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The Company of Thorin Oakenshield had been quite aware that their burglar had been harboring a secret for ages.
It was not hard to see, the way the Hobbit often scurried off after supper, the warm glow of the bonfire illuminating the silk of his beaten, battered waistcoat, hunched over and mumbling to himself. Bilbo was a peculiar creature, even in Hobbit standards; Gandalf, amidst one too many beers and smiling amusedly down at his pipe, told the dwarves on several occasions when Bilbo was fast asleep in his bedroll how Master Baggins, as a child, had wanted for nothing but the sweet taste of adventure, unfamiliar winds tousling his golden brown curls. The Company knew, perhaps much more than Bilbo would be content with, about their new member through the Wizard: they knew he was quite fond of his quiet mornings curled on his favorite bench in the Shire, blowing smoke rings into the air, a book resting comfortably on his lap. They knew he was terribly protective of his peace (though they learned this for themselves, during their hearty introduction that kickstarted their adventure that one, clear night), and liked to stock his pantries full of honey mead and pastries of powdered sugar and crisp rosemary and thyme.
It seemed to the dwarves that Gandalf knew everything about Bilbo. He must be a sort of grand-uncle to the Bagginses, the way he only smiled gently from underneath the brim of his pointed, grey hat when the Hobbit fretted over frivolous things like handkerchiefs and second breakfasts. He was their common friend that united Hobbit and Dwarf as one. And when a Dwarf had a query or anything that ought to be cleared up about Bilbo, he went directly to Gandalf. Who else but Gandalf the Grey, the wandering Wizard, the firework-blasting merrymaker? His level of whimsy simply danced in tandem with Bilbo’s lackluster spirit that only ever rekindled itself with the thought of warm food and a place to rest his furred feet on.
There were many odd habits Bilbo had, they presumed. Of course, it wasn’t as though dwarves had their own habits — what really astounded the Company was that their burglar was so terribly secretive with his. When they had their first bath together in a creek the Company had stumbled upon while shambling in the forest, Bilbo had insisted, with quite pink cheeks, that he ought to wash himself at the opposite end by himself. The dwarves had answered in turn that it was safer if the halfling were to remain in their sights, lest he may be dragged down by creatures lurking beneath the water with a penchant for snacking on soft, unwary Hobbits: a warning that did little to sway him of his opinion. Bilbo stubbornly stood by his claim until Thorin, stormy, stoic Thorin, had ordered him that he may only hide behind a large rock, and must hoot like a barn owl every five minutes to ensure the dwarves and the wizard that he was perfectly fine. It was likely a modesty thing, the dwarves supposed. Some strange Hobbit custom that prohibited members of other races to see them bare, and they could respect that well enough. They made way for him to do as he pleases, be it him scrambling off to who knows where in the early hours of the morn, only to show up shining, pink-cheeked, and sweaty, declaring he had only gone off to go on a ‘Tookish’ walk, whatever that meant, or his fretting over his embroidery project he worked on any chance he got (because, apparently, he could not possibly leave it at Bag End, even for the slaying of a dragon). A few weeks into their journey, and the dwarves were sure Bilbo was slowly but surely warming himself up to their shenanigans. He no longer shrunk at the thought of joining them by the fire, and asked eagerly about their past battles and journeys with a twinkle in his eye. This pleased them all greatly, and the dwarves of Erebor assured themselves that their burglar was making himself at home amongst them.
Until they began noticing his peculiar slipping away in the dusky, sun-fallen night. Right after supper. It was Bofur who noticed first, that keen Dwarf with his odd fur hat, who turned to Bifur with an apprehensive look on his face. “Where did Bilbo go?” he asked his kinsman a few nights ago, to which the grey-haired dwarf shrugged and muttered conspiratorially in Dwarvish.
“Aye, that’s just like him,” cut in Gloin, polishing his axe with a whetstone. “Wandering off without telling any of us. Off on a walk, I think. He even took his bowl with him.”
“The lad must be emptying the old bowel,” chuckled Balin. “Nothing to worry about.”
But the concern arose when Bilbo conveniently disappeared the same time the next night. And then the next. He always returned — that was a given —- but the dwarves couldn’t help but grow bothered at it. When questioned, the halfling had laughed nervously, shaking his head repeatedly and said something about ‘needing to attend to Hobbitish affairs’. And that single-handedly erupted a pot of bets between the Company (who, in all honesty, found the idea of gambling their gold equally as fulfilling as the promise of finding out where their burglar was scurrying off to).
“He must be grooming himself,” declared a proud Dwalin. “Like us with our beards. How else can he manage to maintain his youthful glow?”
“Perhaps it is something embarrassing,” thought aloud an amused Nori. “Do you think Hobbits have something only their kind are allowed to see? Like tails?”
Ori shook his head at this. “I think Mister Bilbo is working on a project of his, like his embroidery, only something much more personal and secretive.” but, alas, they never did agree on a proper explanation, and they were so unbearably curious that they employed a certain dwarf (or, dwarves, if one did not consider them both a single, moving entity) to figure it out.
“Gandalf,” called Fili one evening, as the dwarves were rounded by their fire for the night, helping themselves to seconds of the potato and onion stew Bombur had dutifully seasoned to perfection. The Wizard’s eyes twinkled underneath his hat, and he turned his gaze from his own bowl to the young Dwarf prince’s face with a fond smile. “Yes, Fili?”
Fili narrowed his eyes. He turned from Gandalf, then to the receding figure of Bilbo Baggins a few feet away from him, then to Gandalf again. The latter followed his gaze towards their Hobbit, who had politely excused himself from the gathering, stepping over the log he had been sat upon.
Kili sidled up alongside his brother, his face akin to him. He quirked an eyebrow, and then an amused smile.
“Master Baggins has been slipping quietly away from us every night,” said Kili brightly.
“Just like clockwork,” Fili agreed. “He finishes his supper rather hastily and makes up an excuse to leave.”
Gandalf made a soft, grumbling noise as he readjusted himself, eyes squinting into the distance where, if he looked hard enough, concealed the small figure of their burglar within the foliage. “So he has,” mused Gandalf. “I would not worry myself. In all likeliness, Bilbo is only searching for a secluded spot in the forest to reacquaint himself with nature. Or, perhaps, he desires to find a temporary paradise where a Dwarf shan’t bother him with Dwarvish affairs.”
Kili cocked his head. “Oh, Bilbo has plenty a chance to introduce himself to the trees and flowers on our walks.”
“That’s right,” Fili answered, “I often spot him talking to insects among the grass when he thinks we aren’t looking. Insects and plants alike.” he sat upright, studying the many lines that made up Gandalf’s face intently. Kili seemed to mimic him, straightening his posture and fiddling with the hem of his tunic.
“Do you reckon he is relieving himself?” The brothers seemed to have entirely forgotten Gandalf was squeezed in between them. “Answering the call of nature, I mean?”
“Could be, Kili. Could be. Gandalf could be right. Perhaps he is tired of the smell of us every now and again.”
