The Hobbit's uninvited guests rose from where they stood; raising their heads up to an equitable amount of respect; the air commandeering the honour of which all of the dwarrows had within them for their esteemed leader. The fire crackled and burned in the silence. And Gandalf moved his eyes; meeting Bilbo's.
"He's here."
The dwarrows had an ambiguous glint in all of their eyes, as they watched Bilbo tread unsure steps towards the door. Bilbo felt as if his feet echoed around his home and each step felt like an age had passed. His eyes flickered round the hall, as his fingers made contact with the cold door knob.
And the door opened.
The dwarf emanated a regal disposition of a natural leader; his face yielding a solid demeanour, which upheld the manner he spoke in and the presence he forged.
"Gandalf," he acknowledged, "I thought you said this place would be easy to find, I lost my way, twice. I hadn't have found it at all if it hadn't been for that mark on the door."
Bilbo closed the door after him; eyes uncertain and hesitant as the dwarf strode into the hallway, greeting the others. The dwarf wore a large coat, the top lined with a light brown fur, and he wore braids that rested against the edges of his stern face.
"Mark?" Remarked Bilbo, retrieving his courage, "There's no mark on that door! It was painted a week ago!"
The grey wizard beside him inclined his head, smiling slightly, "There is a mark, in fact, I put it there myself." Gandalf looked down at the two, curiously, "Bilbo Baggins," he started, "Allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield."
Thorin observed Bilbo with a dignified look.
"So, this is the Hobbit," he said, "Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?"
"Pardon?"
"Axe or sword. What's your weapon of choice?"
Bilbo frowned.
"Thought as much."
The dwarves hummed and chortled in agreement.
"He looks more like a grocer than a burglar," Thorin chuckled, throwing a look over to Dwalin and Morlia.
Dim light was shone onto apprehensive faces of the dwarrows as they circled round the dining room table; everyone was hushed as they awaited their leader. The candles before them gently dwindled away and their wax trickled down, reaching its base and pooling there like a small pearlescent pond.
"What news from the meeting in Eren Luin?" Balin inquired, "Did they all come?"
Thorin bowed his head, "Aye, envoys from all the seven kingdoms."
"All of them!" Gloin cheered, along with some others.
"And what did the dwarves of the iron hills say?" spoke Dwalin, leaning forward, "Is Dain with us?"
"They will not come." The rest of the room slumped: disgruntled, "They say this quest is ours and ours alone."
Balin shook his head, muttering to himself and leant his head back against his chair.
"… You're going on a quest?"
The company turned to see Bilbo uneasily hovering in the rounded doorway, with a cup of tea in his hand.
Gandalf's furrowed eyebrows relaxed and the corners of his eyes crinkled, "Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light." And as Bilbo brought a candlestick closer, Gandalf brought a map out from his pocket, "Far to the East," he began, looking at Bilbo curiously out of the corner of his eyes, "Over ranges and river, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single, solitary peak."
Bilbo peered down at it, and read, "The L-o-n-e-l-y M-o-u-n-t-a-i-n"
"Aye," grunted Gloin, "Oin has read the portents and the portents say, it is time!"
Oin shuffled forwards in this seat, trumpet in hand, "Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold," he placed his hand on the table and looked at everybody, "'When the birds of yore return to Erebor the reign of the beast will end.'"
"Erm," Bilbo shifted, bringing the cup down from his mouth, "What beast?"
"That would be reference to Smaug the terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age," Bofur chipped in, gesturing in the air with his pipe, "Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks," he flashed a smile, "Fond of precious metals."
Bilbo looked at him evidently, "Yes, I know what a dragon is."
Suddenly, the table jolted as Ori, the youngest, stood, raising his voice, "I'm not afraid!"
Dori looked at him imploringly.
"I'm up for it! I'll give him a taste of dwarfish iron, right up his jacksie!"
Bilbo sipped his tea.
"Good lad Ori!" called Nori.
"Sit down," snapped Dori, pulling on Ori's shoulder.
