Michael kept up his singing (he knew a lot of travelling songs apparently) the entire way from Bag End to Bywater, where the group made a brief stop at the Green Dragon Inn. They needed supplies for the journey ahead, mostly in the form of well-laden ponies and, in the indignant words of Bombur, "a real, proper meal made from real, proper food!". Bilbo thought this somewhat unfair from the rotund dwarf, considering he had been the only one at Bilbo's kitchen table who had actually finished their plate of hangover-cures that morning (and finished off the plate of young Ori's as well for good measure!).

The stablemaster certainly scratched his head when the strange company came to his doorstep, but it's amazing how convincing a hefty bag of gold can persuade a man to ignore a certain amount of strangeness. Without further asking about their business, the surly hobbit handed them their mounts as he began counting out his coin.

Despite being underground dwellers by nature and by choice, most of the dwarves took easily to the ponies, and soon each pony was slung about with all kinds of baggages, packages, parcels, and paraphernalia. There was a very small pony, apparently for Bilbo.

When both pony and dwarf (and Hobbit) had been well fed and watered, they paid their coin to the innkeeper, said their goodbyes and that's how they all came to start, jogging off from the inn one fine morning just before May, on laden ponies; and Bilbo was wearing a dark-green hood (a little weather-stained) and a dark-green cloak borrowed from Dwalin. They were too large for him, and he looked rather comic.

'What would my dear father Bungo have thought of me? I almost daren't think.' Bilbo thought to himself.

His only comfort was he couldn't be mistaken for a dwarf, as he had no beard. As they travelled they spurred on the ponies, a hastiness seemingly having come over Thorin now that the Quest to take back his people's home was finally, truly underway.

Considering that both Michael and Gandalf were hanging towards the back of the group idly discussing (and testing) the various virtues of different pipe weeds, said hastiness clearly had yet to come over the two immortals of the group as well.

Though Bilbo supposed you could afford to take your time travelling if you knew you had all the time in the world to get to where you were going.

Still, as the taller Men (in appearance if not in nature at least) were sat on horses, they didn't fall behind as Thorin spurred on his pony. The group kept up the pace (and Bilbo's poor bottom sorely wished they hadn't) but even so they travelled along very merrily. They told stories (of which Michael had many, most of them too fantastical to believe had they been told by a mortal Man) or sang songs (of which Michael had even more) as they rode forward all day, except of course when they stopped for meals. These didn't come quite as often as Bilbo would have liked them, but still he began to feel that adventures were not so bad after all.

At first they had passed through hobbit-lands, a wide respectable country inhabited by decent folk, with good roads, an inn or two, and now and then a dwarf or a farmer ambling by on business. Then they came to lands where people spoke strangely, and sang songs Bilbo had never heard before. As he had done in the Shire, Michael was seemingly fascinated with every brook and leaf they passed, sometimes even sitting sideways on his horse with his torso horizontal over the ground because he had spotted something interesting in the grassy fields.

Now they had gone on far into the Lone-lands, where there were no people left, no inns, and the roads grew steadily worse. Not far ahead were dreary hills, rising higher and higher, dark with trees. On some of them were old castles with an evil look, as if they had been built by wicked people. Everything seemed gloomy, for the weather that day had taken a nasty turn. Well, to be completely fair, their surroundings had turned gloomy, yet their own company had remained toasty dry even through the wet fields and hills. With his power Hyperion had split the rains above them, allowing the fat droplets to splash noisily by the sides of the rocky path that passed for a road in the Lone-Lands, thus keeping themselves dry.

A pleasant warmth radiated from him like sunlight pouring through a window and warming up your favourite pillow. It cut through the bleak afternoon air and all the way through their leathers and cloths to pool along their skin and sink into their wearied muscles. They felt invigorated and Bofur even took out his flute for a merry song as they travelled through the desolate fields and the first of the darkened trees of foreboding forests.

Bilbo at least seemed to think little of his new and unfamiliar surroundings: none of the others in his company seemed to share his apprehension, for dwarves are a headstrong people who have a very poor grasp of 'fear'.

Bilbo wasn't entirely sure Michael even quite remembered what 'fear' even was at all.

So, emboldened by the Light, the dwarves jogged on, never turning round or taking any notice of the hobbit. Somewhere behind the grey clouds the sun must have gone down, for it began to get dark as they went down into a deep valley with a river at the bottom. Wind got up, and willows along its banks bent and sighed. Fortunately the road went over an ancient stone bridge, for the river, swollen with the rains, came rushing down from the hills and mountains in the north.

It was nearly night when they had crossed over. The wind broke up the grey clouds, and a wandering moon appeared above the hills between the flying rags. Then they stopped, and Thorin muttered something about supper, "and where shall we get a dry patch to sleep on?". Because while Hyperion had parted the rains for them, he had not done the same for the rest of the Lone-Lands and every grassy knoll and dark hill was glistening with the shine of freshly fallen rain.

Having finally taken pause, the dwarves intently studied their surroundings. Not until then did they notice that Gandalf was missing. So far he had come all the way with them, never saying if he was in the adventure or merely keeping them company for a while. He had eaten most, talked most, and laughed most, swapping legends and sagas with Hyperion as if he had revisited an old friend he had not seen in an age and a day.

But now he simply was not there at all!

"Just when a wizard would have been most useful, too," groaned Dori and Nori (who shared the hobbit's views about regular meals, plenty and often).

