In answer to the questions as to the length of this fic, it will probably be four or five chapters. I promise to let you know when it's finished.


Chapter Two

Making camp with dwarves was an interesting affair.

Bilbo had done a fair bit of traveling in his days. Oh, he rarely went further than Rivendell, but at the best of times, the path to the hidden elven city could be dangerous, and Bilbo often traveled alone except for his pony. It was much different setting up camp with a large group of people to maneuver around.

Normally, Bilbo would dig himself a fire pit and start a fire before the dark settled over the camp, perhaps throwing some food on a pan to fry. He'd never been much of a hunter himself, so roasting meat over the flames hadn't been a possibility when he was traveling alone unless he ran across a hunter he could purchase game from. Not squirrels, though. Never again.

Having Bombur set up his large kettle and mix up a stew was far different from Bilbo's meals of nuts, berries, and scrounged vegetables. The dwarves seemed to have a preference for meat, although they clearly enjoyed things of great flavor and much variety (obviously, from the state of his pantry when they left). Not exceptionally different from hobbits, then, except for the disdain for leafy vegetables.

Bilbo was no fool and he knew the path to Rivendell well. He probably knew Gandalf even better than that path and he had no doubts the wizard intended to drag the dwarves, kicking and screaming if necessary, into the city of Imladris. That would certainly prove… educational.

Bilbo spooned some of Bombur's delicious stew into his mouth as he thought. It was made with thick chunks of potatoes, beef, mushrooms, and a variety of nuts and spices.

He was gratified to realize that the dwarf was quite the talented cook. Perhaps later, once they were more familiar with each other, the two of them could discuss recipes. For now, even the cheerful Bombur was wary of the resident hobbit, although Bilbo suspected he had made the whole lot of them somewhat nervous once the true reason of their bargining into Bag End had come to light. He had agreed to their quest readily enough once he knew the reason for it, but only after tearing into Gandalf like a rabid fauntling. He actually suspected he had slipped at some point during his rant into Hobbitish, cursing the wizard out in his native tongue, but he wasn't certain and that wasn't something he felt comfortable with asking someone. Bilbo wasn't entirely certain Gandalf was fluent in the language of the Shirelings, although he surely knew at least some words. Still, he didn't plan on giving the wizard the satisfaction of Bilbo' uncertainty. Bilbo was still mad at him. Quite a bit more than mad, in fact. Miffed.

Ir-ri-ta-ted. Very much so.

He tried not to let his irritation show overmuch, though. As wary as the dwarves were surely of him, he was also uncertain of them. Bilbo had met dwarves before, of course, in Bree during the summer months when many came down from the Blue Mountains to do trade with both Hobbits and Men. But Dwalin had been the first dwarf Bilbo had encountered outside of haggling for goods and Bree itself, and it was no proper greeting to have a massive, armed dwarf grunt at you and barge into your smial.

Bilbo idly thought about the daggers tucked into his boots and wondered what the dwarf would have done had Bilbo reacted defensively rather than in confusion. Granted, he hadn't been armed at the time but his mother's glory box was not far from the door, and Hobbits were quick. Bilbo especially.

He imagined Gandalf would have been put off had Dwalin turned him into a pancake with that massive warhammer of his.

For a moment, Bilbo let the possibility roam about his head and considered bringing it up with Gandalf later to make a point, if he ever decided to speak to the wizard again.

Bilbo breathed out a sigh.

Oh, blast his foolish Took heart, of could he wouldn't write the wizard off completely. Bilbo had missed Gandalf. That was the problem, really. He had missed the meddling wizard, been missing him, wishing he would visit and then he does turn up, only to talk over Bilbo as though his opinion on the matter didn't matter at all, whisk away, and return with thirteen dwarves. Disappears for over a decade and returns only to manipulate him. Bilbo wouldn't have been so bloody irritated with the fool magician if he had just been straight with him. It would have been nice, he thought, to discuss dwarves and adventures and greedy dragons over tea and biscuits with an old and dear friends. Bilbo could have done with a visit, just the two of them.

