o-O-o
Nearly two weeks had passed since Bilbo Baggins of the Shire had left the comfort of his hole in the ground to join a traveling band of dwarves to reclaim the lost mountain of Erebor, and Bilbo Baggins felt like a silly old sod for ever thinking that he would be getting his seven meals in along the road. He had, much to his dismay, grabbed his second most fine teapot when running out his door the morning of his leave, with all intentions to continue his familiar schedule of afternoon tea. The first time he had removed the pot from his pack, stuffed full of jams and biscuits for his provisions, he had received a very firm stare of disgust from Dwalin, who then proceeded to walk over to Bilbo, take the pot (with a much too firm grip for Bilbo's liking), and throw it some length away from their camp and into the flowing waters of the Brandywine (much more untoward Bilbo's liking). Bilbo didn't speak for nearly two days after the event, though the company seemed quite content to mock him for the azaelias that were painted onto the design of the tea pot, which made him sulk even more. Gandalf took quite a laugh from the whole ordeal.
Bilbo sat down on a softer patch of grass some days after that, stomach rumbling in anticipation at the evening's meal (of which he was receiving only two per day on their travels, much to his dislike). He pulled his waist coat about him, chilled by the cool air of the evening, when to his surprise, a thick and quite smelly coat fell on top of his head.
"I thought you looked a trifle cold lad," said old Balin, taking his own seat next to Bilbo. "I know you think we dwarves quite strange, but we don't like to see a friend suffer when we can help it."
"Friend," Bilbo said, "might not be appropriate word from what I've seen so far. More like 'tolerated acquaintance,' though I'm not complaining, might I say." Balin snorted, and shook his great beard in a small denial with a smirk. "Oh, you'll come round to everyone young Master Hobbit, and they'll come round to you. Us dwarves are hard skulled, and it does take some time for us to warm to strangers, even among our own folk." Bombur came round then, handing them both a bowl of some stew that Bilbo guessed had at least three types of meat and, to no surprise, a lack of vegetables.
"Even though you don't think it, no one here dislikes you, lad. Sure a good few had their doubts as to whether you'd even show up, but I was in the lot that had faith," Balin said with a hearty laugh.
"And those that didn't think so," Bilbo asked, "I'd imagine that they aren't too happy to see me."
"It's not quite that, my boy. They, well . . . doubt your fortitude in light of the coming circumstances."
"I doubt my fortitude Mister Balin, that I do." Bilbo replied as he blew steam from his bowl. "I've taken quite a few day trips out into the forests near Southfarthing, but nothing quite like this."
Balin looked at him, and Bilbo was surprised to find confidence toward him in his features. "You know, in spite of what you may think, not everyone here was too keen on this adventure at the start, even if you think us all war hardened spirits," he said, looking over at Ori, who was busy scribbling in his little green bound book like always. "We're not all fighters, lad. Some of us only learned to defend our own in quite dire of circumstances. Sometimes all you need is a bit of a push to find that you have greatness in you." He looked at Bilbo with a sudden frown, "Though I hope that push never comes for you Master Baggins . . . but I fear it will."
With that, Balin rose from his spot giving Frodo a curt nod and wiping away all previous concern from his features. Bilbo watched him go, walking across the fire to sit with Nori who was fiddling with what Bilbo could have sworn looked like one of his own silver spoons. His gaze shifted across the fire, and to his surprise he was met with the gaze of Thorin from the edge of the group. Bilbo jumped a bit in Balin's coat, surprised by the intensity of the glare, but as quick as it had been there, Thorin looked back toward the vastness of the valley below their camp, leaving Bilbo to wonder what he was thinking.
When suddenly two dwarves plopped themselves down rather heftily down on either side of Bilbo, startling him into sloshing broth onto his trousers.
"Master Baggins," Fili said, "Good evening," Kili added.
There was silence as the two beamed down at Bilbo, who had taken to cleaning bits of soup from his self. Begrudgingly, but not in an unfriendly way, he indulged whatever mischief the two brothers were up to.
". . . . . good evening?"