"Where did Gandalf go?" Thorin asked darkly of Hyperion, who didn't seem particularly unhurried by the disappearance of their wizard.

"Away." Was his simple response, a lazy smile slowly stretching across his chiselled face.

"To where?"

"To someplace other than here, of course." Hyperion's smile widened.

"Of course." The gnashing of Thorin's teeth was audible even to Bilbo at the back of their company.

Seeing as how the former god wouldn't reveal the location of their wizard any time soon, they decided in the end that they would have to camp where they were. They moved to a clump of trees, and though it was drier under them, the wind shook the rain off the leaves, and the drip, drip, was most annoying. Taking pity on them and as an apology for his earlier bit of fun, Hyperion waved his arm and the rain was blown away in a great gale that shook the trees down to the depths of their roots.

Even so, with their accommodations taken care of, a mischief seemed to have got into the fire. Dwarves can make a fire almost anywhere out of almost anything, wind or no wind; but they could not do it that night, not even Oin and Gloin, who were specially good at it. It pained them a great deal to eventually sigh and admit defeat, at which point Hyperion summoned a great ball of flame in the palm of his hand, which he gently lowered into the pit Oin and Gloin had dug.

For the rest of the night, the two of them sat in petulant silence as they stared from the hungry flames to their own hands with expressions of frustration and envy.

There truly seemed to be a dark force set against them that night (briefly Bilbo entertained the thought that the rains of the Lone-Lands themselves were punishing them for not having been allowed to drench them to the bone) as then one of the ponies took fright at nothing and bolted. The group sprang up as one and gave chase, but as Dwarven and Hobbit legs are famously short, it almost got into the river before Hyperion could catch the frightened pony. The large man had slung his long arms around the middle of the pony and lifted the surprised beast clear off the ground, resting it on his broad shoulders as he stalked back towards their little campsite.

A good thing he had stepped in when he did, as Fili and Kili, brash and young, had intended to throw themselves on the dragging reigns of the pony and would've been pulled into the well-fed river for sure, where they very well might have drowned. For all the many strengths and virtues that the Sons of Durin possess, the art of swimming regrettably isn't one of them.

As they sat huddled together around Hyperion's fire, their small haven of comfort in a land that had seemed to set its whole might against them, rain and gloom and all, Bilbo privately considered he had never been so glad for another's presence as he now was for Michael's. Without the former god's magical powers, this entire trip would've been a tale of wet cloaks, drowned ponies and lost provisions. Now at least, they were dry, warm and for some reason the pot of soup didn't really seem to get any emptier, no matter how often Bombur enthusiastically opened the lid.

They sat in contended silence, when Balin, who was always their look-out man, said: "There's a light over there!" There was a hill some way off with trees on it, pretty thick in parts. Out of the dark mass of the trees they could now see a light shining, a reddish comfortable-looking light, as it might be a fire or torches twinkling.

When they had looked at it for some while, they fell to arguing. Some said "no" and some said "yes". Some said they could but go and see, for surely adventure and excitement would await them and if not, then at least the company of something other than the same thirteen dwarves and one Hobbit that they had been looking at for the last two days.

Others said: "These parts are none too well known, and are too near the mountains. Travellers seldom come this way now. The old maps are no use: things have changed for the worse and the road is unguarded. They have seldom even heard of the king round here, and the less inquisitive you are as you go along, the less trouble you are likely to find." Some said: "After all there are fifteen of us." Others said: "Where has Gandalf got to?" This remark was repeated by everybody and they all looked towards Michael, who was (very badly) pretending to sleep. Then the rain began to pour down worse than ever, so much so that the splashes around the edges of their campsite dampened their packs and Oin and Gloin began to fight.

That settled it. "After all we have got a burglar and a godking with us," they said; and so they made off, leading their ponies (with all due and proper caution) in the direction of the light. They came to the hill and were soon in the wood. Up the hill they went; but there was no proper path to be seen, such as might lead to a house or a farm; and do what they could they made a deal of rustling and crackling and creaking (and a good deal of grumbling and dratting), as they went through the trees in the pitch dark.

Only Hyperion walked silently through the underbrush, because of course he did.

Suddenly the red light shone out very bright through the tree-trunks not far ahead.

"Now it is the burglar's turn," they said, meaning Bilbo. "You must go on and find out all about that light, and what it is for, and if all is perfectly safe and canny," said Thorin to the hobbit. "Now scuttle off, and come back quick, if all is well. If not, come back if you can! If you can't, hoot twice like a barn-owl and once like a screech-owl, and we will do what we can."

Off Bilbo had to go, before he could explain that he could not hoot even once like any kind of owl any more than fly like a bat. In desperation, he looked towards Hyperion, but the god merely gave him a big grin and two thumbs up in what was likely a compelling gesture in his home world.

"Michael, help! I can't scout out some strange light in some strange woods in some strange lands!" he whispered angrily under his breath as the tall Man leaned down towards him.

"Of course you can, you're a Hobbit!"

"Well yes, but what has that got to do with anything?"

"It means sneaking is in your blood!"

"That's offensive."

"In your soul?"

"That's both strange and still somewhat offensive."

"In your eyes?"

"That makes me slightly uncomfortable."

"That's homophobic."

"That's Man-speak."

"That's offensive."

"… Dammit."

