More of a filler this one, but rest assured I am already onto the next chapter. A bajillions loves to those that review/favorite/follow! You're all beautiful 3

Chapter Eleven: Early Birds and Cavernous Taverns

Burning glares from crowded rooms.

Biting words that stick to skin.

Unwelcoming condemnation in welcoming towns.

"You're early." Bilbo says as soon as Anaya returns. He's settled himself down in the living room. Much of the walls are lined with bookshelves, their contents old and dusty; a gift from its previous owners. He'd not yet had a chance to see what secrets the shelves held.

"Yes."

A frustrated huff.

"Why?"

She shrugs nonchalantly, "Business in the Shire took less time than I'd thought it would. So I decided to surprise you! Surprise!" her arms spread out at her ejaculation and Bilbo rolls his eyes. She heads straight towards the closest bookshelf, her hand running reverently over the faded spines.

"You're looking well." He hopes that's not triumph in her voice; he hates it when she gets smug.

"I've- it's been so busy. Unpacking and all that." The I haven't had a chance to think about it goes unsaid. She shoots him a smile and turns back to her inspection. Bilbo contents himself with the book he'd found last night.

"The brochure definitely wasn't lying when it said the house was fully furnished," she remarks some minutes later, sparing a critical look at the room, "I would have thought we were intruding upon someone's house were it not for all the dust."

Bilbo nods, slightly uncomfortable with the topic; the house was unusually well furnished, "Fili and Kili told me the owners probably left several decades ago, after a lot of people disappeared. Not that I know how long ago that really is- they said something about … umm… after something, which has to be at least 20 years ago because they said they couldn't remember the place ever being occupied." He cannot for the life of him remember what the name was that the brothers had mentioned in passing. Ereb something or other, perhaps.

Anaya passes a hand over one of the old and musty armchairs, her gaze contemplative "I wonder what happened to them," she muses. Bilbo shrugs.

"Perhaps they just needed a change."

"And leave all of their things here? I don't think so. This house feels old, abandoned."

"I haven't found any personal effects; no clothes or photographs. Surely if the place was abandoned they would have left those kinds of things here." She sends him a looks that speaks volumes.

"Please Bilbo- all of those things could easily have been cleared out later." He shrugs again, unwilling to argue and she turns back around to the books.

He tries to go back to his book- the great journal that smells like dust and age- but his mind refuses to read the careful words. Minutes pass, thoughts swirling through his head like poison. Resentment flares up within him as he ponders the possibilities of his last conversation, thick and sickly and burning, like hot treacle. At last, he chews out a sentence, short, clipped and threaded with a dangerous undercurrent of anger.

"You knew."

"Knew what?" she responds calmly, halfway through the movement of replacing a book she'd been rifling through. The pages are worn and yellowed.

"That they'd ask me to be their doctor. That they'd ask me to stay here permanently." The statement is loaded with unsaid accusations that he knows she'll pick up on. She's smart enough for it. She continues her perusal of the abandoned books with an infuriating level of nonchalance.

"No. But I guessed." Her voice is serious; Bilbo flinches, "Gandalf had informed me of their situation."

"Why? Why me?" he hates himself for how piteous it sounds.

"Because they need you. They need a doctor; and a sympathetic one at that."

"But why now? It's been half a decade since they lost the last one- why wait all that time to get a new doctor? It makes no fucking sense!"

She turns to face him. Her eyes look worried, "I don't know. I only know that Gandalf felt like they were going to need one- a proper one."

The blood seems to chill in his veins. Statements like that seem vaguely prophetic, and he doesn't like that- not one bit.

"What's going on in this town Anaya?" he asks quietly. She shrugs; she looks tired.

"I don't know." He sighs in frustration, fingering absentmindedly at the corner of the journal. There are still other questions that need to be answered.

"They knew about Ferumbras." The surprise sliding across her face is not enough to assuage his suspicions, "Did you know that they would resort to blackmail to keep me here?" he continues. Her eyes flash dangerously.

"Don't be stupid. I'd never want to place you in that sort of situation- either of us." She frowns, a thought suddenly occurring to her, "Did Fili and Kili insinuate that they'd resort to that? If they did, I'm not sure I like them as much."

Bilbo shakes his head, "No. they tried to use Ferumbras as sympathetic leverage I think. I doubt they were even aware of its implications. Someone- Gandalf or Thorin, I'd imagine- told them. They probably knew they'd let the secret slip at some point." He rubs wearily at his eyes, "I just… I don't understand it. Something this big- it's bound to come out at some point.

"They'll be found out eventually. A town isn't meant to be kept secret; it's like poison. Sooner or later they'll be discovered and then they're royally fucked. Why put themselves in that situation in the first place?"

She nods, looking sadly out the window into the mass of brambles. A Thrush flits through the bush, fluffing up its feathers as it picks at insects, "I know," she says, watching the bird with muted interest, "They're screwed if they do and they're screwed if they don't. It's hardly an ideal situation."

Bilbo snorts in bitter amusement, "You've got that right. It's a mystery how they've even managed to survive."

