Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In less than one day, Bilbo Baggins had fallen down a mountain, watched his friends be dragged off by goblins, lost them and then lost himself in the dark subterranean caves, where he wandered for what felt like hours in the hopes of finding his way out. It was a dismal state of affairs that turned terrifying when the hobbit bumped into the creature Gollum.

Gollum (so named by Bilbo for the strange coughing bark it made deep in his throat) was quite possibly the most unnerving creature Bilbo had ever met. Quite apart from his pale, haggard appearance, was the person underneath; a person who seemed to be made up of two separate halves rather than one whole. Throughout their whole encounter, Gollum teetered back and forth between the two. He argued with himself, switching back and forth between maliciousness and friendliness, as he tried to decide which was more enjoyable: riddling with Bilbo or eating him.

Bilbo had not even dared to take his eyes off of Gollum for one moment. But although he had been very afraid, his initial fear had soon dried away, quickly to be replaced with astonishment. Gollum’s appearance and demeanour was so strange and misshapen; yet Bilbo did not think he looked like a goblin. Nor did he resemble an orc. As he kept the creature at bay with his elvish blade, the hobbit unconsciously began to comb through his memory of the stories his mother had told him, about the creatures that lurked in the Misty Mountains. Was Gollum some distant offshoot of goblin, perhaps; one that had been so far removed from its own kind that it now fed on them? These thoughts were somewhat irrelevant considering the circumstances but it was likely this Tookish curiosity that saved Bilbo’s life; coming down from his blind terror, his mind unfroze and he could think again.

Thus his wits about him, the hobbit had escaped the creature that wanted to eat him.

By engaging him in a game of riddles.

It had been one of the most bizarre experiences of Bilbo’s life and one that still made his head hurt when he thought back on it many years later. Goblins and orcs and wargs were one thing; the sad, thin, pale creature living in the dark, in the roots of the Misty Mountains, was quite something else. Gollum’s instability had been apparent as he seesawed from one personality to another -- yet he had been no raving animal. He had been sane enough to enjoy a game and recognise an elvish blade. In fact, Gollum had been thinking along the same lines as Bilbo when he first got a good look at him and did not recognise the strange little creature with the glowing dagger.

“What is it?” Gollum wondered out loud to himself. “It’s got an elvish blade but its not an elf. What is it, precious, what is it?”

The mind behind that gaunt face, while unhinged, was yet able to devise and solve; to remember commonplace things like eggs and chestnuts and to be curious about the strange creature he had never encountered before. And to speedily deduce that it had stolen his ring! Still jittery and in mild shock from his close call, Bilbo gave a kind of hysterical laugh as he fled away through the mountain passage.

A dismal state of affairs indeed; yet despite the circumstances Bilbo was feeling rather good as he put as much distance between himself and Gollum as possible. In a certain light, he thought this could arguably count as the luckiest day he’d ever had in his life.

How else could he have found the magic ring in the dark? How else could he have survived the fall all the way to the bottom of the mountain? Fortune had spared him from serious injury on that occasion by having him land on Bombur, the bigger dwarf’s body providing the perfect crash mat. And then the goblins had been so distracted by the dwarves refusing to come quietly, that somehow in the dark they’d missed him, Bilbo’s hobbitish knack for keeping unseen kicking in while they were gathering up the rest of the company.

Bilbo had been told stories about the goblins by his mother. Goblins were cruel and clever and bitter-hearted. They were not like the other races, who had so long overlooked the existence of hobbits that they were nearly forgotten. Goblins did not forget, Belladonna Took had gravely warned her only son. They held a grudge until long after all the original parties were dead, and could no more let go of their hatred than they could find space in their hearts for kindness or warmth.

Bilbo had been lucky so far but he knew better than to take his chances on the whim of Lady Luck. Which was why, as he blundered his way through the maze of caves as quietly as possible, searching for his missing company, he kept the ring on.

After much directionless wandering through the caves, Bilbo stumbled upon what he thought might be the centre of the mountain, the heart of the kingdom of the goblin king. It was an immense cavern, dimly lit by torches of flame perched here and there. Lacking the night vision possessed by dwarves when underground, Bilbo normally wouldn’t have been able to see very much at all. But the ring on his finger reduced the world to a strange, shadowless monochrome. Through it, he could see paths made of rock that were cobbled together and hand-made platforms that had been erected, strung together with bridges made of rope and wood.

Bilbo was very afraid, for himself and his company. Yet he was fascinated as he gazed down at goblin-town. It felt very strange to be so high up so deep inside a mountain; Bilbo would have thought that goblins, who so rarely ventured out of the mountain, would be adverse to such wide open spaces. But perhaps it was to be expected that Bilbo’s knowledge of goblin-kind was a bit sketchy. He was probably the first hobbit to get this close to a goblin king and live to tell about it since the time of the Bullroarer and Golfimbul nearly two hundred years previously.

Assuming he lived to tell about it, of course.

Goblins were everywhere and in the very centre, on the biggest platform, was the biggest goblin of them all, an immensely fat and horrid creature sitting in his throne.

Bilbo had no trouble spotting the company, who were being rather roughly goblin-handled as they were stripped of their weapons. There seemed to be quite a large pile of silver and metal objects around Nori. The Great Goblin was holding what looked like a candlestick to his eye.

“‘Made in Rivendell,’” read the king. He sneered down at the dwarves and tossed it away dismissively. “Second Age. Couldn’t give it away.”

Even from his position against the wall and high above, Bilbo could clearly see Dori and Dwalin giving Nori extremely withering glares of disbelief.

“What are you doing in these parts?” the king demanded, the great bulk of his flesh rolling repulsively as he leered over the dwarves.

Bilbo saw Thorin go to step forwards, and Oin’s hand come down on his shoulder. The healer muttered something that Bilbo could just barely hear -- something like “I’ll handle this,” -- and turned to face the Great Goblin.

“No tricks! I want the truth! Warts and all.” the goblin leered, sinking back into his throne.

“You’re going to have to speak up.” Oin said. “Your boys flattened my trumpet.”

Wrong thing to say.

“I’ll flatten more than your trumpet!” the Goblin King roared, lurching up. He took two thundering steps, making the whole podium shake.

Bofur barged forwards to take his place as the company’s spokesperson, jumping in quickly. “If it’s information you want, I’m the one you should speak to.”

The goblin king hesitated. Bilbo saw Bofur hesitate too.

