Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

    A tall man dressed in worn grey robes travelled slowly down a well-trod road that ran between numerous hills. The hills themselves were covered in the most perfect jewel toned grasses while daintily scented flowers grew in brightly coloured clusters. Why, if one was over 6 feet tall and turned their head to the south, they would get an amazing view of a small lake made of water so pure and clear that it seemed almost as if a piece of sky had fallen and was content to stay were it had landed. All in all, it was quite idyllic and seemed like an area one would dream to live in, or at least vacation in.

    Which is why it is no surprise at all that it was, in fact, a settled area, with quite a bustling population. Brightly coloured, round doors sat nested into the hillsides alongside little round windows. Little (and not so little, noticed the tall man amusedly) gardens were nestled in quaint front yards, or to the sides of hills, and why one even was encroaching on the top of the hill and road, snagging on both the man’s robes, hat, and staff!

    After wrestling back his possessions (In which he was almost not successful, and doing so took an embarrassingly long time,he had to admit.), the man idly took note to avoid for the foreseeable future (At least until the winter, or a more proficient gardener was hired, whichever came first.) and continued on his way after plucking a rather enticing tomato in payment for his troubles. Yes, the man thought to himself, the Shire was always quite an adventure in and of itself.

    Slowly but surely, the man made his way towards his destination. Finally, there it was; Bag End, of Bagshot Row, located in the village of Hobbiton, which itself was in far-eastern Westfarthing, of The Shire. (Which was the man’s 2nd favourite region of Eriador). Even better, his intended victim, er, target, was outside lounging in the sunlight. Smiling, the man readied himself. It was Showtime.

    Hair the colour of freshly tilled earth shone subtly in the sun, in a way only brought on by living well and living long can. A soft patterned yellow vest was buttoned smartly over a crisp white shirt. With a pair of shin-length, taupe pants ironed and creased to perfection, the outfit was completed by a robin’s-egg blue silk ascot tied impeccably. Curious pointed ears poked through riotous curls, and even more curious where the disproportionately large feet topped by even more silken, brown curls. Yes, Bilbo Baggins was an exceptionally hobbit-y looking hobbit.

    Bilbo lazily blew smoke rings, perfected then improved over the 20-odd years he had been smoking. Eyes closed, he cracked a smile around the stem of perhaps the ugliest smoking pipe this side of Arda. Carved from oak, it was dyed a startling, bright purple. As if the colour wasn’t gaudy enough, the entire bowl was made of a rose that, unfortunately, was more reminiscent of a cabbage due to an  over-abundance of petals/ cabbage leafs and colour choice. Making matters worse, the stem was carved with the pattern of fsh scales. To top off this valar-forsaken pipe, the bit was a chunk of once brilliant copper; now badly oxidized and thusly green. (Caused by the pipe’s unfortunate luck of being owned by a member of the one race who didn't particularly care for the aesthetic pleasure of metals.)

    One could wonder 4 things about this pipe.

1. Who could have made this monstrosity?
2. Who would BUY aforementioned monstrosity?
3. Why would the unfortunate owner own/use this pipe almost exclusively?
4. Did the inherent ugliness actually affect the taste of pipeweed?

    3 of those 4 could easily be answered.

    Belladonna Baggins, nee Took, purchased it from an unknown vendor on one of her last ‘adventures’. It was thusly given as a present to her only child, one Bilbo Baggins 24 years ago. (Hobbiton residents noticed The Pipe™️ immediately and kept track of how many years they were forced to be in its presence.) Uncommonly known was the fact Bilbo had a complicated relationship with it. Receiving it shortly before 26th birthday, he originally planned on keeping it just long enough to be considered polite before ‘misplacing’ it. (i.e.; breaking it and burying the pieces across the Shire, never to be reunited.) Unfortunately, Belladonna passed away before the polite time period was up, as well as before giving Bilbo another gift. So, Bilbo faithfully kept The Pipe™️ as a bittersweet memory of his beloved mother, and also because his parents had Melkor-damn near beat all 28 rules of Gift-Receiving into him as a faunt. (#15; Gifts recently given by the newly deceased must never be discarded or purposefully misplaced, broken, or forgotten. #16; Gifts recently received by the newly deceased must be used more than once a season, permitted they are not themed for holy days, celebrations, and/or festivals.) Lastly, Bilbo swore that the pipe did NOT adversely affect the quality or taste of pipweed. A fact which was not believed (How could they trust someone who only ever used said pipe to have an unbiased opinion?) to the point where taking a puff from “Mad Baggins’” pipe had become a rite of passage for the local youth.  

    As Bilbo continued puffing away, his ears picked up the sound of someone noisily walking up the road. Now, as Hobbit ears weren’t just for show, (the pointed ears were surprisingly sensitive,) the fact that this pedestrian could be heard approaching from over 30 feet limited this visitor to one person; Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.

     Bilbo heard the (assumed) bane of his existence finally stop in front of him. With his eyes still closed, Bilbo decided to try and head off her tirade before it started.

    “I’m afraid I can’t invite you inside for tea. Sudden case of gout. You know how it is. Yes, I’m feeling particularly gout-y today.”  The sputtering was to be expected, but the deepness of the noise was not. “Yavanna have mercy, Lobelia. Have your eight pipes a day suddenly caught up to you?” Bilbo finally looked and.. Well. This was certainly not a lady hobbit in front of him. (Unless it was an exceptionally ugly hobbit, but that wasn’t something to be said before elevenses. No, that was something to say to Belle Gamgee over tea time.) Well then. Considering this stranger rudely interrupted Bilbo’s morning smoke, Bilbo felt no need to be polite. “Excuse me, but, who are you?”

     Finally, being somewhat properly addressed seem to shake the man out of his stupor. Standing up, the grey man asked “Why, Bilbo Baggins, are you saying you don’t remember me?”

    “Obviously not, being the reason why I’m trying to inquire who you are.”

    “Why, I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!”

    “Gandalf? Gandalf, Gandalf, Gandalf…” Bilbo was forced to think about the name while he dumped the contents of his pipe onto the marigold bed. (He silently apologized to his gardener Hamfast Gamgee.) “Why, surely not the Gandalf who used to have such amazing fireworks.” Bilbo studied the wizened face in front of him as Gandalf seemed to grieve over the fact that he was remembered only for fireworks. “I do beg pardon, and not to be rude, but, if you really are Gandalf, how are you alive? I mean, Gandalf was ancient when i was but a faunt. If I’m remembering correctly, men typically do not live that long?”

     After hearing this, Gandalf seemed vexed, but soldiered on to continue this increasingly off-kilter (for a Hobbit) conversation. “Why, to think I’d live to see the day Belladonna Took’s only son wouldn’t recognize me! Belladonna must have changed, and not for the better, if she never mentioned leaving the borders of The Shire with me. And I am not a ‘man’, for I am a wizard.”

    Bilbo, choosing to ignore the slight against his late mother, responded with a quick “Oh, that was you? Terribly sorry, but she only referred to you as The Meddler.” leaning forward, Bilbo asked, “Now, what hare-brained scheme have you volunteered me for?”

    To say that Gandalf had been prepared for this conversation was like saying Sauron had been but a minor inconvenience. Right away, all of Gandalf’s 378 Possible-Greetings-and-Responses were thrown to the wind. Gout? Gandalf had 700 years of interacting with Hobbits under his belt, and not once had one ever mentioned gout.

    Then, it got worse. In rapid succession, he was unknown, then known for fireworks, then accused of being so old he should be dead, then dealt the final, killing blows of being referred to as “The Meddler” and being straight out asked what scheme he was here to force upon. Gandalf, with no time to recover, had dazedly mentioned a quest involving 13 dwarves to be discussed at dinner, that Bilbo would be holding,

    The absolute fury on Bilbo’s face made Gandalf wish he was currently facing Smaug. Smaug would never yell about “stupid men and their unappreciativeness of proper Dinner-Party hosting”, or “There are reputations on the line!”. Smaug would never hit him with a truly awful pipe for drawing a rune on his door. (“I JUST HAD THAT PAINTED LAST WEEK!”) And lastly, Smaug would never deal such a crippling blow to his reputation by muttering “Idle hands make big plans? Idle hands spend time at the genitals, for Took’s sake.” on his way to the market. (Gandalf had been pleased with his “Idle hands make big plans” excuse. He, in fact, had been excited to defend himself with it before the White Council. At least, before a small 4 foot menace had ruined it.)

    So, Gandalf did perhaps the most sensible thing he ever did, and beat a tactical retreat. As he was fleeing, dignity in tatters, he wondered if he should bring a bottle (or several) to dinner. Surely it would soothe Bilbo, to be a proper guest by bringing the host a gift. It also had the added benefit of, without doubt, being needed to keep Gandalf’s sanity during (and after) dinner.

  While contemplating wine pairings, Gandalf felt a sliver of pleasure appear. For all that appearances may suggest, Bilbo Baggins was, without question, the most un-Hobbit-y acting Hobbit he’d ever had the (dis)pleasure of meeting. Yes, Gandalf had chosen well for this quest.

Chapter Text

Gandalf, Bilbo had decided, was completely out of his mind. Furthermore, his mother (May her soul rest in Yavanna’s Garden) must have been out of her mind as well. How could she have travelled with someone who took such liberties? Honestly, how could a sentient being that had interacted with Hobbits before, think that it was an acceptable idea to throw a medium sized dinner party without informing the host until the day of? (Truth be told, Bilbo had a gut feeling that Gandalf hadn’t originally even planned on informing Bilbo of his ‘guests’.)

Bilbo headed towards his destination with such single-minded determination that it seemed if an oliphaunt got in his way, he would simply plow through it. Now, seeing as Hobbits as whole are not   as sturdy as an oliphaunt, the ones who were unfortunate enough to be on the same road quickly stepped aside.

Stopping at a smaller smial nearby, Bilbo jiggled the door (Wiggle it to the left just enough, then lean your shoulder above the doorknob and it should…) and it easily opened under his expert ministrations. Absentmindedly, he patted the heads of the numerous faunts he came across. (It was a testament to how often this happened that the faunts weren’t even fazed by the fact that ‘Mad Baggins’ had opened their locked door, acknowledged them, and continued on his well-memorized way.)

“Bell! Bell, my beautiful rutabaga, where are you?” Bilbo called out as he wandered towards the kitchen.

“Bilbo? Is that you?” A short (even by Hobbit standards), stout woman appeared around a corner with a baby slung around her chest, and a slightly older one sitting on her hip. With curly hair the colour of brushed copper swept up into a messy bun, she had tanned, freckled skin, big doe eyes set above a button nose and the chubbiest cheeks this side of the Brandywine. Wearing a plain brown skirt, a stained white apron embroidered with hollyhocks, a mint vest and cream blouse, Bellflower Gamgee was the truest (and prettiest) picture of a Hobbit Mother one could ever see.

“Woe is me, Bellflower.” Bilbo threw himself against the wall. “Remember how I told you about my mother warned me that if The Meddler came, it was to drag me along on an adventure, with or without my permission?”

“Oh, Bilbo! Please tell me he didn’t appear?”

“Aye.” Taking wee Samwise from Bell’s hip, he tapped his little nose in greeting before continuing. “And, as if it wasn’t already the worst case scenario, Gandalf just informed me that I’m to be hosting dinner for 14 in 8 hours! 13 dwarves and a wizard, not including myself.” A large sigh ruffled Samwise’s little copper curls. “I need to head to the market. Let little Hamson and Halfred know that they can each earn a pretty shilling for delivering my groceries.”

“Of course Bilbo. Do you need any help to bake? I could make the rolls or scones? What about planning? Do you already have the courses chosen?”

“I would appreciate some of your butter rolls, but no, I have no idea what to serve. Honestly, I don't have time to organize and plan an acceptable dinner.” Bell watched as Bilbo started to pace. “I have no idea what’s in season, what they have at the market, I haven’t budgeted!” Bilbo quickly spun around and pointed his index finger at Belle. Samwise giggled and clapped, enjoying the fast movements, completely unaware (or ignoring) his holder’s rapid descent into hysteria. “In fact ! These, these… Guests ,” Bilbo spat the word with such venom Bell almost covered little Marigold’s ears out of reflex (nevermind the fact she was 7 months old), “Should be honoured that they are getting a taste of Baggins hospitality!”

Bell watched in amusement as Bilbo carried on. Gently herding him to the table in the kitchen, she sat him down, shooed Samwise away, and placed a cup of chamomile tea in his hands.  “Bilbo; stop.” Her firm interruption paused him mid-inhalation. “Now, since it’s last minute, simply serve a 10-course. The Meddler never stated it was to be a formal course, did he?”

Bilbo grumbled into his teacup. “No, but I have standards, Bell.”

Bell held up a hand. “Settle down. Who cares? There's not going to be any judgemental, gossipy matrons there. Nobody will know.”

“But I’ll know. I won’t ever be able to keep my head held high because I’ll be crushed under the weight of my failed hosting. It’s a very heavy weight to bear.”

“Says who?”

“Lobelia. Can’t you tell? Her posture is abysmal, and so is her hosting.”

“Bilbo!” Bell laughed and swatted him. “That doesn't have anything to do with cause and correlation.”

“I should head to the market now.” Bilbo pushed his chair away. “Thanks for being a voice of reason.”

“Of course my dear friend.” after giving Bilbo a farewell hug, she added “After all, who else in The Shire would be willing to deal with your theatrics?”

Berries and Citrus were in season at the market, and they were cheap. Grapes and cherries had arrived early this year, so the fruit vendors were desperate to load off their lemons, oranges and grapefruits. After arranging for the two oldest Gamgee lads to pick up the fruit and berries, Bilbo headed towards the butcher. Following his purchasing of several chickens and three racks of lamb, he started to head home. At least, that was Bilbo’s plan until a grotesque mash of fabrics and hat stepped in front of him.  

“So, I hear you're hosting an informal dinner,” a shrill voice announced loudly. “One must wonder why your family isn’t invited. After all, it's only the proper thing to do.”

Bilbo plastered a fake smile on his face (though to call it a smile was generous; it was more of a grimace). “Lobelia. To think that I was enjoying the bird songs until your voice scared them away. If only I were a bluebird so I, too, could fly away once I saw you open your maw.” An ugly flush appeared over Lobelia’s cheeks. “Oh well. Yavanna puts us through struggle so we can appreciate her bountiful harvest even more. Now, what were you going on about Lobelia?”

“DInner! I know you're hosting one Bilbo Baggins, so don’t try to deny it. It’s obvious from your purchases.”

“Lobelia, am I going to have to get the Sheriff? You know stalking is a criminal offense. But, yes, I am hosting a dinner.”

Her flush intensified, Lobelia tried to get the conversation back on track. “Well, why weren’t Otho and I invited?”

“Simple; it’s for my past lovers. We’re going to get drunk, argue over why we didn’t work, and hopefully I’ll get lucky by the end of the night. Now, considering you don’t have the right bits, and Otho isn’t exactly my type, why would you be invited?” Bilbo’s deadpan delivery made a choked, scandalized gasp escape from the trash heap named Lobelia. “I’m joking. It’s for a family friend I haven’t seen in years and their ragamuffins. Pardon, but you’ll have to excuse me Lobelia. I just found out this morning, so I’m in a bit of a rush.” As Bilbo tried to breeze by her, she asked such a malicious question that all the other Hobbits in the marketplace gave up the pretense of pretending not to eavesdrop: “Oh? Are you so busy that you need help? I’ll be glad to drop off a stall-bought pie for your supper if needed, Bilbo.”

The market was quiet. The last time such a public display of this proportion occurred in The Shire, a Took had broken off his engagement to marry what he claimed was a ‘fairy’. It had divided the population, and as a direct result helped develop the very strict Hobbit Sensibilities and emphasis on one’s Respectability. Even though The Broken Engagement (as it had come to be known) happened over one thousand years ago, no Lightfoot had even had a dalliance with a Took, let alone been engaged. (Even being friendly seemed to push the envelope.)

The crowds breath was held in anticipation. How would Bilbo respond to such absolute slander? They didn’t have to wait long. Slowly, Bilbo turned around on the balls of his feet.