"Ah, there, Fili, he's come about he has!" Kili said, clapping Bilbo on the back, spilling yet another wake of his own broth onto Bilbo. "We thought you looked like you could use our company."
"Rightly so Master Hobbit, and Kili and I couldn't yet a little thing like yourself shiver over here all by your own," Fili said, with another firm pat. And more broth.
"Especially not with all the wargs and crawlies howling away out there, Fili."
"No, Kili, it would be unbecoming of us not to protect Master Baggins from the things in the night."
"Not,"
Pat.
"At,"
Pat.
"All, Fili."
"Oh for all's sakes you two, would you please stop brandishing your bowls at me like your weapons?! Some great defenders you are, it'll take hours for these trousers to dry off, mind you two."
The brothers gave each other a knowing look, and turned to Bilbo, who had risen to practically wring out his pants, each giving him a devilish smirk, "Deepest apologies Master Burglar," Fili began, "there is no greater offense to a Hobbit, I'm sure," Kili finished.
"Oh, come off it lads, you've had enough fun with him for one night," Bofur called from the cooking pot, "The poor lad hasn't any meat on his bones, he'll right freeze to death if you douse 'im any farther."
Bilbo shot Bofur an incredibly thankful look, and was met with the same. The two brothers stood, shrugging the affair off, and gave him a simultaneous bow before running off to, what looked like, stuff acorns into Oin's hearing trumpet.
Bilbo sighed, and went to sit closer to the fire in hope that he might take off at least some of the wetness lest he had to sleep in a sopping mess.
"Do all Hobbits sigh so much, Master Baggins, or is it just some quirk of your own," Bofur asked, twitching up his brows in a friendly question.
"I'm sorry," Bilbo started, "I'm just a bit cranky from being so wet."
"Aye, but I've seen it more than just now," Bofur said. The dwarf mussed about his hat, pulling it down farther onto his head. "And you'd best grow more toward the notion of being wet. You're lucky we haven't yet run into any downpours, but it'll happen soon. Can't go making camp and shelter just to stave off a little rain," Bofur winked, "or dinner."
o-O-o
Bilbo came to notice things about the troupe of dwarves during their nightly respites, each one set in their own habits.
Dori and Nori largely kept to themselves, with Dori often playing a quiet tune from a number of flutes that he had apparently whittled on his way to meet with the other dwarves, and was quite a skilled player. Ori always had his nose in a small journal, constantly scribbling down the day's events as they unfolded, and Bilbo couldn't help but wonder how a most curious and gentle spirit had come to join the dwarven fellowship. Nori, he was fairly sure, had taken a number of 'souvenirs' from his home before they left, but he had swiftly decided to ignore it lest he grow any more grumpy than he was.
Oin often flitted about the group, always poking and prodding to make sure no one was uncomfortable or injured. Though Bilbo didn't much want to admit it, his salves and one very strong poultice had done a wonder on his quite raw legs, not used to the rough nature of a saddle. Gloin would always sit away from the group, smoking pipe weed from a rather ornate looking piece, whose sweet smoke Bilbo didn't recognize as anything Shire made, while mussing about the groups coin purse, counting and recounting how much money that had.
Bifur . . . well Bifur didn't say much, as Bilbo expected, what with the crude looking axe sticking directly from his skull, though he was sure the fellow knew some form of signage that he often tossed at Bofur whom always seemed to know exactly what he was getting at. Bombur of course prepared nearly every meal for the group, seeming to have a passion for cook craft that could rival a hobbit.
Balin seemed to take a liking to spending his nights chatting with Bilbo about this and that, and Bilbo grew quite fond of him in those times, glad he had someone to share in his ramblings. Dwalin was never seen much far away from their leader, always chatting him up about the road ahead, or scouting the next day's path. And then there was Thorin, who Bilbo could simply not pin down in any course of action.
That is, if you don't include brooding as a formal hobby.
Bilbo could count with less than one hand's fingers the number of conversations he'd had with the dwarf, and didn't need any to recount the ones that had been anything approaching pleasant.
