All morning, Bilbo camps outside, sitting on his bench and smoking. He misses Second Breakfast and forgets about Elevenses. When Gandalf's silhouette shows at the end of the Bagshot Row, he jumps and runs to the wizard. Gandalf's eyebrows shoot up, and he smiles at Bilbo's enthusiastic greeting.
"Come, come," Bilbo says. His knuckles are white as he tugs the wizard along by the sleeve of his robe. "I have a story to tell."
Inside his smial, Bilbo directs Gandalf to the only Man-sized chair he owns and hides in the kitchen, puttering with cups and saucers, looking for scones he meant to bake but didn't. He goes to slice bread and drops the knife — it lands too close to his toes — and stops, suddenly unable to breathe. Gasping, Bilbo folds in on himself, but no matter how hard he tries, his lungs don't work, refusing to suck in air. Dark spots dance across his vision. Oh, Eru, not again, he thinks and passes out.
Bilbo comes to lying in his bed, and for a moment, he is afraid that it's early morning all over again, but the light is all wrong and a damp cloth is cooling his forehead. He sighs in relief and meets a troubled gaze of his guest, keeping vigil beside him.
"What happened, my dear Bilbo?" Gandalf asks, and words tumble out of Bilbo's mouth like grain out of a holey bag.
Gandalf listens with a pensive expression on his lined face. His brows furrow at the mention of the ring, but he remains silent. As the story comes to its end — this very morning — the wizard nods. For several minutes, he is motionless, his eyes distant and clouded, and Bilbo holds his breath. Everything is quiet and still; the midday sun is painting half the floor in golden hues, and if not for the light breeze playing with the curtains, Bilbo would think the room frozen in time. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of waiting, he hears Gandalf's sigh and looks up.
The wizard says, "It is an odd tale, indeed, my friend. I would like nothing more than to offer you a reassurance" — his voice is soft and grave at the same time, and Bilbo's heart sinks into his stomach — "but I've never heard of anything like this." A large hand, warm even through the thin blanket, lands on Bilbo's knee, pats it twice. "I think you should continue with the quest. Perhaps, it is your destiny to complete it. Valar willing, you will find a way out." Another sigh, and Gandalf offers him a small smile.
"And meanwhile, we will search for a solution in Rivendell." The corners of his eyes crinkle as Gandalf's smile widens, turns mischievous. Bilbo can't help it — his lips twitch up too. "Lord Elrond's library is one of the best in Middle-earth, and he is an elf of great wisdom…"
Bilbo nods, his head bobbing fast and shallow. "Yes, yes. Of course, you are right, as always."
Gandalf gets to his feet. "I will return later. Though" — he chuckles — "you already know all about that." He adds a wink and, as Bilbo climbs out of his bed, picks up the staff he leant on the wall near the corner. It thuds on the floor with every other step the wizard makes, the sound quiet and a little hollow.
"Until later," Gandalf repeats, turning to wave at Bilbo in the doorway.
"Yes, yes." Bilbo nods again, his head feeling light and like it's floating. "I'll need to make preparations for dinner."
The company comes later than Bilbo expects but in one large group, Gandalf leading the dwarves together with Thorin. Like all the previous times, the king gives Bilbo a condescending once-over, looking down his prominent nose, and asks about his preferred weapon.
"I'm not good with a sword," Bilbo says mildly, and all the dwarves have a comment they must voice. He waits till they stop, nails biting the meat of his palms deeper and deeper, leaving rows of crescent indentations. He licks his lips. "But as I understand it, you need a burglar, not a warrior." He swallows with difficulty; his throat is too dry. "And that I can be."
After a long, hard look, Thorin finally nods and turns to Gandalf. "You promised food?.."
The company takes it as approval, and the chaos begins.
At first, the journey goes well enough, and Bilbo is cautiously optimistic. He still sneezes at Myrtle, but allergies aren't something he has any control over. So he pats the pony's neck and sneaks her apples in apology. He buys rain gear in Bree and advises the Company to do the same. The dwarves mutter among themselves about the weather being fine and 'what does a halfling know about travelling,' but Gandalf backs him up. This time, when the rain starts, nobody sleeps in soaked through clothes.
Every time they need to make a stop, Bilbo anticipates it and, riding up to the wizard, points out the best places to camp. After the third time it happens, Balin asks him over their meagre — by Hobbit standards — dinner.
"Do you travel often, then, Master Bilbo?"
Bilbo looks up from his bowl, a spoon half-way to his mouth. He feels wrong-footed, caught off-guard. So far, only Gandalf has talked to him directly, the rest of the Company preferring to send him sidelong glances. "Um…" He blinks, eyelashes flying down twice in short order. "You could say that, yes."
Balin nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and Bilbo hurries to get back to his food, hunching over the bowl to keep it away from the rain. The stew isn't getting any warmer. Bilbo has been cold for too long to allow even the smallest amount of heat dissipate.
As they move closer and closer to the trolls, he continues with his little predictions. A change in weather, a bountiful spot for fishing when they cross a river or a stream, a herb that Kíli slips into Bombur's pot as a joke and that would see them all suffering upset stomachs if not for Bilbo's warning. It's going on and on, little things that could be explained by themselves but put together create a peculiar picture.
