Chapter Text
They were travelling along the secret pathway to Rivendell, when Bilbo caught up with Gandalf and asked, “So who is this Necromancer, exactly?”
Gandalf stopped so abruptly that Bilbo crashed against him and was then nearly run over by Bombur who happened to be the next in line. It triggered a chain reaction where one dwarf after another bumped into each other on the narrow path, causing an uproar that drowned out any stern words Gandalf might or might not have uttered about sneaky hobbits.
Once they were safely moving again, Gandalf muttered, “Didn’t your mother teach you that eavesdropping is considered rude? Furthermore, it’s potentially dangerous when there are wizards involved.”
Even if Bilbo thought that this was quite hypocritical coming from the likes of Gandalf, who practically made his living by meddling in the businesses of others, he chose not express this opinion out loud.
Instead, he pressed on. “If he lives at the other end of Mirkwood as Radagast says -" yet another piece of overheard information - "then what does he have to do with the dragon or any of this?”
Gandalf’s long-suffering sight indicated that he recognized a lost battle when he saw one. “Maybe nothing. Let us say that there are some who would find it convenient if this quest should fail and not all of them are after the treasure. That’s all I’m willing to say about this topic for now, and you should do well by putting that name off your mind for good.”
And for the time being and many days to come, Bilbo actually did.
Until -
“You seem familiar with my name, but I don't remember smelling your kind before,” Smaug mused, its voice a deathly curious rumble. “Who are you and where do you come from, may I ask?”
Bilbo opened his mouth - and then pinched shut.
Within a span of seconds, he had a small revelation. It was, in fact, the very same revelation he had had while he was sneaking through the pathway further into the Mountain; that all of this - from the moment he had left his house, to the instant when he deduced how to open the hidden door - had been a terrible mistake.
In all honesty, he blamed Thorin and his blasted charms. Some moments before, the three of them - he, Thorin and Balin - had been standing together on the upper level, going through the plan once more. It would have been much more encouraging if there actually had been a plan to begin with. At this point Bilbo wasn’t even that picky about the precise nature of that plan, as long as it would resolve one of the following dilemmas:
One: How to kill a dragon, who was thousands of years old and approximately the size of a small village.
Two: How (if the previous wasn’t a possibility, as no doubt was the case) finding the Arkenstone would help them with anything, unless the purpose was to only hasten their demolition.
For now, it seemed like the only farsighted planning on the Company’s side had involved hiring Bilbo and his role as the reckless idiot, willing to go waltzing into what would certainly be a fiery death. How on all Middle-Earth had that happened, well -
Bilbo suddenly felt Thorin’s hand on his shoulder; from the corner of his eye he could see how Balin instantly found a patch of rock irresistibly interesting and bent down to examine it with obvious exaggeration.
“While I have nothing but trust in your success,” Thorin rumbled low next to Bilbo’s ear, “I understand if you have some doubts. It would be foolish not to.”
For someone who was so close to achieving his life’s mission, Thorin seemed oddly calm. Meanwhile, Bilbo was drenched in cold sweat and kept shivering - from nerves or cold, he wasn’t sure. He wanted to tell Thorin, now more than ever, that it simply wasn’t fair of him to be - well, to be him. Bilbo wanted to throw a tantrum, in the same manner he imagined he had when he was nothing but a wee hobbitling, and scream how Thorin had no right to barge into his life like a hungry squirrel into a stocked pantry, leaving everything in disarray and most of all, making Bilbo the kind of person who was willing to throw himself into the jaws of death (quite literally) and apparently sneak into the lair of a dragon with nothing on his person but his wits.
In the same breath he would have liked to enquire (speaking this time to no one particular), if this was how all those other hobbits back at home had felt, when he had witnessed them making utter fools of themselves by weaving crowns made of flowers and then blushing furiously when it came the time to give those presents to that special someone. Bilbo had never seen the appeal and had thought himself above such nonsense.
In that regard, fate most certainly had a wicked sense of humor.
“Bilbo?” Thorin’s voice shook him out of these thoughts.
