Recap: Frodo finally concedes and makes up his mind: he'll go to Smaug to ask for help. Meanwhile, back at the castle, Bofur takes Bilbo on a tour of the entire place. They end up in the kitchen where the former tells the latter all about Thorin's tale, while said topic of the story watches the both of them from the West Wing using the Arkenstone.

CHAPTER 10:

"You're from the village on the outskirts of the forest, right?"

"Hmm? What? Oh, yes, yes, sorry. I'm from Hobbiton, yes."

Dwalin, son of Fundin, rolled his eyes at the little man sitting a few seats down from him and Balin, his elder brother. Unlike the elderly advisor, Dwalin was barely wearing anything, save for Grasper and Keeper's, his two beloved double-blade axes, holders which were still tied firmly to his back. The weight didn't bother him anymore. It was almost as if they were a part of the massive guardsman himself. The fact was halfway true. Nowadays, nobody inside the castle saw Dwalin without Grasper and Keeper anymore, whether they were in his hands or, in regular fashion, slung across his back, giving his shadow the appearance of a menacing angel with jagged wings.

But, then again, Dwalin had always been menacing.

Not to mention, intimidating.

It was part of the deal that had come with his appearance: all muscle and hard-packed fat. The complete opposite of Balin, who had always been the scholarly one, even in their younger years.

"And if I may ask, what did you do for a living?" he continued, his knife carefully cutting his raw steak up. The better to make his body bulky with.

"I was, er, a grocer?"

Bilbo finished the question hesitantly, as if he were somehow ashamed of the profession. His green eyes darted nervously around the table, looking at each chair's occupant (There were thirteen of them at the table, all in all) in turn. Thankfully, none of them laughed or even showed the smallest hint of delight at his job preference.

He let out a little sigh of relief and poked his salad around with the tines of his fork. The rest of the meal passed in uneasy silence. Only Dori broke it from time to time, fussing with the napkin ('bib', as Fili and Kili had christened it) around Ori's neck and forcing him to eat at least one green piece of lettuce.

For Bilbo, the dinner was quite overwhelming as well, having met all twelve of Thorin's staff all at once. Most of them were related to another member of the staff in some way (mostly siblings) and Bilbo tried his best to keep up with their names and faces.

He had already met Kili and Fili, so that part was relatively easy. Bofur had introduced him to Bombur and Bifur, his brother and his cousin, respectively, both of which were a piece of cake to remember, thanks in large part to Bombur being quite...big-boned and Bifur having a small ax embedded in his head (More on that later). Then came Balin and Dwalin.

(Or, as Bilbo had called them in his head, 'the good and the bad'.)

Dori, Nori, and Ori were next. All three were quite pleasant and had kept him company while Bofur cooked some more dinner for the rest of them, having expected them to work on their respective posts a little longer. Bilbo was especially fond of little Ori, who had immediately asked him all about Frodo (nicely, of course) and drawn him an almost-lifelike image of his beloved nephew (He had hugged Ori as tightly as he could after that).

Nori was a thief, but Bilbo didn't have any valuables on him, so the auburn-haired young man mostly left him alone, much to Bilbo's (hidden) delight.

The eldest brother, Dori, regaled him with tales of wines and tea shops that he planned to open once he'd saved up enough money for it.

"I just can't figure out how to do that, yet," he had said, winking at Bilbo conspiratorially.

The last two he had been introduced to were Gloin, the castle's resident treasurer, and Oin, Thorin's private medic and the best doctor for miles, or so Fili and Kili had put it.

They didn't talk to Bilbo much, and only glanced his way whenever they needed him to pass the salt shaker or the butter for the steak. All in all, they were a weird group of men (and in Fili, Kili, and Ori's cases: tween and teenagers) that seemed to have formed a bond over one common item: Thorin.

When Bilbo asked why they were so loyal to him, all of them stared at him like he had suddenly sprouted an extra head. And of all people, it had been Ori who had answered with, "Why wouldn't we, sir? He gave us a home, put a roof over our heads, fed us, and paid us fairly. He still does so up until now and he's quite...fair when it comes down to it. Or, well, he used to be."

At Dori's scolding prod and mutter of "Wait til we're done, mister", the young scribe looked down and never spoke again.

