Creatures of Middle Earth

Nyrah, saint2sinners

Chapter 2: Stormcloud Oakenshield

Summary:

Bilbo has decided to run off with the dwarves. Thorin wishes to avoid Bree. Bilbo... disagrees.

Notes:

Hey all. This is Nyrah. Saint is committing seppuku in shame at how long this took. 6 weeks, and I had to edit everything in one sitting before she'd bugger off and leave me alone. So, here's the first official chapter. Please leave comments if you care, con-crit is appreciated.
The bloody corpse on the floor wants me to tell you that we will touch on the canon, but as she has read the book and seen the movies, she finds the 62nd iteration somewhat tedious. So, kiddies, we're going off-road with this roller-coaster!
Enjoy.

Chapter theme: All Good Things - Angels
watch?v=2BCEiXphVzA

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There were dwarves in the Shire.

It was common enough to see them at the outer market or even in the tavern rooms of the Green Dragon Inn. You would often find them - like the men of Bree - on the fringes of the Shire, where the poorer or simply less respectable hobbits made their way. They were always seeking work, passing through or heading to their shanty homes in Ered Luin. Some were friendly and would be welcomed to the inn with music and song; others were caustic and brisk, seeking coin more than camaraderie from the locals. Others still, large and armed, would never be known as the locals sought nothing of them and allowed them to respond in kind. The rangers kept a keen eye and the Bolger and his boys would watch the soft green valley just as close. Above all, the land of the Shire itself was very aware of its little residents and jealously guarded their safety; it frequently led many undesirable characters away from the heart of the rolling hills, keeping them to the edges and fields through trickery and subtle confusion of the mind. Today however, the air was charged and whispers swept ahead of even the wind. Rumours wound through the lanes and passed from lip to lip in a mad dash for the nearest virgin ear.

There were dwarves in the Shire.

Lobelia Sackville Baggins, nee Bracegirdle, wouldn't have given such tall tales any regard, knowing her own gossip to be far more interesting and rooted in actual truth. At least she wouldn't have, had she not seen one herself, daring to be bald in public without so much as a head scarf, almost man-tall and growling like a rabid dog as he stalked past the house of Mrs Primrose Harfoot right after a rather lovely tea - good biscuits, fig jam, although drier-than-expected scones, made from an obviously poor attempt at achieving her own famous recipe don't you know – But a dwarf! In the Shire!

Well, she took herself off to the Bolger immediately, after a quick stop at a fence or two, the market, Mrs Mallory, Mr Timbleruff and three of her nieces who happened to be on the way. Not for her own sake of course, but to spread the word that she and she alone –being that Mrs Primrose is nearly blind and couldn't have seen as much regardless of what she says - of course could confirm and tell them first before grand stories of invading dwarves coming to ravish them in their beds could take root. Even if said dwarf had looked at her with a rather hungry and near feral desperation which she absolutely ignored, of course, being a proper and married near Baggins, a Sackville Baggins, but Baggins none the less!

In the end the words were spread around the Shire through the afternoon, the evening and all the following day.

The Bolger and his boys chased after the threads of rumour and claims of sightings, searching for tangible evidence. They debated alerting the rangers that patrolled and protected the borders of their valley but all agreed it was better to exclude the rough and rugged hunters lest they manage to avoid inviting them at all. Throughout the hills and in any of the great or lesser smials, no solid sign of dwarf could be found.

There was, however, word from some neighbours of Bag-End and the early rising farmers of the nearby fields, of Miss Baggins tearing off across the fields as if her coattails had caught fire, but no real credence was given to this highly improper – and therefore unlikely - behaviour. This changed when they arrived at her hobbit hole to find it sealed up tighter then a mother-in-law's biscuit tin. Her gardener, Mr Hamfast Gamgee, was found near the back door looking perplexed. A most unusual note of instruction regarding her gardens and the upcoming season's care had been messily written and dropped in his mailbox. The Bolger declared it an obvious forgery, as the gentlehobbit was known for her delicate scrawl.

Grandmother Baggins, the matriarch and grand-dame of the entire Baggins clan, was duly informed by her grandson Drogo of his cousin's disappearance and she demanded to be brought directly to the smial of the Old Took, greatest of the Tuckborough smials. The search intensified as Baggins, Tooks and associated kin joined the Bolgers' boys in the hunt and word was sent to the Brandybuck Hedge, a regular stopping point for the rangers.

The matter might have been left at that, for a few months at least, before Lobelia started making enquiries - read accusations - regarding her cousin-in-law's obvious abandonment of her estate, had it not been for Primula Brandybuck's unexpected arrival. She rode in on a cart driven by a man from Bree at the most impolite hour. The Bolger and the more concerned of the hobbits were sitting down to supper with the Tooks - to maintain their strength of course, as they had explained to the old Took and Grandmother Baggins herself - so that they may continue searching for the invading army and/or missing unmarried granddaughter.

Several tiny ears and eyes were witness to the arrival even though they should have been abed at least an hour earlier. Later, they were thoroughly scolded for their eavesdropping, of course, but only after reporting on the event and driving the rumours forward faster for yet another day. It had been sensational, those tiny eyes had claimed, as the awfully young and terribly distraught Miss Brandybuck leapt off the cart before it had completely come to a stop and slammed at the door before entering the Took's smial without even a word of invitation or greeting.

The man in the cart had been given tea and dinner by one of the cousins, after coming out and finding him still there a few minutes later. Primula on the other hand had pushed past the stalwart Drogo Baggins without even the regular foul glare thrown up between them, and had sought out the main dining room and shocked into silence the collective Tooks, Bolgers and Baggins clans by demanding that they all break from dinner entirely and make for Bree in haste order to enact a daring rescue.

There were dwarves in Bree! And they had kidnapped Bilbo Baggins!

XXXXXX

Bree was a village, of Men and some hobbits,
in Middle-earth located east of the Shire and south of
Fornost Erain in Eriador.

