever, it was only one awkward interaction after the next. It seemed Bofur and Bombur still choosing to value him as… as someone gentle, his mind supplied, who still had skill in meal-preparation regardless of whatever else, was the least of his worries. Especially after his most recent conversation with Dwalin, comparatively, who now seemed uncharacteristically eager to give him axe-throwing lessons. Bilbo had politely but firmly declined - jesting (but still including no small amount of truth) that his arms were far too weak to even pick one up. To this Dwalin had only shaken his head and muttered about being able to fix that, too.
Well. There was no matter of it all. Despite his newly earned respect Bilbo still felt more than comfortable gently stirring tomatoes, herbs, and whatever poor bird Kili had managed to shoot out of its tree earlier that day, into a warm meal to feed everyone. Let others speculate, he thought, and I will be enjoying my supper regardless.
“Laddie, what’s on your mind?” Bofur asked cheerfully, and Bilbo almost dropped the ladle into the pot.
“Bofur,” he exhaled with a short laugh. “Don’t scare me like that, I haven’t the energy after all today.”
“Scare you? Why, it was only a nudge.” He sniffed the stew, which to Bilbo’s pride, was finally starting to smell like a proper meal, and smiled. “Oh, that is lovely, that is.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course, of course,” He said. “Now, what’s troublin’ you? You haven’t been this quiet since you were watching us scrub your dishes in the Shire.” Bilbo’s expression must have soured at that, because Bofur’s smile grew wider still. “Oh, come on now! No shame in talking.”
“Well, if you’re quite sure,” Bilbo said, then paused, giving Bofur a last chance to back out. He didn’t. Bilbo sighed, and reluctantly continued. “I feel as though most of the company is treading strangely around me. Somehow even moreso than before. Have you…” He motioned with his hand, though he wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to represent, and then let it drop. “Have you, well, heard anything?”
Bofur shrugged, and Bilbo sighed. “We aren’t much good at keeping our voices down. I’m sure you’ve heard everything that’s been said aloud about you, and I've not been privy to much that wasn't fair praise.”
“Well, that is perfectly alright,” Bilbo muttered, though rather flattered, appeased. “It was only a stray thought.”
“Need anything else for the stew?”
“Oh, no thank you, I think I will be quite fine on my own. We hobbits do know our way around a meal, if I do say so my-” but as Bilbo looked up, Bofur was already off to Bombur’s side to assist with the carving of the rest of their meat. “Hm.”
Bilbo went back to cooking, feeling a pang of… something. He decided to brush it off stiffly. Whatever it is can be solved, he thought, with a mint leaf or two, and so that was the next thing his hand reached for.
Still, the feeling of nagging accompanied him through the hour, and though his arms ached from holding the ladle - as if this is the most demanding labor they’ve been doing recently, he thought with a huff, honestly - the effort of slowly putting together a meal, all alone, was no longer able to bring the comfort and familiarity that it once offered. He sighed, resigning himself to a night of unresolved self-pity, and began scooping it into bowls.
“The food is ready!”
That was enough to get every dwarrow’s attention - Bilbo saw every head turn toward him, and this time for the right reasons. He was very thankful to say, too, that this night saw no clamoring nor fighting for the first couple of servings, and as each pair of hands took their supper gratefully, he counted them off. Ori was first in the line, and Bilbo was glad at that - he had been seeming tired all day. His brothers followed, and then Ur’s (Bofur giving more generous praise than even his brothers, as if he hadn’t been the first to smell it just minutes before), then everyone at once. The end of the line was commonly reserved for the least pushy dwarrows of the group, or whichever few had the most self control that night, and this was no exception. Bilbo happily counted off the last of the group.
“Balin, Fili and Kili, Óin …” He handed their meals to them quickly, and turned to give the last to Thorin, who was the only one left (as it was often the case, he noticed, that Thorin would wait to eat until every other dwarf had been fed), and then paused. A bowl in hand, warmth sinking into his fingers, Bilbo looked around the company. Counted in his mind, then started over again, to the same frustrating results. “Erm, Óin?” He asked quietly, grateful that the dwarf was near him still, and that he wouldn’t have to make a scene.
“Eh?” Óin’s face was largely distorted around a mouthful of food, and Bilbo gulped.
“Has Thorin gone somewhere? He’s not gotten any stew yet.”
Óin grunts and shrugs, still chewing. “How should I know?”
Bilbo blinked. “You, um. You’ve been the one tending to him, haven’t you?” Óin only looked back at him boredly, which just served to agitate Bilbo more. “You- you know what I mean! His wounds, aren’t you supposed to tend to them? You’re the one with, with any sort of, well, knowledge of medicine.”
Óin sighed and continued scraping at his food. “The only one who tends to Thorin is Mahal below, and it’s likely even then he's meet his maker in a world o' resistance.”