And so Bilbo had to go, but Michael's strange words did have some truth at the core of them, because hobbits can indeed move quietly in woods, absolutely quietly. They take a pride in it, and Bilbo had sniffed more than once at what he called "all this dwarvish racket," as they went along, even though any unsuspecting wanderer wouldn't have noticed anything at all on a windy night, not if the whole cavalcade had passed two feet off. As for Bilbo walking primly towards the red light, not even a weasel would have stirred a whisker at it. So, naturally, he got right up to the fire-for fire it was-without disturbing anyone. And this is what he saw.

Three very large persons sitting round a very large fire of beech-logs. They were toasting mutton on long spits of wood, and licking the gravy off their fingers. There was a fine toothsome smell. Also there was a barrel of good drink at hand, and they were drinking out of jugs. But they were trolls. Obviously trolls. Even Bilbo, in spite of his sheltered life, could see that. While Michael had met troll-like creatures on his many travels in his former home, the former king of Men had been very interested in the various monsters and creatures from Bilbo's world as well.

While Hobbits generally don't have a great many deal of adventure books lying around (on account of there not being very many adventuring Hobbits) they have many excellent books on the dangers that can be found on (and under) Middle-Earth (on account of them needing to know how to best run away from said dangers). And so Bilbo had taken a great compendium of bestiaries collected by his grandfathers and granduncles and sat in front of the hearth with Michael as they poured over one horrific drawing to the next. And these creatures' likeness had been caught especially well in charcoal and parchment, Bilbo thought privately from underneath the security of a great big bush. The similarities were simply uncanny: from the great heavy faces of them, and their size, and the shape of their legs, not to mention their language, which was not drawing-room fashion at all.

"Mutton yesterday, mutton today, and blimey, if it don't look like mutton again tomorrer," said one of the trolls.

"Never a blinking bit of manflesh have we had for long enough," said a second. "What the 'ell William was a-thinkin' of to bring us into these parts at all, beats me-and the drink runnin' short, what's more," he said jogging the elbow of William, who was taking a pull at his jug.

William choked. "Shut yer mouth!" he said as soon as he could. "Yer can't expect folk to stop here forever just to be et by you and Bert. You've et a village and a half between yer, since we come down from the mountains. How much more d'yer want? And time's been up our way, when yer'd have said 'thank yer Bill' for a nice bit o' fat valley mutton like what this is." He took a big bite off a sheep's leg he was roasting, and wiped his lips on his sleeve.

Yes, sadly trolls do behave like that, even those with only one head each. After hearing all this Bilbo ought to have done something at once. Either he should have gone back quietly and warned Michael that there were three fair-sized trolls at hand in a nasty mood, quite likely to try roasted dwarf, or even pony, for a change; or else he should have done a bit of good quick burgling. A really first-class and legendary burglar would at this point have picked the trolls' pockets-it is nearly always worthwhile, if you can manage it-, pinched the very mutton off the spits, purloined the beer, and walked off without their noticing him. Others more practical but with less professional pride would perhaps have stuck a dagger into each of them before calling it a day. Then the night could have been spent cheerily.

Bilbo knew it. He had listened to enough of Michael's stories (in some of which he was the burglar himself, in others a burglar foolishly tried to do the same to him instead) to have gotten an inkling as to how a situation as this played out in the tales and legends. To his own surprise and consternation, Bilbo found himself torn on what to do: on the one hand, he wished himself a hundred miles away from trolls and foreign lands and unending rains, as any proper Hobbit should.

And yet-and yet somehow he could not go straight back to Thorin and Company emptyhanded. Could not face Michael after the legendary godking had put such faith in his little, anxious little friend. So he stood and hesitated in the shadows. Of the various burglarious proceedings he had heard of, picking the trolls' pockets seemed the least difficult, so at last he crept behind a tree just behind William. If anything went wrong, he thought, then surely Michael would come in and save both the day and the Hobbit, right?

Bert and Tom went off to the barrel. William was having another drink. Then Bilbo plucked up courage and put his little hand in William's enormous pocket. There was a purse in it, as big as a bag to Bilbo. "Ha!" thought he, warming to his new work as he lifted it carefully out, "this is a beginning!"

It was! Trolls' purses are the mischief, and this was no exception. "'Ere, 'oo are you?" it squeaked, as it left the pocket; and William turned round at once and grabbed Bilbo by the neck, before he could duck behind the tree.

"Blimey, Bert, look what I've copped!" said William.

"What is it?" said the others coming up.

"Lumme, if I knows! What are yer?" William said, peering through narrowed eyes at his catch.

"Bilbo Baggins, a bur-a hobbit," said poor Bilbo, shaking all over, and wondering how to make owl-noises before they throttled him.

"A burrahobbit?" said they a bit startled. Trolls are slow in the uptake, and mighty suspicious about anything new to them.

"What's a burrahobbit got to do with my pocket, anyways?" said William.

"And can yer cook 'em?" said Tom.

"Yer can try," said Bert, picking up a skewer.

"He wouldn't make above a mouthful," said William, who had already had a fine supper, "not when he was skinned and boned."

"P'raps there are more like him round about, and we might make a pie," said Bert. "Here you, are there any more of your sort a-sneakin' in these here woods, yer nassty little rabbit," said he looking at the hobbit's furry feet; and he picked him up by the toes and shook him.

"Yes, lots," said Bilbo, before he remembered not to give his friends away. "No none at all, not one," he said immediately afterwards.

"What d'yer mean?" said Bert, holding him right way up, by the hair this time.