In all of his life, Bilbo Baggins had never come across a creature so simultaneously frustrating and garnering curiosity. He found that no matter what he did or said to him, he was always met with a look that implied he was being judged of every action. Bilbo took Balin's words to heart, and tried to hold hope that the dwarf was simply being cautionary toward his strangeness as a hobbit, but all be damned if it wasn't infuriating. Even a simple 'good morning' or 'hello, Thorin' was met with little more than a nod and a near discernible narrowing of eyes. It was clear that Bilbo was not to be trusted. But, he decided, as long as he could win the friendship of the others (except Dwalin whom he still had a great aversion to out of fear for his life), he could be content with his lot among them. But still, Bilbo did wish that he could have at least one conversation with him without being gratingly unwelcome.
If Thorin were a hobbit, Bilbo concluded, he would get along wonderful with his cousin Lobelia.
Yet, he did not fully resign to being forever shunned from Thorin's good graces. Bilbo decided that, if the time was ever right, he would want to know more of the dwarf's story.
o-O-o
The days went on, and as they passed, Bilbo found himself wishing more often for a fine hearth and a warm nook to tuck into than he would have imagined, much to his dismay.
His 'adventure,' if he dared call it even that, was nothing like he had thought. In truth, he wasn't expecting something so grand as to shake the histories, but he certainly wasn't looking forward to the legacy of their journey from what he had witnessed so far. He simply couldn't wait for the tales to be sung about the cranky, grumpy hobbit traveling with a band of mismatched dwarves who trounced through the countryside with an unneeded burglar whom was scarcely shown any common courtesy of companionship by their leader, and found himself growing more and more tired of the entire notion of their quest as time went on. Oh yes, glorious material indeed. His feet ached, his back creaked beneath the weight of too many items carried, and he had a small sniffle that wouldn't shake no matter how many times he blew his nose.
It simply wasn't possible, he thought, that he had found a group of creatures that were more complaintive than the Sackville- Baggins. Yet he could be wrong, as he found, one afternoon when the group had retired early to make camp near the ruin of what seemed to once be a small farm. They all walked into the grassy clearing, to be met by the din of Thorin and Gandalf bickering about their stop, with the wizard warning that it was an unwise notion to rest in a place that had been tainted by unjust death. Thorin, not hearing a word of it, for Bilbo was sure his pride was thicker than his dense skull, puffed out his chest and told Gandalf off of the matter, leaving the wizard to walk off on his own, seeking the company of the only reasonable one in the company.
His self.
"Come on Bombur, we're hungry," Thorin called with a sour tone.
Bilbo turned to Balin next to him, who was shaking his head looking tired of the whole thing. "Is he coming back," Bilbo asked the old dwarf, whose response was an unsure look.
After that, Bilbo had sat down with a huff, and removed his pack to stretch his cramping legs. Laying his head back onto his bed roll, he closed his eyes in exhaustion, and let his mind wander away from all the negativity.
He found himself thinking again of his home in the Shire; of his large book case, filled with ten or so novels that he hadn't yet got round to opening, the satisfaction and warm giddiness that came from downing the last gulp of ale in a pint at The Green Dragon, and of his bed, oh his bed, that haunted him every night as he lay his head down onto the rockiness of the wilderness.
As much as he was loathe to admit it, Bilbo knew why Shire folk didn't dare decide to go on adventures. They weren't a hard won people; they had no battles to fight, nor creatures to usurp among their rolling hills and seasonal gardens. The hardest battle a hobbit faced was weeding an unruly patch of melons, or choosing the right fabric for a new armchair. He was far out of his element, and he knew it well, and it frustrated the more he thought of it.
Bilbo was, indeed, jealous of the dwarves. Not of their plight in their loss of their home, no, he pitied them greatly for that, but for their fervor in life. It hadn't struck him until he sat down to listen to their grand tales of battle and of kin, but these people lived a life much removed from his own quiet existence, and he loathed himself for it. They knew of the dangers and wonders of the world, and what did he know? Recipes and crochet patterns.