She shrugs, "I suppose they just found enough people with a dislike- or at least a wariness-" she sends Bilbo a pointed look, "for the Government. Others I'd imagine, they just kept in the dark."

Bilbo groans, resting his head against the back of his chair in frustration, "Aulë, but just imagine the logistics of it all! What a fucking nightmare."

She laughs turning back around to properly face him, "What are you reading by the way?" and with that the frighteningly serious mood is broken. He shakes his head in exasperation.

"I think it's a journal; on herb lore by the looks of it. It's very beautiful. If one asked I would have said it's almost too beautiful."

She comes round to peek over his shoulder, "You're right," she hums in appreciation, reaching out a hand to stroke the carefully illustrated paper, then moves as if to turn the page. Bilbo slaps her hand away.

"None of that- don't spoil it!" he snaps grumpily, "I want to go through this page-by-page, and that means no peaking!" he hits her teasing hand away again.

He can almost hear her childish pout behind him.

"Fine." She huffs, flouncing over to the book case and stealing a book at random. She throws herself down into the other armchair and almost immediately is surrounded by a small cloud of dust. Bilbo laughs at her look of distaste.

"Eww. That is positively awful."

Bilbo laughs some more. He's glad better breeding stops the girl from throwing the book at him.

"I should have warned you," he finally gasps, when he gets his mirth firmly under control, "I haven't actually had the chance to dust yet." By Aulë, but the look she sent could have peeled paint. They fall into a companionable silence for a while, but Bilbo is still contemplating the abandoned nature of the house.

"It's weird," he muses, "For all that someone obviously cleaned the house up, the basement looked almost untouched, like they'd-"

"We have a basement? Where! Show me show me show me!" he probably shouldn't have said anything about the basement. Anaya loves all things mysterious, and underground cellars were hardly a common addition in the Shire.

"You're like a puppy," he remarks, carefully setting the book on his seat.

"Never mind that! Show me the basement! Where is it? What's in it?"

He grimace, remembering last night. The skin on the back of his neck feels like it's crawling, "It's more like a cellar really. It's in the kitchen."

Anaya launches herself from the room like her life depends on it. He can hear her cry of triumph and the scrape of the table from here and he follows her wearily.

"There's not much in there," he says from the doorway, watching her tug impatiently at the trapdoor, "Just a few jars of pickled things and an old desk… it's where I found that book, actually." Anaya spares him a glance.

"That's nice. Now get over here and give me a hand."

He really, really doesn't feel like complying. The room gives him the creeps now, but he can't exactly explain the reason for that to Anaya; she'd just discount it as the hallucinations of an overactive imagination. So instead, he gives her a hand, pulling at the heavy door (and he'd swear to Aulë, but it didn't seem that heavy last night) until it opens with a squealing protest. The smell of dust and old things fills the room. He supresses a shudder at the memories of last night; they'd been false images, nothing more.

Anaya laughs in delight and rushes down the stairs. Bilbo stays where he is.

"Do you mind finding my lighter?" he calls down to her, "I dropped it last night when I grabbed the journal."

"Why didn't you just get it when you dropped it?" comes Anaya's indignant voice.

"It was pitch black! I couldn't see a thing- it was easier to wait until morning."

"I don't see how," she huffs, disgruntled, "It's still dark as hell down here." He laughs nervously and decides to leave her to it. The journal is calling to him.

Time passes; eventually he hears Anaya clatter up the stairs.

"I'm sorry Bilbo," she says loudly from the other room, "but I couldn't-" she's interrupted by a shriek- her shriek- and he hears the soft whump of paper falling to the ground. He runs into the kitchen, heart thudding viciously in his throat. Please oh please please PLEASE let her not have seen something there too!

"Bilbo! Bilbo you never told me you'd gotten a cat!" she cries, interrupting his frantic thoughts. He skids to a halt at the kitchen door, looking on in disbelief. The floor is strewn with yellowed paper, and the daft girl is grinning in delight at the unimpressed black cat now perched upon his kitchen bench.

She squeals and launches herself at Wraith, feet miraculously missing every piece of now forgotten paper. The feline dodges the woman effectively, but Anaya is nothing if not tenacious and she chases after the poor animal, determined to get it in her grasp. They disappear from sight, his friend crying out (futile) encouragements to the animal. The front door opens and slams shut.

Bilbo tries very, very hard not to cry with laughter. He should have known that would be her reaction. The silly bint loved animals- though they, as a general rule didn't like her as much. He had a feeling Wraith might begin to have misgivings about choosing Bilbo's house as his own, in the weeks to come. He shakes his head with mirth, not even the great gaping hole of darkness on his floor marring his good mood.

He closes the trapdoor, snickering intermittently and collects the papers Anaya had dropped in her surprise. He sets them down on the table, not bothering to move it back into place before setting off to finish the last of his unpacking. Bilbo would be the first person to admit he'd gotten himself distracted by his poor excuse for a yard and had neglected the more immediate concerns- like unpacking.

"Gandalf told me the pub isn't far from here."

