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As soon as Bofur noticed the blue glow of Bilbo’s blade, everything fell to pieces…literally. The best he could do was curl into a ball as he fell through the twists and turns of their trap before landing on Bombur’s stomach. Bilbo had just enough time to gasp before they were preyed upon by goblins. Being small and easily overlooked, he had tried to escape, but these goblins weren’t fools. No, pushed into the middle of the circle by his companions, Bilbo could only tremble in despair, his teeth set on edge by their awful song. They were searched and relieved of their weapons, and Bilbo found him watching his little sword being added to the pile with great longing for the comfort it brought him.
The Goblin King (he had yet to introduce himself, it was quite rude Bilbo must note) demanded to know their purpose, and Bofur started to tell a story in such circles, Bilbo only found himself growing increasingly anxious. Of course, it wasn’t like the environment was helping on that front either.
“If they will not talk, we’ll make them squawk! Bring up the mangler, bring up the bone-breaker. We’ll start with the youngest.”
At this, the grotesque goblin pointed one of his large sausage-like fingers directly in Bilbo’s face. Bilbo felt his jaw drop as the surrounding goblins seemed to leer at him. Now, through an in depth conversation with Fili and Kili, Bilbo learned that in terms of ‘number of years’, he was the youngest. But the goblin seemed to be under the impression that he was a young dwarfling, and his next words cast out any shadow of doubt on that front.
“This whelp hasn’t even grown in a beard yet! How long before he’s screaming for him dam!”
Dori took half a step protectively in front of Bilbo at the same time he felt Dwalin’s large hand come down on his shoulder. However, Bilbo also felt the spindly fingers of the goblins ghosting the sleeve of his jacket, and a cry broke free before he could stop it. He needed to get a grip. He couldn’t fall apart right here even when the fear of what they would do to him seemed to be trying to physically claw its way out of his chest. He shut his eyes as tight as he could, begging with the Valar to be back in Bag End where it was warm and safe, when a voice spoke up in protest.
“Wait!”
Silence fell upon the underground hive as Thorin Oakenshield stepped first in front of Bilbo before moving towards the Goblin King. Bilbo could only watch in awe and confusion. What was he doing?
“Well, well, well.” The goblin mocked. “Look who we have here! Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror! King Under the Mountain. Oh! But I’m forgetting you don’t have a mountain, so you’re not a king, which makes you…nobody really.”
Bilbo found himself aching for Thorin. His relationship with the dwarf thus far had been…complicated to put it kindly. He seemed to relish in pointing out his annoyance with the hobbit or how useless he was at what were deemed ‘simple tasks’. Then, there were moments like in Rivendell, where he opened up to Bilbo about life in Erebor and how he had mistaken fireflies for stars as they watched the same little bugs light up the balcony before Gandalf and Elrond’s conversation interrupted them. Or just before they started their climb into the Misty Mountains where Bilbo had been complaining about his walking stick leaving splinters in his hand, and Thorin stayed up to sand it down when he thought Bilbo had been sleeping. Now, he was stepping into Bilbo’s defense once again, after having just dismissed him as never belonging. Bilbo wished the dwarf would just make up his mind, and quit yanking Bilbo’s heart around. Of course, that was completely his own fault. He was the one who fell hard for a pair of blue eyes and a sad, proud voice that seemed as if it should belong to the very mountain itself.
“I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head.” The goblin threatened softly, freezing Bilbo’s very soul. “Just the head, nothing attached. Perhaps you know of whom I speak. An old enemy of yours. A pale orc astride a white warg.”
“Azog the Defiler,” Thorin spat. “Was destroyed. He was slain in battle long ago!”
“So you think his defiling days are done, do you?” The king taunted. “Send word to the Pale Orc. Tell him I have found his prize.”
It was as the smaller goblin wheeled away on his little contraption, that Bilbo found he could take no more. He may not be a great warrior, but he had already proven once before, his proficiency with words. Having not but a vague idea of a plan, he could only hope that goblins had as long of memories as hobbits.
“No! Stop!” He demanded stepping quickly before any dwarven hands could grab him.
Thorin hissed through his teeth as he attempted to latch onto Bilbo’s arm, but the hobbit danced away standing alone before the monstrous king.
“And what do you want?” The goblin growled, narrowing his eyes.
