Chapter Text
Being alone is a truly exhausting experience. More so when one is surrounded by others making sure that they are quite pointedly aware that they are alone. Bilbo Baggins has been rather terribly alone amidst this dreadful company for several months by his reckoning. By this time, his mother’s blackberry bushes should be heavy with fruit and his prize winning tomatoes should be fat and ruby red on the plant; the thought only adds to his sour mood. Gandalf is as helpful as he has ever been, a familiar face in the crowd but not much more and his quizzical nonanswers grow irritating swiftly.
Standing on the bank of a sluggish stream, Bilbo gazes down at his reflection in dismay. His companions had all rather boisterously claimed a large stretch of water as well as the banks on either side and, while there was of course no verbal acknowledgement of such things, it was clear that Bilbo was not welcome to join them. Which suited his purposes all the better, truth be told he had no desire to spend any considerable amount of time with those ruffians in the nude. But here, having separated himself by a handful of yards, Bilbo can appreciate just how alien his own form has become.
It is common knowledge that the peak condition of a hobbit is rounded. The closer a hobbit is to being as wide as they are tall, the better a hobbit they are. Bilbo himself has long struggled with being quite gangly and gawkish by hobbit standards, having inherited the lanky Tookish build of his mother more than the rounded form of a proper Baggins. Putting and keeping weight on has given him no small amount of grief. And so it is to his great dismay that he looks down into the water and a face with sunken cheeks and pitted eyes glares accusingly back. His middle is precariously flat and on his arms, dare he even mention, looks to be the start of stringy muscles.
These dwarves and their love for skipping and skimping on even the barest of rations, Bilbo hadn’t had even a full three meals a day since he’d dashed out his front door. And perhaps to Durin’s hardy folk it’s all well and good to march through lunch without even stopping to boil hard tack or gnaw on jerky, but poor Bilbo Baggins has stingingly felt each bite of food stripping off his bones. For love of courtesy he’s not said a word, better to suffer in silence than to trespass on the already thin goodwill of his company. Every nut and every berry he has gathered has all been surrendered to the steady eye of Balin and the clever hands of Bombur, to keep even a portion for himself would be so unforgivably selfish he’d have to hang up the name Baggins and never look his cousins in the eye so long as his hairy feet tread the fair paths of the Shire.
Gazing down at his warped reflection Bilbo can’t help but feel discouraged. He doesn’t feel much like a hobbit; he’s far from his creature comforts, his mother’s plants, his father’s books. The roots that ground him to his legacy are a thousand and one steps in the other direction. He doesn’t look much like a hobbit either he thinks, halfheartedly combing his fingers through hair that’s grown long and unruly on the road. His best and second best travel waistcoats are utterly ruined, light cotton worn absolutely through from the rough nature of their trek. Clothes that had seen him through many a walking holiday ripped and threadbare under the stress of this godsforsaken journey.
Hearing the sounds of his compatriots begin to shift and rise in excitement, Bilbo quickly redoubles his efforts to scrub the worst of the road from his skin; the last thing he needs is for them to bring their heckling even here. The rowdy play of the dwarves grows closer and closer, Bilbo freezing in place and hoping that the small stand of reeds he’d chosen shelters him from scrutiny. A large shape moves just upstream and Bilbo’s gaze darts only to meet the stony eyes of Dwalin, looking on unimpressed. Though seemingly his condescension falls not squarely on the hobbit’s shoulders.
As their gazes meet, he catches the slightest hint of evaluation in the warrior’s flinty eyes. Bilbo holds his breath. By all means he’s really doing nothing shameful, beyond lamenting his overall sorry state, there really isn’t anything to hide or feel guilt for. Nothing but the screaming urge for just a moment of privacy for this most vulnerable time. The dwarves all know he has a soft underbelly (regardless of his actual soft underbelly carving away from hunger) and Dwalin, while certainly not the worst, has never spared him before now, Bilbo quietly prepares to endure pointed barbs and sharp remarks.
Even as he does so, Dwalin averts his eyes and moves away, calling some stern words to the youngest members of their company that Bilbo's relief washes from his ears. A glowing coal at such a small kindness burns dimly in his chest as he hastens to finish his frantic scrubbing and begins to wash his clothing. So occupied in his task he doesn’t feel another stormy gaze pinned on his every movement.
Lazy afternoon hours turn their shade into the evening as Bilbo whittles away his time at the river. The splashing sounds have long since faded as each dwarf finished their bathing rituals and returned to their camp to begin dinner, Bilbo to his credit faces the duty of washing dishes and feels no such need to rush. What occupies him at this moment is the sorry state of his clothes. After a few good scrubs in the river, the worst of the grime has been defeated, though to his dismay it simply revealed more patchwork he’d need to do. Which is now the way his efforts tend. He’d sacrificed his lovely mustard yellow vest to make patches and now found himself occupied in the patching of his clothes.