XXXXXX

Travelling on pony, Bilbo had decided, was hateful. And Thorin, his-royal-pain-in-the-arse-highness Oaken-whatever, could go stick that right up his royal bloody backside! She was seriously considering whether she would be taking her leave of this smelly, ill-mannered, motley bunch the moment they entered Bree and bugger any contract they tried to wave in her face. She had of course taken many walking holidays, but none of her past experiences, her books or her mother's stories had prepared her for the reality of traveling with a bunch of unfriendly, unwelcoming and frankly obnoxious dwarves.

Hours of riding and her legs were raw bruise more than skin, her back was agony and her saddle sores had saddle sores. Not to mention she was starving. She had tried to call a stop for second breakfast or even elevensies earlier, thinking that the dwarves must have forgotten. His royal bastard-self had given her a dressing down about soft living and not treating the expedition like a holiday.

She'd been so surprised she hadn't been able to respond to the cutting remark, not used to the harsh response. She'd looked for some support from any corner only to find similar sneers on several of the fiercer looking dwarves or even worse, laughter and mockery at her expense, with them snickering and making jokes in their confounded language. Bilbo gnawed on her lip at the irritation lingering under her skin at the memory. The rush of humiliation had hurt, and subsequently found her on her pony at the end of the company, forcing back the tears. As the sun rose and her stomach began to curl in on itself in hunger, the feeling of hurt began to change with every replay of the morning, mixed in with thought of contracts, and night time songs and empty pantries. The humiliation slowly fed the embers of the new feeling until a heat of indignation had started to flare up and start growing:

It throbbed in her veins as a steady reminder that she was the daughter of Belladonna and Drogo Baggins. She was master of Bag End and a strong and capable gentlehobbit; that she had a spark and a fire that at the very least Gandalf, if no one else, could see… herself included.

She lifted her chin, and soldiered on.

A clearing of a throat nearby drew her glare sideways and away from the backs of dwarves riding ahead, surly with her but happy enough to share song and story with each other it seemed. The large grey hat covered most of his face but Gandalf gave her the same insipid smile as this morning. That aggravating curl of lip around pipe that seemed to hint that you were not calm and things would improve if you would just really make an attempt to be reasonable. It was a patronizing gesture, she thought resentfully, and had her hackles up the second she saw it.

Gandalf, the fink, had tried to calm her down, explaining that the other races had nowhere near a sensible meal schedule and offered her a bit of breakfast he had set aside for just such an emergency. She'd taken it with a dirty look, wondering why he couldn't have mentioned this before she'd spoken up and been slapped back into place so spectacularly. If some great and mystical wizardly insight had convinced him of the need to spare her some of his meal, surely he could have mentioned it before convincing her to undertake this dreadful mistake of a journey.

Gandalf tipped his head and looked ahead again, the silly smile still there, as if he could see her considering taking his "stick" and beaning him in the side of the head just hard enough to remove that complacent smirk; or perhaps boxing the ears of one of the young dwarves who even now brayed at each other like donkeys and kicked out in play. Where was their reprimand to take the journey more seriously?

Instead, they rode along, all in a winding row like scruffy little ducklings bobbing in their saddles following a swimming rooster. A preening cock who had no idea of left from right without clandestine prompts and occasional awkward crossroad coughs from the old dwarf with the long white beard. Balin, that one she was sure was Balin. He and the bald one with the giant axes, Dwalin… his brother they'd said? They seemed to spend the most time debating the route with Thorin, Lord of the Prats.

Bilbo huffed again, her pained irritation growing with every dragging, winding mile. It wasn't as though she lived in these lands after all. She wouldn't know her way around every lane and byway. And of course she'd never ever taken a walking holiday in this very direction, no! Not in the least! There was no point asking her for the best route or even letting her up front to join in the debate of whether the fork was indeed the one to the Brandywine Bridge or Buckland's crossing.

'Condescending coxcomb,' Bilbo thought sourly.

"Alright then, Mr Boggins?"

And how bloody hard was it to remember her bloody last name?

The snickering that accompanied the otherwise reasonable question had her biting back on her initial response as she noticed the horses had begun moving again, leaving her behind.

"Fine thank you. And once again it's Baggins, not Boggins. Baggins."

Normally she'd add a word of thanks or take this as a chance to start a conversation, but every brusque comment or call to keep up upon which she'd tried to start building familiarity had been met coldly or rebuffed as the dwarf in question turned away from her, or worse: was called away by a relative. She thought to ignore the rude sniggering to try to find some common ground in this endeavour. There were thirteen bloody dwarves after all. At least one of them had to be willing to speak to her in a friendly manner.

"Careful Mr Hobbit. Don't want to be left behind. This late the wolves would make short work of you an' that pony."

Bilbo's eyes widened briefly, eyeing the gloaming in the trees around them before shaking herself and sitting straighter. The fear of those things that howled in the night was near instinctual now to all who lived through the Fell Winter. She turned to the one who had spoken – the one with the hat. Although she couldn't quite bring herself to hold a jovial tone with him, she at least managed a watery smile. "No worry of that master dwarf. The wolves don't cross the Brandywine River except for the most severe winters. There hasn't been one that bad in the Shire since I was a fauntling."

She looked at the fellow on the brown pony beside her and took a moment trying to remember which one he was. The rhyming names might have played dickens with the memory but it was rather handy for figuring out who belonged with whom in this bunch. Besides, she was a hobbit, and a hobbit who couldn't remember the names of a dozen people upon first meeting them found themselves lacking party invitations rather quickly.

"Thank you Mr Bofur. I wouldn't have wanted to be left behind. I'm sure your leader would have found something colourful and majestically pompous to say in that regard."

His eyes widened a fraction and she bit her lip. So much for polite and friendly. Before she could make apology for the snide add-on to her overture, the wide dark eyes shut on a bark of sudden laughter. One or two of the others looked back at them, confused at the outburst. The laughter trailed off with a chuckle and the dwarf, under the brim of his floppy hat, gave her a wide grin and a wink. She was surprised to see he didn't hasten his horse forward to his family but instead remained behind with her.

