CHAPTER TWO
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…"
"Will you stop worrying so much, young Bilbo? You'll wear out your floor if you go on like that."
"I've worn out my patience is what I have!"
"Why the anxiety little one? It will just be a couple of dwarves over for dinner-"
"Dwarves I have not invited!"
"The symbol on your door would say otherwise."
"I didn't put it there!"
"They won't know that."
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…"
Hyperion's loud laughter filled the low-slung hobbit hole as he rose from his (far too small) chair, towering over the worrying Bilbo. The former God placed a large hand on the young Hobbit's narrow shoulder, finally bringing him to a halt until he stared up at the Man with a deep sigh.
"Everything will turn out fine, Bilbo. It'll be good for you, I think you'll find. Profitable too, if you play your cards right." Michael said with a reassuring smile, though Bilbo merely stared up at him with suspicious, narrowed eyes.
"That's what the wizard said. Almost word for word, in fact."
"Well, there you go. Two against one." The Man said, the twinkle in his bright glowing eyes intensifying.
"But… but, we're not prepared to host a bunch of Dwarves!" Bilbo desperately pleaded, but still the former Emperor of Man did not seem overly worried.
"I'll have you know, the correct term is a 'gaggle' of Dwarves. I think. Pretty sure most things can be qualified as a 'gaggle'. Besides, of course you are prepared to host a gaggle of Dwarves!"
"I am?"
"You're a Hobbit: you are. Come!" And with that Hyperion bent down to sling one of his large arms around Bilbo's shoulders as he led him through one room after the next, somehow managing to appear leisurely despite the young Hobbit only reaching his thigh.
"Let's go down the list. Welcoming hall?" the former God asked as they stepped into Bilbo's hall.
It had been freshly dusted (though Bilbo hadn't picked up a broom ever since the Lord of Light had fallen face first into his garden and thus his life), the candles in the chandelier were all lit (yet not dripping wax somehow) and there were several good cloaks and sturdy walking sticks awaiting by the door.
"Yes, yes, I suppose everything is in order…" Bilbo stammered, but that was good enough for his companion.
"Check!" he called out, before whirling out of the room, Bilbo still carried at his side.
"Dining area?" the god next questioned as they peeked into the next room.
The table was large and heavy set, its wood aged but properly cleaned. Various cabinets were stocked to the brim with silver cutlery and some of the finest porcelain in Westfarthing (much to the continued chagrin and envy of the Sackville-Bagginses) and all the chairs were straight-backed and solid, with fresh upholstery.
"Yes, yes, it's all very nice…" Bilbo agreed easily, already anticipating his companion's reaction by now as the Man at his side let out a large grin, his eyes ever glowing with mirth.
"Check!" he called out once more, before kicking open a nearby heavy door with the heel of his foot, whirling poor Bilbo inside.
"Pantry?" he asked, the mischievous glint in his eyes all the more noticeable in the low lighting of the storeroom.
"Fully stocked and overflowing to the brim, as you well know Michael." Bilbo managed in a tone that was simultaneously defiant and defeated.
"Check!" the god called out once more, before almost physically lifting the young Hobbit off his feet as he leapt towards the central room in the spacious smial, practically dumping Bilbo in the large chair his great-uncle had used to nap in by the warmth of the hearth.
"Entertainment and relaxation area?" the god questioned as he snapped his fingers, the dry logs lying in the fireplace suddenly alighting with bright warm flames, filling the room with a pleasant glow.
"Aha! It is not 'check'! We haven't enough seats!" Bilbo finally said in a triumphant tone, though he didn't jump to his feet as he otherwise would have.
It was a very comfortable chair after all.
For once, the God seemingly had the wind taken out of his sails as he rubbed his chin in thought.
"Hmmm… I suppose you are right. It would be hard to fully relax if one is forced to stand on two short legs after a long day of walking, and a longer evening still of drinking and eating."
Then Hyperion shrugged.
"And I suppose there's not much entertainment to be found in a Hobbit hole, beyond said drinking and eating." He said, his tone the very picture of innocence if it weren't for the fact that Bilbo saw the Man's eyes peeking at him from underneath lowered eyelids.
One of the disadvantages of having glowing irises.
Bilbo wanted to defend his people's honour (they were plenty entertaining! They loved telling stories and dancing while eating and drinking after all) but as that would rather defeat his own point, he merely settled for nodding smugly as he sunk deeper into the plush cushions of his lounge chair.
"Indeed! Quite boring folk we are! Oh, it's just dreadful! Obviously, we are not fit to host a gaggle of dwarves, no sir!"
"Well then… it's a good thing that I am no Hobbit and thus prepared accordingly!" his friend suddenly called out with a grin as he leapt towards the seated Bilbo, who let out a brief shriek in surprise.
The former god grabbed a hold of the grand chair, taking it by its large back before with a great heave of impossible strength, he whirled the entire thing around, the Hobbit sat inside included. As the world stopped spinning, Bilbo was shocked to find that his living room had somehow doubled in size without him noticing, extending far further than what could be possibly contained underneath the Hill. The new space had been filled with large, comfortable looking couches made with dark woods and expensive looking leathers and stocky looking plush chair all cluttered around low-slung tables.
"Would you stop altering reality to redecorate my home!" Bilbo cried out in desperation, feeling a large, warm hand descend on his shoulder as Hyperion leaned closer, his expression one of deep thought.
For a moment or two, they remained locked like that, before the former Emperor nodded seriously to himself, glancing towards his small companion.
"No."
Refusing to look at that smug smile for a second longer, Bilbo let out a deep sigh, as he took in his new living room and the furniture that had suddenly appeared there.
The tables themselves were in most cases decorated with thick marble slabs or smoky looking glass plates, and on many of their tops stood game boards engraved that Bilbo didn't recognize, with various pieces cut from mahogany and ivory spread around them. On smaller side-tables, teetering on spindly legs made of precious metals like gold and silver, stood various bottles, decanters and glasses, the bottles containing an amber liquid.
"More rum?" Bilbo asked weakly, a phantom pounding starting up in his head as he remembered (or rather, failed to remember) their night out in Michel Delving.
As Bilbo had found, rum and Dwarves went great together, in the sense that hungry flames and dry straws went well together too.
"Oh no, much more better." Hyperion said with a laugh, which somehow didn't do much to assuage Bilbo's fears as the god leaned closer towards him.
"This, my little friend, is whiskey. A thousand-years aged in most cases, just a little something I whipped up you see, nothing fancy. Though Thor, son of Odin himself claimed that it could compare to the ale from their fabled kegs fashioned from the wrecks of Brunnhild's fleet!"
"Right… nothing fancy then." Bilbo echoed weakly as he stood up and walked through his new living room.
He couldn't know it, but in style and grandeur it would be the equal of even the greatest Club lounges of any Victorian-era Society in history. Well, not Middle-Earth's history, but still.
"So… what is, uhm… what is this whiskey?" Bilbo tentatively asked as he took one of the new bottles, pulling off the heavy crystal stopper and taking a hesitant sniff of the swirling amber liquid.
