Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins was a great many things. He was the master of Bag End, a wealthy gentle hobbit, the favored grandson of the Thain, son of Belladonna Took, and a renowned scholar within the Shire. In fact, Bilbo had made an excellent name for himself, he was a reputable, if estranged and largely rumored about, member of his community. Bilbo was all of this and more, however, there was one thing he was not. That one thing was a simple matter. He was not a Baggins.
This fact had been kept from him until a fateful day during the Fell Winter. The fateful day that took his mother from him and left him adrift and his father grieving. It was grief that would lead Bungo Baggins to follow his wife Belladonna to the grave.
Bilbo was a mystery and the Shire did not dwell on mysteries. So Bilbo did what all good hobbits did and put away any questions he had and threw himself into making Bag End, and himself by connection, as respectable as possible. All traces of Took adventure were hidden in the well crafted glorybox his mother had brought home with her. The name Gandalf, the small blades his mother kept, the leather braces and belts, all traces of his mother’s adventuring was stored away. Out of the sight of prying eyes and Bilbo’s own grieving heart. Everything except for the silvery necklace studded with beads. That, the last gift given to Bilbo by his mother, stayed round his neck, hidden under his fastidiously buttoned collars.
The box would stay closed until another fateful day, this day would be sunny and a pleasant day, perfect for smoking old toby. A day for adventure and a raucous party of guests that would change the course of Bilbo’s life.
***
Today was a day of reflection. Bilbo hated those days. The sun was bright, the house was clean, there were no visitors in sight (although there rarely were anyhow), and Bilbo had nothing to do but smoke his pipe. Typically a very pleasant affair, however, today it was ruined by the presence of growing pains. Something that most hobbits at Bilbo’s age, a respectable forty-nine, no longer felt. It was an unpleasant reminder that Bilbo was in fact not like most hobbits. A fact he tried his hardest to regularly forget. Today, though, he could not. His limbs ached, and Bilbo sighed with the realization that he would likely have to let the hems out on his trousers again. If this kept up he would have to purchase several new sets of trousers altogether, and wouldn’t that make him the talk of the town. At least he wouldn’t have to purchase new vests. His only comfort these days was his mothers old patchwork robe, something that would always fit him.
Bilbo felt his mood grow melancholic, there was not enough old toby on a morning like this.
His mood was not helped by the presence of a rather strange being. Gandalf. This particular wizard was known for his antics and Bilbo was particularly wary of him as he had once adventured with his mother. Adventuring was not what good hobbits did. But, Bilbo was polite, his father had secured enough social niceties into Bilbo’s head to ensure that no guest would feel unwelcome and so Bilbo greeted the wizard.
“Good morning.”
Bilbo had to fight off the beginning of headache alongside the ache in his limbs as the wizard complicated a simple greeting. It seemed to the poor hobbit that there was nothing that could go simply today.
“What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning? Or do you mean it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say you feel good on this morning, or do you mean it is a morning to be good on.”
Yes, there was a headache blooming.
“I suppose all of them at once?” Bilbo responded, his confusion and aches resulting in a weak reply.
The wizard simply stared down at Bilbo, his eyes considering even as Bilbo asked, politeness and his father’s legacy still running through his mind, “Can I help you?”
“Do you know who I am, Master Baggins?”
“Of course, you’re Gandalf,” Bilbo paused, “Mother’s old companion. She would tell stories about you quite frequently, of your shared adventures.”
Gandalf chuckled, the tension on his brow easing as he peered down at Bilbo once more, “Well then, Bilbo Baggins, I am looking for someone to share an adventure with.”
The headache grew.
“Oh my, well,” Bilbo paused to blow a smoke ring, “really I don’t think you’ll find any hobbit willing to pursue that type of affair. Adventures? In the Shire? No sir, not here. Perhaps down in Bree. Yes, Bree, I would look there Gandalf.”
Gandalf opened his mouth, but Bilbo pushed on, “Adventures are not the sort of thing any respectable hobbit would pursue, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Gandalf frowned, Bilbo stood up and a hand found its way to the delicate chain around his neck as he worried the beads hidden there, a nervous habit he’d developed. The wizard was positively glowering at him.