Bilbo looks up, halfway through the tedious task of dispersing the trinkets and books taken from Bag End, "Yes," he replies warily, "Fili and Kili's mother owns the place." Anaya grins.

"Excellent. Then you won't object to us going there tonight."

"Ah, well actua-"

"Good. I knew you'd agree with me." He frowns at her.

"Anaya-"

"You heard me Bilbo." Her tone brooks no disagreements, "I bet you haven't even left this house since you got here."

"Well actual-"

"Venturing into the garden does not classify as leaving the house."

He looks away shamefaced; he doesn't want to see the look of victory on her face.

"We're here for a while Bilbo. You need to start making friends- and more-" she says sternly, preventing his inevitable defence, "- than just with the people who come knocking at your door.

"And besides!" she visibly brightens, "I haven't met anybody yet besides Fili and Kili."

"You've only been here for three hours."

"That is no excuse." She says imperiously, "I want to meet people and I am not going to the pub alone. And that is final."

Sometimes Bilbo wonders how someone almost a decade his junior can hold so much authority over him.

It is twenty-three past six when they leave the house.

The autumnal sun glowers at them on the horizon; the light illuminating their hair and setting their skin on fire. There is no escape from the fading light- the pub (the location of which Anaya mystically already knows) is to the west, leaving the two of them at the mercy of the dying sun. It seems to burn and spark at them with renewed vigour in the face of its demise. Anaya carries on as though unaffected but Bilbo is left with squinting and watering eyes, trying to (futilely) relieve the glare with the shadow cast by his hand.

Eventually he is forced to turn his head away, which in turn allows him to look at the houses lining the streets that they pass. He hadn't had a chance to spare any more than a passing glance at them the other day, too distracted by the problems in his immediate vicinity. Now that he passes them at a more sedate pace he can see that whilst most homes show signs of habitation- a parked truck, a cleared path, boots left sitting outside the door- there are more than enough homes that emit a sad and neglected air. Enough certainly for it to be noticeable.

He regards the over-grown paths and grimy windows with a mix of curiosity and disappointment. It was indescribably sad to watch the protracted decay of the town, which must have once been a thriving epicentre of activity- the dignified stone houses spoke to him of a time of affluence and pride. He wonders, as they pass street after quiet street, if their secrecy in the face of the Government had been the beginning of the end for Erebor, or if there was something more insidious at work.

Erebor seems to grow more lively the closer they get to the town centre, though only marginally. There are actual street lights along the main street, which are rapidly becoming more and more necessary as the sun sinks further into the horizon. They make a notable difference from the unlined residential streets, many of which are cast in shadow by the ancient oak trees that grow.

Although, he will be the first to admit that this is the first time he's actual, working gas lamps. He can't help but find their flickering lights and the constant fluttering hiss of gas charmingly quaint.

The Angry Dwarf sits only a few blocks away from where they are, but he can already hear the sounds of rowdy laughter and singing. Bilbo is suddenly overcome with the urge to turn tail and run. He is shamelessly introverted- he knows this, he is okay with this- and the thought of being thrust into the boisterous tavern when he barely knows a handful of people fills his heart with a sickening dread.

Anaya, as though sensing his sudden onset of nerves grasps his arm firmly.

"You are not backing out of this now Bilbo Baggins!" she hisses at him, all but dragging him down the street, "You are going to walk into that tavern and you are going to talk to people or so help me there is going to be hell to pay for you tomorrow morning!"

Bilbo takes Anaya's threats very seriously. He hadn't once. Only once.

He lets her guide him to The Dwarf without protest, though his palms are sweating and his mouth feels uncomfortably dry. As they near he can see the tell-tale wooden sign that hangs above the door. A dwarf, in the throes of what looks to be a beserker rage and the golden words The Angry Dwarf are emblazoned across the weathered wood. The words are curiously reminiscent of runic writing. When they get close enough, Bilbo can see that there are actually runes carved into the very bottom of the sign. There are more carved into the glossy wooden door. He eyes the markings curiously. They're old and worn and look as though they are as old as the building the door rests in. He wonders if there are any houses with such runes, and what it is they mean.

A fresh wave of merriment washes over them and he is brought jarringly back into the present.

He doesn't want to do this. This is so far out of his comfort zone that it's almost funny. Almost. He can hear the rowdy voices from the other side of that old wooden door, happy and oblivious to his presence. These people know each other, have a history together, and Bilbo is just a stranger that won't even do what they really need him for. He doesn't want to have to deal with the hostile glares and sneering mouths; he'd had enough of that last night with Thorin.

Anaya gives him a sympathetic smile and grabs his clammy hand. Her fingers entwine around his; soft and dry- like paper.

"It'll be alright Bilbo," she murmurs, her voice still miraculously reaching him over the din, "These people will welcome you with open arms; and screw the ones that don't."

Her words don't exactly lend him comfort, but the hard steel that hides behind them gives him strength. Anaya is just as far from home as he is, and just as much a stranger. He owes her at least this much. He straightens, squares his shoulders and juts his chin. A hand raises; pulls at the old iron handle.

And together, united, they enter The Angry Dwarf.

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