Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms, nor a dry, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat. It was a hobbit-hole, and that meant nothing short of comfort and tranquility.

It had a perfectly round (freshly painted!) green door, with a shiny yellow doorknob right in the middle. The wood it was made of was not new by any means, no, but wasn't even close to rotting. The door opened to a surprisingly vast home, though it was shaped in tunnels, as would a rabbit-hole. No going upstairs for the Hobbit; all they needed was in one level. That meant bedrooms, bathrooms, pantries (which they were very fond of), living areas... Not to mention, the hole itself was rarely empty.

You see, Hobbits lived in large families, consisting of a minimum of three children. Young faunts could constantly be heard running around, their oddly large feet padding surprisingly quietly over the wood. Not to mention the outside of their comfortable dens, which were even more crowded. If one didn't have a grand number of children, they could always have guests over. Hobbits loved company...

Maybe you've noticed how I never said all Hobbits. I've a good reason; it would be wrong. Not all Hobbits were... sociable. It was rare, maybe even one of a kind, but that is the case with our Hobbit. His name was Bilbo Baggins; a bachelor who was twenty years past his coming of age. He was nothing like his late mother, who was adventurous to a fault before becoming Belladona Baggins (former Took). Bilbo was much more like his father, Bungo, who enjoyed a peaceful life. Where nothing unexpected ever happened, aside from marrying Belladona.

~×~×~×~

By some curious chance one morning in the quiet of the world, where there was less noise and more green, Bilbo sat in front of his door after second breakfast. Yes, Hobbits have more than three meals, but we shall get to that later. Anyhow, as our Hobbit was smoking a long wooden pipe, one of the Big People approached him. He had a ridiculous outfit on, consisting of depressing grey tones and ragged fabrics. A funny pointed hat sat atop his old face, which was covered by his rich beard. The description matched that of a wizard, as his mother described them, but what was a wizard doing in the Shire?

“Good morning,” Bilbo found himself saying after a prolonged silence. He continued to smoke his pipe, blowing out smoke rings from his mouth. Nothing impressive, but calming, as all things should be. The old man's reply was everything but.

“What do you mean?” he asked, a bushy eyebrow furrowed. “Do you wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it to be or not; or that you feel good on this morning, or that it is a morning to be good on?”

Bilbo had to pause at that. This... wizard, or whoever he may be, was no good news. No good news at all. Pushing that thought aside for the time being, the Hobbit answered. “Ah... all of them at once, I suppose. A good morning, truly, for a pipe of tobacco out of doors!.. Can I help you?”

The wizard eyed him closely in response. Very closely. Too closely... Bilbo ignored it, since he was adamant on not letting anything ruin his fine morning. The man took a step back, not quite impressed by his words, but accepting. Either way, he continued as if Bilbo hadn't said a single thing other than ‘Can I help you’. “I have no time to blow smoke rings, not right now. I am looking for someone to share an adventure with,” a pointed look thrown Bilbo's way that he skillfully ignored, “though it is difficult to find anyone.”

“I should think so!” Bilbo all but exclaimed. He stood up, pretending to be busy with lighting out his pipe. His tone maintained its gentleness from earlier, though there was a light edge to it. “I can't imagine anyone West of Bree,” he tilted his head, pointing at the mentioned town with the narrow end of his pipe, “being interested in adventures. Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Makes you late to dinner!”

Bilbo tried ending it there. His voice was polite, if not a bit louder than earlier. Just a bit. The Hobbit approached his mailbox, opening it to reveal a concerning amount of letters piled up. He skimmed through them, all while still holding that pipe between his lips, pretending to be interested. Pretending. Barely. His eyes kept darting to the wizard, who hasn't said a single thing for a surprisingly long amount of time. After a prolonged, and definitely awkward, silence, the smaller spoke again.

“Good morning!” Which it wasn't anymore. “We don't want any adventures, thank you! You might want to try over The Hill, or across The Water.” and with that he meant that the conversation was over. Bilbo turned around, hurriedly climbing the few stairs that led to his front door.

“Now, I never expected to be Good morning'd by Belladona Took's own son,” the old voice all but boomed from behind him. Bilbo was, momentarily, rendered speechless once more. He turned around, pipe long forgotten, eyes blown out of their sockets. Then, he recollected himself, and managed to blink stupidly. Words spouted from his mouth, words he wished he had kept inside his head. “I– I am sorry, who are you?”

The wizard almost smirked underneath that blasted beard. No, Bilbo was sure he did just that. “You may not know who I am, but I know who you are, Bilbo Baggins! I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means... me!” Gandalf... Gandalf! Bilbo almost smacked himself. Of course it was the old lad. After a short trip down memory lane, the Hobbit hummed, slightly sceptical.

“Not the Gandalf who made those excellent fireworks old Took had on midsummer's eve? Ah, I remember those!” If Gandalf thought that Bilbo would remain excited, he was dead wrong. If wizards could die, anyway. No, instead, Bilbo tapped his pipe, one hand on his hip questioningly. “I had no idea you were still in business...” Still in business, he said! It was very satisfying to see the smirk fading off the wizard's features, now replaced by something more bitter.

“And where else should I be?”

Bilbo mentally took a deep breath in. He could not start laughing, not yet. Not in front of Gandalf. Realizing words would risk exactly that happening, he just shrugged, motioning vaguely around himself. And was that a middle finger in the air? Gandalf grit his teeth briefly, instead opting to move his jaw around silently. He knew exactly where he should be, but this Hobbit wasn't making it easy. But Gandalf, that old bastard, wasn't about to give up.