“Why, Lobelia.... That’s a bold thing to offer. In fact, it reminds me of last autumn. Specifically, how I was hired to cater a particular second birthday.”

An even bigger gasp could be heard from the crowd. Lotho Sackville-Baggins’ second birthday party was widely considered the crowning glory for Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, mainly due to the fare.  Spluttering, Lobelia heavily denied the insinuation, calling Bilbo a liar for good measure.

It was the wrong thing to do. A vicious glint appeared in those pale green eyes, while a predatory grin slowly spread over his face. Gone was the undeniable hobbit cuteness; replaced by something so ruthless the surrounding Hobbits fight-or-flight instincts were ready to kick in.

“My, my, my Lobelia! I hadn’t even mentioned  a name! But, obviously, if the apron fits, wear it. I do beg pardon though. To even mention that was bad manners, but to implicate yourself in public? How.. scandalous . Mortifying, really. I wonder if one’s reputation could even recover from such a blow?”

A screech so unpleasant had everyone in the vicinity wince. Following that unholy noise, Lobelia swung her parasol at Bilbo’s head.

A dull thunk was the only response. Bilbo had managed to parry Lobelia’s assault with his pipe. Quiet noises of amazement rippled through the onlookers (though most of the amazement was from were on Arda had Bilbo pulled that pipe from).

“Aggravated assault in front of over a dozen witnesses?” In one fluid motion, Lobelia was disarmed and the parasol landed in the dirt while she was given a quick rap on the forehead from the ghastly pipe. “Isn’t that rather... Plebeian for you? Honestly, what’s gotten into you?” Pulling out his pocket watch, Bilbo checked the time “Please, someone needs to call Otho or the Sheriff; she’s hysteric. I don’t have time for this; I have a dinner to make.”

With that being said, Bilbo bustled out of the market and headed home, faunts trailing behind loaded with groceries. With all the not-subtle staring directed his way, Bilbo failed to notice the heavy stares coming from a pair of dwarrow. (If he did, Bilbo would have undoubtedly called them perverts.)

Chapter Text

    It was of Bilbo’s opinion that everything that needed to be done, was done only by some form of Valar intervention. Obviously, he was prejudiced to believe it was Yavanna, but at this point he was so grateful he sent thanks to all 14 of them and Eru Ilúvatar, just to cover his bases. (Valinor forbid he thank the wrong one and everything go bottoms up in retaliation.)

    Somehow, in between the cutting, peeling, basting, seasoning, mixing, freezing, setting and hundred other little actions that make up cooking a large dinner, Bilbo had managed to update his will, have it notarized and sent on its merry way, pack a travel bag, air out the guest rooms, sweep and mop the floors, send a note to the Thain, quickly bathe, set the table, and make menu cards.

    Now, all there was to do was wait.

    Dwalin was irritated. To be fair, he was hardly ever content. But right now, he was definitely -3 on the 1-10 scale of how irritated he was. 

    By Mahal, these... Bobbits? Cobbits? … Well, whatever they called themselves, they were the most useless creatures on Arda. No muscle, no weapons, no armour. (To be fair, Dwalin wondered if the obscene amount of fat they had acted as a sort of natural protection) It was obviously only protected by nature (which he could understand to an extent; after all, a mountain offered superior protection to everything that *wasn’t* a dragon) and the graciousness of those Rangers. 

    A Hobbit! That’s what they called themselves. Well, even if Dwalin believed that bringing one of these.. Things along was a liability, he could at least admit that tonight seemed a positive. Promised free food (which obviously had to be good, given how large every hobbit was), seeing his brother for the first time in 5 years, and seeing the Durin’s again. While he was most excited about Thorin, Dwalin could admit that it would even be nice to see Dís’ balrogs, Fíli and Kíli. (Though he would probably be ready to knock their heads together and leave them trussed up in the nearest tree after an hour.)

    Dwalin finally arrived at the hole in the ground, and idly noted he was the first one there. He paused, remembering that Mithrandir had insisted that Balin be the first to arrive. Dwalin considered his options (Wait for Balin and follow Mithrandir’s plan, or possibly frighten the hobbit and maybe get first dibs at food?), then promptly threw consideration out the window. While the sons of Fundin were both educated and highly intelligent, Dwalin preferred doing instead of pondering when it came to daily life. As such, Dwalin raised his hand, and knocked.

    Three heavy, dull thuds could be heard coming from the door. Bilbo cursed up a storm as he headed towards the door; if this was one of the dinner guests, he was half an hour early. 

    “Ah, uh, just a moment!” Bilbo yelled. “This must be a sign from the Green Goddess herself,” he muttered to himself. “Showing up to dinner half an hour early? Incredibly rude! This does NOT bode well at all.” Finally reaching the door, Bilbo pulled it open, and promptly shut it again. 

    First of all, Dwalin was made to wait. This in and of itself was a very rare occurrence, as Dwalin was as infamous as he was revered by the inhabitants of the Blue Mountain. Secondly, when the door was opened, the... the... child had the audacity to slam it in his face! Dwalin all but flung the door back open. (He sent a quick apology to his adad, who he knew must be losing his mind in Mahal’s Halls.) 

    When the door banged open, the hobbit on the other side let out a little squeak. It was just a wee thing, probably (no, definitely) younger the Fíli and Kíli. (Dwalin felt a little bad, but his outrage outweighed his guilt at the moment) 

    “Aye laddie! Who d’you think ya are, slammin’ doors in dwarf faces? Your parents did nae teach you better?”  

    The poor thing made an indignant noise, and drew itself up to his (rather pitiful) full height. Dwalin made sure to keep on his disappointed face, the one that had always made the Durin terrors apologize and cry. Right as the wee lad’s cheeks puffed up (which where endearingly flushed and chubby),  another knock rang out across the home. 

    Bilbo’s patience was as thin as strudel dough. The absolute nerve! The audacity! This absolute behemoth  of a dwarf showed up early, forced his way into Bag End, then proceeded to lecture him! Bilbo, of course, could not let such indignities slide, and was about to let loose a tongue lashing of such proportions which Hobbiton hadn’t seen in recent memory. 

    Then, someone knocked. Storing his retort in his left cheek so it would be easily accessible later (rather much like a chipmunk), Bilbo straightened his jacket, dusted his hands on his apron, and headed to the door. 

    As he neared, he resolved to be such a gracious host that his so called guests would choke on his superb hosting skills. He would be so gracious, so endearing, so accommodating that he would be able to shove it down everyone’s throats tonight  alongside the impeccable meal. (And, with him being so gracious, he would only let them choke for a minute or two; just long enough to enjoy a sip or three of wine.) Resolutely, Bilbo opened the door and smiled. 

    On the other side of the door stood a dwarf that was quite a bit shorter than the one currently wandering throughout his smial. (Honestly, Bilbo thought this new dwarfs height to be more sensible than Mr. Saddle Goose over there.) Bilbo’s mood only heightened when he noticed his new guest was wearing a red jacket (well, it was more of a robe really, but Bilbo’s favourite coat colour was red and any shade variant). 

    The dwarf’s voice interrupted Bilbo’s scrutinizing. “Balin, Son of Fundin.” A quick, shallow bow was accompanied by an “At your service.” 

    ‘What a peculiar greeting,’ Bilbo mused. “Bilbo Baggins, Son of Bungo, at yours,” was returned succinctly. (Bilbo attempted a bow, but his apron cut into his stomach quite fiercely. Unrelated, Bilbo’s new goal in life was to escape his guests for a second to either re-tie his apron, or more preferably, remove it entirely.)  Bilbo stepped aside and gestured his arm. “Please, do come in.”  

    Even though Balin was old enough to remember Erebor, to remember the feeling, the deep-seated  right-ness of being surrounded completely by stone and the all consuming sense of safety it offers; he was old enough and disillusioned enough to admit that The Shire was nice. 

    While his very essence called out longingly for the stones and mountains their maker Mahal has made just for them, there was a contentment that seemed to emanate from every simple thing from this fertile, gentle land. 

    Balin had been blessed with good fortune to pass through Michel Delving on Market Day, and managed to sell off the last of his fancy inks, quills, and other various stationary while also procuring some last minute items he knew some dwarrow would forget. But that afternoon he spent merchandising his wares wasn’t spent in vain. Years living on the cusp of poverty had only enhanced his observant eye, and the inhabitants of this land were almost obnoxious in how transparent they were. 

    Soft hands calloused only by gardening tools or  writing instruments. Faded scars obviously related to knife injuries from meal prepping and burn marks from hot pots and pans. Soft curves and round faces showed an appreciation for/an abundance of food, while a frankly alarming amount of children ran unsupervised, showing high birth and survival rates. (Balin could faithfully say that if there were this many children in any dwarvish settlement, they would be watched like hawks by all inhabitants. Children were rare, and his smile became slightly forced the more near-injuries he observed that were brushed off or just ignored completely by the surrounding adults.) 

    Truthfully, by the time Balin had to leave to make it to the burglars house on time, he was glad to go. A bitter sort of melancholy had taken root, one that would not go away no matter how valiantly he had tried to squash it and choke it out.  He could not deny these folk their good lives, but he couldn’t help but wonder why his kin were denied these pleasures. As he walked down the long, winding roads wedged between houses aglow with warmth and family and gardens with a preternatural abundance of vegetation, his mind wouldn’t musing about how, if the blasted drake hadn’t come down, would Erebor had been this prosperous? Would there be dozens of pebbles running loose around Erebor’s markets unsupervised with no one batting an eye? Would they have so many emeralds they could be considered a nuisance or burden? 

      Finally, Balin crested over the top of a small hill and saw the house. A quick glance at the street sign hung up on a light post verified that this was indeed Bagshot Row. He paused, and took a quick moment to compose himself. Closing the small gate behind him, a quick cross of the short front path and stairs, followed by a swift rapt on the curiously round door, then Balin waited to meet their burglar. 

    The Hobbit who opened the door was… odd, to say the least. He was slightly taller than the other hobbits Balin had come across, and was slightly more thin as well. Diplomat skills coming out, Balin introduced himself. Noticing the hobbit’s slight amusement at the traditional dwarven greeting, Balin was pleased to surmise that he was the first one here. (Seeing as the entire company traveled separately, the arrival order was bound to be tentative.) 

    After the hobbit (one Bilbo Baggins) awkwardly introduced himself in a somewhat cumbersome manner, he was invited in. Trailing behind the host, his thoughts were halted as he saw a face he hadn’t seen in five years. 

Chapter Text

A delighted “Oh!” followed by a mischievous chuckle made Dwalin pause. He stopped trying to force his hand through the hobbit sized opening of the cookie jar, and turned around. 

“Good evening brother.” Balin said, a playful grin adorning his face as he did the closest thing to a saunter a 209 year old dwarf could. 

“By my beard brother!” Setting down the cookie jar, Dwalin grabbed his nadad’s shoulder and scanned him. “You’ve gotten shorter and wider than the last we’ve met!” 

“Aye, wider, not shorter, and sharp enough for the both of us!” 

After Bilbo returned from discarding his apron, he arrived just in time to witness his two guests give each other major brain trauma. A shocked, scandalized, quiet gasp left his mouth without permission. “Master Balin! Mister Saddle Goose! Yavanna above, just what are you two doing?” Both dwarrow looked up, startled, seemingly haven forgotten that there was another being right beside them.  Before they could answer him, a twin series of raps on the door (that sounded vaguely musical) rang out. “You two wait there and don’t fall asleep,” he threw over his shoulder as he went to answer the door. (And if he heard and ignored the quiet, incredulous “Mister Saddle Goose ?” and hushed chuckle from behind him, well, that was no one’s business but his own.)

Fíli and Kíli left the only home they ever knew 3 weeks after Thorin, and two weeks before the meeting at the Burglar’s house. They tried to leave at dawn, but their Amad insisted on eating one last homemade meal before they left. (Not that it was much of a meal if they were being honest. They loved her with every fiber of their being, but cooking was never a strong point of the Durin’s.) While the grey sludge was infinitely better than the liquid death Iruk’Adad called stew, no one could fault Fíli for dumping the ‘porridge’ into an oil-skin lined pocket he had created for this exact reason while Kíli distracted her.  After doing the same for Kíli, they tried to leave again, only for his nadadith to step one foot out the door and realize he had forgotten to pack a single pair of small clothes. That resulted in their Amad forcing them to repack their packs in front of her, all while she muttered in khuzdul about “trusting Thorin”, and how their Iruk’Adad “would never have reached 40 without her interference”. While he was harassing Kíli and referring to him as “itchy arse”, their Amad had finished going through and repacking their packs (and had somehow managed to condense everything to ⅓ of the space it had previously taken while simultaneously nearly doubling the amount from her additions), and had cuffed him upside the head because “While Kíli forgot to pack small clothes, you forgot to pack a whetstone. What’s worse; a rash and going commando or a sword that’s purely for decoration in a life or death situation? Be thankful Dwalin’s already left or he would have tanned your hide.”

Suitably cowed and almost struggling to find balance with their newly weighted packs, the last of the Durin’s made their way to the gates of Thorin’s Halls. When they reached it, both boys hesitated stepping outside of the wooden palisade that protected the three sides of the settlement that weren’t backed by the Blue Mountains. 

This is it, Fíli thought. Another step, and their lives would change, for better or for good. Death by Dragon Fire, like so many of his kin before him, or else he would be a true Prince of Durin’s Folk. He would rise up to the life his Amad and Iruk’Adad dreamed of for him. But no, Fíli reminded himself, he was doing this for everyone. So Kíli and Gimli and all the other pebbles would never go without food again, so the next generation of Durin’s Folk wouldn’t know what it was like to barely survive. Deep breath in, exhale, and Fíli stepped through the gates, getting a nod from the guards who were tactfully ignoring his Amad’s quiet tears.

Kíli, like his brother, had also hesitated at the gates. While he frequently left the settlement with the hunting or scouting parties, this was... Different. No, this time, he would be expected to act as Prince Kíli, Second Heir to the King Under the Mountain. He would never again just be Kíli, the barely-of-age archer who was just another face in the crowd. In Thorin’s Hall, there was no such thing as “Royalty”, not really. They still went hungry, they still froze in the winter, they dressed in sub-par leathers, second rate chain mails, scratchy knits, and rough cloth like everyone else. Kíli and Fíli weren’t raised on the pomp and ceremony that being Princes and Heirs would normally bring about, and Kíli wasn’t sure he was ready to start if they survived this. With a quick swallow of the bile that was trying to make its way up his throat, he gripped the rune stone his mother had given him, heaved up his pack, whispered to himself “You gotta grab life by Mahal’s Ball’s,” and soldiered on after his brother. 

The less said about the trip, the better. By day 5, both were so bored they started coming up with imaginary ways as to how The Quest would go. 

“No, I’m telling you!”

“And I’m telling you there's absolutely no way that would work!”

“How would you know? Was anybody ever close enough to even see if Smaug has nipples?”

“I don’t know; and besides, how would that even ever come up in conversation, much less make it to me? Nobody talks about dragons back home because you know how Thorin gets.” 

“Yeah, he does make that face, doesn’t he?”  Kíli said as he continued to swing the large Y shaped branch he had somehow managed to find while disappearing into the bush to take a poo. “His face gets all red and his nose scrunches up, but his frown turns into that super constipated scowl, y’know?” (How Kíli managed to walk straight while spinning around and swinging that Valar-forsaken stick around, Fíli would never know.)

“Can’t forget the eye twitching and the throbbing neck veins,” came Fíli’s helpful addition as he barely managed to duck being hit by a wayward stick swing. 

“Ah, yes. Very important. But anyways, I’m just saying, if Smaug does have nipples, we should totally just purple nurple the poor bastard! That shit hurts, y’know?” 

“First of all, nadadith, what the hell is with your obsession with Smaug’s nipples? And secondly, even if he did have nipples, I sincerely doubt your dirty little sausage fingers and noodle arms are even capable of the kind of force it would require to give Smaug,the Last Great Fire Drake of the North, a titty twister.”

“Ok, wow. First of all; rude. But I never said it would be me!”