Kili regarded this for a moment, as though, in his mind, he was turning a letter over his hand and inspecting its envelope. And then he shook his head, grinning. “Master Baggins certainly doesn’t tire of Uncle’s smell.”
This, apparently, was extremely funny to the brothers, for they burst out in giggles much too bubbly and boyish for two princes. Gandalf, suspiciously, looked back and forth at the two Dwarves sandwiched between him. There was certainly an idea brewing in the heads of the pair, shared between each other without having to speak it at all. And, as the Wizard had noticed, an idea produced by Fili and Kili were almost always horrible ideas, prone to mischief and mirth. If they were plotting something against Bilbo, perhaps to embarrass or frighten him, then the Hobbit would most certainly jump out of his skin. Perhaps this little scheme of theirs would force Bilbo into yet another uncomfortable situation, his pointed ears twitching in unease, pointed downwards. He would, after being confronted with something entirely unexpected, have to pull out his Tookish side, if only to reprimand two incessant Dwarves for sneaking up on him.
The Wizard only smiled.
“Now, Fili, Kili,” he boomed, ceasing their laughter at once. “If you are meaning to put our burglar through something particularly unpleasant, I would highly advise you against it. And I certainly would not inform you that Bilbo Baggins is most deaf in his right ear, after a firework, in his youth, exploded right by it; I would also be sure not to impart upon you the knowledge that he finishes his supper rather quickly, and must be followed after he has stepped thirty yards, lest his keen senses notice two pairs of footsteps.”
Kili blinked once, opened his mouth, and then closed it. And then, with the utmost earnestness of one so genuinely confuddled, said, “Well, you’ve just said all of those things to us, haven't you?”
Fili, the wiser out of the two, immediately silenced his brother. He nodded solemnly, grimly, as though acknowledging an ally before the invasion of an enemy. “Yes, Gandalf. Of course.” and he shot a funny look towards Kili, whose slow mind seemed to snap suddenly at the realisation.
“Yes, Gandalf,” Kili parroted, a grin dawning on his face. “We won’t bother Master Baggins at all.”
“Good lads,” said the Wizard gruffly. “Now, permit an old man to finish his supper, and run along. I expect Bofur will need help with the dishes.”
The next night came in a flash. The Company had traveled a great distance since leaving Bree, a newfound hope kindled upon their hearts as they trekked hills and mountains, forests and glades. They sang their way through the paths, with Bofur’s cheerful flute dancing along their words, and told stories until dusk. Finally, they settled among the marshes of a great lake, which granted them a good, well-needed wash, another fire, and another supper.
Tonight, Bilbo sat beside Dwalin and Balin, looking rather awkward as he ate his hunk of coarse, nutty bread and cured meat. He picked sadly at the crumbs, feeling in between his fingers the hardness of the bread, his nose scrunching up in distaste.
“Are ye alright there, Bilbo?” asked Bofur from across the fire. “Ye look like yer about to burst into tears.” At this, the burglar tore his gaze from the bread to Bofur’s kindly face, his own unwrinkling to an unsure smile.
“Er, yes.” affirmed Bilbo. “Just fine.” He glanced back down at his bread like it was an afterthought.
This did not satisfy Bofur. “Ye need more bread?” he said helpfully, and then extended his hand, offering his own wedge, which looked as though it were bitten clean in half and then nibbled down the sides. “Gandalf says you’re eating less than usual.”
“I — “ Bilbo shot a carefully-orchestrated look to the Wizard, who had apparently decided his own piece of bread was extremely fascinating. “I can manage, thank you very much. It’s not as if I’ll keel over without another mouthful of bread.”
“But you are not fond of it, yes?” piped up the young Ori. “Hobbits have delicate stomachs. I’m sure the bread is much too brittle for you.”
Bilbo turned a solid pink at this, sputtering as the Company — even the brooding Thorin — turned their attention to him. “I am just fine,” Bilbo answered nervously. He didn’t want to admit that, yes, the bread wasn’t agreeing with his belly at all. The Company already thought of him as a lily-livered, pampered Hobbit of the Shire. They did not need another part of him to laugh and poke fun at, no thank you, not at all. And Bilbo would endure all the brittle bread in the world if it meant the dwarves thought him even the slightest bit more sturdy than the impression given to them back at Bag End.
Soon, the conversation dwindled away from Bilbo, something the Hobbit was relieved to notice. Oh, he was dreadfully hungry, and this bread would not do anything for him. Perhaps he had stowed away another scone or sandwich in the depths of his rucksack? He made sure to leave Bag End with his supplies as maximized as possible — that was his first priority, as one did. Yes, that meant he could not pack nearly enough clothing or pipeweed than he had previously hoped for, but it was a loss he was willing to take. And, in hindsight, it was a wise choice to choose food over anything else, considering the monstrosities he has scarfed down out of necessity along this trip. Well, Bombur was a good cook, a good cook indeed, but even he could not work miracles out of their limited supply. The stew yesterday wasn’t all that bad, not bad at all, Bilbo thought desperately.
But the cardboard in his hands barely counted for bread. It was unbearably brittle, hard to chew, and even the concealed cashews hidden like bits of treasure among the wheat did little to sate Bilbo of his depression. He wondered quietly as he chewed (or, more accurately, gnawed) at the bit he managed to pry off if Dwarves were really this rubbish at baking, or if the circumstances granted to them merely soured the taste of it. Pastries had always been a Hobbit talent, especially one of Bilbo’s — if Dwarves spent their hours hulked over a red-hot piece of metal, meticulously hammering out its imperfections in the forge until it gleamed, then Hobbits slaved over hot ovens and flour-coated hands to create bread, cakes, and crumpets. Ah, Bilbo could smell it now. His kitchen, lit up by the afternoon sun, smelling wonderfully earthy, a pie or something cooling by the window. The way the soft, puff pastry melted in his mouth, savory and sweet alike. Bilbo was always rather partial to a good dessert tart, strawberry syrup and powdered sugar, or else a salty meat pie; now, however, he was craving a simple loaf of bread.
His nose twitched longingly at the memory. Meat pies and dessert tarts were a world away from him. Now, he would have to do with this. Bilbo sighed. It was no use. He could force himself to run along with a band of thirteen dwarves and a Wizard on an ill-fated quest to slay a dragon, but he could not bear a moment longer of this misshapen excuse for bread in his mouth. But the Baggins in him told him that spitting it out was impolite. Obviously, he would need to find some other way to dispose of it. Bilbo glanced up, his eyes flickering from the fire to the lit faces of the Company. They were all preoccupied with the invigorating story Nori was currently recounting. Sooner or later, the merry band of dwarves would burst into a spontaneous song that dealt with the banging of pots and slamming of boots upon soil, which would give him ample time to slip away.
Meanwhile, two Dwarven brothers have been keeping a keen eye on their burglar, mirth dancing in their eyes.
“He’s squirming like a bug,” commented Kili with a grin. “See the way his nose twitches and his foot thumps on the ground every now and again? He’s itching to escape.”
