The journey continued much as it had for the first few weeks. The company of Thorin Oakenshield travelled to the boundaries of the Shire, quickly leaving behind the rolling fields and laughing brooks for the denser trees of the forests that lay beyond Hobbiton.
Bilbo Baggins found that while he was not quite regretting his decision to leave the quiet comfort of the familiar curves and nooks of Bag End, the journey so far had not quite endeared him to what Gandalf had enthusiastically referred to as 'The World Beyond the Shire.'
Most days Bilbo felt as if he were in a perpetual state of discomfort. Not being familiar with pony riding – hobbits were a folk fond of walking and, in cases of extreme necessity, would perhaps consider a light jog – Bilbo could not for the life of him figure out why these blasted dwarf saddles did not have cushions.
It was no mystery to him that many of the dwarves doubted him and his presence among the group. His interactions with Thorin alone seemed all the evidence required to see they thought him useless and a burden.
While several of the dwarves, mainly Bofur and the young brothers, were pleasant towards him, Bilbo thought that had more to do with their natural congenial dispositions rather than anything he had done personally to gain their affections.
Bofur had kindly taken to subtly showing Bilbo some tricks about camping and living on the road all, to Bilbo's immense relief, while Thorin's judging eye was otherwise occupied. Bofur, he very quickly discovered, was just the type of dwarf to lend a hand when he could. Bilbo found himself on cooking duty with the miner often, probably because this was one of the few tasks Bilbo could do competently and consistently.
They often found themselves cleaning the meats that Fili and Kili brought back with them from their frequent scouting trips and making the meals together. There was not much he enjoyed about this adventuring business, but cooking with Bofur was one of the few things he was decidedly opposed to complain about.
"You see laddie, if you strike the flint at a certain angle, you won't be needin' to hit it a buncha' times wastin' the thing. If you can't get it on the first or second try," Bofur explained as he expertly hit the two pieces of stone together, small bits of fire leaping out like eager friends embracing, "You'll get a right merry fire in just about no time at all!" The dwarf looked up at the hobbit, handing the flint to Bilbo who glanced down at it skeptically.
Shaking his head with a sigh, Bilbo took the two pieces of stone in his hands. "I know Mister Bofur, I know, it's just… wouldn't we be better served with some, oh I don't know, matches?" Bilbo looked at the flint distastefully, "It seems to me like you dwarves are making life harder for yourselves than you need to."
Bofur chuckled lightheartedly, "Oh Master Baggins, you know so little of the road! It's just a wee bit amusing." He tapped his nose twice with finger and winked at Bilbo, "So what'll be happenin' when your pack gets wet and your nice Shire matches get ruined, hm? And what about when our illustrious leader be askin' you to make us a nice fire with those soggy bits o' twig, what then?"
Bilbo looked from Bofur to the flints and back again, "I, uh, see your point." Bilbo shuddered as he imagined the glare and verbal lashing he would receive if he were responsible for a lack of heat and food.
"And that, Master Baggins, is why we always carry a flint!" Bofur smiled and tapped Bilbo's knee, "Now show us how it's done, there's a good lad, and I will rest easy knowin' you'll not be shouted at for not bein' able to start a fire again!"
Giving the stones a few good hits, Bilbo finally was able to coax the sparks onto the tinder, feeding the flames to a reasonable size. Feeling absurdly pleased for having accomplished what he thought that any dwarf would come out of the womb knowing, Bilbo went about his task of preparing dinner with Bofur for the rest of the evening.
They sat next to the fire, Bofur skinning the small deer they had managed to get for the evening and Bilbo peeling the potatoes, falling into easy conversation.
"Say, Bofur," Bilbo began fiddling with the potato the he held, "What did you do before joining the company? I feel I know so little about everyone here..."
Bofur, tongue stuck between his teeth in concentration, looked up at Bilbo from underneath the brim of his fur trimmed hat.
"Well, it's nothin' interestin' to be sure. Not like some o' the other dwarves here at least."
Bilbo stopped his peeling to raise an eyebrow, "Would you really like to have a conversation comparing uninteresting with a hobbit? I will have you know, if I am confident in one area, it is that I have resident mastery over all topics considered uninteresting."