“All the same, I am pleased to find you remember something about me... Well, then, it is decided! This will be very good for you, Bilbo Baggins,” he said, already begining to move along. Bilbo halted, yet another time, thought for much shorter. 

“Good for me? Wh– no! No.” he shook his head. Did Gandalf not understand? In that case, Bilbo would gladly repeat his earlier words. “We do not want any adventures; not here, not today, thank you! Good morning! Goodbye!” Without another look behind him, Bilbo ran into his hobbit-hole, all but slamming the round door behind him.

~×~×~×~

Bilbo Baggins sat at his dining table, listening to the calming sound of the firewood crackling. In front of him, on the table, lay his empty cup of tea, as well as his... sixth meal of the day, I'm guessing. On the plate, he could see a meal consisting of fish, potatoes, and a salad on the side. Next to the plate was a small basket filled with bread. The Hobbit sat quietly, getting ready to indulge in his prepared meal...

Then someone knocked on the door. Could it be Gandalf, once more? Bilbo's grin faded, though his hunger definitely did not, and he stood up with furrowed brows. Robe untied, he padded his way through the halls of his hobbit-hole. Reaching out, he opened the door, fully expecting a certain tall individual to appear. To say that Bilbo was surprised would be an insane understatement. In front of our Hobbit stood a... a Dwarf. A Dwarf!

Bilbo stammered for a moment, disbelief and confusion battling on his features. The Dwarf, oddly enough, had a shaved head. Not completely, though, only the top of it. The bald spot was covered with tattoos. And what would a Dwarf be without a beard, or any kind of ear jewelry? Exactly.

“Dwalin, at your service,” he greeted Bilbo, his voice deep and holding a strong accent. He even... bowed? Whatever for? Without realizing it, Bilbo bowed in return, offering his own services. Dwalin pushed inside, throwing his cloak off hurriedly. Shoving the wet fabric in Bilbo's hands, he looked around. “So... where is it?”

“Where's what?”

“Supper.”

That was how Bilbo Baggins found himself sitting behind Dwalin. Dwalin, who was a Dwarf, and who was eating his food. Horrid table etiquette. He ate just about everything with his hands, which have touched Yavanna-knew-what beforehand! “Is there any more?” Dwalin asked, mouth full with his fish. It took the Hobbit a second to understand the question, but then he quickly stood up. The bread basket was placed next to the empty plate, though not before sneaking a piece for himself.

Dwalin nodded, accepted the food, and, as if on cue, another knock on the door. Now, surely that was Gandalf? Right? Bilbo excused himself, not really sure what there was to excuse, and went for it. His palm made contact with the yellow knob, and he twisted it open. Another Dwarf. Much, much older. Gandalf's beard was no where near rich as his. 

“...Good evening.”

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes it is. Quite a lovely evening, indeed... Balin, at your service.”

Balin, the white-haired Dwarf, stepped inside. He was much more polite than the other one, that much was obvious. He took his cloak off himself, and even hung it by himself! Speaking of which, he acknowledged the green cloak already draped over the hanger. He muttered something about ‘the other's already arriving’, but refused to elaborate. Then something clanked in the kitchen. Loudly.

Both Bilbo and Balin turned towards the noise. Bilbo's concerned expression was the polar opposite of Balin's curious and somewhat gleeful one. The older of the two walked ahead, only for them both to spot Dwalin carelessly toying with Belladona's porcelain. Bilbo felt his face pale. Before he could kindly tell the Dwarf to let go of it, he noticed Balin. Dwalin immediately let go of the item, and reached for Balin.

“You've gotten shorter since I last saw you... and wider, no doubt,” Dwalin joked, a gleam of affection shining in his eyes. Balin replied with a simple, “Just shorter, brother,” and took a step towards the much taller Dwarf. Bilbo thought they were about to embrace each other, as one would normally, but no. Instead, the two Dwarves roughly banged their foreheads together, resulting in an audible ‘thunk’ to reverberate across his hallway. Bilbo couldn't believe it. He thought one of them would pass out, but no, they were both fine. And smiling.

Another set of knocking. Another!? Without excusing himself this time, Bilbo stamped towards the door. Inhaling a deep breath to keep his cool, he opened it. A part of him assumed it would finally be Gandalf. A part of him was wrong. Two more Dwarves! “You must be Mr Boggins!” the brunet smiled.

“Fíli,” one said, “and Kíli!” the other added. “At your service,” they finished their sentence at the same time, bowing in the same breath. This was getting out of hand!

“Nope, you can't come in, you've come to the wrong house!” Bilbo attempted to close the door, but the brunet one, Kíli he learned, stopped him. His earlier smile was no where to be seen, now replaced by a worried scrunch of his brows. “Has it been cancelled?” he questioned. His brother, looking suspiciously between Kíli and Bilbo, decided to add his own input. “No one told us?”

Bilbo sighed, visibly looking tired. The noise behind him was distracting, and the noise in front of him was even worse! “What? No, no, nothing's been cancelled!”

The two young Dwarves seemed to brighten at that. After letting out a simultaneous ‘Good!’ they stepped inside, tossing their absurd amount of weapons into poor Bilbo's hands. He stammered from their weight, almost falling over, but caught himself in time. In time to notice Kíli cleaning his boots on his mother's jewelry box! Bilbo's face paled further.

“No, no, that's my mother's–”

More knocking. There were enough Dwarves in his hole as it was, he did not need any more! He dropped the weapons unceremoniously, though subconsciously made sure to keep them safe and out of the way. He stomped to the door, complaining and yelling the entire way.

“There is but no one home!” he barked, roughly pulling the door open. He doubted he'd see Gandalf this time. And he was correct. Nine Dwarves crashed right onto his carpet. Bilbo took a quick step back, his anger melting into surprise and confusion. The same feelings from earlier, really, just much more intense. Oh, and speaking of intense...

