Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue.

Bilbo had never felt so small.
Not among men, elves, or wizards towering thrice his size. Not even in the dragon’s lair, his courage shrivelled to nothing beside Smaug’s vast coils. No — never had he felt so small as he did now, clutching at Thorin’s tunic while tears clogged his throat.

The battlefield raged around him — Eagles shrieking overhead, steel clashing against steel — but it was only noise, distant and unreal. All that was real was Thorin, and the terrible stillness creeping into the only person Bilbo had ever loved.

He had always been alone. Too Baggins for the Tooks, too Tookish for the Bagginses. His parents gone so young, his days filled with polite solitude, his nights with the quiet ticking of clocks and the whisper of the kettle. He had told himself he preferred it — and perhaps he had.

But now?
Now he knew what true loneliness was. The acorn in his pocket burned as if it had turned to coal. The Ring in the other dragged at him, heavier than iron. And Bilbo hated it. He hated it with every trembling breath.

The Shire was peaceful that morning. The air was soft with birdsong, and smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys along the Hill.

On his garden bench, Bilbo Baggins drew a long puff from his pipe and blew a perfect ring into the air. It floated above the grass, shining faintly in the sun before dissolving into nothing. Just as he prepared another, a sharp gust of smoke struck him in the face. He coughed, waved it away — and froze.

A stranger leaned against the fence, watching him. Tall, broad, cloaked in grey, with a pointed hat that shadowed a pair of bright, knowing eyes.

Bilbo straightened at once. “Good… morning?”

The man tilted his head. “Good morning, you say? A curious expression. Do you wish me a good morning, or declare it so whether I like it or not? Perhaps you mean that you feel good this morning, or that it is a morning well suited to goodness?”

Bilbo blinked, pipe halfway to his lips. “…All of them at once, I suppose.”

A smile tugged at the stranger’s mouth.

“Ah. Sensible answer.” He tapped his staff against the fence. “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure. Most difficult thing, finding anyone willing.”

“Well, I should think so!” Bilbo huffed. “This is a respectable neighborhood. We have no use for adventures — nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things! They make you late for dinner!” He blew another smoke ring, quite firmly, and turned to fetch the day’s post as if the matter were settled.

But the man remained, unbothered by hints or huffs. His eyes followed Bilbo with a weight that made him squirm. At last Bilbo snapped, louder than he intended:

“Good morning! We don’t want any adventures here, thank you! You might try over the Hill, or across the Water!”

The man’s smile widened. “So many meanings in those two words! Now you use them to be rid of me. Am I right?”

Bilbo sighed, letters tucked under one arm. He gave the man a more careful look. “Not at all, my dear sir. But… forgive me, I don’t believe I know your name?”

“Of course you do,” the man replied. His eyes gleamed. “I am Gandalf. And Gandalf means… me.”

The name hit Bilbo like a thunderclap. His jaw dropped.

“Gandalf? Gandalf! Not the wandering wizard who gave Old Took a pair of studs that fastened themselves till ordered undone? Not the teller of tales — dragons, goblins, giants! Not the fireworks on Midsummer’s Eve? By heavens, I remember those! Lilies and snapdragons in the sky, burning till twilight!”

Bilbo found himself grinning despite his alarm, rushing down the steps toward him. “Dear me — the Gandalf? I hadn’t realized you were still in business. Why, you sent half the young lads and lasses off into the Blue for mad adventures once upon a time! My word, I never thought to see you here.”

“Where else should I be?” Gandalf chuckled. “It pleases me that you remember my fireworks, at least. That gives me hope. For your grandfather’s sake, and poor Belladonna’s, I will give you what you asked for.”

Bilbo blinked. “Pardon? I haven’t asked for anything.”

“Oh, but you have,” said Gandalf cheerfully. “Twice now. My pardon — and you shall have it. In fact, I’ll do better: I’ll send you on an adventure. Very amusing for me, very good for you — and profitable, if you survive it.”

The bottom dropped out of Bilbo’s stomach. “No, no, thank you! No adventures here, not today, not tomorrow! Good morning! But, ah—” inspiration struck him like lightning “—do come to tea, anytime you like! Tomorrow, perhaps! Goodbye!”

And with that he bolted for his round green door and shut it smartly in Gandalf’s face.