Out here in the wilds of the world, Bilbo found himself quite useless. He couldn't hunt for game for supper, he couldn't start a fire, though Bofur had made it a personal vendetta to teach him to use a flint and steel, and he surely couldn't fight or hold his own. Not that he was eager to get the chance.
But they had run into a few troubles along the way of their journey, and each time Bilbo could do nothing but be crowded behind the dwarves as they warned him to stay back from whatever had befell them.
It made Bilbo feel utterly, completely stupid. And that feeling did not help his love of their journey. Maybe the glances and glares he received when no one thought he was looking were well deserved. After all, here he was on a journey not his own, leaving others to pine over him like a mother hen at every shred of danger.
Some small part of Bilbo, smaller than the one that yearned for his home, wanted his self to change, to become daring like the dwarves, to find some of the greatness that Balin had talked about.
But in the end, Bilbo resigned from that, either too afraid or too uncomfortable at the thought of being anything but Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, quiet and peaceful Hobbit of the Shire.
And in the end, he started to loathe himself for it.
o-O-o
Some time later, after they had all tucked in to a bit of Bombur's stew, Bilbo was carrying two hot bowls of it to Fili and Kili who were meant to be on watch of the ponies. He approached them, trying hard not to exact some small revenge by 'accidentally' spilling it on the two, but he couldn't get any of them to take them.
"What's wrong?"
"Well we were supposed to be watching the ponies," said Killi, "but we've ran into a slight problem."
"We had sixteen," Fili added, "but now we've got fourteen."
"How in the world could you two loose two ponies?!" Bilbo said in slight exasperation, when Kili pointed suddenly through the trees.
"There's a light over there, I saw it!" The two crept closer, Bilbo following still carrying the bowls, and they stopped behind an old tree, felled and covered with moss. "Someone should check it out."
"Don't you think we should be getting Thorin," Bilbo asked, half turned to go back himself.
"No," Fili replied, pointing over to the light in the darkness, "as our certified Burglar, we thought you might want to look into the matter." Before Bilbo could utter a protest, the two plucked the bowls from his hands, and grabbed under his arms, lifting him past the tree and toward the flickering light.
"If you should run into any trouble, hoot twice like and barn owl, and twice like a brown owl!"
Bilbo shook his head, taking a few steps forward before he sputtered in place, realizing the absolute absurdity of what was happening.
"Twice like a b-, or was it once, or," he realized he was speaking to his self. "Fili . . . KILI!" But the two were long since gone, or hiding.
". . . right, then."
Bilbo crept quietly forward on light and nervous feet, going some yards before he heard the crackle of a fire, and three rather whining voices.
"Mutton today, mutton yesterday, and if it don't look like we'll be havin' mutton tomorrow," the voice said. Bilbo crept closer, until he finally saw three monstrous trolls rounding a large pot cooking over a fire, whose scent was enough to sting Bilbo's eyes even from so far away.
"Quit 'yer whinin', these is Western ponies," another said, dragging a huge ladle through the pot.
"Yeah," began the third, "these is much better'n that mangly old farmer we had'n last week. Still pullin' bits of 'em out me teeth I am," it chuckled ferociously.
"AAACHOO," the first yelled, sending a rather large ball of snot rolling across the way and nearly to Bilbo's feet, in the most absolutely disgusting display that Bilbo had the misfortune of witnessing.
"Oh, that's just lovely right there inn't?" Said the second, cracking the sniveling one over the head with the large spoon.
'Excellent,' Bilbo thought, 'simply brilliant display here.'
Rubbing what Bilbo guessed would soon be a large lump, the sickly one pulled out a crude, snot encrusted rag from the side of its loincloth, revealing a rather intimidating looking knife tucked into its belt. Behind him, the ponies whimpered and stomped their feet from the sight of it. Seeing the opportunity, Bilbo began to retreat for a moment to grab Fili or Kili, but remembered that they had gone. Thinking for a few moments, twitching his fingers, he finally decided to do something altogether stupid, and went off round the clearing to where the ponies where held.
He creeped along, watching the three trolls argue amongst themselves, until he found the chance to slip behind the thick post of the pony's pen, just before one reached behind to near Bilbo's hiding spot to grab a crudely constructed tankard.