“We were on the road.” the dwarf began “Well, it’s not so much a road as a path. Actually, it’s not even that, come to think of it. It’s more like a track. Anyway, point is, we were on this road like a path like a track…”

Bilbo stopped paying attention as Bofur bungled his way through a made-up explanation as to what he and twelve other dwarves were doing in the Misty Mountains, though he kept one ear out in case the conversation took an unpleasant turn. He tried to think.

He wanted to help the company, really he did, but he couldn’t just go riding in to save the day with nothing but an Elvish letter-opener and a magic ring. He needed a plan. Unfortunately, no such plan was coming to him.

Bilbo tried to think back to the last time the company had been in dire straits as this. In the case of the trolls, he had just kept them talking until the sun came up. Sadly the same tactics could not be applied to this situation. Bilbo was not well acquainted with goblin kings in general but he could tell this one was no fool. And it would not be wise to make his presence known when they were vastly outnumbered. They might have been vicious but goblins had a surprising capacity for patience, especially if it involved prolonging somebody else’s suffering. They knew what a hobbit was, and what they looked like. If they saw Bilbo they wouldn’t want to know who he was or what he was doing snooping around their kingdom. They’d just want him to suffer.

As Bofur continued to waffle, Bilbo searched the furthest recesses of his brain for a way out. Talking would buy them time but not much. He needed to do something that would take the attention off the company. What did he have, what could he use? Bilbo looked all around for inspiration. Well, he had nothing really. There was nothing here but rocks. If only he had a weapon, or the knowledge of how to use a weapon if he had one… What was it Thorin had said, back in Bag End all those months ago?

"Axe or sword, what's your weapon of choice?"

"Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know."

There were no conkers here. There was nothing here but rocks. Bilbo dipped down and felt for one, slightly bigger than a conker, and weighed it between his fingers.

“SHUUUT! UUUPP!”

The Goblin King’s angry bellow drew Bilbo’s attention from the pebble.

Clearly the Great Goblin had tired of bogus explanation. Goblins and dwarrow alike recoiled as the vile king reared up from his throne yet again, the shift in his substantial weight causing the floor under their feet to roll like a ship at sea. Bofur opened his mouth. Then wisely closed it.

“If they will not talk, we’ll make them squawk!” The Great Goblin turned to his subjects. “Bring out the mangler! Bring out the bone-breaker!” He turned back to the company, pointing with one great finger.

“Start with the youngest!” he ordered, pointing directly at Ori and Bilbo reacted without stopping to think about whether it was a good idea. Before his brothers could grab him -- before Thorin could even open his mouth to yell, “Wait!” -- Bilbo’s pebble cut through the uproar, knocking the goblin that had grabbed the youngest Ri dead in the temple.

Thrown from such a distance by a hobbit, even a rock the size of a walnut carries considerable force. The unfortunate goblin fell away from the dwarf, one knobbly hand pressing against the side of his head as Dori and Nori wedged their youngest brother securely between them.

The Great Goblin seemed to think that Ori had lashed out and knocked one of his attackers down. He almost seemed pleased. His expression put Bilbo in mind of a grotesque spider, unhurriedly and maliciously parcelling up a struggling fly with no intention of eating it any time soon.

“No?” He laughed. “Then how about this one!”

He reached out with one meaty fist, snagging Bofur, who was stuck at the front with Kili, Dori and Oin behind him and no room to get away. The Great Goblin tossed the hatted dwarf to the floor like a used handkerchief and three goblins descended on him, too many for Bofur to fend off at once. Bilbo scrabbled at his feet for more ammunition as they tossed the dwarf about between them, with all the watching goblins egging them on like a flock of spiteful crows. He was beginning to wonder if it had been wise to throw that first stone. Now though, he knew he didn’t have a choice if he wanted Bofur to walk out of this cave alive.

Why aren’t there any rocks, for heavens sake? It’s under a mountain! Why aren’t there any rocks?

There! Bilbo’s scrabbling fingers caught a handful of stones, each one roughly the size of a peach. With the dead-on accuracy of hobbits everywhere, he launched them in quick succession, one, two, three.

Not everybody saw each rock strike and even fewer saw where they had come from. But almost everybody, dwarf and otherwise, heard the noise each one made; a harsh, wrong noise, of rock impacting flesh hard enough to bounce off the skull.

One moment the goblins were jumping over Bofur like rabid dogs let off their chains; the next they had all dropped, landing with a thump each.

Bofur rolled away, panting, as the goblins that had been cheering on their fellows stopped and silenced. They stared down at the limp bodies, then up at the Great Goblin with almost comical bewilderment.

The Great Goblin’s sneer was replaced by an expression that just said, “Eh?”

“Eh?” said the Great Goblin.

He turned his great neck to look over his shoulder. Feeling the cool press of the metal ring around his finger, Bilbo did not duck away as the goblin’s eyes slowly ranged in the direction of his hidey-hole. He kept still and quiet, and waited.

The goblins muttered and chattered around the dwarves. Bilbo could see Óin making use of their distraction to haul Bofur to his feet. The dwarf had lost his hat in the scuffle. Thorin had pushed his way to the front and was darkly keeping an eye on the Goblin King.

“Who else have you got down here?” the Great Goblin contemplated out loud. “Not a dwarf. Not an elf.” He revolved on the spot to look back over the dwarves. “Who is it?” His expression darkened. “Where is it?”

The goblins muttered. The dwarves meanwhile seemed to realise for the first time that they were missing a hobbit. A few of them looked around as if expecting Bilbo to pop up somewhere nearby. Bilbo saw Glóin and Óin exchange careful glances but no one spoke. This did not escape the Goblin King’s notice. His vile, flabby face lost all trace of relish. It contorted into a sneer of pure malice.

“You dare bring a Took into my kingdom!” the Great Goblin roared. At the word ‘Took’ the goblins broke into an uproar, their baying cries carrying up to the ceiling. Over their clamour, Bilbo heard their king yell: “Kill them!”

Even as Bilbo dug around his feet for more projectiles to hurl, he knew that a few rocks weren’t enough to save them, but they were all he had. He could have taken the opportunity to make his own escape, but the idea of abandoning the dwarves didn’t even occur to him before there was an explosion; a blaze of light that razed every inch of the goblin kingdom, kicking up the dust that had accumulated for years deep inside the mountain where the wind could not penetrate. Goblins were blown through the air; their king was knocked down like a felled tree. Up in his hidey-hole, Bilbo was tossed off his feet and thrown down onto the hard ground like a rag doll.

