Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Last Homely House
A month had gone since Bilbo Baggins had left Bag End. May had become June. The dwarves had lost a pony while fording a river (and along with this pony, some provisions); they had nearly been skinned alive, or squashed, or what have you, by trolls; and then they had been chased up and down the hills by Warg-riders. This, along with the natural physical toll taken on the body from constant travel, and the inevitability of being mauled by and subsequently eaten by Wargs if they had avoided the town, made a stay Rivendell the most logical choice.
You would think that the dwarves would gladly welcome the sight of Rivendell. You would think that they would celebrate their good fortune! And you would only be half right.
There were complaints and groans, and someone even wailed, evoking an image of abject torture:
"What is this? It's...it's green!"
You must imagine, dear reader, what the sight must have seemed to a pack of famished dwarfs. Short of pony-flesh (and they could not eat that, no!), they had each been apportioned a small amount of salted pork per day and hard bread, the latter of which made Bilbo yearn for the freshly baked loaves and seed-cakes one could find in the Shire. Yes, even the Hobbit himself had to fight back his outward expression of disappointment at seeing this elfish fare.
"How can we eat this?" muttered Dwalin. "Is this some kind of joke?"
The golden-locked elf attending them apparently overheard this. In his hands was perched a jug of spring water, which he was using to fill their drinking cups. "It's a form of lettuce, Master Dwarf," said he; though, after a moment's thought, deadpanned: "Don't suppose they grow much of anything beneath the mountains, hmm."
Short-lived though it was, there formed quite the uncomfortable gap in conversation! Too tired to be belligerent, or heeding Gandalf's warning to be excellent guests at the Last Homely House, the dwarfs made no immediate reply, save for that which could be exchanged with their eyes.
The little Hobbit, unclear though he was about the form of the journey, knew its objective lay in reclaiming Erebor and, hence, a home. So he correctly surmised that these dwarfs hadn't lived in the mountains for many a decade.
"Salads and greens!" he broke in shortly thereafter, keen on changing the subject. "I imagine it is but an appetizer. A first course only!" Then he leaned over the table, eyeing his companions and eventually the serving-elf nearby, daring to hope.
And the blond elf smiled, or at least smirked - to be completely sincere, Bilbo wasn't quite sure, just that the corners of his mouth shifted and that there was a curious sort of expression, perhaps of restrained amusement (which is what the Hobbit would have liked to believe). The elf then bowed (not deeply, of course!) with the grace intrinsic to his kind, and glided away with nary a word.
"I'd hope that it were, Master Baggins!" answered Bofur at last. "Or Bombur might shrink to half his size by the time we depart here."
Bombur looked disdainful at the remark, as he was crunching on a celery stalk (but none too enthusiastically). "And if that were so, Mister Baggins would probably wither into a speck of dust! Hah! Now hold your tongue, Bofur. I imagine the walking will do me some good, whether I like it or not!"
And he would walk off some of his girth in the seasons to come, true enough; but it would not be nearly enough to escape the teasing of his party.
Within moments, a most sensuous aroma began to waft into the room, and elves entered in again, each bearing at least a platter - or two, or three. The dwarves soon changed their tune. Bombur continued, eyes lighting up at the smell and sight of roast meat, "But for now, we feast! The wizard, aye, he spoke highly of our host's hospitality!"
Elrond's hunting party had returned that day with extra game; so Thorin and Company feasted on thick but tender venison and wildfowl. These were served with clear soups, which Bilbo found to be subtle with a hint of spice, and a perfect complement to the warm summer evening. There was also a selection of biscuits - not as hearty as Bilbo was accustomed, but somehow still filling and delicious - with fresh fruit jam. There was also a sizeable quantity of mead and wine, which made the dwarves happiest of all.
At the end of the meal, though the Hobbit's stomach was filled, it was not as uncomfortable nor as heavy as salted pork and mead and he found the energy to take a short walk about Rivendell - or Imladris, as he soon learned.
"So it is called," said Ori. "Imladris. Rivendell is a close translation, somewhat like 'cleft in the valley,' though the common name is...well, much more common."
"I see!" said Bilbo, digesting both his meal and the information. They were strolling through an open-air corridor, its canopy atop their heads bolstered by ornately carved arches. The Hobbit dared brush his fingers against a design, if only to determine the material. Indeed it seemed to be wood, but much like the Elves, it showed little signs of age.
