Chapter Text
It started, like many troublesome things do, with a wizard.
Bilbo let out a sigh as he set his groceries down on the table. He hadn’t planned on going to the market today—what with him having already gone yesterday for the very purpose of not having to go today—but he supposed getting some extra fresh air wasn’t so bad for his overall health and wellbeing. Being cooped up inside his smial all day surely wasn’t doing anything to help improve his mood which, truthfully, had grown rather sullen as of late. He wasn’t quite sure what the reason was for it, either. After all, he was a perfectly respectable gentlehobbit living in a perfectly respectable corner of Hobbiton and things were exactly as he expected they should be at all times. How could anything be wrong?
Still, he had found it rather hard to pull himself from his own bed recently. It certainly didn’t help that he had no other close family living with him in Bag End to spend his time with and that he wasn’t particularly fond of any of his neighbors and, when he really thought about it, didn’t really have anyone he could truly call a friend like he once had when he was a faunt. Things were much easier when he was younger and still had his mother and father around to keep him company.
The thought brought a frown to his face. Had he grown lonely? What a boring and unpleasant thing to be.
In any case, Bilbo wasn’t sure what use there was dwelling on the matters of life which he could not change. Nothing was going to bring his parents back, no matter how much he missed them, and they had been gone for so long by now that he was already incredibly used to the solitude that came with being an orphaned bachelor with no siblings or life partner to call his own. That was what destiny had chosen for him and he wasn’t going to make a big fuss about it now. He would simply have to make do with what he had and who he had, which at the moment was himself and later would include an old wizard.
Humming, he grabbed the bag of potatoes and set off to prepare them.
It had been quite a long time since he’d last seen Gandalf and, although hours had already passed since his impromptu morning visitation, Bilbo still couldn’t get the image of the grey wizard out of his mind. It seemed that he had a way of bringing excitement about wherever he went, for better or for worse. Not many in Hobbiton were overly fond of the mysterious traveler, but Bilbo had many a fond memory of Gandalf going all the way back to his childhood. Fireworks, pretend sword fights, enchanting tales about dragons and princesses and what life was like outside the borders of the Shire. Really, Gandalf had been one of Bilbo’s main sources of entertainment outside of playing with his cousins and learning how to garden with his mother. Gandalf had always been there during the summer festivities, encouraging his creativity and kindling a sort of itch for adventure that Bilbo had always had deep inside of him since the day he was born.
Belladonna Took was his mother, after all. But he was still a Baggins and, despite his father’s acceptance of his mother’s somewhat unorthodox habits, Bilbo had grown to learn (as all respectable gentlehobbits should) that adventures were things that you were meant to read about in books or dream about at night—not something that was supposed to happen for real.
Unless, of course, you were a wizard.
And after three years without contact, Bilbo was finally going to have the wizard back for a delicious supper and a nice chat. It was the most excitement he had felt all week. Longer, really, if he was truly counting.
Bilbo loved it when Gandalf came by, although the number of visits he received only seemed to be lessening as the years passed on. Bilbo was an adult and Gandalf certainly had other, more important things to be doing with his time than checking in on him. In fact, it would be rather insulting if the wizard insisted on checking on him more often, as if he needed checking in on at all. Perhaps he did once upon a time, back when he was in the high throes of his grief and struggling to adjust to a new, much lonelier, reality, but not so much anymore. Now he was a perfectly settled and normal hobbit, just like his father had hoped for him to be.
But that didn’t mean that Bilbo wasn’t looking forward to hearing about Gandalf’s latest escapades in the wider world. Though by now his desire to see the magic of the rest of Middle Earth for himself had lessened to virtually nothing, Bilbo was still very much keen to hear about it. And Gandalf had promised to regale him with news about an adventure of epic and life-changing proportions. How exciting! It was just the kind of thing that his mother would have loved to talk about over some tea and biscuits. Gandalf and Belladonna had been fairly good friends when Bilbo was young, long before she fell ill and passed away. The thought of listening to one of Gandalf’s stories now, one that his mother would have loved, brought a small smile to his face and caused a gentle ache to settle in his chest.
Oh, how he missed her dearly. When Gandalf was in town, he always felt closer to her memory.
Bilbo placed a hand over his heart and closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be long now before the wizard would be here in Bag End, drinking ale, singing tunes, and retelling the story of the time that he and his mother ventured slightly past Bree and encountered traveling elves who gave them enchanted bread that kept their bellies full despite only eating a single bite of it.
It would be a long, joy filled night and he had much to prepare.
*
Some time later, the table was set for two and Bag End smelled of warm, buttered bread and many other good things.
There was fish waiting to be deboned and devoured, potatoes waiting to be mashed, and a healthy assortment of vegetables, cheeses, and more covering a majority of the table. He had, perhaps, gone a bit overboard with the spread but he didn’t see how that could ever be a problem. He was a hobbit, and hobbits knew what they were doing when it came to food. He was so impressed with the spread himself that his stomach growled just looking at it. He could only imagine that Gandalf would find it impressive too.
With a pleased look, Bilbo nodded to himself.
Gandalf was due… well, an hour ago if he was being technical about it. But if he had learned anything about wizards throughout his lifetime, it was that they were never late and they were never early. They always showed up precisely when they meant to. And that meant that Bilbo would simply have to wait until he did.
(It was one of those things about wizards that was rather bothersome, but he wouldn’t complain.)
He was just pouring himself another glass of red wine when the doorbell rang. In his excitement, he sprang up from his chair much too quickly, bumping his knee against the table with a pained groan. He stopped to rub at the spot for a moment before bounding over to the entryway and pulling the door open, a bright smile spread across his face.
“Gandalf—!” He greeted.
But when his gaze focused on who was standing in front of his door, his smile fell and was instantly replaced by a look of immense confusion. It was not Gandalf. In fact, it wasn’t anybody that he was expecting to see at all, mostly considering the fact that he did not know this person in the slightest. This person was, by all accounts, a stranger. And not even a hobbit or a wizard, but a dwarf, if his stocky frame, tattoos, and weaponry were anything to go by.
