Recap: Both of the Oakenshield brothers decide that they have had enough of Thorin's general bossiness and give him a slight ultimatum: they will not talk to him until he changes his ways. Bilbo meets Bofur and decides that maybe, just maybe, life in Erebor Palace will be tolerable enough.
CHAPTER 9:
Once, when he was only six years old, Frodo Baggins had gotten himself lost in the woods. Primula and Drogo didn't find him until three days later, half-dead from starvation and dehydration. Not to mention utmost fear at every branch that had creaked and cracked in the dead of night, when poor little Frodo had curled up in a tree roots' hole for the night.
His terror then didn't even compare to the bout of fear he was feeling right now.
Bilbo was trapped in a gloomy castle with a man-eating beast, and here he was: running away from the scene of the crime itself. But, then again, what could he do against King Thorin's huge paws and razor-sharp claws?
Nothing.
He would've been slashed to ribbons first.
Leaning forward against Minty, he wiped salty tears out of his eyes for what seemed like the nth time that day. Or was it night? The dense canopy of trees overhead were too thick for him to even see where they were going, let alone what time it was. It gave Frodo the familiar sense of drowning, the darkness filling in for the murky water that had crossed Frodo's parents' deaths.
"You're not underwater. You're not underwater," he mumbled under his breath repeatedly. Thanks to whatever god that still had mercy on scared shitless teens, Frodo's heart somewhat slowed down, and his mind cleared considerably. Once he realized that he could think rationally again, the gears in his brain began to whir.
On one hand, he could go back and make a fool out of himself. And on the other…
What?
He didn't exactly have a wide arsenal of options. He didn't know the people in town well enough, and his friends' parents weren't exactly the type of people that you could convince to follow you into a dark forest at whatever time it was.
And then, as if a tiny voice had been whispering in his ear all along, the solution to his problem was solved.
"Smaug," he mumbled. Frodo shook his head, trying to clear it of the arrogant hunter's face. No, no, no. He'd rather die first than ask for help from the snottiest person he knew in town.
Well, you should've thought of that before you abandoned your Uncle, another voice whispered in his ear.
Frodo screamed out loud to distract himself, howling Wargs and other unsavory beasts be damned. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't his fault, it wasn't his fault. None of it was. Just like his parents' untimely demises weren't his. He was just thirteen, for crying out loud. He was supposed to be the one who was getting rescued, not the one who did the rescuing.
"But, how? I'm just a kid," he said, even though there was no one around to hear him. It was better to admit it out loud, anyway. In that sense, at least he knew that he had tried his best.
No, you haven't, the same voice mumbled.
"Shut up!" Frodo hissed, batting at his shoulder as if the speaker would magically appear there, wearing a smug smile on his face. As if just by thinking about smirks, preferably ones that reminded him of a certain person whose name started with the letter 'S', Frodo's fists itched.
He closed and unclosed his hands, keeping a steady hold on the reins all the same. His head was pounding, and his stomach was growling. He hadn't had anything to eat in at least twelve hours, and what little sleep he had gotten was obviously not sufficient enough for brainstorming for plans that didn't involve getting Smaug's help.
But, then again, Frodo Baggins had a kind heart. And he loved Bilbo more than anything else in the world, Samwise Gamgee, his best friend, only coming in second.
Bilbo, who had taken him in after his perfect illusion of a perfect world had come crumbling down around him. Bilbo, who had fed him and kept him safe at night when the nightmares had started to become another regularity that he didn't quite look forward to. Bilbo, who had taken great lengths just to keep a roof over his head, despite the fact that he wasn't exactly obliged to. Bilbo, who…
"Alright, alright," Frodo said. "I'll…go to Smaug."
And with a heavy heart, he spurred Myrtle onwards, gritting his teeth at the prospect of meeting what he supposed was the world's greatest idiot.
"Are you sure you saw a man here in the castle, Ori? That seems just as likely to happen as dragons coming back to our valley," Dori scolded, hands on his hips, and looking every bit like the matronly personality that he was known for.
Ori, the lad in question, nodded, cow-brown eyes as big as saucers. He was only twelve, with long brown hair that Dori had insisted on cutting into an ugly bowl-cut do a few weeks ago.
(Ori positively hated it.)