He cleared his throat. “I’m - fine. Absolutely fine. And I’ve already made up my mind. I’m going down there.”
“Just don’t let it enthrall you. Dragons can seize one’s mind with just mere words.”
Despite the nonexistent light, Thorin’s eyes looked like blazing coals, and before he knew it, a peal of nervous laughter had escaped Bilbo’s lips. That’s it, he heard a resolute voice inside his head say. I’m mad. This is madness. Is it normal to be driven this mad when -
Later, Bilbo couldn’t quite explain how at the time it had seemed easier to just leave and go face the dragon, rather than to stay there with Thorin any longer. At least he didn’t have to worry about Smaug putting its spell on him, given that he already appeared to be under another’s.
Not that Smaug seemed to have much interest in overpowering him with words: Bilbo currently found it inspecting him in a way one might look at an especially irritating fly. In the back of his mind, Bilbo knew that he was only moments away from being swapped to death or roasted alive; whereas he was currently so cross with Thorin that idea of his demise actually brought him a sense of twisted satisfaction, given how greatly Thorin might blame himself if that should happen, Bilbo didn’t really fancy the idea of dying that instant. The dragon was still waiting for an answer and he deemed it wisest to play for time, at least until a more resounding plan came to mind.
But.
Bilbo had been so close to babbling some incoherent nonsense about riding barrels and bringing luck, all of which would lead the dragon to the same conclusion: that he had had help. Try as he might, there was no version of the truth available that didn’t cast some blame on any party involved, let it be the dwarves, the people of Lake-town or the elves. It seemed that the dreadful prophecy was destined to fulfill itself, dooming all lands nearby to a fiery inferno.
And that is when Gandalf’s words, like a faint echo, came back to him.
Before he could think about it any longer, Bilbo heard himself blurt, “The Necromancer sent me.”
Smaug, who had been idly toying with a golden statue approximately the size of Bilbo’s kitchen, paused. “And who, pray tell, is this Necromancer you speak of?”
Desperately trying to scavenge his memory for any details, Bilbo stammered, “He - He lives in Dol Guldur. They say nothing grows where He has once walked, that all life fleets from Him and the rivers He has touched run dry. He’s the Lord of Spiders, the Terror of Wizards, the Ender of All Life.”
Here, he paused to take a shaky breath. Considering that he knew next to nothing about this fearsome Necromancer, Bilbo was suddenly very proud of his elaborate description. Luckily the name was quite self-explaining; he very much doubted that someone with a title like that was known for his taste in ales and love for nature.
Smaug slithered closer, peering at Bilbo between two pillars. “And what proof do I have that such an enemy even exists? Am I supposed to take your word for it, little thief, when I already know how traitorous you can be.”
Luckily this time Smaug had already provided him with the answer.
“I walked here unseen, didn’t I? Here -“ As he spoke, Bilbo dug into his pocket, his fingers closing around the Ring. As they did, a sudden, almost ravenous urge to simply slip it back on overcame him; with considerable effort he managed to fight it down and held the Ring up for Smaug to see. “You said it yourself that I was carrying something special, something made of gold. Well, here it is. My master gave it to me, so that I could bring you proof of His powers and give taste of what lies ahead. When He chooses to strike, you won’t even see Him coming before it’s too late.”
Maybe it was the mental image of working as a mouthpiece for such a liege, but suddenly he felt quite sure of himself. After all, he was the shadow that moved in the night unseen and unheard, the silver-tongued spy; all this, confirmed by the Ring’s solid weight in his hand.
Just then, yet another sly notion overtook him. Two birds with one stone, as his father Bungo used to say. Willing down a self-indulged smirk, Bilbo stated, “He will destroy you. He - and Azog the Defiler.”
Smaug’s huge eyes looked like they might bulge out of its head from sheer annoyance; it was obvious that the name didn’t ring any bells. So Bilbo added, this time almost pleasantly, “The pale white orc. He’s my lord’s general, the leader of His army.”
