Written for This Prompt: Thorin is the ringleader of family-owned circus, The Company. Watch Dwalin eat swords! Nori is an equestrian of special magnificence! Fíli throws knives and puts his life in his brother's hands by becoming archery practice! Bifur, who speaks only in garbled Russian, trains bears! Ori has a mesmerizing magic act. Dori is the strongest man alive. Óin tells fortunes. Glóin and his son Gimli are flyers. Bombur has a daredevil cannonball act to shock all audiences, and Bofur is the world's most beloved silent clown. When Balin, the popular fire-eater, decides to retire and become their tour manager, they need another great act to fill in what they've lost. Enter Bilbo Baggins, a tightrope acrobat who had long since given up on his old dream, enlisted by circus owner Gandalf. Thorin doesn't believe this well-mannered townie can make it in their group. Can Bilbo prove him wrong?

Author's Note: May I confess how much joy it gave me when, in the extended edition of The Desolation of Smaug, Gandalf calls the dwarves a "happy troupe" and Beorn asks if they were a traveling circus?

THE COMPANY
Swiss Army Knife

CHAPTER ONE:
It's a Dangerous Business, Going Out Your Door

It was the smell that hit Bilbo first, taking him back a thousand years. His hand, much smaller then, was held fast in his father's sweating palm, and all around him were the dizzying sights of the midway: lights in colorful lines, the teeny sound of a distant carousel, sizzling funnel cakes, and fat, buttery kernels of popcorn dancing in the pan. His first circus. Now, as he stood in the rutted path before the main tent, the great stripes filled his vision until every other object was eclipsed and all that remained were those scents and sounds echoing from a distant past.

He was so absorbed in his memories that the hand that clasped his shoulder startled him, and he had to apologize to his host. "Never you worry," the man assured him with an indulgent chuckle, though he maintained his oddly insistent grip as he drew Bilbo down the road. "You seemed a bit distracted by the hustle and bustle. Has it been a long time?"

"It seems like a lifetime," Bilbo admitted, lengthening his stride to keep pace with the circus owner as they hurried along. "Perhaps twenty years or more. Not since – well, not since my parents last brought me."

He received a knowing look from a pale, keen eye, which made Bilbo uncomfortable. Not for the first time, either. This Gandalf fellow had shown up on his doorstep out of nowhere, just when he was at his lowest point. The job offer was both unsolicited and – though they were hardly strong enough words for it – profoundly unexpected. Yet in the very moment he opened his mouth to shout, "Away with you!" a peculiar itch had started somewhere down in his toes and worked its way up into his chest. It had stopped him just long enough for Gandalf to push his way inside, and before Bilbo knew what was happening, he was sitting in his own armchair with a steaming cup of tea, listening to a stranger prate away about an opening he had for a position in his circus – a position that he very much wanted Bilbo to fill.

"But how did you even know to come here?" Bilbo had never advertised his skills. In fact, very few people knew he possessed them. It had been years and years since he had even… And a circus!

"My dear Bilbo," Gandalf had said, leaning forward so that he could fold his hands over his knees and look the younger man directly in the eye. "Don't you think that it's time you joined in an adventure?"

Those terrifying words had been the last Bilbo clearly remembered; the rest was a haze. It wasn't until he woke the next morning out of an extremely troubled sleep that he found a note sitting on his dresser with the following words in an unfamiliar, whimsical scrawl: St. Joseph's Free Lots, 428 Mill Road, 7:30 A.M. The Company. Beneath it had been a glossy pamphlet embossed with the familiar shape of the big top, although rather than the usual showy colors, this tent was black with bronze stripes. Inside, he found the following introduction: 'The House of Durin presents the last dwarrow circus among the free peoples, a spectacle beyond imagination.' To Bilbo it sounded a bit over-proud, yet he still read the bill of performers. A bear tamer, a trapeze act, a magician, a fire-eater, and so it went, like a chapter out of one of his mother's tales.