Fili nodded, downing the last of his bread, crunching its crust in between his teeth. “Just waiting for an opportune time, I expect,” he added. “But Gandalf said he would finish quickly. He hasn’t even had half of his loaf.”
This was right. The bread was still in Bilbo’s hand, sometimes being tossed from one side to another, and then resting uncertainly on his lap once more. That was an odd thing for him to do. Hobbits, Gandalf said, couldn’t resist baked things. But Bilbo looked like he was not holding a loaf of his favorite thing in the world, but an amalgamation of something that has deeply offended, saddened, and agonized him. The two brothers couldn’t stifle the smile on their faces as Bilbo’s nose twitched unhappily again, his eyebrows furrowed so deep they looked like particularly upset caterpillars.
“Not happy at all,” affirmed an amused Kili. “Displeased, that one is.” he quirked a helpful eyebrow. “And I don’t suppose he will try to sneak out until there is a thorough distraction that allows him to?”
And, at that, the two brothers shared a common thought. They nodded quite seriously, before Kili tapped Bofur on the shoulder and asked innocently, “Do you have a song for us, lad?”
It seemed as though Bofur had been waiting his entire life for such a question to be brought to him. His face beamed immediately. “Why, you only need to ask!” and produced the flute from his pockets. At such a sight, the other dwarves let out shouts of delight, hollering and clapping into the night. Bofur scrambled onto the log, before playing a jaunty, windy tune on the instrument, his feet tapping excitedly against the wood. Oin polished his hearing horn once and twice, a quick swipe of a cloth, and Nori (who didn’t seem displeased that his story was interrupted in the slightest) sang quite loudly to the tune.
Bilbo perked up at this. At last, an opening. He chuckled nervously as Dwalin patted him roughly on the back — ouch — and cleared his throat. “Lovely, yes…very lovely.” he clicked his tongue. He never understood how the dwarves managed to string together a song upon such a short notice, and was not yet close enough to join in such festivities. But now, it gave him the perfect cover to….to, well, perhaps feed the crust of his loaf to the ponies, and then attend to his very private business. He’d be quick, he told himself. Just a little pop out. With a resolve in his mind, the Hobbit muttered a hastily baked excuse about ‘needing to go to the loo’ to Balin, who only nodded and resumed in the merriment.
Kili and Fili, pleased that they singlehandedly caused such a wonderful, meticulous chaos in the Company, now turned their attention to the matter at hand. And, yes — there he went, quite speedy on his large feet. Bilbo ducked into the leafy curtains that made up the forest, throwing his head back once to see if he would be noticed. After a few moments, Kili grinned, and nodded once to Fili. The brothers stood up in tandem, and slipped out by the back. thirty yards far, as per the Wizard’s warning.
Forests had always been Bilbo’s little slice of paradise. There was something wonderful about all the towering trees and flowing streams, a sentiment he hadn’t entirely let go, even as a now 50-year-old, respectable gentlehobbit. A little peace and quiet was all the forest had to offer, and now, as he stumbled along the moonlit path, Bilbo felt the weight upon his shoulders gradually lift until there was nothing but an appeased, gentle happiness spread all throughout him. The little glass jar in his pocket jostled, as though insisting the Hobbit of its apparent
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “I know you’re hungry.”
He skidded to a halt, finding himself in a dim clearing. Yes, this would do just fine. Crouching down to hide in a little thicket, Bilbo dug his hand into his pockets, secretively, muttering to himself all the while. What a dreadful few weeks it had been, indeed. First, there was that run-in with the trolls — disgusting creatures, trolls — and that had been grounds for Thorin Oakenshield to, apparently, send him stink eye after stink eye (once, when Bilbo asked to take a look at the map, the confounded dwarf merely scowled at him and said he wouldn’t be able to read it, anyway). The other dwarves were more forgiving, which eased the sting of Thorin’s obvious rejection. They were lovely in their own way, Bilbo reasoned to himself. And, well, he wouldn’t trust himself either to burgle anything, much less enter the lair of a dragon to steal…whatever it was Thorin and his Company wanted him to steal. He wasn’t yet aware of what exactly his purpose was for the quest, something that worried and eased him just a little. There would come a time for dragonfire and mountains of gold. For now, the biggest plight Bilbo had found himself in was the lack of anything tasty or edible.
At last, Bilbo pried off the cap, and let out a soft sigh of contentment as that yeasty, slightly sweet aroma tickled his nose. “There you are,” he said with a soft smile. “You must be terribly peckish. I’m sorry for that…haven’t been able to slip away as much…”
By this point, Kili and Fili had managed to follow Bilbo as quietly as they could, and were now perched behind a tall oak tree, trying to peek at what their burglar was doing. They could only see the mop of his curly hair, and a little bit of his toes from beneath the bush, which made them dreadfully antsy to see much.
Bilbo continued to mutter to himself. It had been long since he had been able to smell that homely, familiar scent, something that reminded him so much of his home. He let out a whimper of excitement as he thought about what he could do with it when it finally grew large enough. “You will need to be big and thick for me. You’re of no use like this now.”
“What is he saying?” Kili whispered urgently to his brother. Fili narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure…’big and thick’ is what I hear.”
The bushes rustled as Bilbo rummaged through his pockets again, still mumbling feverishly to himself. The Hobbit made a noise, his nose twitching, sneezing. The brothers’ eyes widened as they saw a white powder, faint but very much there, flutter from his hiding spot, and ducked when Bilbo let out a shout.
“No, no,” he hissed, hiding himself back in the bushes, “no, we must have every bit of it.” He scraggled on the forest floor, and then sniffed again, nose pressed to the grass.
“Is he…” whispered a horrified Fili. “Who could have guessed. Bilbo, of all people.”
“Perhaps that is why he always seems so skittish,” said Kili, transfixed as he watched this newer side of the Hobbit squirm and struggle on the floor. “I always thought he was doing too much pipeweed for a small fellow…do you reckon the Shire allows this sort of drug?”
“Well, I expect he would not hide it if so,” answered Fili. “Look, he’s getting up now.”
The figure of the Hobbit, once more concealed in the brambles, straightened his back. The two brothers could only see that slither of him behind, and also the faint suggestion of his arm. An arm that was, most solidly, moving in a motion in front of him, quite vigorously.
“By Durin,” The eldest prince murmured as they watched the scandalous scene in front of them. “He’s really going at it.”
Kili grimaced as they heard the Hobbit grunt with what seemed to be great effort. Were Hobbits really this active in their bedrooms? After all, Bilbo snuck off every night.
They watched there, stagnant as a deer caught in the headlights, for a few, petrified moments. Surely, this was not their Bilbo, the very same that was appalled at the thought of bathing with dwarves, the very same that shyly smiled as a greeting and could barely keep eye contact with Thorin for more than two seconds without blushing profusely? It was impossible. Perhaps he was a shy type, which was exactly why he chose to snort substances and furiously relieve himself in his own company.