Bilbo felt his breath catch in his throat, as his mouth opened and closed a few times before a whisper of a voice escaped him.
“Do you play?”
“What was that?”
“I’m…asking…do you play golf, oh Mighty King of the Goblins?”
“Golf? What is that?” He asked suspiciously.
All eyes were on Bilbo and he could hear the grumbles of confusion from his companions. Please Yavanna, don’t let them be thick enough to try to stop him this time like with the trolls.
“It’s quite the popular sport back where I’m from, out west.” Bilbo continued, slowly finding his confidence. “You take a…oh! Pardon me, my good sir.”
He took a wooden club from the slackened hands of a nearby goblin, too stunned by Bilbo’s stunt to do much to stop him. Merely squawk in surprise at his audacity.
“You take a club, just like this.” He demonstrated getting in a proper stance and started swinging. “Now a lot of folk tend to think that you need to have a lot of strength yourself to generate power for the swing. But truthfully, it’s all in getting your wrists to roll back so the club hits the target square.”
The Goblin King, who seemed so perplexed by Bilbo’s stalling tactic, was actually starting to copy him. So Bilbo took the opportunity for what it was.
“No, no, no.” He corrected gently. “You want a loose grip. Too tight, and you’ll crank it right.”
“Just what is this?!” The king demanded. “You dare make a fool of me, little dwarf!”
“Not at all.” Bilbo answered as innocently as he dared. “And I’m afraid I’m not a dwarf.”
The goblin blinked at him, and Bilbo knew he was going to have to play this delicately or everything would go to shit very quickly.
“Do you know why we named this game ‘golf’, Your Odiousness? It was actually named for one of your own…a Golfimbul if I recall correctly.”
Collectively, the entire hive shrieked and took several steps back from Bilbo. The king himself was nearly cowering against his throne.
“TOOK! YOU ALLOWED A TOOK IN MY MOUNTAIN!”
“Direct descendant of Bullroarer, himself!” Bilbo declared, hands on his hips hoping to instill as much fear as possible even as he lied through his teeth.
“NO!” The king cried aghast.
Well, this was working out better than he thought. He pretended to be surveying the horde of goblins when he caught Thorin’s slack-jawed incredulous look. He couldn’t help himself, giving the dwarf a little wink.
“Now!” Bilbo declared when he faced the Goblin King once more. “You are going to release me and my companions or you will regret it indeed. For us hobbits are getting a little bored of golf, and I’m sure my people would be very encouraged should I decide to invent a new game for us.”
For the first time, it was completely silent. All stood in waited breath, save Thorin who was discreetly passing weapons back to the company under the goblins’ very noses. Then, as if the suspense became too much, one of the goblins rushed Bilbo. Almost instinctively, he swung the club like he had just shown moments ago, and the goblin cried out as he flew off the ledge and into the inky darkness of the depths below. Bilbo felt his face drain of color as a morbid sort of fascination seized him. Maybe there was something to that story after all.
“SEIZE THEM!” The king roared. “SLASH THEM! KILL THEM ALL!”
Bilbo cried out as what he hoped was merely leather bit deep into his back. A second hit brought him to his knees. Before he could even consider fighting back, the king’s monstrous paw had him around the neck, nearly wrapping around Bilbo’s upper body completely. As it was, his arms were pinned as he was lifted in the air, unable to take in a single breath. He squinted, blood roaring in his ears, as the goblin shook him like a limp doll.
“As for you, Took. I’ll crush you with my very hands. None will ever think to mention your shameful game again.”
Bilbo felt the pressure against his throat increase, and then…blissful nothingness as a bright white light overtook him. If this was what dying felt like, it wasn’t so bad. Bilbo had assumed it would be less fuzzy and the burning in his body would stop.
“Master Baggins. Get up, Hobbit.”
A voice was calling for him. It sounded so far away, but so lovely. He could listen to it forever.
“Master Baggins… BILBO!”
Everything clicked back into place as Bilbo opened his eyes to Thorin’s determined yet crazed stare. His body convulsed in his coughing, and it didn’t seem it was possible to get enough air in his lungs. Thorin hauled him up into a seated position anyways, with a hand on his back.
“Get up, Bilbo. We must go. Now!”