His heart hammered. He leaned against the wood, muttering to himself as he tucked the letters aside. “Why on earth did I invite him to tea?” A bit of cake was the only sensible cure for such nerves. He hurried to the kitchen, missing the quiet scrape of nail upon paint.

On the fresh green door, a queer mark shimmered faintly in the afternoon light.

Chapter Text

By nightfall the Hill was quiet, the lanterns of Hobbiton glowing faintly below. Inside Bag End, Bilbo Baggins set his supper neatly upon the table — fish, potatoes, and a small jug of ale. He had every intention of eating it in peace before retiring with a book.

He had just lifted his fork when a tremendous knock shook the round green door. The fork clattered against the plate.

“Who in the world—?” Bilbo muttered, hurrying to the door. It was far too late for Gandalf to be calling, unless wizards had no sense of decent hours (which, admittedly, seemed likely).

But it was no wizard standing there. It was a dwarf. A broad-shouldered, bald-headed dwarf who pushed past him with hardly a word. Bilbo stumbled aside as the stranger shed a dark green cloak and bowed deeply.

“Dwalin, at your service,” he rumbled.

“B-Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” Bilbo stammered.

Dwalin’s sharp gaze swept the smial as though taking its measure. Bilbo flushed, suddenly aware of dust on the mantel and a forgotten teacup by the hearth.

“Well… I was just about to have tea,” Bilbo offered nervously. “Fish and potatoes too, if you’re hungry.”

The dwarf nodded, already eyeing Bilbo’s supper as if that settled the matter. With a sigh, Bilbo fetched another place and set about making tea.

They had barely sat when another knock rattled the door. Bilbo hurried to it, half-expecting Gandalf at last — but found instead an older dwarf with a snowy beard and kindly smile.

“Balin, at your service,” the dwarf said warmly, bowing before stepping inside as if he belonged there.

“T-thank you,” Bilbo muttered, quite at a loss.

“Brother!” Balin cried, striding past Bilbo to clasp Dwalin in a fierce embrace that ended with the two banging heads together. Bilbo winced. He hoped they didn’t expect him to try such a greeting.

He had scarcely closed the door when yet another knock came. This time two dwarves stood on the step — younger, brighter-eyed, one with scruffy dark hair and a grin, the other fair-haired, composed, with neat braids in his beard.

“Kili, at your service!” the first declared eagerly.

“Fili, at your service!” said the other with equal courtesy.

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” Bilbo replied in a rush, nerves fraying. The two tossed their cloaks at him and tramped mud across his polished floor as though they owned the place.

By the time he led them into the kitchen, Dwalin and Balin were already helping themselves to his fish, while Kili and Fili poked curiously at the cupboards. The chatter of gold, mines, and goblins filled the air. Bilbo’s head spun.

He had just taken a steadying sip of tea when a thunderous knock shook the smial. Opening the door, Bilbo was promptly buried under a heap of five dwarves — Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin, and Gloin — who tumbled across the threshold in a clattering heap. Behind them stood Gandalf, tall and smug as if this chaos were entirely his doing.

Bilbo glared at him, which only made the wizard’s smile widen.

The new arrivals scrambled up, dusted themselves off, and offered hurried bows before stampeding toward the kitchen. Within moments they were shouting for ale, for coffee, for cakes and seedcakes and anything else the pantry might yield.

And just when Bilbo thought he could bear no more, three more dwarves arrived — Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, the last of whom nearly broke the bench when he sat.

The smial rang with clinking mugs and boisterous voices. Plates vanished as quickly as Bilbo set them down. He darted between pantry and parlour, praying his mother’s porcelain would survive the onslaught.

Then — silence. A heavy knock sounded at the door, deep enough to rattle the hinges.

The dwarves straightened. Gandalf’s eyes gleamed. “He’s here,” the wizard murmured.

Bilbo swallowed hard and followed him to the door.

When it opened, the air seemed to shift. A tall figure filled the threshold, broad-shouldered, wrapped in fur, his presence alone commanding the room.

“Gandalf,” the dwarf said with a half-smile, “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way twice.”

Bilbo’s breath caught.

The dwarf’s beard was full and well-kept, streaked with grey; his tunic of deep blue shimmered faintly with intricate patterns. But it was his eyes — piercing blue, fixed on Bilbo with unsettling intensity — that rooted him to the spot.

“This,” Gandalf declared, “is Thorin Oakenshield, leader of our company.”

“So.” Thorin’s gaze moved from wizard to hobbit. His voice was deep, edged with iron. “This is the burglar.”

