Bilbo doesn't become a proficient swordsman overnight. Not even over the course of the weeks leading up to the first skirmish with the orcs. He buys a dagger from a blacksmith in Bree, a plain steel plank with a wooden grip made for larger, Man hands. It's heavier than Sting and not at all attractive, but while Dwalin, Nori, and Fíli disparage its make and quality in a dissonant chorus often and with relish, it suits Bilbo's purpose.
Dwalin calls him for their first training session the evening after they leave Bree. Leading Bilbo to the side of the camp, he stops with his axes held in deceptively lax fingers.
"I am your enemy. Attack," he says without emotions. Backlit by the fire, with his face cast into shadows, it's easy to recall how Dwalin fights, the way his eyes burn with berserker rage while his upper lip curves to reveal white teeth. The image causes Bilbo to shudder.
He isn't keen on confronting that side of the dwarf. He licks his lips and adjusts his grip on the dagger, holding it in front of his chest at an angle. The blade sways.
"Right. Yes. Attack." Bilbo lifts the dagger over his shoulder and aims a strike at Dwalin's midsection.
He isn't sure what happens next, but a moment later, his wrists sting. Several members of the Company chuckle. As Thorin walks past, he glances at Bilbo and shakes his head, his lips curved into a disdainful sneer.
Cheeks burning with humiliation, Bilbo picks up the dagger.
"Again," Dwalin says, calm as an underground pond.
Bilbo lunges. Dwalin catches the blade between the axes and sends it flying.
"Ten coppers say he'll give up before Bombur's stew is ready," Fíli murmurs, not caring or, perhaps, not expecting Bilbo to overhear, but the sound of his voice fills the lull in conversations' and carries across the clearing like the tolling of a bell.
Kíli slaps his brother's hand, oblivious to the attention their bet is gaining. "You are on."
"Eyes on the opponent," Dwalin says. "Try to land a blow."
Gritting his teeth, Bilbo tries again and ends up on his back, weaponless. The dagger is lying in the dirt before the gathered spectators. His tailbone hurts, his wrists smart; the dwarves are outright laughing. Bilbo's face grows hotter. This is not what he had in mind asking for help. Snorting, Fíli nudges the dagger with his boot. The blade slides for several feet, raising a dust cloud that settles on Bilbo's legs.
Bilbo gets up, shifts his weight from foot to foot, rolls his shoulders. He hears a dull sound and an indignant, "Oy!"
"This is no way to treat a weapon," Thorin snaps.
"I'm sorry, uncle," Fíli says.
Dwalin watches Bilbo with no visible reaction, his eyes are dark and serious and calm. "Remind me, how long ago did you stop falling on your arse every other second, lads?" he asks, directing the question at the shamefaced youths.
Again, it's Thorin who speaks. "At least, the halfling is willing to learn."
The laughter stops entirely. Bolstered by the unexpected support, Bilbo refrains from spitting I am not half of anything sitting on his tongue. Biting the inside of his lips, he takes a deep breath. I can do it. Just land a hit. Show them I'm not worthless.
He feints and, quick as a viper, dives under the dwarf's arm and catches his forearm with the tip of the dagger.
"Good," Dwalin grunts.
Bilbo stops and stares at the blood welling up in a thin, red line, uncomprehending. He didn't expect to succeed. A cold, hard weight presses across his throat. His gaze follows the length of a muscled arm covered in coarse black hair to the base of an axe handle resting against his Adam's apple.
"And you are dead," Dwalin says. "Do not get distracted." He steps back, and Bilbo nods.
"You must be sure of your intentions. Don't hesitate," Dwalin continues. "You are fast and nimble. Use it to your advantage."
Bifur rumbles something in Khuzdul. It sounds like a suggestion. Dwalin must agree with him, for he inclines his head and tells Bilbo to sheathe the dagger for now. The lesson moves to footwork.
By the time Dwalin calls a halt, Bilbo is ready to fall asleep standing. He is a fair dancer and had spent many festivals twirling and jumping in specific sequences to merry tunes, but without music and excitement of a party, the repetitive movements, the constant back and forth of fighting stances are monotonous and boring. It taxes him more than any physical exertion ever did. He does commit the steps to memory and plows through on sheer determination. He must learn, and so he will. There's no choice about it.
The royal siblings find him just as he crawls onto his bedroll not bothering to open it properly.
"Mister Baggins?" Fíli says, for once getting his name right. "May we speak with you?" His voice is quiet and tentative. Next to his brother, Kíli is fiddling with a strip of leather.
Sighing, Bilbo forces his body to sit up. He rests his hands on his knees. "How can I help you?"
"We wanted to apologise for our behaviour. It was unbecoming of us," Fíli says, looking at him with earnest, remorseful eyes. Kíli echoes his statement.
Eru, they are still children, Bilbo thinks. Barely out of their tweens by hobbit standards. They were young when he went on this quest for the first time. Now, the gap between their ages makes Bilbo feel ancient. "You are forgiven."