Bilbo had never intended to keep the appointment, if appointment it truly was, yet somehow he found himself thrusting a crumpled set of practice clothes into a bag and turning the key to his door. He took the bus to the outskirts of town where – sure enough – an army of workers was almost finished bringing a circus into being. He'd barely taken his foot off the stair before Gandalf appeared, and now here he was, standing outside a trailer with the circus emblem emblazoned alongside.

Gandalf ushered him up the steps. "Courage, now, my friend."

Inside the trailer, a fan was going. It's gentle whump, whump filled the narrow space, which housed two desks, several filing cabinets, and what appeared to be a mountain of loose paper, stacked and topped with a piece of brick. Sitting at the nearest desk was a stout older gentleman with the longest beard Bilbo had ever seen. Stark white, it cascaded down the front of his fine velvet vest and lay moving gently over his belly as he breathed. When the man looked up, it was through wire spectacles.

"Oh, Gandalf!" he said, standing with a groan. "These old knees! I'm not the sprightly youngster I used to be, I'm afraid." Peering at Bilbo with open curiosity, he removed his glasses and laid them on the ledger he'd been reading. "Who's this, then?"

A hand in the middle of his back propelled Bilbo forward, and Gandalf introduced them. "This, my dear Balin, is Bilbo Baggins, the highwire artist I spoke to you about. I think he may be exactly what The Company is looking for."

Bilbo was fairly gifted at reading people, a skill that had served him well in the turbulent household of his adolescence. He saw Balin's eyebrows plunge downward, his expression changing into a slight frown. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, faded with age but neatly embroidered. He brushed it over his forehead, affecting a nervous chuckle. "Quite hot today, isn't it?"

"Balin," Gandalf said with a note of warning, and to Bilbo he seemed to loom as his tone lowered. "We've been over this; in fact, we've been over it several times. The Company cannot go on as before. Whatever will you do without another attraction for the second act? Glóin and young Gimli are exceptional performers, but they've been our sole aerialists for too long."

Balin took a step back, seating himself against the edge of the desk. "I know, Gandalf, and I agree with you, but it isn't easy to convince him. You know how he feels about bringing outsiders into the troupe." He looked then at Bilbo, who had the keenest sense of being under a spotlight.

"So-so, you're not looking for someone?"

Gandalf shot him a censorious look. "You are exactly where you're meant to be, Bilbo Baggins," he said and turned back to Balin. "Thorin is going to have to relent this untenable position of his. We need more than just performers. We've barely managed to get everything assembled with so few roustabouts."

With more haste than seemed characteristic for his calm demeanor, Balin fumbled his words. "We've managed. Most of the experienced hands have stayed on, and with the performers pitching in –"

"No, it will not do." Gandalf shook his head gravely, and once again Bilbo had the sense that a great deal more was being communicated than he understood. "Balin, I understand Thorin's feelings, I really do, but you know as well as I do that things are not well."

Balin exhaled deep in his chest, offering Bilbo a strained smile. "I have the contract ready to be signed. Your signature is all we need, and then you'll be with us for the season."

From the moment he opened his door the previous evening, Bilbo had felt as though the ground were flying out from under him. Words came floating back, though from where exactly he did not know: 'It's a dangerous business, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.' Now as he held his small bag in front of him like a shield, he felt as though he'd been swept away. Stammering, he tried to protest. "Join for the season? Now wait, I just came to make inquires. I don't know if I'm interested in taking employment. I barely know who you are."

Both men were smiling now, and Balin spread his arm. On the wall was a large poster, from which the face of a stranger smoldered with eyes like deep, turbulent waters. The dark hair and beard were cut in dramatic style, and a satin top hat was perched on his head. Around this visage were smaller silhouettes, sometimes colorful and others in shadow. Flyers and equestrians, a child with a bow, and the tangled, fierce form of a black bear. In golden letters, it boldly proclaimed THE COMPANY in a stark, runic style.

"The Company," Balin said, "are descended from one of the ancestral families of circus performers, the Durins. I'm certain you've heard of them."