Hmmm… it did smell quite nice, in all fairness. Perhaps this wasn't such a bad idea, Bilbo briefly thought, before he glanced at the large Man who stood tall in his living room with a massive grin on his face and he very succinctly and determinedly buried said thought in the deepest recesses of his mind, never to see the light of day again.
"You know what? I don't want to know." Bilbo resolutely said as he stoppered the bottle again and returned it to its little side-table, Hyperion's cheeky grin not lessened in the slightest.
Looking past the annoying god, Bilbo's eyes travelled across his renewed living room before they landed on a side chamber. It took a moment or two before Bilbo realized that he was looking at his old cloak closet, the little room now vastly expanded beyond all logical sense and Hobbit sensibilities. Inside the darkened room, Bilbo could vaguely make out several large tables and what looked like oddly shaped cabinets. Michael moved to stand at his side and without a word clapped his hands, various lights in bright colours springing to life in Bilbo's former closet, illuminating a room without equal in all of Middle-Earth.
The tables had green felt covering their tops, on which there were several shapes displayed. Other tables had a similar green covering, but no symbols and it was surrounded by a thick band which had several holes in it, underneath which hung small nets. On the walls, there were circular shields in various parts black and white and with alternating red and green short little strips, with a red dot square in the centre. There were tables that were illuminated by lights on the inside, with what looked like a handle on the front.
"… what." Bilbo managed, and without turning to see, he knew Hyperion stood grinning like a madman beside him.
"Arcade and Game Room!" the god said with glee, as if that explained it, which (of course) it didn't.
"I see." Bilbo nonetheless muttered, giving the new and strange room one last look, before resolutely turning his back on it as he moved towards the nearest 'whiskey' bottle, pouring himself a generous glass.
As he slammed the liquid back, a pleasant burn travelling down his throat, he tried to comfort himself with the thought that, for once, he would not be the only one to suffer from a former god's sense of humour.
The Dwarves were in for the visit of their lives.
Just before tea-time at Bag End in the Shire, there came a tremendous ring on the front-door bell. Bilbo hurried over, pulling the green door open, revealing that on the other side stood a dwarf with a blue beard tucked into a golden belt, and very bright eyes under his dark-green hood. As soon as the door was opened, he unceremoniously got pulled inside by a surprisingly irate looking Bilbo.
"Right!" the Hobbit called out, taking the Dwarf's hooded cloak and hanging it from the nearest peg (for even an angry Hobbit strives to remain a polite Hobbit).
The Dwarf, having not yet actually been given the chance to offer said cloak, looked on rather bemused as the Hobbit came to a halt in front of him, peering up at the taller Dwarf with narrowed eyes.
"Dwalin, at your service-!" the Dwarf tried, but the Hobbit waved him off with a nervous fluttering of hands, before they settled on his hips.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure. Bilbo at yours and all that. Now then!"
And with that, he leaned forwards towards the surprised Dwarf with narrowed eyes.
"How good are you at throwing tiny little arrows at a target?" Bilbo asked, causing interest to bloom in the Dwarf's eyes as he thoughtfully stroked his blue beard.
Poor Dwalin had just cried out for the best seven out of eight in darts after Michael had won yet another leg by throwing three of the tiny arrows at once (with his eyes closed, his back turned towards the board and drinking straight from a Whiskey bottle at the same time) when there came another, even louder ring at the bell.
Leaving Dwalin and Michael to their game of throwing darts, Bilbo rushed to the front door, swinging it wide open, revealing a very old-looking dwarf on the step with a white beard and a scarlet hood. Before the Dwarf had a chance to spring inside, Bilbo had already ushered him into the hall, practically stealing the aged Dwarf's cloak right from his back as he hung it from a nearby peg, next to Dwalin's green cloak.
"I see they have begun to arrive already." The wizened Dwarf said, upon seeing his friend's cloak.
"You're among the first, the other eleven shall be here before the night is done. Says Michael anyways, but he already finished off a keg of whiskey by himself, so who knows how he knows?" Bilbo merely replied in a fettered tone.
"Right… Balin, at your service!" the older Dwarf said, trying to get things back to a sense of normalcy, but Bilbo was long past that.
"That depends."
"… I beg your pardon?"
"Do you know how to count cards? With the four of us, we should be able to play some of Michael's "Casino" games. I don't know where "Texas" lies, or what they're holding on to, but it sounds interesting. Or mildly safer at least. Much less danger of poking someone's eye out with a tiny arrow." The Hobbit prattled on, taking Balin by the arm and leading him towards the outraged cries of Dwalin coming from the Arcade room.
"… I beg your pardon?"
"Read 'em and weep!"
"You dare brother?! Roll up those sleeves of yours, where did you get those Aces?!"
"Dwalin my boy, you're two hundred years too early to accuse me of cheating at cards."
"What, because you don't cheat?"
"Because you wouldn't even notice if I did."
Balin's white beard shook with mirth while he dragged a pile of tokens towards him taller than his torso, when loud came a ring at the bell again, and then another ring. While the guests might not strictly speaking be his, since Gandalf had been the one to invite them, this was still his house and so Bilbo was again the one to rush to the door to greet the new visitor.
Or, visitors, as it turned out. Standing in front of his door stood two more dwarves, both with blue hoods, silver belts, and yellow beards; and each of them carried a bag of tools and a spade. In they hopped, as soon as the door began to open-Bilbo was hardly surprised at all.
That may have been the booze talking. That, or the desensitization that comes from having a god as a roommate.
"Kili at your service!" said the one. "And Fili!" added the other; and they both swept off their blue hoods and bowed.
"Bilbo, at yours." Bilbo answered, the dwarves straightening up, only to fumble as the Hobbit tossed something in their arms.
It was a lacquered stick, too thin to be a proper walking stick and too straight to be a nice cane, though the finish was impeccable. It tapered slightly towards one end, on which sat an oddly flat piece of a material they had never seen before, but which Bilbo had heard Michael call 'rubber'.
Tossing the brothers a piece of blue chalk, Bilbo turned on his heel as he stalked back towards the rest of the group.
"Rub that on your tips and come with me. It's no fun playing cards against Balin: I'm pretty sure he won from Michael even when he was trying a little bit and he claims he can see the future. So, we're going to play billiards!"
Fili once again broke the balls, leaning over the lowered billiards table and wielding his cue with expert skill as Kili stood by with a thunderous look on his face as he furiously rubbed the end of his stick with some chalk, the brothers having gotten competitive.
Off to the side, the other set of brothers, Dwalin and Balin, stood down a range which by all rights should have extended to somewhere in the middle of Bilbo's neighbour's kitchen, yet somehow still fit snugly inside the new room in Bag End.
Dwalin had stated he would never again sit down at a poker table with his older brother unless Balin conceded to removing all of the layers of cloths, leather and mail that Dwarves call a shirt, playing bare-chested instead. It's hard to hide anything up your sleeves if you're not wearing any, Dwalin had slyly reasoned with a triumphant grin.