"What I say," said Bilbo gasping. "And please don't cook me, kind sirs! I am a good cook myself, and cook better than I cook, if you see what I mean. I'll cook beautifully for you, a perfectly beautiful breakfast for you, if only you won't have me for supper."

"Poor little blighter," said William. He had already had as much supper as he could hold; also he had had lots of beer. "Poor little blighter! Let him go!"

"Not till he says what he means by lots and none at all," said Bert. "I don't want to have me throat cut in me sleep! Hold his toes in the fire, till he talks!"

"I won't have it," said William. "I caught him anyway."

"You're a fat fool, William," said Bert, "as I've said afore this evening."

"And you're a lout!"

"And I won't take that from you, Bill Huggins," said Bert, and he placed his fist prominently in William's eye.

Then there was a gorgeous row. Bilbo had just enough wits left, when Bert dropped him on the ground, to scramble out of the way of their feet, before they were fighting like dogs, and calling one another all sorts of perfectly true and applicable names in very loud voices. Soon they were locked in one another's arms, and rolling nearly into the fire kicking and thumping, while Tom whacked at them both with a branch to bring them to their senses-and that of course only made them madder than ever.

That would have been the time for Bilbo to have left. But his poor little feet had been very squashed in Bert's big paw, and he had no breath in his body, and his head was going round; so there he lay for a while panting, just outside the circle of firelight.

Right in the middle of the fight up came Balin. The dwarves had heard noises from a distance, after which they had turned to the godking of Men… only to find out that he had disappeared in much the same fashion as their wizard, meaning suddenly and without explanation. Huddled together quietly, they waited with bated breath for some time for Bilbo to come back, or to hoot like an owl. When neither occurred and without being able to send Michael up ahead, they eventually started off one by one to creep towards the light as quietly as they could.

No sooner did Tom see Balin come into the light than he gave an awful howl. Trolls simply detest the very sight of dwarves (uncooked). Bert and Bill stopped fighting immediately, and "a sack, Tom, quick!" they said. Before Balin, who was wondering where in all this commotion Bilbo was, knew what was happening, a sack was over his head, and he was down.

"There's more to come yet," said Tom, "or I'm mighty mistook. Lots and none at all, it is," said he. "No burrahobbits, but lots of these here dwarves. That's about the shape of it!"

"I reckon you're right," said Bert, "and we'd best get out of the light."

And so they did. With sacks in their hands, that they used for carrying off mutton and other plunder, they waited in the shadows. As each dwarf came up and looked at the fire, and the spilled jugs, and the gnawed mutton, in surprise, pop! went a nasty smelly sack over his head, and he was down. Soon Dwalin lay by Balin, and Fili and Kili together, and Dori and Nori and Ori all in a heap, and Oin and Gloin and Bifur and Bofur and Bombur piled uncomfortably near the fire.

"That'll teach 'em," said Tom; for Bifur and Bombur had given a lot of trouble, and fought like mad, as dwarves will when cornered.

Thorin came last-and he was not caught unawares. He came expecting mischief, and didn't need to see his friends' legs sticking out of sacks to tell him that things were not all well. He stood outside in the shadows some way off, and said: "What's all this trouble? Who has been knocking my people about?"

"It's trolls!" said Bilbo from behind a tree. They had forgotten all about him. "They're hiding in the bushes with sacks," said he.

"O! are they?" said Thorin, a dangerous note creeping into his voice.

Long had the line of Thror and Thrain battled against the dark denizens of Middle-Earth's mountainous and deep places and they were no strangers to fighting trolls. Seeing his people caught and distressed by his enemies yet again, after the defeat of Erebor and the failure of Moria, caused the blood in proud Thorin's veins to boil and without a moment's pause he jumped forward to the fire, before they could leap on him. He caught up a big branch all aflame at one end; and Bert got that end in his eye before he could step aside. That put him out of the battle for a bit.

Inspired by Thorin's furious roars and proud stance, Bilbo felt as inspired as no hobbit before, feeling like when he got fully caught up in one of Michael's tales of marvels, and bless his little heart but he leapt into the fight as well. Yet he was only hobbit against three angry trolls. Not even his great-great-grand-uncle Bullroarer Took, the inventor of golf, would've faced odds like that. Bilbo did his best though, at least there was that. He caught hold of Tom's leg (as well as he could, it was thick as a young tree-trunk) but he was sent spinning up into the top of some bushes, when Tom kicked the sparks up in Thorin's face.

Tom got the branch in his teeth for that, and lost one of the front ones. It made him howl in rage and pain and Bilbo couldn't quite believe his eyes as it seemed that Thorin, proud yet undeniably short in statue, would be victorious against the three oversized trolls after all.

Yet that hope was then dashed ruthlessly and immediately as just at that moment William came up behind and popped a sack right over Thorin's head and down to his toes. It was difficult to tell what enraged Thorin more as he roared and struggled inside the smelly burlap: being caught, or being caught in such an undignified manner. And so the fight ended. A nice pickle they were all in now: all neatly tied up in sacks, with three angry trolls (and two with burns and bashes to remember) sitting by them, arguing whether they should roast them slowly, or mince them fine and boil them, or just sit on them one by one and squash them into jelly; and Bilbo up in a bush, with his clothes and his skin torn, not daring to move for fear they should hear him.

Bilbo feared he'd be stuck up there in that bush for the remainder of the night, when a rustling nearby caught both his attention and that of the (now much wearier) trolls. The poor Hobbit almost cried with relief when out of the dirtied underbrush stepped the tall and immaculate form of Michael, hands in his pockets and a small grin on his face.