Bilbo was jolted out of his thoughts when a door from somewhere upstairs slammed shut, accompanied by the sounds of claws scraping against porcelain tiles. If it was even possible, Ori and Bombur slumped deeper into their chairs, a feat that was quite impressive for the chubbier man. By the time Thorin reached the bottom of the stairs, the only thing that was visible of Ori was the top of his bowl-cut hair.

Thorin surveyed the room quietly, dark eyes roving around the table until they landed on Bilbo, who was fidgeting with something unseen in his lap. As if Thorin's gaze was a tangible object, Bilbo looked up.

Blue met green and Thorin felt his pulse speed up, though he couldn't state the reason why. Maybe it was something about the way Bilbo's russet curls caught the overhead chandelier's light properly, turning them honey-colored. Or the way his cheeks were a little flushed, what with the intensity of the stare that Thorin was giving him. Or maybe it was how his lips were parted in a neat little 'O', and Thorin couldn't help but think of fitting his own lips to them.

Blood rushed into Thorin's cheeks at the thought, and he gave his head a little shake, clearing it of the incessant thoughts and shook the shaggy black fur that fell into his eyes away.

"Good evening," he greeted in his trademark smooth voice. It was almost like a cat's purr, Bilbo realized, and it sent shivers up his spine as he tried to break their staring match. After a long second, Thorin fixed his gaze upon somebody else and Bilbo felt a hand clamp onto his knee and squeeze.

He inclined his head to the right; Kili was staring at his Uncle as if he were a mere apparition.

"Kili? What's wrong?" Bilbo whispered as quietly as he could. "Uncle never comes down for dinner," the younger Oakenshield prince answered. Bilbo nodded discreetly and reverted his attention to the front, where the King was now talking to Dwalin, who seemed most delighted at the fact that his best friend was talking to him once more. But, he wasn't called strong for nothing. Despite the fact that he wanted to pounce on Thorin and hug him til he couldn't breathe any longer, Dwalin remained in his seat, hands clamped firmly on his eating utensils.

"What are you doing here, Uncle? I thought Bofur had sent your meal up a few hours ago," Fili said.

His tone was still steely and his blue eyes, eyes that were so much like Thorin's, were firmly fixed on a point above his Uncle's head.

(Thorin ignored this.)

"I came to educate our new companion, Mister Baggins, like you suggested earlier, nephew."

"I did?"

"You did."

Fili nodded and went back to his meal. He was too cheerful, though. Almost as if the little conversation he had shared with his Uncle had never happened.

(Thorin ignored this as well.)

"Well, Master Baggins, how are you enjoying your...stay here?"

Bilbo bit his lip and looked back at Thorin. "Alright, thanks," he mumbled. He still felt a slight twinge of bitterness over the whole situation, but he was determined to make the best of it like he had always done when he was younger.

"There are certain rules I want to be obeyed in this castle, Master Baggins, and I would just like you to know about them. First of all, never go near the West Wing. If you do, then-," Here, Thorin smiled, showing of his pointy fangs. "-suffer the consequences."

Bilbo nodded. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Second, you may go anywhere you please. You may enter any room you wish, so long as it isn't the West Wing or the outskirts of the gate."

And so they continued, each rule always stressing the point that the West Wing was forbidden. By this time, Bilbo's eyes had started to droop, for he was tired and weary. All he wanted was his old feather bed and a thick quilt tucked over him.

He was just starting to nod off, when-

CRASH!

"What was that?" he yelped, head snapping back up. He was fully alert now, what with the tremendous noise that had resonated from somewhere. "Easy, Master Baggins. It's only thunder," Balin soothed, rubbing his knee consolingly. Thorin glared at them all, affronted that nobody had even bothered to him prattling on and on about the rules.

"Did you even understand a word I said?" he asked. "Er, well...no," Bilbo answered sheepishly. He rubbed the back of his neck and ran a hand through his mop of russet curls.

Thorin resisted the urge to slap his forehead and groan.

After dinner, Bilbo and the others helped each other clean up the dishes and the leftover bits of food, then retired for the night.

Kili and Fili were still with him in the best sitting room, though, chattering away in a manner that only two brothers who had been close their entire lives could understand. He watched them fondly, feeling his gut stirring at the memory of so many nights spent just like this, only with a different companion.

I wonder how Frodo is doing, he thought sadly. The boy knew how to feed himself, thank God, but what would he do once everything ran out? Starve? Beg on the streets?