Bilbo flushed, spluttering, but Thorin stepped closer, arms crossed, studying him as if weighing his worth.

“Tell me, Mister Baggins. Have you done much fighting?”

Bilbo blinked. “Pardon?”

“Axe or sword?” Thorin pressed. “What is your weapon of choice?”

“Well, ah — I have some skill in conkers…” Bilbo muttered, tugging at his shirt lightly, “But I fail to see why that’s relevant.”

Thorin huffed, glancing at Fili and Kili with a wry smirk. “Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

The room erupted in laughter, and Bilbo’s cheeks burned crimson.

Once the songs had ended, the dishes had stopped flying, and Bilbo Baggins found himself slumped against the wall of his own dining room, quite defeated. His once orderly smial was filled with smoke, pipe-ash, and thirteen dwarves sprawled about his furniture as if they owned the place.

At the head of the table, Thorin Oakenshield sat like a king on a throne, grave and silent. When at last he spoke, the company hushed.

“Envoys came from all Seven Kingdoms.”

A cheer went up at once, mugs thudding against wood, but Dwalin’s deep voice cut through it.
“And the Iron Hills?”

Bilbo shrank further into the shadows behind Thorin’s chair. Even after hours of music and food, Thorin’s gaze still made his skin prickle.

“They will not come,” Thorin said at last. His spoon clattered against the bowl as he set it aside. “They say this quest is ours. Ours alone.”

The dwarves muttered darkly. Bilbo, against his better judgment, squeaked:
“Q–quest?”

Every head turned. He wished, not for the first time that evening, that he could vanish into his pantry.

Gandalf, puffing at his pipe, saved him with a diversion. “Bilbo, my dear fellow, a little more light, if you please.”

Dismissed in his own home! Frowning, Bilbo fetched a candle anyway. When he returned, the wizard had produced a map and spread it across the table.

“Far to the east, beyond woodlands and wastelands,” Gandalf said, smoothing the worn parchment, “lies a solitary peak.”

“The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo breathed, setting down the candle. His eyes fixed on the sketch of a dragon coiled above the mountain’s crown.

Talk of omens followed—ravens returning, portents fulfilled. Bilbo pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Birds and fortunes indeed! But then Oin quoted a grim prophecy, ending with a word that froze Bilbo’s blood.

“Beast,” he whispered. “What beast?”

Bofur answered cheerfully enough to make him ill. “Smaug the Terrible. Chiefest calamity of our age.”

Bilbo’s legs went weak. The dwarves, however, were only stirred to bravado. Ori leapt up, declaring he’d skewer the dragon himself. Balin countered with grim arithmetic: thirteen against a fortress. Fili and Kili rallied with youthful fire, and soon the room was a storm of voices.

Until Thorin rose.

“If we have read these signs,” he thundered, “do you not think others have as well? Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. The eyes of the world turn east, weighing what lies unguarded. Do we sit idle while others claim what is ours—or do we reclaim our home?”

The dwarves roared, fists pounding, a language of stone and fire echoing through Bilbo’s poor walls. Despite himself, the hobbit felt a stirring in his chest.

Then Balin’s sober voice cut the fire in two. “The front gate is sealed. There is no way in.”

But Gandalf was smiling. From his robes he drew a key, gleaming in the candlelight. “Your father entrusted this to me. Where there is a key, there is a door.”

Murmurs swept the company. The map, the runes, a hidden passage—hope flared again. Gandalf’s pipe pointed, almost lazily, in Bilbo’s direction.

“But such a task,” the wizard said, “will require stealth. Cunning. The sort of skills none of you possess.”

Bilbo felt the air shift as every eye turned his way.

“A burglar,” Gandalf concluded.

Ori lit up. “Yes! We need a burglar!”

“An expert, no doubt,” Bilbo heard himself say in a strangled squeak. Only too late did he notice the stares.

“And are you?” asked Gloin, leaning forward.

Bilbo blinked. “Am I what?”

“He said he’s an expert!” Oin bellowed happily, cupping his ear.

“Me? No! I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!” (A lie—pilfered pies as a faunt hardly counted.)

Relief washed through him when Balin agreed. “Hardly burglar material.”

Dwalin snorted. “The Wild is no place for gentlefolk who can’t fight.”

The dwarves roared again until Gandalf stood. Shadows stretched tall upon the walls, his voice like thunder.

