Chapter 2

Bag End was a small estate situated on a hill a couple miles of east of the tavern where Thorin had found the notice. As he walked along the sloping path leading to the front door, he scanned the area. A small stream bordered the property on one side, and green fields surrounded the rest. On his way from the tavern, he had caught the scent of blood in a couple spots—a few days old, but evidence enough that there had been a series of attacks on the neighboring farms.

Thorin walked up to the front door and knocked three times on the green-painted wood. He listened for the sound of approaching footsteps and heard nothing—and was therefore surprised when the door opened to reveal the owner of the house.

Bilbo Baggins was a halfling. Thorin had guessed as much from his name as well as little details like the placement of the doorknob and the height of the steps leading up to the door. Halflings were stealthier than other races, Thorin reminded himself. And just like their counterparts in the Shire of his home world, they preferred the comforts of simplicity and normality.

That much was clear in the widening of Bilbo's eyes as he took in the newcomer standing on his front stoop.

"You put up a notice about a monster in the area," Thorin said. He was used to the wariness that followed when people realized what he was. It was best to get straight to business.

"Oh." At this, Bilbo raised his eyebrows and some of the tension fell from his shoulders. "Yes, of course. You must be a witcher, then?"

He nodded. "Tell me about the monster. When it attacked, its targets, what it looked like."

"I can do more than tell you. Why don't you come in?" Bilbo stepped back, giving him room to step inside.

Thorin felt his own eyebrows rise. Most people were loathe to let witchers within a mile of their home, much less invite one inside. He focused his witcher's sense, searching for a trap or hidden motive, but there was nothing. Bilbo was looking at him expectantly, one hand propped up against the edge of the door, so Thorin stepped inside, turning so Bilbo could close the door behind him.

"One of the farmers close by was attacked a few days ago," the halfling said, leading the way past a sitting room with a crackling fireplace, a clean kitchen, a couple closed doors. "I was looking around the spot where it happened, and I found something that I believe may be of use to you."

They stopped inside a small room furnished with a desk and a bookshelf. Both pieces of furniture, as well as a good portion of the floor, were covered with papers and books. Thorin's eyes wandered over a map of the surrounding area, as well as another one of the nearby city of Novigrad.

Bilbo lifted a stack of papers and dropped it onto another, then lifted a small box that had been hidden underneath. "Sorry about the mess." He maneuvered his way back to Thorin, who was still standing at the doorway, and opened the box. "Do you recognize this at all?"

A large black feather lay within. "This is from a cockatrice." Thorin picked it up, holding it up to the light shining through a small round window on the other side of the room. "Male, middle-aged, recently molted."

Bilbo smiled. "Glad I could be of some help."

The feather had saved him the time, indeed. Normally Thorin would have gone to the location of the attack and looked around himself. It was uncommon that he would receive help from others during contracts. Thorin lifted his gaze, considering the halfling before him. There was something different about Bilbo Baggins, and he wasn't sure what to make of it.

There would be time to ponder that later. Thorin slipped the feather into his belt. He had a monster to kill.

"Oh, and as for your payment…" Bilbo closed the box and set it back down on the desk. "I was thinking two hundred coin. You'll be saving everyone a great deal of trouble by killing this cockatrice."

Two hundred was generous, even for a large contract, though it was only a fraction of what he'd need to pay for a ship to Skellige. But Thorin wasn't about to correct him, so he said, "I'd best be off, then. Cockatrices tend to stay in their caves when they're not off hunting. I know of one nearby, so I should have the job done by nightfall."

"All right," Bilbo said as they began walking towards the door. "Come back here when you're finished and I'll have the coin ready."

"Farewell," Thorin said, stepping outside.

The door closed behind him, and he set off. Luck was on his side, it seemed. Bilbo was generous with not only his payment but his hospitality as well—a rare thing in these parts.

Their interaction had been unusual, indeed, and he found himself thinking on it more instead of less as he walked. That there was still unconditional trust and goodwill in this world was a thought that rarely crossed his mind. Not that his own world was devoid of prejudice and hatred—far from it.

If nothing else, this strange encounter had served to remind him that there was still much in the Continent that was bound to surprise him.

The smell of blood drew him towards the entrance of the cave. It hung around the area like a fog, draping the underbrush and damp rocks with the slick scent of death. Thorin paused at the entrance, making sure his silver sword was free of its sheath. The sour odor of the beast was thick in the air—this cave had likely been its lair for quite a while.

Thorin stepped inside the cave. The light grew dimmer as he walked, but he could still clearly see the mushrooms and small pools dotting the floor. The soft tap tap of dripping water and his cautious footsteps were the only sounds that broke the silence.