Bilbo knew instantly that he had crossed a line: Smaug was now practically vibrating with rage, making the chamber fill with the jingle of coins, as it stamped its feet and spread its enormous wings. Bilbo was forced to take cover under the nearby stairs, as the dragon’s tail went swooping past him, knocking down pillars and walls in its wake.
“Lies, filthy lies!” Smaug bellowed. “How dare you come to my kingdom - my kingdom - to spill such empty threats?! No man is match to my power! My teeth are swords, my claws are spears! I, and I alone – am Death!”
“No, dead is the only thing you’ll be, once my Master unleashes his powers!” Bilbo shouted, reckless. He was crawling towards the opening on his right, hoping that Smaug was distracted enough not to notice him. While making the dragon mad was possibly not his smartest decision, he knew he had no alternative if he wanted his plan to work.
While Smaug continued to trash around, shouting obscenities at him, Bilbo made his way on top of the stairs. Moments after his confrontation with the dragon he had spotted the Arkenstone and followed it as it had been drifting atop the sea of coins. Finally it had landed on the ledge where he, too, was now standing on.
And then Smaug chose to swing its tail against the nearest wall, making everything shake and Bilbo grapple for support.
In that moment, the Ring slipped from his pocket.
Bilbo was caught in a strange stillness, as time itself seemed to slow down. Everything narrowed down to the two objects in his line of sight: his Ring, a few steps away on the right; the Arkenstone, a little further on the left. In the space that fell between them, he saw Smaug’s enormous jaws opening, the flames already climbing up its throat.
One clear thought pierced his consciousness: I’m going to die for a piece of jewelry like some dwarf.
And then he made his choice, and dived.
By the time his fingers closed around his mark and he managed to roll aside, tumbling down from the ledge and into the pile of gold below, everything was in flames. Bilbo could only burrow further under the treasure, hoping that it would spare him from the roasting happening above. At some point he felt a flash of sharp pain piercing his chest, like a puncture from an invisible dagger, but the sudden feeling was gone as quickly as it came and left only a dull ache in its wake.
Distantly, Bilbo could hear Smaug roar in dismay. Revenge - something, something - the Necromancer, then we’ll see - and again, some more knocked down walls and coins flying every which way. It sounded like one of those storms that sometimes swept over the Shire during springtime, now concealed inside the Mountain’s walls. Bilbo could only hope that they would hold.
To his relief he soon became aware that the sounds of the rampage were now growing farther away. When he finally risked a peek from his hiding place, it was to catch the last glimpse of Smaug’s tail, as it disappeared from sight three halls away. Based on the vague description Balin had given him of the place, Bilbo could only assume that it was heading outside.
After that, it didn’t take long for the others to come rushing in. Thorin was the first, and that is how he came upon Bilbo, who was now sitting in the middle of the scorched part of the hall, where the floor was still almost too hot stand on.
Thorin quickly navigated between piles of melted gold and nearly knocked Bilbo over in his hurry to seize his upper arms. “What happened? We saw the dragon take flight from the main gates and we thought -” Noticing the look on Bilbo’s face, he halted. “What’s the matter - are you hurt?”
Yes. That was the first response that came to Bilbo’s mind. Truthfully, it was quite the opposite: there were only some minor scratches and bruises on him, and the jacket he had acquired from Lake-town was now burned beyond repair. But for some unexplainable reason he felt more hollowed and wearier than ever before, the taste of ash and pile sitting heavy on his tongue. As he looked into Thorin’s eyes, he found himself suddenly hoping he would simply leave him be.
Only when Thorin repeated his question, Bilbo shook his head. “No. At least I don’t think so. No thanks to you lot, that is.”
Now it was Dwalin who stood before Bilbo. “What happened with the worm? Where’s it going?”
“To Dol Guldur, I hope. Still, I don’t think it will take long for it to realize that it has been lied to. We should warn Bard and the others, tell them to get the - the wind lance, if that’s what it’s called - ready.” Bilbo casted a somewhat pointless look around. “I don’t suppose there are any black arrows lying around?”