The contrast between the two groups couldn't be larger. Even as large as the trolls were, Michael easily matched them in height, but where they were wide to the point they could be considered round (if very lumpy), the Man was broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, with a flat, toned stomach. The trolls were garbed (or perhaps, swaddled rather) in whatever patches of cloths they had come across in their raids that would fit them. Tents and bed covers had been crudely and messily converted into facsimiles of shirts and trousers, whereas Michael's cream-white shirt seemed to shimmer like fish-scales and his elegant trousers were darker than ebony.

"Oi, what's this then! Months o' nothin' in these 'ere parts, and now 'ere's burrahobbits, dwarves an' man-folk about in the dead o' night!" William called out, caution colouring his enraged shout.

"Good, says I! I'm gettin' hungry and the pot's big enuff…" Bert said with a growl, one eyed clenched shut, the pain doing no favours to the troll's disposition.

"Ah, so you're hungry then, my poor man? What good fortune!" Hyperion called out, to the surprise of everyone in the clearing, both trolls, dwarves and one battered Hobbit, still clinging to the upper branches of his bush.

"… 's not a Man… 's a Troll, 'm just small for my size…" Bert said in a soft, confused voice, sounding almost petulant had he not weighed the same as a fully laden war-horse.

"Fortune? What fortune? You got riches on you then?" William said, pointing a ladle threateningly in Michael's direction.

"Of course! The greatest of all riches! A treasure greater than any bauble in any King's possession!"

"Oh! Whats it? Whats it? Show us!" Tom said excitedly, hopping to his feet so that his belly shook in a way that reminded Bilbo somewhat of a landslide.

"The key, to the greatest culinary experience of your entire lifetime!" Hyperion said with a triumphant shout, pointing towards the heavens in a dramatic pose.

Which somewhat deflated when the three trolls leaned back their heads as well, looking towards the stars with huge frowns on their big dumb faces as they tried to understand what was going on.

"… I don't get it." Tom eventually said.

"Alright, that's on me, I set the bar too high. Behold!" Michael shouted out again, stepping towards the now thoroughly confused trolls.

"What I have here in my fist, is the key to the best meal you'll ever have. It'll be better than anything you've ever imagined. Go ahead, try. Imagine the best meal you've ever had: this thing will be twice as good, easily!"

That was quite a lot of imagination required from the poor confused trolls indeed, who leaned over and against each other as they peered closely at Michael's extended closed fist.

"Let there be no doubt, my good men-err… trolls: this will be the best thing that'll happen to you for the rest of your life! You'll know only warmth, I promise you that!"

"Whatsit then? Hows it gunna be better than anything I eva tasted?" William pondered, in so much as a troll can ponder, that is (mostly they just pretend by frowning really hard and rubbing their chins as wise men often do).

"Because it's the same meal that feeds everything you see around you. The entire world feeds on this. Even the very grass and trees around you. I can guarantee you gentlemen: after you've had a taste of this, you'll never go hungry again!" Michael said with a mischievous wink.

"Wait, everyone else been stealin' our food?! No wonder I'm so 'ungry…" Tom said indignantly.

"Right. Right. So, everyone's ettin' what yous got there. Right. How's that make it tastier than anythin' if everythin's already ettin' it?" William said in a surprisingly astute observation for his kind.

"Because, my aromatically challenged friend, this… is sunlight." Michael said simply with a large grin.

What happened next seemed to pass almost as if caught in slow-motion to Bilbo, though he would admit that might have been because of all the blood steadily rushing from his very large feet to his slightly more diminutive head.

As expressions of confusion glacially fell over the craggy faces of the trolls, faint shimmers and beams of golden light began to build up between Michael's fingers, lancing out merrily as it rapidly expanded. Confusion valiantly tried to give way to terror as Michael's fist began to fully open up.

The golden beams of light strengthened and grew and coalesced until they resembled more pillars than mere beams. Bright yellow-white light began to suffuse the clearing, illuminating both tree and bush and trussed up dwarf and dangling hobbit. An ocean of warmth crashed forth from Michael's hand, rushing over the clearing and washing up against everyone present.

But where Thorin and Company sighed with relief as the pleasant heat melted into their wearied (and bruised) bodies, the trolls' faces slowly began to morph as if to scream in terror.

And then Michael's hand opened fully and the trolls were forever more silenced. Sitting there calmly in the palm of his hand was a miniature sun, roiling and beaming with light and heat, illuminating the forest to such a point Bilbo briefly thought the night had ended and midday had sprung upon them without warning, much like a troll hiding with a jute sack in the bushes.

Said trolls weren't do much hiding now. In fact, they were not doing much of anything, nor would they ever again. Still stooped over and leaning forwards until they stood shoulder to shoulder and ear to ear over Michael's glowing fist, the three trolls stood silent and motionless as particularly detailed, noticeably ugly rocks.

And there they stand to this day, all alone, unless the birds perch on them; for trolls, as was well known, must be underground before dawn, or they go back to the stuff of the mountains they are made of, and never move again. That is what had happened to Bert and Tom and William, Bilbo now understood, the texts that had accompanied the frightening pictures he and Michael had leafed through a mere week ago within the comfort of Bag End rushing back to his head, along with the blood from his feet.

As a Lord of Light and father to the Sun, Michael must've summoned the very Dawn itself to the palm of his hand in order to smite the trolls.