Bofur gave a laugh as he vested a particularly difficult part of skin from the meat of the deer, "I see your point master hobbit." He continued his task in silence for a few moments before beginning to speak.
"As you heard from Master Thorin, the dwarves of Erebor were forced from our home by Smaug the dragon. Bombur and I lost our family in the attack, not to mention that particular incident of unpleasantness was just before our dear Bifur got that lovely bit o' goblin steel to the forehead."
Bofur stopped his skinning to gaze forward into the fire in a spell of contemplation. "My family was once a great line of miners, some o' the best if I do say so myself, though you might not think it lookin' at the likes of Bombur and me. I always followed my father down into the great mines of Erebor."
Bofur looked over to smile at the hobbit, "You woulda' liked it laddie, knowin' you hobbits got propensities for earth and the like. There isn't a sight more beautiful in all the lands than that first glimpse of precious stones beneath all that dark rock."
Bofur sighed as he sat back still with a gentle smile on his face, "It's hard work to be sure, but there's a pride in it, you know? We dwarves are the best miners of all the different folks on this earth, to be one o' the best of the best, well there's not a feelin' better that the camaraderie that grows between folk chippin' away at the deepest and darkest places of the world."
Bofur reached into his shirts underneath the scarf he always wore and pulled out what Bilbo thought to be the most exquisite stone he had ever seen. It was a deep shade of green, but in the light of the fire, it seemed that it had golden veins curling out from the middle, almost like it was alive with the life-blood of the earth flowing through it.
"This, laddie, is the most treasured stone in all my family, well what's left of it at least. Found by my father when I wasn't even but a thought in the back of my mother's mind. He gave it to her in a flourish of romantics when they began their courtin'."
Bofur stuck the jewel back safely into its previous resting spot against his chest, "Loved 'er more than any of the gems he found in all his years minin' even in the great wealth of the Lonely Mountain. You woulda liked 'er, laddie," Bofur's face was a disant sort of smile.
"Bombur takes after Ma more than I, she had the color of ruby and a temper to match. She wasn't much for minin' but she could cook up dishes you would be ready to give half your fortune just to have a good sniff at."
Bilbo glanced up from his potatoes to give the dwarf a small smile, "She sounds lovely Mister Bofur. Hobbits have only the utmost respect for a talented cook."
Bofur gave him another wink, "Aye, laddie, and she appreciated those with a more refined pallet an' more taste than just for the treasure of the mountain. Wonders why she agreed to marry my ol' pa, but there's love for you, never makes even the least bit o' sense."
They both looked up to see Bombur waddle into the camp, a stray biscuit nestled in his mouth and several more overflowing from his pockets. "Bombur took the dragon's wrath harder than me, but I was always thinkin' that was because he and Ma were so close," a sad smile crept onto Bofur's face as he watched his brother move slowly across the camp, "hardly talks anymore when he hasn't had a good few ales, just goes about stuffin' his face… But I shouldn't be too hard on him, I think he does it mostly cause it reminds him o' her."
Bilbo looked at their companion with new light. He hadn't spoken with Bombur much, but based on what Bofur had just said, it made sense he wouldn't talk to Bilbo if he didn't even really talk to the other dwarves. It seemed to Bilbo that all of the company had their own sad story to tell, unique in all but their share of sorrow.
Bofur began to speak again as Bombur left the edge of the camp. "So after Smaug ravaged our home, me an' Bombur left followin' Master Thorin as he led our people to distant lands. Birfur met up with us a few days after the whole mess but the lot of us were attacked by goblin raiders not but a month after the disaster."
Bofur continued his methodical cleaning of the deer, now staring into the fire, "The buggers came in the night and tried to attack our lots women and children. Bifur took an axe to the forehead tryin' to protect Bombur an' me..."
"We weren't neither of us fighters then. I was makin' toys, for Mahal's sake, just tryin' to scrape a livin' in the town's of men. There's not a whole lot o' minin' to be done above the ground… Anyhow, needless to say me an' Bombur learned to fight real quick after that, what with Bifur bein' out o' commission for a while."