"Oi, William, tha's me grog you grabbed there!" The fattest called, prodding his finger into the other's chest.
"Blimey, Burt watch where yer pokin' that finger!"
"Oh, stop the yammerin' you two, me guts is grumblin' and yer soddin' off when you should be cookin'!"
Bilbo clambered over behind the one with the knife, barely ducking behind his flailing hands, and sat low beneath its hulking form. The ponies behind him began to whinny at his sight, Myrtle trying to stick her nose out to him, and Bilbo rushed to hush them in a quiet tone. But they would not stop, growing more agitated, and he knew that he didn't have much time before he was found. Carefully, he began to stand, and slipped the great knife out from the troll's waistband. He had nearly finished cutting through the rope around the pen when the arguing began again.
"Argh, enough of it, flesh, I need flesh!" William shouted, grabbing wildly behind him to the pen of horses, only to grab Bilbo by mistake. With another great cry, the troll began to sneeze again, and brought what he had grabbed up to his nose to catch the filth, smearing Bilbo with a long, slightly green, trail of troll booger.
"AHHH!" It yelled, pointing wildly toward Bilbo, "Look what's come out me 'ooter! Arms and legs and all!"
"What is it?" The cook called over, sniffing at Bilbo.
"I dun' like it wrigglin' like that," the third cried.
"What'ya think it is," called the first, sniffling, letting Bilbo slide onto the ground, "some kind 'erve exotic squirrel?"
Bilbo stood eyes closed, desperately attempting to scrub some of the snot from his eyes and mouth.
"I," he sputterd, "am a burgl- ah, I mean, hobbit,"
The cook scoffed at Bilbo, picking him up by his feet and dangling him dangerously close to the fire. "Never 'erd of 'em before . . . can we eat 'im?" He said, drawing a crude filleting knife from his waistband. "Let's find out."
"DROP HIM!" Came a voice from the distance, and Bilbo watched Kili burst from the trees, bow drawn, followed closely by Fili and Thorin and the rest of the company. "I said, drop him."
"You want 'im?" Burt called down at the dwarves with a sneer, "you can 'ave 'im!" And he slung Bilbo through the air barreling toward Kili, falling hard onto him and seeing nothing but black.
o-O-o
Thorin was beginning to feel rather sick, on account of it was the hundredth time the wretched trolls had spun him round the fire spit, stripped down to his undershirts much to his annoyance. He grimaced all the while, turning, and turning, and turning until he rightly felt bile in the back of his throat.
It was all rather annoying, he thought, as he looked over to the dwarves wriggling about in threadbare sacks in a pile.
If anyone, he thought, ever, ever, dared to mention the night again, by Durin he would skin them faster than the cave trolls. He squirmed in his bindings, suddenly aware that a small piece of his long braid had begun to smoke from a stray ember.
"When I get out of this, you miserable filth, I'll cut you raw!" He shouted, only met by the resounding laughs bellowing from the trolls, his threats meaning nothing in his current situation.
A situation, he noted, that would not have happened in the first place if not for the complete stupidity of two foolish nephews, and a halfling that annoyed him more immeasurably with every passing morning. He looked to where he was laying, still knocked out from a pathetically soft blow to the head from landing on Kili. If he hadn't charged into meddling with the trolls like an absolute fool, and gone to warn the others, maybe he wouldn't be nearly on fire being sprinkled with rosemary and sage wanting to vomit. What a burden. He was tired of the halfling being preened and cooed by the members of the company, unable to hold his own, unable to defend himself in even the most un-harrowing of circumstances.
"What's going on," a soft voice called from the pile. It was the man of the hour himself. The hobbit jumped suddenly, looking around at the others in their bindings, Bofur giving him a widely acidic grin.
He was beginning to feel rather hot.
"Dawn ain' far away William, let's get a mov'n," the fat one called, his stench filling Thorin's nose as he drew closer, brandishing a rusted knife, "let's just fillet'im right now'n get it over wi-,"
"NO, no, no, you are making a terrible mistake!"
'What now?'