Said grin was quickly swept away when Balin's eyes gained a twinkle that could rival Michael's in sheer glee as he readily agreed, his great white beard twitching all the while. His younger brother had stared at him for a long silent moment, before throwing his hands up in disgust as he pushed away from the poker table.
When he had picked up the darts again and asked Michael if he had something bigger (and more cathartic) to throw at the target, the former god had merely smiled and given him a set of tomahawks and a range which definitely had not been there moments prior.
By then however, frustration and liquor had taken a great enough hold of the blue-bearded Dwarf that he merely shrugged his shoulders, and began throwing axes, finally a sport he and his kin were familiar with.
Still chuckling, Balin left Bilbo and Michael to sit in quiet together as he joined his brother. While throwing axes, they talked about mines and gold and troubles with the goblins, and the depredations of dragons, and lots of other things which Bilbo did not understand, and did not want to, for they sounded much too adventurous-when, ding-dong-a-ling-dang, his bell rang again, as if some naughty little hobbit-boy was trying to pull the handle off.
"Impatient one huh?"
"Four actually." Michael dryly responded without so much as looking, engrossed in building a tower of cards (not merely a stacked triangle either, any Gondorian would recognize the near-perfect replica of the White City immediately), the tip of his tongue out in concentration.
"Four?" Bilbo asked a little weakly, already reaching towards his glass of whiskey.
"He's right; we saw them coming along behind us in the distance." Fili answered, before with a crow of victory he downed another ball in the corner pocket.
Behind him, Kili was clearly wandering if he should take his cue to either the balls or his smug brother's head. Both were round, weren't they? Surely, there wasn't too much of a difference?
Shaking his head while puffing down his hall, Bilbo threw open his door and in tumbled what indeed could only be described as a 'gaggle' of Dwarves, nearly stumbling over each other's feet as they pressed into Bilbo's home.
"Dori, at your service!"
"Bilbo, at yours."
"Nori, at your service!"
"Bilbo, at yours."
"Ori, at your service!"
"Again, Bilbo, at yours."
"Oin, at your service!"
"As you already know, Bilbo, at yours."
"Gloin, at your service!"
"Bilbo, up yours."
Gandalf strode up the quaint little path towards Bilbo's home, accompanied by four more dwarves, the last of Thorin's Company to visit the little Hobbit's home. As always, walking through the Shire brought a smile to the wizard's wizened face, the peaceful nature of the Hobbit's lands soothing to his troubled mind.
Though he suspected that, between the two of them, the mind of their unknowing host would be the much more troubled one. Young Bilbo had been much different from how he remembered him when he was but a young Hobbit-lad. Seemingly gone were those inquisitive eyes, that brave and daring heart, replaced by proper Hobbit stuffiness.
Seemingly, because Gandalf's eyes saw more than most and he knew that the adventurous little lad was still there somewhere underneath the tweed and Hobbit manners and mannerisms.
Still, to host thirteen rambunctious Dwarves would be a challenge to any good host, especially if they weren't aware they were one. Poor Bilbo would probably be run off his feet by now, catering to his unexpected guests, and likely not being thanked for it as he should, Gandalf considered as he glanced down towards the companions at his side.
It wasn't that Dwarves were rude. Well, not intentionally at least. They were simply… rougher, than most of the other Free Peoples, save for some of the Tribes of Men living in the harsher regions of Middle-Earth.
They could do with some humbling, their leader especially, if only to make it up to poor Bilbo, and to start off the evening with a bit of fun. So, Gandalf told them to wait by the door, as he leaned over to knock on the wood, his eyes searching for the rune he had left there the day before.
He had intended to quickly bash the mark away, and then use his staff to lightly nudge his fellows inside, tumbling into Bilbo's home. As Thorin stood in the front (as he always did), he'd be the first to fall, quickly covered by Bifur, Bofur and (most notably) Bombur on top of him.
Gandalf could already picture the scene and had to suppress a guffaw as he searched for the rune… and could not find it. His wild eyebrows rose in surprise until they brushed against the underside of his hat, but before he could give voice to his confusion, the door swung open on its own accord.
The Hall was pristine, the chandelier was lit and on the coat rack were nine cloaks already, unmistakeably of Dwarven make. Yet there was no nervous Hobbit standing on the other side of the round green door, wringing his hands and looking far too worried for his own good.
The Hall was empty.
But not silent. As the group tentatively stepped inside, hanging up their own cloaks as well (two yellow hoods, a pale green one and a sky-blue one with a long silver tassel, the latter belonging to Thorin himself), the sound of music and singing drifted down the deserted Hall.
Well, it was singing in that words were being called out to a tune, but Gandalf, even with his many years wandering the length and breath of Middle Earth, couldn't recall ever hearing lyrics that were quite this… creative.
We're knights of the round table!
Our shows are formid-able!
But many times, we're given rhymes
That are quite unsing-able!
We're opera mad in Camelot!
We sing from the diaphragm a looooooot!
"By Durin's Beard… what manner of Bard devised this story?" Thorin breathed out with a frown as he led the way further into the smial. Gandalf decided to slightly hang towards the back of the group. Should anything happen, the Dwarves could act unimpeded while he could simply reach over them: the reverse was much more difficult should he lead in the front. Swiftly, their group made their way towards a richly furnished (and impossibly large) living room.
Gandalf's beard felt as if there was lightning running through it due to the sheer amount of magic he could sense here, and he gripped his staff tighter as his eyes flitted about the luxurious room.
The Dwarves, being unable to sense magic not wrought in stone or metal, kept following the weird music. Off to their right, the singing was louder, and so the group cautiously approached a side room, Thorin pushing open the door in order to reveal a room quite unlike any other in Middle-Earth. It was filled with furniture, tables and gizmos that Gandalf couldn't even hope to guess at their purpose.
It was also revealed that this musical number was accompanied by dance, an unknown tall Man with alabaster skin standing on top of a bar, his arms slung around a dancing Bilbo, Kili, Fili and (to the surprise of many) Oin and Gloin.
War we're tough and able, quite indefatig-able!
Between our quests we sequin vests
And impersonate Clark Gable!
It's a busy life in Camelot!
The wild dancing came to a halt as the Man sunk to a knee, arms spread wide like a performer before an audience of thousands, singing the final line in such a deep voice that Gandalf felt it in his bones and Bag End shuddered on its foundations.
"I have to push the pram a looooooooooooooooooot!" the Man finished, to the immense cheering and hollering of the nine Dwarves and one Hobbit present.
"Do another one Michael!"
"Yeah, come on, do another!"
At the calls of the Dwarves, the Man clambered back to his feet with an indulgent smile on his chiselled face, holding up his hands in a placating gesture.
"Alright then, alright then. Now, for something completely different: this one is called "Men… in Tights!"
Not entirely sure what the next musical number would be but feeling oddly determined to protect the eyes of his company from it nonetheless, Gandalf let out a loud harrumph!-ing sound, punctuated by slamming his staff on the panelled floor.
At once, the odd merriment came to a halt as the group inside the strange room turned to look at the second group that had just entered. For a moment, silence hung tense and terse between them, before Balin approached, his eyes smiling and his voice gentle.