Another memory, this one of his mother's voice by his bedside, telling him stories of feats that almost seemed impossible, performed by people who were half real, half imagined. In one of these stories, he had heard that name. "The Durins," he spoke, uncertain. "They were dwarves, or claimed they were. But they died out." He stopped when he saw the pallor of Balin's face.

Gandalf cleared his throat. "Many of Durin's folk were lost, and of those who survived, most left the traveling life and settled where they could in Europe. Only a few have stayed together and kept up the tradition."

Balin shook his head. "We're a small family concern now, but we still have the pride and talent of our forbearers, and we've been doing fairly well for ourselves, too."

"Yes, you have," Gandalf said, "but you have been subsisting quite long enough. It's time for greater things. Now, where is that contract?"

It was at that moment that heavy steps were heard outside the trailer, and the door jolted open on its hinges. Through it, a closely-shorn head appeared, and Bilbo found himself staring into the same eyes as those on the poster, though in person the force of them was doubled. He had begun speaking – "Balin, have you found" – but the moment he saw Gandalf he stopped. His gaze moved to Bilbo, standing meekly beside the desk, and his scowl intensified. Bilbo felt the hairs on his arms and neck stand up. Without another word the door slammed shut, and those who remained could hear angry steps moving further away until they were lost in the general din of the outside world.

Gandalf took a long breath, his eyes closing. "That," he said, "was our esteemed ringmaster, Thorin Oakenshield, the director of The Company. As usual, he makes an unimpeachable first impression."

Looking older than before, Balin sat down in one of the office chairs. "Well, that's it than. He won't have it."

"He will have it," Gandalf said, looking quarrelsome. "Balin, you show Bilbo where he'll be staying. He'll need to be introduced around as well, and perhaps given a chance to demonstrate his abilities. In the meantime, I will speak with Thorin." He turned, placed an elegant grey fedora onto his head, and stepped out into the sunlight.

Bilbo felt a squeak rise up in his throat, and he plunged out the door. "Gandalf!"

Gandalf stopped, looking at the red-faced man beside him. The determined expression he'd been wearing grew milder, and he gazed at Bilbo with firm but kind complacency. "Never fear, Bilbo Baggins. This is the path that was always meant for you, and I know you'll bear up well under it."

"H-how?" It was the question that had been banging alongside his heart since the moment this man said that magical word from out of his long-dead dreams – Circus.

Gandalf nodded. "I thought you might get around to asking, but never fear; I'm no wizard. As it happens, I was a friend of your mother long ago when she, too, enjoyed this life. And though she laid it down to raise you, it was always her wish that you might have a chance to decide for yourself. Now you can, and you shall."

Balin made his way down the stairs and put a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "I'll take him from here."

"Thank you," Gandalf said, and in the blink of an eye he was gone. Bilbo searched the crowds fruitlessly, but he had vanished like a wisp of smoke. Bilbo was left with Balin, whose crimson vestment was even more unusual in the full lighting. The material was thick and brocaded, and wooden toggles hung in front. His beard was more striking, too – so white and well groomed that it floated like a cloud.

Balin caught him looking and winked. "Family tradition," he said. "We have plenty of those around here, but you'll get used to them presently. Come with me."

He led Bilbo through the line of midway tents being erected, then along the side of the main tent to the back lot where the crew lived. He pointed to the nearest trailers. "That's where the performers live. You'll likely be placed with the lads, since they have an extra bunk, but we'll have to wait and see." There was a faint wrinkling around his eyes, just enough to make him seem uneasy for a moment, and then he swept onward. "Further out are the trailers of the crew, the animals handlers and roustabouts. Most of them have been with us for a long time now, distant relations or very old friends."

Bilbo peered down the slope. Nearby he heard a horse whinny, and he could smell them now that they were behind the big top. He could also see rows of picnic tables being set out, and another fragrance, this one savory and good, wafted to his sensitive nose. "I suppose you have everything you need here."

"Most everything," Balin agreed. "We prefer to be self-sufficient rather than depend too much on the town. We're not quite a mud circus, but we do move quite often these days, and it's easier to have what we need with us."