For a long unbearable minute he was trapped in a vacuum of white light that crushed him in its terrible grip; and then suddenly it was gone and the awful weight that had immobilised his body had disappeared and he could breathe again.

Bilbo’s body would have liked to have stayed there until he no longer felt like his bones had turned to jelly, but his mind wouldn’t let him. He could hear Gandalf’s voice -- blessed Gandalf, the meddling old codger, who’d dragged him off on this fool quest to start with -- Gandalf who was rousing the dwarves, ordering them to take up arms and fight!

His voice roused Bilbo, recalling him to the direness of their situation. Still quivering from the aftershock of the blast, the hobbit stumbled up on his jellied legs to the tunnel’s mouth but could not go any further than the bridge. Even though he could no longer feel Gandalf’s explosive magic, the shadowy world of the ring was ablaze with light that stung his eyes. It had not diminished after the initial blast. It had intensified. It was compacted into the glowing form of a figure that held a staff and a sword in either hand, swinging each weapon at a cluster of shadowy little beings that were jumping at it from all over like a swarm of gnats.

Bilbo could hardly bear to look. Blindly, he groped for the ring and tore it off.

Immediately the brilliant light disappeared, the world righted itself and he could see again. Stars still popping behind his eyelids from the sudden change, he looked down at the company tossing weapons to each other without bothering to work out which weapon belonged to who, beating back the horde of goblins with whatever they could get their hands on. Gandalf swished and stabbed, his greater height proving advantageous against the shorter goblins.

“He wields the Foe-Hammer! The Beater! Bright as daylight!” the goblin king cried from where the great brute still had yet to fully rise from the floor. Whether he was still recovering from Gandalf’s magical intervention, or if his immense protuberance rendered him incapable of getting to his feet without assistance, Bilbo did not know, or care. Scooping handfuls of stones, he shovelled them into his pockets; with his other arm he kept up rapid-fire battery as he took off down the rope bridge, pelting stones wherever he could.

Just as he had reached the other end of the bridge, he heard someone -- one of the lads, maybe -- cry “Thorin!” and dared stop so he could see what was going on. Below, the Great Goblin had managed to lumber to his feet. Roaring, he raised his club over his head like a hammer, ready to bring it down on the king.

Thorin caught the sword his nephew tossed to him and was readying to block his blow, when a fist-sized rock struck the goblin king in the side of the head.

The great brute stumbled away, momentarily dazed. Despite the attempts of several goblins to prop up his flailing body, he lost his balance and tumbled over the edge of the podium, taking his throne and three or four subjects down with him. The platform tipped slightly and the dwarves took advantage of their foe’s distraction.

“Follow me! Quickly!” Gandalf ordered, and they raced after him in a line down the cobbled-together paths of wood and stone. The goblins surged after them like a tide. His pockets sagging with the weight of many stones and pebbles, Bilbo followed.

Had Goblin-town been a network of tunnels, Bilbo would have lost the company in five seconds flat. Thankfully the web of bridges and paths was much easier to navigate. For one thing, Bilbo was high enough to have an eagle-eye view of everything that was going on. For another, Gandalf and the dwarves left a trail of destruction and slain goblins behind them.

Not only using their weapons to fight with, they tore apart pieces of wood from the very floor they stood on to beat back the waves of goblins. Gandalf even carved a boulder from a shelf of rock with a wave of his staff, and rolled it down the bridge ahead of him to clear the way.

Bilbo helped wherever he could, slinging rocks in between the fighters whenever he had a clear shot. He only faltered once -- when he stood on something soft and furry and had it promptly slip out from under his foot, nearly sending him off the bridge.

When he had recovered his balance, he saw that it was Bofur’s hat! It must have been caught by one of the lower bridges. His pockets full, Bilbo stuffed the hat down the neck of his waistcoat and resolved to give it back to the dwarf at the first opportunity. He kept his dominant hand in his pocket and his other hand around the hilt of his sword, but did not take it out of its sheath. He had not forgotten that he was trying to stay hidden, and staying hidden would be a very difficult thing to achieve whilst waving a glowing sword about in a dim cavern.

One should also, Bilbo thought to himself, perhaps avoid throwing stones for fear of drawing unwanted attention, but it wasn’t like he had a choice about it. A goblin with a bow and arrow was firing at Kili. The prince deflected every shot, visibly struggling in such close quarters. A pebble sailed from Bilbo’s outstretched hand, knocked the goblin’s bow skew-whiff and Kili saw his opening, jumped forward and thrust his sword through its gut.

Then the prince looked up, his eyes following the flying path of the stone to Bilbo as the hobbit dashed along the bridge overhead.

“Bilbo!” he cried.

“Ssh!” hissed Bilbo, waving an arm at him in a not-now gesture.

“Fili, look! It’s Bilbo!” Kili called, pointing excitedly up at the hobbit, clearly having completely missed Bilbo’s sign to be quiet. Bilbo rolled his eyes inwardly. Dwarves. Completely unsubtle.

“Bilbo?” Fili might have echoed, but Bilbo ignored him if he did. Now that the dwarves knew he was there, likely the goblins would catch on too. He needed to get to the dwarves, and Gandalf, quickly.

The rope bridge he was on was too high to jump and longer than most of the streets in the Shire, but eventually it levelled out and joined with the stone bridge Kili and the rest were on.

Gandalf was leading the others in the opposite direction, where the stone bridge led into a tunnel into the mountain. This meant Bilbo would have to run away from the company in order to rejoin them -- a bit like taking the long way around a field rather than cutting straight through it -- but it couldn’t be helped.

Gandalf had not yet noticed Bilbo. He and the company had reached a temporary impasse. A cluster of goblins were perched on a wooden ledge on stilts above the tunnel’s mouth and were raining arrows down on the company, successfully keeping them at bay. Bilbo looked at the ropes securing the whole rickety structure to the rock face, and shoved a hand into his pocket.

There were only a handful of rocks left. Bilbo withdrew the biggest of them.

A rope was an awful lot trickier to hit than a goblin’s head. Without drawing his gaze from his target, he took a moment to aim, setting his feet apart to avoid even the tiniest wobble.

Then he threw, as hard as he could.

It took three attempts before the rope he’d aimed for finally snapped. Bilbo picked up a fourth and fifth rock and hurled them one after the other until the second rope gave way.