Balin sighed, "The task would be difficult with an army behind us! But we number just fourteen, and not fourteen of the best," he added, "Nor brightest."
"Here! Who are you calling dim?"
"Oi, I'm not stupid!"
"Sorry, what did he say?" shouted Oin, adjusting his hearing trumpet.
"We may be few in number, but we're fighters, all of us, to the last dwarf!" stepped in Fili, pounding his clenched fist on the dining table.
"And you forget!" continued Kili, enthusiastically, "We have a wizard in our company!" he threw his hand to the wizard, "Gandalf would have killed hundreds of dragons!"
Gandalf coughed as he inhaled the smoke from his pipe sharply, "Oh, well, no. I wouldn't say-"
"How many then?" chanted Dori.
"What?"
"How many dragons have you killed?" Dori encouraged the wizard, but when the wizard refused, "Go on, give us a number!"
The dwarrows mutterings grew louder and louder, to the point where they stood up, roaring and shaking their fists and the table shook-
Thorin barked for silence, from the head of the table, standing with his fist connected to the oak, his eyes sternly meeting his Company's. The Company immediately, slunk back down into their chairs, suddenly taking interest in the wooden grains in front of them.
"If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?" he digressed, "Rumours have begun to spread. The dragon, Smaug, has not been seen for 60 years!" he gestured out the window, "Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk: perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected." He slammed his fist down, "Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or, do we seize this chance to take back Erebor!" hollered Thorin, as the rest of the dwarves bellowed in agreement, "Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!"
Balin sighed heavily, "You forget, the front gate is sealed," and he shook his head, looking up from the table and glanced at the company, solemnly, "There is no way into the mountain."
The others leant back into their chairs.
Gandalf looked at the disheartened group, with a fondness in his gaze, "My dear Balin, that is not entirely true."
In Gandalf's fingers twirled a iron key. The atmosphere transformed and the very air they breathed stilled.
Thorin shifted in his seat, his face of sheer disbelief.
"How came you by this?" he uttered.
"It was given to me by your father, by Thrain. For safekeeping," Gandalf slowly handed the key to Thorin, and smiled, "It is yours now."
"If there is a key, there must be a door!"
The wizard pointed at the mountain on the map, "These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls."
The Company turned to one another and muttered of all sorts of possibilities.
"There's another way in," smiled Kili.
Gandalf grumbled, "Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed," he glanced up at them, "The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage. But if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."
"That's why we need a burglar," piped up Ori.
Bilbo hummed and nodded and sipped his tea, "Hmm, and a good one too. An expert, I'd imagine."
Everyone looked at Bilbo.
"And are you?" asked Gloin.
"Am I what?"
"He said he's an expert!" Oin shouted, mishearing.
"Me?" Bilbo stood, blinked and frowned, "No! No, no, no. I'm not a burglar!" he shook his head, laughing slightly, "I've never stolen a thing in my life!"
Balin made eye contact with Thorin, and they shared a look, "Well, I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He's hardly burglar material."
Bilbo nodded in agreement, both hands bringing the tea to his mouth.
Dwalin muttered, "Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves"
"It's a dangerous route we are taking as well, not just a stroll down to market," Morlia grumbled, nodding her head to Bilbo's shopping list on the side.
The Dwarrows murmured with each other, expressing their doubts and concerns.
Gandalf lost his patience, "Enough!" he bellowed, "If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is! Not only are Hobbits light on their feet, but the dragon is unaccustomed to the smell of a Hobbit, therefore giving us a distinct advantage!" Gandalf sighed, turning to Thorin, "I have chosen Mr. Baggins! You know, there's a lot more to him than appearances suggest. And he's got a great deal more to offer! You must trust me on this," he implored.
Thorin bought his hand to his face and rubbed at his beard, thoughtfully for a minute.
"Very well. We will do it your way."
Bilbo looked at him in horror, and plonked his mug down on the side, tea lolloping over the side of the cup, "No, no-"
"Give him the contract," Thorin gestured to Balin.