Finished with the cleaning the deer, Bofur started to chop it into small bits for the stew, "We stuck together since then, us three. Followed Master Thorin everywhere, we did. He's done all right by us, best he, or any dwarf, could have done considerin' the circumstances." He and Bilbo both glanced up at the leader of their company who stood against the setting sun gazing over the edge of the small cliff that their camp was nestled in.
"So when Master Thorin made mention that he was goin' back to Erebor we had to join 'im. Never any choice really, we owe him our lives for gettin' us all the way to the Blue Mountains, though it never quite felt like home. Not like Erebor had anyway. But," Bofur dropped the remaining chunks of meat into the stew, "I'm thinkin' that's cause all our memories, our truly happy memories, still lie beneath the stone of the Lonely Mountain. And that, Master Baggins, is why we got to go back. Not just to get those memories, but to be makin' ourselves new ones."
Bilbo felt his heart clench. He knew nothing, he thought, nothing of the hardship and loneliness that these dwarves had tasted. Here he was complaining about doilies and sleeping on rocks when dwarves like Bofur, kind Bofur who showed him how to light fires and properly wash clothes in a stream, had suffered more than he could imagine and bore it with a smile on his face every day.
Bofur made to get up and clean off his skinning knife when Bilbo gently grabbed the edge of his coat. "Thank you," the hobbit said quietly, "thank you for sharing that with me, I know it couldn't have been easy."
The dwarf just gave him a kind laugh, "Make no mention of it laddie, it was good to speak of the happiness of Erebor again, even if it feels like a distant memory."
Bofur walked a few more paces away before turning to face Bilbo again. "Don't judge him too harshly, laddie." Bofur looked at Thorin still brooding at the distant setting sun, "I know better than most he can be few and severe in words but Master Thorin has a bigger and truer heart than any dwarf I ever met. He bears the weight of every dwarf's fate under his charge and makes all their troubles his own. Thorin Oakenshield has known so much tragedy in his life and has no one to be carin' for him as he cares for all of us."
And with that Bofur walked away to the nearby mountain creek to clean off his tools.
Bilbo continued to stare at Thorin who, of course, took that moment to turn around and noticed the hobbit looking at him. The dwarf offered Bilbo one of his most distasteful looks, honed in years of arduous training, clearly hoping to avert the hobbit's gaze.
Bilbo, still feeling acutely the sorrow of the tale that Bofur had just accounted, simply gave Thorin a somber smile, hoping to at least communicate some of the comfort he knew Thorin must be sorely be in need of. The dwarf's eyes narrowed briefly before his face fell into a frown and muttered something about strange halflings before he turned away again.
Later that evening after most of the dwarves had gone to sleep, Bilbo Baggins found himself tossing and turning once again. The rocks, he thought, had gotten progressively more and more uncomfortable along their journey. The discomfort coupled with Bombur's cacophonous snoring made Bilbo throw off his blanket in a huff of frustration.
Ignoring the curious glances of Fili and Kili who sat near the fire keeping watch, Bilbo stomped over to his pony Myrtle. He would reluctantly admit the pony was quickly earning his affections despite his natural disposition in preferring his own feet.
Bilbo stuck a hand in his pocket, grabbing one of the apples he had found earlier that day and snuck it towards Myrtle's eager mouth. "Here you are, there's a good girl," the hobbit gave Myrtle a few quick pats on the nose as she chomped away at the sweet fruit, "it'll be our little secret."
Bilbo gave his pony a fond smile before he heard several shrill cries from coming from the valley below their camp. Glancing from the basin to the brothers sitting near the fire and back again, Bilbo gestured between the two mouthing but no words came out of his mouth.
The hobbit sputtered for a moment in fear, "What - what was that? What were those noises?" Bilbo tried to whisper but ended of making more of a muffled shout.
Fili and Kili glanced at each other before the younger of the two looked him straight in the eyes, deadly serious. "Orcs. The low lands will be crawling with them tonight. They come into the camps swift and silent." Bilbo stared at Kili, eyes wide in barely contained fear, "They'll creep in while you're sleeping. Often don't even have time to scream. The only trace they leave is the blood. So much blood."