They moved to an opening in the canvas, and in a breath they were inside, enveloped in the massive, cavernous space of the main tent. Several rings were already in position, as was the barrier, and in one of the side areas, some of the performers could been seen working.

"Out of the way, if you please," called a voice from behind, and Bilbo shuffled to the side to let a man with hair bound in silver clasps pass him, carrying a box on one shoulder. The box was easily as large as Bilbo himself and looked heavy, but the man carried it without strain. Bilbo watched as the man moved away, unable to suppress his awe.

Balin said, "That's Dori, billed as the strongest man alive. Actually, he's quite a gentleman; very fond of tea and conversation. Just don't get him started on wine tasting unless you have a few hours." He pointed. "And over there is his brother, Nori."

Bilbo turned his head just in time to watch as a robust fellow wearing Turkish trousers readied himself on a platform and then stepped neatly onto the back of a galloping horse, which carried him, still standing, around the ring at startling speed. Nori called encouragement to the animal, who turned at his command, dancing around several obstacles. A youth with much the same color of ginger hair waved from the side. "You've got it, Nori. Do you want me to start the music?"

"The youngster is Ori," Balin said. "He puts on a magic show that dazzles the senses, almost too amazing to be true."

"They're brothers?"

"Yes, and not the only ones, either. They're cousins of mine, actually, though don't ask me to explain the relations. As I said, we're a family operation – ten acts in total, or at least we had. If you look there, you'll see some of the others. That bushy-bearded fellow leaving the tent is Bifur, who handles our bears, and that fellow laughing beside him is Bofur, our head clown."

A familiar shout overhead caught his attention, and Bilbo felt his hairs stand on end for the second time that day. Slowly, he lifted his chin and saw two people moving, testing the lines and spires of the aerialists' nest. As he watched, a sturdy boy with even redder hair than Ori leapt, performing the most beautiful somersault that Bilbo had seen in many years. He fell right into the hands of his catcher, a man who laughed deep in his belly with satisfaction. They made a few mesmerizing passes before the child let go and tumbled safely into the net, where he rolled casually to the side and so onto the floor.

He shouted, "Just a bit higher, Dad," and then walked to where the ladder ascended.

Bilbo stared. "They're the flyers."

"Glóin and his son," Balin said, nodding toward them. "Gimli has been with the circus his entire life, although this will be his first season working full time. He's just twelve now. A bit late, but Glóin is the protective sort. Didn't want to pressure the boy too soon."

Gimli had launched himself once more into the air, having made whatever adjustments he felt necessary, and as he watched, Bilbo became aware of a peculiar ache in his heart. He cleared his throat. "My mother was a aerialist," he said. "Cloud swing, trapeze, and high wire."

"I understand you're quite the acrobat yourself." Balin glanced at the bag hanging from Bilbo's hand. "We've got most of the equipment up. You'll have to show us, once you've had a chance to check everything."

"It's been years since I did more than practice," Bilbo heard himself murmur. "I don't even know if I can do it anymore."

Though he had spoken so quietly, it was clear that Balin heard him. "I have faith in Gandalf's judgment. He wouldn't have recruited you if you weren't capable."

To avoid the subject, Bilbo asked, "Is there anything else you want me to see?"

Balin took him by the arm and lead him back outside. Behind the tent were several smaller ones, along with corrals for the animals. Bilbo heard the distinct bellow of an elephant, even louder than the bustle of several individuals who moved around, carrying loads or going about their chores. One of these men stopped when he spotted them and stared from under heavy eyebrows. His bald pate was covered with tattoos unlike anything Bilbo had ever seen, and in combination with his dark mustache and beard, he looked quite threatening. Balin, seeing Bilbo's reaction, chuckled. "That would be Dwalin. Along with myself, he's been with The Company longer than any other, and he's devoted to Thorin. You may find him a bit slow to warm up, but he has a good and loyal heart."

"He looks like he wants to pick me up and throw me across the yard."

In the distance, Dwalin adjusted the load he was carrying on his shoulder, which appeared to be a rolled Persian rug. A glint of metal shown at one end as he did so. "Nonsense," Balin said. "Well, he does juggle, but mostly swords and flaming torches."