Bilbo furrowed his brows and stared, wrapping his robe tightly around himself as if it offered him some sort of protection.
“Hello,” he said in Hobbitish, although it came out more like a question than anything.
“Dwalin,” the dwarf said in Westron, offering a slow bow. “At your service.”
Bilbo blinked a few times, smiled politely as he had always been taught to in front of guests, and then immediately went back to frowning in confusion. There was no explanation as to why there was a menacing looking dwarf on his doorstep. He could only guess that this might have something to do with the wizard he was currently waiting on, but what reason could Gandalf even have to bring a dwarf to Bag End unannounced? Especially when he wasn’t even there himself? None of it made any sense at all. It was all very perplexing and uncomfortable.
When the silence dragged on for a few moments too long, Dwalin raised his eyebrows. “May I come in?”
“S-sorry?” Bilbo replied, his voice cracking in the most embarrassing way, like a tween in the middle of puberty. He cleared his throat, rubbed a hand over his face as if to rouse himself from suspected sleep, then turned back to his unexpected guest. “I’m sorry, I don’t really understand what is happening here. I don’t think you…” He trailed off, glancing around as if expecting someone else to pop out and explain the situation to him, before he continued. “Um. I-I don’t really know who you are or what you’re doing at my place of residence.”
The dwarf frowned, continuing to speak in Westron. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Bilbo echoed, unknowingly.
“You don’t speak the common tongue?” The dwarf asked, looking very displeased by this conversation. The idea of stopping by the Shire at all had seemed very strange to him when he first heard of the company’s meeting spot. Hobbiton wasn’t a place he could ever imagine finding someone useful to travel with. It was full of hobbits. And while he didn’t know much about hobbits, he did know that they were quiet, homely creatures who valued stuffing their bellies, gardening, and probably not much else. And apparently they were uneducated in the topic of Westron, which was another problem altogether. It soured his mood considerably.
“I don’t speak Westron,” Bilbo said, balling his hands into fists and then letting them go. He felt awkward, unsure of what to even do with his hands, and completely at a loss for how to handle the situation. Nothing of the sort had ever happened to him before, nor had he ever expected it to. “Do you speak Hobbitish? Or…”
The dwarf heaved a heavy sigh, unashamed to let his disappointment show, and rolled his eyes. For a moment, he debated waiting outside, maybe sitting on the bench he had passed on his way to the door. He even considered leaving altogether. But ultimately, with confirmation that this was the hobbit hole he was supposed to be at, with the mark on the door to prove it, he decided to let himself in. He would let Thorin deal with the issue of the hobbit when he got there. For now, it wasn’t his problem. He was simply following orders. And he was promised a supper, which he could already smell wafting through the air from this very spot. He pushed the door open further, stepping around the baffled hobbit, and entered Bag End.
“Excuse me—!” Bilbo sputtered, following after him. “What do you think you’re doing in my house?!”
The dwarf looked around for a few moments, found the table set up with the food, and sat himself down as if ready to help himself.
Affronted and horrified, Bilbo went back to shut the front door lest anyone else try to invite themselves in. Then, he returned to the dwarf’s side, ignoring the fact that the dwarf was clearly ignoring him. “I have never seen such rudeness in my entire life! You cannot just invite yourself into someone else’s home, without their permission, to eat their food when they don’t even know who you are. I mean, really! I consider myself as hospitable as the next hobbit but this is just… just… ridiculous!”
Dwalin tuned the hobbit out completely, as if he weren’t even there. It wasn’t that hard. With him not being able to understand the hobbit’s speech, it was more like background noise to him than anything meaningful. And while he found the situation he was in to be less than ideal (what with a hobbit squeaking and pacing and pointing fingers at him all the while), he had to admit that praise was in order. The folks in Hobbiton clearly knew what they were doing when it came to eating. The spread, though clearly not enough to feed a whole company, was looking impressive nonetheless. It was more than enough to feed Dwalin. And so, with a renewed hunger, Dwalin ate as he waited for the other members of the company to show.
“That food was made by my own hands to feed my guest, which you are certainly most not,” Bilbo was busy explaining. “I am to be having supper with him shortly. In fact, any minute now he should be here. So, I really do not find it appropriate for you to be helping yourself to any of these dishes when they were specifically prepared for him and myself to enjoy together.”
Bilbo reached for the plate of fish and Dwalin snatched it back from him almost immediately, slapping gently against the hobbit’s wrist. In his shock, Bilbo released the plate back to him. He knew the dwarf was much stronger than him, so he didn’t try to fight it, although he kept a scowl on his face as the dwarf reached for the lemon and began to squeeze it over the dish.
“Really, this is not appropriate at all,” Bilbo laughed, mirthlessly. “I mean, what kind of manners do they teach you lot when you’re dwarflings? Because this is certainly not anything a polite dwarf, hobbit, man, or elf should ever be doing to another person. I would expect this sort of behavior from an orc, maybe, but certainly not anyone who is supposed to be civilized in any sort of capacity.”
Dwalin was on his third bite of fish when the doorbell went off again. Immediately, Bilbo was filled with a sense of relief. Surely that was Gandalf at the door now, just as he had threatened the dwarf a moment ago. Gandalf would surely know what to do about the situation and make the unexpected visitor leave. And if he didn’t leave, then he would have to face the wrath of a wizard. That was a very unpleasant thing to be facing and surely the dwarf would understand that and choose to leave on his own accord to avoid said unpleasant thing altogether.
Dwalin spared Bilbo a glance. The hobbit seemed very pleased all of a sudden.
“Ha! That’s him! See? That’s Gandalf.” Bilbo nodded, not wasting another second. He stomped over to the door, still speaking over his shoulder to Dwalin all the while. “I told you he would be arriving any moment now. So, I’m sorry to tell you but you’re going to have to leave immediately.”
The door swung open and Bilbo froze.
Once again, it was not Gandalf. It was yet another dwarf, although this one appeared to be much older than the first one and had a long, white beard not completely unlike the wizard he was hoping to see.
“Balin,” the dwarf greeted with a smile. “At your service.”
“No,” the hobbit uttered.