“If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is. Hobbits can pass unseen, if they choose. The dragon has never smelled one of their kind—an advantage worth more than all your axes.”

Bilbo wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.

Thorin’s eyes burned into him, but at Gandalf’s insistence, he finally waved Balin forward. The old dwarf handed Bilbo a contract longer than his arm.

“Just the usual,” Balin assured him. “Expenses, remuneration, funeral arrangements—”

“Funeral arrangements?!” Bilbo squeaked.

“Incineration’s a possibility,” Bofur added helpfully.

Bilbo’s knees wobbled. His vision narrowed. “I… feel a bit faint…”

And the world went black.

Chapter Text

Staring at the contract lying so innocently on the hallway table, Bilbo’s thoughts drifted back to what had passed the night before, when he woke from his fainting spell.

He had come to not on the cold wooden floor, but in an armchair by the fire. Across the hearth, Gandalf sat watching him, grey eyes reflecting the flicker of the flames.

Bilbo sat up slowly, crossing his legs, waiting for the wizard to speak.

Gandalf’s voice was heavy when he finally spoke.
“You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long. Tell me—when did doilies and your mother’s dishes become so important to you?”

Bilbo looked away, unable to meet the wizard’s eyes. The truth was, he couldn’t say. He did not know when such trifles had become the pillars of his days—only that they had, and that the thought of it filled him with a dull, guilty ache.

“I remember a young hobbit,” Gandalf went on, “who ran off into the woods chasing Elves. Who came home after dark, mud clinging to his feet and fireflies in his curls. Whatever became of him?”

The words pierced Bilbo’s heart. He had once been that hobbit—captivated by his mother’s tales of distant silver cities, of Elves tall as trees, of Dwarves as proud as mountains with hearts as golden as their hoards. But the stories had ended when she had. Since then, the smial had been no home, only a tomb. Nothing has changed: the same furniture, the same rugs, even the same book she had left open on the table, its page never turned after her heart failed from heartbreak and her son wept into her lap.

“The world is not in your books and maps,” Gandalf said softly, motioning toward the window. “It’s out there.”

Bilbo stared into the fire. The flames twisted and leapt, mocking him with a freedom he had long forgotten. He had been still for so long—grief turned to habit, habit to chains. Yet the thought of breaking them terrified him.

“I-I can’t just go running off into the blue,” he whispered. “I am a Baggins of Bag End.”

Gandalf’s eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. “Did you know your great-great-great-great-uncle, Bullroarer Took, was so large he could ride a real horse?”

Bilbo gave a short nod. He knew the story well—his mother had loved to tell it. How Bullroarer once took a horseshoe to the face and lost three teeth, which he later replaced with silver ones he’d stolen from a Man’s corpse. They had been far too big, sticking out at odd angles so that he looked half-rotten whenever he grinned.

“Yes,” Bilbo said dryly.

“Well, he could,” Gandalf continued, warming to his tale. “And in the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the Goblin ranks. He swung his great club so hard it knocked the Goblin King’s head clean off his shoulders. It sailed a hundred yards through the air—straight down a rabbit hole. And thus the battle was won… and the game of golf was invented at the same time.”

Bilbo huffed, levelling a half-hearted glare at him. “I do believe you made that up.”

Gandalf only smiled. “Well, all good stories deserve a touch of embroidery. And you’ll have a tale or two of your own—when you come back.”

Bilbo felt a strange twist in his chest at the words, a mixture of excitement and fear. He looked into the fire, watching the flames twist and dance, and felt for the first time in years that the world beyond his smial might still hold wonders he had almost forgotten.

His voice was small, almost childlike. “Can you promise I will?”

“No,” said Gandalf. “And if you do, you will not be the same.”

Bilbo’s heart clenched. Shaking his head, he rose. “Sorry, Gandalf. You’ve got the wrong hobbit.” And with that, he left the contract on the table and retreated to his room.

Now, in the quiet morning, the parchment still lay there—waiting, patient as stone. Bilbo stared at it until his hand trembled. Then, with a suddenness that startled even him, he seized a pen and signed his name.

Within minutes, he was running barefoot down the lane, pack thumping, coat flapping, and curls flying in the wind. For the first time in years, his tail - long and honey-brown, hidden away in his grief - streamed free behind him, flicking joyfully in the morning air. His breath came in gasps, but laughter broke through them. A weight he had carried half his life seemed to fall away with each step, taking him further away from home.