"And what on earth would another human being be doing here? You know very well that villagers stopped coming here when-Well, you know what I mean," Dori finished. His lips were pursed, and strands of his slowly-graying hair were falling into his face, but he merely flicked them away. Such was his concentration when he was grating his younger brother for doing something (Well, in his opinion, anyway) wrong. Or rather, doing something that Nori, the castle's resident thief, had taught him.
Ori huffed noisily and shifted his heavy leather-bound journal to his left hand. It had been a gift from Dorleen, their mother, when he had celebrated his tenth birthday. The last one they had all spent together as a proper family, when Dori was still nice all the time and Nori didn't have to steal to keep them alive and Ori was happy and all of them had still been living in Hobbiton.
That all changed, however, when the boys' parents died mysteriously overseas while working. After that, the young scribe's life had been a massive blur, what with the former mayor evicting them when their money ran out, and having everybody in town ask him whether or not Nori did get the mayor's daughter pregnant (which may have partly been the reason why they had gotten evicted). Not to mention the countless nights they had to spend in the woods with all of the beasts and insects, some of them eating two or three of the pages in Ori's precious journal while all three brothers slumped against each other in a tree root's hole to preserve warmth.
Then, everything had changed when Nori had 'accidentally' wandered into Thorin's castle and stole a silver chalice with his heart set on selling it for a couple of loaves of bread and a small wheel of cheese. Lady Dis, Kili and Fili's mother, was still alive then, and it was she who took pity on the 'Ri brothers and had pleaded with Thorin to give Dori and Nori jobs, and little Ori a home.
Not to mention to finally grant Kili's wish of having somebody closer to his age to play with.
So, they stayed, and Ori had grown up in the castle ever since then. Even when his King had turned into a vicious beast that had the capacity to kill all of them with a single swipe of his razor-sharp talons.
"I don't know exactly why he's here, but," Ori added in a shrill voice when Dori's eyebrows started to disappear into his hairline, "he seemed to be looking for his nephew. I think his name was Frodo? The nephew, I mean. Not the man."
Dori's nose wrinkled.
"It all seems fishy to me, that's what it is," said the elder.
He snatched Ori's journal from his hands and lifted it high above the tween's head.
"But first, young man, you'll have to take a bath if we do have company."
Ori's expression was a wonderful sight to behold.
"Do I have to? I mean, Nori doesn't take a bath every day and you don't force him to," Ori pointed out, hands still grasping for his book. Dori merely rolled his eyes; it was a regular reflex to Ori's overly-used reason. "Nori's turning twenty-one next month. He can do whatever he likes. As for you-Hey! Get back here!"
Dori pounced on his younger brother, but the latter was too quick. In Dori's haste, he had also dropped the journal and Ori had scooped it up with his slender fingers, a cheeky grin on his face.
"Who's the slowpoke now?" Ori teased, dancing away from his brother and towards the kitchen door, where he could lose himself in the castle's massive hallways and find his way into the library where he could hide in peace for a few hours or so in the dusty tomes Thorin had stored in the room.
At least, until Dori found him.
(Which was always within five minutes, no matter how quickly he moved through the library. Bugger.)
"Still you!" replied Dori, letting himself be a child for a minute and sticking his tongue out at his younger brother, before he pounced and knocked Ori to the floor, the journal clattering onto the porcelain tiles and sliding extremely close to the still-hot oven.
"My journal!" cried Ori.
He extricated himself from Dori's grip, which had slackened, and picked the precious book up, scanning the pages for ash and scorch marks. Thankfully, there were none.
"Still good," he said when the elder's face morphed into a questioning expression.
"Well...that's nice to hear. You should really take care of that, you know. I mean, because...you know."
"I do. And I will. I always have."
"I believe you."
Both brothers smiled all melancholy-like at each other, their brains whirring with memories from the past. After a few seconds of this, Dori spoke.
"You still have to take a bath."
"Aw, shoot!"
"...and this is the kitchen!"
Bofur pulled the lever down and flourished his hand as he and Bilbo stepped into the lavish room, the latter's eyes widening at the sight of so much food and utensils to cook said food with.
"I can really come here any time?" he asked, fingers stretched out to feel a sprig of parsley as they passed a vegetable rack. "'Course! This is your home now, ain't it?" Bofur said cheerfully. The minute the words were out of his mouth, Bilbo's face fell.