He did not know how to speak a full sentence in Westron, but he at least knew that much. His mother had taught him a few key words and phrases when he was a child. In fact, though it was uncommon for any hobbit to be able to speak any language outside of their native Hobbitish, most people in the Shire knew at least a few words in the common tongue. And Bilbo, being raised by one of the few hobbits in all of the Shire who actually could converse decently well in Westron (which was a scandal in and of itself), was prepared to pull any vocabulary he could out of the deep recesses of his mind if it meant avoiding worsening his already miserable situation.
“Begging your pardon?”
And then Bilbo, very intelligently, shut the door in the old dwarf’s face.
He stood there for a few moments, thoughts racing and heart beating at too quickly a pace. He might have panicked a bit and done something even he would consider incredibly rude to do in front of a guest, unwanted or not, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted nothing to do with the current situation, with the dwarves that were showing up at his home unannounced and unexpected and speaking in a tongue he really hadn’t spoken since he was a child. All he had wanted to do was have a comfortable meal with an old friend–-if he could consider Gandalf a friend–-but instead he had found himself in some kind of nightmare hosting situation.
The knock sounded again and Bilbo took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He wanted to run and hide, to barricade himself in a room where nobody else would be able to find or bother him. But he didn’t. When he opened the door once more, the dwarf was still there, though now he was looking as confused as Bilbo felt in the current moment.
“Sorry,” Bilbo said, quickly.
When the dwarf only continued to watch him, not understanding, Bilbo tried to remember something else that might be useful to say in the common tongue. His Westron was extremely rusty, and his accent was thick, but he had to try something or else they were never going to make any progress at all.
“H-hello,” was what he came up with.
“Hello,” the dwarf parroted. “Is this… the Baggins residence?”
Bilbo bit his lip and titled his head, much like a dog trying to make sense of a new sound. From all those words, he could really only make out his own name. At least, he thought it sounded like his name but he really couldn’t be certain he was hearing that correctly or not. He wasn’t feeling confident in his ability to comprehend Westron and the last thing he wanted to do was make a fool out of himself. Or, rather, make an even bigger fool out of himself than he already had. So, he simply stared on, unsure of what to say in response.
When there was no response, the dwarf rephrased the question. “Are you Bilbo Baggins?”
And that Bilbo certainly understood.
“Yes,” he confirmed. He placed a hand on his chest. “Bilbo Baggins. Yes.”
The kind smile was back on the dwarf’s face and he seemed very patient. Clearly, he had had some sort of realization about the language barrier that was causing the hobbit immense stress. Balin peered over and around Bilbo, trying to figure out whether anyone else had already arrived, before motioning towards the hallway. When he spoke again, it was slowly, like he already anticipated not being understood.
“May I come in, laddie?”
Bilbo did not understand the words, but he understood the gesture enough. Frowning, he glanced back in the direction of the first dwarf, who was still feasting happily on his and Gandalf’s dinner. Clearly there was a reason why these dwarves had arrived at his home. He did not know the reason, but surely there had to be one. Dwarves did not just spawn out of nowhere with no purpose, he supposed. And while he wanted nothing more than to shut the door again and lock it tight, Bilbo couldn’t find it in himself to do it. Not when this dwarf had clearly been trying to maintain a level of politeness, unlike the other who disregarded it completely upon the realization that they did not speak the same language.
With a resolved sigh, Bilbo stepped aside and let the dwarf enter.
“Thank you,” the dwarf said, nodding as he stepped inside.
Bilbo pointed him in the direction of the table and watched the dwarf disappear into his home.
Immediately, he could hear his two guests chuckling and conversing with one another as if they were old friends. Bilbo shut the door behind him, leaning against it for a few seconds as he tried to regain some composure. There were now two dwarves in his house and, as much as he did not like the thought of that, the situation simply couldn’t be helped.
He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in a less than proper way, and tried to think of what his mother might do had she been here dealing with the same problem. She would have extended kindness and been hospitable to the travelers, no doubt. Hobbits were always good hosts. And his mother, though exceptional in not always the most proper of ways, was probably a good example to follow in this situation. She was good at making friends with outsiders. And making friends was definitely better than making enemies.
Bilbo stepped further into the house until he was in view of the strangers and observed them curiously as they went about their business, the older one just settling in and the younger one explaining something to him in what he could only imagine was still Westron. Or was it some other dwarf language he wasn’t aware of? He wasn’t really sure. For a minute or so, neither of the two really seemed to notice his presence as he lurked awkwardly in the hall, watching them much like a prey animal might watch a predator that had yet to notice it. They simply chatted, joked, butted heads (which was very startling to Bilbo, to say the least), and toasted to glasses of wine.
And then, suddenly, the first dwarf that had arrived motioned over to him. They were saying something about him but he wasn’t sure what.
Bilbo swallowed, unable to take his eyes off of them.
“We’re definitely going to need to do some rearranging in here if we’re going to fit everybody,” the second dwarf said, reaching out to give Bilbo a gentle pat on the arm as they passed him. There was an apology in there somewhere, Bilbo felt, or maybe that’s just what he wanted to hear. “This setup will simply not do.”
The two made their way through the house, scoping out the layout and starting to bring extra food items out from his well-stocked pantry. Bilbo was about to ask them to stop, as well as he possibly could with body language and whatever else he could pull out of his mouth, when he was suddenly distracted by a ring at the door.
“No, please,” he begged of the gods. “Not another one.”
And that was how he met Fíli and Kíli.
“You must be Mister Boggins!” The younger said, loudly, once their own introductions were out of the way.
Bilbo thought about shutting the door in their faces much like he had with the previous unexpected visitor but he knew that would do no good. It wasn’t in his blood to be outright cruel or rude to anyone—regardless of whether he felt the situation called for it or not—and he couldn’t stop thinking about his mother; how she would be disappointed to know he wasn’t being a good host, especially to someone who had clearly traveled from very far away. Dwarf or not, it was rude to shut the door in someone’s face and he had already made that mistake once tonight. He couldn’t possibly do it again, no matter how much he wanted to.
“Hello,” he greeted, eyeing the dwarves on his doorstep warily.