Twin sunny smiles light up their faces. They thank him and, after wishing goodnight, Kíli scampers off.
"What is it?" Bilbo asks when Fíli fails to go away and leave him in peace.
The dwarf fidgets, tugging his moustache braid in agitation, and offers to be his sparring partner.
"All right," Bilbo says, not needing to think about it. He will accept all the help he is offered.
The following days, they train every evening. Dwalin raises an eyebrow at Fíli's appearance. The younger dwarf smiles, saying he could use the practice, and stands next to Bilbo. They go over the footwork and move to basic offensive and defensive moves while Bilbo's toes are squelching in the mud and Fíli is making a passable impression of a drowning rat. As Dwalin puts it, War waits for no one.
A week before they reach the Trollshaws, Nori melts out of the shadows to stop beside Dwalin. At first, he just watches, eyes sharp and curious, reminding Bilbo of a fox. A hint of a smirk lurks around his mouth as he plays with a throwing knife. Then the suggestions start: widen your stance a hand's width; bend your elbow farther; knee him in the balls, then jab him in the kidney. With a mild sense of regret, Bilbo ignores the last advice but follows the rest.
Dwalin's jaw twitches every time the thief is first to spot something to correct, and Nori's eyes twinkle. It is a game, Bilbo realises, that only Nori's playing.
"It feels a little like one of Amad and Uncle's arguments. Only with less yelling and nobody has hit a table yet," Fíli tells him later when he brings Bilbo a bowl of soup and a chunk of hard bread. They practised evasive moves, and Bilbo's everything is bruised and aching. He has no doubt the taste of dust won't leave him for a fortnight.
Sighing, Bilbo resigns himself to months of being caught in the middle of a conflict that nobody is willing to acknowledge. It must run deep under the surface, like the roots of buckthorn. In all the repetitions, this is the first time he actually notices it.
"Better not get involved then," he says. There isn't anything either of them can do to resolve it, anyway.
All drama aside, Bilbo does improve as a fighter. Which is precisely why he dies in the first real confrontation. He gets overconfident.
Bilbo doesn't know why some cycles the orcs follow Radagast and others they pursue the Company. If there is a pattern or a reason for it, he hasn't found it yet. In any case, this time, the orcs catch up with them early.
Snarling and barking, the wargs nip at their ponies' heels. Ahead of Bilbo, two riderless beasts go for Ori's mount; the smell of blood gushing from its leg drives the wargs into a frenzy. The orcs holler commands in Black Speech, and with a detached resignation, Bilbo realises the words are becoming familiar. Unsheathing Sting, he spurs Myrtle to run faster.
The dwarves do their best to fend off the attack while in the saddles. A warg goes down with an arrow spouting out of its eye socket and crushes the orc rider under its weigh. An orc slumps forward with a knife sticking out of his chest. To Bilbo's right, Bifur utters a war cry and fells an orc and a warg underneath him with one slash of his boar spear.
But slowly, the wargs surround them, forcing them to slow down. Ori's pony, mad with pain and fear, rears up and hits one of the wargs with its front hooves. Two arrows pierce it in the side. The pony screams, white foam bubbles at its mouth, and Ori flies backwards, his arms windmilling, a startled look on his face. He lands awkwardly, twisting his wrist, and lets out a pained yelp, but dwarven bones are strong. They aren't easy to break.
Without a second thought, Bilbo urges Myrtle to stop and jumps down. He stands over Ori, presenting a flimsy, still soft-bodied protection against the enemies. His pony bolts, drawing several wargs away in pursuit, and Bilbo feels a pang of regret. Even without him weighing her down, Myrtle isn't fast enough. Not now, Bilbo thinks, I will mourn her later or not at all.
He concentrates on the fight and thrusts Sting at the approaching warg's head, catching its snout with the tip of the blade. The warg retreats a step, and Bilbo follows, arm poised to slash its neck, but as he does so, he leaves his back exposed. A fierce pain bores between his shoulder blades, then—
Bilbo wakes up. He rubs his face and sighs.
"That will teach me situational awareness," he says, quoting Dwalin. "All right, no more unnecessary heroics."
This time, the Company meets the elves before the orcs give up on catching Radagast. Bereft of retribution, later, Bilbo accepts Gandalf's flaming cones and flings them at the wargs, hitting the mark on every throw. Vindictive pleasure feels like mulled wine, full-bodied and heady.
-[break]-
It takes five more tries to finally move past the cliff debacle. Four more traumatic deaths, each at the hands of Azog. Sometimes, Bilbo is not sure he is still in his right mind. On darker nights, he knows he isn't.
He asks for lessons each repetition. His teachers vary. Sometimes, it is Bifur who joins Dwalin, others it's Nori or Dori. More often than not, Fíli volunteers to be his sparring partner. Bilbo is glad for it — he grows fond of the young dwarf. The aches and pains of getting his body into a fighting form all over again every time are frustrating, but like everything else, he learns to accept them.