“Oh, Petilua…” whimpered the halfling, much to the astonishment of the brothers. So he was doing this with someone in mind, was he? A ladyhobbit, perhaps? A tender, shapely Hobbit he left at the Shire? “I didn’t take him the type to swing his sword in that battle,” Kili mumbled, half in a daze.
At last, Bilbo ceased his maneuvers, and the brothers watched in silent shock as the Hobbit all but brought his fingers to his hand, sniffing, and then licked at it. Even that, by Dwarven standards, was completely….completely unheard of, for one! To consume one’s own spill….
Kili shuddered. “I think I’m going to be ill.” he took a step back, which only triggered the snap of a branch beneath his feet. They shared one, frightened look, and then quickly scampered off into the shadows.
Meanwhile, Bilbo, who had finished stirring flour into the mixture of his famished sourdough starter, perked his head curiously at such a noise. Well, it was the forest, and creatures had the right to dwell in it as much as he trusted it to keep a secret safe. His secret. If any of the dwarves found out that he had brought a little piece of home with him, with the intention of baking it into a sugary confectionary or something and not sharing it would utterly destroy Bilbo and the fragile persona he’s been keeping up. Because, yes, he was a respectable, polite Hobbit, but the dwarves had gotten their share of his baking when they so rudely interrupted his supper at Bag End, and he was not looking to share this little piece of himself, no matter how selfish it may be. He sighed to himself, glancing down at the flour he had spilled all over his coat and lap in his excitement.
A shame and a waste, Bilbo thought sadly, dusting away the remnants of the specialized flour from his sleeves. He could only bring a limited amount of rye flour with him when he hastily packed that morning, and Petilua, sweet, cumbersome, extremely fickle Petilua, only accepted Shire-ground rye wheat as daily sustenance, lest she becomes sluggish and cross at him. An ancient starter like her only deserved that right, he supposed as he cleaned the rest of himself. Rarely did a piece of her leave the Shire. The Bagginses, her maker, would scoff and turn their noses up at the idea: their generations-old bread-and-scones-mother couldn’t possibly survive outside her large, glass jar, nor would she be pleased if she was suddenly whisked away on a topsy-turvy adventure such as this.
But while Petilua could be flourishing better on the wooden countertops of Bag End, it wasn’t like she was dying. So, ha! Take that, Sackville-Bagginses, and especially you, Lobelia, who had previously asked for pieces of Petilua to grow in her own kitchentop and scowled most troll-like when the master of the house dutifully (and politely, he would like to add) declined it. Bilbo Baggins and Petilua were doing just fine out in the wilds. He grinned to himself, scrambling to his feet and capping the sourdough starter once more, pocketing it. He hummed a merry tune all the way back to the camp, a jaunty spring in his step all the while.
“So? Did you manage to see what he was doing?” asked an eager Ori when the two princes returned to camp, a grim look set upon their faces. This was a scarring sight — the two of them were always such a joyful pair, and something must have happened for them to suddenly be so serious.
Fili and Kili were ushered to the front of the camp, their faces drawn downward. The dwarves leaned in, curious, pushing amongst each other to get a proper sight.
Finally, it was Fili who spoke. “Master Baggins,” he said solemnly, “is not a gentlehobbit.”
“He was relieving himself.” said Kili. When Balin and Oin cheered, they were instantly silenced by the sad shake of Kili’s head.
“Oh,” Oin’s eyes widened.
A silence settled over the Company. “Well, that’s that,” Balin said with a nervous chuckle. “Bilbo may do whatever he likes in the forest, no matter how…peculiar…it may be.”
“He sniffed and licked his spill, Balin!” cried Kili. “And he had someone in mind during! A ladyhobbit, me and Fili believes, a ladyhobbit by the name of Petilua. He whispered her name.”
At this, the Wizard, who had been quietly keeping to himself, raised his eyebrows ever so subtly, realization dawning on his face. But instead of opting to divert this grave misunderstanding, he only leaned back in his log and blew out a thoughtful smoke ring from his pipe. “It’s a positively embarrassing business, indeed,” was all he muttered, barely audible.
At the opposite end of camp, Thorin barely glanced up at the mention of ladyhobbit. He squared his arms, and raised an eyebrow at his sister-son. “You are sure of this?”
Kili nodded desperately. “Hobbits must be a stifled folk. Very stifled. He — he was going at it like he would die if he took a second to gain his breath! And — “
“And he was taking something,” Fili added. “We saw a cloud of it cluster when he dropped to his knees. His knees! Snorting it out of the soil and everything.”
That stunned the Company to another moment of silence. Obviously, Bilbo Baggins was not what they previously thought. It was not outrageous to Dwarves, to take substances or have some fun by themselves, but this meant their burglar had been sneaking off every night to do such a thing. Without making a mere mention of what he was planning to do to the other Dwarves.
And, as if on cue, out stepped a pink-cheeked Bilbo from the foliage. He perked his head up at the sight of the Dwarves, all still and silent, when a few moments ago they were singing and dancing.
“The song is over, then?” asked Bilbo helpfully, going over to his seat, unaware of the stares he was garnering. “Bofur, do you need any help with the dishes?”
Bofur shook his head slowly. “No, lad. Best if you have some rest. I’m sure you’ve tired yerself out.”
Bilbo blinked. “Huh,” he said. “Well, I suppose I have. Though, don’t take it the wrong way, I quite like walks. Once, I walked all the way from Bag End to the outskirts of Bree! My knees ached like anything after, of course, I’m not as perky as I was when I was younger…”
“I doubt that, Master Baggins,” said Dwalin heavily, sitting like stone upon his spot of the log, arms crossed. “I doubt that very much.”
Now this confused Bilbo greatly. His eyebrows lowered, furrowed in a confused way, as though he wasn’t sure whether to take it as a compliment or insult. “Thank…you?” He cleared his throat. “But I insist. Let me help around, please.” he turned to Fili and Kili, and was even more nonplussed when the young Dwarves stiffened, eyes wide. “Fili? Kili? Perhaps you need help feeding the ponies?”
“No, Master Baggins, not at all,” stammered Kili as Fili stared intensely at him. “We can do it. All by ourselves. Right, Fili?”
Fili nodded hastily. “Right. Have some rest.” he squinted his eyes. “You’re handling surprisingly well. I didn’t expect that of you at all, Bilbo.”
“Of course I am!” Bilbo snapped. He turned around, something Tookish rising in him. “I may be a Baggins, but I am half Took, thank you! And they are bred of sturdier stuff.” he huffed, like that settled everything, and stormed out of camp, muttering angrily beneath his breath.
“These ‘Took’ fellows must be a rowdy folk,” whispered Ori when the Hobbit was finally out of earshot. “Sniffing up half a pound like it’s sugar, and then without an effect to be seen.”
“Did you see it all smeared on the front of his shirt?” asked Gloin. “Hadn’t even bothered to clean himself of it before coming here.”