"Thorin! Bifur! Bofur! Bombur! It is good to see you all!"
"Balin, old friend." Thorin replied, clasping forearms with the aged Dwarf, before glancing around the strange room with raised brows.
"What manner of madness is this?" he asked aloud and Gandalf leaned in closer as he awaited the answer as well, bright blue eyes trained on the impossibly golden ones from the unknown Man, who stood leaning unbothered against the bar he had been dancing one with a relaxed grin.
"Ah, well, it is the hospitality of Bilbo and his tall friend here. I don't know what has gotten into these Hobbits as of late, but they have drink and food and songs that warm the heart and belly!" Balin said in good cheer, before glancing past the still frowning Thorin towards the rotund Bombur.
"They are the ones who introduced the 'rum' to our friends in the Blue Mountains." Balin said and Bombur's eyes widened with shock and glee (as well as a sudden hunger).
"Really now?" the large Dwarf said, swinging his gaze towards Bilbo and the tall Man, causing the Hobbit to gulp.
Thankfully, Bombur's attention was quickly taken off them as Kili came up, pressing a glass flask filled with an amber liquid into his chubby hands, a lopsided smile on his face as he leaned in close.
"This is even better! They call it whiskey! I'm not sure who Whis is, or why they took his Key, but his drink is like the fire of a forge caught inside a bottle!"
At that exclamation, Bombur, accompanied by a curious Bifur and Bofur, quickly joined their fellow Dwarves in drink and games, but Thorin and Gandalf remained focused on the unknown Man standing across the room from them.
"Go, Thorin Oakenshield. Go sit with your fellows. Dark will soon fall, and clearly it is time for song. You could even play your harp, I think Bilbo will be suitably impressed. Me and the stranger have business to discuss."
Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, did not appreciate being sent away as if he wasn't the most important Dwarf currently present, but when he glanced up at the wizard to protest, he fell silent. There was a tenseness in the ages man's posture and a power in his gaze that made the Dwarven lord wary to go against him.
So he merely inclined his head and stalked over towards Balin and Dwalin, the two brothers amongst his company he relied on most often. Kili and Fili were his cousins and he trusted them with his life, but they were young and brash and currently quite drunk, so the elder dwarves would have to do. Oin and Gloin were eldest amongst the group as well, but considering Thorin had just walked in on them doing a dance that involved a lot of jumping and swinging of feet on top of a bar, he wasn't entirely certain how much he could rely on them tonight.
As the Dwarven lord stalked away, the unknown Man approached Gandalf with a noticeable ease, unconcerned with the aura of power that the wizard had surrounded himself with. Instead, the Man came to a halt right in front of the Istari, tall and towering and from this close Gandalf could see the glow of Light from his eyes and the impossibly smooth and perfect skin, without crease or blemish.
He was no Man at all, Gandalf now realized and he gripped his staff tighter.
"Come then, Gandalf. Come 'discuss' with me. We will not be bothered." The being said with a smile, indicating the spacious and lavish living room with a hand.
Loath as he was to turn his back on this unknown power, Gandalf realized they could hardly remain standing where they were, bickering in the door opening, so slowly he followed the other's lead, falling deeply into a low-slung couch.
While he did not make a habit of it, during his immense lifetime he had sat on the odd throne or two. Not a single one of them could hope to ever compare to the sheer sense of luxuriousness of his couch. He almost forgot the other being entirely as he closed his eyes with a deep, bone-tired sigh of relief.
He loved wandering Middle-Earth. He did, he truly did. But by all the Ainur, it was tiresome on his poor feet and knees! It felt so good to finally rest them, he only remembered the stranger when the man let out a deep chuckle of amusement.
Opening his eyes in shock, Gandalf was surprised to see that the man hadn't taken advantage of his lapse, instead merely lounging lazily on his own couch.
"I get it." He merely said instead with a smile, and somehow Gandalf knew with an absolute certainty that, indeed, he did.
There was a tiredness in his voice, an age which was rare even amongst the long-lived Elves.
"What are you?" Gandalf found himself asking, his worry replaced by a wary curiosity.
The answer surprised him.
"On holiday." The man replied with a grin, a twinkle in his glowing eyes.
"On holiday? From what?" Gandalf tried to press, but the amused twinkle merely increased.
"From work of course."
And so began the longest half hour of Gandalf's life as he tried to pry the man for information. It wasn't that the being was being evasive, and the wizard didn't even get the feeling the man was lying. But he was being gleefully obtuse, to the point that Gandalf accepted an offered glass of this whiskey without hesitation after he threw his hat down on the cushion beside him, rubbing his brow with his free hand.
At least the liquor was good.
"I somehow feel like I owe an apology to every adventurer I have ever assisted on their quest for the past thousand years or so." The wizard muttered under his breath, the Man across him bursting out in bellowing laughter.
From what Gandalf had managed to pry from Michael (though he went by many other names as well, the foremost being Lord Hyperion, New Titan of Heavenly Light, a lofty title indeed), he knew that the being was both powerful and ancient and most importantly, not of Middle-Earth.
The last being that had slipped into Middle-Earth from unknown reaches far beyond the Darkness around Arda had been the terrible Ungoliant, a creature so foul and unspeakable it had forever diminished the light in the world.
So, rather understandably, Gandalf had been wary of this stranger from distant realms. To be sure, he was not some great dread spider as tall as a mountain, but evil often disguised itself in benevolent guises. After all, the Enemy himself, before he was ousted as Sauron, the Black Lord of Mordor, had once upon a time been known to the ancient Noldor of long-sundered Eregion as the Lord of Gifts, having taken the likeness of a great Elven Lord.
But, Gandalf had to concede, even the most cunning Evil was unlikely to disguise itself by hiding away in a Hobbit hole and dancing on a bar for the entertainment for a bunch of drunken dwarves.
Which was incidentally what they had begun singing about, the music coming from the 'Arcade' Room created by great drums and cymbals, beaten in a maddeningly fast rhythm with two thin sticks, as well as viol-like instruments with long necks and six metallic strings that made great howling noises (Dwalin and Balin had of course taken to them with gusto).
One mug filled with mead 'til the morning
Too much for an elf
Two more mugs full of mead 'til the morning
Add more from the shelf
There's three mugs filled with mead 'til the morning
Long since I was born
Four more mugs full of mead 'til the morning
Worthy of a dwarf!
With five mugs full of mead 'til the morning
Someone starts to crawl
Six more mugs full of mead 'til the morning
Everybody falls
Seven mugs full of mead 'til the morning
Right or even wrong
With eight more mugs of mead 'til the morning
We will start the brawl!
Nobody is welcome
In a tavern full of drunken dwarves
No respect for humans
Dragons, trolls, or pointy ears!
If you want to run, do it faster than my axe
Don't you dare mess with a tavern
Full of drunken dwarves!
"A song from your world I take it?" Gandalf asked bemused, raising one bushy brow in question, but the former Emperor merely chuckled.