Balin handed Bilbo the contract and talked to him about the basis of it, while the rest of the company looked at each other, still doubtful.
"Lacerations?" Bilbo read and stared at the contract in horror, "Evisceration…? Incineration!"
"Aye," answered Bofur, "He'll melt the flesh off your bones in a blink of an eye."
Bilbo puffed out his cheeks and put his hands on his knees, contract draping on the floor.
"You alright, laddie?"
"Huh? Yeah," he flexed his hands and blinked slowly, "Feel a bit faint."
Bofur smiled kindly, "Think furnace with wings!"
Bilbo looked at the ceiling, "Air, I need air..."
"Flash of light; searing pain, then poof!" he explained, animatedly, "You're nothing more than a pile of ash!" and he puffed on his pipe, still smiling.
Bilbo hummed nervously.
And he promptly fainted.
"Oh, very helpful, Bofur."
Bilbo's hearth was cast in a dull metal, the soft light carving into the faded black of its engravings. It was actually quite intricate, despite its worn-out appearance; it must've been here for a long time, passing generation to generation along with the rest of the home. An acorn crowned the top of the engravings and the surround gave way to weaving oaken branches and thistle patterns, each one slightly different. The grate also incorporated the thistles and the small handle on it was shaped like an oak leaf, which seemed highly impractical. The back of the firebox held a ceramic of the same blue thistle again, though it was certainly not as pretty as it once must've been, as it held now only a faint colouring and soot coated most of it. The mantle consisted of a polished oak, curving downwards at the two ends. It held a small clock, which drooped into the design itself.
Dwalin settled next to Morlia in the kitchen: next to the hearth. And was glancing at her smoking on a stumpy black pipe. She turned her focus away from the dying embers of the fire and looked at him, questioningly.
He raised eyebrows and stood up to chuck the last of the logs onto the fire; the ends of his worn gauntlets scraping against the side of the basket.
Then he grabbed the iron poker and jabbed at the wood from above the grate.
Morlia moved her boots nearer the fire and blew two smoke rings, one passing though the other, up to the ceiling.
"When did you learn how to do that?" Dwalin grumbled, sitting back on the wooden stool.
"South Farthing. I saw them doing it in Tookbank and along the bank of the River Shirebourn," she puffed on her pipe again, "They told me to go to Longbottom, where they must've got it from. It's called Southern Star, or Hornpipe Twist, take your pick; though it seemed the younger lot of them preferred the latter name."
Dwalin nodded slightly and turned to the hearth.
"Want some?" she grunted, tapping on his arm with it.
They sat there for a while, in silence; Dwalin smoking her pipe, then handing back to her. Though, there was definitely something that was left unspoken.
"Is that where you were-"
"Not now," Morlia cut across him.
Dwalin glanced at her and his mouth twitched at her bluntness.
"Sorry," she genuinely apologised, giving him a wry smile, "I will tell you, just not right now. I mean it wasn't even that significant, you know, where I've been."
He hummed and put a friendly hand on her shoulder.
"Since when did you get sentimental, dear brother?"
Dwalin laughed heartily and clapped her back, "From when you came into this house," he gestured around him, smile dropping, "and saw you had that, dearest sister," and he touched the strap of her eye patch, frowning slightly.
Morlia set her jaw and focused back to the fire. And nothing more was said, for Morlia went with the wicker basket to gather more wood from the store in the garden. And as she did so, she passed Thorin and Balin in the East Hall, who both seemed deep in conversation.
She opened the door and stepped into the cold air of the night, sighing. She rubbed at her beard and pulled at the scraggly bits near her ears. Then sat on the bench with the basket scratching against her trouser leg and she closed her eye, listening to the dwarrows's singing as it drifted through an open window: it's stained glass glinted and projected its blues and warm yellows onto the dark grass below it.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
To dungeons deep and caverns old,
We must away, ere break of day,
To find our long forgotten gold.
The pines were roaring on the heights,
The wind were moaning in the night,
The fire was red, it flaming spread,
The trees like torches blazed with light.
"