His surroundings brightened as he entered a wider area with a high ceiling. Part of the structure had caved in, allowing a shaft of light to illuminate the area. Bones and other remains of downed livestock littered the floor. Curling feathers scattered from his footsteps as he moved to the center of the cavern.

This was obviously the cockatrice's lair, but the beast was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it had gone to hunt again, but there was still a half-eaten carcass of a cow slumped against one wall. Thorin walked towards it and knelt down. Blood was pooling on the floor from bite marks that looked relatively fresh.

The flutter of wings sounded from behind, and Thorin cursed. He barely had time to dodge as a massive shape leapt down at him from a hidden ledge, a large, red-stained beak snapping down on the space where he'd just been. Though he'd avoided the creature's jaws, its wing still slammed into his stomach, sending him flying back to crash into a pile of dry bones.

The cockatrice let out a throaty cry. A simplified description of the monster would be a winged beast with the head of a rooster. But unlike roosters, cockatrices were built to kill. Its wings and tail had the power to break a man's bones, and a well-placed strike from its beak could pierce flesh and kill in seconds.

Thorin stood with a wince and drew his silver blade, knowing his abdomen would be sore the next day. Yet if he had not been a dwarf or a witcher, his ribs would likely have been cracked.

The cockatrice charged again with surprising speed for its size, its wing swiping out in a horizontal stroke. Thorin stepped back, feeling a skull crunch under his boot, then forward, taking advantage of the opening the beast had created. His sword connected with the joint connecting the wing to its body, releasing a stream of blood in its wake.

The monster let out another cry, and Thorin took several steps to the side, so as to not let himself be cornered against the cave wall. As the cockatrice turned, he noted it was favoring its left wing. He'd meant to cut the appendage off entirely, but that would have taken more leverage that he'd had in such a tight space.

Despite its injury, the cockatrice wasted no time in lunging again, beak and wings working together in a frenzied attack. Thorin threw his energy into dodging, managing to get another slice in just below its throat. Cockatrices often aimed to tire their prey out before going for the kill. He would have to end this quickly.

The monster spun suddenly, its barbed tail whipping around to strike him in the face. Thorin grit his teeth, feeling a slash of pain across his cheekbone, followed by a stream of hot blood. It was a minor wound, but did quite a bit to piss him off.

One hand shot out and took hold of the soft flesh beneath the barb on the beast's tail, and with a flash of his silver sword, the appendage was severed from its body. Thorin tossed it to the ground as the cockatrice shrieked. I can play dirty too, you feathered bastard.

It spun towards him once more, and Thorin's sword swung down in a high strike, but its uninjured wing lashed out, striking him in the chest.

Thorin staggered back, trying to regain both his balance and his breath, and was unable to avoid the cockatrice's beak as it sunk into his shoulder. He cried out, white sparks showering over his vision.

And as he took in his next breath, Thorin wrestled his pain to the side and mustered enough energy to thrust his sword into the cockatrice's body. Its left wing drooped to the ground, almost entirely severed from its body.

Hot blood ran down his shoulder, and Thorin grit his teeth, resisting the urge to check the wound. He thanked Mahal it hadn't been his sword arm.

Thorin freed his blade and stepped around the cockatrice. He struck at its abdomen, spilling more monster's blood onto the cavern floor. Keeping himself away from the remaining wing and its beak, Thorin slashed at its legs, its back, its stomach, pressing the beast until it finally staggered, weakened from blood loss and the silver of his blade.

With one final thrust, he pierced the beast's heart. The cockatrice fell without resistance.

The next few minutes were filled with his heavy breathing and the slow drip of blood from his fingertips to the cave floor.

Thorin walked over to the light, where he could clearly see the wound. His armor had protected him from any broken bones, but the puncture was still deep. He reached into a pouch on his belt and withdrew a blue potion streaked with silver. He downed the liquid and wrapped his shoulder with a clean bandage.

With his wounds tended to, Thorin sat on a low boulder and set to the task of cleaning his sword. As he ran a clean cloth along the length of his blade, his breathing evened out and the rush of battle faded from his ears. With the rhythmic motion of the cloth, his thoughts drifted to his mother. She had been the one to first teach him the importance of maintaining weapons.

You must always clean your blade after a fight, inùdoy. When you clear away the blood and grime, remind yourself of the people for whom you are fighting. A battle is never about the lives you end, but rather those you save.

She had been a skilled warrior, and wise when it came to strategy.

It hadn't meant anything when Smaug attacked.