With these not-so-reassuring words, the two continued onward. There was a platform on one end of an empty stretch of earth. Opposite this area was a board painted with targets. Their bands were faded and pitted with use, and a few arrows could be seen protruding haphazardly, demonstrating indifferent skill. Balin tutted. "Kíli! Are you practicing or just slacking off this day?"

It was then Bilbo saw the platform wasn't empty. He hadn't noticed because its occupant, a lanky youth wearing a black hoodie and some of the raggediest jeans Bilbo had ever seen, was lounging on his back, a magazine covering his face. He jerked when he heard his name, and when the magazine was thrust aside, it revealed a boyish face, all dark eyes and chaotic brunette hair. He seemed to be trying to grow a beard, but his attempts had yielded a patchy stubble, no more.

He looked furtively around for something which apparently he did not see because his shoulders slumped in relief. "Oh, Balin. I was just taking a break."

"At eight in the morning? You're the son of laziness, laddie," Balin called back. "Better not let your uncle see, or he'll accuse you of getting rusty."

Huffing, the young man rolled onto his knees and took up the bow that had been sitting beside him. It was shorter than Bilbo was used to seeing, with curved lines. Drawing it back, Kíli fired three quick shots, so swift that Bilbo couldn't see their path until – thunk, thunk, thunk – they went home. Unlike earlier attempts, they found their seat in the heart of the smallest target, almost on top of one another. Kíli dropped back onto his bottom, yawned, and picked up an apple. He bit into it noisily. "Not rusty," he said.

Balin laughed. "Well, your brother, at least, will be glad of that. By the way, I'd like you to meet someone."

Hoping down from the platform, the young man approached. He extended his hand, and Bilbo was charmed by his handsome appearance; that is, until Kíli opened his mouth. "You're short," he said. "Shorter even than Fíli, and that's a feat. You aren't joining as a roustabout, are you?"

Indignant, Bilbo straightened to his full one hundred and seventy centimeters. "I'll have you know that I am a tolerable height compared to most."

Kíli, who was apparently not very well versed in the etiquette of personal space, stepped chest to chest with him, measuring with a hand. "Quite short," he said. He gave Bilbo a firm poke in the shoulder, forcing him back a pace. "And light, too. Not very good for that kind of work."

Balin gave Kíli a reproachful look. "Now then, show some manners. Bilbo, this is Kíli, an archer par excellence, though his head could stand to be a bit smaller." This he said with a pointed look at Kíli, who was making a show of polishing his nails, his posture deliberately cocky. "Kíli, this is Bilbo Baggins. Mister Gandalf has recruited him as an attraction to fill in the second act. He's a tightrope walker."

If Bilbo hadn't been watching carefully, he might not have noticed the look of surprise that flew across Kíli's face, as it was quickly overcome by frank curiosity. He looked the newcomer up and down, this time with purpose. "A new act, eh? Does Uncle know about this?"

"Never mind Thorin," Balin said. "Gandalf is speaking with him. He vetted Mister Baggins, and he has decided to offer him a contract for the season. I'm just showing him around. We ran into most of the others already. Though I don't suppose you've seen Óin or your brother."

Another of those minute expression changes. This one was a shift to uneasiness, not unlike Balin's when Gandalf put his foot down in the trailer about Bilbo's contract. Kíli nodded. "Óin is directing the setup of the midway. As for Fíli," – and there it was again, that strange hesitation – "you know how he is during the haul."

"I see," Balin answered, as though this wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear. "Alright then."

Kíli raised his hand in farewell as they turned to leave. "Good luck, Mister Boggins."

As they were walking away, Bilbo asked, "What was that about?"

The older man didn't turn his head. "What do you mean, laddie? I know our Kíli doesn't have the prettiest manners, though, goodness, we did try. No, mostly he's just a young scamp, with the usual virtues and vices."