Bofur raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see a face here that hasn’t dabbled in a bit of it now and again! Aye, Bilbo may be a tid bit more….eager than us all, but that just might be the way of Shire dwellers, see?”
And the Dwarves nodded, their heads bobbing. Yes, yes, that must be it. There was no shame in enjoying oneself in the comforts of a dark forest! And, after all, they were glad to see that Bilbo was not entirely a prude, nor was he bound to chastity, as some of them had wagered. His little outburst must have been just the shame of being caught speaking, and the Company agreed amongst themselves that, when Bilbo cooled off and returned, they would be more welcoming of his vices.
Over the next few days, their burglar had rapidly become a hot topic of interest amidst the thirteen Dwarves. Their initial unease gradually melted into a more ‘Master Baggins is an absolute unit’ mindset: they clapped him hard on the back when he passed, much to his bewilderment, and cheered when Bilbo made the mere mention of being tired (“I wouldn’t last as long as you do, if I did what you were up to every night!” exclaimed an astonished, vaguely impressed Nori). They regularly boasted of their Hobbit’s tolerance of the artificially-made snow, though, without trying, managed to keep it as indistinct as possible that Bilbo thought they were praising his high courage and strength. And all was well with their Company.
Except for their leader.
For, ever since the mention of Petilua, Thorin Oakenshield has been as stormy as ever. When he used to give the ghost of a smile during the Company’s many spirited interactions, he scoffed and turned his head away. It was a classic case of Dwarven jealousy, if they had ever seen one. The young princes, much too aware of their Uncle’s forlorn, festering affection for their burglar, only grinned at this, and took it upon themselves to tease him as much as they could without being throttled into the nearest possible cliffside.
A week after the incident, the Company were marching along their path, chattering and joking amongst themselves. The topic of love had materialized itself, and they were boasting about their Ones left in the Blue Mountains, awaiting their victorious return.
“My Milli is the greatest thing this side of Middle Earth,” declared a pleased Gloin, sturdily making his way. “And I bet all yer beards — and the hair on yer feet, Bilbo — that you wouldn’t find a more pleasant dwarrowdam that makes the best bread.”
Bilbo scoffed at the mention of bread, mumbling fondly under his breath that perhaps Dwarven bread was easily beaten by Hobbit standards. Bofur, who only heard ‘Hobbit’ and ‘easily beaten’, perked up. “And yer One, Bilbo? How do you reckon she’s holding up?”
The burglar shot his head up, eyebrows furrowed. His nose twitched in confusion, “I haven’t got a…One…back at the Shire. I’m afraid I’m a rather solitary Hobbit…though, of course, I don’t mind at all. I like my peace as it is.”
“Nonsense!” boomed the dwarves, unbelieving. “You must! You do! She must be positively lovely!”
Bilbo shook his head profusely, sweat beading on the corners of his forehead. “No, I’m quite certain of it. No wives or anything of the sort, thank you.”
“So yer a noncommittal kind of Hobbit, I wager?” smirked Dwalin. “Just a lover or two in the sheets, then?”
Bilbo turned positively red at the insinuation. “I — what — no! No, no, no, you’ve got me all wrong! I am perfectly respectable. Extremely.” He shook his head again, as though warding away a dirty thought from between his ears.
“Heighten your pace, Master Baggins.” growled Thorin from apparently out of nowhere, purposefully bumping the Hobbit’s shoulder as he stormed through the sea of Dwarves, a scowl etched on his face. “Lest you fall behind us all.”
Bilbo frowned, watching the broad figure of the Dwarf stomp to the front of the line, his furs and travel leathers swaying behind him like a serpent’s tail. There was something off about Thorin nowadays. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but he was…standoffish, and ruder than usual. Of course, Bilbo knew about their leader’s animosity towards him, their less-than brave fourteenth member, but even this seemed a bit excessive. Bilbo struggled a bit with that thought for a moment, tossing it in his mind. He couldn’t have possibly done anything to make Thorin like him less, right?
Balin clicked his tongue sympathetically upon noticing the muddled expression on Bilbo’s face, and patted his back. “I wouldn’t bother myself with worrying, lad. Thorin is…fickle. You’ll see.”
“I’ve seen,” Bilbo answered grumpily, and said nothing more on the subject (other than offering Balin a respectful smile), and sped along, as per Thorin’s wishes. The entire trip that day was spent in silence, and Bilbo set his mind on putting one foot in front of the other, certainly not cursing or grumbling about the things he must put up with, if only to taste a bit of adventure.
Supper that night was the usual — a bit of burnt lamb, nothing Bilbo couldn’t handle, and a handful of chestnuts. At least there was no more of that terrible excuse for bread, he thought happily as he munched on the portion of meat upon his lap.
Petilua had been growing magnificently. She was an absolute beast now, all pale-yellow and bubbling, with a healthy sort of gurgle and hiss when he unscrewed the lid. It wouldn’t be much longer now until Bilbo could finally have her rise to a proper, perfect dough he could knead and shape into tasty pastries. He had already decided that the first fruits of his labor would be herb knots (he had a sufficient amount of dried rosemary and thyme to sprinkle into his dough when the time was right), and the second some pancakes for breakfast.
As he chewed carefully, expertly dividing the meat from the fat with his teeth and tongue, Bilbo couldn’t help but wonder. His primary purpose of hiding every time he needed to feed Petilua was largely due to the fact that he was holding a long-standing grudge against the Dwarves in his company. He was a stubborn creature, and an offense was not taken lightly, not lightly at all. But as he spent more time with them, the more he found himself growing fond of the Dwarves. After all, they took him in, did they not? They made him food (albeit less-than-pleasing, but Bilbo could take the sentiment nevertheless), and protected him from threats. They were teaching him the way of their warriors, and laughed alongside his own frivolous tales of the Shire, and he, in turn, marveled at their great stories about Erebor and Moria.
A resolution was accepted that night. Bilbo, after Petilua grew large enough, would make his herb knots for the Dwarves as a thank you for letting him into the Company. All with open arms, he would want to say, but considering one Dwarf still hadn’t fully accepted him, he refrained from such. But even Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thror, son of Thrain couldn’t possibly be able to resist his herb knots. No one in Middle Earth could, Bilbo was ready to bet.
But, to feed a small army of 13 Dwarves (and one Wizard, wherever he was), Bilbo decided Petilua must get larger. And that meant feeding her twice a day — one in the very brink of morning, and the next at night, right before he was going to fall asleep. Usually, Bilbo would gasp in horror at the thought of overfeeding poor Petilua. But he managed to reason with himself: if this were to go on for only four days, five at most, his sourdough starter would not experience any major repercussions. She may be a little out of sorts after, but she was a strong thing, and wouldn’t break as easily to two scoops of rye flour instead of the usual one.
Meanwhile, in the perspective of the Dwarves, they had begun to think Bilbo must be going mad.