The unfortunate Dwarf that was on the bottom of the pile, closest to the floor, stared up at Bilbo. His piercing blue eyes felt like they were dismembering Bilbo bit by bit. The Hobbit swallowed nervously, even though he was not the one on the ground. As the Dwarves all scurried about, Bilbo looked up. Behind them all stood Gandalf, that blasted wizard! However, instead of crashing out, Bilbo just sighed.

“Gandalf...”

~×~×~×~

So that's how thirteen Dwarves and a wizard ended up in his dining room, rearranging his tables and chairs to fit them all. Bilbo constantly followed all of them around, reprimanding them, in order to stop them from absolutely destroying his hobbit-hole. Which they were very dangerously close to doing. 

Cheerful shouts in an unknown language, as well as Westron, echoed throughout his home. The neighborhood would surely love to have a word with him in the following morning, but that thought didn't even cross Bilbo's mind. Not when he stood in front of his pantry. His empty pantry. Completely empty.

Bilbo wanted to cry. He wouldn't actually, of course, but he was close to it. Shouts, mutters, obnoxious laughs, horrifying noises, awful manners... It was all too much. And of course Gandalf was behind it all! If this was the adventure he mentioned, then... then...!

“Oh, quite a joyous lot, aren't they? You'll get used to them.” Gandalf appeared behind him. Bilbo, suddenly fuming, glared at the wizard. He walked around the hallway, knowing that the wizard would follow. Getting used to them? As if!

“I don't want to get used to them! They– they've pillaged my pantry, dirtied my house! And don't get me started on the bathroom; they've all but destroyed the plumbing! I don't understand what they're doing in my house!” Bilbo stomped his feet, his voice wavering. He looked almost like a child throwing a tantrum. And he felt like one.

“Excuse me,” a small voice from next to him. Ori, he recognized. “What should I do with my plate?” he asked, being oddly kind about it. Bilbo felt himself relax, although that wouldn't last. Of course.

“Here, Ori, give it to me!” Fíli called out, and Ori did exactly that. He tossed the plate across the room, and Fíli caught it. The blond then threw it to Kíli, who threw it to Bifur. Bilbo's complexion surely matched Balin's hair and beard at this point. Bilbo followed the trajectory of the plate, which led him to... everywhere! In the end, he stood beside Bofur, who started to carelessly play with his silverware.

“Stop, you'll blunt them!”

“Oh, did ya hear that, lads? He says we'll blunt the knives!”

As if this was all planned, the Dwarves burst into song. Now Thorin had nothing to do with any of this, as he was too important and stayed with Gandalf.

Chip the glasses and crack the plates!                                                Blunt the knives and bend the forks!                                             That's what Bilbo Baggins hates–                                             Smash the bottles and burn the corks!

Cut the cloth and tread on the fat!                                                         Pour the milk on the pantry floor!                                                  Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!                                      Splash the wine on every door!

Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl;                                                       Pound them up with a thumping pole;                                                  And when you've finished, if any are whole,                                  Send them down the hall to roll!

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!                                                             So carefully! carefully with the plates!

Of course, they did none of those things, as they truly respected ones property. Most of the time, anyway. Bilbo could do nothing but follow them, trying to see what they were doing. He was terrified. They were terrifying. Horrible guests. Horrible! All roads eventually lead back to where they started their suspiciously organized choreography; the dining room. Everything was... clean. Neatly put in place. Not a single thing was broken, chipped, or missing. 

Thorin was calmly smoking a pipe, as if completely used to this. Maybe the choreo and song weren't as unplanned as they made it look like. Either way, Bilbo was... a bit distracted. Whichever direction Thorin ordered his smoke ring to go, it would go. It was the first time the Hobbit has seen anyone order smoke around with words alone. Just as quickly as it began, though, the jolly atmosphere shifted. 

~×~×~×~

Bilbo stood behind Thorin, nibbling on a biscuit (his appetite was quite ruined). Meanwhile, the thirteen Dwarves– goodness, thirteen!– discussed... something. Bilbo wasn't quite in touch with the subject, since his mind has been reeling ever since Dwalin pushed inside his house. All he understood was that they needed a burglar. And that they definitely didn't see him as one. His meeting with Thorin replayed in his mind...

“So, this is the Hobbit,” Thorin eyed Bilbo, inspecting him. Bilbo subconsciously straightened his posture, as if to appear taller than he actually was. He didn't dare comment about how the leader of this odd Company was, quite literally, on the floor a minute ago. Before Bilbo could confirm his statement, Thorin continued talking while circling the poor Hobbit.

“Axe or sword?” Bilbo stuttered. “What is your weapon of choice?” Bilbo stuttered again, but managed to speak this time. Whether he meant to or not, he deepened his voice just the slightest amount. “Well, I have a skill in conkers, but I... fail to see why that matters.”

In response, Thorin huffed. His expression was still deadpan. “Thought as much... He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” Or maybe not completely stone-faced. He smirked condescendingly at Bilbo, and the other Dwarves all chuckled from behind him.

Quite an uncomfortable scene, I must admit. It was even worse for poor Bilbo, who was now being stared at by everyone. They all doubted him, which was reasonable, but frustrating. Thankfully, he snapped back to reality in time to hear Balin mention them needing a burglar. “Me? Oh, no, I've never stolen a thing in my life.” Everyone seemed to deflate a bit at that... almost everyone. Balin shot him a knowing, but not unkind, look. Bilbo could tell that the old Dwarf caught his lie.