"Indeed. There was an entire genre of music, a sub-section of Metal, dedicated to Dwarves, called Dwarf Metal. I thought it appropriate to start them off with one of the classics first. Sure, it's over ten thousand years old, but education is important." The large man said with a shrug, further dispelling Gandalf's suspicions.
A servant of dark forces would hardly ever be this… weird.
"But you're not entirely convinced yet." Hyperion cut in, intruding on his thoughts as if he had been able to read his mind.
The ability to peer into someone's thoughts and commune with them mind to mind was a powerful gift, one unique to Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien, and gained at a terrible cost. But the Man, or god, across from him certainly was powerful enough to possess such a skill, if the little he had revealed to Gandalf were true.
Mentally drawing inwards, the aged wizard gave a slow nod, more cautious now, though he wasn't sure how much good it would do if the other being could look in on his thoughts.
"Indeed. This place is dear to me, as are its people. And Thorin and his company… they have a great role to play in the fate of this world. Much depends on their success. Yet you are a being of great power and impossible knowledge. I do not wish to think ill of you… but neither do I wish to think of what ruin you would be able to bring to bear, should you prove to be a servant of evil." The wizard confessed, wary for how the other would respond.
Beings of great power, even those on the side of good, often did not take kindly to being questioned like that, and could react with terrible wrath.
"Alright, that's fair."
… or, they could be surprisingly understanding about it. Gandalf blinked a few times in surprise, opening his mouth to comment on the stranger's easy-going attitude, but no words managed to leave his lips. For just a moment, even though he had not moved, something changed about Hyperion. His form almost seemed to explode with an inner light, bathing the room in warm, bright colours, like a spring day had suddenly bloomed inside Bilbo's home. The god's features were perfect, yet warm and gentle and when those two eyes akin to suns settled on Gandalf's form, the aged Istari suddenly felt very small and young indeed. It was as if a parent was looking at him with a caring fondness and he felt to his own surprise a tear softly trailing down his wrinkled cheek.
This… this was… if Glorfindel, he who had returned from the white shores of Valinor to Middle Earth, was a burning lantern of Light, then Hyperion was as the sun itself, the Light blazing from him in such powerful waves that Gandalf almost felt overwhelmed as they crashed into his diminutive form, setting the entire Bag End awash with nothing but pure Hope. No Silmarillion in all their masterfully crafted glory could compare. Not even the Two Trees from long before, from the beginning of Arda, the greatest accomplishment of the Valar and their greatest love and pride, could have rivalled the aura of the Lord of Light.
It was as if the golden sheen of Ormal, the Lamp of the Valar which had been placed at the southern end of Arda in the ancient times to illuminate the earth, was revealed to have been hidden away in Bag End for those many ages, its world-spanning rays now filling Bilbo's living room instead.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the powerful feeling was gone as if it had never truly existed, like a cloud had suddenly been pulled across the sky to hide the sun from view. Gandalf took a deep breath as he steadied himself, finding himself back in the here and now, sitting on a couch in a young Hobbit's living room.
Yet, when he glanced up at the god in front of him, the Istari knew that this power had merely been hidden, not locked up or erased. All of that power, that Light that had nearly washed him away, was still there, only visible in the twinkling of two glowing eyes.
"Powerful stuff, huh?"
Gandalf could only nod, still too awed to properly speak.
"Convinced that I'm not up to no good?" The god pressed with a sly smirk and Gandalf slowly shook his head.
"That you have mischief on your mind is quite clear to me. But you are no servant of evil, of that I am certain. I daresay that you are more of the Light than even I, or any other being not on Valinor itself." The Istari said in an awed tone and he saw that the former Emperor was taken aback somewhat, before he responded with a nod and a genuine smile.
"But then… what are your intentions? You say you are on holiday? How do you intend to spend that holiday?"
For a long moment, Hyperion remained silent as his glowing eyes turned distant.
"The holy site of Gundabad. Their first and greatest city of Khazad-dûm. And now Erebor, their stronghold in the Wilderlands. Time and again, the great works and kingdoms of the Dwarves are abandoned to the vile clutches of goblins, orcs and dragons."
Michael glanced at Gandalf with a wistful smile on his chiselled features.
"It is high time that they get a win. And I'm willing to give them one. I owe the Dwarves of Nidavellir much, more than you could know. These descendants of Durin the Deathless may not be their kin in blood, but they are kin in spirit, or that is how I see it at least. They have a right to my aid." The god explained and Gandalf nodded in relief, slumping back against the lush cushions of his couch.
"Good. That is very good."
"So… everybody's happy then? The two magic wielders aren't going to do battle in my living room? If you really want to fight, I must ask you to please take it outside. I heard that the Overbourn Marshes south of Buckland could use, ah… some trimming…" Bilbo trailed off into a mutter as the two ancient, powerful beings turned to look at him.
Behind him stood arranged the thirteen Dwarves, peering cautiously over his narrow shoulders, though Thorin stood tall at his side (or as tall as any Dwarf can stand really).
"No, no everything is fine, my dear Bilbo. But, it seems dark has fallen and so it is time to discuss dark business." Gandalf replied, trying to quickly move the conversation along in a bid to distract them, before glancing towards the lounging Michael, who easily nodded before jumping off from the couch, instead walking over towards a corner of the living room as he leaned against a wall.
Thorin easily took a seat next to Gandalf and the rest of his company quickly followed suit as they settled around the low-slung tables, though Bilbo remained standing on his feet, somewhat uncomfortable at the gaggle of drunken Dwarves spread out across his living room.
It was Thorin who first spoke, his voice strong as he attempted to bring business back on track.
"Gandalf, dwarves, Hyperion and Mr. Baggins! We are met together in the house of our friend and fellow conspirator, this most excellent and audacious hobbit-may the hair on his toes never fall out! all praise to this 'whiskey' of his!-" He paused for breath and for a polite remark from the hobbit, but the compliments were quite lost on poor Bilbo Baggins, who was wagging his mouth in protest at being called audacious and worst of all fellow conspirator, though no noise came out, he was so flummoxed.
Well, that and between the whiskey in his belly and the snickering from Michael in the corner, he didn't feel as if he had much of a chance to interject something useful in the conversation.
So Thorin went on: "We are met to discuss our plans, our ways, means, policy and devices. We shall soon before the break of day start on our long journey, a journey from which some of us, or perhaps all of us (except our friend and counsellor, the ingenious wizard Gandalf) may never return. It is a solemn moment. Our object is, I take it, well known to us all. To the estimable Mr. Baggins and the luminescent Hyperion, and perhaps to one or two of the younger dwarves (I think I should be right in naming Kili and Fili, for instance), the exact situation at the moment may require a little brief explanation-"
This was Thorin's style. He was an important dwarf. If he had been allowed, he would probably have gone on like this until he was out of breath, without telling any one there anything that was not known already. But he was rudely interrupted by the god looming in the corner of the room.
"Big buggering dragon is squatting uninvitedly in your former home and you're going to try and kick his vagrant ass to the curb. Dangerous business indeed, if it weren't for the fact that you have the single greatest anti-dragon weapon ever designed amongst your fellowship!" Hyperion called out, buffing his impeccable nails on his pristine shirt as he glanced at the Dwarven Lord from the corner of his eye.