“So who are you volunteering to get to Second Stratum with Smaug? Because I would whole-heartedly rather show Morgoth the family jewels.” was Fíli’s snarky reply as he finally ripped the branch out of Kíli’s hand and threw it as far as he could after one too many close calls.

Kíli pouted, but seeing as he was already starting to become bored with that branch, he (graciously, in his opinion,) decided to let it go and continue talking. “Ori, of course! Just last week I saw him toss Nori through their wall and clear across the street into the mountainside.”

“Mahal have mercy, what for?”

“No clue, but Dori was throwing teapots and cups after him to the point where I don’t think they need to be worried about being robbed while we’re gone because there’s absolutely no non-perishable stock left in his tea shop after that fiasco.”    

“Hey… Do you want to come up with a cool way to introduce ourselves at the Burglar’s?”

“Y’know what? Sure.”                                   

They made it in time to browse the local market. Browse being a very loose term as Fíli was secretly lording over the obvious discrepancies between dwarrow-made wares versus the mostly man-and-hobbit-made merchandise while Kíli was bouncing between the stalls seemingly impressed by the most mundane of things.

After half an hour, Fíli had to drag Kíli away because he was causing a scene over seed packets, of all things. 

“How, in the good grace of the Valar, are you a dwarrow?” Fíli hissed while yanking Kíli along by the back of his tunic. “Amad sent you along with that coin for emergencies! Emergencies! So, please enlighten me as to how…” he looked down at his nadadith, who had his seed packets fanned out in front of him in lieu of a shield. 

“76.” Kíli joyfully informed him from behind his sizable seed packet shield.

“Yes, thank you. So,” he emphasized by shaking the apparent pebble, ” How do 76 seed packets count as an emergency?” 

“Well, Fíli,” he managed to say with a surprising amount of dignity considering he was being roughly shaken while simultaneously getting a glare/scowl combo that was frighteningly similar to Thorin’s, “There’s nothing growing around Erebor, right? So, I was thinking, we’ll need to grow food once we get there. Because obviously Iruk’Adad won't want to trade with the Elves and I heard the Men from Dale aren’t doing too good for themselves either, y’know?”

“Where’d you hear that from?”

“Ori. Who heard it from Nori. But these seeds will feed us! Look around you, have you ever seen such chubby beings? Or so much food at a market? What about these fields? Obviously, these Hobbits know shit about farming and gardening, which our race is sorely lacking in.” 

“Just… Shut up.” 

Kíli shoved his brother away, while accidentally dropping all his packs in the process. “Mahal, Fíli. What in Durin’s name is your problem?”

“No, seriously, shut up.”

“You know what? Screw you.”

“No, you absolute gravel for brains. Don’t you see that? There's something going on in the market and I’m trying to listen.”

“Hey Fíli?”

“Yeah?”

“That Hobbit reminded me of Amad. I kinda don’t wanna meet the Burglar now.”

“Me too Kíli. Me too.”

“Kíli, did we really have to practice our greeting all afternoon?” Fíli groaned as he stretched out his back as they walked to the burglar’s house.

“Fíli, if this Burglar is anything like that Hobbit from this afternoon, do you really want to give him a bad impression with an un-synchronized bow?” Kíli said, raising a (slightly groomed) brow. 

“Nienna weeps, Kíli. If it's bugging you this much, how about I offer him my weapons, hmm?”

“Get lost in the coal mines Fí-... Actually, yeah, no. That’s a good idea. I’ll offer him my bow as well, then.” Kíli replied over Fíli’s quiet groan of  “Mahal’s jewels, that’s the spot ,” after a disconcertingly loud ‘pop’ emanated from his lower back. 

A loud ‘whoomfph’ was Fíli’s response to Kíli’s statement, seeing  as he had been clothes lined by his suddenly excited sibling.

“I think I see the runes! Quit being a fossil and come knock!”

Chapter Text

Upon opening the door, Bilbo came face to face with two young dwarrow who barely looked old enough to drink at the Green Dragon. The slightly taller blond one gave a charming smile and, in a surprisingly synchronized bow with the raven haired youth standing to his left, introduced himself. 

“Fíli...”

“And Kíli,”  the younger one interjected in. (With a rather intense, but unfortunately comical, expression on his face if Bilbo was being honest. He looked rather like an heir shadowing their father for the first time at a seasonal assembly, desperate to prove that they were adult enough to merit being there, and that they deserved to be taken seriously.)

“At your service.” they finished in chorus. Once they came up from their bow, the newly named Kíli broke into a blinding grin. 

“And you must be Mr. Boggins!” 

Hearing that unfortunate mispronunciation of his name snapped Bilbo out of his disbelieving daze. 

“Sorry, you must have the wrong address,” he said dryly. “No Boggins has ever lived here, as far as I am aware.” 

A truly devastated look overtook the brunette’s face. “What? Has it been cancelled?”

“No one told us,” the blond stated with a mulish expression, almost like he was daring Bilbo to tell him that supper was, indeed, cancelled. 

The only thing that stopped Bilbo from agreeing that, yes, supper was in fact cancelled, was the heartbroken look on Kíli’s face. (Never mind the fact that Bilbo was fifty and was entirely too old to be riled up by some lad who was still wet behind the ears.)

“What? No, nothing’s been cancelled.” As soon as those words left his mouth, the two dwarrow youths lit up in relief, and shoved their way through his door. As Bilbo tried to regain his balance (and silently cursed Yavanna’s taste in men, for surely her husband carved the dwarrow in his own image), Fíli had managed to produce an alarming amount of weapons from on his person, and proceeded to dump them into his host’s arms. 

“Be careful,” he warned with a wink, “just had these sharpened.” 

“What? Just had these SHARPEN-” Bilbo sputtered, turning his body to continue yelling at the audacious dwarf, when he caught sight of the other menace. “EXCUSE ME, Master Kíli , but that is my late mother’s glory box!” 

“Mr. Boggins, I’ll admit it’s a nice box, but calling it glorious? That’s stretching it a bit, don’t you think?” After shooting him a dubious glance, Kíli continued talking while still scraping the mud off his boots. “No, what would make it glorious would be if it was made of metal, right Fíli?”

  “Right you are Kíli!” Fíli had came back to check on his nadadith when he heard Mr. Boggins yell at him and was now squatting in front of the box with a pensive look on his face. “It might be a bit masculine, but with a Zirconium box, and chips of semi-precious stones for the vines and flowers? The black would set them off nicely, even if they are flowers.” 

Kíli too now, had a pensive expression on his face. “Yeah, yeah, no, I agree. You should really listen to him, Mr. Boggins. Fíli’s still apprenticed as a jeweler, but his designs are already really popular, you know!” Kíli (bless his eager-puppy soul) said with such sincerity and earnest conviction. So much so, in fact, that Bilbo took a deep breath, and must have been taken overby Nienna herself, for there was no other explanation for the sudden influx of patience he suddenly possessed.

“You know what? Thank you for your input. But please take off your boots, wipe that mud off the box, put your weapons away in the hall closet, and go sit in the lounge with the other two. And please, for love of Yavanna’s Harvest, please don’t do anything that will require me to check up on you two. There should be two other dinner guests there already. Now go . I have other guests to receive.”

Once they had done as the hobbit had requested and they were sure he was out of earshot, the two brothers started muttering furiously to each other. 

 A pale Kíli hissed “Fíli! That was the hobbit from the market, right?”

“Yeah, I’m positive nadadith.” 

“I almost had a heart attack,” Kíli confessed, only now starting to regain some colour back into his cheeks.

“Me too.” Fíli’s leg was bouncing and he kept on rubbing his moustache. “I swear, being presented in front of Dáin’s court for the first time was less nerve wracking.” 

“Fíli, if amad were here and she saw you rubbing your moustache again, she’d smack you so hard your soul would leave and your body would turn back into stone. Your valar-be-damned braids are coming undone again. Come,” Kíli said, tugging his brother into the bathroom, “I’ll rebraid them for you.”

After collecting themselves in the bathroom and freshening up, the two princes made their way towards the lounge. After some careful consideration, Fíli spoke up. 

“Well, I actually think that went well.” 

“You’re right, nadad. He was so polite! And did you see his expression at the end? When the quest is over, I bet you’ll have a new commission!”

“I think so too. Yavanna’s tits, is that Dwalin and Balin?”

The boys were blessed with the sight of Dwalin, Son of Fundul, crammed into a delicate floral print wingback chair. In his hands, a diminutive, delicate teacup, and a small plate piled high with cookies and tea sandwiches. Compared to his brother’s awkward, uncomfortable posturing, Balin seemed right at home and cozy, idly sipping and snacking. “Ah, Fíli,” Balin called out, “be a dear and get me another sandwich will you? One of those with the cheese, ham, and apple.”

Struggling to hold in laughter, (unlike his brother, who he was convinced would laugh in Melkor’s face,) the Heir to the Throne of Durin managed to wheeze out a “Sure, and what about you, Dwalin? More tea, perhaps?” 

“Cookies, more like it.” cackled Kíli, unaware (or perhaps uncaring) that his days seemed limited due to the ferocity of the glare Dwalin was leveling him with. 

“Spawns of Morgoth , the both o’ you!” seethed a red-faced Dwalin. “You’d think I’d deserve some respect, considerin’ I’ve been teaching you both since you were more interested in shoving fistfuls of sand in your mouths than swingin’ swords!” 

A quick bark came from across the room. “Dwalin! Watch the china.” Balin then turned an eye towards the younger set of brothers (who both quickly stopped laughing, suitably cowed by his raised eyebrow). “And Dwalin is right. But all three of you, show some maturity, or else it’s going to be a very long trip.” he paused, looked at the three of them again, then raised his eyebrow even higher. “A very, very long trip. Remember, the way this supper goes is auspicious for the tone of the quest.” After dropping that little nugget of elderly wisdom, Balin settled back into his wingback chair and continued to sip his tea and pretend the other three dwarrow didn’t exist.

Dwalin’s face seemed to become even more red, and as he started to rise from his chair, the delicate plate resting on his knee seeming to fight to stay balanced, their host popped his head back in. 

“Ah, good. I see you found the refreshments? Good, good. Don’t be afraid to help yourself, but please be mindful of dinner. And, why Mr. Saddle Goose ! Watch the china! It was my great grandmother’s!” 

Before this could set Dwalin off even more, another timely knock on the door sounded. Bilbo strode away from his guests, grousing about “Why, if only Bryony Chubb could see what’s become of her china! She’d box their ears; and mine too! She always was too big of a believer in ‘guilty by association’, may her spirit rest in the Garden’s of our Lady.”

(Bilbo doggedly ignored the new round of youthful cackles that were set off by ‘Mr. Saddle Goose’, and the subsequent smacks and whines of pain that followed.)

Chapter Text

Personally, Gandalf felt too old and too dignified to be herding a large group of dwarrow through The Shire. In fact, he was a hair width away from losing his mind and although he had not been a disciple of Melkor he could suddenly see the appeal for the first time in his long, long, (longer than he would ever admit even under the influence of Hamson Gamgee’s moonshine, which is the most potent drink he had ever encountered) existence. It wasn’t that he didn’t like dwarrow, it was quite the opposite in fact. As he used to be best friends with Curunír back in Valinor when they were young, Aulë was like Curunír’s cool father (with Yavanna being his kind and loving mother who Curunír somehow hated); and dwarrow were created in Aulë’s image so they brought back memories of less complicated times. (Gandalf, back when he only went by Olórin, once heard Rómestámo tell Morinehtar that Daddy Issues create people pleasers while Mommy Issues create psychopaths. He had no idea what they meant at the time, but well, look what happened to Mairon. He had issues with both, and he became eager to please his dad’s creepy ex-coworker and then tried to take over the world through extremely barbaric and insane ways.)

But maybe, just maybe, he could see where Mairon’s Daddy Issues stemmed from. Back then, he had only been in Aulë’s presence for maybe  3 hours at most; but now, he had been in continuous, non stop contact with dwarrow for 3 weeks. Even if the dwarves took after their Maker by only 25%, it was still too much. (The horror Gandalf felt even contemplating if their personality was 100% Aulë’s, well, Gandalf could always weep for himself and Aulë’s Maiar, even if Nienna would heavily disprove.) The worst part was that the most important dwarf wasn’t even there; when Gandalf had met up with the group on the outskirts of the Tower Hills, he had been succinctly informed that Thorin Oakenshield had left by himself to seek Dwarven Aid before he planned to meet them again at The Burglar’s house. Gandalf had only gotten through the trek by thinking about Belladonna, and wondering what that little faunt Bilbo grew up to be like. 

Only for his expectations of Bilbo to be both dashed and exceeded. After leaving the dwarrow at The Green Dragon, with an excuse of “meeting the Burglar” to hide the real reason of a much-needed break, Gandalf took off to hopefully throw Bilbo off-kilter and raise his own spirits by doing so. Unfortunately, that didn't go as planned (as had much as this Quest so far, as well) so in a last ditch effort, Gandalf had crowded the 9 dwarrow he was in charge of in front of Bag End’s door, knocked, and planned to push them all in on top of Bilbo as soon as he answered. 

“Good evening, you must be- THE VALAR CAN’T SAVE YOU FROM MY WRATH, GANDALF.” Bilbo yelled from underneath the mass pile of dwarrow he was buried under. He continued on shouting with “IF I JOIN WHATEVER HARE BRAINED SCHEME YOU’VE COME UP WITH, YOU BETTER- pardon me, Master Dwarf,- YOU BEST SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN!” A curly head popped through the edge of the pile of bodies, and a small body soon followed. (Gandalf thought he scuttled out from under the bodies much like a spider.)  Bilbo huffed, and straightened his clothes. “Mark my words, Gandalf,” he said in a low voice while pointing a finger at the Wizard standing on his threshold, “my vengeance may not be swift, but it will come,” here, Bilbo dramatically narrowed his eyes in such a deadly glare that Gandalf started to worry, “but it will be deadly and justified.” 

An uncomfortable silence followed that statement, only to be broken by Fíli’s voice. “You hear that, Kee? Not only will it be deadly, but it’ll be justified too.” 

After the dwarrow had all been helped up, and quick introductions made, Bilbo herded everyone into his formal dining room. The fireplace had been previously lit, providing light and warmth. Bilbo removed the small kettle hanging over the fire, which had been filled with water, orange rinds, apple peels, cinnamon sticks and cloves to give the room a pleasant smell. A fresh white table cloth had been laid down, with bright clusters of lilacs, tulips and daffodils beautifully embroidered alongside it’s delicate scalloped edge. A stunning lace table runner ran down the middle, dyed a soft yellow. The centerpiece of arranged flowers and foliage did not go unnoticed, nor did the carved beeswax candles in their delicate ceramic holders, but the rest of the attention was stolen by the exquisite china they would be dining on. The bottommost plate of each stack was pure white with an almost unnoticeable scalloped edge. On top of that was a slightly smaller  robin’s egg blue plate, with a thin white strip stamped with small flowers along the edge. The very topmost plate, though, was the eye catcher. With a border of filigree gold, the centre of the white plate was taken up by a fantastically (but not accurately) coloured peahen standing on a rock amongst foliage, plumes down. On the sides above her were a sunbird and liocichla. 

“Please, sit wherever you want. Gandalf, your spot is on the end, against the far wall. As you settle down, I have one last thing to do.” Bilbo said, clasping his hands together. “Underneath your plates, you’ll find tonight’s dinner menu. Excuse me.” 

After leaving his guests to sort out their seating, Bilbo quickly went outside and attached a lit lantern to the pole beside his gate, a signal he and Bell had come up with to alert her to send over her eldest son Hamson and two of her nephews who he had agreed to hire as servers for the meal. As soon as Bilbo had finished hanging his lantern, he could see the Gamgee’s smial door open and three figures stumble out. Even from his spot just up the row, Bilbo could hear their  hushed tones and quickly stifled giggles..

“Hey!”

“Watch it!”

“Fredegar watch your stupid feet! You almost tripped me.”