In that moment, Dwalin interjected. “Ah, the wild's no place for Gentefolk. 'e'll be eaten alive, I tell ya.” A good number of them, along with Bilbo himself, agreed with that very statement. But someone didn't. Gandalf, that dreaded wizard, suddenly stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. His voice echoed through the smial, almost shaking the walls.

“If I say that Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!” The dark aura around him disappeared, and his voice returned to normal, but his words still held a sharpness to them. “He will prove himself worthy on this quest. He can do much more than anyone may think...including himself.”

Some more time later, the discussion of the burglar was dropped. Instead, they spoke about the quest itself. Balin appeared to be the only voice of reason, which was unfortunate for the old Dwarf. “Our chances are slim,” he sighed, “Us thirteen, against a dragon?”

To that, one of the younger ones, Ori, stood up. Seeming very determined, he raised his voice. “I'm not scared! I will get that dragon, and shove a–” An arm suddenly pulled him back to his chair. His eldest brother, Dori, who said: “Oh, sit down!”

Balin, visibly tired of everyone, continued. “As I said, there's only thirteen of us. Not the best... and certainly not the brightest...” he added that last comment while sharing a look with everyone. That caused nothing short of utter chaos. Swears in the same unknown language, clearly rude hand gestures from Bifur, and Westron from everyone who wanted Bilbo to hear them arguing.

Bilbo, the poor soul, tried to calm them down. Every time he tried to get a single word out, they'd interrupt him. No one was going to listen to a Hobbit. But to a fellow Dwarf? They definitely were. Thorin, breaking his long silence, yelled at them: “Enough!”

Like trained pups, they all immediately shut up.

~×~×~×~

Bilbo sat in a different room from everyone else. The last thing he remembered was holding an insanely long contract, and Bofur's... helpful description of a dragon. “Think of a furnace, with wings! One blow, and poof! You're nothin' but a pile of ash.”

He just... needed to sit quietly for a moment. He must've said it out loud, as Gandalf immediately shut that option down. Bilbo could barely hear what the wizard was saying, but he was motioning to the framed picture of his grandfather, Old Took. The Hobbit could hear himself responding, maybe even arguing, but it was a blur. One thing, however, was everything but blurry and hazy. 

Far over the Misty Mountains cold...

Bilbo picked up singing coming from his living area. He stood up slowly, following the voice. It was too deep to belong to one of the younger Dwarves, yet it was missing the accents Dwalin and Óin's tones had. And were those instruments? A harp? Bilbo peeked his head from behind the wall, careful not to be seen. Hobbits were light on their feet and could go around unnoticed, as Gandalf explained earlier.

His jaw almost dropped. Thorin Oakenshield, the future King Under the Mountain, the Dwarf... was singing and playing the delicate harp. Bilbo would be lying if he said that it wasn't a beautiful sight, if not even breathtaking. The fire illuminated the golden instrument, along with the silver streaks in his hair. His blue eyes were shut, his brows furrowed. He knew this song by heart, it seemed. Then the other Dwarves joined, while Ori, Fíli, and Kíli simply listened with their brows furrowed.

That night, Bilbo Baggins went to bed and dreamt of a fallen kingdom he had never seen before.

Chapter Text

The previous night, he waited for all the Dwarves to go to sleep, and he went last. They sung and conversed until the little hours, which left the Hobbit almost exhausted. His eyes drooped, his shoulders slumped, but he didn't give in. The others pointed it out, whispering among themselves. They studied him as if he were something entirely new, which made sense. Most species had never even heard of a Hobbit, let alone saw one.

When they finally went to bed, Bilbo did so himself. As he lay in bed, he could hear Thorin still humming to himself in the best room next to him:

Far over the Misty Mountains cold                                                       To dungeons deep and caverns old                                                      We must away ere break of day                                                         To find our long-forgotten gold.

Bilbo went to sleep with that in his ears, and it gave him very uncomfortable dreams. It was long after the break of day that he woke up.

~×~×~×~

Up jumped Bilbo, and putting on his dressing gown went into the dining room. There he saw no one, just like in the rest of his hobbit-hole, but signs of a large and rushed breakfast were there. There was a horrific mess everywhere; unwashed plates, crocks, pans, silverware, as well as cracked eggshells thrown ungracefully over the counter. Curse those Dwarves!

Internally swearing at them all, Bilbo began to clean up. His smial had never been in a worse state than it was that morning. And he hoped it never would be. The washing up was so real, that Bilbo was forced to believe that the unexpected party thrown last night was, in fact, not a bad dream, as he had hoped it to be. Although, despite it all, he was relieved that the Company all left without waking him up. Yet, in a way, he could not help but feel just a trifle disappointed.

“Don't be a fool,” he scolded himself while rubbing mysterious gooey liquid off a pan, “thinking of dragons and long lost kingdoms at your age!” So, after spending a ridiculous amount of time on washing up, Bilbo made himself some tea. While waiting for the water to boil, he dusted the mantelpiece. Just beneath it, he found the contract, and something in him... did something. He had no idea what the feeling was, but it felt as if he was being pulled outside.

Was this how Old Took and Belladona felt before going on their adventures?

To the end of his days, Bilbo could never remember how he found himself outside, a backpack slung clumsily over his shoulders and contract in hand. He ran through the Shire, feeling like one of the faunts, a smile gracing his face. He ignored the glances the other Hobbits threw his way, ignored the way they all looked like they'd yell at him. One neighbor, he couldn't see which, attempted to stop him.

“Whatever are you doing, Mr Bilbo?”

“I'm going on an adventure!”