"No mister needed for the likes of me. Me an' mine are just simple men and miners. Not like the King an' his family. We are plenty familiar with a bit of Nobby colour. Even them Ri's are rumoured to have a bit o' blue blood if you believe the talk."

Biblo frowned, perplexed. "Nobby colour?"

Bofur smiled and clarified cheerfully "Nobility and their fancy ways." He tapped his nose again as if to emphasis his point. "Bofur will do just fine if you be wantin' to get my attention lad, you don't need to be throwing Mister my way."

That was another source of confounded bother the wizard had failed to mention before she signed that blasted contract. Gandalf had pulled her back early that morning and in hushed words explained to her in careful detail why everyone kept calling her 'Mr Boggins- uh, Baggins' the night before; a mistake she had been far too busy dealing with the threat of broken china and the systematic destruction of her home to correct at the time.

Dwarves, he'd explained in not so many words, were apparently worse than the most old-fashioned of her uncles and were under the assumption that a woman was only fit for birthing babies and being cloistered in safe, secure homesteads. They believed that females were by nature delicate treasures to be protected and kept in comfort at all costs. It was a man's responsibility to sustain a lifestyle allowing their cloistered existence. As vital as the wizard had said she was to their quest, should the dwarves discover that she was in fact of the female persuasion, they would insist she be sent home with escort and the journey to Erebor would be delayed if not fail altogether.

She had wished, harder than she had for the longest time that her mother had still been alive for that conversation. She would have dragged those dwarves across the coals by their chin hair for daring to insinuate she was less capable of anything just because she was a woman.

The wizard had been adamant that Bilbo was the key to their success, and even more firm in that she could not let a single dwarf discover that she was female. He had of course sprinkled it with that touch of unassuming guilt and duty to the greater good that the man wielded like a chef with a pepper pot: light enough to barely be detected but still adding the perfect kick to the meal. Gandalf and this company were simply lucky to have arrived on a nippy night when her father's old dressing gown served to better comfort her than her own and that she'd kept her hair short in the current fashion.

She was unlucky that as a fellow 'man' she'd been blasted with every fart, coarse joke and crude reference the Shire had ever been exposed to in the last ten years. At least outside of Buckland, but then what could one expect of river folk? So for now she would remain Mr Baggins, binding her breasts and trying to figure out how the hell she was going to bathe or wash her delicates on their journey.

The sigh nearly became a growl when they finally neared the marker indicating Bree wasn't too far ahead. The sun was touching the edge of the treetops and would soon be hidden away behind hill and home. This close to the village of men one would find the type of scoundrels who enjoyed taking advantage of a traveling hobbit foolish enough to brave the dark places. Then again, Bilbo thought, one could hardly expect the same treatment a lone hobbit feared to befall a horde of armed dwarves. She almost shuddered with relief when she saw the mile marker clearly indicated for Bree down the left fork. She also saw then that Thorin bloody Oakenshield… had just turned right.

No one said anything. Even Balin nudged his pony and they began to move away from the safest route out of the Shire, away from the slowly appearing lights on the horizon, away from warm baths, comfortable beds and more than anything: ready prepared hot food. Under her rump her pony misstepped and she bounced hard against the unyielding pack-saddle.

The dwarves had not really prepared for her or her presence in the company when they arrived. And in leaving in her mad dash she lacked an adequate saddle, travel supplies, her own food to tide her over and intimates that did not involve someone's dirty pocket as a 'handkerchief.'

Bilbo took a deep breath, and then another as her father had always taught, before her temper got the best of her. It didn't help. During her ruminations the dwarves had moved only a little way off the main road of the right fork and had pulled the horses into a small clearing where they began to dismount, chuckling and joking as they stretched weary muscles in the slow creeping dusk.

The clearing was little more than a patch of plush moss and grass a little ways off from the road. It was overgrown in some places and edged by crowding shadows of the firs and pines of the Old Forest. They weren't close or deep enough into the trees for more than a hint at the barest shiver of unease, but the shiver remained - and grew - as the trees began to swallow the sun. Large enough for the company and dry enough for comfort, the clearing would have been a good site to camp… if Bree wasn't a stone's throw away!

Bofur had begun untying his bedroll - something Bilbo did not in fact have - from his saddle, chatting away and calling out to his brother in a jovial voice about water and the night's meal. The dwarves laughed as Bilbo eyed the edge of the forest and felt the same urge, as all hobbits did, to move forward and disappear between the shadowed leaves and reaching branches; calling them home to the heart of Yavanna's domain in the Old Forest.

There was no sanctuary in those trees though, and hadn't been for an Age. Bilbo shuddered and thought of what lay beyond the woods in a place that only the Rangers travelled, and what they said befell those who went there. It was a place where you were more likely to become the night's meal than to eat a night's meal.

She held her reins tight and tried to puzzle out what the dwarves were doing. Fili and Kili's voices flickered on the edge of her awareness, Ori's sharp cry mixed into their play in the fading light. There wasn't much time to catch the stalls and shops before they closed and if they didn't make for Bree soon enough they'd have to wait for morning to shop before leaving. Something, she was sure, Thorin wouldn't appreciate.

Even Gandalf had dismounted, needing no more to travel then his infernal pipe it seemed, as he had already made himself comfortable on a nearby log, hat pulled low over his eyes. Bilbo was the only one still mounted on her pony, a spry little thing named Myrtle. Back stiff and trying to force her raw legs to move while every other inch of her was pointing out that Bree couldn't be more than a brisk walk away.

"Master Baggins! We are losing light and would make camp if you would deign to dismount." Thorin's hand brushed gently over his pony's flanks and he gave her a look usually reserved for a stubborn child asking permission to toddle over broken glass and nettles.