He threw his sixth and seventh stones at a third rope. When he put his hand in his pocket for the eighth and found only one walnut-sized pebble remaining, Bilbo started to fear he had severely underestimated goblin architecture. For endless seconds the entire structure just stood there, unaffected. Then it began to lean. The wooden stilts holding it up folded as all the weight tipped to the left.

The goblins stopped firing arrows and started squawking in alarm as the platform tore itself from the mountainside and tipped into the abyss.

The way was clear and the dwarves wasted no time swarming for the exit.

“Bilbo!” Gandalf had seen him now. He waved his staff urgently. “Come!” shouted the wizard.

Bilbo began to run but he wasn’t quite quick enough.

“There!” bellowed a voice from somewhere below him, and Bilbo looked down. To his horror, he saw the Great Goblin, unmistakable among his smaller subjects, pointing up at him with his giant club. “It’s there!” the Goblin King roared. “It’s here! The Took is here!”

His voice rang throughout the whole grotto. Around him, in the darkness that his hobbit eyes couldn’t penetrate, Bilbo heard the sound of hundreds of clawed feet abruptly changing direction. His fist was still locked around his one remaining pebble, which suddenly seemed a laughably insignificant weapon with which to defend himself. Suddenly Bilbo forgot all about his concern for Bofur and Kili and the rest of the company. Suddenly he was truly afraid for himself, in a way that made him feel physically ill. His stomach knotted as he realised he was surrounded in this awful, dark cave, by a sea of sharp, vindictive goblin faces.

“Catch it before it escapes!” bellowed the Great Goblin “Hem it in like a rat!”

But as before in Gollum’s lair, something in Bilbo’s mind overcame his paralysing fear. Something as simple as the Baggins common sense, urging him into motion with the plain understanding that now was not the time to be rendered frozen with fear. Now his best course of action would be to run.

So Bilbo ran.

Faster than he’d ever thought he could run, he raced the rest of the way across the bridge, swerved onto the stone path and came back in the direction he’d just come. Gandalf and the others were waiting for him at the mouth of the tunnel but before Bilbo could get further than halfway, the bridge cracked. Right at Bilbo‘s feet, it broke open and like some grotesque monster emerging from an egg the Great Goblin burst into his path.

Knocking aside broken pieces of stone with his staff, he surfaced before Bilbo like a vast, vile mountain. He lifted one enormous flabby foot and took a great step forwards, and the bridge shuddered. The unsettling rocking motion did not do any favours for the rising fear that was threatening to leave Bilbo’s stomach via his oesophagus. He stumbled away, frantically trying not to fall backwards in case he reversed into the arms of more goblins and yet desperately eager to put as much space as possible between himself and the Goblin King’s bulging belly.

Up close the Great Goblin looked even less appealing than he had from above.

He grinned down at Bilbo with all the teeth and malevolence of someone about to pull off the wings of a trapped and cornered fly.

Bilbo seemed to be watching him through a haze that made everything appear ten times slower. Yet at the same time he felt fevered, electric. His heart was drumming so fast in his chest it almost hurt.

Behind the Great Goblin he could see Gandalf and the shorter figures of the dwarves trying to push against the goblins blocking the path to their king, but they could not get past the throng.

“Too long it has been.” the Goblin King croaked slowly. Bilbo squeezed the rock in his pocket until his knuckles ached to keep from trembling. He knew it was coming, the moment when there would be literally nothing to keep the horde of goblins at his back from tearing him apart. To remain still was almost more than he could take. His every bone screamed at him to run.

“Since I have been this close to a Took.” the Goblin King continued, and distantly Bilbo was amazed. Ages seemed to have passed between sentences.

The Great Goblin raised his club over his head.

“Too long have I waited for this day, Too --”

Bilbo’s arm came forwards; his hand came out of his pocket. His fingers opened, and his last pebble flew through the air. He saw the Goblin King’s mouth form an ‘uh’ sound as he pronounced the word Took, and then the stone disappeared, vanishing down the Goblin King’s throat.

In an instant the Goblin King’s expression contorted from vindictive pleasure to shock. He jolted like someone had impaled him from behind. His eyes popped, mouth twisting as if the word ‘Took’ was still on his tongue. His jaw jutted as he tried to swallow; his eyes bulged as his flesh began to redden. He dropped his club with a crash and Bilbo flung out his arms for balance as the bridge tilted dizzyingly.

The Goblin King lumbered onto his knees. He gasped and gargled, one hand straining to hold himself up as he beat his fist at his own flesh, punching at his own flabby skin as if he was trying to knock the stone out of his throat.

Up close, Bilbo could see his face darkening, the blood vessels of his bulging neck bursting red until they were purple. Somewhere he was aware of the dreadful splitting sound of breaking rock. He watched, unable to look away, as the Goblin King choked to death in front of him, with the name of Took still on his lips, until his jaw went slack. His fat, blubbery body fell down with a crash, as lifeless as a rotten tree, and the rest of the bridge soon followed.

Bilbo did not even have the time to look up from the Great Goblin’s corpse before he dropped in a sickening plunge, into a blackness that felt like it lasted forever.

Chapter Text

When Bilbo came to, he was lying on his back amidst the wreck and rubble, far from Goblin-Town.

The first thing he became aware of, almost before he opened his eyes, was pain.

His whole body hurt; his back, his head, the backs of his legs, his knuckles, his ribs. All were alight with a dull, burning soreness that hammered mercilessly in time with the pain in his temple.

There were stones digging him in the back through his coat, and dust in his eyes and in his hair and all over him -- but his fall seemed to have been broken by something softer than unforgiving rock.

Bilbo waited until the ringing in his ears had subsided into a dull buzz at the back of his skull; then he raised his head and saw that the ground was covered in hundreds of pasty-coloured mushrooms. Left to grow in abundance, their large capped heads had formed a cushion that had, if not completely softened his landing, at least lessened the worst of the impact.

Like any hobbit, Bilbo would normally have been overjoyed to stumble upon mushrooms in the wild. Having just fallen down a mountain, describing Bilbo as overjoyed might have been pushing it a bit far; but he certainly wasn’t complaining. Those mushrooms had probably saved his life.