"That's not what I meant," Bilbo said, who hadn't been able to help liking Kíli. Bilbo himself had been a somber and introverted child during his teenage years, but the brash energy Kíli exuded hadn't failed in its appeal. No, it had not been Kíli's manners. In an attempt at levity, he commented, "Kíli and Fíli, eh?"

Balin's mouth twisted, an expression that was something between a grimace and a grin. "Aye, Fíli and Kíli. They're brothers, and they were raised in the business. Thorin is their uncle."

The memory of the smoldering gentleman who'd barged into the trailer appeared in Bilbo's mind. "Ah. I see. Are their parents also performers?"

Balin's shoulders turned downward. "They were. Both of them have left us, now. But that was long ago. The boys barely remember."

Bilbo swallowed around the knot in his throat, sorry he'd brought up the topic. He knew how the loss of a parent could change the landscape of the world, though if that frightening man was their uncle then perhaps it was fortunate they lived in such a communal environment. No doubt they had plenty of surrogate family here. At least, that's what his mother had always lead him to believe about the circus. "I haven't met Fíli," he said when he found his voice again.

Balin inclined his head. "You're in luck, then. That's him there, between those cages."

Down an incline, amongst the outbuildings, Bilbo could see a figure moving. Like Kíli, his hair was longish and pulled back; however, unlike his brother's, it was fair. From this distance, Bilbo couldn't make out much more about him. "Does he also do archery?"

"Fíli? Well, no. He's an acrobat and does a weapons exhibition with Kíli. They're really quite something together."

As though summoned by the sound of his name, Fíli turned. His face was a beige oval from this distance, but he looked directly at them, and something about him made Bilbo's heart squeeze. "He seems sad."

Balin gave him a hard look. "Fíli tends to keep to himself. Best you leave him be." The tension broke, and Balin's expression softened. "Now, I think it's time you had a look at your equipment, don't you think?"

In another part of the camp, a conversation was taking place between two very strong-tempered men, both of whom were used to having their own way. One of them was Gandalf, whose conviction was backed up by the majority stake he had in The Company's interests. Thorin, on the other hand, was the circus' natural leader, a patriarch and blood relative of Durin's house, heir to both its legacy and it tragedy. Not that its legacy amounted to much at the moment, a fact that Gandalf didn't hesitate to point out, much to Thorin's chagrin.

"For years I've heard countless tales of the old ways, of the performances of your forefathers, of your splendid traditions. A shame that you've let yourself become so insulated that you won't even consider what would do you a world of good."

Thorin stopped grappling with the lid of the crate he'd been feigning to unload. He jabbed his finger at Gandalf. "You speak as though you care what happens to The Company, and yet you ignore my wishes. No outsiders. I made that perfectly clear. Besides, we don't need another aerialist. Gimli will be full time this year."

"Aerial acts are the reason people come to the circus these days," Gandalf said as Thorin turned away in disgust. "Besides, Gimli is still a boy. He doesn't have the experience to carry the second act."

"And yet," said Thorin, "by your own account, this – this grocer has never been with a circus before. Has never performed before any audience."

Gandalf sat down. "That's not exactly what I said." Thorin had never been clear on his age, but the lines around his eyes were heavy, and he brushed his hair back from his temple as though a headache were forming there. "It has been some time, and it's true he's never performed with a circus, but he has untapped potential, Thorin. Untapped potential to many ends."

Well used to Gandalf's enigmatic way of speaking, Thorin remained unmoved. "Well, you can let him develop his potential somewhere else. I don't want him."

"That, unfortunately, is not for you to decide. As it is, I've already decided to hire him. Balin has the contract, and unless your jolly assemblage manages to scare him off before we get his signature, the deed will be done." He paused. "You're going to have to accept this, my old friend. It's time."

Thorin went still, back as rigid as though it were made of stone. "And who are you to decide for my family?"

Speaking more gently, Gandalf said, "If it were only a family matter, that would be one thing, but we both know this is more complicated. Thorin, please," he tried. "You know how much I care about –"

"Stop," Thorin said. Not loudly, but with such absolute conviction that even Gandalf did not push him.

Instead, he asked, "Will you at least come and see him?"