Smiling to himself, Bilbo turned around and headed back to the dining room, confident that the boys would let themselves in and start their jobs without him hovering. (Bilbo always hired those lads, for they had good heads upon their shoulders and took it seriously.) Blinking, Bilbo paused at the archway to his dining room. “Oh my,” he stated mildly. “It appears we are missing a guest, aren’t we? You did tell me to expect fourteen guests, did you not?” Bilbo asked Gandalf. Upon seeing Gandalf’s slightly vexed nod, Bilbo tuttered away. “Shall we wait? Or,” he amended quickly upon seeing the looks of outrage on the 13 heads that snapped towards him upon hearing that blasphemy, “I could simply get the lads to set aside food for our missing guest that we can heat up upon arrival?” Seeing the mollified expressions, Bilbo cleared away the setting to his left and quickly brought it to the kitchen. ‘My word!’ he thought to himself in a huff. ‘No loyalty at all when it comes to food for these dwarrow! A hobbit would never start a meal without everyone present.” He paused, then tilted his head. “Mind you, a hobbit would never be late in the first place. Never late, never too early. Much too improper.” he thought to himself dryly.

When the dwarrow convening in the lounge heard the yells, they all jolted and rushed to see what was going on. (Only after they had all carefully set their teacups and plates down, none of them eager to see what their little host would do to them if they dared break or dirty something.)

It would be fair, to say, that none of them expected what they saw; their host presumably (seeing as that's where the yelling was emanating from) buried under the mountain of bodies of their brethren , and the legendary figure Tharkûn, just visible outside the door, with a shit eating smile on his old, wrinkled face. While the four of them were still trying to come to terms with seeing such a legendary being in person, hearing their small, 3 foot tall host threaten the wizard with bodily harm was another shock that seemed to stun everyone, even the dwarrow who had travelled here with him. Just as the silence that followed that statement dragged on to the other side of ‘too long’, the crown prince opened his fat mouth and proceeded to jar everything back into motion. 

 “You hear that, Kee? Not only will it be deadly, but it’ll be justified too.”  His brother nodded his head, solemn expression on his face, as if his brother’s words were straight from the mouth of Eru Ilúvatar himself. Upon hearing that, Balin despaired over his apparent failed teachings, Dwalin wanted to smack the back of both of their heads, Óin was glad he was suddenly deaf again, while Bifur, Bombur, Glóin, and Dori worried for the future of the Durin's Folk. (Bofur and Nori thought that was hilarious, while Ori wasn’t surprised, seeing as he had been in contact with the princes before in his role as Balin’s apprentice.) 

After righting themselves and being introduced to their (possible) burglar, (all while ignoring Glóin’s mutterings of ‘how dwarrow were made to stand tall’ and ‘Mahal did not  intend for us to thrown around by vague, too-tall wizards’) the gaggle of dwarrow followed their host to his dining room. 

Upon entering, it well and truly hit them that while they may be of similar heights, Dwarrow and Hobbits had two (apparently) very different cultures. The only ones who weren’t awkwardly shuffling around finding seating were Balin and Dori, who (with no hesitation) ended up sitting on opposite ends of the table from each other but somehow started pleasant small talk about the china and table decor. Only for their easy conversation to be halted by a small squeak from Ori, who had grabbed his dinner menu and was the first to look. 

Immediately, he turned it towards his eldest brother and quietly started to rapid-fire questions. “This can’t be real, can it? Why so much food? And why so many options? What’s a ‘Removes’?” Immediately after seeing his brother wasn’t going to answer, too busy intensely going over his own menu, Ori whipped his head towards the Princes. Both who, unfortunately, looked just as confused and out of their comfort zone as everyone else. 

“Don’t look at us,” Fíli said with both of his hands up. “The Dinners I’ve been to have looked nothing like this.” 

“Yeah, it’s usually help yourself to all the food that’s already laid out on the table with fancy metal plates; none of this ‘It’ll break if I talk too loud’ delicate-ness Mr. Boggins has going on.” Kíli tacked on when the eyes turned to him. (Mahal knows why ; he was both the younger brother and the spare, so he hadn’t gone to as many nor for as long as Fíli had.) 

Gandalf’s deep chuckle sounded through the room, surprising most dwarrow seeing as 

1. Gandalf had still been outside the last they had been aware,
2. He somehow managed to maneuver to the end of the room, even though it was quite cramped even for the dwarrow to scoot behind chairs, nevermind that Gandalf was 5’6”

And lastly

1. Gandalf had produced a man sized wine glass from Valar-knows were, and was swirling a strongly smelling wine around in it, while he had already started drinking, if the wine on the corners of his beard were to be believed. 

“Young Ori,” Gandalf began magnanimously after taking another sip. “You’ll never find another race so serious about food. Hobbits eat plenty, and they eat well. Never, in all my years and travels, have I ever personally had as delicious food as that cooked by hobbits.” Finishing the last of his wine, the istari gestured broadly around him. “They have little care for jewellry or precious stones, caring only if their metals work well and are well-made. Only the oldest and richest families have silver sets, but that's only been a thing for the past 300 years, or so I am aware, and even that’s from the influence of Men.” 

“If they don’t care, then why is my cutlery gold and stamped with wheat?” Bofur interjected with a confused look on his face while he turned the cutlery over and over in his hands. 

Before Gandalf could answer, Bilbo came back in and enquired about their missing king. After whisking away a place setting to the kitchen so some food could be saved for him (and every dwarrow quickly feeling guilty over not even stopping to think of their king and making sure he had food), Gandalf quickly answered. “Yes, that’s gold. Gold is the only metal to not affect the taste of food; a sheaf of wheat is a famous symbol of Yavanna. It’s traditional for hobbit newlyweds to be gifted a gold spoon, fork, and knife stamped with a symbol of Yavanna. Dear Bilbo probably pulled out this set in particular for me, for they used to belong to a very dear friend.” Gandalf sighed and seemed to remember where he was. “But Bilbo Baggins is one of, if not the best, hosts in the Shire, for all that he doesn’t do it often.”  As soon as Gandalf finished speaking, Bilbo walked into the room and sat down. 

“Terribly sorry for the delay, but now dinner can be served!” the hobbit announced. Following his words, in walked 3 hobbits tweens, arms laden with food. 

That proceeded an hour filled with scrumptious foods, good wine, fragrant teas, sweet juices and an almost dizzying dance of bringing in different foods and taking them out. When the last plates were finally taken out, (most still laden with food as only Bombur and Bilbo could eat more than a few bites) Bilbo stood up and was in the middle of suggesting that they retire to the smoking room when three heavy thuds rang through the smial. 

It appeared the last guest had finally arrived.

Chapter Text

Thorin could not wait until he arrived in the Halls of his Ancestors so he could beat the ever-loving shit out of almost everyone he’s ever come across in his adult life without repercussions. He used to (actually up until 20 minutes ago) believe that his Siggin-Adad and his council would always be at the top of his list, and for good reason. Dragon Sickness, the Gems of Lasgalen, burning bridges with every race on Arda so thoroughly that their only option was trying to take back Khazad-dûm, thus leading to The Battle of Azanulbizar, thus leading to the death of half of the survivors of Azsâlul'abad and the deaths of his Adad and Nadadith . 

But he pulled through. He used his Siggin-Adad’s failures as guidance for himself. That’s the only reason he didn’t throw Dáin arse over tit through the wall. 

“Dáin,” Thorin bit out. “I see you respect my capabilities as a leader only when it suits you.”

“Thorin, my dear cousin,” Dáin said with a dangerous glint in his eye, not matching the genial smile on his face. “The line of Durin is no longer one of status. That's twice now, that kingdoms run by Durin’s have been seats of calamities. The two greatest dwarven tragedies are linked to your family; what have you say to that?” The other dwarf lords seemed to rally even more behind Dáin’s words. (With their long gray beards, dead stares, and various noises that vaguely resemble bleats, they were astoundingly like a herd of goats and Dáin their shepard, Thorin thought not untruthfully.)

“I am a dwarf of Durin’s line, made in the image of Durin the Deathless, the first dwarf awoken by Mahal himself. His blood flows through my veins. I lead my people, dwarrow torn from stone, who work with stone, and who are returned to stone. Mahal built the Durin’s to endure any and all things, even death and even time. To sleep in the Waiting Halls until the world shall be remade by dwarven hands,” here he paused, and made eye contact with every single dwarrow. Dáin was the only one who didn’t falter.

“So tell me, Thorin,” Dáin said calmly, “What are your plans for your quest? Will you stop now that you have failed to rally support?”

 ““I will not – I cannot stop here. The Line of Durin will move forward as we have always done and always will do. Never in our history have our decisions been affected by others, and we will not start now.”

As those words rang heavy around each dwarrow sitting there, eyes averted and shoulders tense, Thorin did what he arguably did best, and brooded. Thinking of the starving dwarrowdams and pebbles, the empty mines and barren forests, Thorin closed his eyes, exhaled heavily, and steeled his spine.

 “The decision was made before this farce of a meeting. Support or not, my Company will continue with this quest. There is no other option.”

Dáin watched him quietly, unblinkingly, before he sighed and slightly inclined his head. Awkwardly getting to his feet, (His iron prosthetic making the shift of balance awkward, even after all these years.) Dáin grasped his stein of beer, and raised it in a toast. 

“Even though I cannot justify sending my army with you, should you reclaim the mountain, you will have the Iron Hills aid. With the death of the dragon, my armies are yours to command. With the Arkenstone above your head, you shall be my King. May Mahal watch over your quest and bless your company with health, good fortune, and above all, good luck. To Thorin and his Company.” 

“To Thorin,” the rest of the Dwarf lords echoed.

Thorin may have aggressively imagined Dáin’s face in every turd he took. (After he got over the wave of sadness when he remembered Frerin loudly announcing he was going to “take a deep-woods dump” each time he had a bowel movement while they were on the road, back when Frerin had still been alive and capable of saying the absolute single worst things Thorin had ever heard come out of another dwarrow’s mouth.)

When he had finally made it to “The Shire”, it was close to getting dark, and he had been wandering for hours when he finally made it to “The Green Dragon Inn”. The inn in which his Company and Tharkûn were supposed to meet with him. Instead, the innkeeper had cheerfully informed him that there were no dwarrow there anymore, but that they had left a message for ‘a grumpy, scowling dwarrow with a mangy coat and unkempt hair,’ which, the barkeep had guilelessly said “And, well, you're the only one who’s matched that description!” (Thorin knew, without a moments hesitation, that Dwalin had been the one to leave that message. No doubt it was Balin's idea; Tharkûn wouldn't have said anything just for the sheer chaos.)

“Now you tell them that Uffo Twofeet always keeps his word. They’re in Hobbiton, at Bag End. Now, that’s on Bagshot Row, has a beautiful green door and a stunning garden. Can’t miss it. Take the road after the Cotton smial but before the Mugwort’s, and hop over Amsonia Fallowhide’s fence, then follow the creek for a good fifteen minutes, until you hit the horse mushroom patch. Walk north and you’ll hit Hobbiton! Shaves an hour off compared to the main road! The big fellow said it would be easy even for you to find!”

Thorin stiffly thanked the man-child (Was he old enough to even be serving alcohol? If not for the raven’s feet at the edges of his eyes, Thorin would be convinced he was speaking to a child, for even Kili had been born with more hair on his bum than this hobbit-of-confusing-age sported on his entire visible body. His gray hair was suspicious, but Thorin could not recall if it was a natural hair colour for hobbits like it was for dwarrow and elves, or if it was more along the lines of men, where it was a sign of old age? ) and quickly made his way out the door, mind reeling from the revelation that not only did his dwarrow leave him, they had left to an entirely different town. (It was a miracle he had made it to Bywater, in all honesty. Send him below ground, and Thorin had perhaps the strongest sense of direction. Above ground? It was a miracle he could find his way out of his own bedroom.) 

“Mahal curse Effu Twofoot or whatever gibberish that innkeeper said,” Thorin swore under his breath. Those were, quite possibly, the most convoluted directions he had ever had the misfortune of hearing. It was now disgustingly late, he had fallen into brambles, ran away from a badger, and had the unholy luck of having a mother possum and all her babies fall on top of his head. He was starving, exhausted, and could feel the beginnings of a migraine setting in. When he was a minute away from literally getting on his knees and crying for Mahal to pity him for once in his life, he finally saw the (correct) green door with a rune carved in. (He had come across no less than 3 other green doors, because not a single one of these dirt pathways had a Valar-be-damned street sign.) He knocked, and waited.

Blinking heavily, Thorin wondered if he *was* at the correct smial. This kind face that greeted him seemed to be far too young and not yet world weary. 

When in doubt, go with the tried-and-true distinct (lack of) Durin courtesy.  So Thorin ignored the barely shoulder height hobbit who answered the door and addressed the next one to catch his eye. 

“Gandalf,” he said as cheerfully as his lineage would allow. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find.”  He breezed through the door, quickly glancing back to make sure he hadn’t knocked the hobbit over. “I lost my way,” he added in lieu of explanation. Upon seeing Balin’s lips pressed thinly together, he quickly tacked on a “Twice.” (He would never admit how badly his journey from Bywater to here went, and quickly sent up a prayer that his excuse was accepted, no questions asked.) As he started to remove his cloak, he continued talking. “I wouldn’t have found it all, had it not been for that mark on the door.”

“A mark ?” A cultured voice said, sounding thoroughly irritated. “There should be no mark, I had it painted just last week!” 

Using his staff, Gandalf quickly shut the door, before the hobbit (Stuffy, decided Thorin, was an accurate description.) could get a look at his apparently vandalized door. 

“Of course there’s a mark; I put it there myself,” Gandalf stated with such confidence that it took Thorin and the stuffy hobbit a second to cognize the answer. 

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf said gravely, like something momentous was happening. (Instead of just being introduced to cut off the no doubt coming lecture, seeing as the newly named Bilbo Baggins had his lips pursed rather tightly, and had popped out a hip and crossed his arms, Thorin noted.) “Let me introduce you to the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.” 

“So, this is the hobbit.” Mr. Sinfully-voiced-dwarrow drawled. He slowly circled Bilbo, seemingly studying everything about him. “Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting? Axe or sword, what’s your weapon of choice?” 

Bilbo’s eye twitched at the audacity of this dwarf, who had flown to the bottom of his “Least Favourite Dwarrow” list in an unprecedented amount of time. (Faster than even Mr. Saddle Goose, who had the distinct advantage of being the first dwarf he had ever met, and who had made what Bilbo had thought up until now, the single worst first impression of all time.)

 Sensing an implosion, Gandalf cut in with a “Bilbo has quite the skill with conkers, if you must know.” (What a particularly sad attempt to defuse the situation with humour, the more self-aware dwarrow noted.)

But Bilbo was having none of it. “Why Gandalf,” Bilbo said with a sharp glint in his eye, tone dry. “I can fling insults much faster than I can fling my conkers.” 

Thorin Oakenshield may have already been at the rock bottom of Bilbo’s list, but he was a Dwarf first and foremost, so he was quite prepared to dig himself deeper. 

“Hmm.” Mr. Oakenshield said when he finished his scrutinizing, an arrogant smirk tugging at his lips. “Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” he announced over his shoulder with such self-righteousness, as if he was making a groundbreaking, Arda-shattering discovery. Most of his apparent lackeys all chuckled, like Bilbo hadn’t just fed them some of the best food they had ever tasted. Even Gandalf laughed, and Bilbo was quick to shoot him a look that could sour the milk still inside a cow. 

Thorin waltzed off, as if he owned the place, his herd of dwarrow following after him like little ducklings. “Grocer my arse,” Bilbo muttered to himself, still standing by himself in the foyer. “If I look so much like one, by Yavanna’s left tit I’ll sell his supper to him or I’ll hold it hostage. I have 3 full pantries and two hidden cellars. They’ll never find it.” 