Bilbo was caught between shaking in fear and trying to figure out the best position to be in the camp should orcs come in for a midnight raid before he heard sniggers coming from the fire. Narrowing his eyes, the hobbit stopped shifting his eyes frantically around the camp and leveled his gaze at the two dwarves, who apparently were very pleased with their little joke and had to stifle their laughter at Bilbo's expression with their leather-clad fists. The hobbit crossed his arms in anger and was just about ready to give them a good telling off before he heard a gruff voice stir from just behind him.
"And you think that is funny, do you? You think orc attacks are amusing?" Thorin pushed passed Bilbo, shooting his nephews a truly fearsome glare.
Kili and Fili had the grace at least to look ashamed with themselves before Kili almost silently muttered, "We meant nothing by it."
Thorin merely scoffed at them as he walked by them, "You know nothing of battle. Until you get a taste of the fear and the blood, hold your tongues. I doubt the halfling could handle much more of your teasing anyway."
Thorin made his way through a few of the trees towards the edge of the camp he had been standing earlier that evening when Bilbo and Bofur had been making dinner.
As was becoming a common occurrence with the dwarves, Bilbo wasn't quite sure how to react. His natural instinct was to go after Thorin and offer some words of comfort, but the hobbit couldn't conceive of a less welcome action towards the dwarf.
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft presence of Balin, "Don't take it too seriously, laddie," the elder dwarf offered Kili a kind smile, "Thorin has better cause than most to hate orcs."
Balin launched into the tale of Thorin and his family. Bilbo was torn between going back to sleep, not sure if he would be welcome to listen, and desperately wanting to hear the story of their enigmatic leader.
Balin spoke of Erebor's prosperity, the grandeur of the dwarven city burrowed deep within the mountain. He spoke of the Thrór's ring, one of the seven given to the dwarves, gifted with the ability to foster great riches from the stone that surrounded them.
He spoke of the Arkenstone, treasure of Thrór and emblem of the splendor and magnificence of his prosperous kingdom. Bilbo listened in awe of Balin's tales. Where Bofur had told him of the pride of the miners, Balin spoke of the legacy of kings.
Then the elder dwarf spoke of Smaug and his legendary wrath that swept over the unsuspecting kingdom. The fire that burned, the claws the tore, the teeth that crushed. He spoke of the betrayal of Thranduil, Elvenking of the Great Green Forests, who refused to help his dwarven neighbors in their time of need.
Balin spoke of Thorin, taking lead of their people, as his grandfather and father became obsessed with revenge and consumed with tales past, unconcerned with troubles present. He told them of the kings reduced to schemes and the prince reduced to work for men, all to make sure his people didn't starve on their way to their new home.
Bilbo's gaze rested on Balin as he continued onto the battle for Moria; of the death of Thrór at the hands of Azog the Defiler, the madness of Thrain, and the ascension of Thorin, who took up an oaken branch and withstood blow after relentless blow until he bested his foe and took the field of victory at great cost.
Bilbo couldn't help but let his jaw hang a bit as Balin continued his tale. These were just like the stories of old, tucked away in the many books that lined the halls of Bag End, full of darkness and courage.
It was hard for Bilbo, hobbit of the Shire, connoisseur of all things respectable and boring, to reconcile that the dwarves he journeyed with, that the dwarf that led them each day from one camp to the next, had lived through so much. That the Thorin he knew, the Thorin that glared at him for dropping bags and needing help up on his pony, was the same Thorin Oakenshield of a great but fallen dwarven people.
He couldn't help but ask as Balin finished his story, "But what of Azog the Defiler, what happened to him?"
Thorin walked back through the camp hitherto unnoticed and spat as he passed, "He died of his wounds long ago, the filth."
The hobbit still couldn't quite wrap his head around that he, Bilbo Baggins, was in the company of heroes. Not just Thorin, though Bilbo would admit to being most in awe of that particular dwarf. But heroes like Bofur who had mined in the great halls of Erebor with the rest of his family; like Bombur who had a mother he loved more than anyone and lost in the fiery ruin of his home; like Bifur who had come to help his only remaining kin and protected them, almost dying in the process; like Dwalin and Balin who had fought in great and mighty battles; like Fili and Kili who were raised with tales of their birthright, kings without a kingdom; and Bilbo suddenly felt smaller than he ever had in his life.