Despite the notion that his nephews were in possible danger, Thorin made no attempt to move. Even his hands stayed firmly on Bilbo. “You sent Smaug after the Necromancer?” he asked, clearly amazed.
Bilbo blinked; apparently someone else had been pestering Gandalf with questions as well.
“Yes,” he confirmed, growing impatient. “And Azog. One less thing for us to worry about, I think. Now please, we don’t have much time...“
Thorin finally pulled away, although somewhat reluctantly. A band of other dwarves heaved Bilbo up and on his feet.
“We should send word to Bard,” Balin suggested, still eying worriedly in the direction where Smaug had disappeared. “One of Roäc’s could carry it.”
Bilbo frowned. “And who is -“
“He’s the leader of the ravens of Ravenhill. Most of them don’t speak the common tongue like they did in the days of my grandfather, but they still understand it well enough. They approached us when we were waiting for your return,” Thorin explained. “Now quickly, get me a parchment and something to write with.”
“Here!” Ori dashed forward with a journal in hand, shaking in clear excitement now that his area of expertise was finally found crucial.
As Thorin kneeled down to write a short message, Bilbo peered over his shoulder. “By the way, Bard's son was right: there is a weak spot under its stomach, where a scale has fallen off.” Somehow, he couldn’t keep the snidely tone from his voice. “Maybe you should tell them to aim for that.”
In the end, it actually was Bard who managed to slay Smaug once and for all.
Their warning had arrived in time: when the dragon had returned from its detour to Dol Guldur and then apparently decided to give a reminder of its power to its nearest neighbors as well, the town had been ready. Although Bilbo and the others didn’t know it at the time, a massive battle took place in the city. Many archers tried their best in piercing Smaug with their arrows, but finally (with some pointers on dwarven weaponry from Kíli) Bard had made use of his hidden black arrow and killed the beast. Its body now laid on the eastern shore of the lake, where no one dared to approach it.
Naturally Thorin was overjoyed that his kin (Bofur and Óin included) were safe. He was so focused on the fact that Smaug was finally gone, that he seemed to completely miss how badly Lake-town had weathered the dragon’s attack. Based on the description Fíli had sent by one of the ravens, the damage had been heavy and the death-toll high. According to him, a Silvan captain named Tauriel had been there when the battle took place and had now left to retrieve help from Mirkwood.
Despite his earlier relief, Thorin now seemed to have more pressing matters at hand.
“The Arkenstone,” the newly (self-) appointed King Under the Mountain sighed, after it was clear that all members of the Company were in one piece and that the dragon wasn’t coming back. “Can it truly be lost?”
“Actually, about that…”
As he was speaking, Bilbo retrieved something from his pocket. He slowly pulled apart the dirty handkerchief, revealing the shimmering jewel within; despite the flecks of ash speckled across its surface, the Arkenstone was otherwise as impeccable as ever. Unlike my melted Ring, Bilbo thought bitterly. After Smaug’s flames, there had been nothing left of it.
For once Thorin looked like he was at loss for words. Carefully, like he was handling breakable glass, he took the stone from Bilbo’s hand. For the longest of time he simply stared at it, lost in whatever it was that he saw in the depths of the endless prisms - and then he slipped it inside his pocket and lifted his gaze to meet Bilbo’s. There was such a turmoil of emotions in his eyes that Bilbo didn’t even realize he had taken a step back, before Thorin himself stepped forward, closing the distance between them once more. He seized Bilbo by his shoulders and held him there with an iron grip, leaving him no chance to move.
“You have led us safely to our home and tricked the enemy by ensuring its defeat,” Thorin said, his deep voice resonating from the stone walls. “And now, you have delivered me this. All the gold inside this mountain can’t compare to the size of the debt that I owe you.”
Bilbo was afraid that any moment now, his own heart would simply stammer out of his chest, so rabidly it was thundering against his ribs. Despite the sheer enormity of the space around them, the world was suddenly narrowed down to the same breath of air shared between them. For the first time after the Ring had slipped from his grasp, Bilbo felt something akin to joy.
