Chapter Text
“You will stay here.” Smaug ordered him. “Do you understand? It is dangerous outside.”
Bilbo just nodded. “But where are you going?” he wanted to know.
The moment Bilbo had told him of the Dwarrows, Smaug had panicked. Well, perhaps panicked was the wrong word. Dragons do not panic. They become angry, certainly, but they do not panic.
Concerned seemed liked a more appropriate word for it.
“I am destroying the Heart of the Earth for good.” Smaug’s claws tightened around the pale blue gem. It twinkled in the firelight. Bilbo had always found it an odd trinket. The books he’d read spoke of it often, the treasure of Erebor and the royal family. “It is what draws them here,” he hissed now, gaining Bilbo’s attention, “what poisons them.”
“And if it’s gone?” he wondered.
“Then the poison will be gone,” Smaug replied simply.
Bilbo paused for a long while before speaking again. “But they will not.”
“No.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that. “You are coming back, though, aren’t you?” his tone had taken on a rather desperate edge.
Smaug did not answer, instead, he simply said. “Stay inside.” His wings began to stretch out as he spoke, scattering piles of gold.
Bilbo watched him disappear up the steps of the treasury, breathing fire down onto the stone, turning it to ash he would probably spread over the Brownlands down south.
He was alone. Dreadfully alone.
He heard the news hours later, while spying on the group of Dwarrows near the entrance. They were silent, mostly, looking in the distance for the dragon that they had seen fly off earlier. Smaug had neglected to chase them off, perhaps because of the urgency of ridding the Earth Heart.
The Dwarrow with the odd thing on his head came running over. “Munûnel!” he was waving a small slither of paper. Bilbo had read that word before, though he was unsure of what it meant. “News from Laketown by munûnâl.”
Bilbo understood now. A messenger had delivered a letter.
He read about messengers, in great epic stories, delivering news of great wins to the far reaches of Middle Earth. The messenger was often a bird, sometimes a Thrush, but often a Raven: a Bâhzundush.
The note was handed to the black-haired Dwarrow; the one Bilbo had felt a tug for. He looked down at the words, an incredulous look on his face.
“The beast is dead!” the scary one announced, reading over the others shoulder. The words struck cold into Bilbo’s chest.
He couldn’t be.
A murmur ran through the group.
“Dead,” Bilbo whispered, clutching at the stone walls of the tunnel. He slid down until his knees hit the ground. “No.”
“Dead?” one of the voices wondered.
“He was killed in Laketown,” the scary one explained, going over the note again. “Bard the Bowman shot him down with one arrow!”
Bilbo did not like the sound of this Bard the Bowman.
“The Mountain is ours.” The black-haired one, the leader, Bilbo assumed, turned and looked up at the high stone walls.
The scary Dwarrow slapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, it is.” He agreed. “We can try and get through what’s left of the entrance. And Thorin Oakenshield, rayad, can sit on the throne like he was destined to,” he looked at the other Dwarrow. “Like your ancestors did.”
Bilbo cowered in the tunnel, feeling empty and alone while he heard them pack their things and pass.
Only when he was truly alone (and he was truly alone this time) did he allow himself to cry.
He returned to the treasury once his tears had dried, though his body was still shaking with fear and grief. There he hid, behind one of the piles of gold. Because surely they would come here first, wanting to see what they had won.
Soon enough, he heard footsteps and part of a conversation floated across the room to his ears.
“Thorin,” the first voice said now. “Do you remember when they used to call me Barkith?”
Barkith, The Axe that is Young. Bilbo had read of such names. Dwarrows were given names for their accomplishments. Bilbo wondered what he would be called. Perhaps Ishuke. It seemed fitting. The Coward. He was a coward, hiding here. If he were strong, like the warriors he’d read about, he would get up and fight. But Bilbo did not know how to fight, and he was very, very scared.
He glanced quickly at the stairs to find two Dwarrows there. The first one was the tall one with the frightening expression on his face. It didn’t seem to change no matter the situation. He was looking at the second, who had paused at the stairs and was now looking over the treasure. The dark-haired one, the one who had called him Burglar, which Bilbo was certain, was an insult.
The one named Thorin rolled his eyes. At least, Bilbo was assuming he was a he. “You are not so young anymore, Dwalin.” He announced. “And you are a Lord now, as I am. So perhaps a better name is in order, Uzbad?” Lord. Lords. That meant they were men.
Dwalin frowned. “I’m not sure I like that.” He announced. “It sounds so… poncy.”
Thorin chuckled, the sound running shivers through Bilbo’s body. He shrunk down further when his eyes roamed over the pile of gold he was hiding behind.
“Do you think the Arkenstone is here?” he asked now.
The man named Dwalin seemed displeased by this. “What does it matter?” he asked. “That thing is toxic. You saw what it did to Thror-”
“It is the gem of the Mountain. A symbol.”
“It will poison you like it poisoned hm.” Dwalin countered now, voice thick with some kind of accent. “Do not think you’re above it.”
Thorin looked displeased, but let the subject drop.
They were coming closer. He had to get out of here now, or else he was certain they would find him. And Mahal only knows what they’d do to him then.
He could make a run for it. Jump up and run. He could dart through this room and out the secret passageway. He could go… well, somewhere. He could try to find those green hills he’d been dreaming about.
He managed to get to his feet, knees weak and legs shaking, and go ready to dart out from behind the pile of gold. But with the first step his hunger got to him. It made him light headed and fuzzy, it made him dizzy.
He collapsed.
“He looks sick.” The voice broke through the darkness, and Bilbo felt himself flinch.
“He doesn’t appear to have eaten much in a while.” A sigh. “If I knew more about what he was, it would help me understand his physiology more. Perhaps you could ask the Elves-”
“-treeshaggers,” he heard someone else mutter, someone familiar.