Bofur, sweet, saintly Bofur, noticed first. He was often the first to wake up, taking the watch with a pipe in his hand and a soft humming to keep him awake. When Bilbo first got up from his bedroll in the wee hours of the morning, the sun not yet up, Bofur had scrambled to his side, worried something was amiss.
“Hobbitish affairs,” Bilbo said with a tight smile when Bofur asked him if all was right. “I’ll only take a walk around the wonderful mountaintops, and be right back before breakfast.” But Bilbo had his hands buried deep in his pockets, as though he were wary of what was in them. Bofur let out a sigh, shaking his head.
“Aye. But don’t let it get to ye, Bilbo. It’s unhealthy, that is,” Bofur said sadly, much to the bemusement of the burglar. Bilbo only shrugged, smiled politely, and went on his merry way.
“He’s gone mad,” said Kili three mornings later, tucking into two sausages. “Can’t even wait for evening to get his rocks off!”
“Perhaps it is of his season?” suggested Gloin uncertainly. “Do Hobbits have one of those?”
“And do you notice how quick he is?” added Bombur, despair etched in his thick-cheeked face. “He must be desperate, the poor sod!”
They sat like that, gently concerned, looks being exchanged across the circle. “He must be missing his lady love,” mused Ori. “Why else would he have to increase it to two a day?”
Thorin, who had been silent all this time, bristled almost furiously. “I shall talk to him,” he vowed, shaking his head, that mane of dark-grey hair swinging by his shoulders. “If these…actions…are chipping away at the Halfling’s vitality, then it affects the strength of the Company.” and then, he added, as if justifying his own concern, “And if it affects the Company, it falls to me to make things right.”
“Sound words, Thorin,” agreed Balin solemnly. “But what if you frighten the poor lad for noticing? I’m sure he will be mortified at the very thought.”
Bifur nodded animatedly, and answered back in Dwarvish. The other members nodded in agreement.
“That’s right,” Fili said, resolve in his words. “It is the act of subtlety, Uncle. Hobbits must pick up on those more than the average Dwarf, and it would allow us to approach the situation more delicately.” He turned to his companions, stern faced. “We are not to say it directly to Master Baggins. We must…be gentler. Until he gets the hint.” And they were all in agreement to this.
The first Hint came when Bilbo and Bombur were cooking supper at the outskirts of a land. “We best hurry this up,” Bilbo said, squinting up at the dying sun as he stirred a pot of leek and potato soup. “I’ve got something important to attend to.”
Bombur stared at Bilbo with the graveness of a loved one who had just said he was succumbing to an illness that would have him within a fortnight. “Bilbo, lad,” he started softly, eyes gentle. “There’s no rush when it comes to making a good soup. We have all the time in the world.”
Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “What?” He shook his head, “Right, right. Sorry about that.” He cleared his throat, and then smiled, the tips of his ears twitching — a telltale sign of Hobbit anticipation. “Shall we get on?”
It was a bit odd for Bombur to address Bilbo like a dying faunt; all over leek and potato soup, no less. But he could excuse it, just this once. He immersed himself in his cooking once more, allowing the warm smell of soup to overtake him, humming gently.
The next Hints were much less understated than good Bombur’s. Dwarves had the grace and subtlety of a dying goat, after all, and it was silly to expect they could keep a secret for so long. The night after Bilbo had fed Petilua (and had taken a little while longer to return, for he had distracted himself with a cluster of daffodils he had spotted), he woke to Dwalin towering over him, large forearms crossed over his chest, his face stony. The Halfling gave a shout, nearly leaping out of his covers.
“Master Baggins,” Dwalin said gruffly, “good morning.”
“Yes, yes,” Bilbo mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Good morning.” This was when he realized Dwalin was holding something in his hand — his very own drinking horn. A little confused, Bilbo couldn’t help stare at it, blinking away the remnants of his dream.
“Ah,” Dwalin grunted, pushing the flask into the groggy burglar’s hands. “This is for you. My grandad used to make this for me an’ Balin way back, when we were still rowdy young Dwarves. To stave off headaches from the night after.”
Bilbo raised his eyebrows, inspecting the insides of the cup. He grimaced when the smell hit him — pungent, metallic, and unbearably bitter. He sniffed once, twice, like a wary animal. Dwalin, who even didn’t do as much as to raise a single, bushy eyebrow when the Halfling shot a pleading look towards him, said nothing else.
Still very much unsure but not wanting to offend him, Bilbo let out a little huff and took a small swig of the drink. It ran down his throat, hot and thick, and he gagged. Putting a hand to his mouth, he forced down a cough. “What is that tar-like taste?”
“That’d be the boar’s blood,” answered Dwalin grimly.
Now, this would have surprised Bilbo back at the Shire, but now, he was only less than pleased. “Well, it’s hardly the mug of coffee I’m used to every morning,” Bilbo answered desperately. “…have I got to finish it all?” The Halfling suspected this was a kind of trial or unfortunate way of hazing him. Dwalin had always been the very masculine figure in all the Company, and didn’t seem keen on civilities or flowery talk. Which was all Bilbo was built upon. It was only in Dwalin’s character to be so, well, brutish, for lack of a better word. Perhaps he was doing this on Thorin’s behalf, trying to frighten Bilbo into submission. Or, worse, abandoning the quest altogether.
The look on Dwalin’s face — impassive, and extremely grave — did not tell the Hobbit any otherwise. He gulped, eyes flickering from the Dwarf to the flask.
“Well,” he said dryly, “Bottom’s up.”
And when that horrible liquid ran down his throat, with lumps of something momentarily surprising him, Bilbo Baggins did not think of the taste, or the godforsaken texture, or even Dwalin staring at him, mouth slightly agape. No. As he swallowed, eyes tightly shut, Bilbo summoned the face of Thorin Oakenshield, imagining the scowl buried deep behind his coarse, dark beard, his eyebrows scrunched in a sneer, grey, stormy eyes full of contempt. Well, maybe that took it too far, contempt. It was more like…an irritated stare. As though Bilbo were nothing but an annoying fly that forever buzzed in his ear, too feeble and small to even think about doing away with.
The image of him as a fly, beady-eyed and fleeting, only pushed Bilbo further. He tilted his head back, the swell of his throat bobbing as he finished the drink. He smacked his lips once, twice. “Very good,” he muttered. Bilbo handed the flask back to Balin. He flashed him a smile, hoping he didn’t look as queasy as he felt. “Have you got any more? The, er, pieces of fat gave it quite the interesting clash.”
Because, if there was one thing Master Baggins excelled at, it was being unavoidably petty.
When Dwalin said nothing more (aside from a few stammers and “are ye alright, Bilbo?”s), the burglar got up to his feet, stretching. “Time to greet the new day,” and scampered off to feed his sourdough starter.
“I hope ye know yer drinking that every damn morning!” Dwalin shouted behind him fruitlessly. “I’ll make ye two flasks of it, ye confounded Halfling!”