"Got it right in one Bilbo. Here, let me help you down." Michael said with a friendly smile, easily having picked up his small friend's thoughts as he plucked the hobbit from the branches as if he were gathering berries in the woods.

The next thing was to untie the sacks and let out the dwarves. They were nearly suffocated, and very annoyed: they had not at all enjoyed lying there listening to the trolls making plans for roasting them and squashing them and mincing them. They had to hear Bilbo's account of what had happened to him twice over, before they were satisfied.

Well, satisfied with his story at least. Thorin was none too happy that Michael had let them deal with the trolls by themselves and allowed them to be captured, when he could've dealt with them from the beginning and saved them all a lot of trouble (and a lot of bruises to both ribs and egos).

"Indeed I could have." Michael admitted easily as he picked up Bombur and set him on his feet, before he realized he had accidentally placed the rotund dwarf on his head instead and quickly switched him the right way up again.

In Michael's defence, Bilbo thought that it was an easy mistake to make with a person who by all accounts was more spherically shaped than dwarf shaped.

"Then why didn't you?" Thorin said, once again grinding his poor teeth.

"Because it wouldn't have been as interesting." The godking shrugged, picking up a spear with mutton on it, inspecting it closely for bite marks, before tearing into it.

"Interesting?!"

"Or funny. Take your pick." Michael said, munching away on his mutton in a way that would've made William, Bert and Tom proud had they not been turned to stone by him.

Seeing as how Thorin was steadily getting red in the face with impotent anger and realizing going against their resident, so-called 'tourist' would be a fruitless endeavour, Balin turned towards Bilbo instead, helping him pick out the large thorns from his now ruined jacket.

"Silly time to go practising pinching and pocket-picking," said Balin, firm yet not unkindly with a fatherly tone of worry as a frown marred his elderly face, "when what we wanted was fire and food!"

"And that's just what you wouldn't have got of those fellows without a struggle, in any case," said Gandalf, who suddenly stood in their midst as if he had been there all along.

It caused Bifur, Ori and Nori to shriek in surprise as they leapt upwards, straight onto the stone forms of William, Bert and Tom.

"And where have you been?" Thorin all but roared as he whirled on Gandalf, clearly fed up with immortals in his dubious employ suddenly disappearing and reappearing whenever they damned well pleased without a care for dwarves stuck in troll-bags.

"Around." Gandalf said with twinkling eyes and a twitching moustache, and Thorin breathed in so deeply that Bilbo worried the prince's shirt would be ripped in twain with how his chest expanded to accommodate the sudden influx of so much air.

"If you must know," said Gandalf, stalking past a fuming Thorin as Balin desperately tried to calm his prince down from bodily attacking the wizard, "I was quite nearby. While my friend Radagast the Brown is more adept at the mimicking of a barn-owl or screech-owl, I must say that I myself am quite the hand at throwing my voice. My plan had been to keep the trolls bickering amongst themselves, as they like fighting each other almost as much as they like fighting everyone else. In doing so, they would forget the coming of the dawn, be turned to stone and thus I would've saved the day!"

The wizard finished by tapping the end of his staff on the dumb-founded expression of William, forever locked in an expression of shock and confusion (and, Bilbo thought guiltily, the slightest hint of betrayal).

"A needless plan I admit, when you can summon the day itself and thus bring the dawn along yourself instead!" the wizard groused as he glanced at Michael, who had now started on his second mutton-spear, with Bombur glancing at the god in envy.

"You snooze, you lose." Hyperion said with a grin through a mouthful of mutton, eliciting a gasp of disdain from the proper Nori.

"You want to be the hero, you gotta stick around to actually do the hero-ing."

"Hmpfh. I seem to recall you disappearing from the party as well." Gandalf shot back.

"Sure. But I got back first, so I got to save their butts." Michael said with another shrug and a grin, polishing off the last of the mutton (and despite the fact that he was fully made from stone now, Bilbo could've sworn that the ugly statue of Tom moaned in sorrow at that).

"Hah! Next time, I'll save the quest, you'll see!"

"You're welcome to try gramps. I've heard losing builds character."

"Gramps?! You're older than me!"

"How would you know? You were born before time was even created."

"You determined the very construct of Time itself at the height of your power, of course you are infinitely older!"

"Ah, fair point; but I look younger."

"Excuse me!" Bilbo called out, though between his scratches and his bruises, he wasn't entirely sure why he was the one apologizing here.

Seeing the two immortals turn to look at him and feeling the gazes of Thorin and the others in his back, Bilbo swallowed and tried to find his Took courage.

"Excuse me, but… are the two of you having a competition to see who can outdo the other in saving us?" he asked incredulously and from the muttered whispers at his back, the dwarves were thinking the same thing.

Michael and Gandalf shared a guilty glance.

"Ah…" Michael muttered, but Gandalf pulled himself up to his full height, clapping his hands.

"Anyhow you are wasting time now. Don't you realize that the trolls must have a cave or a hole dug somewhere near to hide from the sun in? We must look into it!"

The dwarves grumbled at the obvious distraction, but a good distraction it was, for the loot of trolls is quite impressive indeed, especially for dwarves who are drawn to loot in any case.

And so they searched about, and soon found the marks of trolls' stony boots going away through the trees. They followed the tracks up the hill, until hidden by bushes they came on a big door of stone leading to a cave. But they could not open it, not though they all pushed while Gandalf tried various incantations.