The other dwarves chuckled at the drawling lilt in his voice, suggesting falsely that they awaited her pleasure. He turned his back to follow Dwalin to where Gloin – the stocky orange-bearded fellow, less fat than the other orange-bearded fellow - was already gathering the ingredients needs for the night's campfire. Balin pulled a roll of parchment, a map she guessed, from his saddle and turned to follow.

The words left her lips with no permission or even suggestion from her thoughts. "Why are we stopping here? It's nearly sundown."

Thorin, obviously having expected immediate compliance with his comment stopped and swung around to looked back over his shoulder. The hobbit was still mounted and further, didn't seem to understand that he'd given a poorly veiled instruction to help make camp. Bilbo bit at her lip for a moment before meeting his stare. Her raw calves, aching thighs and tender rump longed to be off the pony but the lack of warm food and soft beds in the nearby vicinity held her hostage upon Myrtle's back.

The King of the dwarves' brow drew down and creased lined his forehead. His voice held the thread of timbre that she had been dealing with all day, only an edge of exhaustion tipped his own words. "Exactly, and that is why we are making camp. We can continue in the morning." Thorin's grimace masqueraded as a grin, teeth bared, more a technicality of manners than actual attempt to find middle ground with their would-be burglar. "After breakfast, of course."

With that concession to settle the hobbit he gestured to Balin that they move to take advantage of the last of the day's light, but was stopped by the confused outrage that persisted in light of the subtle instruction he'd issued.

"Bree is only a mile away. Why on earth did would we stop here?"

Thorin growled under his breath and most of the dwarves stopped in order to watch the curious moment play out. Thorin looked to Gandalf first, but was merely given an absent nod. The Hobbit had been difficult to deal with all day. Sullen and childish and weary from riding, it took effort to impart the practicality of their campsite. Balin had stepped forward but made no move to do more than smirk so strongly Thorin could feel it hit the side of his head.

"I would rather the men of Bree and their ill intentions know nothing of our passing. We will camp here. Where it is safe." Thorin had no desire to fear attack in the shadows of Bree and its illicit tavern corners a second time. The wizard's presence was a deterrent, but courting trouble so early in their journey was foolish. The coin spared might be necessary later and it was with the weight of leadership he chose to forgo the town of Bree and its comfort in light of safety of their group.

The fact that that safety involved not having to pay for food, drink and boarding for 13 dwarves, one wizard and one hobbit was an added benefit, as was maintaining the secrecy of their passage. Too many already whispered the mountain's name, and greed would overwhelm fear in the hearts of men without any added temptation. For all those reasons he had made the decision and no dwarf among them had raised the question as they passed the marker. He'd believed that the hobbit's silence on the matter as they passed the fork was the first sensible thing he'd offered all day. It seemed he merely was late in his foolishness.

"Now dismount and help Bofur gather wood for the evening's fire. Not too much. We wouldn't want to announce our camp unecessarily." He gestured to the neighbouring wood with his free hand but had already turned away.

"Are you completely insane?"

The camp froze. It was not the quiet stillness of curiosity; this was a moment that none would wish to be a part of and their stillness aided in avoiding filling the space where the impossible had just occurred. Bilbo scrambled to get off the pony, legs buckling but catching herself in Bofur's helpful hold. The dwarf was still helping Bilbo, but with the unfortunate realisation that this offer had placed him directly in the dragon's mouth, so to speak.

"Ah….Mister Bilbo it's not the wisest thing to question a king's…thinking."

Bilbo brushed off the whispered warning from Bofur, stepping forward on quivering legs. "That is the Old Forest. You don't go into the old forest! Especially not for something as foolish as firewood."

Thorin's voice came quietly in the shocked hush. "What did you say to me?"

Bilbo puffed up slightly, "I mean I understand you don't know the land here and have gotten us turned around and all but the Old Forest? Didn't someone warn you about it?" She swung her head to Gandalf. "We shouldn't even be this close. Especially with Bree a little ways away. This is just…just….silly!"

Thorin stepped forward, and then stepped again. Behind him Balin traded a glance with Dwalin but the larger dwarf merely shrugged. Thorin had enough control not to cut the hobbit down so soon, after all. And best the little thing get a taste of Royal Manners sooner rather than later. If a simple thing like this scared him into turning back it might be for the best.

"I mean I'm sure you are very good at deciding where to camp in the wilderness and mountains but this is the Old Forest, and the Barrows lie just beyond. Not to mention that if we're going to be set upon in the night they'd have to be a foolish lot to attack a horde of dwarves sleeping in the dirt."

Thorin Oakenshild, Durinson and King under the Mountain, stopped a foot from Bilbo Baggins and tilted his head. The smile was a lie, frozen from his last comment as all thought was directed at not throttling the annoying little creature and none was spared for the muscles of his face. The shadow of the dwarf chilled Bilbo's skin even with the approaching of dusk. As the rather tall dwarf leaned forward Bilbo leaned back to match, and couldn't help but notice Bofur did the same even from two feet away.

The words, when spoken, came from so close Bilbo could feel the damp of his breath stir her curls and she swallowed. "Mister Baggins. Get your pack off the pony. Put it down. And then assist with gathering the firewood. We. Make. Camp. Here."

Thorin leaned back again. Watching the Halfling for a long moment, waiting to see him scurry away and do as told. Bilbo watched back, a tension in his form that kept his spine bent and kept him leaning back as far from Thorin as could be, but his feet, those large furry things, did not move. The camp held its collective breath.

"I-if you could just listen to me, for just a moment-"

A large hand buried itself in her shirt and strained the cloth. For a heart-wrenching moment Bilbo felt the back of heavy fingers brush against her breast binding before she was yanked forward, so close that her vision filled with dark hair, indigo eyes and thunder.

"Allow me to clarify things hobbit, before we have issue with this arrangement. I am the leader of this company. Until you have shown that you are worth more than complaint and a grocer's craft, your opinion is neither desired nor required outside of any acts of burglary."