"If I had to choose a home away from home, this would be it!" exclaimed Bilbo, breathing out a sigh of contented pleasure. "The view is reason enough!"
"That's why the call it 'The Last Homely House'," said Ori, smiling. He drew his grey cloak tighter about his shoulders to shield himself from the breeze, pleasant though it was. The two then stopped upon a bridge over a lesser cascade. The white noise soothed their ears, which were earlier plagued by the repetitive clank-clanking of dwarven arms and armor.
"I overheard Balin and Thorin discussing our plans," continued Ori after some time, just as Bilbo was beginning to forget the fellow was there. Ori was certainly a quiet one - for a dwarf. "Our plans for staying in Rivendell."
"Oh? Plans, you say?" Then mused the Hobbit: "I imagine Thorin will be wanting us to depart tomorrow. He said as much when he came upon the valley."
"So you would think! But Thorin has agreed for us to spend some time here, at the insistence of Gandalf and Balin. Uncomfortable though it makes him."
"Is it because of the elves again?" Bilbo asked, scratching his cheek. "They've done nothing but treat us well since we arrived. I don't quite know what all the fuss is about."
There was a pause here, as Ori twirled some strands of his beard, thoughtful. "Do you want to know a secret?"
"Hm!" said Bilbo. "That really depends upon the secret."
"I don't know what the fuss is about either. Don't get me wrong, I understand well. Compounded grudges between our people, passed down through the ages. And if there is one thing you should know about dwarves, lad, is that we - we collective - don't let go of grudges so easily. Unlikely, too, that these elves personally did anything to Thorin or the Line of Durin."
"Lord Elrond certainly seems honorable," said Bilbo, resting his arms and head upon the bridge-side. "And Gandalf seems to think so, too. That's good enough for me."
They had rested long enough when the furry-hatted Bofur came striding up the pathway. If Rivendell truly made the dwarves ill at ease, this one showed none of that!
"Ori, Bilbo! What are you doing hanging about here? We've all gathered in the commons. Come along!"
And so the two joined Bofur, and quite soon enough the rest of the dwarves - all thirteen of them - gathered for what passed as "underground" to the elves. Bifur and his cousin Bombur were throwing logs into a stone fireplace, right onto a sputtering fire, which would later flare to epic proportions. Soon the room was feeling most like a dwarf cavern, filled with the heady scent of burning beech, and a warm red light falling on their faces.
Through a small raised window, Bilbo watched the heated coral sky become awash in a heavy indigo, which painted the backdrop for myriad stars and a waning crescent moon. But his attention was often diverted to discuss their travel plans; and when these were through, there came stories and music, both of which dwarves were very fond of.
"So you do this often?" called Bilbo, straining his voice above the raucous banter of twelve dwarves. (Thirteen, occasionally, when Thorin decided to join in.)
"What do you mean?" asked Fíli; he, too, was raising his voice above the din. "Do what?"
"Oh, you know," ventured Bilbo, cautiously. "Celebrating?"
"Every chance we get!" replied the flaxen-haired dwarf with a hearty laugh, clapping the small Hobbit on the shoulder. "This is every day, Bilbo! Can I call you Bilbo?"
"I suppose you ca--"
"We dwarves love food and drink, and songs and music! This is how an adventuring party ought to be, but we have to hold off when the Wargs are about. You understand, I'm sure!"
You might be thinking that this sounded much like Hobbits in the Shire, who loved their own forms of drinking, music, and merry-making. Bilbo was certainly thinking it; but the thirteen only had this particular halfling for judging all Hobbits. So, as he was still a rather straitlaced and respectable sort of Hobbit, at least in his mind, you can see where their assumptions might run aground!
"Tell us, Bilbo," said the young Kíli through a cheekful of bread, "You've probably had to up to here with all this talk of our Dwarvish customs, eh?" He had raised his eyebrows, expecting some reply.
"Oh, not at all!" piped Bilbo. "In fact I quite like hearing about them. All of your...ah, traditional...beard-braiding nonsense and your stories of...of gold, and gems, and-"
"Nonsense?" repeated Fíli, face flat.
"Er, well, no--not nonsense, if you know what I mean--it's just, we don't, I really don't think we even have beards in the Shire, ah--"
This perhaps failed to impress his companions. Then Fíli raised his mug, and proclaimed even more loudly: "You hear that, lads? He says we're all a bunch of beard-braidin' goldiggers!"