“You’ve changed Bilbo Baggins, and not entirely for the better. To think I would see the day when Belladonna Tooks son would ignore the call for adventure. Do you not remember your days seeking elves in the woods, fighting imaginary trolls along the river? What happened to the fauntling that craved to see the world?”
“I grew up,” Bilbo lost the pretense of politeness, he had not seen the wizard since before the Fell Winter, before his mother died. “Something best done given circumstances. There is no time for adventures.”
Gandalf had not been there when his mother died, he had been there when Bilbo had to fight to prove he was mature enough to hold Bag End, even before he reached the age of maturity, he had not been there when Bilbo learned the truth of his heritage, and he had not been there when Bilbo had to bury the last family he knew. No, the wizard was in no place to ask for an adventure.
“Hmmm, so you say,” there was a considering gleam in the wizard’s eye and Bilbo knew this was not the end of the discussion however much he wished it was.
“Good day,” Bilbo gave a polite nod and escaped into the recesses of his smial.
“Yes, yes, this will be good for you Bilbo Baggins, and amusing for me! I shall inform the company, you can expect us this evening” Came the cry of the wizard behind him.
Bilbo turned around swiftly and sputtered, “Inform? Company? This evening?”
But the wizard was gone, disappeared into the winding ways of the Shire and Bilbo was left on his stoop with a cold pipe and a sense of discomfort. Company, tonight, oh dear. Bilbo was not happy with the idea of having company. Since his parents death’s he had had very little company and he was happy with that. Or as happy as he could be. Company was awkward, and while he was an excellent host, he did not know how to carry a conversation anymore. Too much time alone, were the whispers that haunted his path in the Shire, peoples’ opinions were set and he was an odd fellow, unsociable like the rest. His father had taught him to be a good host though, and Bilbo was determined, despite not knowing how many were in the company (drat the wizard for his vagueness), or what time they would arrive (really Gandalf, a time would have been nice), Bilbo would do his best. And his best meant he needed to look at his pantry.
***
By nightfall Bilbo was too nervous to eat and yet he had an impressive spread laid out on his kitchen table. Fish, stew, roast vegetables, cheeses, cured meats, really anything a body could want Bilbo had. He also had a headache, jitters, and nausea. Bilbo found himself pacing the floors, a teacup grasped gently in one hand while the other fiddled with his necklace. Surely the wizard wouldn’t joke with him about company? Bilbo wasn’t sure what scared him more, having company, or not having the company promised. Wizards, he decided, were more trouble than they were worth.
He didn’t have much more time to reflect before the bell rang. Bilbo jumped, the tea sloshing against the side of the cup.
When he opened the door Bilbo froze, the guest was not the wizard, nor was it a hobbit, nor a man, nor an elf. It was a dwarf. A tall, strong, broad dwarf littered with weapons. Bilbo couldn’t breathe, his mind racing with the thought that Gandalf knew. Gandalf knew and then the Shire would know. They already suspected something was different with Belladonna and Bungo’s son, but if they knew then custody of Bag End could be argued. The Sackville-Baggins, his home, all thoughts of company and politeness were out the window as Bilbo saw his comfortable life, the life his mother had done her best to protect, flash before his eyes.
The dwarf before him also seemed shocked, his eyes wide and his body half bent into a bow. The scene was almost comical. A dwarf and hobbit shocked into silence. It didn’t last.
“Frerin?”
Bilbo almost missed the near whispered words and instead of commenting on it instead said, “Beg your pardon?”
The dwarf shook himself out of the stupor, “Dwalin, at your service.”
“Oh, uh, ah Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”
The two exchanged bows, Dwalin’s steady and Bilbo’s short and perfunctory. Dwalin strode into the home and hung his cloak and weapons up. Bilbo stumbled after him.
“Excuse me, but, do we know each other?”
Dwalin turned to look at him, a gleam in his eye that said there was more to the answer as he said, “No. Have the rest arrived yet?”
“The rest?” Bilbo gaped, “No, no you’re the only one here, excuse me, but I really think you have the wrong place.”