They were considerably younger than the others that had arrived before them. It was obvious not only in their looks but in the way they carried themselves, eager and spirited with youthful exuberance, like it was their first time venturing outside of where they grew up and they couldn’t contain their excitement about it. It was Bilbo’s first time seeing dwarves and it could very well be their first time seeing hobbits, too. Though he could only assume, of course, seeing as he couldn’t outright ask them about it.
“Nice place you got here,” Kíli said, brushing past him without so much of a second thought. “You do it yourself?”
Bilbo did not respond.
The dwarves entered Bag End and looked around, immediately easing into their new surroundings. Fíli began to unload his weapons, passing them over to Bilbo with some sort of verbal warning, who took them without question. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with them, never having come across weapons like this before, but he was playing host now. If it made his guests more comfortable to shed their coats and weapons, he supposed he would have to deal with that. In fact, it would make him feel rather uncomfortable if they were armed in his home. But a look of unease did cross his face, nonetheless. He wasn’t particularly glad to be touching these things.
The dwarves exchanged momentary looks when their host failed to respond again, but they didn’t let that sully their good moods. Kíli began wiping the mud off his boots on a wooden box near the front door. When Bilbo noticed, he squeaked and rushed to drop Fíli’s weapons on a nearby table so his hands would be free to tug the young dwarf away from the box.
“No!” He said, shaking his head. “No, no, no!”
It was his mother’s glory box. The thought of someone coming in and wiping their boots on it, like it meant nothing, was enough to bring his anger back to the forefront of his mind. If these uninvited guests were polite and respectful of his home, he wouldn’t have a problem with their presence. Well, perhaps he would, but it would definitely be more tolerable than this. Bilbo didn’t particularly like having people touch his things, whether they were invited over or not, but especially not things that had sentimental value to him—mostly, the things that belonged to his parents at one point in history. Things like his mother’s glory box.
He found his patience wearing thin.
“Fíli! Kíli!”
The first dwarf grabbed Kíli around the shoulders and began to tug him away from the entryway. It was impossible to tell whether it had anything to do with protecting the sanctity of the wooden box or if he was simply offering a conveniently timed greeting.
“Come on, lads. Give us a hand.”
Bilbo watched them go with a mixture of relief and annoyance. He ran his hands through his hair again, not caring how it made him look, and stifled an audible groan. If this was any indication of how things were going to go tonight, he would definitely be having an aneurysm by the end of it. If only that blasted wizard would arrive and explain himself! By now, any doubts that Gandalf had something to do with this peculiar and obnoxious situation were out the window. Of course it was Gandalf’s doing. It was always Gandalf.
He should have known better than to trust a damn wizard.
With a whimper, he went to fetch a rag, something to wipe off the glory box with. It pained him to see it covered in mud, even if he didn’t really have much use for it himself other than to look at.
While Bilbo cleaned off the box, wiping a few pieces of mud up off the floorboards as well, the dwarves began the process of reorganizing. The table was moved into a more spacious area, with all hands on deck. They began to compile chairs and more food items. The sight was enough to send Bilbo into another frenzy. Why were they moving things around? Why did they need more chairs? Could it be that there were more dwarves coming still? Having four in his house was already bad enough. He couldn’t possibly imagine hosting another.
Then again, Bilbo didn’t feel much like a host at all. With the way the dwarves moved together, following their will, touching his belongings and maneuvering them without regard to his opinion, it sure felt like they were the ones hosting instead of him. And all he could do was watch on as they destroyed what semblance of peace he had left without even a word or glance in his direction. It was like Bag End belonged to them and the uninvited outsider was him. And wasn’t that a thought!
Just then, there was a ring at the door again. Bilbo felt his blood boiling.
“Oh, no,” he ground out, tossing the rag aside as he stomped over to the door. “No, no! There’s nobody home! Go away and bother somebody else. There’s far too many dwarves in my dining room as it is. If this is some clot-head’s idea of a joke-! Well, I can only say that it is in very poor taste!”
Bilbo threw the door open and immediately had to step back as a tidal wave of bodies crashed through his doorway. WIth a shock, he realized the groaning men, elbowing each other as they fought to right themselves, were dwarves. A whole group of them. And behind them stood a tall figure which the hobbit immediately recognized.
Sighing with defeat, Bilbo’s glare at the wizard hardly looked threatening. “Gandalf.”
*
In retrospect, it made sense why Gandalf had suggested that Bilbo run down to the market for extra food for tonight’s supper. He had simply assumed at the time that the wizard was particularly peckish after his travels and wanted to be treated to a hearty feast to earn back some much needed physical strength. Bilbo would have felt the same way too, he was certain, if he had traveled as far as Gandalf had. But apparently the wizard had ulterior motives.
With a scowl, Bilbo reflected on his own naivety. Gandalf was always plotting something.
And that was how twelve rambunctious, noisy, and utterly messy dwarves ended up in Bag End. If only the Sackville-Bagginses could see the inside of his home now! In fact, Bilbo was certain he would be the subject of town gossip for weeks if anyone were to find out about this strange party he was suddenly hosting in his home. But he didn’t have much time to dwell over such things at the present moment. There were far more pressing matters that needed his current attention.
“Gandalf,” he said, gritting his teeth. He was trying to maintain a sense of calm but finding it rather difficult, given the situation. “Would you care to explain to me what a bunch of dwarves are doing in my house?”
The wizard took a moment to observe the chaos around him—by now, the dwarves were basically emptying out Bilbo’s pantry of any and all things edible. The spread on the table had already more than doubled from what Bilbo had previously prepared for supper, which had already been quite a lot of food for anyone that wasn’t a hobbit. Chairs had been pulled out, even antique ones that weren’t really fit for sitting on, and many of the dwarves were simply mucking about, unaware of the stress they were causing their poor host.
“Oh, they’re quite a merry gathering,” the wizard answered. “Once you get used to them.”
