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The Company of Thorin Oakenshield had faced trolls, giants, and orcs, but Fíli, son of Vís, was currently facing a much more persistent foe: his brother, Kíli.
It had been three days of non-stop "younger brother energy." Kíli had discovered that he could mimic the sound of a mountain goat with startling accuracy, and he had chosen to do so every time Fíli tried to sleep. He had hidden a small, damp frog in Fíli’s bedroll. He had spent the entire morning walk humming a tune that was just slightly off-key, enough to make Fíli’s teeth ache, and then claiming he didn't know what Fíli was talking about when asked to stop.
Fíli sat by the stream during their afternoon rest, staring at the back of Kíli’s head with a look of murderous intent. Kíli was currently trying to see how many pebbles he could stack on Dwalin’s bald head while the big Dwarf snoozed.
"He needs to be stopped," Fíli hissed under his breath.
"He is certainly... spirited today," a voice said from his left.
Fíli turned to see Bilbo Baggins settling onto a mossy rock, cleaning his pipe with a piece of silk. The Hobbit looked remarkably peaceful, which was a stark contrast to the buzzing frustration radiating off the blonde Dwarf.
"I need a weapon, Bilbo," Fíli said solemnly. "A psychological weapon. Something that will make him regret the day he decided to learn how to mimic livestock."
Bilbo tilted his head. "I see. And what did you have in mind?"
"Music," Fíli declared, his eyes gleaming with a desperate light. "I want to learn an instrument. Something loud. Something that requires constant, repetitive practice. I want to play it right in his ear until he begs for mercy. You’re a Hobbit of culture, surely you play something?"
Bilbo paused, a slow, rather wicked smirk spreading across his face. It wasn't the kind of smile one expected from a respectable Baggins of Bag End; it was the look of a Took who had survived many a family reunion.
"Oh, Fíli," Bilbo chuckled, tapping his pipe against his palm. "You’ve got the right idea, but you’re going about it all wrong. You want to learn how to play? That’s far too much work, and frankly, it won't be half as effective as you think."
Fíli blinked. "What do you mean?"
"If you play well," Bilbo explained, leaning in as if sharing a state secret, "he’ll just enjoy the music. He might even start singing along, and then where will you be? No, no. If you truly want to drive a younger brother to the brink of madness, you don't need to know how to play. You need to know how to play badly."
Fíli leaned in, captivated. "Go on."
"I had a dozen cousins back in the Shire," Bilbo said, his eyes twinkling with the memory of past mischief. "The Tooks are a loud bunch, and the younger ones were particularly fond of hiding my food and putting jam in my books. When I was about your age, well, in Hobbit years, I discovered the power of the recorder."
Bilbo reached into his pack and pulled out a small, unassuming wooden flute. It looked harmless enough.
"Now," Bilbo said. "The trick isn't to play a melody. The trick is the over-blow. If you blow just a little too hard, the note doesn't just get louder, it screams. It’s a sound that pierces the skull and vibrates in the jawbone."
Bilbo put the flute to his lips. He played a soft, beautiful three-note refrain that sounded like birds in the spring. Then, without warning, he tightened his grip and gave a sharp, forceful puff of air.
SKREEEEEEEEEEEEE!
The sound was like a dying seagull being fed through a metal grinder.
Across the camp, Dwalin jumped nearly a foot into the air, his hand flying to his axe. Thorin, who had been studying a map, flinched so hard his quill snapped in half. Kíli, who had been mid-pebble-stack, fell backward into the dirt, his eyes wide with shock.
"What in the name of the Maker was that?!" Thorin roared, glaring toward the stream.
Bilbo just looked down at the flute, looking perfectly innocent. "Oh, sorry! Just clearing the spit-valve. Carry on!"
He turned back to Fíli, whose face was alight with a terrifying, newfound joy.
"See?" Bilbo whispered. "And the best part is the repetitive scale. You don't play a song. You play the first five notes of a scale, perfectly and beautifully... and then you hit the sixth note with that screech. Every. Single. Time. It builds anticipation. It creates a psychological tension that no Dwarf can withstand."
Fíli reached out with trembling hands. "Teach me. Teach me the screech, Master Baggins."
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For the next hour, tucked away behind a large boulder where Thorin couldn't see them, Bilbo Baggins provided the most unorthodox music lesson in the history of Middle-earth.
"No, no, Fíli, that sounded almost like a real note," Bilbo criticized, shaking his head. "You’re using your tongue too much. You want it to sound like a cat is being stepped on by an elephant. Try again, and really push the air from your diaphragm."
WHONK-SKREE-HONK!