"Oh. Yes, right. I'm here forever, aren't I?" he said, turning his face to the right and blinking as rapidly as he could so that his tears wouldn't spill out. Bofur, who simply had a radar for emotions, be it sad, happy, or whatnot, tssk!ed and ripped the pocket off his simple clothing for lack of a handkerchief.
"There, there, Master Baggins," he soothed, handing Bilbo the scrap of clothing. He averted his eyes respectfully as Bilbo dabbed and wiped at them. "You'll get used to it. The castle, I mean. It's not so bad, what with it having nice, warm rooms and lots of food and a gigantic library."
The last three words were what caught Bilbo's attention.
"There's a library here?"
Bofur smiled.
"Yes. And I'm pretty sure Thorin would allow you to use it to your heart's content, so long as you asked."
Bilbo's face soured. He tugged a little too hard on a box of ripe tomatoes and the entire lot spilled out. Bofur laughed and helped Bilbo pick the fruits ('botanically speaking', as Dori had always insisted) up. Together, they washed and put the food back into it's proper box, Bofur blabbering away the entire time about Thorin's 'good points', leaving Bilbo no other choice but to listen.
"He's a nice enough chap. Well, once you really get to know him, which might take an awful lot of time if the both of you keep bickering with each other."
The younger man snorted, enjoying the feel of cool water on his fingers. It felt nice after a strenuous trip in the forest, what with Myrtle wanting to pass through every tricky road possible.
"Bofur, I've only been living here for a few hours. Call it a day, even, considering the fact that I don't know what time it is. But, trust me. I could never learn to like a person as bossy as he. Not to mention...horrifying to look at. Not that I'm a judgmental person when it comes to looks. It's just...well...er..."
"Like I said, you'll just have to get used to it," said Bofur, neatly re-stacking five tomatoes into the box and bending down to pick up a stray one.
"I could never get used to it. Besides, I'm positive that Thorin-oh, right! Sorry. King Thorin spends his waking hours- if he even sleeps- holed up in that musty attic of his. The one he'd screamed to me about."
Bofur looked sheepish; his braided pigtails seemed to have wilted.
"Thorin is just a little...protective of that particular place. Everything he values is in there: his books, photographs he likes to look at on his good days, the Arkenstone that also doubles as a magic mirror-Careful!"
"Sorry."
Bilbo righted the plate his wrist had accidentally bumped into, and dried his hands. "Now, what were you saying about a stone and a magic mirror?" Bofur twisted his dishrag in his hands, his lips pouting and un-pouting. "Well, it was kind of supposed to be a secret and something that only us staff knows about, but, alright."
His lips curled once more into a cheeky smile and he strapped the dishrag onto his shoulder. He then hopped up onto the counter and patted the space next to him. Bilbo hesitated for only a few seconds before emulating what Bofur had done, stumbling a little when his bare feet caught on the bottom cabinet's handle.
When he was settled, Bofur began to speak, and Bilbo was drawn into King Thorin's tale.
"It was quite stormy that night. The lights inside this very room kept on flickering on and off, and I had to keep on telling stories so that Ori wouldn't get scared. You'll meet him later," he added, upon seeing Bilbo's confused look as to who this Ori person was. "Anyway, moving on. We were just about sure that the roof was going to collapse on our heads when somebody knocked on the door. Thorin, well, he was bored, I guess. So, he answered the door himself. And this is where the fun part starts."
Bofur rubbed his hands together gleefully. Bilbo's eyebrows only knitted closer together.
"You see, standing on the front step was an old lady. She was really ugly, or so Fili and Kili told me, since they were hanging around Thorin's ankles at the time, the little tykes. They've really loved and viewed him as a father figure ever since they were young, you see? They were, I don't know, about four or five for Kili and nine for Fili when they arrived, along with their mother, Lady Dis? She passed away two years ago, by the way. And yeah, I think I got that bit right about their ages."
"Anyway, when 'it' happened, Kili was nine and Fili was fourteen. In fact, it was the day after Fili's fourteenth birthday, which is really the main reason why a lot of us remember it so well."
He was about to go off on another unrelated tangent, when Bilbo cleared his throat.
"Bofur?"