Somewhere behind Thorin’s back, Balin coughed gently. The sound was followed by Dwalin, who bellowed, “Well, by my beard, look at the size of those axes!”, and quickly shepherded the herd of dwarves towards the weapons chamber on their right.
Thorin and Bilbo were left to stare at the sight of their retrieving backs. After a moment, Thorin cleared his throat. “Come,” he said, giving Bilbo a private smile. “Let us see what else you have earned us.”
After making sure that his feet still worked, Bilbo followed, feeling rather like a dog on an invisible leash.
The halls of Thorin’s ancestors turned out to be quite something. To say that they were big would have been the understatement of the Third Age, given that even after a day of walking, they had only uncovered the few halls on the ground level. Beneath the floors, Thorin explained to him, the kingdom went on for miles. Despite the destruction caused by Smaug, the sheer level of architecture was enough to take Bilbo’s breath away.
Then there was, of course - the treasure.
The dwarves’ reactions to seeing it in all its glory varied greatly: Balin, Dwalin, Dori, Bombur and Glóin merely stared at it in silent awe, unable to describe in words what they were feeling; Nori was crying with glee; Bifur was on his knees and kissing the ground, sometimes shouting out various words in Khuzdûl. The worst of them was poor Ori, who had taken one look at the riches ahead of him, and then fainted.
Thorin was regarding the gold with an expression that could only be described as ‘fond’. “It really is something, isn’t it,” he murmured, so quietly that only Bilbo was able to hear him.
“I guess that’s one way of putting it,” Bilbo hummed, somewhat reluctantly. Seeing the smile Thorin had until now preserved only for him being targeted at piles of coins was suddenly off-putting.
Behind them, Nori was pulling Dori into a bear-hug, yelling into the other dwarf’s ear - “We’re rich, brother! Rich!” - and for once, Dori looked like didn’t mind the least.
Thorin set his temporary throne room in one of the smaller halls by the main gate. As the other dwarves busied themselves by throwing together the most elaborate feast they could conjure from the supplies at hand (Bombur had even emerged from somewhere with golden plates and utensils), Thorin pulled Bilbo aside.
“I want to give your something I found in the royal treasure chamber,” he said. “You can take it as a personal thank you from me.”
Fearing that it was perhaps another weapon or some piece of jewelry he really had no use for, Bilbo hesitated. “That’s, um – that’s nice?”
But when Thorin unraveled the bundle he was carrying, it was to reveal something that looked like it was woven from pure silver and possibly starlight.
“A shirt?” Bilbo laughed, unable to contain his mirth. “A whole mountain full of gold, and you want to give me a shirt?”
“It’s not just some piece of garment,” Thorin grumbled, clearly affronted by Bilbo’s obnoxiousness. “It is mithril – stronger than any steel, yet it weighs next to nothing. The material is considered very rare indeed, and very valuable.”
Bilbo suddenly felt ashamed of his previous reaction. As he took the exquisite chainmail shirt from Thorin, he made sure his appreciation sounded genuine. “Thank you, Thorin. It’s beautiful.”
His eyes still cast downwards, Thorin answered, this time almost coyly, “Since you have a habit for getting yourself in trouble, it would ease my mind to know that you’re wearing it.”
And what was he supposed to say to that? Thorin showing such concern for him was something that just the day before would have made him trip over on his own feet; now, he only mustered a weak smile in return. Bilbo held the shirt with both hands, hoping with all his heart that he could return the sentiment without feeling like there was something weighing on his mind. As it was, he simply took his time folding the gift, speaking at the same time. “I only wish others were as fortunate with your generosity.”
Thorin heaved a great sigh. “The dragon is gone and Erebor is ours,” he summed, not really annoyed, Bilbo realized, but almost pleading. “Must you ruin this moment with such foul mood?”
Bilbo pinched his mouth shut and for once, said nothing. There seemed to be no point in arguing, especially since it wasn’t all that clear to himself why he was feeling the way he was. Even though his previous choice between the two prized objects had been somewhat subconscious in nature, deep down he had known that by saving the Arkenstone he was salvaging a piece of Thorin as well; the Heart of the Mountain might as well be the heart he had left behind all those years ago. Maybe that made him the biggest fool there ever was, but Bilbo had made his decision, thinking then that Thorin’s gratitude was all that he could ever wish for.