"Better!" Bilbo cheered. "Now, try to sustain the screech while slightly wiggling your fingers. It creates a 'warble' effect that is particularly grating on the nerves."
Fíli practiced with a dedication he usually reserved for sword-fighting. He learned the 'False Start' (where you act like you're about to play something lovely and then emit a low, flatulent honk). He learned the 'Midnight Chirp' (a short, sharp blast meant to wake someone up just as they drift off).
"You’re a natural," Bilbo said, patting Fíli’s shoulder. "I haven't seen such talent for auditory torture since my Aunt meribell tried to learn the bagpipes."
"I feel powerful, Bilbo," Fíli said, clutching the flute. "I feel like I could conquer a kingdom with this woodwind alone."
"Use it wisely," Bilbo warned, though his smirk remained. "And remember: if Thorin asks, I was teaching you a traditional hobbit hymn that just happens to be very difficult for beginners."
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The Company had settled in for the evening. The fire was crackling, and everyone was relaxing. Kíli, feeling particularly proud of his earlier frog-prank, was lounging by the fire, sharpening an arrow and whistling the very tune that had been bothering Fíli all day.
Fíli sat down directly opposite him. He didn't say a word. He simply pulled out the wooden flute.
Kíli paused, his eyebrows shooting up. "Since when do you play the flute, Fee? I thought you were more of a 'hit things with hammers' kind of Dwarf."
"I’ve decided to broaden my horizons, Kíli," Fíli said with a serene, terrifying smile. "Bilbo says I have a gift."
He raised the flute. He played four notes of a lovely, lilting melody. Kíli actually smiled, leaning back. "That’s not bad, actually-"
SKREEEEEEEEE-WHAIIIIIIII-SKRONK!
The sound ripped through the air. Kíli winced, dropping his arrow. "Oi! What was that?"
"Practice, Kíli," Fíli said calmly. "It’s a very technical passage."
Fíli started again. The same four notes. Sweet, melodic, hopeful…
SKREEEEE-HONK-SKREE!
"Stop it!" Kíli barked. "You're doing it on purpose! Nobody is that bad at the flute!"
"I’m trying my best, brother," Fíli said, his voice dripping with mock-sincerity. "Perhaps if I practice the same scale for the next three hours, I’ll get it right."
He began again. Over and over. The beautiful lead-up, the inevitable, ear-piercing screech.
After ten minutes, Nori moved his bedroll twenty feet away. After twenty minutes, Gloin put his fingers in his ears and began humming to drown it out.
Thorin, who was trying to write in his journal, was vibrating with a silent, simmering rage. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "Fíli. Enough."
"But Uncle, I’m making progress!" Fíli cried. "Bilbo says I’m almost there!"
Thorin turned a murderous glare toward Bilbo. The Hobbit was sitting nearby, reading a book and looking like the picture of innocence, though his shoulders were shaking slightly.
"Bilbo," Thorin growled. "Is this necessary?"
"The pursuit of art is always necessary, Thorin," Bilbo said without looking up. "Fíli has a very... unique voice on the instrument. It would be a shame to stifle it."
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Kíli was losing his mind. Every time he tried to speak, Fíli would emit a short, sharp chirp from the flute. Every time Kíli tried to whistle his annoying tune, Fíli would counter with a long, low, flatulent drone that vibrated in Kíli’s chest.
"I’ll tell you where your slippers are!" Kíli finally shouted, throwing his hands up in despair. "They're in the saddlebags under the spare grain! Just put the flute away!"
Fíli paused, the flute at his lips. "And the frog in my bedroll?"
"I’ll never do it again! I’ll even do your turn at the watch for the next two nights! Just stop the noise! It’s like a goblin is dying inside my head!"
Fíli looked at Bilbo. Bilbo gave a single, imperceptible nod.
"Very well," Fíli said, tucking the flute into his belt. "I think I’ve practiced enough for one day."
The silence that followed was absolute. It was a beautiful, golden silence that the Company drank in like water in a desert.
"Thank the Maker," Thorin whispered, resting his head in his hands. "If I hear that sound one more time, I’m throwing that flute into the Misty Mountains."
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Later that night, as the fire died down to embers, Fíli walked over to Bilbo.
"It worked perfectly," Fíli whispered. "He’s been quiet for three hours. He even apologized for the goat noises."
"I told you," Bilbo said, smirking as he packed his pipe. "Never underestimate the power of a badly played woodwind. It is the ultimate deterrent."
"Do you want the flute back?" Fíli asked.
Bilbo looked at the instrument, then at the sleeping form of Thorin, who finally looked peaceful. Then he looked at Kíli, who was twitching in his sleep as if dreaming of seagulls.