Before Bilbo could continue the bell rang again and he turned to the door. He was once again greeted by a dwarf, this one had silver hair and kindly smile, although the smile grew a bit forced as he looked at Bilbo.
“Balin, at your service,” the dwarf bowed.
“And at yours,” the poor hobbit really didn’t know what was going on and his mind wasn’t focused on the bow as he returned the niceties.
Balin gently pushed past Bilbo and ventured into the cozy hallways. Bilbo found himself aimlessly staring at the door as the two dwarves embraced each other in the hallway. He gently pressed the door closed and ghosted around the forms to the pantry. This was altogether too much and the wizard was breaking every rule regarding guests that Bilbo had ever learned.
His sanctuary was short-lived as the bell rang once more. Bilbo’s fingers found the chain even as he opened the door to two young dwarves, barely out of their childhood by the looks of things, who eagerly introduced themselves.
“Kili,”
“And Fili,”
“At your service,” both bowed simultaneously and Bilbo merely hummed as he stood to the side and gestured for them to enter.
His quiet shock disappeared as the rambunctious youth bestowed him with their weapons and began cleaning their shoes on his mother’s glory box.
Bilbo dropped the swords, knives, and assorted weapons with a clang, “No, no, no. You will not clean your shoes on my mother’s glory box. You will store your weapons on the walking stick rack, you will remove your shoes, and you will not leave the entryway until the glory box is clean again!”
The little rant was met with wide eyes from the two dwarves. Bilbo did his best to look menacing, but he was rather afraid all it did was make himself look like an irate child. His hands remained on his hips as he glared at the boys. The presence of the other two dwarves entering the hallway and chuckling seemed to weaken the effect of his demands until they stated, “Aye laddies, best do as he says. He has been a delightful host, it would be a shame to dishonor the home.”
Bilbo felt a little better at that, although he was far from content with the situation.
“Sorry Master Boggins,” Bilbo opened his mouth to correct the lad, “it is a lovely chest, dwarrow made?”
Bilbo stiffened at that, in truth the box was made by a dwarf, his mother’s dwarf. A secret he liked to keep, and one that was fairly easy in the sheltered constraints of the Shire. Hobbits couldn’t quite identify the foreign craftsmanship. But it would be no good denying it here, “Yes, my mother picked it up during her travels. It’s a precious reminder of her.”
The dwarves seemed interested in the chest, and Bilbo in turn, which did not sit well with the hobbit. He didn’t have time to answer, or ask, any questions before the bell rang once more. Bilbo’s heart spiked again, the chain forgotten under his fingers as he raced toward the door.
“There is no one home! Bother someone else! Blast it all, bother the wizard!”
The exclamation dried up upon opening the door. A host of dwarves, falling over themselves, graced his stoop. A laughing Gandalf behind them.
Bilbo found himself quite lost as the dwarves fell upon the food he’d prepared. The pantry emptied as refills were requested. It was far too much for him and so he retreated further into the smial. It had been a long time since Bilbo had been around more than one or two people, even longer since he had hosted what might be considered a party. No, this situation was entirely overwhelming and Bilbo found himself close to panicking. Bungo Baggins' hosting sensibilities were his only saving grace. There were several guest rooms, and while he hoped the dwarves would not stay the night, one could never tell with Gandalf’s plan. So Bilbo busied himself setting up as many beds and cots as he could, trying to tune out the laughter and chaotic noise coming from the dining room. He was doing well until he came to the master bedroom. He hadn’t ventured into the room since his father, Bungo, had passed. It had been a slow death, Bungo mourning his love and fading with fever into a ghost of the aloof gentleman he’d been. Bilbo had nursed his father until the last day. He hadn’t been able to open the door since then. Now he supposed he would have to. He was still a bed short should Gandalf’s number be correct.
Before he could twist the doorknob he heard the wizard hum gently behind him.
“Gandalf.”
“Bilbo, my dear boy. It seems you’ve kept yourself busy, although I’d rather hoped you would meet the company. They are a lively crew, are they not?”
“Hmm, yes lively indeed.”
“Now lad, the leader of this merry band is about to arrive. I suggest you join us now as all will be revealed.”
