How long has it been this time? Well, I was ill, and before that I was busy (poor choice of word, but you get the gist), and before that I was ill and busy.

Please NO sympathy. Anyone who's stupid enough to repeatedly deny that they're rapidly becoming feverish, and go and seek help – especially the second time round when they know exactly what all the symptoms are – probably deserves to spend several days lying on the nearest surface they can find moaning. Apparently I only admit I'm not well once I've collapsed in public. And that rather spoils the point of the whole trying-not-to-inconvenience-anyone thing.

Anyway, after that there were serious amounts of mountains, ancient tombs and settlements, lakeside jollities, camping, boats, frequent attacks by the native insect population, and more mountains. It's hard to write about something when you're out doing it. No dragons, alas/huzzah!

I think someone suggested this a while back. It's dedicated to you (yes, you) and to all those of you who sent me all the encouraging reviews that set me on the writing path once again!

Table manners

It's the first truly decent meal - well, not to be harsh on Bombur's cooking, but it's not just stew and there's a table – yes, his first decent meal in ages, and yet Bilbo finds there's something stopping him from eating.

It hadn't mattered so much on the road when they were all eating out of wooden bowls and a stream was all they had to wash in. And what with all the hospitality and everything, the fine dishes… They even had napkins now, napkins, and yet the only person he can see using one apart from himself is Bifur, and he's using it as a handkerchief. And as for the way they eat their food, and the way they spoon it sloppily onto their plates, and the way they loudly mutter about how strange it tastes, not like proper food, and the way they laugh raucously at inappropriate (for the present company) jokes and throw food at one another…

Bilbo Baggins, host of a hundred parties and guest of a thousand more, makes a resolution. He is going to teach the dwarves table manners.

Now, where to start?

Bilbo carefully selects a silver-embossed fork, a fine example of Rivendell craftsmanship, and waves it in front of Bofur's nose. "Do you ever make these in your forges?"

"Nah. Not much use to them, really."

"You use them to pick up food with. Like this."

"Ah, but you see, I use a knife to pick up my food. Like this." Bofur delicately stabs a lettuce leaf with the tip of the blade.

"Here, can I try using that?" The fork disappears out of Bilbo's hand and into Nori's.

"But you can't use a knife. Not to stick it in your mouth like that."

"Well, I've been doing it since I was a lad and last time I checked I still had a tongue, so-"*

Bilbo tries again, "But what do you use to hold the food down while you stab it?"

Gloín looks at Bilbo with consternation. "Do hobbits eat their food alive?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I meant - oh, look, here." Bilbo picks up his knife and looks around for his fork. It's no longer in Nori's hands, but it doesn't appear to be anywhere else either. Bilbo huffs in irritation – he had never considered that teaching the dwarves how to behave like respectable guests might stretch to reminding them not to steal the silver, if that is indeed what has happened. He picks up Bofur's unused fork instead and proceeds to demonstrate the correct use of cutlery, just as his mother had taught him.

"Surely you could just use your hand. Or another knife."

Bilbo is about to open his mouth to explain about how neither of these methods is really considered acceptable in respectable circles, but the dwarves have already started experimenting with using two knives to eat their dinner. He can't tell if it's better than just using their fingers or worse, and so decides to turn to more pressing issues.

"I think they're talking about us," Ori hisses from across the table. The young dwarf has not been much of a concern so far. At some point during the recent conversation someone – probably Dori – has festooned his neck with a napkin, but since Ori has so far been largely occupied with pushing his food around his plate (whilst holding the wrong fork in the wrong hand, Bilbo notices) it has seen little use as yet.

"Who?" Bilbo whisper back.

"The elves."

It is true that most of the conversations around them are happening in Sindarin. Or at least, Bilbo assumes it's Sindarin. He doesn't know enough of it to be able to tell.

"Sneaky," mutters Gloín.

"You can't say that," Bilbo whispers, outraged. "They might hear you!"

Gloín mutters something considerably longer and louder in another language Bilbo doesn't understand, one which produces guffaws from Bofur, Dwalin and Nori.