Ah, but Bilbo was a sentimental old fool and Gandalf a wizard who didn't have time to pander to silly hobbits. He had visited often when his mother was alive, but for all his Tookishness, Bilbo would never be Belladonna, he knew that. He had a bit too much Baggins in him. That was all right with him, but not enough to draw a wizard to his door once a year as it had been.

Still. It would have been nice.


Gandalf sat against a cliff wall away from the majority of the dwarves, puffing on his pipe as he watched Bilbo return his empty bowl to Bombur. The two didn't talk, as Gandalf had hoped they might. Instead, Bilbo slipped away, making his way to where the ponies were gathered together, grazing on straggly weeds.

He thought about the hobbit tweenager he had known who would have badgered any dwarves that permitted him speech about their culture, their travels, their family lineage. The tweenager Gandalf remembered had been insatiable when it came to his curiosity, and nothing would stop him filling the holes in his knowledge.

Gandalf had to concede that it had been many years since he had last seen Bilbo Baggins. Too many, in fact.

He thought about Belladonna Took and a promise he had made her as she lay dying of her wounds. A promise he had only managed to keep for a few years before he had allowed perceived duties to drag him away from keeping it.

Bilbo didn't know about the promise, but that hardly mattered. Belladonna had begged him to make it, knowing that not doing so would break her son's heart.

Gandalf wondered idly what else of Bilbo's he might have broken by staying away so long, and if any of it could ever hope to be repaired.


Bilbo ran a hand over the necks of the ponies that reached for him, their lips pulling back as the snuffled at him, looking for treats. He chuckled and apologized for having pocketfuls of pincecones instead of apples, and scratched their noses as he promised to find some soon.

After his second thrown pinecone had bounced off a tree trunk and smacked Thorin in the head, Bilbo had amused himself by trying to guess what Thorin's muttered words might have meant. From the glower on his face, he'd expected they were far from proper. Bilbo had never had the chance to hear Khudzul spoken before, which was no surprise since it was such a closely-guarded secret. But if he had to deal with Thorin's poor attitude and his name-calling, he would consider the chance to hear bits of pieces of the sacred language a consolation for his suffering.

You would think the dwarf would take into account Bilbo's pointed elf-like ears. Hobbits had exceptional hearing. Then again, Thorin was probably spending every bit of his attention during their trek trying not to get the party lost. They'd finally stopped for camp the third time they'd passed the same place.

Bilbo had laid out his bedroll at the edge of camp, nearer to the ponies, and watched the rest of the company quietly. He didn't bring anything with him to read or to write, was left to watch them as they ate or wrote in their journal or cleaned up the cook pot. As he scratched at the ponies necks, Bilbo returned his gaze to the dwarves, watching. Fili and Kili, the two brothers, were bickering good-naturedly, and Balin was smoking a pipe and talking idly with Dwalin. Bofur was whittling away at a piece of wood and humming under his breath, and some of the others had already tucked in for bed.

Bilbo was tired, yes, but to be honest, it was so interesting to be traveling with other people, he didn't want to go to sleep and miss anything that might happen.

"Halfling," Thorin growled as he tramped past, and Bilbo felt the smile slide off his face like butter. At his back, Myrtle snorted loudly. "You've got first watch. Don't fall asleep and let us get eaten."

"Of course not," Bilbo said. He plastered a cheerful smile on his face when the angry dwarf looked at him and made his way back to his bedroll, turning his back on the king. "I'm far more likely to stay awake and let you get eaten, aren't I?"

Thorin narrowed his eyes at him but apparently deemed Bilbo less than threatening, and by him with a growl. Bilbo blew out a breath, rolled his eyes, and flicked the pinecone that had been in his pocket over the dwarf's head.

It hit low-hanging branch and bounced, smacking Thorin on the nose.