~×~×~×~

He had never ran so much in his life. Not that he remembered, anyway. The Shire had never felt so vast before. It had been so long since he last ran through fields, felt grass and flowers tickling the soles of his feet. All the while, his lips never gave up the excitement he felt. Wind blew the curls out of his face, cooling his skin. He hoped the adventure would be equally as pleasant as this.

Somehow, he managed to catch up to the Company. He could see their ponies (and one horse, which undoubtedly carried Gandalf) in the distance, sticking out from the rest of nature. How could they not? They were thirteen Dwarves and a wizard, just at the border of the Shire. Whatever feeling it was that occupied his chest, it made Bilbo run even faster. 

“Wait,” he called, “wait!”

To which they all stopped. They waited, just like he told them to. It wasn't a surprise, not for most of them to do so...but Thorin also waited. And Bombur, who seemed to carry the same kind of dislike for the Hobbit. If not stronger. Soon, Bilbo stood beside Balin's pony, his words coming out in a hurry, as if they'd all run away from him. “I– I signed it. The contract,” he beamed, showing it to everyone, then handing it to the old Dwarf who checked it.

Bilbo stood in place, looking around quietly. Anxiety and excitement swirled through his stomach as he waited for the signature check to be done with. Balin, seeming satisfied, handed the contract back to our Hobbit with an almost playful wink. “It seems alright. In that case, Bilbo Baggins, welcome to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield!”

As he said ‘Baggins’, Bilbo could briefly see Kíli turning to Fíli, whispering something to the blond. It probably had something to do with the way he called him ‘Boggins’ the night before, but it didn't matter. In the same, Thorin tugged on his pony's reins. “Give him a pony,” he ordered everyone while looking away. And was he smirking again? Wait, nevermind that, a pony? He didn't know how to ride a pony!

“What? No, I'm fine without,” Bilbo reassured himself more than them, “I've gone to many– many field trips on foot... No need for it, really, I–”

Suddenly, two hands grabbed his arms, respectively. With ease, Bilbo was hoisted up in the air, no doubt by the younger brothers, and thrown on a pony. His posture was too stiff, too uncomfortable, and he held the reins too tight. If anyone noticed, which they definitely did, they didn't say anything. Thankfully. Now, there was another reason why Bilbo avoided the animal; he was allergic. Not a good trait to have if you're going on a dangerous quest, which was why he attempted to keep it a secret. Attempted.

His plans were ruined by a sneeze that seemed to push him back almost comically. The others looked back for a moment, then ahead as if nothing happened. Bilbo mumbled to himself, not caring that the other ponies were mysteriously faster than his own. Receiving another questioning look from the Dwarf next to him, Glóin, he clarified.

“I'm awfully sorry,” Bilbo began, “but I've come without my hat, or my handkerchief, as I haven't received your note until a little after 10:45, to be precise...”

“Don't be precise!” said Dwalin from somewhere ahead, “You'll have t' manage without a good plenty of yer nick-nacks until we get to the journey's end. As for a hat, I've got a spare cloak in my pack, should you need it.”

And that's how Bilbo found himself wrapped in a cloak far too large for him. He looked almost comic, with the hood covering most of his face, and the sleeves reaching past his fingers. The only comfort was that he could not be mistaken for a Dwarf, as Hobbits grew no beard. Actually, Hobbits barely had any hair anywhere other than their head and feet. But that's a rather intimate piece of information.

~×~×~×~

Gandalf joined Bilbo at the back of the line. His horse paced steadily next to Bilbo's pony, as they were in no rush for the time being. It was only the end of May, after all, and they needed to get to Erebor by Durin's day. From what Bilbo understood, that was the last day of the year for Dwarves, and it happened on the last day of Autumn, which was late December. They definitely had more than enough time.

“They doubted you, Bilbo,” he said, keeping his voice lower than usual. He seemed almost proud of the little Hobbit, who was already beginning to regret joining this adventure.

“Ah...right. And you...?” Bilbo questioned, slowly starting to get used to riding (the pony, I mean) and keeping his posture relaxed. Not quite like everyone else, but much better than a couple of hours ago. In response to Bilbo's concern, Gandalf extended his hand, catching a suspiciously well-timed patch filled with coins. “Of course not.” There was that answer, then.

~×~×~×~

At first, they passed through hobbit-lands, a wide country filled with respectable folk, with wide roads and an inn or two. Then they went through further lands, where people spoke a language Bilbo was not at all familiar with. It sounded nothing like the rough language of Dwarves, but it was still odd. The roads became worse, and inns were nothing but a dream. Then came the dreary hills, which went up, up, and up, darkened with trees. Everything had seemed rather gloomy, especially with how the weather had taken a nasty turn. Bilbo was thankful for Dwalin's spare cloak, and made sure to let him know.

You know what he didn't like? The rain. Of course, rain was great background noise for when you were comfortable, warm, and with a good book in your hands, but now? Bilbo had never felt more resentment for drops of water falling from the sky. Especially when the Company settled in the Lone-lands, which were mostly dry, but did have the remaining evidence of awful rain.

“And no doubt that the rain has gotten into the dry clothes and food bags,” Bilbo mumbled more to himself than anyone else. He'd been hungry for far too long. Did these Dwarves even eat? “Bother burgling, and everything to do with it!” 

As if his voice was not louder than the wind, the Dwarves jogged on, never taking notice of the Hobbit. Fortunately, the road they had chosen went over a stone bridge, which helped them avoid a raging river and the risk of drowning. Hobbits didn't like water. They didn't like it one bit! Either way, by the time they crossed over, it was nighttime. That meant setting up camp. Thorin muttered something about supper, then spoke in a louder tone: “And wherever will we get a dry patch to sleep on?” For once, Bilbo agreed.