There was a pause here (and Bilbo, in his heart, felt afraid), but it soon gave into uproarious laughter. This calmed the poor little Hobbit considerably!
"Oh my word, look at his face!" Fíli nudged Kíli, who was grinning from ear to ear.
"I really do not think that!" he insisted, still relieved nevertheless. "That was worded badly."
Of course you don't think that! We're only having a laugh."
"He's not entirely wrong, though," came Bofur afterwards. "I mean, given three words to sum us all up, that's surely accurate."
And then Bilbo Baggins came under the imperious gaze of Thorin Oakenshield. Intangible though it was, it seemed to carry a heavy weight, and Bilbo Baggins could feel it cast upon him.
"So how would you describe a hobbit?" asked Kíli suddenly, turning in Bilbo's direction.
"Furry-footed hole-digger?" offered Fíli, speaking without thinking. It was probably apt that he received a well-placed punch in the shoulder from his brother.
"Hardly!" exclaimed Bilbo, folding his arms indignantly but willing to let it go. "There is more to a hobbit than his feet and his burrow! And even burrow isn't quite right, it's--well, we aren't moles. We're..."
And that was the first time he asked himself what a Hobbit was. The second time that he would ever seriously ponder the question came just before his 111th birthday. But we are getting ahead of ourselves!
He continued to explain to the brothers (and a few eavesdroppers) some of the finer points of hobbit-kind, such as meal-times and a love for the earth, and an appreciation for parties, music, and dancing (and how in his tweens he had danced on a few tables in his time, and how wild hobbit-parties were), ad nauseum, until Kíli decided to start up some singing of his own, and Bilbo's explanations were abandoned altogether.
Here we are, come to Rivendell!
Where Elfenkind is seen to dwell,
Though we carouse, at Elrond's House,
It's none too soon we'll say farewell!
And in Rivendell we meet to conspire,
Thirteen with a quest so dire,
With Gandalf the Grey, to our dismay,*
And a Hobbit from the Shire!
It should be noted* that Gandalf had not been present, and so the line had been a jest; well, that, and the only word that Kíli had been able to think up on the spot.
"Dear Fili is the blondest of all,
He stands keen-eyed, strong, and tall;
Yet with his nose, so it goes,
He often fails to enthrall!"
"Excuse me, Kíli!" interjected the above-mentioned Fíli, consciously eyeing the tip of his beak. "Just what is that supposed to mean, you scoundrel?"
"You know well what it means, I should think!" rejoined his brother, grinning like a madman. "But perhaps you'd rather I change it to 'Sticking his nose, wherever he goes,/Takes quite a bit of gall?'"
"Oh, I see!" answered Fíli, shortly before singing:
'Here we have Kíli, child of Dís,
But what Thorin doesn't realize, really,
He's rather got a niece!''
And with that, he reached over in the instant to scrabble Kili's freshly washed and groomed mane. There were a few chuckles and chortles, and on the whole a lot of smirks, and good-natured shoves exchanged between the two brothers.
"Not my fault I'm the prettiest of you lot!"
"Aye, but beauty's in the eye of the beholder," remarked Dwalin, whose cheeks were red from the local mead. (To be fair, as were many of the cheeks in that room!)
And then Balin, the ever-wise counselor, had his input: "Enough with the tomfoolery, lads! Take care that this doesn't get out of hand. We are here to forget our troubles, not brew any more!"
Oh, but it's just a bit of fun, now!" insisted Kíli, feigning a sulk. "No-one's feelings are much hurt by that. Are they, dear brother?"
"Not here," steadfastly replied Fíli. "But we take your point, Balin."
They settled into a short but comfortable silence, but Kíli, still on the edge of his chair and holding off on his flagon of mead, raised it.
"A toast to the company!" he declared. "To Thorin, and to all of us, and to the glorious and prosperous days that lie ahead at Erebor!"
"Hear, hear!" Fili clinked, and much murmurment and agreement spread about the dwarf party, which ended, rather predictably, in another downing of mead.
"Come now, all of you; introduce yourselves!"
"We're already acquainted well enough," grumbled Oin, stroking his thick, greying beard.
"Ah! But as verses," replied he; "Good, kinder ones this time! As per Balin's request."
"Go on, Oin!" chimed Fíli, grinning toothily, giving him a nudge with his elbow. The older dwarf sighed a little, then smiled, and scrunched up his eyes.