Bilbo clears his throat loudly, hoping to redirect the topic of conversation, and when that fails to work, asks, "Can I have the butter, please." He barely gets as far as the 'please' before the butter has arrived from the other end of the table, although at a rather higher velocity than he had anticipated. "Right-"

"They're in high spirits, lad."

"But haven't any of you heard of table manners? We're guests, we should be trying to be polite-"

"It's not as though they're going to say anything," Bofur points out calmly.

"Aren't they?" Ori sounds relieved.

"They might if we push them far enough," Nori considers.

Bofur shakes his head, "They're too above themselves to do that. Whatever we do, the most they'll do is stare at the wall and pretend we aren't there."

Bilbo sincerely hopes the elves aren't actually listening.

"Are you prepared to lay down money on that one?"

They are, because dwarves always are. Bilbo shrinks into his seat and wonders how his good intentions could have gone so terribly awry.

The butter isn't the half of it. Both dwarves set out to prove their hypothesis in their own way and the others join in readily. Bofur and Bombur resume what appears to be a long-running semi-game, semi-competition based around Bombur's ability to catch flying foodstuffs in his mouth, a concept which is enthusiastically seized upon by several of those seated at the far end of the table. Meanwhile, Nori somehow prods his younger brother into a rowdy clashing of cutlery, a mock conflict which soon becomes two against one as Dori steps in to intervene by evening the odds. Gloín amuses himself by making loud comments in Khuzdul to his deaf brother, repeating them louder and more emphatically as Oín happily claims not to have heard.

Bilbo looks furtively around. The only person showing them any heed is Thorin, who seems torn between disapproval and possibly laughter. Gandalf gives him a glance, unreadable as ever. The elves, on the other hand, serve them as impassively as ever, although Bilbo thinks he may have detected a slight increase in the volume of the flute. It sounds a tad more strained than before.

"Why don't you try and prove them wrong for a change instead!" he hisses across the table. Unsurprisingly, his words go unheard and unheeded.

"This music is as dry as old bones," Bofur declares, having run out of ammunition within easy reach. "What say you to a livelier tune?"

Gloín pounds his fist on the table. "Song!"

"Do the one about the blacksmith," Nori suggests.

"No!" Dori leans over immediately, ready at any moment to cover Ori's ears, even as he protests, "But I like the blacksmith one-"

"Sing the one about Thorin!" Kíli shouts from the far end. ** Thorin stands up rather suddenly, as though about to head in their direction, so Bofur shifts key and launches into…

It's a version of a drinking song Bilbo knows from the Green Dragon. But he doesn't join in. Already closer to the ground than the other guests, he sinks lower and lower into his seat, contemplating hiding his reddening face under the table which Bofur is currently stamping on. He clutches feebly at the thought that it could, theoretically, be worse. It isn't the song about Thorin, and it isn't the song about the blacksmith, whatever that is. But Bilbo is still painfully aware that this isn't a rowdy tavern - or at least it isn't supposed to be. This is The Last Homely House, the hall of elven lords, elven lords who are no doubt even now considering the company, himself included, to be an ill-mannered, drunken crew of vagabonds.

The fine rendition finishes with a round of enthusiastic applause and hollers from the dwarves, and a reserved, quietly disapproving silence from the rest of the room. Gandalf claps absent-mindedly.

Bilbo looks down at his plate and its half-eaten third helpings. "I'm going to bed," he announces. "Very tired, after all that trouble getting here, a full meal and so on… Well, it's all quite wearing, I have to say. So I'm off."

Ori looks over at his plate as well. "Are you alright? You look rather pink."

"Perfectly fine. Just a little overtired, that's all." Hurriedly, Bilbo makes his exit from the party and its associated embarrassments.

"Some table manners," Dori tuts. "He didn't ever ask to be excused!"

* A perfectly good method which lasted for hundreds of years before the Italians came along with their fancy fork-things.

** I was trying to think of an apt Tolkien song to reference, then I thought 'heck, I'll just use mine'.

I wrote a thing! Look, it's a thing, and I wrote it! It only took about three months!

If you have any ideas for more things I might write... well you know what to do. If it stays sunny and I stay inspired there is potential for me to write more things. Ponder that if you will.