Now, it only seemed oddly insufficient, compared to the loss of his precious Ring.
It wasn’t like he was unhappy that Erebor was back in the hands of its rightful ruler - yet a voice, much like Gandalf or Elrond’s, kept whispering in his ear how Thorin’s priorities told a much darker story about his true nature. Smaug might be dead, but Bilbo feared the sickness still lingered in its wake. Here they were, rolling around in riches and celebrating, while down in the valley people were carving coffins out of the charred wood of their former homes.
Despite there now being many Erebor-related topics to pick from, Thorin seemed like he wanted to have an entirely different conversation with him. Once again it only served as further proof of the fact that Thorin had the worse timing in the world, since Bilbo suddenly couldn’t bear the thought. So, that night, with the sounds of the feast still echoing in the background, he went to lie down long before anyone else.
Eventually he drifted to sleep, dreaming that he was crawling around in a bleak cave that seemed faintly familiar, as the cries of some wounded animal kept piercing the air; the last thing he knew before deeper sleep claimed him, was the sudden realization that the sounds were actually coming from his own mouth.
After a series of dark dreams, Bilbo woke up late the next morning, only to discover that he felt even worse than the day before. In the bleak light of day, the great halls of Erebor were somehow reduced to ashy corridors and that alone was enough to set Bilbo’s nerves on edge. Dragging his feet, he finally made his way into the temporary throne room, only to find Thorin holding court with a pair of ravens.
He was quick to discover that Thorin, too, was definitely not in as high spirits as before.
“Can you believe this? Now they’re asking for a ransom for my nephews!” With nearly enough force to knock him over, Thorin pushed the letter into Bilbo’s hands.
“'Bard, on the behalf of the men of Lake-town, greets the King Under the Mountain’ - and so on and so on - ‘We are eagerly waiting to resume our former trade with Erebor and so, as an act of good will on your behalf, would like to request some payment in advance, in order to repair the damage done to our city by the dragon. On his part, King Thranduil has already promised to deliver logs and other building materials for our aid. Meanwhile, we are glad to ensure the continued wellbeing of your kin who reside here at this time.’” Bilbo lifted his eyes from the parcel, frowning. “There isn’t anything here about any ransom.”
“Not in so many words. But don’t think I won’t recognize a bargain when I see one. The Mountain has been ours for a mere day and already others are conspiring to get their hands on the gold.” Thorin twisted around so fiercely that the ravens took flight. “Vultures, all of them!”
Bilbo regarded him skeptically, crossing his arms. After the ill-rested night, he really wasn’t in the mood for suffering through any dwarven temper tantrums. “Let’s not get melodramatic here. No one is barging through the gates, trying to take what’s rightfully yours.”
But Thorin didn’t seem to hear him anymore, regarding the walls around him like he was seeing something far beyond them. “When we were wandering the wilderness, homeless and desperate, it was the promise of this day that kept us going. The blood of my people is on these coins and it is my duty so see that none should go to waste.” He turned his eyes to Bilbo, almost sneering. “But of course, you’re no dwarf. It was stupid of me to think you would understand such things.”
Now was Bilbo’s turn to lose his temper.
“Hang on, yesterday you were saying something about owing me a great deal! Or did that already slip your mind, given you were so busy counting your prey!”
The venomous manner Bilbo spat the last word nearly surprised himself. It certainly surprised Thorin, who staggered back, aghast, and now seemed to regard him in a whole new light. A great storm was brewing behind his darkening eyes.
“Do not question my honor, thief, for it is you I have promised payment, not to these people who come haggling at my door!” he snarled.
By now, their row was quickly gathering an audience. From the corner of his eye Bilbo could see the heads of various dwarves peeking from the doorway. He knew that things were escalating at worrying speed and that perhaps even his own sudden fury should alarm him, but for once, he was too angry to care.