The halfling stood up, as well as anyone tied into a sack could, and hopped closer to the three trolls, muttering about how they were being foolish. The only fool Thorin could see was the hobbit, who was about to get himself gutted by three hungry trolls.
"I, I, mean about the, about the seasoning," he told the trolls.
The one called Burt squinted at the halfling, lumbering over to him with his knife drawn. "What 'bout the seasoning?"
He shifted in place, looking back and forth between the knife coming closer to him and Thorin, obviously unaware of what he had gotten himself into. "Have you seen him," he said, nodding over to where Thorin was still turning, "better yet have you smelled him? You're going to need something much stronger than sage if you plan to plate that one up."
How dare he. "Traitor! You little Shire- rat, I'll remember that!" Thorin called down to him, spitting his words. For a moment, he had thought the halfling was going to finally be of some assistance to the company, but at the rate he was going, he might as well throw himself into the cooking fire before one of the others, namely himself, did.
For a moment, Thorin felt his body stop turning, throwing his head into fits at the sudden lack of motion. The troll that had been turning him over the fire joined the other by the hobbit, waving his ladle about. "What do you know about cookin', little squirrel?"
Thorin's vision was swimming, seeing about four hobbits at the same time, all their faces with unabashed surprise that his traitorous little conversation was going so well.
"Well, I, uh," he called, turning about, "know the . . . secret, yes the secret to cooking dwarves like that one."
The hobbit was lucky that Thorin's throbbing head didn't have any extra room at the moment for being angrier, though the string of curses coming from the pile of dwarves behind him was enough.
"An' what would that be? Talk burglaflurahobbit!"
'Oh, this should be wonderful'
"The uh, secret is, uh," the halfling said, looking rather desperate to and from Thorin to some spot in the trees. He obviously had no idea what he was talking about, and Thorin quite didn't care to hear any more of it. He blathered on, still looking yearningly toward the trees, toward Durin knows what. Thorin twisted his neck, looking through the waving heat of the fire, and caught a flash of grey through the light in the trees.
The light in the trees? The dawn was drawing near! Thorin looked to the hobbit, who met his own eyes with a small nod, and he knew what he'd been doing all along. The grey thing moved to Thorin's right now, coming to rest behind a rather large rock that had a corona of the sun's first breaths behind it. Clever. For the first time since the start of their journey, Thorin was glad that the hobbit was part of the company.
Suddenly, Gandalf's shadow loomed high over the rock, and his voice loomed over the clearing, "The dawn will take you all!" And he brought his staff down with a definitive strike, cracking the boulder clean in two, turning the trolls to stone as they screamed at the daylight.
The dwarves all cheered, calling out praises for the wizard, and for the hobbit, who had cut his own bindings and was looking for a way to free the others. He ran to the piles of their clothing, grabbing his own familiar garnet waistcoat, in a way that came from what Thorin guessed was embarrassment. Plucking a knife from the pile, he went back to the others and began hacking away at their sacks, setting them free.
They all met the hobbit with praise for his cunningness, most apologizing for having doubted his methods, though Dwalin still threatened to cut off at least one of the halfling's fingers if he ever insulted Thorin in such a manner again.
Whom, speaking of which, was starting to smell rather crisp as he was still hanging above a roaring blaze.
"Would someone like to cut me loose," Thorin asked from the spit with a king's patience.
Hearing his voice, the dwarves scrambled to him, fretting about how he was ever slightly on fire, and he gave them a sarcastic smile at their sudden concern. Finally let down, the blood rushed back into his head, and he doubled over from the sensation, the others clapping him on the back for staying alive.
Yet, he realized, looking over at the hobbit who was standing some ways away with the smallest grin of relief, that it was not his own doing that had saved his skin. For all the days that he had spent watching the hobbit from across the fire, doing naught but chatting about elevenses (whatever that was), he had never thought that he would make anything of himself within the company. A burden, and a haughty one, was what he had weighed the halfling's worth as.
And Thorin Oakenshield knew, looking at this timid, weak, and utterly brilliant hobbit, that he had never been so wrong.
o-O-o