A little way from Bilbo, surrounded by the broken stems of mushrooms, its great belly taller than Bilbo standing up, a great round form was sprawled on its back. Bilbo’s heart thundered when he recognised it as the Great Goblin -- and just as quickly relaxed when he realised the Great Goblin was quite unmistakably dead. Was it terrible to feel grateful that someone was dead, even if they had been trying to kill you? Bilbo thought, and decided that that wasn’t important right now and moved his attention to more important matters.

Was he hurt? Bilbo didn’t feel like he was injured but he felt certain he must be. No one, however lucky, survived a fall like that unscathed. He wiggled his fingers and toes, feeling little shocks of adrenaline as he did so. They all worked. He sat up slowly, feeling the blood rush from his head, wincing as his body cried out at the movement.

His body ached, his back especially was throbbing with pain and he had countless scrapes and grazes covering his legs and arms -- but these inconveniences were minor compared with how badly he could have been hurt. How badly he should have been hurt. Looking up, Bilbo was doubly astonished that he had survived the fall unharmed. Goblin-Town was now so high above him he couldn’t even see it. Nor could he hear anything; no scratch of claws along the walls, no echo of raspy goblin voices calling to each other.

Good. Mr Baggins felt he‘d had rather enough of goblins for one day.

Bilbo would have liked to have stayed sitting down, maybe for a few more hours, but he knew he couldn’t. He had no idea how long he’d been laying unconscious at the bottom of this mountain. He needed to get up and moving, and find the dwarves and the wizard.

Very gingerly, Bilbo got to his feet. His legs felt -- not like jelly but definitely a little unsteady. His shoulders and back felt stiff with pain. His hands were shaking. He took a step and once he had begun to move around, he began to feel a little better. He checked that he still had his ring, and after a small search through the rubble, discovered his little sword, still in its sheath. With shaky, clumsy fingers he drew the blade to see if it was glowing. It wasn’t, something Bilbo was devoutly grateful for. His coordination was dulled and his reaction time was slower than usual; if a goblin had attacked him now, it wouldn’t have been a fight so much as a flop. Bilbo hobbled carefully over the debris of stone and mushroom, and then he stood by the cavern wall, refusing to lean against it and rest as he pondered which direction to go in.

He did not want to spend too long deciding which way to go; the company could be hours ahead of him, and he was afraid that sooner or later the goblins might come to retrieve their king’s body. Bilbo felt a kind of hysterical giggle welling up inside of him as he realised it for the first time; he, Bilbo Baggins, had killed the Goblin King.

Stop it, stop it. Bilbo slapped himself smartly on the forehead to curb his rapid descent into hysteria, wincing as the subsequent sting of pain. Clearly the events of the past few hours were wearing on him if Bilbo-the-once-respectable-Baggins was now giggling at the bottom of a mountain whilst standing beside the body of the Goblin King.

I wonder if Bullroarer would be proud, Bilbo thought, shaking with silent laughter. He smacked himself in the forehead again. Stop that. Stop it. No time for that now. Focus.

The passage he and the Great Goblin had fallen into was dim but much lighter than the blackness of Goblin-Town, faintly pierced by a shaft of faraway daylight. Bilbo could feel a draught stirring the fur of his feet. Which meant that there must be an opening at the end of it.

There, then, was his way out.

Bilbo set off walking. He could only hope he emerged on the same side of the mountain as the dwarves and Gandalf, because after running around the goblin tunnels like a rat in a trap, he had clear lost all sense of direction. But perhaps the dwarves might have been on to something when they named him their lucky number. It could not have been much longer than an hour before the passage began to climb, and Bilbo came to a door. Not a door dug deliberately by goblins but one formed naturally by the mountain; a crevice between two large shafts of rock. Through it, Bilbo could see the glow of early sky and on the ground he could see dirt.

Even though he was sore and weary, the sight of an exit was enough to spur Bilbo into a run. He scrambled through the door and popped out on the other side like a cork. The ground on the other side was steeper than he had been expecting, and Bilbo stumbled, nearly twisting his ankles as he fought to regain his footing. Behind him was the steep rocky face of the Misty Mountains; in front there were lines of trees, not quite thick enough for a forest, sloping gradually down to the valley floor.

Bilbo had no idea where he was, but even though his problems were by no means over, it was a relief to be out of that dark, disorienting maze, in the fresh, open air. Bilbo breathed in gratefully, careful not to aggravate his bruised ribs, his spirits lifting. Screwing up his eyes against daylight that seemed dazzling after those long hours of running around in the dark, he noticed the position of the sun. It was low in the sky, on the rise, and coming from in front of the mountains. It cast golden shafts of light over Bilbo’s vision, tingeing everything a pale yellow.

There was a trail leading away through the trees; a distinct brown stripe through the undergrowth. Bilbo decided the most sensible thing would be to follow it; at least then he would get an idea of where he was, and if he headed east he was more likely to find the company.

The path was quite steep. The hobbit took his time walking, taking care with his steps. His back was still aching and every time he breathed in he felt a sharp little twinge of pain in his chest. His bruises were no longer throbbing but had dulled into a kind of general soreness. I must be black and blue all over under my clothes, he thought.

As he walked the stone and rock under his feet turned into earth and the harshness of the mountain softened into Yavanna’s country, where hobbits felt most at home. Soon Bilbo felt stronger. He even laughed a little and swung his arms as he walked. He began to hum, in the way hobbits do as they walk along, and soon enough he had begun to make up a little song about his recent adventure.

He had just got as far as --

Great big goblin sat on his throne
Great big goblin swallowed a stone

-- when he heard the unmistakable voice of Gandalf, coming from somewhere up ahead. Long before Bilbo saw him, he could hear quite clearly hear what was being said. The wizard sounded very irate and was making no attempt to keep his voice low.

“Either you help me to look for him!” the wizard was saying angrily “Or I go and leave you here to get out of this mess as best you can yourselves!”

Bilbo smiled. Wizards (or maybe it was just Gandalf) could be stubborn and meddlesome, infuriatingly cryptic and incapable of minding their own business, not to mention a terribly disreputable influence (how else could Bilbo Baggins have ended up in the worst place possible for a hobbit to be in the whole of middle-earth?) but there was no doubt that Gandalf cared. The dear, meddling old codger.

“Aye, we can’t just leave him behind!” came the unmistakable voice of Bofur. “Not after he helped us like that! He could’ve run and left us but he stayed to make sure we got out first!”