At last, he caught up to the company at the edge of the Shire. “Wait!” he cried, thrusting the contract at Balin, panting hard. “I signed it!”

The old dwarf peered down at Bilbo before he studied the scrawl, and gave a wink as he spoke up loud enough for everyone to hear. “All in order. Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

“Give him a pony,” came Thorin’s curt voice as he wheeled his horse forward.

Before Bilbo could object, Fili and Kili had hoisted him up onto a pony. His tail puffing up like a startled cat’s, drawing muffled laughter from the dwarves behind him.

After a while of riding, Kili rode up beside him, eyes bright with curiosity. “Say, Bilbo—what’s with the tail? Didn’t see that before.”

Bilbo smiled, tugging the ruffled length into his lap. Ori and Fili leaned closer, eager to hear themselves.

“All hobbits are born with tails,” Bilbo explained. “We braid them, bead them, or leave them plain—each in our own way. But when we grieve, we hide them. As Men wear black, as Elves fall silent. Mine has been hidden for… a very long time.”

“It’s like with us dwarves!” Ori shouted, only to be shushed by his older brothers - Dori and Nori - who were at the front. Ori’s cheeks turned a deep crimson, and he folded in on himself, looking both embarrassed and sheepish.

Feeling a pang of sympathy for the young dwarf, Bilbo leaned closer to him. “Really? Do dwarves also have tails?”

The three younger dwarves burst into laughter, shaking their heads. Fili spoke up first, a grin tugging at his lips. “Nay, we dwarves don’t have tails. But we braid and bead our hair - and our beards too, as you’ve probably noticed.” He gave a small flourish, showing off his own carefully braided locks with pride.

Bilbo’s eyes widened with amusement, and he let out a small, impressed whistle. Almost instinctively, he glanced back at Dwalin, who was watching them all from the rear with a glare that could melt stone. Bilbo couldn’t help but feel he shouldn’t be privy to such inside information—though he smiled all the same at the dwarves’ spirited pride.
Feeling less alone with the three younger dwarves surrounding him, Bilbo found himself drawn into conversation after conversation, the hours slipping by until night fell and the company decided to make camp.

His legs unsteady and his thighs sore from the long ride, Bilbo slid off his horse, hoisted his backpack from the saddle, and followed the others as they searched for a suitable spot on the hard ground. Dwalin and Balin were already busy tying the horses to a sturdy tree, their movements efficient and practised.

Bilbo had intended to set his pack down a little farther from the group, hoping to stay out of the way as he still felt like he didn’t really belong. But before he could, Fili and Kili pounced—grinning mischievously—and dragged him toward their own campfire spot. To his dismay, it placed him uncomfortably close to Thorin.

He stiffened at the thought. Thorin’s gaze alone had been enough to unsettle him all day, and now he feared that being so near might expose him as the burden he already felt he was. What if the leader of the company decided he was more trouble than help? What if Thorin sent him back to the Shire—on foot, no less—while the others carried on without him?

Bilbo sighed, lowering himself to the ground, forcing a polite smile as Fili and Kili chattered beside him, all the while trying not to look at Thorin—or let Thorin look at him.

As night settled over the camp, the fire crackled and cast a warm glow on the company. Bombur stirred a large pot of stew, the rich aroma drifting over the clearing and making Bilbo’s stomach growl despite the nervous energy still fluttering in his chest.

Bilbo found himself the centre of attention, though not in the way he expected. Oin and Ori had taken a keen interest in him after he had accidentally let slip some tales of hobbit life. Oin furiously scribbled in his notebook, jotting down every word, while Ori peppered him with questions, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Despite the chaos, Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. The two dwarves’ enthusiasm was infectious, and for the first time that day, he felt at ease among the company. Even as the others laughed, argued, or whispered amongst themselves, he sensed a thread of warmth weaving through the group—a tentative welcome.

“Master Bilbo,” Oin said at last, looking him up and down, though his gaze kept flicking to the swaying tail behind the hobbit. “I have a question.”

Bilbo nodded, encouraging him to continue. Oin hesitated for a moment, pen hovering over the page, before speaking.

“I was wondering… why do you have such a large pantry? With all that food, you could keep yourself fed for two whole years! It took thirteen dwarves to empty it!”
Bilbo’s cheeks flushed in irritation at the memory of his pantry raid. His tail, ever expressive, betrayed his mood and puffed up slightly.