“The reason you’ve brought the hoodlums to my door you mean?”
“Of course,” the wizard’s eye twinkled, “Unless there is something else to reveal?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Shall we then.”
Bilbo spared one last glance toward the master bedroom before following Gandalf back into the lighter sections of his home.
The sight that greeted him was both surprising and pleasant. For as much of a mess as they’d made the dwarves had cleaned the dining room and kitchen up splendidly, his mother’s pottery was carefully stacked and stored and the tables and floors wiped down. He hadn’t noticed the small smile that crossed his face at the sight, the dwarves on the other hand all nudged each other and smiled themselves at the sight of their host’s joy.
Then the bell rang. Bilbo flinched and Gandalf headed toward the door.
Whatever peace Bilbo had felt was short-lived as Thorin Oakenshield was introduced. The headache was back.
“Tell me, Master Baggins, have you done much fighting?”
Bilbo thought to the Fell Winter, to the pelt that decorated his floor, “No, I don’t suppose I have?”
“And what of thieving, have you much experience?”
“Thieving?” Bilbo exclaimed, “I am a hobbit of good repute, I’ll have you know!”
Thorin raised his brow, he turned to look at the hobbit for the first time. The sight had him pause, the golden curls, blue eyes, Thorin felt as if he were looking at a memory. A memory he couldn’t quite hold on to, he shook his head, “I thought as much, he looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”
Bilbo hated dwarves. He hated being insulted in his own home. He hated meddlesome wizards. He hated that he kept flinching from the stupid bell, and most of all he hated that he was dreadfully curious about this whole affair.
The dwarves made their way back to the dining room table where they sat around their leader. They had saved some hearty stew, bread, and several other small dishes for the dwarf and were patiently waiting for him to finish.
Bilbo found himself lurking, in his own home at that, to listen to the meeting of the dwarves. The dragon, the mountain, the whole affair was really quite something. His mother would have loved it. But Bilbo was not his mother. He’d nearly turned to finish making the guest rooms when he heard Thorin call for the band to claim their homeland. Home. Now that was a concept Bilbo could get behind. Home. Yes, yes indeed.
He turned back and continued listening. The key, the door, the map laid out so smoothly against his father’s table. A way home.
Bilbo tuned back into the conversation just in time to hear, “That’s why we need a burglar.”
“Hmmm, true, an expert at that I’d imagine.”
“And are you?”
Bilbo looked up, “Am I what?”
“An expert.”
Bilbo blinked, a nasty suspicion of what type of adventure Gandalf meant was creeping into his mind. He looked at the wizard, who of course had an innocent, if not amused look on his face, and frowned.
“No, no I don’t suppose I am.”
Balin, the silver haired dwarf, said, “Aye, I must agree with the lad, he’s no burglar.”
The table seemed to erupt with confused conversation as they pointed between Gandalf and Bilbo. The chaos seemed to grow, Bilbo wanted to curl up and ignore them all. He would be a horrible host if he did that though, instead he went to the larder and pulled a second barrel of ale down, surely they would use that. As he rolled it back into the dining room Gandalf stood up, darkness crept around him and swirled into the shadows of the hall as he thundered, “Enough!”
“If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, a burglar he is!”
Bilbo sighed in resignation. His life just couldn’t be easy. Next time he felt introspective he was going to stay in bed.
Gandalf continued, “Hobbits are extremely stealthy, able to move unseen by many. A skill that is lacking in this general group, and one that will be invaluable when scouting the halls of Erebor. If I say Bilbo Baggins is the right choice for the fourteenth member, you’d best heed my advice. Not to mention, the dragon is accustomed to the scent of dwarrow, but the scent of hobbit is all but unknown.”
Bilbo found the chain around his neck and fiddled with it. Gandalf seemed intent on his going, well that just wouldn’t do. Bilbo could sympathize with the dwarves, losing a home, your family’s residence and wealth. Well that was a threat he’d had before, one Lobelia Sackville-Baggins seemed intent on fulfilling to this day. A threat she might succeed in if she had the proper leverage. Loss was not an unknown concept to Bilbo, but he couldn’t afford to ruin his reputation - his father’s name - for these dwarves. No, he would remain home, he had to, didn’t he?