Yet her words had stayed with him during the years since then. And it was the thought of his people, his kin, that had driven him on through the hardships he had faced in this world. Soon, he would see them again, and they would all be able to return to their home.

By the time he reached Bag End, Thorin was soaked. Rain had begun to fall about halfway through his journey back, and it ran in streams through his hair, mingled with the blood in the bandage around his shoulder, and dripped onto the feathers of the cockatrice's head secured in one fist.

The latter combination had created an interesting smell, Thorin reflected with a grimace, though fortunately not interesting enough to attract the attention of any other monsters.

Warm golden light was shining through the round windows as he approached the house. He stood on the front stoop, dripping water onto the clean stone, and knocked.

When Bilbo opened the door, heat drifted out into the rainy night, mixed with the faint but recognizable scent of tea. "Oh," he said, face brightening. "Back by nightfall, just as you said."

Thorin held up the cockatrice's head, its bloodstained jaw falling open with the movement. "Proof that the monster is dead."

Bilbo leaned back slightly. "Well, I was prepared to take your word for it, but, uh, you…you brought the head."

"Some people ask for evidence. Better to have it than not."

"Yes, I suppose that's true." His gaze drifted to Thorin's shoulder, and he frowned. "Were you injured?"

"It's nothing." The potion he had taken earlier would heal the wound within a couple days.

Bilbo's eyes flickered from his shoulder to the blood on the cockatrice's beak, and his frown deepened. "Are you sure? I could call a healer—"

"I took care of it. Witchers don't need healers."

"Right." Evidently Bilbo saw no use in arguing, as he once again gestured for Thorin to come inside. "I'll get the coin I owe you. A-And leave the head outside, please."

Thorin complied, setting it down next to the door and stepping inside. He followed Bilbo to the dining room, where a still-steaming pot of tea was situated on the table next to a sack of coin.

"Would you like something to drink? Tea, or something a bit stronger?" Bilbo scooped up the sack and handed it to him.

"Do you have any ale?" It would take the edge off for his shoulder, and help with the chill from the rain. Thorin wasn't one to pass up a free drink, even with the heavy sack of coin now in his hand.

"In the cellar. I'll be right back." Bilbo hurried off to another room, leaving him alone in the dining room.

Thorin secured the coins on his belt and crossed his arms. The halfling's hospitality, though a welcome surprise before, was beginning to unnerve him. After so many years of unconditional distrust directed at him for being both a witcher and a dwarf, the absence of such a bias confused and troubled him. Halflings especially were not known for welcoming outsiders.

So when Bilbo returned with a full mug of ale and gave it to him with a smile, Thorin assessed him once more. He sensed nothing that would cause suspicion, but that did little to abate his worry. He would ask him a few questions, if for no other reason than to satisfy his curiosity.

"These attacks have been happening for a while," he said, taking a seat across from Bilbo at the table. "But your notice is only a few days old. Why wait so long to ask for help?"

"Folks around here—well." Bilbo poured himself a cup of tea and sat with it between his palms, rotating it slowly and making the murky brown liquid swirl inside. "They're hardly warriors…or witchers. They let fear take over and did nothing. I was tired of living that way, so I decided to do something about it."

"None of the others considered hiring a witcher?"

Bilbo's mouth scrunched to the side as he considered his words. "Let's just say they were equally afraid of the monster and, um, witchers."

"And you weren't?"

He finally met Thorin's eyes. "I did what I had to." A small smile lifted his lips. "And it seems that I made the right choice."

Thorin paused mid-sip and set his mug on the table. He swallowed with some difficulty, mulling over the unexpected response. "A witcher's job is to kill monsters. Nothing more. Though I'm sure you've heard differently."

"I have. And you're quite different from the stories people tell." Bilbo sat back in his chair. "I mean, for one, you're a dwarf. I've never heard of a dwarf witcher before."

"Neither have I," Thorin said. "Mine is a…unique case." He stopped there. It wasn't often he talked about himself to others, and only a handful of people in this world knew the full story about his crossing worlds.

They turned their heads in unison as a spear of lightning split the sky through the window, followed by a rumble of thunder.

"Getting bad out there," Bilbo said. "You could stay here tonight."

"No," Thorin said immediately. He was wary of the halfling's hospitality morphing into charity—he had just paid him two hundred coin for a contract, after all. "I should get going."

He arched an eyebrow. "Lovely weather for camping under the stars, hm? I insist. You did get badly injured during a job I asked you to do, anyway."

"You paid me." He hesitated for a second, then asked, "You'd let a witcher sleep under the same roof as you?"