“So…?” Bilbo prodded after a moment of silence, and Óin rolled his eyes.
“By my beard, boy, I haven’t a clue. He’s out. He’ll be back soon enough.”
Bilbo huffed, setting down the bowl, and trudged away, unsatisfied with the exchange, and disgruntled by Thorin’s absence. “Out! Ha, isn’t that just hilarious,” he muttered angrily. “The nerve of these dwarrows. He’s out.” Out where? Last Bilbo had made sure, they were hiking through forest, and not wandering about an inn lacking in space, in air. They were already out.
In his frustration, he didn’t notice as he walked past his comfortable nook, past his blanket and backpack, past his water pack and pipe, nor did he notice as the noise from the camp grew quieter and quieter until he could not longer discern the dwarrows’ chattering voices from the sound of the forest around him.
Oh, dear. “Um,” he said softly, to nothing and nobody in particular. Then, to himself, he scowled. Bilbo Baggins, you truly have gone and done it now. What was it all for, charging the leader of an orc army, embedding his sword in a warg or two, ‘proving’ himself, when it was obviously all going to end in humiliation? He could envision it now, the look on even kind Balin’s face, as he was found disoriented and confused in the woods that, really, couldn’t be more than minutes away from the actual camp. “Turns out he really is just one of the fairer folk,” he could practically hear Nori admitting with a sneer.
To nothing else, perhaps it would embarrass Gandalf, drag from him his credibility enough to reimburse Bilbo for all his troubles, for all his annoyance and discomfort in making this blasted journey in the first place. Emotional payment would be collected by the coin, and this sentiment was almost enough to make Bilbo feel better.
Oh, and all because he was so busy worrying about Thorin. These damned dwarves, Bilbo scolded himself. Whatever are you worrying about them for? Worry about yourself! This was perhaps one of the most valuable anecdotes his mind had supplied him thus far, and a great load it did him, now that he had already made himself a fool.
“Alright, Baggins, think.” He snapped a finger. “Let us figure this out, before someone comes to find us.” Water, water was nearby, he remembered. Oh, it all came back to the water, didn’t it? If he could find the water, though, he was quite sure he would be able to find his way to camp. He had a rather sharp memory, after all, being made to remember the names of all of his aunts and uncles (and exactly how much each one would irritate his mother during family gatherings) from his very earliest years. He was sure he could remember the way to camp from the water.
That was, of course, only if he could manage to find it. He closed his eyes and paid attention to his ears alone. Maybe they had been damaged some, with all the company of energetic dwarows sending his sense of hearing to the brink of their ability, but they were still attached to his head, and Bilbo would very well have to use them.
Amid the creaking of bugs, the chirping of birds, and the swaying of trees, there was undoubtedly water coming from somewhere. Was it… to the right of him? Bilbo covered his left ear, just to make sure. Yes, that was certainly the source, Bilbo decided, and started walking without even deciding to move his legs.
Through the forest, though noticing very little, Bilbo was reminded of his shift in comfort throughout this venture. Why, he was quite sure that even a year ago he would have become short of breath and much shorter of temper like this, marching through the woods that he knew nothing about, surrounded by noises he didn’t know, and blindly following the only one that he did. Now, it was simply another day. Bilbo knew more of them would come, and he was oddly proud of that small, sweet awareness.
Awareness (a word he would scoff at later, with much more than a hint of embarrassment) however, was certainly not the correct term to use. He walked until finding the clearing, a slowly moving river flowing into a lake, and huffed a relieved sigh, very much not aware of anything else in his immediate surroundings. Or anyone, so it would seem.
Thorin Oakenshield cleared his throat aside him, and Bilbo nearly tripped over his own two feet. “Master Baggins.”
His voice was still terrifyingly, damnably low, and Bilbo felt that same intimidation as he had during their very first conversation back in Bag End. Surely he had no reason to, as claimed by the more objective side of his mind - after the events of the past week, there could be no doubt that their interactions were becoming less stressful. But it still took Bilbo longer than he would have liked to find his voice.
“Thorin. I was just…” he turned to point to where he came from, the general direction, at least, and cleared his throat. “I was trying to find my way back to, erm. Camp.”
Thorin only regarded him with the same unreadable mask. “Are you lost?” He asked, and Bilbo floundered.
“I- no, no, I’m perfectly fine now, thank you,” he blabbered. “I was only lost in thought, walking around, and realized that I would need to find the river to…” He shrugged, looking downward. “You know.”
Thorin only hummed in response - not giving Bilbo very much to work with, if he was being terribly honest - and kept looking at him with those piercing eyes that seemed to poke holes right through him.
“You weren’t at supper,” Bilbo said slowly.
“Indeed.”