“I don’t want to get used to them!” Bilbo cried, grabbing the wizard by the arm and dragging him into the next room where they might find some privacy to talk. Gandalf was the only other person present who knew how to speak Hobbitish, so it wasn’t like anyone was truly listening in on their conversation. In fact, it appeared that the dwarves had all but forgotten of Bilbo’s existence altogether. But still, he found it hard to focus on his anger when they were being so bloody distracting. “Look at the state of my kitchen! There’s mud trod into the carpet. They’ve pillaged the pantry. And I’m not even going to bother telling you what they’ve done to the bathroom—they’ve all but destroyed the plumbing. I don’t understand what they’re doing in my house!”
“Worry not, dear boy.” Gandalf patted him gently. “I promise you will find out soon enough.”
Bilbo shrugged the hand off his shoulder, not caring if it made him look like a petulant child. Gandalf may have been one of his oldest acquaintances, a cherished family friend, but he could truly be the most insufferable person when it came to getting answers from him. He always had to speak in such roundabout ways, telling you so much and yet so little all in one short sentence. It was infuriating even on a good day.
“‘Worry not?’ How could I not be worried when they’ve come in and completely devalued my property?”
Gandalf eyed him for a moment, then smiled. “There is more to life than property, Bilbo. Of that I am certain you will come to understand just as well as the rest of us. All will be explained to you shortly.” He turned his gaze towards the door, as if expecting it to open at any moment. “We are only waiting on the last dwarf and then we can get started.”
Bilbo groaned. “T-the last dwarf? You mean to tell me this isn’t all of them?”
“Just one more,” the wizard said, pulling out his pipe. He gave Bilbo another pat on the shoulder as he walked away, seeming very unbothered and perhaps even a bit amused by the dismay on the hobbit’s face.
As the night progressed, Bilbo could do very little but watch the nightmare unfolding before him. He liked having guests over, but he preferred to actually know them first. And he certainly didn’t like guests who drank his barrels dry, left nothing but meager crumbs in his pantry, and had no qualms about playing with their food like they were nothing more than mischievous children. They burped, they laughed, they threw food at one another (some even catching it in their mouths like some sort of circus act), and they even started singing.
“There’s hardly anything dwarves appreciate more than a good song,” Gandalf told him, over the raucous clanging of fine pottery and silverwave.
Bilbo didn’t know what they were singing about, but he didn’t like the way they threw his mother’s Westfarthing pottery around like they were playing a game of catch. That set was over a hundred years old and he felt ill at the thought of any harm coming to it. He tried to stop them, but it seemed that his concerned sputtering only riled them up further. They were amused by his behavior, much like Gandalf was. It seemed that Bilbo was the only one who was having a truly miserable time.
The language barrier certainly wasn’t making things any easier.
“Tell them they’ll blunt the knives if they keep doing that,” Bilbo urged the wizard.
Unsurprisingly, the wizard did no such thing.
It wasn’t long before a knock sounded at the door. It was amazing anyone was able to hear it over the roaring voices of the dwarves, who had already drunken themselves a bit silly by this hour. But there was power in that knock and, seeing as everybody (well, everybody except Bilbo) already knew who to expect on the other side of the wooden frame, the room was suddenly overtaken by thick anticipation.
“He is here,” said Gandalf.
Bilbo raised a brow and glanced in the direction of the doorway, curious and apprehensive. He felt like the bottoms of his feet were glued to the floor where he stood.
Gandalf opened the door to reveal the last dwarf. Immediately, there was something different about him; something which the other dwarves did not carry with them. It was an air of authority. Bilbo had no idea who this dwarf was, but by the way he carried himself, and by the way the others reacted to seeing him, he could gather that he was someone of great importance. And he was quite tall, as well, at least compared to the average dwarf.
“Gandalf,” the newcomer greeted. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice.” As he entered the home, the others bowed their heads politely to him in greeting. He gave them all an acknowledging look, smiling softly at those he recognized and knew well. He began to take off his cloak. “I wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”
Gandalf shut the door behind him and motioned Bilbo over. Placing two hands on the hobbit’s shoulders, he positioned him so that he was standing before the dwarf. With the wizard towering over him like this, Bilbo was suddenly reminded of his childhood; of being a faunt and having his parents force him into greeting the extended relatives he hadn’t seen since he was a babe. The ones who remembered him, though he did not remember them, and pinched his cheeks far too aggressively. He felt oddly embarrassed.
He stared up at the dwarf and bit his lip, unsure of what was happening.
“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf began, in Hobbitish. “Allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.”
He motioned over to the dwarf, before switching over to Westron.
“Thorin Oakenshield, I present to you Bilbo Baggins.”
A silence overtook the room once more. For a few moments, all Bilbo could do was stare at the dwarf who was clearly sizing him up, looking him over from head to toe. Bilbo felt very awkward under his gaze, and he shuffled slightly, though he did not break eye contact when the dwarf’s eyes focused on his face once more.
“So,” Thorin said. “This is the hobbit.”
He began to circle Bilbo, as if checking to see whether he was hiding something behind his back. He didn’t seem to find out anything important by doing this though and a moment later he was locking eyes with the hobbit once more, satisfied that he’d seen enough.
“Tell me, Mister Baggins. Have you done much fighting?”
Bilbo blinked and turned to Gandalf.
The wizard stepped forward, once again placing a gentle hand over Bilbo’s shoulder, as if knowing that the simple gesture would offer the hobbit some comfort during this strange confrontation. “Dear Bilbo isn’t very adept at speaking the common tongue. Not yet, in any case. But I can translate anything you wish to say to him. There will be no communication issues here.”
“No communication issues?” Thorin repeated, looking at the hobbit now with even more uncertainty. “You didn’t think to tell me that this hobbit only spoke his own language?”
“A minor setback, really,” the wizard said, waving off the dwarf’s concerns with a smile. He squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder before clearing his throat. “Young Master Baggins, here, is the son of one of the Shire’s most proficient Westron speakers. He was exposed to the language as a child, although he hasn’t had much use for it in his lifetime so his skills have, understandably, diminished. But I have no doubt that, given the opportunity to learn, he would pick it up quite quickly. He is a clever fellow if I’ve ever known one.”
Thorin’s only response was a thoughtful hum. He eyed the hobbit for a few more moments before turning towards the other dwarves. He quickly spotted Balin, and they shared a look, before Thorin turned back to the wizard and Bilbo.