Bilbo shook his head, tears in his eyes, but Thorin wasn’t about to accept this. Bilbo found his sword had been placed back in his numb fingers, and he was leaning heavily on the dwarf as he pulled him effortlessly to his feet. Then they were running. It all was mostly a blur for Bilbo as he somehow felt faint, nauseous, and sore all at the same time. When Thorin had to release him to slice through some goblins, there was always someone to take Bilbo for him. Whether that was him being scooped in Dori’s arms or over Dwalin’s shoulders like a sack of potatoes. However, he was very aware that the dwarf king always stayed within touching distance for some odd yet completely acceptable reason.
At one point, Bilbo looked over to see Gandalf had found them! When did the gray wizard appear? He couldn’t be certain, but was thankful nonetheless. It was as he had been tossed back to Bombur this time that things went wrong. Bilbo felt himself get tackled right out of the dwarf’s arms, and then he was pinned to the wooden planks below, a rusty blade in his vision. His last wish? That he had been able to put up more of a fight. However, just before he could contemplate his ending any further, there was Thorin, Orcist embedded in the goblin’s chest as his hand yanked the blade out of Bilbo’s immediate danger.
“You. Don’t. Touch. Him.” The dwarf growled.
Maybe Bilbo really had died. Because the ferocity Thorin Oakenshield was displaying, for him, was almost too good to be true. Not wanting to be a burden anymore, Bilbo decided to get up on his own, and rolled himself over onto all fours. The only problem being there was no more walkway to roll out onto.
“BILBO!”
There was a sharp tug on his arm as Thorin latched onto his sleeve, but the stitching held for only a moment before he was plummeting through the dark. Watching Thorin’s heartbroken blue eyes for as long as he could.
***
He was gone. It had been minutes, what felt to be hours, since they escaped the caverns below the mountains. Yet, Thorin’s mind was fixed on the frightened face of the hobbit as he fell over the walkway. He had been too late. It didn’t matter that he had told the little hobbit he shouldn’t have come, warned Gandalf that he wouldn’t be responsible for his fate, because he was gone.
The clever hobbit with the silver tongue who convinced trolls he knew the best recipes for dwarf. Who instilled fear in an entire mountain full of goblins with nothing more than a few swings of a wooden club!
“Thorin, lad…” Balin’s soft voice carried to him as he became aware of his friend’s hand on his shoulder. “We can’t linger here. By night, these hills will be crawling with goblins.”
He was right. Thorin knew he was right. And yet…
“Bilbo Baggins…was a fine fellow.” Gandalf began solemnly.
Thorin spun around to yell at the wizard, only to see his head bowed and his face grave. In fact, the entire Company was either weeping openly or had their heads bowed in respect. Even Bofur had removed his hat. Thorin remained frozen even as something deep inside him rebelled at the idea of mourning the hobbit.
“A curious sort with a knack for trouble, Bilbo knew better than most the value of a good pipe and a comfortable armchair. Yet, it was his courage I shall remember most. The same courage that had him racing outside his door after a Company of dwarves simply because it was within his power to help. May you find peace in the afterlife, you dear, dear friend.”
There was nothing but silence. Silence and a gaping hole left by the most unexpected member of their group. And Thorin couldn’t help but blame himself.
“How could anyone find peace…with you lot carrying on?”
Thorin nearly gave himself whiplash at the speed he craned his neck around. Gasps and cheers were already filling the air at the sight of the hobbit leaning heavily against the cedar tree. He could barely stand, his sword dragged the ground, and his throat was already beginning to blue and purple. Yet, he was alive, blessedly alive.
“How?” Thorin breathed in awe.
Bilbo looked him straight in the eye as he rasped out the words Thorin would never forget for the rest of his life.
“I know you doubt me. I know you always have…”
Thorin took one step, then two, slowly approaching the hobbit as he became mesmerized by his words and the strength hidden behind those unassuming dark eyes. Every letter of Bilbo’s speech etched itself on his heart until Thorin felt fit to burst.
“...But I will help you take it back if I can.”
Mere inches from him now, Thorin had the strongest desire to kiss him. Right there. And he probably would have followed through too, had it not been for the call of a warg on the hunt. However, even as they were tossed out of the frying pan and into the fire, he found he couldn’t let the hobbit go. Cradling his hand in his as they ran through the pines. He swore right then that they would make it through this, and when they did, he would make Erebor a home. A home fit for the bravest, smartest, most troublesome hobbit he had ever met. But first…there was Azog to deal with.