“Well, the fact is… we hobbits eat seven times a day, so—”

Before he could finish, every dwarf within earshot shouted, “WHAT?!” Kili’s voice rang the loudest as he barreled toward Bilbo, Fili close behind, the others gathering to hear as well.

“You mean… seven times a day?!” Kili demanded, eyes wide as he sat down beside Bilbo on the stone he was seated on.

Bilbo swallowed, trying to sound calm despite the growing chaos. “Y-Yes. We hobbits eat seven times a day. We have three stomachs, so there’s… a lot of room to fill. To be honest…” he muttered the last part under his breath, but the dwarves still caught it, “…that pantry would barely have lasted six months.”

Stunned by the revelation, the dwarves exchanged incredulous glances, utterly amazed that such a small creature could harbour three stomachs.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Bilbo offered an awkward smile as the questions began to pile up—queries about hobbit diets, sleeping habits, and even tail care—until a deep, commanding voice cut through the chatter.

“Enough crowding around Master Hobbit. Go and take a bowl of stew, each one of you.”

It was Thorin. His gaze swept over the group, sharp and unyielding, landing briefly on Bilbo with a piercing look that made the hobbit shrink slightly in place. One by one, the dwarves shuffled away to fetch their bowls, muttering amongst themselves, leaving Bilbo to breathe a small sigh of relief in the sudden quiet.

Getting to his feet, Bilbo accepted a bowl from Bombur with a grateful smile and a whispered thanks. The dwarf only grunted in reply, already busy ladling out the next portion, though Bilbo caught the faint twitch of a pleased smile beneath the cook’s beard. Cradling the warm bowl in his hands, Bilbo returned to his spot and tucked himself down between Fíli and Kíli, where his sleeping sack was wedged.

The food was simple but hearty, and Bilbo found it far better than anything he might have expected to eat on such a wild journey. He had hardly swallowed his first mouthful before the brothers were tugging him into conversation again. They wanted to know what hobbits kept in their pantries, how large the gardens in the Shire truly were, and whether Bilbo had ever held a sword before—though this last question was asked with far more laughter than seriousness. In return, Bilbo pressed them for stories of their travels and of Erebor itself, and the three of them traded questions and answers as easily as passing around bread and ale.

Soon enough, the company’s chatter faded into the practical business of the night. Thorin and Dwalin moved to the edge of the firelight, speaking low as they drew up a schedule for the watch. Around them, the others spread out across the camp, rolling out sleeping sacks, stamping down stray roots and stones, and muttering complaints softened by weariness.

Bilbo settled into his sack at last, pulling the blanket snug around his shoulders. The exhaustion of the day pressed down on him, heavy but not unwelcome. What a mess I’ve gotten myself into, he thought, though the smile that curved his lips was gentle rather than bitter. The fire crackled softly, throwing shadows that leapt and danced across the trees, and the familiar hum of dwarvish voices slowly faded into snores.

He let out a long yawn, turning onto his side. The warmth of the fire on his face and the steady rise and fall of the company’s breathing lulled him further, until his eyes slid shut and sleep came to claim him.

Chapter Text

A week had passed, and travelling on horseback had not grown any easier for Bilbo. If anything, it had become more miserable. His thighs were rubbed raw, the constant chafing leaving him wincing with every step. Whenever the company stopped to rest, he stood about awkwardly, legs held stiff and apart, taking any chance he could to ease the burning skin without rubbing it further. It was hardly dignified, but dignity had become a rare commodity on this journey.

The chaos of the first days had long since faded. The dwarves no longer hounded him with endless questions—though not because their curiosity had lessened. Instead, they had simply folded him into their circle. Bilbo found himself drawn into their conversations, their games, and even their ridiculous wagers, always greeted with a laugh or a grin if he tried to refuse.

Tonight, however, their cheer was dimmed. The company had stopped near the charred remains of what had once been a farmer’s house. The walls stood blackened and broken, the roof caved in, the ground trampled by something far larger than men or hobbits. The ponies shifted uneasily, and even the dwarves kept their voices low around the fire.

Balancing two bowls of stew in his hands, Bilbo started toward the pony tether. The mood of the camp was heavy, and not only because of the ruined house looming over them. The memory of the quarrel earlier that day still clung to everyone like smoke.

