A/N: So this is technically only a day late in some places in the world! This is pretty much a transition chapter to get them on the road, so it's a little shorter than most will be.

I had a surprise visit from my dad on Sunday so yeah.

Also I've been sidetracked by yet another AU idea - a Regency AU - of which I already have around 11,000 words written, but I'm not publishing it until I finish the first of the four sections it has.

Thank you once again to everyone who read/reviewed/favourited/followed and I hope you enjoy!

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"Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it."

TWO

Bilbo wasn't entirely sure what he had imagined the Neverland to be like when he was a child, but whatever it was, his mind could never have conjured up the spectacular sights before him. A huge, rocky cliff face stretched out to his left, the pale rock had holes worn in it by the sea. As they descended from the path in the stars, a city loomed up at him through the pale, silver light of the moon. From above, he could see eight clear, wide roads that spread out like spokes on a wheel, though the buildings and streets in-between them were a haphazard mess that sprawled out from the tower of a church-like building in the very centre.

They landed on a quiet, dark street, made up of a strange mix of stone and wood buildings. Gandalf led him to a tiny house, it's grey stone walls dark in the moonlight. It turned out to be a guesthouse of sorts, and the dozing young woman blinked at them blearily as they entered, her sleepiness preventing her from casting more than a cursory glance at Bilbo's odd attire - his yellow t-shirt and dark blue jeans were most definitely out of place here - before she handed them the key for a twin room and took the coins Gandalf offered. Then, after mumbling some vague directions to them, she rested her head back on her arms and shut her eyes.

Bilbo himself felt rather too tired to comment on the abysmal customer service and followed Gandalf up to their room, collapsing on the bed as soon as he was through the door. It was scratchy and uncomfortable, made out of straw, but he settled soon after he had laid down his head let his eyes slip shut.

In the morning, Gandalf decided their first order of business would be to go and find Bilbo some clothes, boots especially, since he was barefoot.

Bilbo had been to a farmer's market several times before. He had also been to a proper French village market one time, when they had gone there on holiday when he was ten. Neither had been anything like the market in Bree. Sights, smells and sounds pressed in on him on all sides, completely overpowering, and Bilbo found his neck beginning to hurt as he whipped it back and forth in a poor attempt to try and take in all that surrounded him. From a stall manned by a large, rosy faced man, Gandalf bought a pair of brown leather boots; they were sturdy and folded over just underneath his knee. Bilbo was fairly certain his feet were going to swelter in them in the summer heat, but with an amused smile, he realised they also kind of made him feel like a pirate.

Next, they entered a tailor's shop, the shaded interior a welcome escape from the sun that burned the exposed cobbles of the market. Here, Gandalf insisted he replace his t-shirt, though he allowed Bilbo to remain in his jeans, on account of their practicality. The loose, billowing cream cotton shirt was comfortable on and he paired it with a racing green velvet waistcoat and a thick burgundy jacket. He was certain he was going to be too warm, but Gandalf ignored his protests and insisted he would be fine and would, in fact, probably come to regret it if he did not buy the coat. His patchwork dressing gown and t-shirt were relegated to the tan leather pack Gandalf seemed to pull from nowhere. Satisfied now, that Bilbo would not draw too much attention, the pair set about gathering supplies for whatever their journey was to be.

Gandalf was strangely not forthcoming about the details about wherever they were headed, or what indeed they were doing.

"I told you, my dear Bilbo, we are meeting a company of men at daybreak the day after the morrow, and we will accompany them on their adventure."

"Yes, but why won't you tell me who or where?" Bilbo asked exasperatedly.

Gandalf had the gall to retain his usual amused look, "Because you would be all the wiser if I named where we were headed?"

Bilbo huffed, "I should like to know all the same."

"You have no need to worry - this will be good for you," Gandalf replied breezily. Bilbo sincerely hoped he imagined the "And most amusing for me," Gandalf muttered under his breath.

He made a sound of vague annoyance and returned to his meal of mutton and potatoes.

"Tomorrow, we shall find you a horse."