No.

He'd go to Mrs. Gamgee first and ask to work for a few pieces of bread. But, judging from the old lady's calm demeanor and gentle personality, she'd probably take him in herself and still keep Bag End, their home, from rotting to the ground.

With a resigned sigh, he slunk deeper into his seat, relieved and thinking that maybe, just maybe, he would enjoy his permanent stay in Thorin's castle.

His ears still filled with the two Oakenshield princes' chatter, Bilbo Baggins fell asleep.

"He had the nerve to reject me. Me, whom girls everywhere fawn over and men turn queer for! Me, who can easily break his little nephew's neck with one simple twist! Me, who could probably spit fire and grow wings if I willed my body to!"

Smaug knocked his tankard back, ale dribbling out of the sides of his mouth and onto his red shirt. The liquid drenched the fabric, making his well-toned body much more defined. At the next table, a girl with blonde hair and brown eyes actually swooned, making Gobbler, Smaug's sidekick, roll his eyes.

Gobbler was a stout man with a chin so large, most people steered clear of him. He had pudgy features, bad hair, and a gross case of acne. In short, he was Smaug's complete opposite. Whereas Smaug had been blessed with good genes, Gobbler had been blessed (or was the more appropriate term 'cursed'?) with ugliness.

"Relax, my good friend, for there are plenty of fish in the sea," said Gobbler, taking a cautious sip out of his own tankard. Smaug glared at him, but Gobbler merely raised one hand up, and waved the barmaid over. "Another of your fine drinks, my lass," he said.

She was pretty, with long, curly caramel-colored hair, and stormy blue eyes, but she ignored his flirting and went straight to Smaug.

"Might I interest you in another pint, sir?" she asked, her voice containing just the perfect amount of shyness and huskiness in it. Smaug took one look at her and smiled. It was a fox's grin, alluring and never to be trusted, but the barmaid took it to be a good sign and slipped a piece of paper into his hand. "I take it you know how to read addresses?" she said.

Smaug smiled and took a long drink before he answered.

"Expect me at ten."

She winked and walked away jauntily, her hips swaying a little too atrociously for a pub. Smaug obviously didn't mind. He liked it whenever the barmaid (whatever the hell her name was) flirted with him, especially in front of Gobbler, who had fancied her ever since her first day.

"Some guys get all the luck," he heard Gobbler mutter and he twisted around to see his 'friend's' sullen expression. "You can go. I have to...attend to other matters," Smaug said. Gobbler nearly dropped his drink in surprise. "What?" he spluttered. "You're willing to blow Rosemary off?"

Smaug stared at him.

"Did I stutter?"

Gobbler shook his head.

"Then, yes. I'm willing. She'll probably be too intoxicated to notice anyway. Just slip out at first light," advised Smaug, who had every intention of going back to Bag End and cricking Frodo's neck into half, lest Bilbo not want to marry him again.

"Are you sure?"

Smaug nodded, and in the light of the dingy pub, his face almost looked...reptilian. Dragon-like, even.

"If you do not stop asking me that question, I'll send somebody else to spend the night with-?"

"Rosemary."

"Yes, that's the one."

The two friends stayed quiet for a moment, Gobbler hardly believing his good luck, and Smaug running over the different ways one could kill a thirteen-year-old child without too much effort and having too big a mess to clean up. He was just about to state his opinion out loud when the pub's front door burst open, and in sprung little Frodo Baggins himself, looking like he had been through hell and back.

"Help! Please, somebody, help me!" he yelled.

All of the villagers froze for a minute, then they started to laugh.

"What's wrong, Frodo? Your uncle finally went bonkers at last?" one of the townsmen said, and Smaug turned to glare at him, silencing him at once. Nobody called his beloved 'bonkers' and got away with it. This man was going to go home with a few bruises tonight. And maybe a few broken bones, as well.

"He's not! And he never will go bonkers! Please, just listen!"

Frodo's blue eyes locked onto Smaug's own orbs, and the hunter raised a perfectly-threaded eyebrow as the teen made his way towards him. The minute Frodo reached him, he took hold of Smaug's lapels and shook him, which in itself was a big feat, considering the bulk of the hunter's body against Frodo's own.

"Get your hands off him!" the swooning girl at the next table said, but Smaug raised a hand, and the entire pub, including the girl, fell silent. "Would you mind releasing my shirt, Frodo?" the hunter requested in a calm, but steely tone. Frodo shook his head and stared at Smaug defiantly.