“Axe or sword?”
“He’s asking you about your experience with weapons,” Gandalf translated to Bilbo.
Bilbo frowned. “W-what? Weapons? I don’t have any experience with weapons.”
Gandalf watched Bilbo for a few moments, pondering, before he looked back at Thorin. It was obvious from the wizard’s expression alone that he didn’t have much to relay back to the dwarf. Not that Thorin really expected to hear anything in particular. “Well…”
Thorin sighed. “Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”
The dwarf king received a round of chuckles for that assessment. Truly, he hadn’t been expecting all that much when Gandalf had told him about the prospects of a hobbit of the Shire joining his company. He didn’t have much experience with hobbits himself, but he had heard and seen enough in his lifetime to know that they weren’t the type to involve themselves in things such as this. And now, having the hobbit in question before him, he knew his gut feelings were correct.
There was no way this Bilbo Baggins was going to join their quest to reclaim Erebor.
Gandalf, too, chuckled—leaving Bilbo feeling rather perplexed about what was so funny—but didn’t appear quite as amused as the rest of the group.
Thorin took his leave then, not having anything else to say about the absurdity of the situation. He had come from far and was in need of food and time to think. The other dwarves followed him into the other room, showing their king to the table and quickly fixing him a plate, and leaving only Gandalf now in Bilbo’s company.
“Why was he asking me about weapons?” Bilbo asked. “Who exactly is this dwarf?”
Gandalf opened his mouth to say something, but then promptly shut it, shaking his head.
*
A short time later, the dwarf king had gotten his fill of food and drink, and basic updates were out of the way. There was much chatter amongst the dwarves, who were all sat around the dining table, along with Gandalf. Only Bilbo was missing from the conversation, though he wasn’t far. Bilbo stood off to the side, behind the wizard, watching the gathering with curiosity.
“Bilbo,” Gandalf called to him. “My dear fellow. Let us have a little more light.”
The hobbit hummed in agreement and went to fetch another candle as the wizard pulled a folded up piece of parchment from his cloak. He stood tall, unraveling the parchment and setting it down onto the table for all to see.
It was a map.
When Bilbo returned, he eyed the map with furrowed brows. Gandalf was saying something to the others, obviously something important given the way all of the dwarves were listening intently to him, and Bilbo suddenly got the sense that something very substantial was going on here. Something he was not privy to. For once, he wished that his mother had taught him more of the common tongue, or that he had had more reason to learn it in the first place. He hated feeling so left out, and in his own home, no less.
“What is that?” He asked, leaning over to gaze at the map a bit more closely.
Gandalf spared him a glance. “That, my dear boy, is a map.”
Bilbo couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “Yes, I know what a map is. Thank you. But a map of what?”
“The Lonely Mountain,” answered Gandalf, distractedly.
The hobbit sniffed, turning his attention to the dwarves around him. Some of them were gazing at him, but others were staring down at the table, lost in thought. For a few moments, nobody spoke. Figuring this would be one of his only opportunities to try to get more information out of the wizard, Bilbo continued his line of questioning.
“And what’s that?” He asked, frowning as he spotted a beast drawn in red ink. “Is that a dragon?”
“Indeed.”
Bilbo rubbed his forehead, turning back to the wizard. “Gandalf, is this a real map?”
Gandalf released a breath and patted Bilbo softly on the head. “In due time, my boy. All will be explained to you in due time.”
Bilbo frowned, not particularly liking to be patted on the head as if he were some child, but he didn’t know what else to say. He had so many burning questions. Who were these dwarves and what were they doing in his house? What was so important about the one Gandalf had called Oakenshield? And why in the world would they be sitting around a map with a dragon on it? He knew dragons were real, or at least they used to be, but this whole evening was starting to feel like something out of a fairy tale; much like the ones his mother used to read to him before bedtime.
A pang of grief hit him then. His mother would have loved this mystery.
When Bilbo didn’t respond, the dwarves began their chattering again. Many words were exchanged. The mood was tense but hopeful, their spirits contagious even despite the issue with language. Bilbo could only look on as the dwarves and the wizard discussed things—no doubt, pertaining to whatever was represented on the map on the table. He tried to think back to the past, to what he might’ve learned about this particular mountain range, but couldn’t think of anything of importance.
It wasn’t until the dwarves began to shout over each other, slamming their hands on the table, that Bilbo even felt the need to interrupt again. He wasn’t sure what exactly they were demanding of Gandalf, but it seemed they weren’t very pleased with the flustered response from the wizard. And Bilbo, as frustrated as he was with Gandalf, didn’t particularly like all the yelling.
“Excuse me,” Bilbo said, though his voice wasn’t heard over the other voices. “P-please…”
And that’s when Thorin Oakenshield, who had, up until this point, remained rather quiet and pensive, shouted something that quickly had the other dwarves falling silent. They all turned their attention to him then, his commanding presence all but encompassing as he stood before them.
Bilbo started, taking a step back from the intimidating dwarf, though from this viewpoint he was only staring at his backside.
The dwarf spoke to the group then, impassioned about something. Soon enough, all of the dwarves and Gandalf were nodding and expressing their agreement. Bilbo, too, though he had no clue what was actually being said in this moment, found himself feeling somewhat overcome by something he couldn’t quite place. Was it possible to be motivated over a speech he could not understand, by emotion and projection alone? He supposed it was possible, though he did feel quite silly about the whole thing.
He needed answers. He was growing quite weary of having to listen to all this talk without any explanations.
He turned to his translator, about to demand some much deserved information, but stopped short when he noticed the wizard pulling out a key.
“How came you by this?” Thorin asked, staring at it in wonder.
“It was given to me by your father,” answered Gandalf. “By Thrain, for safekeeping. It is yours now.”
The key was passed over to the dwarf. Bilbo’s gaze followed it closely.
For a few moments, the conversation continued. Bilbo wondered what the significance was of the key. It seemed important, judging by the reactions around the table, and he assumed that it was made to open something. But what?
“The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage,” Gandalf said. He paused, catching Bilbo’s eye and giving him a meaningful look, before he continued. “But if we are careful, and clever, I believe that it can be done.”