Bilbo was sure the threads of her shirt stretched as those fingers clenched further, twisting the fine cotton of her best men's shirt. Thorin's breath was like an unyielding heat wave washing over her face and she shook slightly as he continued, "You signed a contract to serve this company and through that to serve at my instruction. Now go put down your pack and gather the blasted wood before the light is gone. Do not question, do not argue, do not complain. Gather the wood."

There was a change of colour as those eyes darkened and Thorin shifted with them. He frowned, a swell of feeling brushing past his lungs almost and his fingers loosened slightly in the soft cloth of Bilbo's shirt. That mouth opened, a tongue peeking out as the hobbit seemed to stiffen his shoulders and take a breath in preparation of the mindless gabble which would undoubtedly leave those plump lips.

Thorin didn't give him the chance. Using the tremendous strength hidden under his leathers, he turned slightly and pulled the hobbit sharply forwards before twisting his wrist and sending the hobbit sprawling. It wouldn't hurt him, but had worked well enough whenever Kili started getting cheeky or Fili's temper began getting the best of his common sense.

The hobbit landed on his knees against the grass and Thorin, for a moment was not sure what to say. He felt a tickle of guilt in his gut for handling the hobbit so roughly but the soft creature had to learn, sooner rather than later, to deal with the discomfort of the wilds and doing as he was told before he got himself or the company into trouble. That guilty tickle grew as a trail of bewilderment licked at him over the fact that he felt any guilt in the first place for doing what needed to be done in toughing the Halfling up. The foreign emotion hadn't reared its head when he trained his own kin, let alone a stranger from the soft green lands.

A flicker of motion caught Thorin's eyes and he tracked it. Noting gnarled fingers gripping a staff and the grey hat tipped back even as the rest of the wizard stayed as still as everyone else in the clearing. The censure in the iron gaze was enough to bring him back to the purpose of the example and he turned and strode towards Balin and Dawlin, meeting neither's eyes but not without parting words. "Get the damned wood, Halfling."

At Thorin's bark everyone seemed to remember the tasks they were assigned and turned back to it, trying to avoid the lingering tension, slinking through the clearing. Bilbo stayed on her knees on the grass, legs burning as her bruises and saddle sores screamed at her, her fingers clenching at the green blades tight enough to sting and fought for a deep, controlled breath. Her eyes burned but she bit her lip, refusing to let them spill over.

Boots appeared next to her and a moment later a warm drawl and hand on her shoulder coaxed her to stand. "There now laddie. It's just a little tumble, is all. Could've been worse hey? I hear tell the Kings of Men chop yer head off for just lookin' at 'em funny."

Bofur's amiable voice pulled her up more than his hand, but she didn't meet his eyes. The Hobbits had no kings; they had no lords or masters. Their leaders were elected or frankly looked to for decisions purely by dint of having the most reasonable head on their shoulders. She'd never been made to feel so small and worthless by anyone in her life. Her breath shuddered through her, rattling all the bits deep inside shaken loose by the brief attack. She looked up to see Gandalf watching her carefully. The old wizard glanced at Thorin's back and looked to her again in question.

He hadn't spoken up for her. Hadn't moved. Had just let Thorin toss her down like a lump of garbage. Her lungs clenched and her eyes burned but she kept the wizard in her gaze. He tilted his head again and waited before glancing down the road, back where they had come. His hand came up to brush against his chest and Bilbo glanced down quickly and adjusted her shirt before Bofur's attention drew itself her way.

"Just a bit of rough and tumble after all. Same as you musta had with the other lads when ye was little. No harm then eh, Bilbo?"

Gandalf raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for her answer to the silent question and gesturing to the trio of dwarves while tapping his finger against his staff. A hobbit was a master of craft and cookery, of gardens and farms and market places. But more than anything a hobbit was a creature of parties and lunches and social cues. It took a moment for her to interpret the subtle sign but when she did she shut her eyes at last and gave a small shake of her head. Boys fought and tumbled and pushed and grabbed. They didn't run crying to the wizard to take them home because someone was mean to them.

"I'm fine thank you Mister Bofur. I'm just not used to such rough treatment from someone whom I would expect to show better manners." She turned slightly away from Gandalf, unconsciously wrapping her arms around her waist, shielding her body from these dwarves. She could deal with this.

It was no different from when Lotho Baggins had pushed her into the mud in her best dress for not giving him a kiss, or Lobelia having spread spiteful rumours about her nethers before her coming of age. How she responded would affect how everyone thought of her. Whether they shared the view of her weakness or not. It would be best to just let it go and put the minor event behind her. Remember for the future and keep the peace among them all. That would be best. This was just a moment that everyone had already begun to dismiss and forget. Bombur was unpacking pots as Oin and Gloin called out to one another from less than a foot between them.

Even Fili and Kili were content yelling out and running between the ponies with Ori calling after them. Their age – or lack thereof - showing once more as the Stormcloud Oakenshield drifted onwards in his decision-making arrogance. For a moment she was tempted to retract her signal and let Gandalf act as he would, but she was no longer a fauntling in need of a protector.

She was a gentlehobbit who had managed lands and farms, kept her house and had made up her own mind to run away and join a bunch of dwarves and a wizard on an adventure. If she was to make her place here it could not be with Gandalf's intervention…if she was to make a place at all and not turn back in the morning and call it an awful, horrible and pithy lesson in what happens to hobbits that did silly things like leave the Shire.

Bilbo swallowed hard past the knot in her throat caused by the refusal to cry. She forced herself to walk with as little limp as possible towards Myrtle; the dear, hellish creature had not moved a hoof since Bilbo had fallen from the saddle. She undid her pack from Myrtle's back and slipped it on her back out of habit more than anything else. Definitely not because some silly, so-called king had told her to put it down somewhere and get to work.