Bilbo turned to look up at Michael, wanting to ask him why he wouldn't just punch the door clear off its hinges, but the god merely winked and pointed at the hobbit's pocket.

"Oh!" Bilbo said somewhat embarrassed as the rest of the group, who were steadily getting tired and angry, turned to face him.

"Would this be any good?" asked Bilbo, "I found it on the ground where the trolls had their fight." He held out a largish key, though no doubt William had thought it very small and secret. It must have fallen out of his pocket, very luckily, before he was turned to stone.

"Why on earth didn't you mention it before?" they cried.

"Why did you not ask Michael to beat the door down for you?" he responded.

They had no answer, so instead Gandalf grabbed the key and fitted it into the keyhole. Then the stone door swung back with one big push, and they all went inside. There were bones on the floor and a nasty smell was in the air until Michael clapped his hands loudly, refreshing gales tearing through the cavern and chasing away the foul odour.

To the joy of Bilbo and those dwarves that followed the hobbit ideology of meal planning, there was a good deal of food jumbled carelessly on shelves and on the ground. To the joy of the rest of the dwarves, said food was strewn among an untidy litter of plunder, of all sorts from brass buttons to pots full of gold coins standing in a corner.

Picking up a pie (cold, but still decent), Bilbo spotted several lines along one of the cavern walls. There hung lots of clothes off it to the hobbit's surprise and he noticed that they were much too small for trolls.

"These belonged to their victims, I'm afraid." Michael spoke softly at his side, making Bilbo almost drop his pastry in surprise.

He wanted to remark on it, but when he glanced up he saw that Michael had a saddened look on his face as he kept glancing at the small clothes. Following his gaze, Bilbo saw that Michael had been staring at one object in particular: a dress, rough, but obviously well-cared for before it ended up in a troll's cave.

It was small enough to fit a hobbit.

Bilbo found he no longer had an appetite for the pastry.

A ruckus from the dwarves brought them out of their morose thoughts and with one last look at the clothes, the two unlikely friends joined the rest of the company. The thirteen dwarves and one wizard had gone through most of the assembled troll hoard and found that included in said hoard were several swords of various makes, shapes, and sizes. Two caught their eyes particularly, because of their beautiful scabbards and jewelled hilts.

Gandalf and Thorin each took one of these; and Bilbo took a knife in a leather sheath. It would have made only a tiny pocket-knife for a troll, but it was as good as a short sword for the hobbit.

"These look like good blades," said the wizard, half drawing them and looking at them curiously. "They were not made by any troll, nor by any smith among men in these parts and days; but when we can read the runes on them, we shall know more about them."

"Glamdring. Called Foe Hammer or the Beater by its enemies. A King's blade." Michael said, extending his hand towards the now awed looking Gandalf.

The name meant nothing to Bilbo, nor to any of the Dwarves it seemed, but the wizard appeared as if he were looking at the lost heirloom of a kingdom.

"That's because it is, Bilbo." Michael said with a smile as he withdrew the hand-and-a-half sword fully from its ivory scabbard.

The sword was white and gold and seemed to be made more from the concepts of elegance and deadliness rather than any mere metal. There were runes carved into its hilt.

"Glamdring was forged towards the end of the First Age for the last King of Gondolin, the famed realm of the Noldorin Elves. Turgon the Wise wielded this blade in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears and later during the Fall of Gondolin, when Maeglin Kinslayer, son of the Dark Elf Eöl, betrayed the secret location of that fair city and its people to the Great Enemy in return for the hand of the King's daughter Idril, the mother of famed Eärendil the Mariner, of who the Kings of Man are descended. It was Eärendil's father who threw the betrayer down the walls of ruined Gondolin, but by then it was too late: the city fell, its people forced to flee and saved only through sacrifice, such as that of Glorfindel, who tackled a Balrog off a mountainside to his death."

The entire group was silent as Michael recounted the blade's history, but none were more taken by his story than Gandalf, who bowed his head with an expression of sorrow and great pain.

"Much woe this blade has seen." Michael mused, before gently returning the white-golden blade to its ivory scabbard.

He then extended the sword towards Gandalf, who looked up in surprise.

"I… I am not worthy of it…" the wizard said, but Michael shook his head.

"How it ended up in a troll's hoard of all things after having gone missing for 6,000 years I cannot tell. What I can tell you is that it is eager to beat down the hordes of our enemies once again, as it has done in a bygone Age. It was Turgon the Wise who wielded it first: let it now once again be wielded by the wisest of this Age, as the tides begin to turn."

Something in those words felt ominous and foreboding to Bilbo and judging by Gandalf's wide eyes, the wizard felt much the same.

"The wisest of our time… then surely the blade must go to Saruman, the head of the Istarii? He would do much good with it."

"Indeed, he'd attempt to do good with it. But I would not bestow this blade on him."

"Why not?"

"Because, my dear Olorin… he would've accepted it."

Michael's smile was kind and fatherly, which should've made it look weird on his youthful face as he glanced down at the aged wizard in front of him. And yet, it felt right to Bilbo as he saw how the immensely tall Man clasped the shorter immortal's shoulder in a strong hand, gently placing Glamdring in his awaiting palms.

It was easy to forget sometimes, that the bright-eyed man making mischief underneath his roof had once been King to more realms and kingdoms and peoples than Bilbo could even fathom, that he was older than Time itself.

But not so now, as he towered strong and tall over the wizard Gandalf, handing him the blade of an Elven King of a fallen city of a bygone Age.