Chapter Text

The release of Thorin’s held-hostage dinner involved surrendering his chicken, salad, and a third of his lamb. Tensions were high during negotiations, with both Thorin and Bilbo refusing to budge. Balin represented his king, and poor Ori had unceremoniously been shoved towards Bilbo. Those 15 minutes spent making offers and counter offers very well may have been the most tense minutes in the history of The Shire. (The Kingdom of Rohan notably argues that the numerous dwarrow collectively rioting in the background and wizard trying his hardest to get alcohol poisoning greatly exacerbated the tense-ness of the situation, and would like to politely remind everyone of when Fram announced that he sent the dwarves Scatha’s   teeth on a necklace, which has and always will be one of the biggest “fuck you’s” in Arda’s history. The Hobbits argue back that Dwarves killing Fram in retaliation “greatly exacerbates'' that situation as well. Meanwhile, the Dwarrow would impolitely like to add that both situations involved dwarves and so they are obviously the judges and would like to put forward the entire Friendship™️ of Narvi and Celebrimbor for your consideration.)

If Thorin wasn’t starving (and had Balin not been hissing and spitting under his breath already), he would have taken a single bite of his supper and announced he was stuffed. Truthfully, he was still contemplating doing so as he raised his (solid gold?!) fork towards his mouth. 

As such, the deciding factor in him soldiering on and continuing to eat was the fact that this food was delicious. He genuinely could not remember the last time he had such a meal; perhaps Before the Dragon™️? Even with the surrendering of part of his meal, he tried to finish quickly and still found himself stuffed. 

But Thorin was nothing if not consistent with his devotion to being an Utter Prat. Delicately dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin, he gently announced “Well, now that we have eaten this… adequate meal, I bring word from the dwarf lords.” 

Fíli and Kíli had grown up listening to their Amad complain voraciously about their Iruk’Adad. Up until now, they had taken her rants with a grain of salt, wrongly believing that it was just sibling issues making an appearance. But now, they truly understood. 

This dwarf in front of them, the hope of the Durin’s folk, he had supported and lead his people through a dragon and war, was being a monumental asshole for absolutely no reason. His nephews had never seen him act in such a way, and hoped to never see him act in such a way again. (If you listened closely, you could hear Mahal cackling and absolutely losing his Valar-damned mind.) 

Worse still, their host was having absolutely none of His Highness’ attitude and proceeded to whip 4 walnuts at his head with unparalleled speed and deadly accuracy.

Bilbo had, he thought, converted to a Devout Follower of Nienna while dealing with Gandalf, meeting all the dwarrow, having supper with guests who had terrible table manners (which he could excuse as cultural differences), then meeting the surliest dwarf he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting, and arguing the release of said surly dwarf’s meal. But hearing his dinner be spat upon by being described solely as “adequate”, well, Bilbo finally cracked. He immediately disavowed himself, ripped down the mental shrine he had constructed, then distanced himself so much he could only go “Nienna? Never heard of her.” (All while fervently apologizing to Yavanna while also promising to never be led astray by wild Valar ever again.) 

Quick as a whip, he grabbed four walnuts from the nut bowl on the sideboard behind him, and promptly showed why he was the reigning Shire Conkers Champion for 14 years in a row. One walnut cracked Thorin in the center of his forehead, while the others also aimed true, hitting the tip of his nose, his upper lip, and his chin in rapid succession. 

“Don’t be rude,” Bilbo tutted. “Now, Gandalf, do you finally plan to tell me what this has all been about?” 

“All in good time, my dear friend.” Gandalf said as he looked sorrowfully down at his glass and wine bottle, both of which were empty. 

‘This evening had such a delightful start,’ Balin thought mournfully. He felt a headache of epic proportions coming on, and even the onset felt like what he imagined could only be described as the Stone Giants of old leveling and redesigning whole mountain ranges. (His stomach hurt as well, but since it was from over indulgence in excellent food, it didn’t qualify to join his complaints.) 

Sure, it had been a little rocky with the princes’ obvious “I’ve-Never-Left-My-Small-Hometown” interactions with their host, and with Dwalin showing that he was not above arguing with children. (Never mind the fact that Fíli and Kíli were both technically considered legal adults; he had known them both since they were literal babes, and thus he knew that both were still lacking a wee bit in the maturity and common sense department. Just because you’re an adult in the eyes of the law doesn’t mean you function as one.) 

Dinner was quite pleasant. In fact, he had been to state dinners back in Azsâlul'abad that weren’t so refined. But then Thorin had appeared and opened his Big Mouth, showing off (seemingly proudly, he might add.) the complete rocks for brains and the fact that apparently none of his diplomacy lessons had ever managed to penetrate his abnormally thick skull. 

‘Oh, but this Hobbit,’ Balin side-eyed him with an unheated glare as he massaged his temples. ‘This Hobbit just has to be stubborn enough to lock horns with a dwarf king and win. This journey will be a test of patience.’ 

Balin was, first and foremost, loyal to his King, no matter how frustrating said king can be. But, he couldn’t help but think, in the far back of his mind, how impressive this little Hobbit was. (Quote literally) Bigger men had faltered when being the sole focus of Thorin’s ire, yet this small male hobbit had stood his ground, back firmly straight and head held high, and refused to take any less respect than he felt he deserved. He might have to concede to the point that Gandalf had been trying to convince the other races of for hundreds of years; Hobbits really were amazing creatures. 

Chapter Text

“Gandalf, I swear on Yavanna’s left tit you’re about to send me into hysterics.”

“Bilbo, my boy, there’s absolutely no reason to be so dramatic.”

“You have absolutely no ground to stand upon. Dramatic? You drank two whole wizard-sized bottles of wine during dinner; shh, don’t even try to deny it. Everyone saw, they just have the good grace not to mention it.”

“And as my host, should you not have the biggest grace of all? Have mercy; I’m but a poor old man.”

“First of all, I have the biggest something, but it sure isn’t grace. Secondly, as host, I have the right to be in a snit if a guest is behaving like an errant orc child. Thirdly, I KNOW you choose to be old; Grandma Foxglove Baggins swore up and down (Even on her deathbed!) that she once saw you turn into a baby goat-“

“Oh for, a baby goat is called a kid.”

“- to avoid being arrested by the Bounders. The point stands that you changed into a baby . Surely you should have changed into some decrepit, mangy old thing instead. Therefore, you choose to be an old man.” 

“I have not spent 3 ages building a good name for myself only for it to be slandered by a Hobbit woman menace.” 

“There’s so much wrong with that statement and I don’t have the emotional stability to unpack that. If you start asking for even more than what I’ve already done, I will kill you myself and you can tell Grandma Foxglove yourself what you think of her, may her spirit rest in Yavanna’s Garden.” 

“ A candle, Bilbo , is all that I asked for. A candle. For some MORE LIGHT. So that we may get on with the purpose of the evening. And you did the bare minimum for tonight.”

“ BARE MINIMUM ? I’ll have you know I threw together a dinner party the likes of which The Shire has never seen before! In 8 measly hours I put together a menu, shopped, cooked, cleaned, took care of personal business and duties, and set up!”

“Which you rightly should! It was your dinner, after all. And I did the most important thing; I brought guests, otherwise your dinner party would not have had anybody show up seeing as it was such short notice and no invitations were sent out.”

“Gandalf, The Vala could strike me down and I would face Eru Ilúvutar himself and walk backwards into Mordor if he told me that you are being serious right now. Never mind what I would do if they told me the fate of Middle Earth rested on your shoulders.”

“Well, funny you should say that…”

The dwarrow watched this argument with rapt attention, eyes wide, and heads swinging back and forth rapidly. All except Fíli and Kíli, both who sat there with mouths pressed into thin lines and a solemn look upon their faces, as if they had expected (or anticipated) this outcome and were glad it was not them in the line of Fire. (Thorin too, just sat there, eye twitching and forehead vein throbbing menacingly. But seeing as that could be almost mistaken for his normal expression, most dwarrow did not take note.)

Sensing the climax of the argument approaching, Fíli grabbed the back of Ori’s sweater and shoved him toward the hall, hissing “grab whatever candle you can find and come back. Quickly!” 

Meanwhile Kíli kicked Thorin’s shin and nodded towards the hobbit and wizard. When that resulted in only Thorin’s brow furrowing more, Kíli rolled his eyes and gestured covertly towards the argument that was rapidly descending into a shouting match. When this again failed to produce the desired result of Thorin stepping in (it only resulted in Thorin’s attention shifting to Kíli), Kíli felt he had no option but to subtly make use of Inglishmek. (Somehow Kíli was not aware that he lacked fluency in it and signed with all the comprehension and language skills of a particularly hyper 3 year old.) 

The thing that truly pushed Thorin over the edge was his dear, daft irakdashat signing “The Elk below demands goats and garlic. I desire Opal shin guards.” 

While summarily blown away and confused by the message he had just received (we have signs capable of converting that?), all Thorin could do was blink slowly and focus on the last part of the message. ‘Opal shin guards? How impractical. Opal is far too soft a gem to be used as such.’  

Then, he comprehended the first part of the message and promptly lost it. 

‘ ELK?! Does he mean THRANDUIL? That smarmy weed eater! Has he been in contact with Kíli? What would he even need…’ He gasped internally and felt his heart plummet. ‘Unless… No, he wouldn’t dare… Of course he would, that Orc Rutter! He means to seduce Kíli! To get our War Goats! Of course it’s not enough to deny us aid, but now he wants the last untainted symbols of Erebor! Thranduil will never receive a single Ereborian War Goat as long as I live! In fact, he won’t even GAZE upon one!’ (Fíli,’meanwhile, could only gaze at his brother in astonishment. Only Kíli could send their uncle into a snarling, red faced, barely-contained, rage fueled fit by simply asking him to step into an argument.) (Kíli, while just as confused as Fíli, was also impressed with himself over Thorin’s state. It had truly been a while since something he had said had gotten their Iruk-adad this upset.) 

Thorin, by this point, was trying to rationalize why Thranduil would demand garlic , of all things. ‘He doesn’t even LIKE garlic! He claims it’s “too strong of a taste!” Was he lying? Just so he could snub Erebor’s food? That tree shagger !’ 

With an almighty yell of “ ENOUGH !”, Thorin slammed his fist down on the table just as Ori came back in the room, carrying the hugely controversial candle. 

The real reason Gandalf and Bilbo stopped arguing was hearing Thorin mutter (quite loudly, might I add) “Nobody is getting any of MY GOATS OR GARLIC as long as I am on this  Earth .”

Balin could only open his mouth, close it, then scream internally upon hearing his King. He didn’t ( couldn’t ) try to understand what in Mahal’s Great Forge Thorin was even going on about now. Thorin could leap rapidly between points of reason or thought much like, well, the goats that nobody was apparently getting.

Dwalin was almost frothing at the mouth alongside his shield-brother. ‘WHO,’ he internally roared, ‘ DARE DEMAND GOATS AND GARLIC FROM MIDDLE EARTH’S ONCE MIGHTIEST KINGDOM!?’ 

(He was so enraged he accidentally crushed the three walnuts clenched in his fist that he had ferreted off the floor for the sole purpose of taking the piss out of Thorin later.)

Fíli whipped his head towards his nadadith so fast his neck cracked, eye set in a furious glare. (The glare was lessened considerably by the fact he had turned his head so fast his mustache braids, the ones Fíli was so proud of, were swinging to and fro, bumping into each other, thus causing the beads on the ends to collide and make little dull little “clacks!” each time.)

Kíli could only laugh and rub the back of his neck sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders in a “what-can-you-do” motion. (His focus was solely on Fíli’s moustache braids/beads, and was suddenly thankful for the first time in his life that he only had stubble, seeing as that effect truly looked stupid and was not intimidating in the least.) 

Bifur was sure his grasp on listening to Westron was going as well, and was secretly glad that if the rest of this quest was going to continue in such a ridiculous manner that he wouldn’t be able to speak it or understand it. 

Bombur let it fly by him, reasoning that he was but a simple cook from a low class family and surely had no idea what the royal family (much less the King) went through every day. 

Bofur merely quietly laughed, but decided to cut himself off the ale and wine and just stick to nonalcoholic beverages for the rest of the night because he wasn’t quite sure he actually heard that. 

Dori rationalized it as some trade negotiations from earlier must have gone awry, as he had heard from his merchant friends that the Orocarni Mountains garlic crops suffered a late blight. 

Nori felt a cold sweat run down his back, thinking the King and his Guard must have discovered the smuggling ring Nori’s shadier acquaintances were running. (He sent up some quick prayers to Mahal, first for him turning down the offer even though it was a lot of quick money, and secondly for his acquaintances’ souls, seeing as they surely would not live to see the end of the week.)

Ori remembered the words his Master spoke once when a little more tipsy than what would genuinely be appropriate at 2 pm on a weekday. ”Ori,” Balin had once said after what had been a particularly trying council meeting. “Sometimes, when dealing with a Durin, ignoring what they say is the only way to save your sanity. They make sense perhaps 63% of the time; and my old friendship with Thorin is making me be generous with that number.” Ori decided to heed his advice, as Master Balin had never lead him astray before, and chose to ignore the latest Durin nonsense. 

Glóin mentally started reviewing the price of garlic and the cost of adult goats vs kids, the cost of goat care, training, breeding, transport… he huffed, and concluded goats were not a viable export. 

Óin was glad he was suddenly deaf again and didn’t need to hear whatever his esteemed King was going on about now.

Bilbo could only stand back and be amazed (and catch his breath from all the shouting) at the resilience of dwarrow. They hear their leader shout about Garlicky Goats and nobody says anything or is phased? Truly outstanding. 

“News from the meeting in Ered Luin?” The white haired dwarf asked. (Balin, if he remembered correctly.)

“Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms.” Thorin replied, as if he had just not said some nonsense of the highest degree and like his face still wasn’t red from being impacted by 3 Walnuts Flung at High Velocity. 

“And what of the dwarrow from the Iron Hills?” Mr. Saddle Goose turned towards Thorin with an almost hopeful expression. “Is Dáin with us?”

The tension in the air was palpable, and even though Bilbo had no idea who Daín was, he could tell this was important. He, along with everyone else in the room, held their breath, waiting for the answer. 

Thorin inhaled slightly, and looked around the table. “They… will not come.” 

Gandalf almost chewed his lip, a habit left over from when he was still young, was still a new maiar. He had never been able to seemingly get rid of the habit, much to the disdain of Saruman. But how could he not? Upon hearing their kin had left them to themselves, it was near silent. A look of grim weariness was on the face of each dwarrow present, as if they had expected such an answer but barely dared to hope differently. Only a few half hearted murmurs of protests where made, a thing previously unheard of considering how high spirited and loud dwarrow were, especially a group of this size. (Gandalf wished it was still unheard of. )

Thorin cleared his throat, and spoke again. “They day this quest is ours, and ours alone.” The dwarrow’s faces all fell even more, most of them quietly looking at kin with looks of despair or at their empty dinner plates if they seemed to be particularly hopeless. 

“So, you’re going on a quest then…” Bilbo muttered. 

Well, Gandalf could not let this continue. There was an order in which Gandalf had planned for things to be revealed, and since he was all out of wine he wasn’t going to let Bilbo figure out everything before his Big Reveals.

“Ah, Bilbo?” The wizard called, jolting everyone out of their melancholy. “Could you please get some more light?” 

Said menace looked over at him, eyebrow raised, arms crossed all while leaning against the wall. “You mean you haven’t noticed? Ori, the good lad, grabbed a candle during all the hullabaloo. It’s to your left, on the mantle.” 

“Hmph.” The Wizard lit his pipe, and started his monologue. (He could feel Bilbo’s eyes narrow at him for smoking in his dining room, but he knew the Hobbit was too curious to interrupt.)

“Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, lies a single solitary peak.” As he spoke, he withdrew a map from his robes and slowly unrolled it across the table. Gandalf tapped the drawing, and let everyone lean in and look. 

“The… Lonely Mountain.” Bilbo craned his head and slightly tilted it as he read. Thorin minutely scooted over, and leant his head towards Bilbo, offering a slight nod as Bilbo finished reading. 

“Aye.” Came a loud voice with a thick brogue. “Óin has read the portents. And the portents say It. Is. Time.” 

Óin cut in this time. “Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it has been foretold.” Here, the healer looked around and spoke with vehemence. (Gandalf was content to sit back and try to get his pipe going, as it hadn’t lit properly the first time.) “When the birds of yore return,” here he lowered his voice dramatically and leaned forward, “the reign of the beast will end.” 

Here, Bilbo forcefully interjected. “Excuse me,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “What beast?”