Before he could voice any of these thoughts, he found himself being handed a lengthy contract. The scholar in him was quite curious and he found himself absorbed into the fine print before he could say no. Remuneration, out of pocket expenses, everything seemed quite fair, and indeed, if the legends were to be believed regarding the wealth of Erebor, the reward was more than adequate. At least, until Bilbo got to the section about funeral arrangements and risks. Then the reward seemed a little less adequate. Not that death was really that horrible, life had a cycle after all, and it would be nice to see his mother again. Belladonna’s loss had been quite devastating, in many ways Bilbo wondered if he would ever be as happy as he’d been when his mother smiled down at him.
“Lacerations?” images of his mother flashed through his mind, the warm red across the indifferent snow.
“Aye lad, dragons have claws that could slice you like a knife through butter!” Bofur’s addition was unwelcome and particularly vivid.
“Evisceration? Incineration?” Exasperation tinted Bilbo’s voice as he finished reading through the contract. Absentmindedly tucking into his pocket, an action that had Gandalf ducking his head to hide the smile that bloomed across his face. The company might just have a burglar yet.
“Oh aye, he’ll melt the flesh right off your bones in the blink of an eye!”
Bilbo took several deep breaths, “Nope, nope, nope.”
The dwarves faded into the background as he headed toward the master bedroom. Politeness be damned, he needed some air. The room was still. An exact picture of his parents memory. The bed was clean and made up underneath the white sheet Bilbo had placed there years ago. He gently tugged the sheet off so as not to disturb the dust and patted the quilt his mother had made for their new home. He did wish they were here, or his grandfather, or even a cousin. Someone he could rely on. But there was no one. He didn’t really remember the last time a family member had dropped by for a visit, or checked up on how he was doing. A sigh escaped the hobbit.
Gandalf entered the room, “Bilbo, that was quite rude. Disappearing like that. Really, when did your mother’s doilies, quilts, and books become more of an interest than wandering in the woods. Truly the little fauntling I knew seems well hidden”
Bilbo wanted to say that the fauntling had died with his parents, but the words died in his mouth. The contract sat in his pocket heavy. Bilbo could feel it, deep in his heart, he did want to go. To help someone reclaim their home, that was a noble cause, that was a cause a hobbit could believe in. Gold was one thing, it didn’t really bring comfort, or health, or joy, but a home did. A home was where you belonged and Bilbo knew too well what it was like not to belong.
“You can’t promise my safety.” But neither could the borders of the Shire, his mother had known that, had proven it really.
“No I can’t.”
“You can’t promise that I’ll return.”
“No, and if you do, it will not be the same you that left.”
“I am a Baggins,” the words rung hollow to his ears, “of Bag End. I cannot just run off.”
“You are also a Took.”
Bilbo’s mind added to the wizards' acknowledgement, that he wasn’t just a Took, he was a dwarf as well. The secret of his parents, the secret of his heart, that he was the son of a dwarf, an unknown, nameless dwarf. Bilbo bowed his head in exhaustion as the wizard shuffled out of the room.
It was singing that broke his reverie, somber, mournful singing. It felt like a goodbye to the past, or perhaps a memorial. Bilbo crept out of the room, the contract still heavy in his pocket and his fingers toying with the beads on the chain round his neck. They missed their home, and didn’t Bilbo miss his? The Lonely Mountain, a lonely hobbit. These things were not so dissimilar. Bilbo pulled the contract out again, glancing at the signature line.
“When do you leave?”
It was the leader, Thorin, who responded, “At first light.”
Bilbo’s head shot up, “No that won’t do. You need a proper breakfast, and to resupply I’d wager.”
“We leave at first light.”
Bilbo raised his brow, a firmness in his expression that surprised the elder dwarves, “the mountain has sat alone for 60 years, I dare say it can stand for a couple more hours before you set off to reclaim it.”
Balin laughed, even as tension creased his brow as the dwarf glanced at Bilbo, resting his hand on Thorin’s arm, “The lad is right, and a breakfast wouldn’t hurt the company either.”