"You've done nothing so far to have me believe you'd do me harm," Bilbo said. "Unless you don't think I should trust you."

Thorin took in a breath to answer, but he was unsure how exactly to respond. Agreeing with such a claim would be a lie. But denying it would mean…

It would mean having a roof over his head during a rainy night. It would mean spending a little more time with the first person in a while who didn't treat him like a threat.

"I meant what I said earlier."

"Well, then." Bilbo smiled. "You can take one of the guest rooms."

The rain had stopped sometime during the night, and Thorin woke with the first rays of the morning sun shining through the bedroom window. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his elbows against his knees, eyes running over the slants of golden light spilling across the floorboards.

Not for the first time that morning, he revisited the events of the previous day—the contract, the cockatrice, the conversation he'd had with one of the strangest people he'd met in this world.

Bilbo Baggins was a mystery, and his short rest had done nothing to help him unravel it. That someone would treat a witcher with such trust and ease was unheard of. Bilbo was sound of mind, well-educated, and far from dull-witted, yet his actions were entirely contradictory to reason.

Thorin ran a hand over his face and stood up to strap his swords to his back. This world had jaded him, indeed, if he looked upon simple kindness with such confusion.

The house was quiet as he descended the stairs. He kept to the side near the wall to avoid making much noise. Dwarves were hardly known for being stealthy, but his training as a witcher had taught him a few tricks.

Bilbo was already awake, curled up in an armchair in the next room with a book propped open in his lap. Thorin paused for a moment, taking in his small, round figure, the way his fingers absently tapped against the edge of the page, the lock of curly hair that rested against the skin just below his ear.

As soon as he caught himself looking, Thorin was struck by the strange feeling that he was looking in on someone else's life, that even the act of looking belonged to a person that was not him.

Deliberately, he pressed his feet against the center of the stairs as he stepped down, making enough noise to alert Bilbo of his presence.

"Oh, you're awake." He set the book down and stood up. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"No, thank you. I should be on the road." Thorin reached down to retrieve his pack from where he'd left it at the foot of the stairs the previous night. "I am grateful for your hospitality."

"You're quite welcome. And thank you for killing that monster."

"You paid me for that." He settled the straps of his pack on his shoulders, but made no move yet to make for the door.

Bilbo shrugged and leaned against the back of the armchair. "What's got you in such a hurry, anyways? Another contract?"

"I'm heading to the city." Thorin paused, considering his next words, but he saw no harm in saying, "Tracking down a thief."

"Ah." Bilbo tilted his head slightly. "Well, I hope you find whatever was stolen from you."

"As do I." Thorin turned and headed for the door. Now that he had his lead and the funds to follow it, he couldn't afford to tarry any longer—nor could he afford to get distracted. All that mattered now was getting home.

He was nearly at the exit when Bilbo spoke again, his voice careful and measured as he said, "Phineas Ward."

And Thorin went still, alarm ringing through his head. With one hand ready to fly to his sword, he turned back towards Bilbo. He was standing at the other end of the hall, his expression one of guarded curiosity.

"That's who you're looking for, isn't it?"

Thorin cursed himself for letting his guard down. He specialized in the kind of monster mentioned in the contract. That, and the promise of payment, had led him like a dog after a bone to this very place. The stinging reality of it was all too clear to him now, but Thorin found himself asking anyway:

"Why?" His voice came out as little more than a growl.

"He took something from me, too." Bilbo's face was solemn as he said this, and just as achingly genuine as his other expressions. "So I do hope you find him."

A small measure of panic eased from his shoulders. Thorin could read no lie in his words, but the truth had become no more clear either. There was only one thing of which he could be certain. "I will."

Perhaps a false alarm, perhaps not—he would not let either keep him from his goal.

Without another word, he pushed open the door and stepped out into the sunlight.

inùdoy=son (Khuzdul)

I know this story would more appropriately fit in the crossover category, but seeing as there's only one story in the Hobbit/Witcher category, I'm assuming it doesn't get a ton of traffic. So please bear with me!

What do you guys think of Bilbo's character? Can Thorin trust him? He is from a different world in this fic, so he's going to be a little different from classic Shire Bilbo. But hopefully you'll still grow to like him :)

Now that I've written more of this fic, I've also realized there's been at least one fight scene per chapter, so please let me know how I'm doing on those. I try not to make it tedious, but they're so much more fun to play.

Huge thanks to jodi550 for the nice comment! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and please feel free to leave a comment about what you thought of this chapter. I only ask that your comments be about the actual story; please PM me about unrelated matters :)

Stay tuned for the next update!