Not just Gandalf apparently. Bilbo remembered Bofur’s kindness in the caves and quickened his step. He heard someone else say something -- probably it was Bifur, as it was in a language he did not recognise -- but Bilbo couldn’t tell whether he was agreeing with Bofur or not.

“We cannot go back and search for him.” said Thorin Oakenshield gravely. His voice sounded oddly taut, as if something was caught in his throat.

“But the goblins’ll be after him.” Kili‘s voice joined the conversation.

Bilbo couldn’t see him but he could imagine Fili nodding. “Especially after they all saw him kill their king.” the older prince said resignedly.

“I will not risk the lives of this company for one.” Thorin said.

“Aye, laddie, it’s not as simple a matter as just going back into the mountain to get him.” Balin said. “The tunnels of Goblin-Town are vast. We could easily lose ourselves trying to find Bilbo. And we can’t afford to wait around.”

“We must keep moving.” Thorin said.

There was a silence. Fearing they were moving off and leaving him behind, Bilbo increased his pace. But then he heard Gloin speak.

“I cannae believe that wee creature killed the Great Goblin.” said Gloin, with something that sounded almost like awe. “He didn’t even have a weapon.”

“Aye.” said Dori “I didn’t even see him till he brought down that scaffolding.”

Bilbo could see the company now. They stood in one of the dells to the right of the path; he could make out the distinctive white of Balin’s hair and beard beside the tall grey form of Gandalf.

“What’s that they were calling him?” Ori asked “Took?”

“Indeed!” The wizard glowered down at Ori. “The name Took is one that the goblins remember well. It is a name that they despise above all others, more so even than the line of Durin. Had the goblins known Bilbo was there when you were brought before the Goblin King, you might all have been dead before I arrived.”

“I…” protested Ori, looking rather bewildered in the face of Gandalf’s speech.

Kili was looking similarly confused. “I thought his name was Baggins.” he said.

“It is.” Bilbo said, before Gandalf could reply, as he came up to them, or down to them, from the path. “Took is my mother’s name.”

The company of dwarves jumped, hands instinctively going for their weapons before they saw that it was Bilbo. Eyes widened in surprise. To the hobbit’s surprise, Fili, Kili and Bofur all came rushing up the slope to meet him. Bilbo didn’t think he had ever seen Bofur without his hat before. The sight was odd, like trying to picture a Gandalf in blue or Rivendell with grey skies.

“Terribly sorry to keep you all waiting. I appear to be late again.” Bilbo fumbled under his waistcoat and pulled out Bofur’s hat.

“Me hat! But… How in Durin’s name…” gaped the dwarf, looking from the hat to the hobbit and back again.

“Plain happenstance.” said Bilbo, leaning forwards and placing the hat in Bofur’s hands, as the dwarf seemed too astonished to do it himself. “I wasn’t even looking for it, really. One of the goblins must have knocked it off the bridge and it fell right in my path.”

Fili, Kili and Bofur stared at Bilbo with wordless incredulity. So did the rest of the dwarves. Bofur’s jaw worked as if he were trying to speak but nothing came out.

“Not the hat!” Bofur finally spluttered.

“He means the goblin king!” Bombur interjected helpfully from behind his brother.

“Ye killed him.” said Dwalin, staring at the hobbit.

“A most unfortunate Tookish habit,” Bilbo said, shaking his head as he remembered all his mother’s warning tales from his childhood. What would Belladonna Took have said if she had known her son had willingly endangered himself like that? “I very much doubt they’ll let me pass through unmolested the next time I come near their kingdom. Remind me, Gandalf,” he said, turning to the wizard, who was watching him with a distinct look of pride. “to steer clear of the Misty Mountains for the next fifty years or so. Providing I make it that far.”

Gandalf chortled and clapped the hobbit on the back, unintentionally causing Bilbo some pain as he did so.

“It seems there is more Took in you than I had realised,” the wizard said. “What did I tell you! Mr Baggins has more about him than you guess.” He turned back to Bilbo. “Belladonna would be proud.”

“I think she more than likely would be furious with me.” Bilbo said.

“That word -- Took?” barked Glóin, drawing the two out of their conversation, but Fili interrupted him.

“How did you get out of there alive?” the older prince asked.

“Well, what does it matter?” said Gandalf before Bilbo could speak. “He’s back!”

“It matters.” said Thorin “I want to know --” The dwarf’s blue eyes fixed on him with an intensity that was almost desperate.

Bilbo looked at the leader of their company.

“Why did you come back?” asked Thorin Oakenshield.

That was a good question. Why did you come back? It did not escape Bilbo’s notice that it was not quite the question Fili had asked.

Bilbo took his time sorting his thoughts. In his minds eye he saw the image of his past self, racing out of Bag End on that breezy Thrimidge morning. He looked at Thorin Oakenshield.

He and Thorin had led very different lives. The dwarf came from a time long before Bilbo had been born, a world the hobbit had no connection to whatsoever. Even though they stood barely five paces apart, Bilbo recognised that with such vast distance between them, it could be years before they communicated. He searched for the words which would convey his meaning without being misconstrued.

In the reliable Baggins way, Bilbo fell back on the plain truth. All the while he spoke, Thorin’s stare did not waver and Bilbo did not look away.

“Because I have a home and you don’t. It was taken from you.” was what Bilbo said in the end. “And I want to help you take it back, if I can.”

Thorin stared at him for a long moment. He almost looked confused. Bilbo looked back at him, feeling a rather uncharacteristically fierce wish for his words to be understood. In a deliberate gesture that seemed strangely vulnerable, Thorin lowered his eyes once to the ground and then looked back up at Bilbo.

The silence was broken by Kili.

“So, what was all that with the goblins?” he asked.

“It’s a long story,” Bilbo said, feeling Kili’s shoulder brush his as he looked at Thorin.

“With no time to tell it,” said Gandalf, stepping into the middle of the dell, beginning to usher them on. “We must be getting on at once, now we are a little rested. They will be after us in hundreds when night comes on. We must be miles on before dusk.”

The wizard began to walk, down the slope, clearly assuming everyone else would follow. The dwarves looked at him and then turned back to Bilbo expectantly. Bilbo dryly noted that they didn’t even try to hide their blatant curiosity, but Gandalf was right; now was not the time to be recounting ancient family history.

“I’ll explain it all later,” he promised.