“That’s why we need a burglar,” said one of the younger dwarves.
“Aye,” said another. “And a good one too.”
There was a lull, then suddenly everyone was looking at Bilbo.
The hobbit glanced behind him, as if expecting someone else of far more importance to be standing there in the shadows, before he realized he was the subject of the group’s scrutiny. He frowned, averting his gaze and grabbing his suspenders like a lifeline.
“W-why are they all looking at me like that?” He asked Gandalf.
“He hardly seems like burglar material,” said Balin.
“Aye,” agreed Dwalin, eyeing the hobbit. “The wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves. Not to mention the lad doesn’t speak a word of Westron.”
Kíli stifled a laugh. “Actually, he’s quite good at saying the word ‘no.’”
Gandalf gave Bilbo a small smile before addressing the group in its entirety. “I assure you, I would not have chosen Master Baggins for this role had I had any doubts of him being an asset to the company. The language barrier won’t be an issue for long.”
“The journey will be long and arduous,” replied Balin, concern painted across his features. He didn’t want to judge the hobbit by appearance alone, but taking into account his lack of experience in both fighting and the common tongue, it seemed like a poor choice for a burglar. “There will be many dangers we encounter on our path. With all due respect to the lad, I fear the language issue is something we cannot overlook. For his own safety, in particular.”
“Bilbo is a clever hobbit. He’s got a good head on his shoulders,” Gandalf assured him. “I won’t deny that him not speaking the same language as the rest of the company—barring myself—is going to pose a challenge. It definitely will, at least in the beginning, and especially if I’m not around to translate for him. But he has time to learn and he will learn quickly. He’s much like his mother in that regard.”
Thorin sighed. “How well do you know this hobbit?”
Gandalf glanced at him. “Well enough. I’ve known him for fifty years by now. Since the time he was born!”
At once, all of the dwarves were speaking over each other, looking angry and perturbed.
“He’s what?”
“Fifty?!”
“There’s no way!”
“If he’s only fifty, that makes him younger than Kíli!”
“He’s younger than Ori, even!”
“You cannot be serious about this!”
Gandalf heaved a sigh. Really, knowing dwarves, he should have seen this coming.
Bilbo, meanwhile, was very disturbed by what was happening. He could tell that they were talking about him again, but he wasn’t sure what was happening. It was all quite maddening, really, waiting for the wizard to explain the situation to him while they all looked at him like that—like something to hate, or maybe something to pity. He couldn’t really tell what they were thinking.
Gandalf held up a hand to silence the outraged dwarves, the voices fizzling out slowly.
“I understand that compared to a dwarf’s lifespan, fifty may seem like quite a small number,” he said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the commotion. “And Master Baggins is not old for a hobbit, by any means. But nor is he a child. Hobbits reach maturity at the age of thirty-three. So, as you can see, Bilbo is rather the perfect age to join you on your quest.”
The group considered this. Some were still clearly not happy, while others seemed less concerned now given the new information.
“In any case, Bilbo is the one I have chosen to aid you on this journey and I am quite satisfied with that decision.”
“The lad has no life experience,” Dwalin spat. “Whether he’s considered an adult in hobbit years or not, he clearly has no idea what he’s signing up for. He won’t stand a chance in a real fight. Not to mention there’s clearly a certain lack of maturity on his part. He started throwing a tantrum the moment I arrived!”
A few dwarves voiced their agreement on this.
“Well, you can hardly blame the lad,” Balin argued. “You all but let yourself in without his consent. Considering the fact that he had no idea who you were or what you were doing in his house, and no way to communicate, I think we can extend a little grace to him on that matter.” He stopped to eye the hobbit, who was frowning back at him. “Besides, he’s been civil for long enough. I’m not sure his age is any more of an issue than his language skills are.”
“Gandalf, what are you talking about?” Bilbo asked, desperately.
The wizard looked at the hobbit and sighed. “Just a moment, Bilbo.”
Bilbo, frustrated beyond measure, huffed and stomped away, cursing under his breath. It wasn’t doing anything to help his image regarding maturity, but a few of the dwarves (Fíli, Kíli, and Bofur) snickered at his retreating form nonetheless. Clearly, some of them found the hobbit humorous above all else.
“Does he even know what this task entails?” Glóin asked.
“Not entirely,” Gandalf said.
“Not entirely,” Thorin repeated, raising a brow. “Or not at all?”
“I will need to sit down with him and explain things in further detail,” Gandalf continued. “But I have no doubt that he would be willing to follow once given all of the information. As I said, I have known Bilbo for all of his life. In fact, I can still recall the day his mother told me she was carrying him in her womb. I know the lad very well. I know he’s the right hobbit for the job. Of that I can assure you with the utmost confidence.”
There was another collection of murmurs as the dwarves discussed the prospects of the hobbit joining the company. Some argued that beggars couldn’t be choosers. After all, they were down one man and didn’t have many options. They needed all the help they could get if they wanted to reclaim the mountain. Others were against the notion of the hobbit joining altogether, citing his obvious lack of experience and general disposition. And not all were convinced that he would be able to pick up the common tongue enough to settle in, anyway.
Once again, their voices were beginning to carry throughout the smial. Hands were slapping the tops of the table. Boots were stamped against the floorboards. Some were getting to their feet.
“ENOUGH!” Gandalf shouted, standing to his full height. There was a sudden darkness about him, one that startled the dwarves and instantly caught their attention. Wizards, as some had just learned, could be terrifying when they wanted to be. “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!”
Ori gulped, nervously.
Bilbo, who had stormed off in annoyance a few minutes prior, peeked his head back into the room with a look of confusion. He had only ever seen the wizard like this once before and he wasn’t eager to see this display of power again. It was incredibly intimidating, to say the least.
“Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet,” Gandalf explained. “In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they so choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf… the smell of hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.”
When no one responded, Gandalf turned his focus to Thorin.
“You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company and I have found him.” Gandalf nodded to Bilbo as he noticed him returning to the room. “There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest and he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know. Including himself.”
Bilbo shrank under Gandalf’s gaze.
“You must trust me on this,” the wizard said, with a finality that nobody could refuse.