Bilbo was alone for the first time since entering the circus grounds. Below him – far, far below – he could hear the murmur of voices and the clamor of objects being mounted, positioned, and unpacked. However, they were mere background noise, faded into insignificance by the heady height and the feel of the wooden platform underneath his heels. He was wearing leggings and a close-fitting shirt, the nearest things he had to a uniform. It had been years since he attempted this in front of anything like a crowd, but as he clapped his hands together, the smell of chalk sent a charged flow of energy down to the tips of his fingers. He took his first step out onto the line, and it was like nothing had ever changed.

Two experimental steps, arms extended. The tautness was okay, though not quite as slack as he preferred. He shifted his weight, letting the wire move beneath his stationary feet, experimenting with the sway and vibration of the line. Three more steps, more confident this time, and then he shifted ever-so-slowly onto his tiptoes, sliding forward until his knee touched the line. It was a basic move, one of the first a tightrope walker learned, but it gratified him that he could still perform it so smoothly, even freehand. He wasn't overly fond of balancing tools, although they were sometimes necessary.

He continued warming up: switching from heel to toe, pivoting to change direction, balancing on one foot. He'd expected more strain, but it was as though his body had been crying out for this. It responded beautifully, down to the minute twitches of his fingers and toes. In fact, the muscle memory he'd spent years developing hardly seemed diminished at all. Finally, Bilbo dared to perform an audacious back bend, over and over until his forehead was behind his heel. He smirked, curling his fingers around the wire and blowing a strand of hair which had stuck to his face. His bangs danged toward the ground as he hung, inverted. What next?

It was easier to go over than back, so Bilbo pressed down with his hands and rolled, a neatly controlled walkover that put his feet behind him again. He straightened, adjusting his balance, and considered. "Well, they're going to expect something more exciting than a back bend, Bilbo," he told himself, "And even if you don't plan to stay, you should at least enjoy this opportunity while you have a chance."

He'd kept up with his skills privately, but it had been a long time since he'd been this high above the ground, safe in the knowledge that the net below would cover any serious mistake. It made him adventurous, and a song came into his head: one of the last he had performed to, many years ago, and still one of his favorite routines. It exactly fit his mood: playful and brisk. He bounced a few times, gathering his courage, and then he ran down the line, falling into first one cartwheel, then another.

'You've still got it, old boy,' he encouraged himself. Time for the finale?

Standing, he took several jaunty steps backward, building momentum, and then flipped, springing into a back handspring. He didn't plant the landing well. His feet slipped, but rather than ruin his momentum, he let himself fall, gripping the line with his hands and swinging around a few times until he got his feet back in place and regained the top of the line. Poised there, he savored the powerful, near-perfect lines made by his legs and back, still instinctual after all this time, before finally straightening on the wire.

Smiling, he slid down into a split position that hardly felt like a stretch at all, and that was when a high pitched whistle pierced the air, so shrill and sudden he almost fell again. Looking toward the ground, he saw smiling faces gazing up at him. A staggered but hearty applause was taken up, along with a few cheers. Bilbo's face went beet red. So much for not performing in front of an audience.

When Thorin entered the tent alongside Gandalf, he was in a foul mood. From his first shock that morning until now, the old meddler hadn't let up for a moment, and Thorin had had enough. He would watch this townie perform and then be done with it. "You'd better hurry," Bofur said, jogging up. "That little fellow Balin brought is ready to start."

"Pray that he doesn't hurt himself," Thorin grunted, already thinking of the potential liability. As Thorin reached the area of the tent where the high wire had been set up, he could see this Mister Baggins of Gandalf's clearly. 'He doesn't even have shoes on,' Thorin groaned inwardly, spotting the bare feet. This was bound to end badly.

A small crowd had assembled. Many of the regular performers were there. Thorin caught Balin's eye and scowled. However, rather than acknowledge his displeasure, Balin glanced fleetingly to the left. Thorin followed his gaze and froze. There, standing beside his brother, was Fíli. Thorin looked back to Balin, whose expression was full of significance. It was rare to see Fíli when there were so many people milling around. Yet here he was.