"Keep it," Bilbo said, his eyes twinkling. "Consider it a gift from one elder boy to another. But Fíli?"
"Yes?"
"If you ever play it while I'm trying to nap," Bilbo said, his voice taking on that quiet, 'fertilizer' edge, "I’ll show you what I used to do with the kazoo. And I promise you, that is a sound you won't survive."
Fíli swallowed hard and nodded. "Understood, Master Baggins."
As Fíli tucked the "Weapon of Mass Annoyance" into his pack, Thorin let out a long, weary sigh in his sleep, a sigh of a King who was tired of his nephews, tired of his Hobbit, and very, very tired of music.
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Extra scene i came up with
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The following night, the camp was blissfully quiet. Kíli was being suspiciously well-behaved, though his eyes darted toward Fíli’s pack every few minutes with a predatory glint. The "Weapon of Mass Annoyance" was tucked away, and for the first time in days, Thorin looked like he might actually achieve a full eight hours of sleep.
Balin sat beside Bilbo, watching the Hobbit mend a small tear in his traveling cloak. The elder Dwarf looked between Fíli, who was looking smugly at the fire, and the Hobbit who had armed him with such auditory devastation.
"Master Baggins," Balin whispered, leaning in so the brothers wouldn't hear. "I must ask. Why did you give Fíli that particular lesson? You usually spend your time trying to keep the peace, not providing the ammunition to shatter it."
Bilbo didn't look up from his needlework. His expression was as serene as a summer pond. "Oh, that’s simple, Balin. Fíli is my favorite."
Balin’s eyebrows nearly vanished into his hairline. "Your favorite? I thought you found the pair of them equally exhausting."
"Oh, they are," Bilbo said casually, biting off a thread. "But Fíli has a certain... appreciation for the long game. Kíli is all impulsiveness and noise, but Fíli understands the value of a well-timed silence or a perfectly placed screech. He’s much more Hobbit-like in his mischief. Don't tell him, of course. It would go straight to his head."
Balin chuckled softly. "Your secret is safe with me. Though I suspect Thorin might have a few words about your 'parenting' methods when we reach the next town."
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As the Company drifted off to sleep, a shadow detached itself from a nearby bedroll. Kíli, driven by a desperate need for revenge and a curious itch to see if he could make the "screech" work for him, crept toward Fíli’s pack.
He reached inside, his fingers brushing against the smooth wood of the recorder. He pulled it out, grinning in the dark. He wasn't going to break it….no, he was going to wait until Fíli was asleep and then give him a taste of his own medicine.
Kíli ducked behind a tree, put the mouthpiece to his lips, and prepared to deliver a blast of air that would wake the dead.
The moment his tongue touched the wood, his world turned into a nightmare of flavor.
"BLEGH! ARGH! WAUGH!"
Kíli scrambled backward, spitting and gagging. It tasted like a combination of old socks, burnt hair, and a concentrated extract of the most bitter gorse-bush in Middle-earth. It was a flavor that didn't just sit on the tongue; it aggressively occupied the entire throat.
The camp exploded into motion. Dwalin had his axe out before he was even fully awake. Thorin sat up, his hair a wild mess. "What?! Who’s there?! Orcs?!"
Kíli was on his knees, frantically wiping his tongue with his sleeve. "Poison! Ack! It’s poison! My mouth is dying!"
Bilbo sat up slowly, yawning and stretching his arms as if he hadn't been waiting for this exact moment. He reached for his water skin and tossed it to a gagging Kíli.
"It’s not poison, Kíli," Bilbo said, his voice remarkably calm. "It’s merely a light coating of Alum and Bitter-Root. Quite harmless, really, though the taste tends to linger for about three days if you don't rinse with vinegar."
Kíli guzzled the water, gasping for air. "Why?! Why would you put that on a flute?!"
"Because I knew you were going to try and steal it," Bilbo explained, pulling his blanket back over his legs. "You’re a classic younger brother, Kíli. You couldn't let Fíli have the last word. You wanted to use it on him the moment he closed his eyes."
Thorin looked from the sputtering Kíli to the blonde Fíli, who was now awake and howling with laughter, and finally to the Hobbit.
"You booby-trapped the instrument," Thorin stated flatly.
"I prefer the term 'preventative measure,'" Bilbo corrected. "It teaches a valuable lesson about respecting other people’s property. And it’s much more effective than a scolding."
Fíli doubled over, pointing at his brother. "You look like you’ve swallowed a lemon, Kíli! Your face is all wrinkled!"
"I’ll kill you," Kíli rasped, though his voice lacked conviction because he was too busy trying to scrape the bitterness off his teeth with a spoon.