Where will they get a dry patch to sleep on? Everything was muddy, wet, and overall nasty. Quite disturbing, and very uncomfortable for the skin; not even mentioning the clothes that were clinging to his body. Bilbo sighed and, without say, followed the Company wherever they were going. That is how they ended up on a conventionally located part of the Lands, with large boulders and bushes and trees to cover them. Bilbo had never felt so grateful for a rock in his fifty years of living.

The Dwarves immediately got to work; setting up camp, lighting a fire, and preparing food. Bilbo helped with whatever he could (or rather, whatever they asked him to). For such a messy and rowdy bunch, he noticed, they got the job done swiftly and efficiently. If there was one thing Bilbo had learned about Dwarves, it was that they wouldn't half-ass anything. Not even a fire.

Rocks were placed in a perfect circle on a patch of dead grass, spaced evenly among themselves. Sticks and smaller logs were gathered in the blink of an eye, and later put in the middle of the rocks in a tent-like shape. Glóin lit the fire as soon as everything was gathered, and its marvelous flames burst in the night. It illuminated their faces, their ponies, and just about everything else in a six meter range. Bilbo sat in the back with the two princes when, out of the blue, something let out a horrible shriek from below.

“What was that?” Bilbo muttered, subconsciously bringing his knees closer to his chest. He felt his body tensing up, and the hair on his neck tickling his skin. Another shriek. “Orcs,” said Fíli, after looking at Kíli briefly. Bilbo hadn't noticed the scheming look they shared, as he was too focused on whatever was producing those noises. “Orcs?” he repeated, not trying to hide the waver in his voice.

“Aye,” Kíli confirmed, “Orcs. You know; those pale-skinned creatures. You won't even hear them coming. They just... jump out of a bush, and blood will be everywhere minutes later,” he explained, no emotion visible on his voice. Fíli nodded, his eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. However, at Bilbo's genuine fright, the two let out quiet giggles. They weren't as quiet as they thought, since Thorin was rapidly approaching.

“You think Orc raids are a joke?” the King frowned, his thick eyebrows casting a dark shadow over his bright eyes. Bilbo, not quite realizing it, held his breath and stared. The princes did the same. “No, we... weren't thinking at all,” Fíli replied apologetically. The Hobbit almost felt bad for them. Here they were, simply messing with him, and Thorin was already upset. Whatever Bilbo was going to say to lighten him up left his mind as soon as the Dwarf spoke again.

“You know nothing of the world,” he spat and turned back around, his boots crunching the leaves in their path. Bilbo was quiet, and he stared. He didn't know how much time had passed, but Balin began explaining that Thorin had more reason than others to hate Orcs, for one named Azog had killed his grandfather, Thrór. The same Orc attempted to kill Thorin, but he fought back with an oak tree, hence the name Oakenshield. The war was won, but no songs were sung. His father, Thrain, later went mad from grief and disappeared. The princes and Bilbo listened carefully to the tale, still holding their breaths. Then, Balin looked over at Thorin, and the three of them followed his gaze.

“There, on that day, I saw it, and I thought... There is one I could follow. There is one I could call King.”

Bilbo, obviously, had no idea what Thorin looked like back then. After all, these events went down before the Hobbit was even born. Even so, he had always been artistic, and could imagine it in his head. As they turned to look at the King, his heart jumped quite uncomfortably. Bilbo didn't realize why it did that, as he was completely enamoured by the scene in front of him.

There, near the nearest cliff, stood Thorin Oakenshield in all his glory. Wind blew his hair back, his royal braids swinging lightly. The black locks were shining under the Moon, while the patches of silver and white seemed to be brighter than the stars themselves. It was beautiful. Thorin was beautiful, there was no denying it any longer. Bilbo swallowed, unable to look away even as Thorin slowly looked down at the four of them. Oh, goodness.

“What– what of the pale Orc?” he asked, desperate to distract himself from... whatever he was thinking. The three in front of him were a bit surprised that he spoke, mostly because they forgot that he was even there. As Balin prepared an answer, a sharper voice rang through the air. Just great. The very thing he needed to stop thinking about was speaking to him! “That filth died long ago, his pride wounded more than his body.”

Bilbo ignored the sigh Gandalf let out. They went to sleep (or attempted to), and left first thing in the morning. They traveled the entire day, none of them speaking much. Nothing happened during those hours, and they didn't have much entertainment other than Bofur's occasional joke. At least the rain had stopped.

~×~×~×~

It was then that they noticed someone's absence. “Where is Gandalf?” one of the Dwarves mused. It sounded like Dori, but Bilbo couldn't be too sure. Anyhow, he agreed with a Dwarf yet again. Where was Gandalf? And, more importantly...

“How did he manage to sneak off without any of us seeing him do so?” Bilbo asked himself, knowing in advance that the Dwarves wouldn't pay attention to him. And he was right; not one of them even tried answering him. The only response he got was, surprisingly, from Thorin himself, whose expression shifted from irritation to acknowledgement. So Bilbo's question wasn't stupid, and they all heard it, but simply refused to answer.

“Just when you would need a wizard, too,” Nori huffed out, toying with his knife. Him and his brother, Dori, shared Bilbo's views about regular meals. The others did not. In the end, it was decided that they'd make use of what little everything they had. They set up for the night right where they were, not wanting to risk getting themselves into danger (unbeknownst to them, they absolutely will). Óin and Glóin, shockingly enough, struggled with lighting the fire. Somehow they managed it, but it was weaker than they'd like.