"Well, then, if you won't let me go, would you at least tell me why you are here?"

"Not until you promise to help me."

"How can I promise to help you if I don't know what it is you're talking about?"

"Just do it, you insufferable oaf!"

Everybody in the pub stiffened. "Why you little sh-" Gobbler began, but Smaug glared at him as well, and the ugly man leaned back into his seat once more. "Frodo. Realise me. Now," Smaug demanded. Frodo stared stubbornly into his eyes for a second longer before his hold on Smaug relaxed, his fingers audibly cracking as they were stretched once more.

"Do you promise to listen to me?" he asked.

His eyes were rimmed with red, like he had just stopped crying, and Smaug resisted the urge to laugh.

"I promise."

"It involves Uncle Bilbo, you see, so I hope you're sincere."

At the mention of his intended-to-be partner, Smaug stood up just a little bit straighter.

"What about Bilbo?"

Frodo grinned slyly, though to somebody who knew him better, it was forced.

"That got your attention. Now, listen carefully. We've only got a little time left."

And without another moment's hesitation, Frodo told his tale. When he had finished, everybody was simply staring at him with their mouths hanging open. All throughout, nobody had dared to interrupt the teen. All of them had been listening with the utmost attention, rapture, and delight. After all, who would've thought that Frodo Baggins, of all people, had such a vivid imagination?

"Frodo," Smaug said, barely concealing his fox-like grin. "Is this story true?"

The thirteen-year-old nodded. "Yes, yes! And do you believe me?" he prodded. Smaug nodded and put an arm around Frodo's shoulders. He then began to walk around, Frodo in tow, exchanging gleeful looks with the other villagers. The poor lad had clearly lost his mind, which only gave Smaug more reason to, well, do whatever he pleased with the boy without Bilbo getting mad.

"Of course, I do, young Master Baggins!"

Frodo's nose wrinkled.

"You do?"

"Yes, yes. Come now, and be on your way."

The crinkles on Frodo's brow deepened.

"Shouldn't there be a 'we' in that sentence somewhere?" he asked. Smaug shook his head. "Nope," he answered, popping the 'p'. "Just you."

Without further ado, he pushed Frodo out into the cold, making the poor teen land face-first in a pile of slushy mud. Overhead, the rain poured down in messy torrents, making Frodo's black-as-coal hair fall into his face even more. He shook it out of his eyes and dashed back to the door, where Smaug shut it in his face the minute he came too close.

"Open this door! Open this door!" Frodo demanded, pounding on the door with his fists. Already, the skin of his pinkies were starting to break, and soon, the pub's white door was a little stained with red blood. Frodo didn't mind the sting; it was the raucous laughter from the inside of the pub that hurt. Now, everybody thought he was mad, and he probably was, judging from the plan he'd developed.

"I was panicking. I was panicking," he told himself when he gave up trying to get Smaug to open the door. "I was panicking, and this was the first thing I thought of doing. Give me a break."

He pounded on the door one last time and turned around, his feet subconsciously taking him home to Bag End. His cloak slumped uselessly to one side, and it did very little to keep the bitter chill out. Frodo stuck his frozen hands underneath his armpits, trying his best to stay warm and keep his brain whirring for ideas.

Once he reached their house, he pushed the front door open, for it had been left unlocked in Bilbo's haste to look for him. He dragged himself to his Uncle's bedroom and collapsed on the bed, breathing in Bilbo's familiar scent, which mostly consisted of spices.

Rosemary. Oregano. Thyme. Basil. A hundred others Frodo couldn't identify.

Uncle would've known them all, he thought miserably.

And then, it all came crashing down on him: Bilbo was gone and nobody was going to help get him back.

Tears began to leak from Frodo's eyes and onto the duvet. He tried to stop the flow, to prevent the saltwater from washing the homey smell away, but he couldn't. The best he could do was to curl into the fetal position and cry himself out.

How could one day that was oh-so-full of promise and laughter turn into this?

That night, while as Bilbo Baggins fell asleep peacefully, Frodo Baggins wept, and when he finally crossed into unconsciousness, the taste of salt was on his lips and tear tracks were still etched on his cheeks, like thin streams of misery for having lost somebody that was so important to him.