Bilbo almost choked on his mead, "A horse?" he cried. "I've never ridden in my life!"

"Neither had your mother," Gandalf said, as if this was perfectly sensible excuse, "If you're anything like her, you'll take to it like a fish to water."

Swallowing thickly, Bilbo bit back his comment about his discomfort around horses and carried on with his meal quietly.

As for taking to it like a fish out of water, well, he certainly doubted it.

Bilbo was to be proved wrong, it seemed, for as they rode towards the East Gate of Bree, he found he had an oddly comfortable seat in the saddle; his horse was a fairly average chestnut mare that he had taken a shine to instantly - she was called Myrtle. Gandalf had a silvery-white steed called Shadowfax that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere the previous day. Bilbo decided not to question this, seeing it as one of the many wheres and wherefores of the Fae, though, in his mind at least, he did question the use of shadow in the name of a white horse. Now, in the grey half-light of the approaching dawn, Shadowfax seemed but a spirit, his coat not stark in the darkness, but as if it had absorbed it and of course Gandalf would have some sort of magical fairy-horse.

Whoever it was that they were meeting, they were waiting for them already at the gate; most mounted upon their horses, but several were stood at the forefront of the group. One in particular stepped forward, a tall imposing figure with broad shoulders and a sharp nose. He had the very bearing of a leader, so Bilbo was rather unsurprised when he was introduced as such. What had surprised him, however, was immediately being dismissed as a 'grocer'. And, oh, the small detail that theft seemed to be expected of him.

The man, Thorin, had turned to glare at Gandalf and Bilbo, once he recovered from his shock, followed suit not a moment later.

"You said you had a man with the necessary skills," he said, a threatening note to his voice that almost made Bilbo gulp nervously. Just what had Gandalf been saying about him? Evidently not the truth, if he was expected to have any skills related to burglary.

"You," he snapped at Bilbo, "Do you even know how to use a weapon?"

Bilbo let his eyes flicker away from that piercing blue gaze to the hilt of a large sword, strapped to the leader's back.

"Err…"

Thorin growled exasperatedly and then fixed his glower back on Gandalf.

"No."

At that, it was Gandalf's cue to frown, impressive grey brows knitting together imperiously.

"If you remember Master Oakenshield, this was my one condition."

"He will be a burden!" Thorin cried in frustration, gesturing his hand vaguely as if Bilbo were not right there, though he probably did not care that his displeasure was so evident.

"You do not know that," Gandalf replied reasonably.

The two locked eyes, each trying to stare down the other in their battle of wills before Thorin made a resigned sound of annoyance.

"Fine, but I will not be responsible for his safety."

He turned and stomped back to his horse. Bilbo made to clamber back up onto Myrtle's back, but was approached by one of the men that had been standing. He was shorter, probably closer to Bilbo in height; with a thick auburn beard and kindly eyes.

He held out a thick wad of parchment, "Perhaps if you could be so kind as to look over this contract, Master Baggins."

Bilbo held up his hand, "Bilbo, please."

"Perhaps such a thing should wait until we've left Bree, Master Balin?" Gandalf suggested amusedly. If this Balin was at all shocked by Gandalf knowing his name, he showed no outward sign of it, merely nodded, slipping the parchment back into his robes.

"Later then."

Soon enough, they were off, following the coastal path that wound along, a hundred yards from the edge of the steep cliffs. The view was spectacular, with rolling green hills to his left and steep, stark grey cliffs to his right. The fresh, salty smell danced along in the light breeze and Bilbo found himself inhaling deeply - it had been so long, much too long, since he had been to the seaside and he'd quite forgotten how much he enjoyed it.

His reverie was broken as one of the men pulled alongside him. He looked to be of a shorter, stockier build than some of the others, and had friendly dark eyes, though Bilbo supposed most would seem friendly compared to their stoic leader. His elaborate moustache twitched as he smiled at Bilbo.

"Bofur, at your service," he greeted, offering out a calloused palm to Bilbo.