At the mention of a powerful weapon, Thorin leaned forwards in his seat, a hunger in his eyes.
"An anti-dragon weapon? What is it?"
"Me, of course!"
For a moment, silence met the boisterous exclamation, though Gandalf was nodding along in all seriousness as he stroked his immense long beard.
"You?" Thorin asked incredulously.
"Me."
"You're… an anti-dragon weapon?"
"Well, I'm more of an anti-everything weapon, but since dragons fall under 'everything' it still counts." The god said with a careless shrug.
To his side, Bilbo could be seen desperately reaching for a new glass of whiskey.
"… right then." Thorin eventually managed, somehow managing to sound dignified even when looking utterly baffled.
His eyes landed on the fast-drinking Hobbit (more out of a desperation to stop staring at the grinning god instead than anything else) as Bilbo once again slammed the liquor down in one go, before immediately refilling it as he muttered something about "hyacinths, my poor hyacinths".
"Excitable little fellow." He observed, Gandalf at his side letting out a chuckle.
"Indeed. Gets funny queer fits, but he is one of the best, one of the best-as fierce as a dragon in a pinch."
If you have ever seen a dragon in a pinch, you will realize that this was only poetical exaggeration applied to any hobbit, even to Old Took's great-grand-uncle Bullroarer, who was so huge (for a hobbit) that he could ride a horse. He charged the ranks of the goblins of Mount Gram in the Battle of the Green Fields, and knocked their king Golfimbul's head clean off with a wooden club. It sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit-hole, and in this way the battle was won and the game of Golf invented at the same moment.
Thorin, who had in fact seen a dragon (though perhaps not one in a pinch) glanced from the smiling wizard to the hard-drinking Hobbit, before slowly nodding, though the doubt remained easily visible on his face.
It was Gloin who continued, being one of the more sober dwarves, though his cheeks were already a ruddy pink colour, a half-empty bottle clenched tightly in his fist.
"Will he do, do you think? It is all very well for Gandalf to talk about this hobbit being fierce, but look at the way he reaches for the drink just because of a small bother of excitement. Anyone with nerves that shoddy would be nervous and skittish enough to wake the dragon and all his relatives, and kill the lot of us. As soon as I clapped eyes on the little fellow teetering on his toes as he tried to get the basketball in the ballbasket, I had my doubts. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar!"
"If he is a grocer, he is the best in all of Eriador! First rum, now whiskey? We owe him a share of Erebor's treasures for that alone!" Bombur quickly jumped to the sputtering Hobbit's defence.
"Now let's not be too hasty…" Thorin quickly cut in, a somewhat worried look on his noble face.
"Pardon me," Bilbo called out, silencing the group as he placed his large glass on a nearby side-table with a forceful clink!, "if I have overheard words that you were saying. I don't pretend to understand what you are talking about, or your reference to burglars, but I think I am right in believing" (this is what he called being on his dignity) "that you think I am no good. I will show you. I know there was a sign on my door, but I will have you know it was Gandalf who placed it there. A full afternoon I've sat there, on my knees and up to my elbows in suds but by no means could I get rid of it. All that was left to me was to await the coming of a gaggle of Dwarves I had neither asked for nor invited. As soon as I saw your funny faces on the door-step, I knew trouble had found yet more trouble and that it was determined to stick to me as a limpet. But treat it as the right one. Tell me what you want done, and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild Were-worms in the Last Desert. I had a great-great-great-grand-uncle once, Bullroarer Took, and-" Bilbo started up, his Took side awoken from slumber by the heat of the whisky running pleasantly through his veins.
Yet Gloin, ever the dour one even after a day of drink and song and games, interrupted the prideful Hobbit.
"Yes, yes, but that was long ago," said Gloin. "I was talking about you. And if you have been staring at the mark on your door for an afternoon, you should know that it's the usual one in the trade, or used to be. Burglar wants a good job, plenty of Excitement and reasonable Reward, that's how it is usually read. You can say Expert Treasure-hunter instead of Burglar if you like. Some of them do. It's all the same to us. Gandalf told us that there was a man of the sort in these parts looking for a Job at once, and that he had arranged for a meeting here this Wednesday tea-time."
"So I did. For very good reasons. You asked me to find the fourteenth man for your expedition, and I chose Mr. Baggins. Just let any one say I chose the wrong man or the wrong house, and you can stop at thirteen and have all the bad luck you like, or go back to digging coal." The wizard responded.
He scowled so angrily at Gloin that the dwarf huddled back in his chair; and when Bilbo tried to open his mouth to ask a question, he turned and frowned at him and stuck out his bushy eyebrows, till Bilbo shut his mouth tight with a snap.
"That's right," said Gandalf. "Let's have no more argument. I have chosen Mr. Baggins and that ought to be enough for all of you. If I say he is a Burglar, a Burglar he is, or will be when the time comes. There is a lot more in him than you guess, and a deal more than he has any idea of himself. You may (possibly) all live to thank me yet."
"What of the Man? If we take him and leave the Hobbit, we will still be sat at the number of fourteen." Thorin spoke up in a contemplative tone.
He did not much like the tall stranger, far too Elf-like for his tastes, but the shine of power he had demonstrated to Gandalf was without question. Given the danger of their quest, a warrior-mage of his calibre could only be a boon. Or at least far more a boon than dragging along a tweed-clad, liquor-drinking, nervous mess of a Hobbit.
Said nervous mess of a Hobbit was actually nodding along with Thorin's words, until a large hand came down on his curly head, Hyperion's voice strong and unwavering, leaving no room for argument.
"I shall come along with Bilbo, or I shall not come along at all. Instead, I will go on ahead and my legs are far longer than yours: I'll reach the Lonely Mountain long before you will ever lay eyes upon its snow-dusted peak. And once I'm there, I'll turn Smaug into a pair of boots, melt all of Erebor's gold into a belt-buckle and flatten the Mountain until only flatland remains." The god called out in a fearsome tone and for some reason the assembled Dwarves couldn't quite bring themselves to doubt his boast.
"Your choice." Hyperion said with a large grin as he stared down Thorin and the son of Thrain could do naught but bow his head and agree.
"We are in agreement then? Good! Now Bilbo, my boy, fetch the lamp, and let's have a little light on this!" Gandalf called out, spreading out a piece of parchment rather like a map over the quartz-like table-top placed in their centre.
Before the startled Hobbit could make a move though, Michael snapped his fingers and a ball of softly glowing light suddenly sprung into existence above the table, almost like a tiny, miniature sun had appeared to the awe of the gaggle of Dwarves and lone wizard.
"… right. That works just as well I suppose."
"What is this?" Thorin asked softly, tracing several lines with careful fingers and a keen eye.
"This was made by Thror, your grandfather, Thorin," he said in answer to the dwarf's question. "It is a plan of the Mountain."
