A/N: Looks like this story isn't done with me yet... No particular warnings for this chapter. Note on the language: Tharkûn is the dwarven name for Gandalf.
Dís wasn't quite sure what she'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.
Thorin had been beside himself about the selection of the 14th member of the Company. Not in any obvious way, of course. He was the king, after all, in action if not in name, and he would never let himself be controlled by something so ridiculous as mere superstition. But Oin had warned against the unlucky number, and insisted that the fourteenth member needed to be an foreigner, and everyone knew Oin read the portents true. So Thorin worried. The Exiles of the Lonely Mountain had learned their lesson even while the fires of Smaug still burned: outsiders were not to be trusted. The more important the task, the less you could trust them. Reclaiming Erebor was of utmost importance: Thorin barely trusted his own with the task, nevermind an stranger. All that aside, Tharkûn promised to find someone, and they'd had little choice but to put their faith in him.
Dís thought that maybe the wizard would bring a dwarf from another clan, or perhaps one of the Dúnedain. If he was being particularly petulant he might have decided to choose some elf. For all their many faults, the Eldar were perilous fighters and skilled herbalists. But never in her wildest dreams would Dís have imagined that the wizard would select a hobbit. And certainly not this particular hobbit.
Bilbo himself was everything a proper halfling should be. His feet hair were neatly brushed, his waistcoat of a sturdy but timelessly fashionable material and cut, his manners impeccable if a bit nervous. Dís found herself distinctly underwhelmed. This was the being who had crossed half of Arda, faced a dragon, and had survived a battle that had killed some of her people's greatest warriors? If it wasn't for the small notice in flowery script posted on the front gate she might have thought she was at the wrong place.
"Bilbo Baggins is not dead. Do not disturb unless returning items from the auction. Thank you."
If that wasn't enough, she could see just the edge of Tharkûn's mark on the bottom edge of the door. It had been recently painted over, but the magic still shone through unhindered. There could be no mistake, but there was also no way that this was the famed Bilbo Baggins. Not this wide-eyed lad with his untidy garden and politely rude signage.
Thorin had been less than thrilled at first too. His letters spoke of a self-centered boy who knew nothing about anything and was more focused on his creature comforts than contributing the the Quest. He expressed anger at Tharkûn for saddling them with someone who couldn't take care of himself when they were already strapped for time and resources. Dís was honestly surprised that Thorin hadn't left Bilbo on the side of the road and told him to return home after the first week, for his own good if no one else's.
The other hobbits she'd spoken with said that Bilbo was a bit odd now, even for someone with Took blood, whatever that was supposed to mean. There was no reason to disbelieve their sincerity, but she could see no obvious signs to support their assessment. At least, not until he'd bowed with more grace and precision than either one of her sons had ever shown. The fact that his hand motions were for the coronation of a male from the Iron Hills did not diminish her amazement in the slightest. Balin, for only Balin would think to add that traditional but rarely used pinky curl, had certainly coached this one well.
Bilbo's home was much like his flowerbeds: recovering after a long absence. All of the furnishings were of the highest quality and craftsmanship, but there was a sense of… displacement. Everything was just a tad too bare and yet a touch too cluttered. The furnishings seemed unbalanced, like there should be another cabinet in that corner or another chair around that table. There were no pictures on the wall, but slight discolorations in the wallpaper made it clear that paintings once hung there. Stacks of books and boxes were tucked into the corners of most of the rooms they passed through. This was a house in the midst of a move: she knew the look because her own home looked very similar for weeks before she left for the last time.
Bilbo fluttered about the kitchen like a butterfly, quickly setting a slightly overembellished tea service. Dís had been served hobbit tea before, and was not exactly looking forward to the weak and oversweet brew. She was pleasantly surprised when Bilbo's tea turned out to be more like coffee: black and strong and bitter. As it should be. The seed biscuits complimented the rich brew perfectly. Clearly the hobbit had been cooking with Bombur: she knew of no one else who used that specific blend of spices. Overall, it was delicious, and Dís was suitably impressed.
Bilbo had just started to relax when Dís mentioned her purpose in visiting. The change was instant and jarring. Gone was the competent albeit nervous host: here was a shocked and grieving survivor bravely putting on the facade of normalcy. She knew the look, because she stared it in the eye every morning. When he expressed his condolences, it was with the weight of understanding and shared loss that made her own throat go tight. Dís hadn't thought it was possible for someone, especially a hobbit, to grieve like that for someone not of their kin. It was clear that he was not prepared to speak of what had happened, but he was too polite to refuse her outright. Frankly, Dís was not prepared to hear of what had truly happened, but she was too pressed for time to indulge her weakness. Or Bilbo's, if it came to that.
But the hobbit managed to surprise her once again, quickly rallying and leading her into his disheveled but well-lit study. She noted one of Bifur's hand-carved pipes on the mantle as she took her seat. The chairs were old, but well-cared-for. The cushions were a blessing to her travel-sore back. Bilbo courteously found her a writing board for her journal, and a fresh pen and bottle of ink in case she should have need of them.
For a while, they sat in meditative silence. He reminded her of Thorin, his eyes distant and his jaw tight as he remembered battles long lost and friends long returned to stone, tobacco smoke curling around his face like a cloud. But when Bilbo finally began to speak, he spoke with the quiet authority and detailed imagery of a master storyteller.