Later turned out to be a lot later than anyone expected. Even days later, when the company and Bilbo were finally safe under a roof for the first time since Rivendell, there were wounds to dress before they could have a cosy catch-up. There was hardly a single member of the company that hadn’t been injured, either from the skirmish in the Goblin-town or their more recent fight involving Azog. Oin made Thorin his priority, checking him for broken bones and cleaning and dressing his wounds. The dwarf refused any form of pain-relief, though his movements were stiff as Oin finally dismissed him.

“You next.” The healer snagged Bilbo by his collar. “We all saw you fall off that bridge, Master Hobbit, and I doubt throwing yourself over our king left you completely unscathed. I’ve seen you wincing a lot over the past few days. Take your shirt off and let me have a look.”

Deaf to any protests (whether against the vaguely suggestive use of the words ‘throwing yourself over our king’ or from being fussed over like he was a fauntling again), the healer swept Bilbo into a chair and began ‘helping’ him out of his coat and waistcoat. Seeing little point in arguing, Bilbo sighed and acquiesced, wincing as he had to arch his back to slip his arms out of the sleeves. He heard a few sympathetic groans from the dwarves behind him as Oin lifted his shirt, and snuck a glance over his shoulder. The past few days had not allowed much for rest and recuperation, and although they had stopped once or twice for a rest in the past few days, he hadn’t had the time to check any of his bruises save the ones under his sleeves. The bruises on his back, if not exactly black and blue, were impressive nonetheless. Bilbo’s spine and shoulder blades were mottled green and purple, like the leaves of lettuce that grew in his garden back in Bag End. Darker blotches from the ruptured blood vessels stained under his skin in the worst areas like ink spills, the veins very dark and visible underneath.

Bilbo tensed as Oin carefully pushed the hem of his shirt up around his neck and the air touched his exposed skin. The pain was still fresh, though it had lessened slightly over the last few days and his upper-to-middle-back no longer felt like it was on fire.

Oin hissed as he looked over the damage. “What happened to ye down there, laddie?”

“I think we’d all like to hear that.” said Dwalin pointedly.

“I agree.” rumbled Thorin, from his position where he was leaning lightly against the wall to avoid pressing against one of his sore spots. “How did you escape, Master Baggins?”

So Bilbo told them, as Oin carefully felt around his sides, avoiding the bruised areas of his flesh as he checked the hobbit’s ribs. He told them about the mushrooms and the bridge which he suspected had cushioned his fall, and how he had found his way out of the mountain and used to sun to make sure he was heading east. He confirmed that the Goblin King was definitely dead.

“Why did he call you Took?” asked Fili, as Oin began to carefully apply one of his ointments to Bilbo’s skin to try and ease the bruising.

“Oh, I imagine he was talking about my great-great-great uncle.” Bilbo said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Ori had a quill in one hand and a piece of parchment in the other, like an eager student poised to take notes. “It’s an old business, before my time. Little more than a bedtime tale nowadays. Not really anything worth taking down, Ori.”

“I’d still like to hear it.” the scribe said.

“Yes.” agreed Dori, folding his arms stubbornly. “Perhaps you can finally bring us up to speed with all this talk of Tooks and Baggins and goblins, Master Burglar.”

They all leaned in, like hopeful fauntlings trying to coerce a reluctant uncle into telling them a story.

“Oh, very well.” Bilbo said, and so he told them the story of his great-grand uncle and Golfimbul the Goblin King, speaking at a slow pace so Ori could keep up and sitting most usually with his back to his audience so Oin could continue his administrations.

“It all began one hundred and ninety-four years ago, when the goblins of Mount Gram set out to invade Eridador. For many years the goblins had been a growing threat in the Misty Mountains; they had begun to venture away from their mountain in growing numbers, destroying and killing all who were in their way. The further they went, the bolder they became until the sunlight no longer fazed them. After seven years, they became bold enough to pass Rivendell, and a party of five hundred, led by the goblin king Golfimbul himself, came to the Realm of Arnor.”

“I remember.” said Gloin unexpectedly from his corner, drawing many looks of surprise. “Our father told us about the goblin invasion when we were just lads. He said that even the elves of Rivendell were wary of getting in their way, because a goblin that no longer feared daylight was a thing unheard of.”

Bilbo nodded. “Yes. Word of their approach spread very quickly. There was little doubt that they were coming straight for Bree and the villages of Men. But instead of staying on course, the goblins went north-west, through the Weather Hills, straight for the Farthings.

“The Men of Bree evacuated their villages and left for safer lands near Rivendell. But the hobbits could not leave. The majority simply refused to leave, simply out of stubbornness. In their minds the land was theirs; they had loved and cared for it, and made their living from it, and they didn’t want to leave it all to be destroyed.

“The Rangers were too few to take on five hundred goblins; they had called for the aid of their elves. But by the time reinforcements would have arrived, it would have been too late to stop them. So the hobbits, one thousand of them altogether, left their children and their elderly behind in the village, and went to meet the goblins before they could reach the Shire.

“They chose a spot in the open north country of the Shire; a stretch of fields between two rivers, with trees on either side. Four-fifths of the hobbits disappeared into the trees, herding their livestock away with them, whilst the remaining two hundred waited in the fields until the skies began to turn light and Golfimbul’s party appeared in the distance.”

Silence, save for the scratching of Ori’s quill. Bilbo took a breath and continued.

“The goblins must have thought they were terribly outnumbered. They came bounding towards the hobbits, some on all fours, hooting and cackling but when they reached the fields they had to slow down. The grass had been trampled and mulched by cows hooves and it had rained the night before. The field was a bog. Goblins are used to mountains and caves; they are not used to marsh and mud and grass. As soon as they were caught on the uneven terrain, the other eight hundred hobbits who had been waiting in the woods attacked, throwing everything and anything they could; arrows, stones, apples --”

“Conkers?” suggested Bofur.

“Probably.” agreed Bilbo. “They stood on the topmost branches of the trees, higher than the goblins could reach or climb, for goblins know even less of trees than they do of dirt. And though these ones no longer feared the sunlight, that did not mean that they enjoyed it or preferred it to the darkness of their grottoes in the mountains. Even though the sun had not yet risen, they did not like to look up at the sky.

“But they became very angry. The goblins that had got past the field went for the two-hundred hobbits, while some of the others ran for the woods, where the hobbits had tethered their livestock. The hobbits cut the ropes that tethered them and the field was besieged with forty cows and a flock of nearly one thousand sheep.