"I don't see that this will help us much," said Thorin disappointedly after a glance. "I remember the Mountain well enough and the lands about it. And I know where Mirkwood is, and the Withered Heath where the great dragons bred."
"There is a dragon marked in red on the Mountain," said Balin, "but it will be easy enough to find him without that, if ever we arrive there."
"There is one point that you haven't noticed," said the wizard, "and that is the secret entrance. You see that rune on the West side, and the hand pointing to it from the other runes? That marks a hidden passage to the Lower Halls."
"It may have been secret once," said Thorin, "but how do we know that it is secret any longer? Old Smaug has lived there long enough now to find out anything there is to know about those caves."
"He may-but he can't have used it for years and years."
"Why?"
"Because it is too small. 'Five feet high the door and three may walk abreast' say the runes, but Smaug could not creep into a hole that size, not even when he was a young dragon, certainly not after devouring so many of the dwarves and men of Dale."
"Way to bring down the mood." Hyperion said somewhat darkly, but Gandalf was not cowed.
"A harsh reminder mayhaps, but one that bears saying. Dragons grow not only with age, but with conquest as well, and the prize of the Kingdom under the Mountain is a great prize indeed. Smaug may yet be the greatest drake of the Third Age, a foe that is not to be underestimated. But.." he said, leaning over the aged parchment and tapping the rune with a gnarled finger.
"… that great size also means that we may travel where he cannot go. An excellent pathway for one of nimble stature, light of foot, deft of finger and quick of wit. In other words, a prime opportunity for a burglar." The wizard finished with a significant look towards Bilbo, who despite himself was leaning over the map alongside the Dwarves.
He loved maps, and in his hall there hung a large one of the Country Round with all his favourite walks marked on it in red ink.
"Seems like a plenty large hole to me. Three Dwarves abreast can pass? How could such a large door be kept secret from everybody outside, apart from the dragon?" he asked.
He was only a little hobbit you must remember.
"In lots of ways," said Gandalf. "But in what way this one has been hidden we don't know without going to see. From what it says on the map I should guess there is a closed door which has been made to look exactly like the side of the Mountain. That is the usual dwarves' method-I think that is right, isn't it?"
"Quite right," said Thorin.
"Indeed it is." Said Michael (to the great confusion and consternation of Thorin).
"Also," went on Gandalf, "I forgot to mention that with the map went a key, a small and curious key. Here it is!" he said, and handed to Thorin a key with a long barrel and intricate wards, made of silver.
"Keep it safe!" said Gandalf.
"Keep it secret!" Michael immediately added with great mirth, as if he was finishing a joke (again to the great confusion and consternation of Thorin).
"Indeed. I will." The Dwarven lord said in a considering tone as his eyes flitted between the two magical beings, as he fastened it upon a fine chain that hung about his neck and under his jacket. "Now things begin to look more hopeful. This news alters them much for the better. So far we have had no clear idea what to do. We thought of going East, as quiet and careful as we could, as far as the Long Lake. After that the trouble would begin-."
"A long time before that, if I know anything about the roads East," interrupted Gandalf.
"We might go from there up along the River Running," went on Thorin taking no notice, "and so to the ruins of Dale-the old town in the valley there, under the shadow of the Mountain. But we none of us liked the idea of the Front Gate. The river runs right out of it through the great cliff at the South of the Mountain, and out of it comes the dragon too-far too often, unless he has changed his habits."
"It is a fortunate thing then," said the wizard, "that you will have a mighty Hero along. At first I tried to find one or perhaps a Warrior; but warriors are busy fighting one another in distant lands, and in this neighbourhood heroes are scarce, or simply not to be found. Swords in these parts are mostly blunt, and axes are used for trees, and shields as cradles or dish-covers; and dragons are comfortably far-off (and therefore legendary). That is why I settled on burglary-especially when I remembered the existence of a Side-door. What fortune then that we have come across both the burglar as well as the hero!"
"Indeed. What fortune." Thorin echoed, his eyes travelling back and forth between staring at Hyperion and the small Bilbo standing at the god's side.
"So now let's get on and make some plans." Gandalf said, prodding the cautious Dwarven lord along.
"Very well then," said Thorin, "supposing the burglar-expert gives us some ideas or suggestions." He turned with mock-politeness to Bilbo.
"First I should like to know a bit more about things," said he, feeling all confused and a bit shaky inside, but so far still Tookishly determined to go on with things. "I mean about the gold and the dragon, and all that, and how it got there, and who it belongs to, and so on and further."
"Bless me!" said Thorin, "haven't you got a map? haven't we been talking about all this for hours?"
"All the same, I should like it all plain and clear," said he obstinately, putting on his business manner (usually reserved for people who tried to borrow money off him), and doing his best to appear wise and prudent and professional and live up to Gandalf's recommendation. "Also I should like to know about risks, out-of-pocket expenses, time required and remuneration, and so forth"-by which he meant: "What am I going to get out of it? and am I going to come back alive?"
"O very well," said Thorin.
And so he launched into the history of his kin and a dark history it was indeed. It had started of gloriously however, as these tales often do. The discovery of the Lonely Mountain and the immense wealth within. Wealth which Thorin's family had managed to dig from the deep rocks and turn into great prestige. But then that wealth had grown too great and its allure too tantalizing and Smaug the Terrible came to them from far-off lands, laying waste to Dale and Erebor both in a cataclysmic attack. Some Dwarves escaped. Many did not. Of those that did, they were now resigned to a life of vagrancy and hardship, lowered to blacksmithing and coalmining. Their meagre numbers spread to the far corners of Eriabor as they sought refuge with distant kith and kin. Gone was their wealth, their prestige, but most importantly, their home.
"But!" Thorin said with strength in his voice, "we have never forgotten our stolen treasure. And even now, when I will allow we have a good bit laid by and are not so badly off"-here Thorin stroked the gold chain round his neck-"we still mean to get it back, and to bring our curses home to Smaug-if we can."
For a moment, he remained silent as he let the chain fall back under his shirt again, his dark eyes focused on the thin parchment of the map in front of them.
"I have often wondered about my father's and my grandfather's escape. I see now they must have had a private Side-door which only they knew about. But apparently they made a map, and I should like to know how Gandalf got hold of it, and why it did not come down to me, the rightful heir."
"I did not 'get hold of it,' I was given it," said the wizard. "Your grandfather Thror was killed, you remember, in the mines of Moria by Azog the Defiler."
"Curse his name, yes," said Thorin.
"And Thrain your father went away on the twenty-first of April, a hundred years ago last Thursday, and has never been seen by you since?"
"True, true," said Thorin.
"Well, your father gave me this to give to you; and if I have chosen my own time and way for handing it over, you can hardly blame me, considering the trouble I had to find you. Your father could not remember his own name when he gave me the paper, and he never told me yours; so on the whole I think I ought to be praised and thanked! Here it is," said he handing the map to Thorin.
"I don't understand," said Thorin, and Bilbo felt he would have liked to say the same. The explanation did not seem to explain.
Gandalf merely stroked his moustache with glee at first, before a demanding gaze from Hyperion caused the Istari to sigh and grumble a bit, before turning towards the Thorin, divulging all that had happened.
