Two days out of Rivendell Bilbo was still trembling. He was also prone to weeping or sobbing fits. Worried for his safety, for him tumbling off Minty's back the Wizard forced himself out of his angry brooding and cradled the Child of the Gentle West in his arms. His hat was drawn low over his face as to shield the wisdom brimming azure spheres from the setting sun. He quietly cursed the legacy of Feanor which cast its shadow over Arda, even though the world had been twice remade since the Mad Noldo's death.
The screams! The screams!
Bilbo sat up in his bedroll, gasping and screaming! In his sleep his kind soul had revisited the memories his brain recoiled from in broad daylight. He grasped Gandalf's homespun for dear life, oblivious of the stench of years of unwashed sweat impregnating the fabric, bawling to the stars.
The sights flashing before his eyes, of the shy, gentle little scribe Ori being poked to death with knitting needles, of Dwalin having his arms chopped off for stealing cookies and bleeding to death, of the nimble fingered reprobate Nori having his digits broken, Gloin having his tongue ripped out for his insolence and chocking on his own blood ...
Of majestic Thorin, on his knees and kissing the half-elf's boots, pleading for his life. Of Kili and Fili, barely out of their diapers, grasping one another and pathetically bleating "Fee" and "Kee" while torn apart by their merciless tormentors, to be grabbed by the ankles and having their skulls smashed against the walls of the Last Homely House ...
And all that for some innocent fun at the dinner table ... maybe throwing food about was not in line with proper manners as hobbits understood them. Maybe breaking up thousands of years old furniture to make bonfires on elaborate wooden floors also was not the best manners, as was some risqué banter with the staff, but surely such brutal retribution was excessive ...
All Bilbo wished for now was to be back in the Shire, never to leave it again, and to bleach his brain of all what had passed from the moment the Istar had accosted him while smoking on his porch.
The Grey Pilgrim rubbed circles on the distraught hobbit's back. He was furious at the half-elf! Who could had expected that the son of gentle Elwing and gay Eärendil to have picked up all of Maedhros' and Maglor's viciousness and cruelty? Maybe the fact that all puppies whimpered and scamperred away on their charmingly wobbly legs at the sight of the scion of Luthien should had clued him in ...
His plans in ruins, Mithrandir decided that he will first take care of the hobbit. Which in his case meant dumping Bilbo on the first person in Breeland not protesting too violently against being assigned the task of taking Master Baggins to the Shire. Then, deprived of luckless sods conned into doing his biding, he would have to deal with Smaug himself.
He wondered - with a twinkle in his eye - what Radagast or Saruman could be doing at this time of year? Maybe he could persuade them to go on a little ... adventure?
AN:
For dramatic effect I painted Maedhros and Maglor in possibly worse light than they actually deserve.