"I suppose kings are just used to making these sorts of decisions eh? Best simple folk like you and me stick to what we're good at and everything will work out best." Bofur let her go by and the noise of the camp was rising again. He stepped back, still awkwardly trying to induce her to get past the brief awkwardness and very nearly succeeded as she nodded to him absently. Then his words caught up to her and filtered through her brain, lingering and settling in like a bird in a nest.

"What we're good at?" It was a question and a statement. Her hands shook and Nori lead the ponies away, not even glancing at her as he passed. He did give Bofur a nod, she noticed, met with a grin from the miner, but most of Nori's attention seemed to be on the younger voices nearby, calling and teasing, drifting in from Fili and Kili. Nori didn't seem too impressed. He moved away to settle the ponies and water them.

Nothing came to mind at first as Bofur's words ping-ponged inside her head. No instant defence and surety to push her forward into gathering wood with Bofur, but there were definitely examples to the contrary, many taken from sideways glances and mumbled phrases all that day.

She couldn't think of what she was good at with Thorin's disdain still dripping across her skin, matched by the silence of no defenders in a crowd of near strangers. She wasn't good at fighting and surviving in the wilderness or riding on ponies or even the burglary that was expected of her. She felt something crumple and twist inside her, cold and slim. She tried to remember what she was feeling when she went running out her door that morning, but all that filled her mind was the foreshadowing of what lay ahead.

"Aye lad." Bofur chuckled, glad to finally get a response from the burglar. He took in the round cheeks and soft skin and swallowed back a dirty joke before it got him in trouble for upsetting the hobbit even more. "And for now we'd best be good at getting that firewood."

She'd been a burden that morning about second breakfast. She had struggled to keep up even riding a placid pony. She'd not thought to pack a handkerchief or a blanket to bed down on. She had definitely failed to find common ground with any of the dwarves except, perhaps, Bofur. Now she had managed to challenge their leadership without even realising what she had been doing. But still Bofur's words lingered in her skull, growing louder with every breath.

'What we're good at?' She considered that for a moment. She was good at a great many things. She was good at knitting and sewing and darning and cooking.

She stood still as Bofur gestured to the treeline and moved to gather some firewood. She did notice that he kept to the edge of the wood, eyeing the growing shadows and picking up only what lay already on the forest floor.

She was good at telling stories and writing them down. Good at reading maps and learning of places and people. Good at languages and keeping good company and was known for a level head when problems arose.

Nearby the sounds of the youngest members of the company drew closer and Bilbo looked up again, Bofur's words tumbling across Thorin's in her head. Trying to jostle past the aches and isolation that had followed her from Bag End, even surrounded by these dwarves. She looked up to see Fili and Kili bracketing in Ori by a few feet, trailing laughter between them like a rope. Ori bounced, jumped really, and dashed and lunged, reaching for something as the two brothers tossed it back and forth.

She was good at dealing with an unexpected invasion, whether it was thirteen dwarves or one unpleasant relation and doing what was right and never ever spreading ill-intentioned rumours and gossip. Bilbo was even good at protecting her mother's silverware from sticky fingers and deep handbags.

"Give it back! I will fong you both I swear!"

"Now now, Ori. How's that a nice thing to say?"

"You're both sodding arseholes."

Kili held the book out to the side, both brothers grinning at Ori and waiting for some response. Ori's face didn't seem to show the same amount of fun in the game as the Durins' did. He followed their teasing dance closer to the camp and Bilbo's spot. She looked up to see that the object of the game of keep away was a book. A large, heavy thing that Ori had been scribbling in early that day and even last night.

She was good at doing the right thing, and speaking her mind. And playing jokes with her Tookish side and scolding with her Baggins side. She was good at arguing with a cheating merchant or cheering up a crying fauntling. She was good at responding to cruel words and money-hungry engagement rings.

Deep inside her chest that slimy, chilled thing uncurled and grew warm. The heat from it spread under her skin, over her cheeks and limbs and shoulders. With every affirmation her heart seemed to beat again, first like normal and then with a pulsing urgency matching the thoughts that rushed forward. Bilbo blinked and the world's focus sharpened. She took in Ori's distress as the brothers stepped close and passed the book back and forth, always beyond the little Ri's fingertips.

She was good at doing what was difficult and hard and unpleasant and she was good at finding her own strength when most people collapsed. She was good at making new friends and she was sure as hell good at knowing when and where to rest her head and rationalising why.

Kili's hand slipped as Ori came too close and the book fell slightly before Fili caught its edge. The sound of the corner of the page tearing in his grip against the weight of the book echoed across the short distance between Bilbo and the dwarven fauntlings. Ori's anxious caw was soft in comparison to the sound of that paper in her ears.

And more than anything else, since she was a little faunting and Lotho Baggins pushed her in the mud Bilbo was very, very good at standing up to bullies.

Bilbo marched forward, ignored as her feet took her across the soft grass and approached the backs of the Brothers Durin, now standing shoulder to shoulder and still holding Ori's book over their heads and out of his reach. In a move practiced on a hundred Took cousins at a dozen Took picnics, she snapped either hand out and up and grabbed through locks and braid to pinch their earlobes.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Bilbo's voice was sharp and precise, snapping with the pitch that touches the inner child and promises that child that there is agony in their near future should the response be deemed inadequate.

"Ow! Ow! Let go, let go dammit!"

"Bilbo what are you ah-!"

She pinched hard and pulled their heads down and towards her, both Durins gasping and struggling to resist. Kili braced himself, trying not to fall over but Fili reached instead for her wrist to break her hold. Bilbo frowned and squeezed harder on both lobes, adding a twist to it. His hand dropped slightly and every time he raised it she twisted it again until he got the message to keep his hands where she could see them.

They might be armed dwarven warriors, and she had no doubt if they meant to hurt her they could, but she gambled on their youth, the vocal contortions and ability to deal with troublesome teens that had made her a favourite babysitter amongst her families. Besides, they might have power in their sword arms, but she had fingers that dug the earth and kneaded dough with a fearsome strength of their own.

"What do you think you're doing to Ori? Tossing his things around like it doesn't matter. Give him back his book."