And that was how life carried on within the Company for a while. Bilbo, increasingly growing more and more cross with how delicately he was being treated by Bofur, Bombur, Bifur, and the rest of them, and being regularly chastised by Thorin and Dwalin, had made it a point to prove just how Tookish he really was. He took risks he ought not to — in three days’ time, Bilbo volunteered to look out on numerous occasions, ate ravenously at dinner (his teeth and distinguished palate be damned), and tried to join with their rambunctious cheering and merry-making late into the night. Gandalf, who had inexplicably returned from whatever trip he had embarked, watched in great fascination as the stuffy Hobbit became the exact opposite of a textbook-Baggins. Whatever Fili and Kili had done, it must have worked. Especially since the Dwarves now seem to shrink when Bilbo turned to them, others more stern and cold.
It was all positively maddening. And extremely curious.
“What have you done to my burglar while I was away?” Gandalf rumbled one firelit night. They were still delightfully on track to Rivendell (not that the Wizard had told anyone, especially Thorin, that they meant to arrive at the Elven sanctuary), and so the Company permitted themselves to relax, just a little. “He is certainly not the same Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”
“Oh, Gandalf, it’s horrible,” answered Ori. “You must know of him. Of his destructive habits.”
Gandalf barely smiled, but did in fact recall that silly instance. “Oh, yes,” he muttered vaguely. “Poor Bilbo. He is lonely, see. I would not blame him in the slightest.”
“It goes beyond loneliness,” hissed Dwalin. “Since three mornings, I have been making Bilbo take Grand Uncle Wondin’s remedy after a night well spent. And not once does he flinch!”
“You, Gandalf.” a voice, dark and velvet-smooth, cut into the talk. “You know him the best. Who is this ‘Petilua’ he lusts for?”
Everyone turned to Thorin, who stood like an unrelenting statue. The Wizard thought for a moment.
“Let us say,” he started sagely, his words unshaken, “that she is an old family friend.”
And thus the interactions between Thorin and Bilbo only intensified. Suddenly, the burglar found himself with much too many chores than he was used to — he was to fill their flasks with clean riverwater each morning, check their supply of food and regularly update Bombur, and could not catch a single break for himself. Then, when he managed to sneak out to feed Petilua her daily dosage of rye flour, Fili, looking quite anxious, suddenly piped up, asking if Bilbo might want to spar.
The chores didn’t cease at night. No, in fact, they tripled: not only was Bilbo cooking dinner, but now he was to wash the dishes, put said dishes above the trees (as to not attract any curious creatures searching for leftovers), keep the fire going until nearly all the Company had fallen asleep, and listen to Bofur prattle on about whatever he managed to pull out his arse that night, dutifully whittling a wooden pony or something (this, however, Bilbo did not resent so deeply: he was always willing to smile and bob his head politely when it came to Bofur). After all his work, he could barely do a thing except to pass out on his bedroll, his quilt hastily thrown upon him.
And this caused him to neglect Petilua so. Once, he forgot to feed her that day, and she chastised him severely the next with her incessant gurgling and bubbling. It had put Bilbo in a rotten mood the rest of the walk, which only manifested in his snappy remarks and barely-there peppiness. Poor Petilua, who hadn’t even wanted to come on a journey, and was quite content alone in her giant jar in Bag End. Wicked be the one who whisked her off to this confounded quest, and those who accompany that villain. Boo-hoo-hoo.
The more irritated Bilbo became, the more light and carefree was Thorin. The Dwarf had actually spared a chuckle for Gloin’s story around the campfire, and regarded Bilbo more warmly than expected. That only proved to the Hobbit that Thorin was actively feeding on his misery, like some deformed kind of vampire-bat, and he became sullen and displeased at the world for such a realization.
“He does not deserve my herb knots,” sniffed a downtrodden Bilbo quietly to himself as he scrubbed at a wooden plate, scowling at the hearty laughter that echoed behind him. He was completely alone. No one wanted to accompany him to clean the dishes, no one at all. Except for all the Furs and Oris, and one (two?) Fili and Kili. Yes. He was all alone. Plotting the demise of one Dwarf king did work its wonders, though. Even if Bilbo couldn’t technically do any of them, he liked to imagine all the different scenarios in which he would wipe that smirk off Thorin’s face, shout that you’re the one who came to my house! Uninvited, by the way!
Ripping his eyes away from the riverbank, Bilbo craned his head to look at the warm scene, and happened to lock eyes with the very Dwarf he was angry at. Thorin, who looked the very image of happy, only laughed at whatever joke he was being told, keeping that eye contact for a few moments before turning away when Dwalin slapped him hard in the back.
Oh, that infuriating Dwarf.
Bilbo was to make the bread by tomorrow’s eve. No excuses. All he needed to do was feed Petilua her last scoop of flour and allow her to balloon into a large, formidable size, and then she needed to rise for a few hours, to which he would have to knead and knead until she was respectably soft…now that he thought of it, Petilua was a handful to maintain. Not that he minded, of course. All good things needed to be tended upon, like the gentle coaxing of a plant to burst out the soil.
But it would be hard, keeping it all a secret. The Company has been riding on his non-existent coattails ever since…well, ever since what’s caused them to act this way. Bilbo barely had time to focus on the way they stared at him when they thought he wasn’t looking, nor could he ponder a moment longer why Gandalf seemed so sly nowadays. But they’ve eased on their helicopter parenting…for now. No matter how many horrid drinks Dwalin forced him to consume, no matter how tired he was at the fancy footwork Kili had him do every sparring lesson, he was stubborn in his decision to make the damn bread. It was killing him inside at this point.
So, here he was, planning an escape.
It was all going wonderfully. Bilbo had employed the assistance of Gandalf (who looked much too ecstatic at the idea of it), who personally ensured that everyone was going to be out the hair of his toes just long enough for him to knead the first hour into his bread. The Wizard, that sly old serpent, had decided he would pull all such tricks out his sleeves to entrance and mystify the Dwarves with the same ploys he used to entertain fauntlings back at the Shire — fireworks. Granted, they were small fireworks, barely a spark, and the Company had not been keen on it…until the Wizard told them he was taking requests, of course. The ruckus, and the apparent excitement the Dwarves had for blowing things up, had allowed Bilbo and his dangerous habits to stray from their minds.
Well. Except for one.
“Halfling.”
Bilbo, half on his way to escape to some high, rocky terrain he could hide to feed his starter, stopped dead in his tracks. His ears swiveled to the word before he turned his head fully, the impatient thumping of his large foot creating an uneasy rhythm between the two.
“Er, I thought Gandalf was showing you his fireworks,” Bilbo started, shuffling on his feet. “Excellent stuff, those fireworks. My particular favorite had always been the dragons.” he shuddered. “Though, now we’re to face a real one, I doubt it’ll impress you that much.”
All previous mirth and merry had wiped itself clean off Thorin’s face. He took a step forward, and Bilbo a replying step back.
“You are thinking of leaving.” he drawled out.