And here, Gandalf’s plan totally went to shit because Bofur, in all his pigtail and horrible hat glory (Gandalf still wasn’t sure what fur had been used to make it) spoke up before he could get a chance. 

“Oh,” the miner said with good cheer. “That would be a reference to Smaug the terrible,” he waved around his pipe as if to emphasize his point. “Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age.”

And just when Gandalf thought it couldn’t get worse, (as all the dwarrow were side eyeing one Mr. Baggins as if he was truly simple, which he knew the Hobbit would not stand for) Bofur merrily plowed on, and Gandalf remembered suddenly that Bofur was, Vala forbid, a storyteller and charismatic . 

“Airborn fire breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks,” here his tone changed from dramatic and somber to cheerful, “and pretty fond of precious metals.” 

“Yes, I know what a dragon is.” Bilbo irritatedly said. (Thorin uncharitably thought at the same time, ‘Why are you explaining what a dragon is, we were there .’)

Suddenly, Ori couldn’t contain himself any longer, overcome by a sudden bout of confidence. He stood up fast, chair shooting back. “Well, I’m not afraid! I’ll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!” Only for his rousing words to be ruined by Dori grabbing the back of his overly large knitted sweater and yanking him down, all while hissing “Sit down !”  (The dwarrow still cheered in agreement, with Nori slightly cackling and the princes giving him thumbs up and beaming smiles.)

But Balin, ever a voice of reason, had to cut in. “This task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just13.” Here, Balin looked around and quickly clarified his previous statement. “Not 13 of the best, nor brightest.”

Amongst the noises of disagreement, Fíli spoke up, showing off the charisma he surely must have inherited from his father. “We May be few in numbers, but we’re fighters, all of us.” The crown prince smacked the table and yelled “To the last one! And you forget, in our company, Gandalf would have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!” 

Gandalf choked on his pipe and cursed not paying attention. “Ah, eh, well, no,” he stammered. 

“Well, how many dragons have you killed?” Asked Dori earnestly. (Gandalf felt a surprising sting of betrayal from this, as he and Dori had shared some nice tea just between the two of them on the way here multiple times. Bilbo’s rapid coughing fit as he tried to cover his laughter was expected, for Bilbo had consistently seemed content with leaving Gandalf out to dry so far.)

As Gandalf was shocked by suddenly being thrown to the proverbial wargs, he only sat there stunned, smoke leaking out of his mouth. Seeing as he hadn’t answered, the dwarves started yelling and shouting and Fíli was about to climb on the table.

And so, for the second time that night, Thorin stood up and roared “ ENOUGH !” (While Bilbo could not appreciate Thorin’s personality, he could appreciate the way he commanded a room.) The dwarrow immediately quieted and sat down. 

“If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?” His voice took on a beseeching quality. “Already, rumours have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen in 60 years. Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk.” Seeing the serious expressions on his kins face, Thorin’s voice became intense once again. “Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected.”

Resting his palms on the table Thorin leaned forwards. “Do we sit back,” he stated with rising passion, “while others take what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize back this chance to take back Erebor ?!” A rousing cheer greeted the end of his speech, which quickly morphed into shouts of “Du Bekar!” 

But Balin, once again, felt it rested on his shoulders to be the voice of reason. “But the front gate is sealed ! There is no way into the mountain.” 

Now, Gandalf had learned his lesson and started paying attention to the conversation carrying on around him. And if Gandalf hadn’t cared about his image (one that had been ruined by chugging wine all dinner and getting into a shouting match with a hobbit literally half his height not 30 minutes prior) he would have gleefully rubbed his hands. Here, it was his time to shine. 

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true.” Here, Gandalf waved up his empty hand, and upon closing it, a large, angular key appeared in his grasp. 

There was something odd about the key. Made of some material and magic no longer known to dwarves or elves, lost to the annals of time, it glinted subtly in the candle light, and cast angular shadows on the wall behind the wizard, darker than any other shadow in the room. In fact, if not for the glints it gave off, it would seem to have sucked up all the light, for it too was impossibly dark. It sang to each dwarf in the room, multiple voices singing nonsense words to an invisible melody that every dwarrow knew meant “home”. 

“How came you by this?” Thorin enquired quietly, watching the key. 

“It was given to me by your father, Thrain, for safekeeping.” Gandalf replied, twirling the key slowly between his fingers. “And now,” Gandalf offered the handle of the key to Thorin, “it’s yours.”  

Thorin stared heavily at the key for a moment before he slowly reached towards it and grabbed it, all twelve other dwarrow and singular Hobbit watching solemnly. He held up the key, igniting a small spark of hope again in each dwarf. 

Then, of course, Kíli showed off how smooth of a rock he had for a brain by saying “I there’s a key… There must be a door!” (as if doors having keys was a revolutionary idea given to him by Mahal himself), thus ruining the moment. 

While Fíli smacked his brother, Thorin could only watch his youngest nephew and pray fervently for his family’s long and continuous health, because as much as he loved his sisters youngest child, he didn’t believe that Durin’s Folk (or even Erebor, truthfully) could survive a dragon then Kíli as King.

Chapter Text

“They’ve been abandoned by their kin,’ Bilbo realized solemnly. “So you’re going on a quest then…” Bilbo mused out loud, in an effort to gain more information. 

But then Gandalf and his blasted candles made yet another unfortunate and unnecessary appearance. Bilbo truly could not help himself from raising an eyebrow and popping out his hip and snarking “You mean you haven’t noticed? Ori, the good lad, grabbed a candle during all the hullabaloo. It’s to your left, on the mantle.” 

(With The Wizard’s sniffed “hmmph” and snooty drag from his pipe, Bilbo held in such a self righteous smirk that spiritually he transcended being a Hobbit and momentarily turned into the embodiment of supercilious and gave himself another victory point. But with Bilbo’s brief change of status, somewhere else on Arda Saruman started and looked up, already pale face ashen. He felt like, temporarily, he had lost something that had made up the keystone of his very being. The shaken feeling did not leave for weeks, and was brought back 60 years later when he gazed upon a 3 foot tall halfling with black curls and blue eyes. But in Valinor, the Green Lady was having a heart attack over the change of status of one of her beings, but calmed down when she realized the temporary change was due to Olórin. “Understandable,” was how she summed up her feelings towards that mess afterwards.)

Bilbo stood there, and as he was being apparently educated as to what a dragon was, all he could dryly think was “What is this? Are you the dragon’s spokesperson?” Out loud though, he forcefully said (in an effort to speak over the hatred dwarf who was still nattering on about the Mordor-damned dragon) in quite an irritable tone “Yes, I  know what a dragon is.” 

But then Karma struck instantly, and thus Bilbo was interrupted as well, this time by a young looking dwarf with a bowl cut who was positively swimming in what appeared to be several Man (or Elf) sized pieces of knitwear. 

And while Ori spoke quickly yet passionately about shoving metal up the Dragons rectum, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, Bilbo was suddenly struck by how… varied the Dwarves seemed to be. Ori seemed to be, by hobbit standards, in his mid 30’s and was acting as if it was first time his father was letting him participate in a town or clan meeting, while Balin watched on in an indulgent manner, like an elderly hobbit who had seen the same thing many times and wasn’t even bothered by it anymore, but instead was reminded of youthful joy, excitement, and passion. 

So, Hobbit age wise, they seemed to be just of age all the way to the Old Took. And they all seemed to be of different backgrounds too. ‘Why on Arda,’ Bilbo questioned, ‘is this the group going to go do something that involves a dragon?’

Balin’s (quite sensible, in Bilbo’s official Baggins of Bag End opinion) pointing out of “This task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just 13. Not 13 of the best,” and here, Bilbo felt Balin’s pointed glance at Kíli and Fíli justifiable if they were the hobbit equivalent of 30 or 33 as he was guessing,“or brightest.”

(Which he felt fairly confident about, as absolutely no grown hobbit would loudly proclaim that Gandalf , professional couch surfer and Meddler (listed in order of how often he does such an activity), would be capable of slaying a single dragon, much less hundreds .) 

(But he gave Fíli kudos, for watching Gandalf choke and sweat in a panic was the most entertaining thing he had ever seen in his life, surpassing even seeing his late Mother shoveling pig shit down into the fingers of her eldest brother’s gardening gloves one night during the time they had stayed at the Great Smials when he was 10. His father hadn’t appreciated hearing his wife tell their faunt “It’s ok, my love. See, if Isengrim wants to speak so much shit, he can very well smell of it too. In fact, I would dare say I’m doing my public duty to inform others of his personality.” His faunt self had been equally scandalized and enraptured. (In defence of Belladonna Baggins Nee Took, Isengrim Took III never again took part in gossip or even spoke anything with ill intent. If he ever felt the urge, he was suddenly overcome by the feeling of his fingers being submerged in the foulest substance known to hobbit kind.))

The next set of events could be summed up thusly: Gandalf dramatically produced a key that didn’t quite look or feel right, the dwarves were both hopeful and solemn, and then Kíli helpfully explained that keys=doors. (Truthfully, explaining the concept of Keys and Doors being locked would only have been helpful to Hamfast and Bellflower Gamgee’s younger children, as they had the understanding that “Doors are locked, but Mad-Baggins-I-Mean-Sir-Uncle-Bilbo comes in anyways” so obviously locked doors keeping both people out and in and usually requiring a key was a truly foreign concept.)

Then, Gandalf dropped the absolute crazy fact that Dwarf doors are invisible when closed. (?!?!) When Bilbo noticed that he was the only one shocked at the fact (seeing as every dinner guest had just ignored the words that shook Bilbo to the core, with some even nodding as if Gandalf had spoken some great, unquestionable truth), he was ready to just write the entire evening off and retire to bed and leave Dwarf and Gandalf nonsense behind.

“Now, the answer lies hidden somewhere in this map…” Gandalf said, with his audience quiet with rapt attention. “And I do not have the skills to find it,” he finished shamelessly. (Bilbo closed his eyes and pinched his nose, and Gandalf mentally patted himself on the back and awarded himself 10,000 points.) 

Effortlessly, Gandalf carried on. “But, there are others in Middle Earth who can.” 

Thorin looked at Tharkûn, his expression daring him to say that he simply meant “Elf” instead of “others”. The expression also got across the point that, if Gandalf did in fact dare to say “Elf”, that Thorin would somehow manifest lightning to strike the Istari down were he sat, and then Thorin would make sure his ashes would be bottled and used as a Durin heirloom in some kind of weird, physical fuel to make sure their anger for the Elves lived on until the end of Ages.

But Gandalf was, if nothing else, a trooper and immune to almost any Look™️ sent his way, and he plowed on, unbothered. 

“The task I have in mind requires a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage.” Here, Gandalf made eye contact with Bilbo, who immediately looked concerned and wary. (And that is the only correct response when Gandalf deems to gaze upon oneself.) “But if we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done.” 

“So that’s why we need a burglar!” Ori said earnestly (though for whose benefit this was being said could be argued for multiple people, and a point could be made in fact for the group of dwarrow as a whole.) 

And here is where Bilbo walked into the trap Gandalf had been laying all day. “Hmm. And  a good one too. An expert, I’d imagine.” 

“And are you?” Nori enquired, posture lazy but eyes sharp and interested. 

Here Bilbo seemed to startle a bit and gave a quick look around, before turning back and asking “Am I what?”

Honestly, Bilbo felt like he still had the rug pulled out from under him after the “Invisible Dwarf Doors” thing, and so he was understandably  and justifiably confused when Burglars came up and failed to make the connection when questioned. But, upon hearing Oín excitedly declare ”He said he’s an expert. Hey!” Bilbo’s brain quickly woke up and started working again. 

“Me? No, no, no. I’m not a burglar. I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!” Bilbo was quick to deny it and put the silly notion to rest. “Besides,” he added dryly, shooting a glance at Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome sitting at his table. “I thought I was a grocer .” 

“Well, I’m afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He’s hardly burglar material.” Balin stated, once again proving he had almost all of the limited Durin Common Sense. 

“Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.” Added Dwalin, thus fulfilling his yearly quota of One Good Thought.

Kíli couldn’t help but roll his eyes and drawl “He’s just fine.” Fíli shook his head in agreement, both of the boys feeling personally insulted on behalf of the Hobbit. (Perhaps it was due to the uncanny resemblance to their dear Amad, at least personality wise.)

Somehow, Gandalf was incapable of remembering how quickly dwarrow could rule themselves up and found himself in shock by how quickly and loudly the dwarrow where either arguing or agreeing (at this decibel he was incapable of differentiating) about Bilbo’s Burglar status. 

”Enough!” Shouted Gandalf, as he pushed himself up and spread shadows around the walls of the dining room. (The shadow effect was necessary for his intimidation factor, seeing as he had to stand quite hunched in Bag End’s dining room, the roof quite a bit lower than the roof in the entrance hall.) “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is.” 

Even seeing Bilbo’s outraged facial expression, mouth open as if ready to vehemently protest did not deter Gandalf from making his speech. 

“Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most, if they choose.”

More calmly, he continued rationalizing his choice. “And, while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.”

Nori could grudgingly see Tharkûn’s point, but he was still bitter and holding a grudge seeing as the whole selling point of him even being allowed on the quest was he was a professional thief and therefore, if one can burgle any race on Arda, he should theoretically be able to burgle a dragon.

Completely bulldozing over Bilbo’s denials of being a thief (yet again), much less a burglar, Gandalf turned to Thorin. “You have asked me to find the 14th member of your company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest.” Here, he spoke more loudly, clearly aiming this last bit at the rest of the dwarrow. “And he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know!” And suddenly, Gandalf appeared to be thousands of years old when he glanced at Bilbo Baggins, the Baggins of Bag End, and softly said ended with “Including himself.” 

 And that was when Bilbo had precisely enough of Gandalf’s shit.  “A word, Gandalf? In my study please.” 

The dwarrow were once again blown away by this hobbit’s interactions with the wizard, as the 3 foot tall being somehow managed to bodily overpower Gandalf up and out of chair and proceeded to drag him down the hall, out of sight, and presumably through a doorway as they heard a door slam. Not 30 seconds later their host was back, a polite smile on his face, and kindly asked them to follow him to the parlour, as he had laid down an assortment of afters and had a fire going as well as some drinks laid out. 

After making sure they were comfortable, he apologized and asked them to start without him, but that he would back soon. Almost before he had even finished his sentence, he was out into the hallway and the dwarrow could hear him determinedly making his way towards the study, and every single one of them said a quick prayer for Tharkûn. (Unknowingly, their Maker heard and answered, seeing as he had always had a soft spot for Olórin, much to the dismay of his calm loving wife.)

Chapter Text

“Now, Gandalf,” Bilbo said in a very dangerous tone. “You have exactly one minute to explain yourself. And,” here he held up a hand, preemptively stopping what would have no doubt been a convoluted, long, non-explanation. “ I want the truth. Make it succinct, make it fast, give me a bare-boned but correct summary if you must. But no nonsense. I am not in the mood anymore to play any of your silly games.” 

Gandalf was in the middle of a deep inhale, (no doubt ready to speak more nonsense because he was nothing if Not Committed™️) then let it out in a rather large sigh. (The sigh was in fact so large Bilbo was simultaneously mildly impressed by and rather concerned about Gandalf’s lungs.) Collapsing onto one of the overstuffed wingback chairs Bilbo kept in his office-turned-library, he dragged a weathered hand down his suddenly very aged face. “Very well Bilbo. I suppose I owe it to your mother at the very least.” Bilbo let out a disbelieving scoff at that, but Gandalf plowed on, lost in his own thoughts. “You see, I speak the truth. These dwarrow are on a quest to reclaim their homeland, and I do wholeheartedly believe you need to come along.” Gandalf interlocked his hands over his stomach, and sunk back into his chair, all while looking up at the ceiling. He seemed lost in the shadows flickering around up there, caused by the blazing fireplace. “There is a darkness coming, Bilbo Baggins,” the Istari finally admitted. “There is a darkness coming, and I believe Erebor will be needed. Nay, I know it. While I have no doubt those dwarrow out there will manage to get to the mountain, by nothing else but sheer bull headedness, I don’t believe they’ll live to see it prosper without your help.” 

