Chapter Text
In a hole in the ground, there once lived a hobbit.
This was not a wet and dirty hole filled with worms and ooze. No, this was a warm and cozy home, filled with memories of a beloved family, memories that overflowed with life and love. That family was complete no longer, for Death had come one particularly frigid night to lay claim to sweethearts tucked warm together in their bed, leaving a young hobbit behind to fend for himself.
But the cold ache of grief, while still present and familiar to him in his adulthood, had dulled in the hobbit’s heart years down the road, the original sting more memory than pain. He often sat alone in the otherwise vacant home, but he had a flourishing garden, flowers and herbs spilling over from careful tending, and a well loved kitchen that he spent regular hours in. He had neighbors and distant relatives that visited on occasion, and while some he wished would not, he rather enjoyed filling the quiet house with happy chatter.
Were there some nights that found the hobbit wandering melancholy and alone in the dark of his home, yearning for someone, perhaps his someone, perhaps the other half of his soul, to find him and fill the vacant space that pervaded every corner of his room and heart, that followed him into his dreams, lonely and cold? Yes, but then morning would come and with it a comforting light that pushed such thoughts away, at least until dusk crept in again.
That is how days and weeks, months, then years were spent in Bag End. No excitement or stories of adventures to lighten up the smial, lest the neighbors start to whisper and think him turning odd in his isolation. Such was his life, and he had become quite content with it.
That all held true, until one day a certain gray robed wizard came to visit.
—
The first dwarf that knocked on his door was at least civil enough to introduce himself before barging into his home, yet Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was still left beyond confused by the sudden interruption to his dinner. A second knock rang out before he’d had the time to process the presence of the first, and the rapid disappearance of said dinner. By the time numbers three and four flounced in he was starting to get annoyed. The pile of dwarves that came next and nearly left him flattened next to his welcome mat was simply the last straw. Voices sang, food vanished, plates flew, and Bilbo Baggins soon found himself simply at wits end, any lingering idea of being a good host far gone from his mind. Gandalf the Grey was no help. The silly wizard simply watched the chaos unfold with mirth dancing in his wizened gray eyes, poorly hiding his amusement beneath the brim of his hat in response to Bilbo's repeated glares.
Only once Bilbo believed his night simply could not get any worse did the final knock on his door ring out.
Gandalf stood to admit the newest arrival as a startled silence spread over the lively dwarves. There were mutterings from many bearded mouths, but Bilbo didn’t cared to listen. He was too engrossed in venting over his dirtied and torn doilies, but his ears perked up when he heard a voice mention something about a mark on his front door.
A mark?! Not a chance, he had just painted that door hardly a week ago! Bilbo stormed over to the entrance, near ready to threaten whichever neighbor, or ever more likely dwarf, had dared to mess up his lovely green paint, but all words were quickly forgotten as his eyes met a pair colored the lightest and brightest blue he’d ever seen, like the endless sky on a summer day. An imposingly tall and broad figure stood outlined against the darkness beyond his smial. A deep voice, low and velvet…
“So, this is the hobbit?”
In that moment, the course of Bilbo Baggins’ life was forever changed.
—
Bilbo sat huddled as near to the campfire as he dared, his legs drawn up to his chest, eyes squinting against the lively flames. The sun had barely set and yet the chill of night crept around him still, unyielding in the dark of twilight. It had only been a few days of this unexpected adventure, yet Bilbo already missed his reliable hearth and fireplace, the firm yet yielding cushions on his favorite armchair, the sweet comfort of his bed. The loud chatter of dwarves carried jauntily on the wind around him, but Bilbo had no patience to listen. He had spent many an hour listening to their jabs and songs as days dragged by, often finding himself the subject of their jokes.
Bilbo had not cared. This life of sore thighs from pony rides, meager meals, and hard rocks underneath his thin bed roll was not a life he was accustomed to and never wanted to be, unlike these dwarves who seemed completely unbothered by it all. They could think what they wished, say whatever they wanted about his soft and cushioned life, he didn’t care for their opinions of him.
He really didn’t. Except for, maybe…
Bilbo found his eyes subconsciously flicking across the fire to the leader of the company. This had been happening alarming often since the trip began, Bilbo noted and then pointedly ignored. Now barred from following that trail of thought, his stubborn mind instead wandered back to the night of the dwarves’ arrival. After the feasting, and after the rather too casual talk of dragons and death…
The dwarves’ song for the lost mountain was beautiful in its verse, but the deep and somber voice that had flowed through Bilbo’s house, it’s echo reverberating slowly through the halls and into his marrow, is what had left Bilbo feeling completely enraptured as he recovered silently on his armchair, finally alone for the first time since the arrival of the company. He had found if he closed his eyes he could see it - the mountain, the singer’s hope and desire, painting a melancholy story in the sky like the lone light of a firefly.
The call to arms, the plea for home, the promise of adventure - it had stirred something that hadn’t existed before in Bilbo. Or maybe it had been there all along, slumbering, waiting, for the right words, the right moment, the right soul to walk through his doorway…
When Bilbo awoke the next morning it had been to an empty and silent home, similar to every morning that had come before, but this time with a palpable void, an eerie silence greater than he had ever felt before. Not for the first time since his parents died, Bilbo found himself feeling utterly alone.
