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The time to reclaim Erebor had come, and Thorin Oakenshield sought the help of Tharkûn, otherwise known as Gandalf the Grey, a traveling wizard, for aid in acquiring the fourteenth member of his company. Though discouraged by the turn out of a mere thirteen, the prince decided that that was better than none at all. He could always send word to his cousin, Dáin of the Ironhills, requesting troops.
Trusting Tharkûn would prove not to be Thorin’s best choice in all of Arda, because he was then told to meet in the Shire, a place called Bag-End. Dwalin had expressed his protests quite vocally, but it was true and they all knew it to be; the small folk were gentle creatures and oh-so homebound. There wasn't any way a hobbit would agree to sign on. As much as Tharkûn assured that their ‘burglar’ should be a hobbit (because hobbits were light on their feet and could supposedly go near undetected when wanted), the company of thirteen looked to Nori for the title.
Much argument ensued, but the result of it all was a grumbling knot of dwarves. Tharkûn gave a last warning before reinstating his earlier instructions and leaving.
—
The first to arrive in Bag-End was Dwalin. Thorin’s second hand dwarf and closest cousin had been deemed ‘company look-out’. So, he left first to scout danger and or a hostile hobbit.
Next was Balin, then Thorin’s sister-sons Fíli and Kíli, and last, the other eight, Bifur, Bombur, Bofur, Nori, Ori, Dori, Óin, and Glóin with Tharkûn behind.
The hobbit was fussy and pouty, or so he was described. The dwarves took mead and meats and cheeses, food and drink that would make up for their short journey here from Ered Luin. They had raided his pantry dry and empty, sat in the non-sitting chairs, and scraped the forks on the plates.
In the dark, Thorin was not the sharpest axe on the wall. The poor dwarf had lost his way not once, but twice. Circling the same path once over before turning a different way and spotting the glow of Tharkûn’s symbol carved into a rounded door. It was three knocks and all sound that could have been heard from where he was standing had ceased. The door slowly dragged open to reveal a small, curly haired creature with feet too large to be proportionate. He stood unmoving, watching the dwarf walk in as if invited, just as the other's had.
“Gandalf.” Thorin rumbled, rich voice filling the space around him. “I thought you said this place was easy to find. I lost my way. Twice. I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”
“Mark?” The hobbit squeaked, his brows knitting together in what should have been a glare. “There's no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago—”
“There is a mark. I put it there myself.” Tharkûn explained calmly before gesturing to Thorin. “Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.”
Thorin circled the smaller creature, taking in his attire and tight stance. The hobbit seemed to be uncomfortable, if not downright angry for their presence. But still, the gentle tips of his ears poked past tousled, brown curls, and the crinkle of his nose brought a sensation to the dwarf’s chest. A fluttering of his heart, one light but swift wave that crashed inside him like its own developing storm. He pushed it down, but welcomed the feeling.
“So…” Piercing blue eyes scanned the hobbit from head to toe and up again, “this is the hobbit. Tell me Mr Baggins, have you done much fighting?”
Bilbo waddled in a circle to catch Thorin’s gaze, head tilted as if he didn't quite understand.
“Pardon—… me?”
“Axe or sword? What's your weapon of choice?”
“Well, I do have some skill at conkers—, if you must know... But I fail to see why that's relevant.”
Thorin found it amusing, the hobbit was all riled up. His hands, though firmly by his side, were balled into white knuckled fists that undoubtedly represented his displeasure to the sudden interrogation by a dwarf he'd only just met. Thorin chuckled, arms folded over his chest as he gave the hobbit another look over for himself more than anything.
“Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” A smirk curls the corner of the dwarf’s lips, his kin holding their laughter to themselves as not to truly upset their host. But Bilbo looks as if he were just about ready to explode, face flushed, but lips tangled over a fluster of words that would most likely only let exit abuse.
Balin chimes in before another word between the two could be spoken, there was no need for there to be bad blood between two members before the journey had even begun.
“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?”
Thorin turns, expression falling professional once again. “Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms.”
Dwalin’s head emerges from behind Nori’s atrocious peaks, “and what did the dwarves of the Ironhills say? Is Dain with us?”
“They will not come. They say this quest is ours, and ours alone.” There's a moment of silence between all fifteen, disappointment lay heavy in the air, but this was the first that Bilbo was hearing of a ‘quest’.
“You're doing a quest?”
—
The light thud of the hobbit and then Tharkûn’s growl at Bofur’s much unneeded comments of incineration and ‘flesh melting off bone’ had Thorin grumbling something unintelligible along the lines of, “that was not necessary,” or “he could have hurt himself,”.
Thorin rose from his seat and knelt beside the hobbit. So peaceful and calm, it was there that he caught the shadows of Bilbo’s eyelashes on his cheeks, the thin, pink lines of his lips, and creases or his smile. The feeling was not some crashing of waves, this time it was a deep plunging into something unknown. He choked a breath in his throat, it was only a flash, but it was something like fear. For what, he didn't quite understand yet.
The dwarf slid his hands under Bilbo’s legs and midsection, lifting the hobbit with much ease to a comfortable chair in his living space. The walk there was short, none more than a mere fifteen paces, but it was enough to admire the manner in which his curls fell over his forehead and ears. ‘Gentle folk’ as Dwalin had said time and time again; aye. The hobbit looked as soft and felt as pudgy as he was. Thorin nearly felt some urge to protect him, to hold him close so that no harm would come to him.
—
Waiting for the hobbit to wake, the dwarves busied themselves with leisurely activities or playful bickering among siblings. Tharkûn spoke with Bilbo once he did rise from his hard faint, and the hobbit declined to sign on to the Company. Just as they had all said he would.
It was Thorin that called to Bilbo before the hobbit could shut his door. He requested a word and they moved to a visible corridor in the hobbit hole to speak.
It was first to apologize, Thorin’s comments per his arrival were not kind or respectful. A soon to be king should know better, and Thorin definitely did not take pride in belittling Bilbo in front of the company. Then, Bilbo spoke out of his concerns for the journey. The hobbit seemed to be truly shaken at the very thought of walking right into a dragon’s den, and if he were honest, Thorin himself had first felt uneasy.
It turned into something playful, Dwalin and Balin sharing glances and chuckling to themselves. A tease that ‘Thorin had gotten himself a wee hobbit to entertain’ started and spread among the other twelve as they huddled together as inconspicuous as possible.
Bilbo laughed at something Thorin said, hand reaching out to softly push at the dwarf’s arm. It was clear from the redness in his cheeks, Thorin Oakenshield was smitten and he had been from the very first glimpse.
“Get a room, you two!”
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