He’s in the middle of a tricky stitch when a voice startles him.
“Dori is a tailor.”
“Yavanna’s tit!” Bilbo squeaks, quite accidentally plunging his needle deep into the flesh of his thumb and subsequently letting out a slew of other curses. Looking up from his predicament, thumb sorely in his mouth, Bilbo meets the unmoved gaze of the leader of the company. Thorin Oakenshield stands in front of him, arms crossed over his chest and a thunderous expression on his face.
Gathering that he was meant to speak now from a stately raised eyebrow, Bilbo clears his throat. “Er, sorry?”
“Dori is a tailor. Would you not seek his skill?”
Bilbo knew that Dori was a tailor, thank you very much, as much as he also knew that Dori held no love for hobbit garments if the grumbled opinions on his clothing were anything to go by.
“Er yes, and a rather good one I’ve seen. But my ability is reasonable enough in mending that I wouldn’t trouble him for a few holes in a waistcoat. I wouldn’t like to waste his time.” In truth he would quite like to sit down with Dori to discuss their shared skill set perhaps over a mug of tea, but that didn’t seem to be in his future with the haughty dwarf so he thought it best left unmentioned.
“You presume his craft is a waste of time?” Thorin’s eyes narrow even further.
“Master Oakenshield just as I would not call a master artisan to fix a hole in my plaster, I will not trouble Dori with patching my troll ruined wardrobe. My only presumption is that he’d frown upon the imposition I would cause.”
With a smart nod, Bilbo returns to his sewing, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on him. After a minute, two minutes, five minutes, Bilbo sighs and quickly gathers his things. It’s nothing he can’t finish on his watch tonight. Standing, still with no commentary from their fearless leader, Bilbo clears his throat once more. “Ahem, quite so, I will be headed back now… Good evening.”
Sitting neatly, though he cannot say the same for his raucous companions, near to another fire on another night, Bilbo busies himself with writing in his journal. It’s nothing truly extraordinary, simply a small leather bound tome filled with blank pages for his thoughts to fill. He had hoped upon packing such a journal that he would have the unique opportunity to chronicle their quest in progress, though thus far it has been filled with only the inane ramblings of a lonely hobbit. He writes of what he foraged that day and all of the plants he recognized, even going so far as to sketch some of the greenery whose name and nature eluded him so that he might look it up should he ever step foot in a proper library again. And it is as he is sketching a handsome little wildflower that he is quite rudely interrupted.
“What do you write there?” Turning his startled gaze up from his he meets the vexed stare and crinkled brow of one Thorin Oakenshield.
Bilbo had thought today was a good day too, a good day of course meeting the criteria of 1) largely avoiding or being avoided by heavy handed dwarven scrutiny and 2) not being killed or eaten by orc, warg, or troll. Thusly he was quite taken by surprise and responded rather hotly the first thing that came to his mind.
“What business is it of yours?” He can feel his eyes go wide at his own presumption, though His Majesty’s stormy gaze only draws tighter and more thunderous.
“My business is the business of what secrets a careless hobbit may write down and leave lying around for any foe to find.” He barks.
Stung by his distrust Bilbo sniffs distastefully. “If you must know Master Oakenshield, I am journaling. I had hoped to keep a somewhat revised account of our travels, I promise you’ll find no great secrets here.” He says, gesturing to the sketch of the wildflower with great umbrance. Only this reassurance does little to lighten their leader’s displeased stare.
“Ori is a scribe, do you discount his work as lesser than your own?”
Catching his gaze across the fire, Bilbo notices that Ori indeed has the appearance of a scholar; ink stains fingertips that at this very moment are scribbling furiously away in a large tome. The young dwarf blushes and averts his gaze, setting down the pen as though it were suddenly liable to bite.
“And one of no small talent I am sure!” Bilbo proclaims before turning back to Thorin. “Master Oakenshield, if you’ll pardon my candor, history does not hurt by more mouths in the telling of it. Ori may write his masterwork while I record my own thoughts and none shall supersede the other.”
Gandalf makes a pleased noise somewhere behind him and Bilbo has to restrain a rather Took-ish snicker at the snapping frustration in Thorin’s expression as he turns away and storms back to his own seat.
Rivendell proves to be its own bag of both troubles and delights.
On the one hand: The architecture of the elves is stunning, a brilliant and awe inspiring environ that takes his breath away at every turn. For the first time in weeks his belly is full of good and healthy foods (he simply must acquire the recipe for the vinaigrette of the acorn salad they’d had at brunch), and his ears are full of airy uplifting songs instead of the grumbling of touchy dwarves and his own empty stomach. Their accommodations are phenomenal, Bilbo is quite certain he’d never been quite so grateful to see a feather mattress in his entire life. It is, all in all, a welcome and well needed reprieve from the road.