What first was seen as a strange but ultimately harmless quirk of the hobbit now is met with suspicion and furious whispers behind his back. Bilbo doesn't care for the names they call him.
He warns them about the trolls and in return gets narrow-eyed stares. Gandalf, however, insists on camping farther afield and stays with the group. The dwarves keep watch in threes and twos. The night passes, uneventful, and Gandalf disappears with predawn to come back with the news of the trolls' defeat at the morning light.
Bilbo tugs at his sleeve, tells him in a hushed tone about the hoard. The dwarves pretend not to listen but, confronted with the unmistakable sight of three stone figures and the elven swords Bilbo described — a definite proof if there is any — they give him a wider berth than usual, the whispers of 'oracle' and 'halfling witch' gaining ominous weight. A deep frown lines Gandalf's forehead.
The bushes rustle. As one, the dwarves go for their weapons. Sting hangs on Bilbo's hip. Its weight is half-familiar and thus all the more uncomfortable. He doesn't touch its hilt. The ponies snort, dig the ground with impatient hooves, uneasy with the stench wafting out of the trolls' cave.
The Brown Wizard rushes into the clearance on his sledge, and Bilbo is forgotten.
Riding is faster than travelling on foot, but even their ponies, spurred by the angry howls, can't outrun the wargs. The elves find them first. Arrows fly over Bilbo's head and pained whines join the growls of their pursuers. While dwarves dismount and take the fight, he hugs Myrtle for dear life and waits for the battle to end in their favour. If sneers and disdainful looks he later receives are anything to go on, his actions do nothing to endear him to the Company. Bilbo pretends not to care.
In Rivendell, when Bilbo talks with him, Lord Elrond remembers Belladonna fondly. He's given the same room she used to stay in on her visits and permission to use the library to his heart's content. Stepping into an airy, light, and spacious bedroom with — he guesses — child-sized furniture, perfect for a hobbit, Bilbo remembers the dwarven camaraderie of his first stay in The Last Homely House East of The Sea. Even if he was excluded from it, kept on the outskirts, his place was beside them. A fist squeezes his heart, and resolutely, he slams the door behind him while members of the Company trudge past.
Bilbo refreshes himself in the bathing chambers. When the rumbling of his stomach gets louder than his thoughts, he knows it's time for dinner. At his approach, the dwarves — all at once, as if following an unspoken command — move to block any free space on their ends of two long benches so there's not enough room for a fly. They look the other way. He holds back a sigh and sits next to Gandalf, close to their host. The dwarves ignore him, resuming their grumblings and complaints, but the skin on the back of Bilbo's neck itches. He knows unfriendly glares when they are directed his way. On his left, Gandalf's expression darkens. At the head of the table, a slight frown mars Lord Elrond's smooth, ageless face.
On Gandalf's urging, the next morning Bilbo seeks out Lord Elrond and tells him about his situation. For a long time, the elf is silent. There's a faraway look in his unfathomable eyes as he contemplates the tale. Bilbo follows his gaze to the horizon. A clear blue sky meets the tops of the trees as far as his eyes can see. The rushing of water and a susurrus of leaves drifting on the breeze fail to soothe his spirit.
"This magic is unknown to me. I'm sorry," Lord Elrond says, at last, cutting into the sounds of nature, and Bilbo's thundering heart stops, skips a beat, and plummets into his stomach.
He wets his lips. It was too much to hope anyway, he thinks as bitter disappointment floods him. He bows to the elf. "Thank you for your time."
The elf turns to him, rests a hand on the balcony railing, his long, white fingers contrasting with the dark grey of the stone. "I've noticed you don't get along with your companions."
Bilbo snorts without humour, briefly glancing up. "To put it mildly."
Lord Elrond hmms. "I've heard that hobbits value the comforts of home." He pauses, and Bilbo's heart speeds up — a rabbit caught in his chest or a hummingbird trying to get free. "You are very welcome to stay here."
Bilbo nods, thanks him, murmurs, "I will consider it."
The days go by. He marks them with meals taken alone in the kitchen and the number of yellowed scrolls and weighty tomes that tower around him in the library. These times, only the whispers of turning pages and the librarian's light footsteps compete to disturb his concentration.
Longing for a change of scenery, Bilbo joins their host at dinner and discovers that he is the only one staying. The dwarves raided a large kitchen pantry and disappeared without so much as a goodbye a week past, with midsummer's dawn. Gandalf, according to Lord Elrond, assumed that Bilbo was with them and left the same day to follow. In a way, Bilbo is glad. He has more time to peruse the library.
The leaves turn gold and red, fall to the ground, dry and brittle. The shadows lengthen and darkness comes faster. The clothes Bilbo brought with him hang loose on his thinning frame. Sitting in his usual nook under a narrow arch of a window, he lights the candles earlier and reads until the words blur, dancing like miniature fairies on fading yellow fields. He sighs and rubs his closed eyelids. His stomach rumbles, but he is too tired to move. The books and the scrolls hold no answers.
He falls asleep in silence, the librarian and other patrons long gone, a page creasing under his cheek and dusty, papery smell in his nose.
Bilbo wakes up to the sunlight caressing his face and the aroma of bluebells and daisies in the air.