Ori, who till now had stared, wide eyed, at what was supposed to be a soft and passive hobbit, swallowed. The Durins didn't move except to grow louder. Their protests started drawing attention from others: Dori's displeasure at Ori being harassed turned to approval of Bilbo taking hold of the situation in a way that most dwarves wouldn't dare wield, not against a Durinson and future kings. Nori seemed a moment from cheering the hobbit on, watching as the princes were put firmly in place by a creature fully a head shorter than them.

Gloin's dumbfounded disapproval at his cousins' treatment was matched only by Oin's complete ignorance as he faced away, the half-deaf doctor not paying enough attention to be witness to the unfolding events. Bombur moved with some speed for his brother's side after Bifur's nudging, moving to the edge of the trees to get Bofur, the only one so far who seemed comfortable talking to the hobbit and hoping his brother would be able to stop the inevitable chaos when the King saw what was happening to his heirs.

Across the clearing, away from the noise and distraction of camp being made, Thorin and Dwalin had their backs to the pending eruption. Having needed to go over their route and plans for the following day as well as rework the food ration to include the Halfling, Balin and Thorin had chosen this spot for its lack of distraction. Even so it was Balin, looking wide eyed over Dwalin's shoulder, that caught Thorin's eye.

He glanced back himself. Seeing the hobbit manhandling his nephews near the ponies he swore, guttural and low speech for a King, even in Khuzdul, but perfect for a blacksmith who had just seen a piece of horseshit get up and kick over his anvil and tools. Thorin spun on his heel. Obviously he'd been too gentle with the halfling before. It was clear that the small creature needed to be taken in hand before the night was done and have it made very clear what his place in this party was.

Dwalin, seeing Balin bury his face in his hands at Thorin's departure, turned to see the hobbit manhandling the King's nephews. With eyes used to taking in the details of a battlefield the warrior saw Ori in the scene, Staying well out of reach and observing the hobbit's firm grip on both Durin boys. He saw Thorin stomping across to deal with the matter and noticed what no one else did: the wizard was standing, watching not the trio of youth plus hobbit, but the King himself, a firm grip on his staff. Dwalin chuckled at the squeals of the princes he could hear, familiar with their pleading excuses by now, and moved forward. But in his case it was admittedly only for a better view.

"Give Ori back his book. Immediately."

Bilbo didn't raise his voice. He repeated the instruction again, calm as you please if not for the steel behind his fingers and tone. Kili spewed a chattering litany of pain and commands to be released, which turned into pleas with every pain-filled second. He dropped his arm quickly enough, holding the book out to Ori and reaching forward as far as he could to push it into the other dwarf's hands. Ori hesitated, wary of coming close enough to the seething Mr Baggins even as much as he wanted his book, but after a moment inched forward, carefully plucking it away. Fili, on the other hand, tried to reason with the Bilbo.

"Let go! Come on get off! Come on Mr Baggins it was just a game! A bit of fun is all! Tell him Ori!"

Bilbo's gaze lifted to the scribe and Ori cradled the large tome carefully to his chest. He opened his mouth to say something when he saw the hobbit's eyes focused on him, a question there. Something warmed inside of him, light and soft. He swallowed again and when the words left his mouth they were not soft.

"It wasn't fun for me. It's never fun for me."

Fili and Kili stopped in their writhing and stared at their childhood friend. '

"Ori…" the Durin boys both made aborted gestures towards the little scribe.

Ori for his part didn't respond to the princes but rather scuttled away, partly because his burning red cheeks had taken in that they were the centre of everyone's attention, but mostly because part of that attention was King Thorin. King Thorin who was bearing down on them like a warg on a fresh kill. Ori, for all his gratitude in having his book back, had enough intelligence not to be caught in the crossfire. He gave the approaching king a wide berth and hurried over to his brothers to become part of that audience.

Fingers loosened and slipped away from their ears and the hobbit huffed, "There. It's not a game. When you disrespect the property of others you disrespect those people. Ori is your companion, and your friend. You had no cause to be cruel."

They turned to him, rubbing at their ill-treated ears and dropped their heads as low as their chins would allow. The shadows of the twilight grew as both looked to the ground and then to each other. A silent conversation and confession reached between the brothers. Finally as one they turned to Bilbo.

"We're sorry Mr Boggins-"

"Baggins!" Fili jumped in almost as quickly as both boys stepped back in the wake of Bilbo's glare flaring up and catching them in a web of grim assurance, their hands cupping their ears to ward off hobbit fingers. "Mr Baggins! Not Boggins. We don't even know a Boggins do we Ki?"

Kili swallowed hard and felt that, as well as the rushing throb of blood through his ear. "No, no I said Baggins, definitely. Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire. Hobbit."

They cringed back, not knowing whether to expect another barrage or acceptance of their clumsy retraction but before Bilbo could interrupt a bellow filled the clearing.

"What in the name of the Stones do you think you're doing Halfling?" Thorin had reached them. Giving no heed to the rest of the company or even the wizard who was a second from stepping forward he stood, teeth clenched and eyes doing their best to set Bilbo on fire.

The heat of that furious glare lit up Bilbo's shoulders with cold, burning awareness. Bilbo took a deep breath, and then another. Instead of calming the pot which had been simmering all day, each breath fanned her own in flame, spiking and speeding one after the other until everything inside her boiled over. She had had enough.

Her hands ached to clench tight but Bilbo was not foolish enough to lose her limbs to the provocations of an idiot. She looked ahead at the raging Royalty, not noticing the younger Durins proving their relation to Ori in edging out of the way of a battle they had no desire to take part in. There was, perhaps, an hour left till the sun's lingering light left the world painted in night.

"What I'm doing dwarf?"

The chill in the response were like the first few pebbles in a landslide. Thorin tensed, taking the warning for what it was and stopped a few feet from the hobbit's back. Confusion and surprise began rolling over the hills of his perception, slowly gaining momentum.