Bilbo drifted to his study, finding a quill he looked one last time around his smial before striking a bold signature across the line, “Well now, that’s that I suppose.”
The dwarves had crowded around the study entrance, their eyes wide at Bilbo’s action. Bilbo avoided eye contact as he handed Balin the contract and pushed through the crowd, “Now I imagine you’ll be wanting some rest. I have beds prepared, you will have to share rooms, but I believe I have enough beds. Come along then.”
Before long he had the dwarves settled into rooms and he was alone in the study, a small fire bringing warmth to the room. He felt hollow again, there was a gulf between his life as a hobbit and his true nature, one he had never tried to span. Bilbo had the feeling that this adventure would bridge the gap he’d desperately tried to maintain. Gandalf entered the room, a proud twinkle in his eye.
“Bilbo, my dear boy, I knew you had it in you.”
“Yes, well, I can only imagine that this Smaug must be a relative of Lobelia. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Gandalf let loose a chuckle, “This will be a journey, my boy, one that I think you are better suited for than you know.”
“Hmm, I suppose. You know, I don’t even know what to pack. Or, well I suppose I should tell grandfather. He is Thain after all, it would suit me well to let him know.”
“That has already been taken care of. The dwarves, upon their own suggestion sent forth a missive to the Thain requesting your assistance. I have his reply here if you would like to look?”
Bilbo scanned the proffered text, it was a casual acceptance of their request. No concern, no worry, nothing at all really. He shouldn’t be hurt, grandfather was the Thain, he had real responsibilities. Bilbo was an adult (wasn’t he?) he was perfectly able to make these choices himself.
“Well then, that’s all taken care of.”
“Indeed, the company will help you pack as well. Now dear boy, I am going to rest, I will see you in the morning.”
“Goodnight then,” Bilbo whispered after the retreating wizard.
The hobbit was still wide awake, the rash decision already haunting him and so he set to work in order to put his mind at ease. They would need hearty food, breads, whatever cured meats he had left, stores of dried fruit, and more. It wouldn’t do to leave the pantry with items that could spoil, who knew how long this would take after all. Bilbo began prepping breakfast as well as packing up perishable items for the road. His work was eventually interrupted by the soft footfalls of one of the younger dwarves, Fili? No, this one was Kili.
“Master Boggins? What are you doing?”
“Oh, hmm, I’m packing things, prepping food. It’s Baggins, Bag-gins, by the way. What are you doing then, hmm, couldn’t sleep?”
“Not really, bit nervous for tomorrow, the journey really starts then. Amad will be nervous too,”
“Amad?”
“Our mother, me and Fili. She can’t come, she’s governing our people in the Blue Mountains while Uncle leads us to reclaim Erebor. She’d find your hosting skills admirable!”
“Oh, Bless her!” Bilbo puttered around the kitchen, looking for his stash of sweet buns to share with the young dwarf. When he found them he gestured for two to sit around the table, a pot of tea already ready.
“Master Baggins,” Kili grinned as if to say ‘see I got it that time’, “the glory box? Where did your mother get it? I haven’t seen a dwarrow made glory box since Amad’s.”
“I,” Bilbo hesitated, “this really isn’t proper, it’s a secret really.”
Kili leaned close, “I’m great at keeping secrets! You can tell me.”
There was something infectious about Kili’s behavior that had Bilbo’s walls crumbling. He had so wanted to tell somebody for the longest time now. A little twisting of the truth would ease his burden.
“Well, my mother was a traveler, she would often wander away from the Shire to see the world. One day, she met a dwarf, a dwarf with no name, and they stayed together for some time. It was he who carved her the chest, I never met him I’m afraid.”
Kili pondered the story for a while before speaking, “It’s just that, I’ve never seen a chest like that not be a courting gift. Was the dwarf courting your mother?”
Bilbo just blinked, the sweet roll torn to shreds beneath his fingers, “I don’t know. She married my father either way. I can’t imagine it lasted too long, hobbit and dwarf and all.”
“No, I suppose not, still it’s a beautiful chest.” But Kili was giving the hobbit in front of him a pondering look.