“Very well,” said Thorin, giving him a nod. “We will do it your way.”
And Bilbo, aware of all the eyes on him once more, just knew that the wizard had found a way to complicate his life even further than he already had this evening.
*
It took some time, and lots of tea, but eventually Bilbo was given all of the necessary information to make a well informed decision on the matter. Or, at the very least, all the information that Gandalf deemed necessary for him to know. In all honesty, the hobbit had a feeling that the wizard was withholding some things from him, though he couldn't be sure. It was always hard to tell when it came to Gandalf.
“So, you’re telling me,” he said, slowly. “That you’ve volunteered me to slay a dragon?”
“Not to slay,” the wizard replied. “Although I cannot deny that is a possibility.”
Bilbo shook his head. “I can’t believe this. Surely, this must be some kind of a joke.”
Gandalf smiled fondly and passed the contract over to the hobbit, who took it with a sigh. They had already gone over the general logistics of it—the issue of payment, what the position of burglar entailed, and even, to Bilbo’s horror, what the company should do if he were to suffer some sort of terrible fate during the journey (which really had not done much at all to instill confidence in the poor fellow but needed to be mentioned, nonetheless)—and all that was left now was for him to sign it.
“Would it be so crazy if it weren’t?”
“Yes!” Bilbo said. “Yes, it would be. Of course it would.”
“And why, exactly, would that be?” Gandalf asked, though he already knew the answer. “I know you, Bilbo Baggins. I have since you were nothing but a babe in Belladonna’s arms. And while I know that you have grown quite comfortable with your little routine here in Bag End, I also know that there is still a part of you that longs for more than this.” He gestured around the sitting room. “More than your doilies and your mother’s dishes. And I am aware that you also know it yourself, even if you are too stubborn to admit it.”
“I am not too stubborn to admit anything,” Bilbo scoffed.
“No? I remember a young hobbit who was always running off in search of elves in the woods,” Gandalf said, giving him a pointed look. “One who would stay out late and come home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire.”
Bilbo shook his head and said nothing, distracting himself with a sip of his tea. He wasn’t that hobbit anymore and hadn’t been for a long time now. Not since he had grown up and grown so conditioned to being something else. Whether it was for good or bad, Bilbo had changed and that was the way things were. The wizard would certainly have to come to terms with the reality of that sooner or later. Not everything, or everyone, was destined to remain the same as before.
“The world is not in your books and maps,” Gandalf continued, looking towards the window. “It’s out there.”
“I can’t just go running off into the blue, Gandalf,” Bilbo argued, holding up a finger. “I am a Baggins of Bag End.”
Gandalf nodded. “Yes. But you are also a Took.”
Bilbo groaned and threw his head back against the armchair. Of course Gandalf would bring up this particular side of his lineage. He always did when he was trying to prove some point or other, at least when it pertained to Bilbo’s or Belladonna’s characters. Gandalf seemed to be under the impression that Bilbo was very much like his mother in all regards, even when Bilbo didn’t particularly agree. He was like his mother in some aspects, certainly. But not all.
“Did you know that your great-great-great-great uncle, Bullroarer Took, was so large he could ride a real horse?” Gandalf asked.
“Yes,” said Bilbo.
“Well, he could!” Gandalf continued, nodding again. “In the Battle of Greenfields, he charged the goblin ranks. He swung his club so hard, it knocked the goblin king’s head clean off and it sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole.” He mimicked the actions, catching Bilbo’s full attention. “And thus the battle was won. And the game of golf invented at the same time.”
Despite himself, Bilbo found himself smiling in amusement. “I do believe you made that up.”
Gandalf smiled back and took a seat in front of him. “Well, all good stories deserve a bit of embellishment. Don’t you think? And you’ll certainly have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back.”
Bilbo chuckled and shook his head again, but he didn’t say anything. Gandalf didn’t rush him to respond. He took another sip of his tea and settled further into his chair, pondering over everything the wizard had told him. And finally, after about thirty seconds of thinking, he turned back to face Gandalf, who had been keeping a watchful gaze on the hobbit all the while.
“Can you promise that I will come back?”
“No,” came the honest reply. “And if you do… you will not be the same. But then again, neither was your mother.”
Bilbo sniffed, a small frown settling over his features. His mother… She had done a bit of adventuring herself in her younger years, many times with the very wizard who sat before him today. He eyed Gandalf a few moments, trying to envision what the two might have looked like traveling together, side by side, singing all the way to Bree and beyond. And then he tried to envision himself in the place of his mother, surrounded by dwarves he couldn’t speak to, with so many unknowns ahead of him. A dragon, even.
It was easy to think of positive things when he thought of the past. It was harder to think that way about the future.
“I still think of her often,” Gandalf said, quietly, pulling Bilbo from his thoughts. “We shared many a merry time together. She was quite funny, your mother.” He settled his gaze on Bilbo, smiling again, though there was a touch of sadness behind it. “You look just like her at times. Of course, you look equally like your father. But I think I see more of your mother in you than I see of him. Or maybe it’s just that you remind me so much of her and her free spirit.”
“My mother would have gone with you to the mountain,” Bilbo said, knowingly.
Gandalf nodded. “I would think so, yes. But perhaps not. She was always full of surprises, after all.”
Bilbo found himself smiling again. That was definitely one way to describe Belladonna Took.
“Your mother would be proud of you,” Gandalf said, patting Bilbo on the knee. “I know she would be, regardless of whether you decided to join the company or not. And I do not say those words just to say them.” With a sigh, the wizard stood, gently reaching to pry the contract from Bilbo’s hands. “Do not feel pressured on my account, dear boy. You need not do anything you do not wish to.”
But before Gandalf could take the contract from him, Bilbo stopped him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They were both suddenly aware of the song that the dwarves were singing in the other room. Bilbo held his breath without realizing it, a small pout on his lips as he listened to their haunting voices. There was a look of apprehension on his face, but it soon gave way to one of determination. He had made a decision, though he still looked somewhat hesitant to admit it out loud.
“I know,” he said finally, taking a breath. “And I won’t. Now bring me a pen.”