Above them, Bilbo Baggins made his final preparations and took his first tentative step out onto the wire. He didn't carry a prop, yet his posture was poised and far more practiced than Thorin would have expected as he went through a few preliminary motions. Thorin's heart went into his mouth when the man suddenly bent backwards, but aside from the gentle sway of his body on the line, he seemed in control. The walkover he performed next was genuinely impressive; Thorin could hear the others murmuring appreciatively.

Gandalf cleared his throat somewhere behind him, and Thorin's mood turned sour in an instant. "So he has a few tricks. What of it?"

"More than just a few tricks, as I think you'll see."

Overhead, Bilbo sprinted down the line. Ori's gasp punctuated the otherwise dead silence as Bilbo cartwheeled, not once, but twice. Cartwheels were terrifically difficult on so taut a wire, and to do it with such control – No. Thorin cut his thoughts off at the quick. He wasn't about to change his mind. Everyone at The Company could perform feats impossible for others of their kind. This Bilbo wasn't so special. Nonetheless, his eyes were riveted as Bilbo set up for his next trick. Thorin's mouth fell open when the man flipped free of the wire. The landing didn't stick, but Bilbo caught himself expertly, using his ankles as a hinge to spin around before he turned upright again and regained the line. And he laughed, as unselfconscious as a child. Bofur let out a shrill whistle of appreciation. Fíli, whose eyes had never left the wire, slowly brought his hands together, and then everyone was clapping.

Bilbo, for his part, looked mortified. Thorin could see the color on his face from here.

Gandalf stepped forward smugly, clearing his throat. "Well, Thorin?"

Thorin looked over toward his nephews, who had their heads together. Kíli was nodding, but what really cinched it was Fíli. His eyes were shining with pleasure. Thorin heaved a sigh, resignation overcoming his earlier protests. "Get him down here."

To his surprise, Bilbo didn't walk back to the platform but dropped into the net. His roll to reach the floor was a tad awkward, but it was clear that he'd worked with a net before. He trotted over, looking self-conscious. "Ah, Gandalf," he stammered. "I didn't realize anyone was watching."

"My dear Bilbo," said the old man. "You are full of surprises. I didn't know you had kept up with your craft quite so well."

Bilbo's face heated again, flushing to the tips of his ears, which peeked out of curly hair. He looked more like he should be arranging cabbages than working in a circus act. Even his physique seemed too soft for the hard work of a wire act. Yet the tricks he'd demonstrated had been of high quality. Whatever it was that allowed him to accomplish that, it must be hidden in there somewhere, no matter how incongruous the package.

So, against his better judgment, Thorin outstretched his hand. "Welcome to The Company, Mister Baggins. We'll take you on for the season, if you're willing."

Bilbo, for his part, seemed not to know what to say. He looked beseechingly at Gandalf. Finally, though, he held out his hand and gripped Thorin's. It was still chalky and dry, and a little puff of white power escaped. "Ah, you have a deal then, Mister Oakenshield.

Next Chapter Summary: Bilbo examines his motives for leaving home. Later he meets the rest of The Company, including a reserved young man with a bearing not unlike Thorin's.

Footnote(s):
[1] Some notes on tightrope walking. Tight wire is a general term with subsets depending on the tautness of the wire and its distance from the ground: 1) Highwire performances are done at great height with a very taut wire; 2) Bounding wire is used closer to the ground and is loose enough for flexible, dynamic movement; 3) Slack wire or slacklining uses the lowest tension. Bilbo's feats, like those of other members of The Company, will occasionally stretch plausibility, but his style is modeled after a real tightrope artist: Australian performer Con Colleano.

Author's Note(s): So it begins. This is the first chapter of the monster story I've had in the works. In an attempt to prevent it from floating in limbo for another year, I've decided to start posting with an update goal of one chapter per week. It's been a while since The Hobbit franchise ended, so I hope you'll comment if there's still any interest in an AU like this one. Let me know what you think of it or visit my tumblr account (see profile) for additional material on this story such as concept art.