“Oh,” Bilbo shook his head, chuckling, eyes to the ground. “No. I just wanted to go out for a walk. I’ve seen all of Gandalf’s fireworks, anyway, and thought I ought to leave you be.” he cleared his throat, forcing himself to look Thorin in the eye. “It’s a Hobbit thing?”
“A Hobbit thing,” Thorin sneered. “I know what you do, Master Baggins. I know why you sneak off at night.”
Bilbo flushed. The leader of their Company was probably just about ready to berate him about how he prioritized bread over, well, more adventurous things, especially since he’s been pushing his Took side to the front more than usual. Overcompensating for something, he must think. Bilbo swallowed, and furrowed his eyebrows.
“You think we would not notice?” Thorin shot back. “It is not the act of a warrior, Master Baggins, that you do.”
“I don’t see the problem with it,” Bilbo snapped, cheeks pink. Perhaps his sourdough bread was not nearly packed with nutrients or hardier grain than Dwarven bread had, but it was his, and he had the right to enjoy it. And this was entirely unlike Thorin, to make such a big deal out of a starter.
“I do not care for what you do back at the Shire.” Thorin said coldly. He was now in front of Bilbo, staring down at him with regal disappointment. “But you are, more or less, part of this Company and this quest. If you are to travel with us, you must let go of such vain pleasure.”
“Why do you care so much?” spat out the Hobbit, equal parts confused and reasonably annoyed.
At last, Thorin could hold it no longer. With a hiss in his words, he roared out, “Because your insatiable lust over who you call Petilua has no place here!”
Silence.
Bilbo blinked.
“Sorry, what?”
Thorin, panting heavily and looking just a tad bit embarrassed at his outburst, silently recomposed himself by brushing the fur of his coat. “Fili and Kili saw you,” he said sulkily. “Crouching in the forest, pleasuring yourself to her name.”
Such a word had Bilbo’s face flame up. He sputtered, his cheeks unbearably hot and his head muddled in self-affronted shock. This temporary lapse in a response pushed Thorin to continue.
“And then you began to heed her twice a day,” Thorin continued, his voice suddenly straight and nearly clinical. “The Company had begun to worry for you. If it really was a…Hobbitish affair, as you put it. Gandalf told us the truth.”
The mention of Gandalf’s name pricked Bilbo’s ears right up.
“So he put you up to this?” Bilbo huffed, having not quite recovered fully just yet.
Thorin stiffened. “He is the one who informed me you were planning on sneaking off to the side of the quarry.”
“Unbelievable.” Despite himself, the burglar couldn’t help but mutter angrily under his breath, pacing back and forth, much to the bemusement of one Oakenshield. “Always meddling, that Wizard. Always….”
“I do not see an issue with Gandalf warning us of your problem,” Thorin barked, his jaw fixed tightly. “And even now, you prance around the subject.”
Bilbo groaned. He stopped in his pacing, one hand covering the upper half of his face, the other on his hip like an especially displeased parent. “There is no problem. Do you understand, Thorin?”
When Thorin only gaped at him, with that face stuck in half-bewilderment, brows still angrily pointed downward, Bilbo had to put his foot down. Muttering angrily to himself, he rummaged through his pockets, grumbling about the idiocy of Dwarves and troublesome Wizards.
At once, he fished out the bloated jar of his beloved sourdough starter, whose excess was beginning to seep out the confines of the lid. Uncapping it, Bilbo all but shoved the jar in Thorin’s face, who recoiled, unsure what to make of the strange sight presented before him.
“This is Petilua,” Bilbo said finally, exasperated, “The oldest sourdough starter in all of the Shire, mind you. She’s been passed down for generations, and makes a wonderful dough for anything, really. She usually stays in the big jar we keep on Bag End’s countertop, but, well. She’s very dear to me, and I’d hate it if she rotted all alone while I was out.” he sighed. “And perhaps I wouldn’t mind it if I could nibble on a few herb knots along the way.”
Thorin, who had steadily become more and more detached from the world as Bilbo explained, took a little while to reply. “...And why do you refer to it as a lass?”
To that, Bilbo could only muster out a meek chuckle. “It’s sort of how swords and axes have titles, I suppose. ‘Petilua’ was the name of the Baggins who started the tradition. It’s how we remember her, in a way.” he frowned. “Though, she’s become more of an individual entity herself. Always gurgling and demanding more flour…I don’t believe Dwarves have such a thing as a starter, right?”
To this, Petilua gave a proud ‘gghhh’, and continued to bubble.
Thorin looked utterly…well, he looked utterly something. It was all too rare for him to look so thoroughly caught in a trap, eyes battle-worn and stupefied over something as small as sourdough. It was as though he was recalling all the miniscule moments that had decided to torment him in agonizing waves.
“Thorin?” Bilbo called, slightly afraid he had broken their leader when he was not given an answer.
The Dwarven king shook his head, braids swaying by his shoulder. He turned his back, and Bilbo swore he heard Thorin swear to himself that he would kill those dratted sister-sons of his as he stomped away.
“So ye aren’t a perverse, pleasure-riddled maniac?” asked Bofur brightly as they gathered around the bonfire. Gandalf had excused himself the moment the Hobbit came back, going on about how they would permit an old man to retire to the sweet release of sleep.
“No, Bofur,” Bilbo answered, still looking a tad bit flushed as he stared down the open mouth of Petilua’s lid. “I am perfectly respectable. As I always have been.” he gave a Look towards Fili and Kili, who both looked extremely placating and a little amused nonetheless. “But I suppose, from what you’ve told me, that it may have appeared otherwise. Not that any of you were meant to be in any near distance to me, for that matter.”
Thorin, from the other side of the camp (he had been brooding, staring listlessly into the distance as though trying to ignore the taunts of a thousand ghosts when Bilbo arrived), shot the two brothers a regal, reproachful look, and they sobered up even more. “Sorry, Master Baggins.” they chirped in unison.
“And ye don’t really have an inch of coca to spare?” asked Nori, sounding disappointed.
“No, I — hold on!” Bilbo squeaked, “Thorin didn’t tell me anything about any of you thinking I was…doing that.”
All thirteen heads turned to the Company’s fearless, noble king. Thorin did not look away from the fire. “It did not cross my mind,” he said quietly.
Balin looked from Bilbo to Thorin, then to the Company, and then to Thorin and Bilbo again. He smiled. “Now that it’s settled, why don’t ye explain that jar in yer hand, lad?” and this excited the Hobbit greatly, for his ears perked up.
“Certainly,” Bilbo answered happily, holding out his jar to show everyone. “Now, this is the real Petilua. She’s a great many years old, but she can still make a delightful scone or biscuit. In fact, the reason I had been sneaking off was I was trying to balloon up her size, see, so everyone in the Company could have a little bit to eat…”
All in all, it was a good night, indeed. Even after Gandalf had led them towards the towering halls of Rivendell, they weren’t completely in a sour mood, for there was a good amount of ovens and enough time for Bilbo to make raspberry scones and all the herb knots their hearts desired. Even the great Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror could not resist smuggling a few wrapped pastries into his rucksack to save for later.