The dwarf stopped, sniffing irritably, and gave the pinecone a stern look where it lay on the ground. He glanced back at Bilbo, who was very busy rooting through his knapsack and certainly not watching the dwarf from beneath his lashes. He apparently decided that Bilbo wasn't the culprit (dwarves were as bad as Big Folk in that they didn't notice anything smaller than they were) and stomped on the pinecone with his large, heavy-looking boot.

Bilbo lamented he wouldn't be able to recollect that pinecone later use. Oh well. He'd collected about ten of them so far, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand but heavy enough to be easily aimed and thrown. He'd get more, too, as their travels wore on.

It was good to be prepared.

Bilbo was just settling down on top of his bedroll, prepared to get comfortable for his watch, when a low howling echoed in the dark around him. Distantly, he felt his entire body tense to stillness, but then his awareness slid away.

The sound of wolves crying on the wind is a haunting sound to hear in the dark of an unsheltered night for anyone, but for someone who suffered through the Fell Winter during their tweenager years, the sound is terrifying.

Bilbo Baggins lost his mother to the Fell Winter. In truth, he lost his father to it, as well. It had been a good crop year, but the cold winds of winter blew on too quickly and carried snow and ice with them. Whole fields of crops were lost to the freeze and normally well-stocked larders were short when the winter started.

It didn't matter that the hobbits could cut down to two or three meals a day. Their reserves wouldn't last for even that long.


"Bilbo. Bilbo, are you well?"

Bofur hesitated, weighing the wisdom of touching someone whose attention was elsewhere, but decided he could handle an attacking hobbit if it came to that. He placed his hand on Bilbo's shoulder.

The hobbit jumped beneath him, awareness coming back to his eyes all at once, his muscles tensing up in preparation for fight or flight. Bofur tightened his grip on the hobbit's shoulder just a tad, enough to draw Bilbo's attention outward, and called his name again. The hobbit's brown eyes flicked to his and he was distressed to find it took a moment for recognition to flood them.

"You went away for a while," Bofur said in explanation. He was fairly certain his concern spoke for itself.

"I'm all right," Bilbo said, but his voice was quiet and his face unnaturally pale. Bofur could feel him shivering under his hand and the way his eyes were darting from one side of the camp to the other made Bofur nervous. He didn't think Bilbo was likely to attack them, not now, but if the hobbit took off into the night, they'd never catch him. Not if they could be as silent as Gandalf professed.

"You sure?" Bofur kept his hand on the hobbit's shoulder, a grounding point, and hoped it wasn't seen as a nuisance. He liked Bilbo and, in truth, the hobbit had surprised him. He would have expected one of the Shire folk to faint once a dragon was brought up, and stealing from a dragon besides, but Bilbo Baggins was clearly made of sterner stuff than that.

"Yes." Bilbo gave him a grateful smile and Bofur couldn't help but to return it. He didn't quite understand why Tharkun thought a hobbit would be the best to sneak up on Smaug and he knew the other dwarves were uncertain, too, but Bofur was glad that Bilbo was here just the same.

Bofur turned and started leading Bilbo away from his bedroll, pretending not to hear Bilbo's complaints about needing to settle down for watch. "Of course, of course," he said, grinning. "How did you like my brother's stew?" It was an easy question and Bombur's recipes were always a great topic. Bofur could eat anything the situation called for, he had a stomach of iron, but he had to admit (and proudly) that Bombur's skill in cooking made eating a favored pasttime. Bofur knew enough about hobbits to know they loved their food, and if he hadn't before, Bilbo's well-stocked pantry would have sold him on the knowledge.

"It was magnificent, of course," Bilbo said.

Magnificent? Well, that was no small compliment.

"High praise from a hobbit." Bofur grinned when Bilbo chuckled.

"True, we do enjoy our meals. All seven of them."

Bofur thought a moment before asking, "Will eating less hurt you?"