"What I think I'm doing? Surrounded by ill-mannered, ill-favoured dwarves, a hundred miles from my home, on the way to face a giant fire breathing beast, and you ask me what I'm doing?" Bilbo turned then, nostril's flaring and eyes seeing nothing but Thorin. Red mottled her cheeks, painting her neck and face as the simmering, bubbling boil finally reached her lips and everything spilled over.

"Well then, in accordance with your earlier commandment oh mighty, unchallenged Thorin Bloody Oakenshield. Allow me to tell you what I think! And what I'm doing!"

Normally a pair of crossed arms was a defensive gesture, shielding the body form danger. Thorin couldn't help but consider strangulation as Bilbo crossed tight arms and sharp elbows into a knot, high over his chest.

"What I think is that you are a pompous, arrogant sot, who regardless of your unquestioned leadership on where we go and where we don't doesn't know his arse from his left turn on a map! What I think is that you didn't expect me to join you regardless of your invasion of my home and pantry, and the lack of time for me to prepare and put a saddle on my pack pony creates doubt you are adequately supplied now that I've joined the company. What I think is that you are damned lucky you had me sign that piece of paper because currently it is the only thing keeping me here at all after your unprovoked laying of hands on my person."

Bilbo took a step closer even as the volume rose and it was only sheer habit that kept Thorin form stepping back, Dwalin surmised. He did note that the wizard's grip on his staff was no longer that tight.

The Hobbit's throat flared with the emotions choking and competing to escape on every breath. "I am not a dwarf and this is not a dwarvish kingdom and you are not my king, so don't think you're going to treat me like some halfwit lickspittle dogsbody with no thought, no opinion and nothing to contribute but silence until it otherwise suites you."

Thorin was flabbergasted.

The sharp retort from the thus far passive little creature was like finding out a flower had teeth after it had taken off someone's fingers. And he was still too busy trying to catch up on understanding what had just happened and had been said to keep up with the vitriol that lashed from Bilbo's lips.

"As for what I'm doing, I'm going to find myself a warm bed, a hot meal and whatever I can still find from the shop keepers that are still open. I will not be spending a night beside the bloody road in the damned Old Forest where even the most senseless of Brandybucks know better to get near at night. Good evening all."

She didn't wait for a response and needed to take more than a breath or two as she stopped across the grass for one to catch up with her. The rage that Thorin had wielded like a hammer had wilted in the wake of the onslaught and the bewilderment it caused.

"You cannot leave Halfling… you are sworn to this company."

"I'm not half of anything!" Bilbo lobbed back over her shoulder before she paused and gave the King a withering look. "The Bridge only opens in the morning. Seeing that it is the only safe way to cross the river and on the other side of Bree I will meet you there. After breakfast."

With that she marched away towards the slow birth of lights on the horizon, trying to outpace the approaching night. She wholly ignored Thorin calling for her return.

After the third time he had called fruitlessly to the Hobbit Thorin stood, body swaying forward but feet firmly planted, warring between the need to fetch the hobbit back to the safety of the company and the embarrassment of having to run after the damned Shireling with everyone watching. Gandalf moving past him helped save him from deciding, his irritation changing to focus on the wizard. His voice remained if not polite, at least not loud. One did well never to raise one's voice at wizards. The louder you were the less likely they were to listen.

"And where are you going Tharkûn?" He asked, using the wizards dwarven name, a subtle reminder of his inclusion in this dwarven venture. Before he ran off to cavort with hobbits.

Gandalf shrugged lightly as if it was of no consequence. He had put out his pipe and leaned forward on his staff with both hands, emulating the stance of a harmless old man. "Well, the Prancing Pony has particularly good ale in at this time of year and since you will all be in Bree in the morning, I thought I might join Bilbo there instead." He rubbed at his back, usually straight and proud, now bent like a bad pick, "A bed will do my old bones some good I think."

Thorin nearly growled. He couldn't stop the wizard from leaving, not like he should have stopped the hobbit. He didn't have to agree, though, and seeing that no assent would be offered Gandalf moved again to leave, but not before imparting some last words which caused Thorin's fist to clench tight enough to feel his nails bite into his palm.

"Better I go after him. Bilbo has family around these parts and no doubt they would do their best to dissuade him from helping you reclaim your home. I'll make sure he doesn't change his mind."

After offering that last comment as if his leaving was a favour to Thorin, the wizard was gone. Dwalin sidled up to Thorin, standing next to the hero of Azanulbizar, who still had not so much as looked away from the retreating figures. Retreating was an easier thought to deal with than deserting. Dwalin's presence made the king aware of the silence and sheer stillness that held the camp enthralled. A stillness that spoke of a hesitance to disturb things, lest another rockfall roll over them.

"Well, least we know the hobbit'll have the balls to face down the dragon."

Dwalin, his bodyguard, cousin and brother-in-arms had no compulsion to avoid invoking Thorin's displeasure. Thorin wondered if it wasn't due to something being knocked loose in their childhood sparring. His sense of self-preservation perhaps? Thorin did not appreciate the subtle comparison. He still didn't know what to say. He was… unaccustomed… to having to face someone unafraid to take him to task since before he had become the Oakenshield. Dis, being his younger sister and mother to Fili and Kili, obviously was not included in this consideration.

The moment stretched, longer and longer before Dwalin sighed. "You done sulking yet yer highness? Or can we pack back up and follow them inta the village yet?"

Thorin's fist left the larger dwarf bent over and laughing, heaving for breath, leaning on his axe. He turned to face the others. The damned hobbit was right about it being their last night in a bed, and the bridge and maybe even the extra supplies. He nodded to the others as he moved to get his pack.

"Get everything back on the ponies. We're going into Bree.

Everyone was wise enough not to comment and simply got to work unmaking their camping efforts to leave and head on into the village.

"Do you think hobbits claim victory beads, Ki?"

Everyone except the exalted heirs to the line of Durin.

End of chapter