“Bilbo! Take this to the lads, would ya?” Bofur all but shoved two bowls of stew into the Hobbit's hands, barely even looking at him. The Dwarves only spoke to Bilbo when they needed something done, he noticed. Not that he wanted to speak with them too much, but it could get... quite lonely. They were a Company of fourteen, himself included in that number, and no one wished to speak with him!

“Um, right.” But Bilbo listened. Every time, he'd do what they asked, hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone would speak with him. 

As our Hobbit talked with himself, grumbling all the way to the youngest of the Durins, he barely noticed that the two were eerily quiet. Normally, they'd cause all sorts of mischief, or at least pull a smaller joke. In that moment, they were very much silent, and very much unmoving. That was the first red flag. The second one was Kíli's concerned brow scrunch.

“Boys, supper is ready,” Bilbo called quietly from behind them. They barely heard him over their own thoughts, but then responded, though still didn't look at the smaller being. “Right,” Fíli brushed him off. But Kíli, for whatever reason, did not. “Come with us, Mr Boggins. Come see something,” he whispered, and immediately started walking forward. Bilbo had gotten used to being called ‘Boggins’ by the younger of the two, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

When Kíli invited him over to see something, he expected a joke. A prank. However, they led him to their ponies. Well, to most of their ponies. Two ropes lay untied, cut in a rush, as if someone took the animals away. That was not good. “We were supposed to watch the ponies,” Kíli began, but Fíli finished: “We had sixteen, but now, there's... fourteen.”

“Mmh... That's no good. No good at all,” Bilbo shook his head, still trying to hand the boys their dinner. “We should let Thorin know, shouldn't we?”

“No!” the boys yelled at him. The other Dwarves surely had to have heard it, but the two didn't seem to care. Kíli grabbed Bilbo's shoulders, shaking him, while Fíli took the bowls from his hands. “We mustn't let Uncle find out! He'd kill us! We were supposed to watch after them– and we really did– but now they're gone!” Bilbo was never shaken so hard in his life. Not even by Bungo, who had a habit of holding his shoulders if he picked a rotten tomato back in the day. Wait, two ponies were missing!

“What– but then what do you suppose we should do?” And that was the wrong question. Bilbo wouldn't have asked it if he knew what came after. Kíli stopped shaking the poor Hobbit, while Fíli stood beside them silently, eyeing the remaining ponies.

“Good question,” Kíli pushed Bilbo forward as gently as he could. “What should you do?”

“Me?” Bilbo sputtered. Him? Finding and, potentially, rescuing their ponies? Not a chance. He couldn't possibly do something of the sort. Even if he tried to explain this, the brothers went on.

“Gandalf said that Hobbits are very light on their feet,” Fíli reminded him, “So, we thought you should, you know, sneak in there. Like the burglar you are! Tell us where the ponies have gone, or who took them. You won't be noticed, and we'll be right behind you!”

So that's how Bilbo found himself sneaking around, trying to find the two ponies, not knowing what was waiting for him. He remembered what the princes told him: “If you need something, hoot twice like a barn-owl and once like screech-owl.” Off Bilbo had to go, without even getting a chance to explain that he could not hoot even once like any kind of owl. Suddenly, a red light shone out very bright through the tree-trunks not far ahead. 

~×~×~×~

While the burglar and the two princes were missing, the Dwarves ate their share of stew. The Ri brothers sat together closer to the fire. Glóin and Óin sat near them, while Bifur, Bofur and Bombur were around the pot. Thorin sat in the back, accompanied by Dwalin and Balin, who spoke idly about what their next course of action was.

Balin, being the only Dwarf present to pay attention to our Hobbit, turned to his companions. “Where has Bilbo gone?” he mumbled, looking around them. Despite his aging, he had very sharp eyes. You see, Dwarves had excellent vision; especially at night. That aside, the other ten of them all checked their surroundings. Actually, not ten, for Thorin only continued eating his food.

“I sent 'im to Kíli and Fíli earlier. He shoulda been back by now, I reckon,” Bofur managed to speak with a mouthful of stew, stirring the contents of his bowl thoughtfully. After swallowing, he continued. “Maybe they're pulling a prank on 'im. Who knows?” he finished with an absent shrug.

“Or maybe something happened to them all...” Ori muttered, barely having eaten his food. His brothers, Nori and Dori, seemed to agree with him, but didn't speak on it. Actually, his words caused a shadow of worry to set over the Company. Even Óin, who didn't have the best hearing, frowned beneath his beard at the youngest ones mumbling. 

Not much was said afterwards. The Dwarves sat in an uncomfortable silence, occasionally throwing glances in the direction that the trio left in. None of them returned for a good while. A very good while, actually. Their biggest concerns were Fíli and Kíli, though Bofur, Dori, Balin and Ori began to worry about Bilbo, as well. 

In the end, Dwalin stood up and, without a word, headed for the thick trees that the three were last seen amongst. The tall Dwarf reached for one of the axes on his back, while he used the other arm to push bushes away from himself. The others watched with baited breath, waiting for something to pop out at him. And something definitely did.

“Help!” Kíli shouted, running full sprint towards Dwalin. Fíli followed closely, though wasn't nearly as panicked as his younger brother. As soon as they reached camp, the blond stopped the brunet, turning him away from the others. They shared a look, and Kíli immediately ran back to where they came from. Before everyone could start panicking, the prince waved his arms in order to stop them.

“Hold on! It isn't much trouble– well, actually maybe it is– but two of our ponies have gone missing, and Bilbo went to get them,” Fili explained as quickly as he could. A couple of the faces in front of him seemed to be a bit surprised; not by the missing ponies, but by who went after them. But not everyone stuck to the smaller bits of the story.