“That was the signal to attack. The two hundred hobbits, armed with knives and pitchforks and whatever else they had managed to get their hands on, charged the goblins. They were small enough to scurry between the bodies of sheep, and they were used to mud and bog enough not to get stuck in it. When all of the animals had been released into the field, the other eight hundred hobbits in the trees climbed down and joined the battle with the slingshots and bows.

“Among them was my great-grand-uncle, Bandobras Took. Some say he was the tallest hobbit, reaching four feet eleven inches, but others say this is just a story made up to make him sound more impressive. But it is fact that he knew how to ride a horse, and he could do this standing up. He led one into the fray, armed with what he called a club, but with a thin shaft so he could swing it with one hand while holding the reins. He rode right through the battle, all the while striking goblins in the head on either side, and went right for the goblin king.”

Bilbo waited to see if anyone would say anything but there was only rapt silence.

“Golfimbul was many times bigger than a hobbit but standing on a horse Bandobras was taller than he, and he struck out with his club and clove the goblin king’s head right off.”

“He killed him?” said Fili.

“According to legend he felled him in one swipe.” said Bilbo “The head flew through the air and landed in a rabbit hole, and Bullroarer later turned this into a game named golf, where one hits a ball with a club to knock it into a hole. I doubt it was as clean as the tale makes out. But he killed Golfimbul.

“When the goblins saw that their king was dead, they went into a panic. Soon they fled, away back to Mount Gram, and though they seem to have found a new king in the years since, they have never come back to Eriador since. But they have not forgotten what Bandobras did. They have hated my kind ever since.”

“I can’t believe you’re only telling us about this now!” said Kili.

“It’s not the kind of topic that comes up in conversation.” said Bilbo.

“No wonder the Shire’s never been invaded.” said Bofur gleefully.

“No, I don’t think it ever has.” said Bilbo, as he pulled his shirt back down and put on his waistcoat. Oin had finished up with him, and was moving on to the burns Fili had gained from the burning pinecones.

“Any more secrets you‘re keeping from us, Master Baggins?” asked Nori.

Bilbo shifted. “Well, not secrets exactly…”

“Oh.” Ori looked up from his notes with an anxious expression. “I didn’t think to ask…. I can get rid of these if you prefer, Mr Bilbo.”

“No, no, it‘s fine.” said Bilbo “Plenty of people have heard the tale. I’m quite sure the Rangers of the North know about it. And the elves. I believe Lord Elrond’s sons actually witnessed part of the battle themselves. And of course, your father also heard the story.” Bilbo nodded towards Oin and Gloin. “It was quite some time ago and the story’s become a bit varied over the years. I imagine everybody has their own version. But I would rather you kept the story of… of what I did to the Great Goblin to yourselves. If word gets around that a hobbit killed him, it would draw all the wrong kind of attention.”

“Quite right.” said Gandalf, bustling into the kitchen.

“Gandalf.” began Thorin, easing off the wall and going to greet him, and then he stopped.

Behind Gandalf, looking down at them a from a remarkable height, was a man; the tallest man Bilbo had ever seen in his life, with dark scarred skin and muscles like knotted rope. He was so tall he was able to look right over Gandalf’s head as he slowly observed the room. His gaze travelled over the company.

“This --” Gandalf said into the stunned silence. He swallowed and continued. “This is our most gracious host. Beorn, the skin-changer.”

“At your service,” said Dori mechanically, seemingly out of a lack of knowledge of how else to respond, and he and Ori both bowed. Dori gave Nori a nudge, a wordless order to bow too, and the Ur brothers, taking their lead, bowed as well, followed by Oin and Gloin; all eight of them nodding and bending and bowing, none of them together.

Everyone else seemed to busy staring at Beorn. Beorn stared back at them. It was hard to tell if he was amused or annoyed.

“I don’t want your service, thank you.”

“Understandable.” Gandalf coughed in a way that Bilbo would have described as nervous, had this not been Gandalf he was talking about. The wizard was very stiff and making sure to smile a lot more than usual. Bilbo had seen that expression many time before; usually on his own face, when one of his more unpleasant relatives came over for tea.

Beorn's eyes had been travelling over Fili and Ori, and now they reached Bilbo, sitting in between the princes. His ominous, foreboding demeanour lessened slightly. His head tipped minutely to the side as he regarded the hobbit with interest. “Who is this little fellow?” Beorn said “He is not a dwarf.”

“No, no.” said Gandalf “He’s a hobbit. Of a most respectable family.”

Beorn did not look at Gandalf. “I do not like dwarves.” he said “But goblins and orcs I hate more, and you seem to be enemies of both. And I have heard that the Great Goblin was killed but not by a dwarf.” He looked at Bilbo. “And I have not met a hobbit.”

"Bilbo was the one who killed the Great Goblin." said Fili.

"I didn't exactly kill him." said Bilbo “It was mostly an accident.”

“He killed him with a stone.” jumped in Kili.

“I threw it at him and he swallowed it.” Bilbo explained

“Aye, he comes from a whole family of goblin-slayers!” said Bofur.

“Now you’re being quite ridiculous.” snapped Bilbo. He turned to Beorn, forgetting his trepidation in his annoyance. “I was there when the Goblin King died but truthfully I did not intentionally kill him. I threw a stone at him and he had the misfortune to swallow it. He choked.”

“A curious tale.” said Beorn. “I would very much like to hear it.”

And so Beorn sat and Bilbo told the full story from the beginning.

As it turned out Bilbo did pass over the Misty Mountains again; at least three times more. Nineteen years after the Quest for Erebor, soon after Fili took the throne; and forty years after that, when he returned to Erebor for one last time; and then finally when he returned to live out the rest of his days in Rivendell. Each time he was accompanied by a dwarf; once on a quest to regain his crown, and thrice after that, when the crown sat upon the head of his nephew. But these journeys were unremarkable compared to the very first, and the next time a Took had such a close encounter with goblins, it was also alongside Gandalf the Grey and one of Durin’s lineage -- as well as three other hobbits, two Men and an elf. But that all happened much later.

In the more immediate present, Bilbo did finally come up with the rest of his little song while lounging in Beorn’s garden, listening to the hum of the bear-man’s giant bees. It became quite popular, and was remembered long after goblins had become an old memory.

It follows thus, to the tune of ‘Humpty Dumpty.’

Great big goblin sat on his throne
Great big goblin swallowed a stone
And all of his goblins, nasty as can be
Are looking and looking
But they can’t find me!