Bilbo didn't seem surprised at the question, just sort of… sad. "No. Truthfully, I've been in the habit of eating only three meals a day for a number of years. I'm afraid I make a rather poor hobbit, to be honest. If my poor diet has scandalized my neighbors, however, and they've yet to drive me from my home, I daresay a party with a bunch of dwarves shall hardly make them bat an eye."

Bofur snorted.

"Now, really, I must protest your man-handling-"

"Hobbit-handling," Bofur interrupted with a grin.

"Hobbit-handling of me." Bilbo dug an elbow in his side but Bofur only laughed. "Honestly, I truly do need to sit down and begin my watch or Thorin is liable to come over here and take us both to task."

"He'll let Balin do it," Bofur reassured him. "Thorin's not so great with the talking bit. He can get the words out, but they don't usually mean what he wants them to."

"He's not a diplomat, then. Noted. Now really, Bofur."

"I only thought you'd want to be kipping on your bedroll tonight, unless you'd rather nap with the ponies."

"The ponies-" Bilbo happened to look down at that exact moment and see his bedroll, spread out as it was between Bombur's and Bofur's own. Bifur was stretched out at their head, feigning sleep after having moved the hobbit's bedroll while Bilbo was distracted. "Huh."

"See, it doesn't make sense for you to be sitting over there when you can kip over here with us." Bofur flopped down onto his own bedroll, grinning at Bilbo. His grin slid into a soft smile at the hobbit's confused look.

Bilbo looked like he wanted to say something for a moment, but he looked at the (not)sleeping Bifur and over at Bombur's empty bedroll, and promptly sat down, looking bemused and a little startled.

Bofur watched him for a moment. "Are you all right, Bilbo?"

Bilbo gave him a smile, perhaps the biggest Bofur had seen yet. "Yes, Bofur. Thank you."


Bofur ended up sitting up with Bilbo during his watch, even though he hadn't been scheduled for one until the following night. When Bilbo asked him why, he said, "I won't be getting any sleep with those wolves roaming around. Might as well make myself useful."

Bilbo could only nod at that, his mind roaming back to the last time he had seen wolves in person, white-coated and snarling, and he shivered. Bofur didn't say anything, but Bilbo could feel him watching.

"They're no fun to run across unexpectedly." Bilbo grimaced, not having planned to say anything about it.

"I don't care for it even when I expect it." Bilbo was gratefuly he didn't ask. "But don't you worry, Bilbo. Dwalin's got the third shift, so for the first two shift's of the night, his snores'll keep the pesky wolves away."

Bilbo's eyes caught on movement from across the camp as Dwalin's hand shot up in a rude gesture. Bofur laughed loudly, along with the dwarves that were still awake and paying attention.

He grinned at Bilbo. "And if not the snores, the smell."

Even Bilbo couldn't help chuckling at that one.


In the end, the only wolves that attacked them were the ones that haunted Bilbo's dreams, and he was used to those. It didn't happen every night, not anymore, but now and then and especially when winter was rolling in, the dreams of the Fell Winter returned. He had accepted them as something that would constantly haunt him and he could expect nothing less from so traumatic a time in his life. At least his being used to this particular dream kept him from waking up screaming. That would have been embarrassing.

As it was, Bilbo was rolling up his sleeproll when Thorin stormed by with a snapped "Hurry up, halfling."

Bilbo nearly threw his knapsack at the dwarf but instead finishing tying the knotted string around his sleeproll and carried his pack over to where Myrtle stood waiting for him. Less than half of the dwarves were already packed, but Bilbo threw his bag over the saddle and climbed up anyway, prepared to sit and wait for the others for as long as needed.

In the meantime, he gazed around at the others and, with no one watching, flicked a couple pinecones at Thorin's backside as the dwarf was settling into the saddle.

He didn't understand the words the dwarf snarled as he swiped his hand under his arse, tossing pinecones to the ground, but Bilbo took immense pleasure from them anyway.

Nothing tasted quite as good as catharsis in the morning.


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