"Wield it, and wield it well."

"I shall." Gandalf promised in a firm voice as gnarled fingers wrapped themselves around the bejewelled hilt with a strength that belied their apparent age.

Then Michael turned and there stood Thorin with his blade in hand, a troubled look on his face.

"I take it this blade is kin to Glamdring then?" The dwarven prince asked.

"Indeed. Orcrist, or Goblin-biter, said to have felled orcs by their hundreds during the First Age. It was made by the same smiths who forged Glamdring for Turgon the Wise, though it was likely wielded by Ecthelion of the Fountain, he who was the Warden of the Great Gate, one of the greatest lords of the Valley of Tumladen and one of the greatest heroes of his Age. Ecthelion rode out in a great fury as the outer walls of Gondolin fell, almost reclaiming the Great Gate through which the enemy had broken, the bloodied shine of Orcrist causing terror admits their legions. Dragons and Balrogs reinforced the terrible army and Ecthelion slew three of their number before he was wounded and taken back towards the centre of Gondolin, where the Fountain of the King stood. He regained his strength by drinking from it and stood there together with the remainder of Gondolin's army in their final stand, hoping to buy time for their fleeing people. All were overcome in the end until only Ecthelion remained, but it was the most valiant final stand in all the songs or in any tale of Middle-Earth. There he faced the foul Gothmog, leader of the Balrogs and he duelled him to the death, like his battle-brother Glorfindel eventually eschewing the blade for a mighty leap, lifting the Balrog up and throwing it and himself into the Fountain where it finally drowned."

Once more the group stood with bated breath and Thorin allowed his eyes to track over the elegant form of the blade, studying its gleaming metal, the engraved runes and the embedded silver and diamonds, signifying it as made to the tastes of the great House of the Fountain.

Eventually, he too closed his eyes and offered the blade back to Michael.

"It is a sword of Elven Lords and Dragon slayers. It should belong with one such as you, Hyperion. It was not meant for Dwarven hands, even those of a prince of Erebor." He said and it took great strength for him to say this, for pride is not something so easily set aside.

Yet as before, Michael merely smiled and pushed the blade back towards the surprised looking Thorin to the gasps of his assembled Company.

"A blade of heroes and mighty lords. A blade that knows the loss of a city and the heat of dragon's fire." Michael said as he bent down to a knee.

"There is none other who would wield it better than you. You'll have a need of it, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror and I think it has a need of you. Go and take it and let the wyrms of the world remember the sting of Elvish metal once more."

Thorin's lips thinned as he glanced at the beautiful blade, before he nodded resolutely to himself and clasped it to his belt, his motions certain and swift.

"By my blood and by my name, I will give this blade the honour that it is due. Let it drink deep once more from goblin-kind and let it be of aid in the slaying of Smaug the Terrible!" the prince called out in a strong voice as the other Dwarves rallied with cheers.

"And what of you?" Bilbo asked as the calls for glory and battle died down and Michael blinked in surprise.

"What will you take from this hoard? You were the one that turned the trolls to stone, it's only fair you get a part of the loot as well." The hobbit clarified and he was pleased to see that at least some of the dwarves had the decency to scuff their boots against the floor and look about themselves with looks of embarrassment.

"Thank you Bilbo. I think I will take… ha! I will take this!" Michael said with a grin and a laugh as he reached into an enormous pile of coins and buttons and chests and pulled something from it.

He held it aloft with a pride not unlike when he had handled great Glamdring or powerful Orcrist and yet…

"That's a frying pan." Thorin muttered eventually.

"Indeed it is."

"Your share of this treasure is a frying pan." Bilbo tried to reassess, a now familiar pit of anxiety in his stomach as he tried (and failed) to comprehend a god's logic.

"Precisely!"

"Hyperion. Why do you wish to take this frying pan?" Gandalf then tried, Glamdring still clutched in his hands.

"It's the set-up for a joke that'll pay off in about 60 years or so, when a very brave gardener finds himself in need of both cookery and weaponry and who will come to the conclusion that they are one and the same if you're in a pinch. Behold! The soon-to-be-legendary Cermova!"

Silence met Michael's proud shout until it was broken by the muffled voice of Fili as he held aloft a stack of cheeses larger than he was tall.

"Let's get out of this horrible cave and have breakfast!"

Being a Company mostly comprised of hobbits and dwarves, breakfast sounded like a splendid idea, so they carried out the pots of coins, and such food as was untouched and looked fit to eat, also one barrel of ale which was still full. By that time they felt like breakfast, and being very hungry they did not turn their noses up at what they had got from the trolls' larder. Their own provisions were very scanty. Now they had bread and cheese, and plenty of ale, and bacon to toast in the embers of the fire

As morning turned into afternoon and merriment returned to their group, Bilbo sat close to his friend and their resident wizard and so overheard as Gandalf leaned over closer to Michael.

"Say, Hyperion… why did you name your soon-to-be-legendary frying pan potatoes?"

Michael's laughter could be heard ringing out throughout the entire forest.

Fun Fact: Over 2,000 weapons and 10,000 arrows were made for the filming of the LotR trilogy.

AN: As winner of the Pa treon poll, this got the next update! I wanted to get this out a week earlier, but I became sick and so had to put this on hold for a little while. A new poll will be going up on my Pa treon right after this is uploaded, so if you want to see one of my stories updated next, head on over there! It'll give you access to my discord server as well! Cheers!