"You may call me Oin, brother to Glóin," he replied; and then shortly after speaking realized the inherent difficulty in finding any word to come. Kíli nodded his head rhythmically, then circled his hand round and round, as if to say, Go on... And Glóin, seeming frustrated, then answered:
"And that platter I will purloin,
and entreat you, then beat you,
Ifsoever I must ... this song ... rejoin."
"Ye really shouldn't try to rhyme 'Oin,' m'lad," Dwalin laughed, slapping his thighs.
Now Bilbo baggins did not quite understand the extent of humor here (and could well picture Oin throwing over a table, imposing as he was - as imposing and rough-and-tumble as all the dwarves were!) but felt at ease again when it was met with laughter and the clinking of mead-cups.
And so they took turns creating verses, chiming in when others could not think of a suitable line, but this they continued well for some time. And Bilbo Baggins sat around the fire with them; and he had brought out his smoking pipe and the remnants of pipe-weed he still carried on his person, and a merry time.
"Thorin!" cried out Fili, the second-youngest (and Thorin's younger nephew). "Tell us a verse!"
And it was not glumness this night which Thorin expressed, but absent-mindedness. The princeling had taken a pipe for himself and was puffing idly on his wooden throne. Whether it was the elven pipe-weed or the respite, Thorin's nature was more subdued, and he offered a wearied smile.
"You go ahead, Kíli," answered he; and as a cloud of white smoke exuded from his lips, he muffled a cough. "You are doing quite the job on your own."
"Aye, you heard him," said Bofur, his bottom lip resting on the reed of the clarinet. "He wants no part of it. Fair enough!"
It was an idyllic scene, to Bilbo at least. Perhaps now more than ever, as he was not the host!
So Bilbo listened and smoked. His body was still sore from all the travel, and he could feel it ebbing, pulsating gently in his legs, and in the soles of his feet, which he'd cut on rocks. (The dwarfs could not understand how the halfling could travel so far so bare-shod, and were doubly impressed!)
And Thorin, son of Thror, son of Thrain
Will be there to take Erebor again;
As Mountain-King, so we shall sing,
Once the mighty dragon be slain!
And then after a brief interlude, the dwarves joined in once more:
And in Rivendell we meet to conspire,
Thirteen with a quest so dire,
With Gandalf Greyhame, of wizard fame**,
And a Hobbit from the Shire!
This line** was hastily reworked, for Gandalf had come to join them for a short smoke and to rest his legs. For supernatural though he was, the wizard, too, enjoyed his homely comforts! After that an hour passed, or maybe two, filled with drink and good company.
"I believe it is time!" said Gandalf at last, covering his pipe to stifle the embers. "Elrond has called us to his council, Thorin. You and I shall go and present him the map, so that we may partake of his expertise."
"Can it not wait?" grumbled the Dwarf-Prince, who was likely just as exhausted as any of them, and quite comfortable.
"I think you'll find it wise to take up Lord Elrond's offer!" Gandalf replied, a twinkle in his eye. Bilbo knew it well: he was withholding some crucial piece of information from the rest of them.
Thorin Oakenshield knew Gandalf's words to be synonymous with 'You will meet with Lord Elrond, or so help me, Thorin!' and began to collect himself. "Very well," he said shortly thereafter.
"Oh. And Bilbo!" called the wizard, taking a few long strides towards the Hobbit. "Why don't you come along? Perhaps you will learn something."
Thorin furrowed his brow, incapable of understanding why they exactly needed the halfling to accompany them, but thought better than to complain...as did Bilbo. He had not exactly been unable to refuse the wizard so far, not when the dwarves had first showed up on his doorstep, or even when he refused to accompany them on their journey.
So they met with Lord Elrond to read the moon-runes on Thorin's map, on a midsummer's evening beneath the light of the crescent moon. The Door that Thorin's Company sought would appear on Durin's Day, at the end of autumn, when the thrush knocked; and it would stand five feet high and three abreast. Enigmatic words to be sure!
Then their host spoke gravely of the Lonely Mountain and hinted to the peril that awaited them there, but Thorin would have none of it.
But when Bilbo Baggins went to sleep, both these words and part of the verse from the night before stuck in his mind. As comfortable as he was in Rivendell, cradled in silken-soft bed-linens with a belly full of food and drink, the little hobbit could not banish a slight sense of foreboding.
And Thorin, son of Thrór, son of Thráin
Will be there to take Erebor again -
Once the mighty dragon be slain!