He shook the proffered hand firmly - his father had always pressed him on the importance of a strong handshake. "Bilbo, at yours."

"So you're our burglar, then?"

"So it would seem," Bilbo grumbled, noting the amused look Bofur gave him. "Any idea what I'm supposed to be stealing?" he added after a moment.

"Well that would be skins o' course," Balin said, appearing suddenly at Bilbo's other side as if that had been his cue.

Bilbo gulped. "Skins?"

Balin frowned at him then, "Did that fairy tell you nothing?"

"Pretty much," Bilbo replied with a shrug. He didn't think Balin should be at all surprised at that - in the few short days he had spent with the Fae, Bilbo had learned Gandalf liked to switch between 'withholding' and 'woefully vague', all with that same bloody twinkle in his eye.

"Do you at least know who we, Durin's Folk, are?"

Bilbo stared back at him blankly.

"Durin's Folk? Is that the name of your company?"

No then. If Balin had the same ill-temper as his brother, he was sure he would trot ahead and punch the Grey Fairy in his smug bearded face, but alas, he had the reputation for being far more reasonable of the two. Instead, he proceeded to regale their burglar with the tales of his

people.

"Our people Master Baggins, we hail from Erebor, a solitary peak to the north-east of this land, that we call the Lonely Mountain-"

He pretended to ignore the man's muttered 'Imaginative' and continued on.

"A great many years ago - some one hundred and fifty at least - the flagship of our trading fleet - the Deathless - was commandeered by the nefarious pirate Azog the Defiler with the aid of his sea-dragon, Smaug the Terrible. The Deathless contained the Heart of the Mountain - the sole key that grants one passage in and out - and Azog used it to storm Erebor and behead King Thrór. He banished our people from the Mountain and we were forced to seek refuge elsewhere. Our quest, Master Baggins, is, in short, to regain that homeland. Our homeland."

The poor man looked a little pale, though Balin was not sure if it was simply a trick of the intense midday light.

"And what is it that I'm stealing? These skins?"

"Well," began Balin, "Durin's Folk are a race of-"

"Balin?" interrupted the smooth, deep voice of their leader, "I'd prefer it if you did not reveal all of our people's secrets before the human has even signed the contract."

"Like I'm going anywhere," Bilbo grumbled to himself, glaring at the back of Thorin's head. For the next hour, he stewed, focusing all his anger and resentment on that head of dark hair. He was tired, he hadn't had any breakfast and the hunger was making his head hurt a little. And, as beautiful as the scenery was, cliffs and endless sea started to get just a teensy bit repetitive after a while.

With great relief, he dismounted Myrtle when the call came for lunch and he settled himself upon a log but before he could tuck into his rations, he was approached once again by Balin. That man deserved awards for his persistence.

"Mr Baggins, before you eat, could you possibly look at this contract?"

The thick roll of parchment was handed to him and he unrolled it carefully. There was a lot of words - surely he could not be expected to read the entire thing before eating? His stomach rumbled a protest at the thought and he gave an embarrassed smile at Balin's chuckle.

Quickly, he skimmed over the elegant calligraphy. He was to be a burglar and steal several of these 'second skins' - he was still no closer to figuring out exactly what they were, perhaps Durin's Folk were some kind of shapeshifters - from inside the Mountain. The Mountain that currently held a vicious band of orc-pirates (and weren't they those great ugly ogre-y type creatures?), the leader of whom was called 'the Defiler' and had a pet dragon. A dragon.

Bilbo felt positively queasy at the thought.

Then he got to the incredibly detailed part on funeral arrangements and his vision darkened at the edges.

Apparently there were many increasingly horrible ways for him to die.

But at least he would be laid to rest in a fine oak coffin.

"Incineration?" he heard himself read aloud warily, "Scalding?"

"Aye," Bofur piped up helpfully. "The fucker can breath both fire and boiling water. Takes the skin right off of you."

Bilbo gulped at the rather gruesome mental image that conjured up.

"Impalement?"