"Yes?"
"The story? You're going completely off-track."
"Oh, yes. Yes. Thanks."
Bofur cleared his throat and adjusted his two-flapped hat, which was currently balanced on his head, as it oh-so-often was.
"Well, when the door opened, the old crone was standing there, drenched to the bone. Kili and Fili immediately took pity on her, softhearted lads they were even back then, and pleaded with Thorin to let her stay, even if it was only for the night. Thorin, well, being Thorin, demanded what she would give him in return. The boys told me then that the woman produced a single, white stone from out of nowhere. It was as big as Fili's clenched fist, and it shone like a gleaming diamond. Or, so they say, even better than it."
By now, Bilbo's eyes were as huge as stars while Bofur told the tale, weaving words together to bring his audience, in this case, Bilbo, in. His chin was now resting in his hands, which were resting on his lap, even though the bones dug into the soft flesh. Bilbo didn't care. He was far too engrossed in the story to notice that the hairs on his nape were standing up; a telltale sign that he was currently being watched in the very stone the man in front of him was telling him about.
"Then what happened?" he asked, entranced.
"Well, what did you expect?" Bofur countered.
Bilbo bit his lip. Judging from Thorin's fiery personality, it wasn't quite hard to guess.
"He sent her away, didn't he? And she turned out to be a mythical being of some sort?" he answered hesitantly. Bofur's small grin grew and he laughed heartily, throwing his head back and hitting it on the wall behind him in the process, making Bilbo laugh as well. When they had finished chuckling (and finding an ice bag for the lump on poor Bofur's head), he continued.
"Right you are, Master Baggins. As it turned out, she was none other than Lady Galadriel herself, Lady of the Forest and fairest of the Elves of Lothlorien. Fili and Kili ran, but Thorin fell to his knees, begging for mercy. She didn't listen to his pleas, because...how did she put it? Ah, yes: 'You failed to listen to mine. Now, I shall turn a deaf ear to yours'."
"Then, she touched one of the tips of her slender fingers to Thorin's forehead and...well, you know what happened next. He turned-"
"Into the beast he is today," Bilbo finished quietly, eyes fixed on his lap. Suddenly, the lines on his index finger seemed to be so much more interesting than Bofur's dark green eyes, which he had been looking into intently to show how absorbed he was in the story. Apparently, Bofur wasn't finished.
"There's more. According to the lads, Thorin told them about Lady Galadriel's...extra instructions."
"I'm listening. Go on."
"Well, the Arkenstone would only glow for five years. Meaning, the curse ends in less than three months."
For some odd reason, Bilbo felt a twinge of...something.
Guilt? No. He didn't do anything to Thorin. Nothing at all, unless you counted screaming in the beastly King's face that he didn't want to have dinner with him tonight or any day after that.
Remorse? For what? He didn't owe Thorin or his precocious nephews, let alone Lady Galdriel herself, anything.
Pity?
Yes, a tiny voice in Bilbo's head spoke.
He shook his head to get rid of it, and ran a hand through his dark auburn curls, as if by doing so, he could erase the unnerving feeling of...pity directed towards the King.
"So? What's going to happen in three months, then?"
"Well...Lady Galadriel said that, if Thorin didn't find his 'other half', be it a man or a woman-"
"I'm sorry, but did you say 'man'?"
"Yup."
The thought wasn't foreign to Bilbo, what with Smaug courting him and all that, but the thought of Thorin actually sharing his life with somebody else made him want to laugh. Or strangle somebody. Preferably both at once. An errant thread on his shirt fluttered upwards; Bilbo pulled it loose and began to wrap it around his pointer finger, only unwrapping it when it started to feel cold and turn slightly blue.
He was so preoccupied that he didn't notice that Bofur had also turned quiet, and had begun to twist his hat around in his hands, whistling a cheerful tune all the while. It sounded eerily morbid in the quiet, cavernous kitchen, and Bilbo shuddered during every other third or fourth note. Both men jumped when Bilbo's stomach rumbled loudly, the younger of the two looking every bit as embarrassed as he was supposed to be.
"Oops. Sorry. I haven't eaten anything in..." He did a quick headcount. "...twelve hours."
Bofur laughed and squeezed one of Bilbo's shoulders.