“-they’re bound to know.” The first voice finished.
There was a grumble. “Thorin won’t like that.”
“If it saves a life then I don’t care how angry our new King is.”
“Oin-”
“No, I will hear none of it.”
“Oin-”
“My obligation as a healer outweighs my obligation to The Company, you know that-”
“Oin!” the other voice snapped now, clearly irritated.
“What?” The one named Oin demanded.
“He’s moving.”
“Oh,” he felt someone lean over him. “Can you hear me, little one?”
Bilbo’s head hurt. “Mrmph.”
“Is that a language or a moan of pain?” Someone else queried.
Bilbo managed to open his eyes and stare at them. “Where am I?” he wanted to know.
“Well, you’re in what’s left of our infirmary.” Oin peered at him. “How are you-?”
But the scary Dwarrow cut him off, stepping forward. “Where are you from, little Elf?”
“Elf?” Bilbo frowned. “Am I an Elf?”
The Dwarrows shared a look.
“Where’re you from?” the scary one asked again. Dwalin. Bilbo remembered now that his name was Dwalin.
Bilbo sniffled, trying to sit up properly. “Well, I am from here, of course.”
“No,” the fair one said, moving forward so Bilbo could see him properly, “where do you hail?”
“Here.” Bilbo answered.
Another sigh. “Where were you born?” The elderly man who had been leaning over him asked.
“Here.” Bilbo repeated. He huffed loudly, before pausing. “You are Dwarrows, aren’t you?”
“Aye,” the scary one replied.
“But you don’t know what I am?” he asked, a little desperately. It seemed that his hopes had been dashed. What was he? Perhaps he was an Elf- a very short Elf. Did that happen? He’d never read about that sort of thing before.
The fair one frowned at him. “Don’t you?”
Bilbo shook his head. Smaug hadn’t known either. He sat up, turning so his legs swung off the side of the bed.
“If you’re from here, how come you speak Westron?”
Bilbo looked at the older Dwarrow. “Smaug taught me.”
“Smaug?” he repeated, eyes widening.
“And the books,” he added, belatedly.
“You’ve been to the library?” Dwalin wondered.
He nodded. “I have.”
“And it’s still intact?”
Bilbo found himself shrugging. “Most of it. A lot of the books are damaged, but they’re still readable.”
“The stairs that lead to it are broken,” he said now, matter-of-factly.
“There are other ways in.” Bilbo had found them when he was younger. Bits of broken rock he could climb to find his way up there. Hidden passageways. And if all else failed him, he could just move things to climb on top of. He easily knew his way around the Mountain; he could perhaps even do it with his eyes closed.
Dwalin gave a grunt before turning to the others. “Someone ought ter tell Thorin that the Burglar has woken up,” he announced.
Bilbo frowned. “I do not know what that means,” he said now, “but I’m sure it’s not nice.”
“It isn’t.” Dwalin informed him.
“Well,” Bilbo continued, “I have a name, you know. I am not Burglar, whatever that is.”
“Yer wrong there,” Dwalin replied now. “That is exactly what you are. You stole from us, so you are called Burglar.”
Bilbo put his hands on his hips. “Well, you are scary, but I don’t call you…” he searched for a word before spitting it out, “Dharginh, do I?”
The fair haired one burst into laughter, although they all looked rather surprised that he knew a word from their language. “He’s got you there, Mister Dwalin.”
Dwalin didn’t reply for a few moments, but Bilbo thought he saw his lips flicker upwards just a little.
The older man, the one with the fuzzy hair, was doing strange things now, looking at Bilbo oddly.
“Vustur…” he murmured, probably more to himself than to anyone else.
Bilbo flinched away from him. “Why are you touching me?” he demanded. The Dwarrow’s hands were cold.
“He’s a healer.” The fair-haired one explained.
Bilbo hadn’t read about those before. “What does he do?”
“Well,” for a moment the fair one was silent, “he heals.”
“I try to make sick people better.” The healer informed him.
“What is your name?” the fair Dwarrow asked.
“What is your name?” he shot back.
He grinned. “I am Fili. This is Dwalin,” he put a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder now. “And that is Oin.” He pointed to the healer. “And your name?” he prodded.
“Bilbo Baggins,” he paused. “I think.”
“You think?” Fili frowned.
“I was told that was my name, but I do not know for sure. But it is what I call myself, and what Smaug called me, so I suppose it’s as good of a name as I’m going to get.”
“I think perhaps you’d best tell us the story from the start, lad.” Oin said now, patting his knee. Bilbo had never had anyone pat his knee before. It was a bit alarming, and also strangely comforting.
So Bilbo told them. He told them about the story Smaug had told him. That his mother had crawled into the Mountain one night, heavily pregnant and seeking shelter from the storm, she died later that night giving birth to Bilbo and Smaug had looked after him. Raised him, taught him, cared for him, ensured he was safe.
And now Smaug was dead. And Bilbo didn’t have anyone but strangers who didn’t seem all that pleased with him.
“I’ve never seen anyone else before,” he added when he’d finished with his stories. “Now Dwarrows, not men, not Elves. Only myself and Smaug.”
“He could be useful,” Dwalin surmised eventually. “Having lived here for so long.” He spoke to Bilbo now. “You know your way around here? Around the ruins?”
Bilbo nodded.
“But Uncle Thorin grew up here. So did you.” Fili argued now.
Dwalin shook his head. “We need someone familiar with the place now, not how it was before. There are many rooms that have caved in, many passages that are no more. We have ter be careful where ter tread. You can help.”
Bilbo liked the idea of helping. It meant they weren’t going to kill him. Yet.