“They’re not asking for money because they’re greedy, Thorin - it’s because Smaug destroyed their town and they don’t have the funds to rebuild it!” Bilbo shouted. “The elves have nothing to do with that!”
“Tell that to your friend Bard," Thorin scoffed. "He seems awfully busy making friends with the Woodland Realm.”
“You know what,” Bilbo uttered icily. He knew just then that he had had enough; he was weary to his bones and homesick, and felt like he had been stretched too thin for far too long. The joy of the adventure was over; now, there was only greed. “Maybe I will. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have my fourteenth share of the treasure so I can be on my way.”
That, at least, seemed to strike a chord with Thorin. “And what, may I ask, are you planning on doing with it?” he inquired after a moment, not fully managing to mask his astonishment.
“Not that it’s any concern of yours, but I intent to give it to Bard and his people, seeing that I have no use for it. I’ve had enough of this Mountain and all the misery it ever seems to bring. I’m leaving.”
“But Bilbo -“ Now Balin had finally stepped forward, but was silenced by Bilbo’s upraised palm.
“I expect my share to be delivered to the town by the end of the week,” Bilbo said sternly. “Good day.”
And with that, he went to pick up his things, and then marched down the stairs and out of the gates.
It wasn’t until some miles down the road that his mind caught up with him. Firstly, the night was quickly falling and he had no shelter, nor did he carry any food with him. Secondly, even if he managed to get to the lake, how was he supposed to cross it? Given everything that had happened with Smaug, he very much doubted that the boat they had used before was still secured at the shore. With the water temperature being what it was, swimming definitely wasn’t an option.
Up until that moment his wounded pride had numbed everything and made him functional; now, as he exhaled, all fight finally left him. Bilbo felt like his insides were collapsing in on themselves, and without even fully realizing it, he had fallen down on his knees in the gravel. Not having to take another step ever again in his life seemed like a blessing. Around him the lands were barren and lifeless, and as a gust of icy wind blew through him, freezing him to his very core, it seemed like the most reasonable thing in the world to just stay there and let the nearing twilight settle his fate once and for all.
Then suddenly, a rabidly moving spot appeared in the horizon.
At first Bilbo thought it was some kind of a wild animal, an unknown beast from the mountains. It wasn’t until he heard the familiar voice call out his name – "Bilbo Baggins, what in Took’s name have you done!” - that he recognized the two wizards and their peculiar way of transport.
For someone making his entrance in a sled pulled by an army of rabbits, Gandalf managed to look possibly thunderous. His ever-so familiar features were twisted in such a wrathful expression that Bilbo found himself hoping that it had been some hungry beast after all. He shot a pleading look at Radagast, but for the first time ever, even he looked firm – and sober for that matter.
“What do you mean by ‘what have I done’?” Bilbo asked wearily. “Survived a dragon for one thing.” And got myself kicked out, because apparently Thorin Oakenshield is even a bigger idiot than I previously thought. He decided to keep that last piece of information to himself.
“I’m not talking about Smaug, although we will come back to that in time.” Gandalf was now towering over him like an extremely imitating oak - or any other kind of tree that didn’t happen to have any unfortunate namesakes. Bilbo frowned; Focus.
Gandalf pulled back an inch. Then he said, “No, I’m talking about how by some miracle you managed to destroy the One Ring of Power and by doing so, save the entity of Middle-Earth from its inevitable doom.”
Bilbo heard the words, but oddly enough, they seemed to come from some place very far away. He scrunched his nose and shook his head a little, almost hearing something rattling loose inside his skull. “I’m sorry, but could you repeat that last part? Because I thought you said -“
The end of that sentence was lost when Gandalf - unexpectedly laughing so hard that tears were trickling from his eyes - bent down and engulfed him in a muffling embrace.
With his face buried deep in the Wizard’s beard, Bilbo could hear an odd thumping noise echoing around them that sounded rather like clapping; it took him some time to understand that the sound originated from the colony of rabbits, now stomping the ground with their feet in clear excitement.