Disclaimer: The Hobbit, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.
Bilbo had not entirely given up on his second, third, or even eighth plan of aiding the Dwarves in their escape from Mirkwood's Keep. But time was running out, and if this last trip to the forge was fruitless, then his daring first plan would have to suffice.
Bilbo had been busy, these past few weeks, plotting every potential avenue of escape. But he had also taken advantage of his invisible state to enjoy the charms of everyday life among the Elves. He had visited classrooms of giggling children, smelled fresh lembas bread baking in ovens, and listened to a harpist compose what would no doubt be her masterpiece.
He had found the forges of Mirkwood to have a warm and cheerful atmosphere, reminiscent of the Shire and the industrious Hobbits he knew so well. The forge was also his best hope for finding the supplies needed for his plans.
He arrived at his targeted West forge early in the morning, when few were there. One pleasant young face was at her usual workstation. Bilbo had become quite fond of the inquisitive, black-haired apprentice.
Her foot tapped the bellows.
"Too fast, Rhavaniel," her cousin, Dûrion, chided her, "What song is in your head?"
"Um, Beyond the Sea." she replied, polishing one of the assortment of copper-dipped acorns covering her bench.
"They were sailing on a warm breeze in that song, not rowing for their lives. Mind your pace." Dûrion turned his attention back to the forge, and the iron rod that had cooled enough to pull from the fire and hammer.
Her Uncle Lithaldoren looked over her shoulder. "Very good. And you've hammered out all of the gold leaf?"
"Aye, Uncle. They are awaiting Alyan at his bench." Rhavaniel replied.
"And the powders you were to grind for the glassblowers?"
"Already delivered to Master Manwëron. Pure copper, chroma, and iron dust." She pointed to the neatly checked off list of tasks on the wall above her bench. "I thought I could help examine the Dwarf weapons next, please?"
"You mean from the prisoners?" Dûrion snorted, "They are still locked up in the Keep with the Dwarves."
"But I have never seen Dwarves, or their ironwork." she pleaded, "I heard they even had some Elf swords with them."
"All under lock and key, in case King Thranduil decides to send them away quickly." Lithaldoren explained, "I can show you a piece of Dwarf ironwork if you want. It's probably still out in the old forge."
Rhavaniel was not satisfied, "One of them had a bow. I caught a glimpse of it."
Dûrion hammered at his iron, "You will not learn anything from a Dwarf bow."
"They are fine enough craftsmen, but not for precise weaponry." Lithaldoren conceded, "They are best at making what they use well - broadsword, battle ax and war hammer."
Dûrion nodded, "Aye, their fistmele is off. A Dwarf's longest bow is too short for an Elf. And too hard on the pull. They have poor eyesight, and are built for close-quarter fighting, so there is little care for distance shooting."
"Elves are master of the bow for our grace and speed of body, as much as our skill in the crafting of the weapon. Do not waste your time trying to learn archery from Dwarves."
"Learning from the mistakes of others is not without value." Dûrion pointed out, "Spend time with Dwarves and you will appreciate the value of fine table manners."
"... and soap." Her elders enjoyed a hearty laugh.
"Speaking of soap," Dûrion gently scolded, "you should go back to Melima's and wash up. Change out of your work clothes and head to your lessons early for once. You should have started High Elvish a year ago, and the literature instructor says there is no use moving you up for another year yet."
Lithaldoren put a hand on Rhavaniel's slumped shoulder, "I understand you felt the call to the forge early, and you will be a great talent in time. But while you are young, you must avail yourself of all opportunities to learn."
"Yes, Uncle," Rhavaniel replied, hanging her leather apron on a hook on the way out.
"I am at Nechaenion's home, not Melima's, this quarter-moon," she called back, but they did not hear her over their hammering.
Bilbo sighed at her leaving. He had hoped Rhavaniel's elders would have relented to her daily requests to visit the Keep and in doing so, show him where they kept the keys. Bilbo knew that the West forge blacksmiths had copies of all the keys to Thranduil's castle and Keep, but he had been unable to find them. He would have no choice but to obtain the keys from the Elf Guards on duty.