‘That,’ Bilbo thought as he struggled to take in what the wizard had just unloaded, ‘was the exact opposite of short and succinct.’

It was silent in the study for nigh on 10 minutes. Eventually, Bilbo moved from in front of his desk, where he had spent the past moments lost deep in thought while tracing some of his maps he had left out earlier, to in front of the fireplace, and added another log. While his back was turned and he was crouched down, the hobbit finally spoke. 

“I am but a hobbit Gandalf. I am but a middle aged hobbit, part of the landed gentry, and head of my family. I am soft, and the only hardened part of me are the calluses on my fingers from holding a quill. I have voraciously studied foreign languages, devoured books about the histories of far off places, and I have almost obsessively consumed every map I have managed to get my hands on. But the only time I’ve ever been attacked have been by weeds in my garden, and I am not even always successful against them. I am not the most physically fit, I haven’t camped since I was a fauntling, and I have no true survival skills. I haven’t even left West Farthing in damn near a decade. What good is a sharp mind when I would be nothing but a liability?” 

Gandalf’s large eyebrows had risen almost to the top of his forehead (only stopped by the multitude of wrinkles they had also pushed up and blocked the way), only to quickly fall down when his expression softened from disbelief to fondness. “My dear, dear Bilbo. You disparage yourself, but refuse to see the positives. You know the landscape of Arda like the back of your hand, and you know it’s history. Your knowledge of languages is nothing but borderline miraculous, as even most of my colleagues throughout the ages cannot claim to be half as articulate as you. You claim to be soft, to be a liability, but those dwarrow out there are hardened. They most certainly have lived in a middle earth lacking kindness, and they show it. You have a sharp mind, but have a very kind heart. That is something this company, in fact this world , is very sorely lacking in.” A bright smile broke across his face, lightening the heavy mood that had set upon the cramped study. “So yes, Bilbo Baggins, you are needed, for very many different reasons. But also because, and I quite believe you’ll understand my saying this, seeing as you’ve met them all now, for the sake of my sanity if nothing else.”  

Upon hearing that, Bilbo and Gandalf shared small, but true, smiles. 

After they had collected themselves and were about to make their way back, Bilbo hesitated at the door. 

Gandalf  gave the much smaller being a gentle nudge, and said “You'll have a tale or two to tell when you come back.”

“You can promise that I'll come back?”  

“No. And if you do, you will not be the same.”

Back in the front room, the dwarrow seemed to be split between awkwardly hovering while their host and wizard were gone, and making themselves right at home. Ori, Dori, Gloin,and Oin all stiffly sat on their seats, whilst Kíli had dug through a side table and produced a set of cards with a bird motif. Fíli, Bofur, Nori, and Dwalin had joined in, while Bifur and Balin sat contently beside Thorin who was sitting on an ottoman  in front of the fireplace and glaring in. 

Kíli was (unsurprisingly) the first one out of the card game, and made his way to his uncle. “Hey, do you think Mr. Boggins is going to join?” Kíli asked as he flopped himself against Thorin's back in a weird approximation of a hug. 

Thorin huffed, and said “I should hope not. It’ll be dangerous, and we have a sole purpose; I have no time for a genteel hobbit treating this as a holiday.” 

“Awe,” Kíli rubbed his face into the back of his uncle's tunic before propping his head onto his shoulder. “Aren’t you being a little harsh? You haven’t even really met him.” 

“And you have?” A lifted eyebrow and a dry tone was the immediate response.

Kíli had once again shoved his face into Thorin’s back, so what he said was very muffled and sounded like gibberish. (Given that it was Kíli, there was about a 40% chance it would have been gibberish anyways if audible.) 

“What? Speak up, my ears are on my head, not on my shoulder blades.” Thorin jostled his shoulder, trying to dislodge Kíli’s head. 

Finally, Kíli heaved a big sigh, ruffling his uncle’s braids. “I said,” he rolled his eyes and tried to slump again, “he reminds me of amad.” That made Thorin freeze, for a comparison to Dis wasn't something to take lightly. 

“Really?” 

“Mmhmm. Fíli thinks so too.” 

And that froze Thorin’s heart. But before he could even sputter and try to question how his two nephews came to this, quite frankly, terrifying conclusion, the hobbit quickly strode in, eyes strangely glassy but with a look of determination on his face. 

“Yes, yes, terribly sorry to leave you all unattended, but I’m terribly afraid manners go out the window when Wizards are involved.” Bilbo said with forced cheer. “Now,” he continued on, hands clasped together in front of his chest, “who must I speak to regarding my potential employment?”

“Ah yes, laddie,” Balin said, startled by Bilbo’s sudden entrance. “That would be Thorin and I. We already have a contract prepared, you just need to sign.” As he finished speaking, he reached a large hand into one of his large hanging sleeves and pulled out the aforementioned contract. (Though it much resembled a book due to how many times it had been folded.) 

“You’ve come quite prepared, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d much rather read a contract before signing.” 

The elderly dwarf smiled gamely and handed it over. “Of course; you’ve got quite the sensible head on your shoulders.” 

Bilbo crinkled his eyes and gave a tight lipped smile. “Of course. I’m not the Baggins of Bag End for nothing. Would someone like to follow me to the kitchen in case I have questions?” 

It was quiet in the kitchen while Bilbo carefully read through the contract. On the opposite side of the table from Bilbo sat Thorin and Balin, with Gandalf residing at the head. Bilbo’s brow was furrowed and he chewed on his bottom lip as he went through the contract. Balin sat there with his large hands resting clasped on top of his stomach with a grandfatherly smile on his face. Meanwhile, Thorin sat with his arms crossed and looked faintly constipated  as he intensely contemplated the hobbit sitting across from him. Gandalf, on the other hand, had twisted around and was rummaging through the drawers behind him. 

The quiet was shattered when Bilbo smacked his open palm against the scarred tabletop harshly.  The noise startled the other three, and Gandalf hastily asked what was wrong as he shuffled his robes to cover the shattered floral glass measuring cup he had dropped when he was startled.

“Oh, by the Valar, what isn’t  wrong?” Bilbo said as he ran his fingers through his curls. “This contract is a-a-a farce !” 

This time, it wasThorin’s fist slamming against the table, to the surprise of absolutely no one. “And what, exactly,” Thorin ground out, “Hobbit, is wrong with your contact?” (Balin didn’t say anything, but he too looked mortally offended. Gandalf sighed and wished someone would drown him in one of Thranduil’s massive dorwinion wine casks.) 

“Everything! Everything is wrong! You can’t even ask what’s right, because it’s all wrong.” 

“I’ll have you know, that this contract was written by the finest lawmakers and scholars in all the dwarven kingdoms, and in fact , is exceedingly generous.” Thorin had stood up and jabbed a hefty finger at Bilbo. Bilbo, not to be outdone, had also stood up and was holding the contract tightly in his fist, which he used to smack away Thorin's hand. 

“Don’t you dare point those dirty sausages at me! And exceedingly generous? You delude yourself, sir. What need am I of a fourteenth share of a dragon’s hoard when it states here I can be put on trial before you all without being informed of what my crime is? And the trial shall be conducted in Khzudul, I shan’t be appointed a lawyer or even permitted to have anyone even speak in my defense, and possible punishments if deemed guilty ‘by a jury of my peers’, ‘may include, but is not limited to, banishment, being fined, losing a finger or tongue , branded , SHAVED, and/or beheading?” 

Gandalf winced, and being the master of subtle understatement, said “I see how that can be taken badly.” As he too started to stand with his knees and back cracking very loudly, he very quickly kicked the broken glass under the icebox, glad to have the noise covered by the side effects of his (presumedly false) elderly body.  “Now, sit down you two, and collect yourselves. I think it would be in the Quest’s best interest if we redid some sections of the contract, this time with Mr. Baggins’ input. Thorin, why don’t you go back to everyone else, and I’ll bring you the final product to read and see if it gets your approval. It’s getting late, and you two go at it like cats and dogs.”  

By what must only have been Mahal and Nienna joining forces, Thorin agreed (Graciously even!), and didn’t even acknowledge Bilbo’s snooty little “hmph!” he made as the dwarven king walked by. 

4 versions, 90 minutes, and three Istari deliveries later, Bilbo finally had the newly modified contract in front of him, just waiting for his signature. But just before his quill (sharpened down so much it was nearly just a stub by this point) touched the parchment, he stopped. ‘Is this really something I can do? That I want to do?’ he glanced up and looked at the dwarf in front of him. Balin had his head thrown back, with one thrown over his closed eyes. A small drop of ink fell off the quill onto the parchment, and Bilbo idly redipped as he continued to question whether this was the path he wanted to take. Right as he was about to convince himself that, no , it was not in anyone’s best interest, he heard some kind of low noise coming from where the dwarrows were. He let out a sigh, laid down his quill on the contract, and went to investigate.

As Bilbo neared, he could hear it was humming. Not wanting to intrude, he paused beside the archway and glanced in. All the dwarrow  were sitting there, as silent and as unmoving as the mountains they came from. Thorin was sitting in front of the dying fire, face half hidden by shadows. Finally, the king opened his mouth and began to sing. 

“Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away, ere break of day

To seek our pale enchanted gold”

As the last of the song faded away, Bilbo hurried back to the kitchen, lest he be discovered intruding on something he felt was incredibly private. He couldn’t bring himself to regret witnessing it though, for it lit something in him that had been smothered for many years. He grabbed the quill, and ignored the quite sizable ink stain that had occurred from accidentally leaving the freshly inked quill laying on top of the parchment. He quickly signed his name, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind (that sounded suspiciously like his father Bungo Baggins) insisting that the blobs of ink were unseemly for something as formal as a contract, and that he should quickly make a new one. He blew on it and fanned the ink, trying to dry it as quickly as possible, not having the patience (or thought) to sprinkle pounce. (Though it possibly would have been just as, if not more, quick than the primitive method he employed.) (It also had the effect of smudging the ink slightly.) 

Once he deemed it dry enough, he nearly flung the signed contract at Balin’s chest, (Startling him rather badly as Balin was still trying to rest his eyes, which were incredibly strained from writing so much by candlelight.) and made his way back to everyone else with a renewed sense of purpose. 

He managed to meet them at the door, as they were all preparing to leave to make (a very late) camp. Seeing as he had aired out the guest bedrooms, he informed them that this was an option as well, and after much grumbling (especially from Thorin) and pleading (from Fíli, Kíli, and Ori), the dwarrow agreed to stay. 

After helping his guests settle and making sure they were comfortable, Bilbo finally retired to his room and fell face first into a deep sleep on top of his covers. (He didn't think much of how his bones ached a little bit from the cold, or how much his back and neck hurt the next morning due to his improper sleeping position, but would soon come to regret not taking advantage of his comfortable mattress for the last time in years.)

Centuries later, all 14 contracts signed would be part of a permanent display commemorating the Quest.  All perfectly lined up, with each unique signature displayed. On the end, the 14th contract was written in a different hand, on different parchment, but the most noticeable thing about it was the large, unseemly ink blot, and the cramped, smudged signature devoid of any flourishes crammed beside and around it. (It was something Bilbo hated looking at, for it was a source of constant and insistent teasing during his lifetime.)

Chapter Text

Bilbo awoke half frozen, and with an aching neck and shoulder due to how he fell asleep. Not to mention the pounding headache and burning of his eyes. (Bilbo felt like the time he had entered a drinking contest where Old Gamgee had supplied his moonshine.)

(Old Gamgee’s moonshine could put hair on an elf, knock an orc on his arse, and genuinely peel the paint off of wood if not opened at least 27 Hobbit-Feet away.)

But, birds were chirping and the sun was starting to rise, and first breakfast waits for nobody.

So, Bilbo rolled himself out of bed. (More like flung himself sideways off his bed in an unseemly gangle of limbs and impressive lack of coordination.) Standing, he realized he hadn’t changed out of his dinner clothes from last night, and he idly noted that he looked roguishly disheveled as he checked over himself in his bedroom mirror.

(Bilbo had genuinely come out of multiple hobbit romps in the hay during Harvest Fest looking less disheveled; but that’s neither here nor there.)

Bilbo took off his waistcoat and loosened his cravat, made a half assed effort to re-tuck his shirt, pushed his curls away from his face, and deemed himself acceptable to leave his room and start breakfast.

After all, what were the chances any of his guests would be awake?

Thorin, from a very young age, had developed the habit of rising with the sun. (Frerin needed to be herded back into bed, Dís needed a change, his Amad needed her medicine. Then it was to take watch while they wandered; which turned into taking watch at Azanulbizar . Next, it was to spend as much time in the forge so they didn’t starve to death, and eventually Fíli and Kíli needed to be watched so they didn't run out the door and down the road in only their diapers.)

Very quickly he decided he would leave the room and go light the fireplaces for their host in a silent apology for his behaviour last night. (After all, one could only be trapped in an enclosed, small room with both of his nephew’s morning breath for so long without passing away.)

After lighting the fires in the main rooms, Thorin made his way to the kitchen, hoping that Hobbit stoves weren’t too dissimilar to Dwarven ones; when some quiet singing made him stop in his tracks. The voice was nice, Thorin admitted to himself. Peering around the corner, he was about to offer his help when he froze. 

The Hobbit, Mr. Baggins, was dressed so scandalously that Thorin couldn’t comprehend how he  had even left his bed so… exposed. 

His shirt was untied, and was so loose it almost hung off one shoulder, exposing collarbones and a freckled, rosy shoulder. Loose curls were fluffed into a halo that nearly glowed in the dawn light, and his eyes were half lidded. His neck piece had been loosened so much that it was barely holding onto its knot, and it hung low, framing his exposed breastbone nicely. 

Suddenly, the hobbit ( Bilbo , his mind whispered) yawned and stretched, first pushing his chest so forward that his shirt was pulled taut, and became nearly translucent when it caught the rays of early morning light. (For a fraction of a second, Thorin could have sworn he could see the outline of a rosy nipple.) Then, even worse, the hobbit stretched his arms up so high his shirt rode up, exposing a pale, freckled hip and stomach. Thorin only came back to his senses when the Hobbit Mahal damn near started molesting his stomach, and his hand started moving on a path upwards, catching his shirt and exposing more and more skin.

Thorin all but threw himself backwards, and barreled past the Wizard, and straight back into the room he had shared with his nephews, startling them awake. 

(Fíli sat up gasping, clutching his blanket to his chest like he was some dwarrowdam protecting her modesty, while Kíli twitched so violently, Thorin deduced he had pulled a muscle, mainly due to Kíli swearing violently in Khuzdul about his calf muscle.)

“Gandalf? Is that you?” Bilbo called out blearily, as he tried to blink the sleep (and the burning) out of his eyes, even though they were only open a quarter of the way. 

“Ah, yes, good morning Bilbo. Please pardon my appearance, I was almost sent flying by something tearing down the halls of your smial.”

Bilbo turned and his eyes finally managed to focus on something. And, he didn’t understand what Gandalf meant; he looked exactly as he always did: as though he had slept in the bush for a week straight, fell into a slough, and then washed up at your door. 

Bilbo decided to ignore what had been said. (It would be a recurring theme throughout the quest.) “Good morning to you too. Is everyone waking up? I almost have the food ready. Do you know what time we’re to be leaving?”

“A Hobbit breakfast to send us off? My old bones can now rest peacefully if I’m to pass. No, I’m afraid I’m not sure what time we’re to depart; that seems more a question for Master Balin.” Gandalf admitted as he shuffled his way into doing a stoop-backed lap of the kitchen. 

“What’s a question for me?” came Balin’s voice as his head popped through the doorway. 

“Good morning Master Balin! Do you know what time we're going to depart? Oh, Gandalf! Could you go make sure everyone is awake?” asked Bilbo as he dusted off his hands. “Sorry, Master Balin. I’m just trying to finish a few last minute things, and I need to know if I should use up all my perishables for breakfast, or save some for second breakfast or even elevenses if they’re to be eaten on the road.”

As Gandalf made his way out into the hall, he heard Balin’s confused voice as he inquired as to what, exactly, second breakfast and elevenses where exactly. 