"Azog's favourite method of killing, that is. He'll stick you on a spike from arse to chin and leave you there 'till you die either from blood-loss or pain or one of his great gulls pecking your eyes out."

He wasn't quite sure if he was going to vomit of faint in that moment so to save himself the choice, he did both.

When he came to, he was lying on his back with a horrid taste in his mouth and two curious teenage faces peering down at him. Fíli and Kíli, his mind supplied, though he couldn't for the life of him remember which of the brothers was which.

"Are you okay Mister Boggins?" the dark-haired one asked as his brother eased Bilbo into a sitting position.

"Quite alright," he replied a little hoarsely.

"Are you sure?" the other persisted.

"Well I hadn't expected quite such a detailed section on funeral arrangements," Bilbo joked weakly. He really wanted something to drink now - his throat felt as if it was burning.

Thorin, who it appeared had been glaring at him the entire time, snapped, "You knew the risks."

"I should rather think it should be clear by now that I was, in fact, in the dark as to the particulars," was Bilbo's haughty retort.

He harrumphed, still scowling, and turned to mutter something to Dwalin, the enormous scary one with tattoos and a mohawk that made him look like something out of a seventies punk band or a biker gang.

"Oh don't mind uncle," the blond one - Fíli, his mind now supplied helpfully - said and Bilbo frowned as he glanced back to study their leader. The man looked not a day over twenty-five and certainly couldn't be older than thirty, then from him, he looked back to the two brothers before him who looked to be in their late teens.

"He's your uncle?"

Perhaps he was their young uncle, even though he had the grumpy bearing of an older sibling.

"Why are you so surprised?" Kíli asked.

"Well forgive me in saying," Bilbo began, his cheeks flushing slightly, though he wasn't entirely sure why, "But he doesn't quite look old enough."

"Uncle?" Fíli cried incredulously, "He's one hundred and ninety seven!"

"What?" Bilbo spluttered. Gandalf hadn't mentioned anything like that. He should have guessed really, that there would be immortals here. "How old are you two then?"

"I'm eighty two. Kíli's seventy seven," the elder informed him, a curious spark in his eyes.

"Goodness me," he murmured dazedly. It was quite difficult to fathom such ages, and especially these two, well boys, being each almost four times his age.

"Bilbo my boy, aging works quite differently here in the Neverland," came the ever-amused voice of Gandalf from his seat in the shade of a nearby oak.

"I'm beginning to see that," he said dryly.

Kíli gave him a grin then, and it was almost mischievous. Actually, no, it was straight-up troublesome. "Why Mr Boggins how old are you?"

"Twenty-two," he replied, not even bothering to correct the error that had been made on his name.

"You're a child!" the younger exclaimed, drawing the curious looks from several of the other members of the Company.

"That explains it."

Bilbo did not like the gleam in Fíli's eye then - having seen it in many of his younger cousins on the Took side of his family - and so, it was with a resigned sigh that he asked, "Explains what?"

"Your height," he teased, "You still have a good few inches in you yet!"

"I am fully grown!" Bilbo protested and he swatted at Fíli's arm, withholding a wince when he struck hard muscle. Folding his arms, he added peevishly, "It's the rest of you, you taller folk- you're deformed."

This drew hearty laughter from a number of the Company, especially Bofur, who concurred loudly with Bilbo's statement and Bilbo felt himself relax at their acceptance.

At least he was beginning to make friends amongst this strange group of travellers.

It was a shame the same could not be said of their leader - Thorin was glaring at him yet again.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes back briefly, allowing himself the flash of pride when Thorin turned away, and then continued to debate with Fíli over whether he was overly tall or Bilbo was overly small. He was quite miffed when the even taller Kíli joined in, overruling him and his defense of his perfectly ordinary height and he huffed.

"Well the best things always come in little packages."

He glared fiercely back at the boys' - because they were, both physically and mentally speaking, less mature than he, so he was going to call them whatever he wished - salacious smirks at his comment and then went off to his earlier seat to finally, finally have his lunch.

He was still hungry after.

This was going to be a long trip.