Gandalf and Thorin had gone at one another by the roadside, their voices carrying over the clatter of hooves. Gandalf had pressed—firm, insistent—that Rivendell lay close, that Elrond’s house would offer food, rest, and guidance for the road ahead. Thorin had bristled at the suggestion, his disdain for elves flaring hot as ever. He’d spoken of betrayal, of ancient slights, his pride as unyielding as stone.

“This is not caution, Thorin, it is blindness!” Gandalf’s words had rung in Bilbo’s ears long after. “You put every life here in jeopardy with your stubbornness!”

Thorin had given no ground. “I will not crawl to the elves. Not now, not ever. We do not need them.”

And then Gandalf had wheeled away, staff striking hard against the earth as he stalked off, cloak snapping behind him. He had not returned since, and though none of the dwarves said it aloud, the loss of his presence had left them all uneasy.

Bilbo tightened his grip on the bowls and shook himself from the memory. Best not to dwell on quarrels beyond his control. Ahead, the shadows shifted where Fíli and Kíli kept their uneasy watch over the ponies.

Nearing the two boys, Bilbo found himself smiling despite the unease of the night. Over the past week, he had grown rather fond of them. At times, they were far too much for his sensibilities—loud, reckless, and forever plotting something—but their warmth was infectious. When it all became overwhelming, he often slipped away to Bombur’s side, where the quiet dwarf’s gentle company was a welcome balm.

The thought of Bombur’s soft-spoken kindness lingered in his mind as Bilbo came up to where Fíli and Kíli stood, their figures outlined in the faint glow of the fire behind him. Both were stiff, unmoving, eyes fixed on the ponies.

“Food, boys,” Bilbo announced, holding out the bowls. To his surprise, neither turned nor even blinked.

Frowning, Bilbo shifted closer. “Really now, it’s still warm. Don’t let it go—”

His words trailed off as he followed their gaze. The ponies shuffled nervously, ears twitching. Bilbo counted under his breath, once, then again, his heart tightening as the number came up short.

Before he could speak, Fíli finally did, his voice grim.

“We’ve lost two horses.”

Bilbo nearly dropped the bowls. “What?”

Kíli tore his eyes from the shadows and looked at him, his usual grin absent. “They slipped their tethers… or were taken.” He swallowed hard. “Either way, they’re gone.”

The ponies stamped and whickered uneasily, as if to agree. The night seemed to press closer, heavier, and Bilbo’s mouth went dry.

Bilbo blinked, his voice pitching higher than he meant. “Gone? What do you mean, gone? Ponies don’t just vanish into thin air.”

“They were here not half an hour ago,” Fíli muttered, running a hand through his hair as though that might help him think. “I checked the knots myself.”

Kíli crouched, squinting at the ground near the ropes. “Not cut. Not broken. Just… untied.” He touched the dirt, then frowned at the impressions in the earth. “And something heavy walked off with them.”

“Something heavy?” Bilbo echoed, his stomach dropping. “What sort of something?”

Neither brother answered at once. The silence stretched, broken only by the restless shifting of the remaining ponies. Their ears flicked, their eyes rolling white whenever the wind rustled through the blackened timbers of the ruined farmhouse.

Bilbo felt the hairs on his arms prickle. He clutched the bowls tighter, as if stew could ward off whatever lurked in the dark. “Well?” he demanded at last, his voice sharper than he intended. “If you know what’s taken them, you’d better say it plain. Because if Thorin finds out—”

Both brothers winced, exchanging a look. It was Kíli who finally spoke, his voice dropping low. “We… might know. Or at least, we’ve a fair guess.”

Fíli sighed, shoulders sagging under the weight of words he didn’t want to say. “And you’re not going to like it.”

Bilbo’s mouth went dry. “Oh, I already don’t.”

Fíli rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Bilbo’s eye. “Look, it could have been wolves—”

“Or a bear,” Kíli added quickly, though his voice wavered.

“Or—”

“—trolls,” they both finished together, the word spilling out before either could stop it.

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Even the ponies seemed to sense it, stamping and pulling at their tethers.

Bilbo stared at them, bowls forgotten in his hands. “Trolls?” His voice cracked, louder than he meant, and he clamped his mouth shut before it carried back to the others at camp. Leaning closer, he hissed, “Did you just say trolls?”

Kíli gave a sheepish grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Big, ugly brutes. Heard them grumbling out in the trees. And laughing.”

Fíli nodded grimly. “We think the ponies stumbled right into them. By the time we noticed, the noise had stopped—and so had the ponies.”