Bilbo gets more skilled, and that, along with his tenacity, earns him respect. It's subtle. Bilbo only notices it because of his past lives, and thus he treasures the Company's regard all the more. The dwarves are quicker to include him in conversations. They even insist on Bilbo sharing their room in Rivendell, which is, of course, ridiculous — it is the last place they could be in any danger.
The first time it happens, Bilbo agrees, feeling a warm glow of acceptance. Even Thorin doesn't glare his way quite so much. He soon regrets this decision, however. Watching the Company break beautifully carved furniture for kindling makes him ill. He tries to stop them, but his entreatments about laws of hospitality meet laughter and teasing. The dwarves continue destroying chairs and tables with ever-increasing enthusiasm, and Bilbo throws his hands up. His hobbitish nature rebels against such a slight to their hosts. As he stalks out in search of other accommodations, Bombur skins a fat rabbit Kíli shot in a picturesque copse of deciduous trees. Bilbo can't help but wonder if they are about to eat someone's pet.
-[break]-
On the fifth cycle, Bilbo finally lives long enough to see Gandalf's escape plan come to fruition. Given enough time, anything will lose potency, and listening to Azog's speech is no exception.
"Yes, yes," Bilbo says, looking at the sky and contemplating praying for patience. "You are a big, bad orc, here to kill us all. We get it." His grouchy tone causes Kíli and Fíli sitting at the nearest branches to smile though fleetingly. The brothers' eyes are wide, the lines around their mouths are showing the strain.
The kids are scared.
The scene unfolds as it always does and ends with Thorin lying like a broken doll amid the enemies and Bilbo slaying the same orcs and wargs he did before with frightening familiarity. And Eru, how many more times should he kill them all over again before they stay dead? Cut, stab, pivot, slash, dive under a swinging arm and stab an orc between the ribs, jump back, evade, roll under… And so it goes. He is a quick and motivated study.
As no one falls off the tree this time, the dwarves join Bilbo quicker. They storm into the fight, cutting the orcs down with the force of a spring hail flattening wheat crops. Soon, Dwalin scythes the way to his king, distracting the Pale Orc from Bilbo.
No matter how good they are, however, the members of the Company are at a disadvantage. For every dwarf, there are five orcs and almost twice as many wargs. They cannot win without loses. But then, the eagles come.
Piercing cries fill the air and lightning-quick shadows fall onto their enemies to snatch them up and toss them off into the abyss. It all happens so fast, Bilbo can only watch in disbelief.
It can't be so simple.
The tide is turning, but for whatever reason, instead of letting the Company finish the fight, the eagles swoop to pick up the dwarves. A giant yellow foot descents on Bilbo, enclosing him in a bony cage. The ground rushes off, and Bilbo panics. He screams and flails, convinced his heart will burst. It is too much, too fast, too unexpected. The eagle's claws constrict, and pain lances Bilbo's stomach.
For him, the hours of the flight stretch into days as Bilbo swims in and out of consciousness. The lighting changes. The sun awakens, tinting clouds pink on the horizon. When the eagles land, Bilbo is only half-aware of Ori giving him water. He tastes copper on his tongue.
"I'm sorry, lad," Oin says, patting Bilbo's hand. The dwarf's skin is papery and cool against his own. "There's nothing I can do."
"It is all right," Bilbo tries to say but is unsure if he is successful. He coughs and smiles with bloody lips. Not long, he thinks. "I'll just start over."
And soon, he does.
-[break]-
"This is getting ridiculous. Now even Manwe's eagles are against me?!" Bilbo exclaims with disbelief. He isn't even angry. "That's it." He climbs out of bed and looks at the ceiling. "You hear me? I give up. I quit. Find someone else to toy with. This hobbit has earned a vacation." He nods. "Yes, that's right. You heard me, whoever you are. I am not playing your game anymore. I'm done."
He used to enjoy walking holidays lifetimes ago, he distantly remembers. With so much practice, Bilbo gathers supplies for a week-long stroll in under ten minutes. An hour later, he pins a notice saying, "Went on an adventure," to his door, borrows a fishing rod from Hamfast and heads west to the Water. He always wanted to learn fishing.
Upon returning, Bilbo finds himself at loose ends. Idling about Bag End, filling his hours with books and dishes he often missed on the road leaves him restless, uncomfortable in his own skin. And after prowling the smial for a few days, picking up and putting down his mother's doilies and his great aunt's glazed decorative plates, the things that meant so much but now don't, Bilbo packs his backpack once more. He is craving action.
He spends the rest of the time until reset studying the art of archery with the Bounders. And every time he aims at a target, Bilbo imagines a large feathery face with a sharply curved beak and cunning golden eyes. He never misses.