“Yes, yes it is.”
***
The morning came sooner than Bilbo wanted. The sunlight peeking in through the dainty glass windows. Today was the day.
Breakfast was eaten, his bag was packed (dwarves rifling through the meager contents he pulled from his mother’s glory box), and the door was locked before he could think twice. The comforting hills of the shire were far behind him before Bilbo knew what to do. He didn’t feel as strongly as he thought he would about it. In fact, he barely felt anything as he watched the bewildered faces of the community that whispered about him pass by. No doubt Lobelia would be down to Bag End by the night to see if the rumors were true. None of that really mattered though, Bilbo was on his way. Maybe, just maybe, his mother would be proud of him.
He did feel strongly about the ponies though. He did not like ponies (his sentiment would change over time, especially around the time they lost the ponies).
By nightfall he was sore, stressed, and quite uncertain why he had signed the contract in the first place. The company set up dinner, the larger dwarf, Bombur, proved an excellent camp cook and Bilbo thoroughly enjoyed the sausages they ate. Overall the day hadn’t passed badly. If the adventure continued to look like this Bilbo thought he might actually enjoy it. Most of the dwarves, Gandalf as well, had bedded down for the night when it happened. Bilbo couldn’t sleep, the snoring that echoed around the camp disrupting his rest. He got up to give Myrtle an apple, really the pony was a pleasant mount, when he heard them.
Wolves.
Bilbo twisted around to see if anyone else heard, “Did you hear that?”
“Aye, wargs and orcs.”
Relief washed over Bilbo and his shoulders slumped, “Oh, well then.”
It took a moment before a different sort of panic sunk in, “Orcs?”
The following stories both instilled a sense of awe and the overwhelming knowledge that he should have stayed home in the hobbit. He was traveling with warriors, fighters, the survivors of grief, and who was he? A hobbit from a gentle life. He didn’t belong here, but he signed a contract, so here he would stay.
Bilbo had seen the look passed between Balin and Gandalf, and he was quick enough to realize that despite Thorin’s adamant denials, the pale orc might still pose a problem. By Yavanna, things just got better and better. Bilbo laid down as the fire died, his eyes closed, and tried to sleep.
His rest was haunted by dreams. His mother frowned at him, calling him a disgrace before the wolves tore her to shreds. His father, no Bungo, turning his back on him. Then a dwarf, faceless, clawing at him - ripping him from everything he’d ever known. Hopeless clawed at Bilbo’s throat and he woke up in a panic.
The night was still.
Bilbo let out a ragged breath. He couldn’t do this.
“Master Baggins,” Thorin’s voice rang out, “care to join me?”
Bilbo did not really want to join the intimidating dwarf (he had a feeling that Thorin did not particularly approve of him or his presence) but he felt it would be a good distraction from his thoughts. He hesitantly made his way over to the imposing leaders' roost.
“What are you doing up?”
“I am keeping guard, master hobbit,” Thorin’s breath puffed out into the cold air, “My nephew tells me your mother knew a dwarf?”
Bilbo sighed, “That was meant to be in confidence, he did promise.”
“Kili is many things, but a secret keeper is not one of them,” Thorin gave a sober chuckle.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Bilbo paused, “Yes, though, my um, my mother did know a dwarf. She never told me much about him, only that he had no name, a refugee from a battle she thought, too wounded to recall life before.”
“Where about did she find him?”
“She had traveled down the Green Way to Tharbad, that was as far as she ever went.”
“Tharbad, that’s on the way to Moria.”
Bilbo hummed his agreement, the tale of the night before, the pale orc, still present in his mind.
“Perhaps he was one of ours,” it was a whispered confession and Bilbo didn’t know how to respond so he simply sat in companionable silence.
The racing thoughts in Bilbo’s mind seemed to still in the presence of the intimidating king to be. Bilbo didn’t know why, but the presence of the dwarf was comforting. He was sat an arms length away, but the presence, familiar in ways that Bilbo never felt from Shire folk, was … nice. They sat that way for a long time.
His secret was still safe, and maybe, just maybe, if he played his cards right, he could learn more about the way of life he could have led.