Gandalf, having alerted every dwarrow that food was imminent (and thus had everyone awake and ready in record time,) felt an icy cold shiver of dread drip down his spine as he made his way back to the kitchen. Gandalf, having made it alive for over a millenia, did what anyone in his position would do; ignore it. (He had made it this long by practically being immortal, and having spent most of it on Valinor.)

“Tharkun. A word.”  Thorin said, tipping his head towards the sitting room. 

The two of them made their way in, and while one sat, the other brooded by the fireplace. 

“Tell me, Tharkun, why exactly we need a burglar, and why must it be… him.” came Thorin's voice. 

“Master Oakenshield, we’ve been over this several times just last night, not even including the months leading up. I sincerely doubt there's anything else for me to add or elaborate.” Gandalf confessed. “May I ask what brought it up this time?”

“That… Hobbit,” Thorin bit out, ”isn’t…” before he trailed off again. 

Gandalf magnanimously decided to wait for the King to find his words. (And not only because Thorin had a magnificently horrid expression on his face as he thought; it was also because whatever was on his mind was upsetting him so much that he was actually starting to vibrate in place.)  

“Gandalf,” Thorin suddenly started loudly. (In doing so, he startled the wizard so severely that Gandalf dropped the pipeweed bag he had stolen from Bilbo’s front hall.) “I may no longer have envoys from every kingdom and race gracing my dining halls every night, but I do believe that I am not so far disconnected from the world that it has moved on so severely without my taking note. This hobbit, the one you call burglar. What has he done to earn such a name? What does he plan to burgle from us? Our tongue? Our wits? Our thoughts ?” At this, Thorin spun quite dramatically and pointed at Gandalf, before starting to pace frantically. “It has been yet a day, yet he already consumes my thoughts. The sanctity of my mind has been breached, and my focus has shifted. Words and prayers that tumbled from my lips for Mahal are now only for him; my focus and dreams for the future, which featured Erebor and my kin, have now faded to the background, with him as the focal point. So tell me Gandalf, what magic has he cast to utterly bewitch me, body and soul? Tell me who I must pray to, to get myself back. Again, tell me Gandalf ; what is he going to steal? Am I not enough? Must I worry for my nephew's innocence? For the security of the crown? Those dwarrow out there might not be Durin’s finest; but they are all of a high standard that I must insist that any of my company are held too. I must have been wrong about him being a grocer; surely he must be a whore, for I have seen night workers who have acted with more decorum than him!” Thorin finally finished, panting, and with a crazed look in his eye. 

(Gandalf had spent the entire rant shocked, unable to interrupt, no matter how hard he tried. Very quickly it became apparent that he should have rationed his wine last night to stretch into today as well, and he idly wondered if it would be appropriate to buy another horse specifically to carry casks of wine for the journey ahead.)

“Well,” came an incredibly frigid voice. “When I inquired about your whereabouts and was informed that a discussion was being had, I never imagined I would walk into a discussion about my virtue.  I’m not in the habit of being called a whore before breakfast, which is ready, by the way.” 

The room was deadly silent, with Gandalf not breathing out of pure choice, and Thorin out of pure fear (but the need to not do so for both coming from a place of pure survival). Thorin swallowed thickly, and walked by the Hobbit (who was still dressed like that!) as best he could, as Mr. Baggins had refused to move out of the way. “A word of advice to you, Master Oakenshield; I don’t know how it is for dwarves, but for most races, it’s unfathomably rude to disparage the character of your host, nevermind to do so in his own home.” The Hobbit said to him, in a frighteningly neutral tone, before letting him pass.

The Journey began by leaving Hobbiton behind, but bringing with them an incredible hostility and frostiness between two specifically, and an extraordinary level of awkwardness for almost everyone else present.   

It was obvious that something had happened, but only four in the entire company were privy as to what, exactly, had happened. 

(Balin had the incredible misfortune of being told what had occurred when he came across Mr. Baggins in an in astoundingly foul mood. When told, he had felt his soul immediately being raptured by Mahal himself towards his hallowed halls; at least, until he felt the grubby hands of the Line of Durin grab the hem of his robes and violently drag him back to Middle Earth without his consent.)

(It was incredible, Balin thought in some kind of out-of-body daze, how he had watched Thorin grow from an insufferable brat to insufferable king.)

Chapter Text

It was raining.

In fact, it was raining so hard, Bilbo was disinclined to refer to it as rain, and as such, referred to it as the Valar trying to cleanse the Earth of a stain. A stain, if any one thought to ask Bilbo, that took the form of a rather brooding lump. A lump that could only be described as a rather large hook nose peeking out in between a rather wet mass of dark hair that obscured almost everything about the lump, except for its aforementioned nose and hands.

‘ Look at him,’ Bilbo bitterly thought. ‘ He doesn't even have the decency to look like this rainfall is affecting him.’   And sure enough, the lump rode proudly at front, back straight and head held up high, with nary a complaint passing from his lips. 

The fact that he wasn’t complaining was being completely overshadowed by the rest of the company, who had decided to complain enough for all of Durin’s folk; including past, present, and future.

But then glorious, glorious  Dori opened his mouth and asked Gandalf if ‘he could perhaps do something about the rain?’ 

And by the Valar, this trip was already worth it, even if they were eaten by a dragon at the end, just for the sour look on Gandalf’s face.

‘In fact,’  Bilbo decided, ‘I should make this trip spectacular. Who says this journey can’t peak right now?’ He giddied up Myrtle and made it up near Gandalf, who was just finishing recounting the other Wizards. 

 Bilbo saw his chance, and seized it faster and far more fiercely than a hobbit faunt grabbing something they aren’t supposed to have. 

“Is he great, or is he… more like you?” Bilbo interjected, voice so guileless that it could fool the most unwavering of Hobbit matrons. 

Unfortunately, (Or perhaps fortunately, depending on who you asked,) Gandalf was no hobbit matron, and as such, wasn’t fooled. 

Gandalf answered all while giving Bilbo the most bombastic side-eye, and took a deep inhale of his lit pipe. (That fact wasn’t unnoticed by Bilbo, who gleefully came to the ((correct)) assumption that Gandalf couldn’t keep something as large as himself dry, but could only keep the bowl of his pipe from becoming a swamp.)  “Well, I think he is a very great wizard... in his own way. He's a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals for others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forest lands to the East, and a good thing too.”

Bilbo, in response, gave Gandalf a doubtful glance over. “Of course that is a good thing; in fact, I would dare say that is a great thing. Why, by my standards, I would even venture on and say he is the Greatest of the five wizards.” Bilbo shook his head, and tsked a couple times in disapproval. “Gandalf, I can’t believe you’d be so petty as to downplay the achievements of the highest of your order. If you're that self conscious, if I ever have the chance to meet him, I’ll ask him for advice on how you, too, can be great. And,” Bilbo decided to so gracefully add, “If you ever need support, you know I’ll be there to help you. I can’t imagine it will be easy, becoming Great, after so long of… what exactly is it you do, besides bumming beds and eating other people’s food?”

“Bilbo, you look like a drowned rat; must you act like one too?” Gandalf muttered around his pipe. “But, if you must know, I sit on the White Council, where we watch over Middle Earth and protect it from the dark forces. Myself, The Lady Galadriel, Saruman the White, Lord Elrond, and Radagast the Brown all sit upon-”

“Radagast? Of course he should sit upon it, he’s the greatest. Where are the meetings held? Do you cycle between each other’s places of residence; do you host supper parties while discussing matters of Great Importance? I’m only asking, seeing as that’s what you did at my place, so I’m curious as to if that’s your usual mode of operation.”

“No, Bilbo, as a matter of fact, they’re usually held in Rivendell, as Elrond is a most gracious host. Radagast’s house is both too small and doesn't cater to those that aren’t animals, whilst Orthanc is far and it does Saruman good to leave it every once in a while. Lothlórien is also very far for some of us to travel.”

“And? Where is your home?” 

“My home is wherever Varda’s stars shine overhead, where-”

“Oh by the- Gandalf, you are an actual vagrant! Is that where the jealousy comes from? The other wizards have homes and you don’t?” Bilbo had the most devilish grin on his face, and continued to rile up the wizard. “Well, I guess it makes sense, since you had no respect for mine.” 

Gandalf, in response, used some magic to dry Myrtle’s mane and blow it all in Bilbo's face,  setting off his allergies. The poor Hobbit sneezed so violently, he fell off his pony, and somehow managed to take poor Bombur (who was riding behind him) down with him. 

When Bombur hit the ground, the loud noise and shaking of the earth spooked the ponies so bad, over half the company was thrown off their own mounts as well, and Thorin had no choice but to call an end to their day, so that the company could both dry off and soothe their bruised egos (not to mention their exceedingly bruised bottoms.)

As the dwarrow settled under a rocky outcrop that was dry and warm (but most importantly must have been used as a rest point by someone else, as there was a stack of dried, split wood that created a glorious fire), Bilbo helped Bombur cook a stew. 

Which, to be honest, wasn’t much help at all, as there still seemed to be wariness directed at him by almost everyone in the company, barring Fili, Kili, and Gandalf. 

Still, Bombur trusted him with his precious ladle and allowed him to stir it, an honor that nobody else in the company had been given, (much less even touch the precious, vaunted ladle) so Bilbo was determined to count this as a win. 

When the stew had thickened niceley, and was distributed amongst all 15 of them, Bilbo made his way to the edge of the outcrop and prepared to light his pipe.  Just as he had taken his first smoke, he heard a sound that set every hair on his little body on edge. “What was that?” Bilbo asked sharply, quickly looking up from where he was packing his pipe. 

“Orcs,” Kili answered. 

“Orcs?!” came Bilbo’s sharp reply.

“Throat cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there. The low-lands are crawling with them.” Fili added from around the mouth of his own pipe. 

“They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone’s asleep. Quick and quiet; no screams, just lots of blood." Kili carried on, with some hand movements to really drive his point home. 

At Bilbo’s sputtering and rapid puffing of his pipe to calm his nerves, the two brothers made eye contact and started chuckling. Which proved to be their downfall, as their Uncle stormed over in a righteous flurry of anger. 

“You think this is funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?” Thorin nearly hissed at his nephews in anger.

“We- we’re sorry;” Kili managed to choke out in the face of his uncle’s disapproval, barely bringing himself to look him in the eye. “We didn't mean anything by it.”

Thorin stared at his two sister-sons, feeling a complex mixture of emotions. So, he did what he always did (and every Durin before him had done as well,) when faced with convoluted emotions; he settled on anger. 

“You know nothing of the world,” he managed to spit out through his teeth. “You should have stayed at home, hidden behind your mother’s skirts.”  He stormed away from them, and took himself out by the ledge, to get some fresh air and hopefully cool himself down, before he became even more enraged and said something he would regret.

As he looked out in the distance, all he could think of was the children and dwarrowdams lost to night raids during their wandering. The ones who refused to listen, who thought they knew better and could get away with some privacy from the night watch to relieve themselves, of pebbles curious about the world, outside from the safety of the mountain for the first time in their lives.

But mostly he was haunted by dwarrow forced to take watch, who hadn’t actually been in battle, who’s weapons had been mainly for show after completing their training. Of dwarrow barely of age, eyes bleary from exhaustion, mind hazy from near starvation.  

So many lost.

So many, unable to return to the stone.

So many unrecognizable, marred beyond belief. 

So many burned in mass pyres instead of laying in stone halls.

Even more just left there to rot.

He was so absorbed in his memories that he barely heard Balin excuse his behavior to the hobbit. He only finally started to listen more closely once Balin started telling the tale behind his epitaph. 

“Don't mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria... but our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs, led by the most vile of all their race, Azog the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the King. Thrain, Thorin's father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed; we did not know. We were leaderless, defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him; the young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armour rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield... Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied and drove the Orcs back; our enemy had been defeated... but there was no feast or songs that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived and I thought to myself then 'There is one I could follow. There is one I could call King'.”

He could feel every eye on him, and he hated it. It was something Thorin usually preferred never to think about, as he had lost most of his family that had survived the dragon there. 

( gamul adad, adad, nadadith)

(Besides, enough of the company had actually been there. Why was Balin talking about it  again , and why was everyone listening? They acted like it was some great tale of Triumph, instead of the crushing weight on Thorin’s shoulders, waking him up at nights in a panic, making him unable to breathe due to the guilt closing in on him.)

Thorin was so lost in his thoughts again that it was a miracle that he didn't flinch when somebody suddenly spoke from beside his left elbow.

“I feel like I should apologize; like that was an invasion of your privacy, that that story was something you should have told me yourself.” It was the hobbit, who stood beside him, gazing out over the tops of the pine trees bathed in moonlight. “I know you’ve probab;y heard this a million times before, but I want to offer my condolences for the loss of your family. I lost both my parents right when I came of age, and even though it’s been years, that grief has never fully gone away,” Master Baggins continued on, still not looking at Thorin, aside from a few quick glances out of the corner of his eye. 

Thorin dipped his head in acknowledgement, and the two stood there in silence for a few moments, before Master Baggins rocked onto the heels of his overly large feet and continued to speak. 

“Well, that was certainly heavy. I couldn’t help but listen, and I was so entranced that I let my pipe die out. I could certainly go for another smoke. Would you care to join me?” the hobbit asked, fiddling with his ridiculous suspenders. 

“Ah, I would, but I left my pipe and pipeweed behind in my pack, and I don't particularly care to walk through everyone's gazes to retrieve them.” Thorin rolled his head back, and closed his eyes almost all the way, keeping them open barely enough that he could drink his fill of the sight of the hobbit. 

He looked ethereal in the moonlight, but he looked stunning in the warm light of the fire, shadows and highlights flickering across his face. It highlighted his small, upturned nose, and made his hair gleam with veins of gold and copper. Bilbo hemmed and hawed, tilting his head back and forth, making those curls bounce, exposing the tips of his peculiar pointed ears, and highlighting the curve of his stout neck and the smallest pouch of fat hidden behind his chin. 

Thorin watched him as the fussy little burglar seemed to prepare his pipe, before he finally deemed to  voice whatever decision he had come to. 

“I know we started on the wrong foot, but why don’t we put it behind us? I’m willing to share my pipe, if you don’t mind having Old Toby.” Bilbo finally turned and looked at him, and smiled.

Thorin had never so wished to be gifted with art, for if he ever managed to convey the look the hobbit was giving him, it surely would be the greatest work he would ever produce. 

Master Baggin’s smile was slightly crooked, with his lips full but mouth a tad too wide for his face. His teeth were white and straight, yet there was the smallest gap in between the top front ones. His cheeks were full, rosy and covered in the faintest of freckles. It was only when he smiled and squinted his eyes that crows feet appeared in the corners, belaying the age in an otherwise youthful facade. 

“Apology accepted, Master Baggins.” (Thorin ignored Bilbo’s sudden flush of rage upon his puffed out cheeks and the glint visible in his eyes from underneath his furrowed brows. He also ignored Bilbo’s incredulous sputtering and muttering under his breath, as he knew how difficult it could be to apologize over something so embarrassing when you were at fault. Yes, Thorin was a kind and gracious leader, and would perhaps even describe himself as far too forgiving.) “I have no quarrel with Old Toby, and I thank you for your offer.” 

Bilbo grumbled, but took another puff, before passing it over. 

(Thorin was watching him again, for Master Baggins had taken off his vest sometime during the evening, and had loosened his cravat again, while also having undone the first few buttons of his shirt. He almost looked as he did during that morning when they had first left, Thorin idly noted.)

Lost in that pleasant memory of the hobbit looking positively alluring, he almost fumbled his grip when the hobbit almost shoved the pipe into his chest. Thorin was about to grunt out a ‘thanks’, when it finally clicked what he was holding; instead, what came out of his mouth was an absolutely bewildered “What in Mahal’s balls is this?”

In his hands, was perhaps the ugliest thing he had ever seen.

It was so ugly in fact, that he was loath to even call it a smoking pipe, for it was so horrid that the only being he could think of creating something so revolting was Sauron. 

(Or perhaps Thranduil, if he had decided to take up a new hobby after the dragon had come.)