Unknown to him, Fate had heard the empty echo of his heartbeat and beckoned to Bilbo, softly, surely, from where she waited within a scroll, promises of fire and gold contracted along swirling lines. Reason tried to resist her, but her invisible string soon yanked Bilbo out the door, sending him running towards the terrifying beauty of the unknown. Towards a lone mountain, towards a rather sullen king…
That king, their mournful and impelling leader, Thorin Oakenshield, now sat across the fire from Bilbo with his back pressed against stone, shoulders set just as stiffly beneath the fur lining of his coat. His blue eyes were gazing into the flames, but as Bilbo watched he noticed those eyes often flitting over the dwarven crowd and the land beyond, unwaveringly attentive of his yawning company as they settled their bedrolls around the camp. It had been obvious to Bilbo from the start that the king cared deeply about the company, and very little for everyone else. He seldom spoke unless spoken to, especially to Bilbo, often directing his questions about the supposed burglar to Gandalf, much to Bilbo’s chagrin. Most hours he simply watched the horizon for unseen threats as they rode, sitting tall atop his pony, back uncomfortably straight, silent and assertive.
By the light of the fire, Thorin appeared even more striking than when Bilbo first met his eye. Even before Gandalf introduced the king, Bilbo had known the dwarf to be the leader. There was something commanding about him, something that went beyond his stern, frowning gaze. His presence, emboldened by his wide shoulders and strong frame, had made Bilbo feel small within the rounded rooms of his hobbit home. The dwarf had analyzed Bilbo as if he were nothing but a dull and bent piece of armor abandoned on a training ground, thoroughly unimpressed, despite Bilbo straightening his spine and bringing himself to his full height in a futile attempt to look bigger than he was. Thorin had merely scoffed and turned his back.
Bilbo had bristled at the act, unsure why this anger cut deeper than the impudence of the other dwarves’ actions had earlier in the night. ‘Quite the leader he is,’ Bilbo had thought bitterly as he watched the dwarf make himself comfortable in Bilbo’s home. ‘Rude, insolent dwarf, tactless and crass and…’
’And those eyes…’
The soft blue had been startling against the hard exterior. And yet so very mesmerizing. Bilbo had never met a dwarf before he’d been forced to meet a dozen in one night, yet never in his lifetime did he expect to have found one to be so beautiful-
The jarring thought broke Bilbo out of his reminiscence. Beautiful?! The dwarf king was perhaps a lot of things but not that. No chance that! Bilbo was simply tired from the long hours of riding and the lack of nutrients and was becoming delirious. Yes, that must be it! A delirious hobbit!
Across the flickering flames, soft blue eyes met his and Bilbo realized he’d been staring. He averted his gaze, shifting to hug his arms tighter around his chest, overly conscious of his fidgeting but unable to help from reflexively rubbing at the chill that bit into his bones. He scooted closer to the fire, the frantic flames threatening to burn before they would relieve him of the cold.
Barely a minute passed before an inevitable pull drew his eyes back to the king, like cold hands to the fire. Thorin was still watching him but this time Bilbo stared back, a silent question pulling up his brow at the dwarf’s sudden intrigue with him. His heartbeat made itself known in a loud rush through his pointed ears, rebelliously exciting his nerves under the dwarven king’s attention, though Bilbo could not begin to fathom why. The chilling heat slowly crawling up the length of his spine only served to feed his confusion further. What Bilbo should be feeling was annoyed right now. He was here to help despite having every reason to turn around and go home and yet hardly a flick of acknowledge had left the rude and gruff dwarf.
Bilbo held the king’s gaze in a silent challenge, defiantly staring into eyes painted more vivid than a morning sky set aflame by the dawning sun.
Bilbo wasn’t sure if it was thirty seconds or thirty minutes, but Thorin eventually looked away. A stone sank in Bilbo’s heart then, the contrast cold and heavy against the warmth that had been building there moments before, but before he could further question the conflict within him a loud, barking shout brought his heartbeat racing back up again in shock. The king’s rowdy nephews had nearly knocked one another into the fire pit with the aggressive bantering they called play, sending angry sparks rising up into the night and towards the scrambling hobbit in outrage.
Apologies from the young dwarves and harsh reprimands from their uncle filled the night air as Bilbo patted at lingering sparks, deciding to settle down for the night before more chaos could erupt. He nestled on his side, back to the flames and a certain statuesque figure, and watched shadows cast across the gray rock and grayer night, eyelids growing heavy as they danced.
Despite the constant barrage of noise that came from the dwarven company even in sleep, Bilbo only stirred from his slumber that night when a soft fur brushed against his cheek, the thick weight of a coat falling gently across his dozing form. The extra overlay had the pleasantly toasty hobbit snoring again within seconds.
He wouldn’t recall much in the dreary morning light, but that night Bilbo dreamed of frost covered cornflower petals warming beneath a bright sun.