Bilbo’s stomach sank straight into his boots. His mind scrambled for some reasonable explanation, but nothing else fit. Two ponies, gone without a trace, ropes neatly slack in the dirt. Trolls. Real trolls.

He swallowed hard. “Oh… oh, this is bad.”

Rubbing their necks awkwardly, the boys suddenly snapped to attention as the ground beneath them shook.

Shooting a look at Bilbo, they all ran to a fallen-over tree, hiding behind it just in time for a troll holding two horses to pass by, walking down the path to an area in the rocks that glowed with the light of fire, voices coming from there.

Swallowing heavily, Bilbo looked at Kili and Fili, wide-eyed, who stared back equally wide-eyed, panic clear in all three of them.

“What are we supposed to do? We have to save the horses!” Bilbo hissed out towards the boys, stomach dropping at the look that entered Kili’s eyes as he whispered into Fili’s ear before speaking.

“Well- we thought, you, as our burglar, could, you know… burglar them back! O-Of course, we won’t abandon you if you need help, we will come rescue you!”

Frowning at Kili’s words, Bilbo was gonna refuse when he saw the anxiety and fear in the boys’ eyes. It was clear neither of them wanted to go to Thorin and tell him they lost the horses, their uncle’s disappointment something the boys both feared.

Sighing at himself and his bleeding heart, Bilbo scowled and shoved the bowls into their hands.

“Fine—but you have to give me something to cut the horses free with,” he muttered. Fili and Kili beamed at him.

“Thank you, Uncle!” Kili said brightly, the title making Bilbo flush and his heart soften despite himself. Fili slipped him a dagger—far too large for Bilbo’s small hands—and before he quite knew what had happened, he was shoved out of their hiding spot. When he looked back, the brothers were already gone, leaving Bilbo to swallow hard and face the task alone.

He crept toward the ponies, making sure none of the three reeking trolls noticed. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he knelt and sawed at the ropes with clumsy, hurried strokes. The dagger was heavy, awkward, and nearly slipped from his grip more than once. At last the last strand gave way, and the ponies bolted into the trees.

The noise drew the trolls at once. They spun, catching sight of the ponies fleeing—and then of Bilbo.

Before he could run, a massive hand snatched him off the ground. The troll’s crossed eyes narrowed, its mouth clamped shut, and yet the reek of rot and sour meat seeped from it so strongly that Bilbo gagged, choking on the stench. The dagger slipping from his grasp.

Before the troll could speak, Fili burst from the bushes with a roar, slicing the back of its knee. The creature bellowed, stumbling, and dropped Bilbo, who hit the earth hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Shaking his head to clear the dizziness from the fall, Bilbo scrabbled frantically in the dirt until his fingers closed around the dagger once more—just as Thorin and the rest of the company burst into the clearing, their battle cries rising above the clash of steel on troll-hide.

Bilbo was lost in the chaos. He had no training, no idea what to do with the weapon in his hand, and so he darted and stumbled, barely keeping his feet, dodging wildly just to keep from being crushed.

Then two trolls caught him. One grabbed his arms, the other his legs, pulling until his small body screamed with pain. Bilbo cried out, blinking tears from his eyes as the dwarves looked on in horror—Kili’s face stricken, Fili’s tight with fear, Bofur and Bombur pale and wide-eyed, Balin’s wise gaze full of dread. They all saw how badly he was hurting already, how close he was to being torn in two.

With a growl and a sharp glare, Thorin dropped his weapon. One by one, the others followed, steel clattering to the ground at the trolls’ pleased laughter.

The trolls tightened their grip, and Bilbo gasped as the air was forced from his lungs. Around him, the company stood defeated, their weapons lying useless in the dirt. Thorin’s glare burned with fury, but even he could not move.

“Enough squabblin’,” growled one troll, giving Bilbo a shake that left him dizzy. “We’ve got our supper right here.”

With that said, the trolls lunged for the company. The dwarves fought and kicked, but it was no use; rough sacks were shoved over their bodies, ropes cinched tight around their necks to keep them trapped, only their frightened faces left exposed. A few, less fortunate, were bound to a heavy spit and hoisted above the fire as the trolls bellowed with laughter, the flames crackling hungrily beneath them.

Bilbo thrashed in his own sack, the stench of smoke and troll breath closing in, his heart hammering against the rough fabric.

This was how it would end—roasted alive for a troll’s supper.