“I asked Óin, but he didn’t know where you were either.” Bilbo cursed Thorin for having such a controlled face - he could see something change in it, but hadn’t a clue what that was, or what prompted it.
“I see.” Bilbo waited for an elaboration, and when none came, he cleared his throat. Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Is something bothering you, Master Baggins?
“Well, since you’re asking, yes! I was quite bothered when you disappeared from the camp you've set, without a trace, and not even Gandalf could say to where-”
“Were you, now.”
“I- yes, in fact, I was!” Bilbo felt his face getting warm, nose twitching. “You leave a dozen dwarrows alone after telling them to set up camp, and tell me how much you expect to get done. Nobody knew where you were, and Óin says that you’re still wounded, but bugger all, I suppose! Just run off and be moody, why…” Bilbo felt himself losing momentum, slowing himself down a bit, and that was when he saw the small, almost invisible smile that was now on Thorin’s face. He was… entertained, Bilbo supposed, and suddenly he had no idea what he was doing. Anger, he had faced, impassivity, he had grown to accept. This, however…
“I am sorry for worrying you so,” Thorin said wryly, his voice still unmistakably cool, and it sent a jolt down Bilbo’s back for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of. “Be assured that was not my intention.”
“I.” Bilbo managed, quite eloquently, lowering his voice to almost a mumble. “Well, then. You are forgiven.”
“A glad day this is, then.” Edges of his mouth still facing slightly upward, an almost smug look on his face, Thorin then turned away from Bilbo. Looking at the water, he clasped his hands behind his back.
“If- if you don’t mind me asking,” Bilbo started, cautious at first, and upon seeing that Thorin did not look particularly bothered by it (rather, the smile persisted), continued, “what exactly have you been doing out here as supper was being served?”
“I left to take peace of mind,” Thorin answered. Bilbo paused, pursing his lips.
“I suppose… that means you would prefer I left you to it, then?” He ventured. But there was no answer, and Bilbo dared not leave a monarch's side without proper dismissal - not after speaking in a manner so crass. He swayed slightly on one leg, then on the other, and focused his eyes on the ground before him.
After a stretching, piercing silence, Thorin turned back to face him. “You fought well today, Master Baggins,” he said. “Have you been training with Dwalin?”
“Erm, no,” Bilbo said, feeling rather sheepish. “I always thought it best that, well, that I didn’t bother or distract him.”
“I see.” Was Thorin’s reply, a narrowing of the eyes, and a step taken toward Bilbo. He felt his nose twitch. “Nevertheless you improve.” It wasn’t a question.
Bilbo’s face felt warm again. “Well… I hardly deserve that much credit, I think,” He said, huffing, hoping he sounded more passive than he felt. “I’ve had more than sufficient opportunity to, and it took me long enough, really-”
“Or perhaps,” Thorin mused, “it took me long enough to notice.” The smile faded from his face, as did any hint of teasing or humor. Bilbo rather felt like a mouse trapped between a broom and a wall.
“You’ve had much on your mind, I’m sure,” he said with a small laugh, trying to brush off the compliment, but Thorin took another step toward him, and Bilbo couldn’t find it in him to take one backwards. There was a moment of silence, taut with something that Bilbo couldn’t place, and then Thorin spoke.
“That, I have.”
That, that was quiet, and Bilbo wondered if perhaps he hadn’t heard it at all, if he was simply making it up. But Thorin was too close, much too close, and there was a purpose in his eyes that Bilbo couldn’t understand, and a loud rushing in his ears, the reason for which he hadn’t a clue.
Then just as suddenly as he had come forward, Thorin stepped away, with all the grace and possession of a king. He seemed to have reached a decision, and for all Bilbo tried, he couldn’t decipher it.
“You may tell Óin that I am quite alright,” Thorin said, his face perfectly regal, unbothered - Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was imagining the self-satisfied air surrounding him. “And I shall return to camp shortly.”
“I-” Bilbo started, then realized that he didn’t know what to say. “Yes, I- okay, I will. Tell that to him, that is.” Thorin watched him as he stumbled about his words. “I. Erm.” Bilbo wished he could kick himself. “Enjoy your… peace.” Then he turned abruptly on his heel, and forced his feet to move him forward.
“Master Baggins,” Thorin’s voice said behind him, and Bilbo silently cursed before stopping. He didn’t turn around to look again. “Save for me a bowl of the stew, will you not?”
Bilbo’s jaw clenched, and he managed to spit a sharp “Yes, alright,” before he left, not looking back in Thorin’s direction before he was quite sure that he, and the lake, were quite out of sight. And, when he stopped to catch his breath, laughing nervously and muttering to himself, as he leaned against the broad trunk of a tree, he prayed that, over the sound of the forest, alive and busy, no sound of it would reach Thorin’s ears.