But on the other hand…
“I will not tolerate the waffling of cowards and thieves! Nor will I be held hostage!”
The leader of their expedition was in a truly exceptional bad mood (even by his own previously established standards). Each offering of their hosts is received with thinly veiled hostility at best and loud criticism at the worst; the food, the rooms, the meetings with Elrond, none of them hold up to the lofty scrutiny of their wandering king. Every further insult to hospitality has Bilbo flushing quite red about the ears, the trained Baggins’ socialite in him dying at each slight and jab. It’s just as well with the rest of the company too, with the occasional exception of Balin, each dwarf participates in the brutal slaughter of any and all etiquette present heretofore.
Bilbo takes to slipping away as often as he can. While the rest of his fellowship is training at axe or sword, the lone hobbit may be found (well hopefully not, he’d not be doing a terribly good job of hiding away if he were found) wandering through the gardens or perusing the library. He is aware of course that it makes for a poor solution to his problems in the long run, when the time comes the company will move on and he with them, but in the meantime it offers a sorely needed relief of solitude.
It is on a day when it is sorely needed indeed that Bilbo finds himself stumbling into an airy and beautiful kitchen. The counters are a bit high for his stature and perish the thought of a homey wood stove like he’s used to. But the cupboards are full of diverse and intriguing ingredients and the larder is stocked to bursting with fresh and preserved foods alike. Bilbo notices with no small amusement an entire set of shelves dedicated to housing cured meats and cheeses; such fare had yet to make its way to the table of he and his fellows, much to the dismay of his rather more carnivorous travelling companions. Racks of exotic spices call to him with siren song, begging for his perusal.
A young elf with a joyous countenance provides him with a step stool wrought so smoothly it may as well have grown to the purpose. The youth gives him free reign of the space to work to his contentment (which has Bilbo’s own countenance growing rather joyous) and bids him good wishes as he goes on his way. The hobbit can’t quite contain himself when he spies a selection of mushrooms tucked on a shelf just at the top of his reach. If there is one common ground with which a hobbit can draw to a dwarf it may well be coveting treasures of the earth, though the hobbit’s are a fair bit squishier and tastier than gold or gems. He sets about preparing a true feast fit for a king (wayward or otherwise).
Chunks of springy shelf mushroom are sauteed in a pan with lemon, he mashes some potatoes with copious amounts of rich butter and fresh cracked pepper, dark and tender greens are wilted into a light and tangy sauce to add a bit of bitter repose. Thin strips of a truly monstrous white puffball start the process of becoming jerky for the road. A poppyseed and lemon loaf floods the hall with a bright and citrusy aroma. He toils away in this kitchen just as he would in Bag End, despite the many miles and hardships in between. It is not meant for any one in particular, Bilbo had quite accidentally made far more than he had anticipated, so excited as he was to ply his expertise with tools far more deserving than a spluttering campfire. He supposes he’ll offer the meal to the company, or perhaps to the elves to give to the company. Or perhaps just to the elves, it seems as though they might appreciate his efforts far more than his contractually bound comrades.
It is as he ponders such things that his peace is quite rudely interrupted.
“ What exactly are you doing Master Baggins?”
Bilbo can’t even bring himself to act surprised, after living under such intense scrutiny these passed months it’s a wonder he’s surprised by anything at all anymore; let alone the unannounced arrival of a lone critical dwarf.
“I’m cooking .” His next words hasten to beat Thorin to the punch. “And yes I know that Master Bombur is our cook, having sampled of his trade many a time I would go so far as to label him a master of the art.”
The king not currently under the mountain seems taken aback before summoning back the familiar perturbed contempt.
“You would presume to measure his skill? What would you know of his trade?”
Bilbo raises an unimpressed eyebrow. It is one thing to question him on passing handy tasks or hobbies, but to berate a hobbit over his cooking? And a Baggins at that? This is a true and unforgivable trespass that will not be allowed to go uncorrected; the kind that has caused many generational feud upon the fair soils of the Shire.
“I will have you know Master Oakenshield that I have been studying the culinary arts since before I could properly say my own name. When I was barely a tween I perfected my first souffle and since then I have created countless recipes and won my own fair number of awards for those recipes. There is a great deal that I am uneducated and inexperienced in concerning the wider world beyond the Shire, Your Majesty, but until you know the difference between braising and marinating, I should appreciate it if you were to keep your thoughts to yourself on the matter forthwith.”
For the first time in recent memory, Thorin Oakenshield appears to be stunned into silence. Riding high on this small victory, Bilbo shoves a dish into his hands.
“Now follow me, the sulphur shelf will become far too rubbery if it goes cold.”