"Then, let's get dinner. We're in a kitchen, after all."
He hopped off the sink and began to make his way over to the stove, grabbing a random ingredient whenever he passed by it and putting it elsewhere. That was one thing he liked about Bofur, Bilbo decided: his inability to stay still for too long.
Then, like a light switch being turned on, an idea dinged to life inside Bilbo's head.
"Bofur?"
"Hmmm?"
The air was now filled with the scent of herbs and various spices. Some sort of stew, perhaps?
"You didn't finish your story. What's going to happen to Thorin when the three months are up and he still hasn't found a...partner?" he finished, for lack of a better word. Bofur laughed, only this time, it was mirthless and sort of cold.
"Oh, I'm glad you asked. Well, let's just put it this way:..."
He turned around to face Bilbo, putting the stove to 'Low', before he ran a horizontal finger across the width of his neck while making a screeching noise. Bilbo didn't have to ask what that meant. He shuddered. Even if Thorin was mean and smelly and bossy and...well, everything he wasn't, he thought that nobody deserved to die that way. Such was the incomparable goodness of Bilbo Baggins' large heart.
"Isn't that a bit...harsh?" Bilbo asked in a hesitant voice a few seconds later.
Bofur shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's for the best? Or not. Who knows? And on that happy note, stew's ready! You coming?"
"Yes. Yes, I am."
Thorin growled loudly when the two walked out of the kitchen, laughing like old pals, their hands clutching silverware and bowls full of tomato-and-beef stew.
"He'll dine with a...with a...commoner, but he won't die with me? ARRGGH!"
He tossed the Arkenstone to the side before his other paw flew out, hitting an ancient porcelain vase in the process. Thorin whirled around, raking his talons down King Thror's portrait. He growled, all feral-like and inhuman, spittle frothing from his lips.
When he'd let his anger out, he slumped to the floor in a defeated slump. He hid his face in his hands and moaned.
"It's hopeless," he said, voice gravelly.
Thorin looked into the mirror opposite him and felt truly depressed. Staring right back at him were his own twinkly blues, the only vestige left of whatever handsomeness he had had when he was still...not...this.
He snatched the Arkenstone up again, and said, "Show me the man. I mean, Bilbo. Show me Bilbo." When the jewel refused, he sighed and rubbed a hand across his tired eyes. "Please," he stressed. The Arkenstone glowed almost painfully for a few seconds, then it cleared. There was Bilbo, sitting elbow-to-elbow with Bofur, chuckling heartily to a joke that the miner had probably made.
He looked so...happy and full of life that Thorin nearly smiled himself. Then, he stopped. He'd stopped smiling a long time ago. Four years and nine months ago, to be exact. He threw the Arkenstone to the side and curled into a fetal position on the floor.
"It's hopeless," he repeated. "Who could learn to love somebody like...like...me?"
And for the rest of the night, the beast King stayed like that, thoughts of happier days and his foreboding doom bouncing around inside his mind, the memory of Bilbo Baggins' face pinging around his brain the entire time.
A/N: Oh my gosh! That was probably the hardest (not to mention, longest) chapter I've ever done...or so I think? Never mind! First things first: I am extremely sorry for the lack of updates for, what, a month? Wow. That was pretty long. But, I've got a valid excuse: violin school auditions. Not to mention the massive amount of writer's block that hit me like a tidal wave. Sort of like the Baggenshield wave, but on a lesser scale.
Second, MASSIVE-and I do mean -MASSIVE- amount of support you've shown for the story! You guys are extremely awesome and is dedicated to all of you who followed, favorited, and reviewed 'Bilbo and the Beast'.
Third, I will try to update every week on Friday evenings/Saturdays since I'm now going to boarding school and don't have a laptop. So, yeah.
Hugs and kisses!
P.S.: Shoutout to: yanoe, yuki-hime91, Marigold Gamgee, AndyHood, Charybde, Angel of Change, and Noodles02! You guys are my newest reviewers, and I'd just like to thank you for taking the time to constructively criticize my story! Another shoutout goes to my 'old' reviewers, a.k.a.: Becca, Donna, Saphireanime and 123petmaster. You guys rock!
(Also, this note was written at 3:12 A.M., so please pardon the various mistakes in the story and author's note. I love all of you.)