“Why was Kíli calling for our aid?” Thorin stood up, soon appearing beside Dwalin. He crossed his arms, the usual frown plastered on his features. Fíli swallowed, feeling like a little pebble all over again, and scratched his beard.

“Ah... y'see... Bilbo might get... captured by Trolls?..”

~×~×~×~

“Mr Boggins?” Kíli called out quietly, drawing out his sword. Not that he used it often. No, his weapon of choice was rather ‘elvish’, as some call it; our Kíli was a skilled bowman. That was why he was a bit... clumsy with his sword at first. “Mr Boggins!?” he tried once more this time louder. As he opened his mouth to try again, he could hear someone shushing him.

Well, not really hear, but rather see. There Bilbo was, being held in the air by the nasty Trolls, examined as if he were some toy. Actually, more like as if he were something edible. Still, even while being in a very unpleasant situation, the Hobbit made sure Kíli was safe. The prince wasn't going to take that for granted, no.

Bilbo struggled against their grubby fingers, squirming violently under their hold. The constant questions were absolutely not helping. As a matter of fact, they were quite a distraction. Ever since those Dwarves came to his home, everything has been so messy. Oh, how he missed his armchair...

“So, whot are ya, anywe?”

“A burglar,” Bilbo sighed, though immediately caught his mistake. His daydreams perished, and he was, unfortunately, forced to return to the present. “Hobbit!”

“A burgla-obbit?” one of them tilted their head curiously. Were all Trolls of this low intelligence? “Can we eat 'im?” the smaller one asked the other two. Just then, someone popped out of the shadows.

“Drop him!” Kíli shouted, waving his sword around. The three turned to look down at him, though still held Bilbo in their hands. “I said– drop him,” the young prince warned, tightening his hold on the blade. The Trolls whispered among themselves, throwing around some incredibly distasteful words. Bilbo was already thinking of all the ways he was going to scold Kíli for jumping head-first into such a dangerous situation. Of course, that wouldn't actually happen. He was convinced that Thorin would kill him for even trying to do something of the sort.

Speaking of which, the entire Company showed up just in time to see Bilbo being pulled apart by his limbs. The Trolls tugged on his ankles and wrists, though did nothing to actually snap him. Thankfully. “Drop ye weapons... or your– your burglar-obbit gets it!”

Bilbo froze at the threat. In his mind, his life was about to end exactly in that moment, and not the way he wanted it to. He wished for a death fitting for a simple Hobbit; in his armchair, by the fire, stomach full. Death due to old age. This was far from it. Death due to being ripped apart by awful Trolls was the last thing he would have ever thought of. It would be instant, he hoped. Painless.

Something hit the ground. Then another thing. Then a whole new bunch of... things? Bilbo forced his eyes to open, and immediately felt relieved. The Dwarves, he was not sure in which order, all dropped their weapons. His eyes caught Thorin's, and his breathing almost stopped all over again.

~×~×~×~

“No good roasting 'em now, it'd take all night,” William complained.

“Don't start the argument all over again, Bill,” Bert said, “or it will take all night!”

“Oh, both of ya, shaddap!” Tom snapped.

The Trolls went on and on about all of the ways to cook a Dwarf. The most frequently brought up options were: boiling them, squashing them, and frying them. That was why our Company was divided into two groups. One had Oín, Glóin, Balin, Bombur, Kíli, Thorin and Bilbo, who were set carelessly near a boulder. The other one had Dwalin, Bifur, Bofur, Fíli, Ori, Nori and Dori all tied together on a cut tree. The ideas? Save the first group for later, cook the second one. Horrible business.

“We gots to hurry with cooking 'em before sunrise. I don't fancy being turned into stone!”

Bilbo paused. No one else seemed to notice what the big creatures just implied. The Sun turns them into stone, Bilbo realized. With that thought in mind, he shuffled around in the bag he was put into. His restrained body moved almost like a fish on land. It would have been ridiculous if someone saw it... and that someone just had to be Thorin. Blast it all.

“Burglar. Where are you going?” Thorin whispered to him, though his voice still held that sharpness in it. Bilbo halted, mid-bounce, and fell forward. He yelped as his body crashed onto the nearest surface. Said surface was... quite comfortable, actually. Were rocks and dirt always so soft? Squishy, even? Bilbo tilted his head up, since his arms were practically useless as well as his legs. 

Hm. Well that's not good.

That soft surface he ended up on? It was a Dwarf. It was Thorin, who looked like he would strangle him if he didn't get off that very second. So, Bilbo scurried off, cursing himself mentally for enjoying that small moment of softness. Did all Dwarves have a bit of a tummy, then? No! Not important!

“Oi, isn't that their burra-obby?”

“Burglar-obbit, you dimwit!”

If the incident from earlier wasn't enough, now he's also been spotted. Just his luck. He needed to think of something, anything, to buy them all time 'til sunrise.

“Um. Well. I couldn't help but overhear that you– ah– needed help?” Bilbo stammered, straightening himself out in the bag. He cleared his throat, fidgeting anxiously under the heavy fabric. The Trolls all stared at him in silence, then the angriest one spoke. “And wot th' hell do you know about cooking Dwarves? Have you eaten one?”

“I say we eat them alive!” the smallest one added. The chef, however, wanted to hear none of their complaints and arguments. Shutting them all up, he crouched in front of Bilbo.

“Nah, let the, uh... flibbertigibbet speak. What is the secret to cookin' Dwarves?”

“Right! The secret... yes, the secret to... to cooking Dwarves, is tooo...” Bilbo looked around, trying to find anything that could buy them time. The Dwarves held their breaths, clearly having heard him. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small knife. “The secret is to skin them alive first!”

“WHAT!?”