"Your grandfather," said the wizard slowly and grimly, "gave the map to his son for safety before he went to the mines of Moria. Your father went away to try his luck with the map after your grandfather was killed; and lots of adventures of a most unpleasant sort he had, but he never got near the Mountain. How he got there I don't know, but I found him a prisoner in the dungeons of the Necromancer."
"Whatever were you doing there?" asked Thorin with a shudder, and all the dwarves shivered.
The very name had seemed to invite a chill into the room as dark images played in the back of their minds unbidden. But then the tiny sun still swirling merrily above the table increased in brightness as Hyperion let out a low humming sound, and the chill was chased away by a comforting warmth and the frightful images replaced by thoughts of hearth and home. Their spirits restored, Gandalf continued his tale.
"Never you mind. I was finding things out, as usual; and a nasty dangerous business it was. Even I, Gandalf, only just escaped. I tried to save your father, but it was too late. He was witless and wandering, and had forgotten almost everything except the map and the key."
"We have long ago paid the goblins of Moria," said Thorin; "we must give a thought to the Necromancer."
"Don't be absurd! He is an enemy far beyond the powers of all the dwarves put together, if they could all be collected again from the four corners of the world. The only one who could contest with that dark being is either the Head of my Order, or Hyperion here and even then such a battle is likely to shake the very lands. No, put such thoughts from your mind Thorin Oakenshield! The one thing your father wished was for his son to read the map and use the key. The dragon and the Mountain are more than big enough tasks for you!"
"Hear, hear!" said Bilbo, and accidentally said it aloud.
"Hear what?" they all said turning suddenly towards him, and he was so flustered that he answered "Hear what I have got to say!"
"What's that?" they asked.
"Well, I should say that you ought to go East and have a look round. After all there is the Side-door, and dragons must sleep sometimes, I suppose. If you sit on the door-step long enough, I daresay you will think of something. And well, don't you know, I think we have talked, and drunk and played and sung long enough for one night, if you see what I mean. What about bed, and an early start, and all that? I will give you a good breakfast before you go."
"Before we go, I suppose you mean," said Thorin. "Aren't you the burglar? And isn't sitting on the door-step your job, not to speak of getting inside the door? But I agree about bed and breakfast. I like six eggs with my ham, when starting on a journey: fried not poached, and mind you don't break 'em."
After all the others had ordered their breakfasts without so much as a please (which annoyed Bilbo very much until Hyperion nudged him with a wink), they all got up. Many of them still clasped bottles of whiskey close to their chests as they rose to unsteady feet. Briefly Bilbo fretted about how he was going to find a sleeping place for the gaggle of Dwarves, before Michael took charge of the group and led them all towards one of Bilbo's spare bedrooms. Except now it was more like a tavern's sleeping hall, with beds and storage coffers aplenty and the Dwarves happily trotted in, snippets of various songs Michael had taught them that day intermittently starting up throughout the night as they kept trying to polish of their ever-filling bottles.
Michael and Gandalf remained in the living room, many of the lights turned low, cloaking the two ancient beings in long shadows as they sat at a chess board, playing deep into the night, holding a soft conversation in whispered tones. At first, Bilbo had tried to remain at their side out of a sense of politeness, but after the third yawn that had almost sent him face forwards into the complicated chess board (at some point Michael levitated a few more panels above the main one so that he and Gandalf could play "three-dimensional chess!") the god had sent him off to bed with a chuckle.
Too tired to protest, Bilbo rolled into his bed with a thankful sigh of relief, putting all worries of tomorrow firmly out of his mind. All that really mattered to Bilbo was that he was grateful he needn't make those wretched breakfast orders in the morning. He wondered what Hyperion would cook up for them instead.
Bilbo was roused early that morning (at a very un-Hobbit like hour mind you) by the grinning face of his roommate. As he trotted into the dining room, still desperately rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he could see why.
Breakfast, in Michael's eyes, clearly indicated a spread of sardines on toast (with the head and tails still on), a thick soup of chicken broth (legs and feathers and all) and a large mug of pickle juice (which Bilbo could immediately identify on account of the pickles still being in the glass).
The gaggle of Dwarves sat in various stages of misery at his dining room table, either staring at their hangover cures with ill-disguised disgust and distrust, or taking as small a bite as possible from the strange arrangement, occasionally shuddering whenever they chowed down on some gristle.
The only exception to this was Bombur, who had already cleaned off his plate and was now digging into the one originally belonging to the the awed (and slightly disgusted) looking Ori, the clever young lad having stealthily pushed his place in front of the rotund Dwarf when he wasn't looking.
"Good Morning." Bilbo called out to various moans of varying levels of enunciation.
From around the corner, Gandalf's grey head poked into the dining room, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Said twinkle was enough to trigger Bilbo's reflexes, honed after a week of living with Hyperion, rousing him to full wakefulness in an instant as he stared at the wizard with his hands on his hips.
"Don't you start."
Gandalf pouted, but if anything the mirth in his eyes increased, so Bilbo merely sighed as he put on the kettle for some coffee. It was a strong drink made with beans that came from far off lands and which were thus hard to get and it was (alongside the dainty porcelain in his cabinets and the silverware in his drawers) another sign of young Bilbo's rather impressive wealth.
Though he supposed it would not amount to much in the eyes of the Prince of Erebor, who had sat upon literal chairs of gold. Privately, Bilbo thought his great leather-upholstered chair at his rough dining table suited the important dwarf much better, especially since Thorin had been reduced to slumping against its tall back with his head resting in his hands, his fish on toast barely touched.
At least he had finished off his pickle juice.
"Now then!" Hyperion called out loudly, clapping his hands, causing a wave of moans and mutterings to sound out from the bedraggled gaggle of Dwarves as the god's smile merely widened in vindictive glee.
"Let's get talking about contracts and compensation!"
At that, Thorin roused himself with nothing but sheer force of will, picking off one of the sardines from his toast and sending it, head and tail and all, down his throat, before he swallowed with a shudder. When he glanced towards Bilbo, however, the Hobbit was surprised to find great clarity in those eyes, even if they were a little bloodshot.
"Indeed. Burglar Bilbo, Hero Hyperion, greetings. For your hospitality our sincerest thanks, and for your offer of professional assistance our grateful acceptance. These are our terms: cash on delivery, up to and not exceeding one fourteenth of total profits (if any); all travelling expenses guaranteed in any event; funeral expenses to be defrayed by us or our representatives, if occasion arises and the matter is not otherwise arranged for. I trust you will find these terms acceptable? They are the same as I have prescribed for any other in my company, myself excluded of course. As well as Gandalf, as he never signed anything."
Bilbo looked towards the wizard in surprise, but the aged wizard merely kept puffing away on his pipe in amusement, so the Hobbit turned back towards the leader of the Dwarves.
"A fourteenth of the treasure underneath a mountain in cash? How would I ever carry that back with me?" Bilbo asked in surprise, but once more Hyperion eased his worried mind.
"I'll teleport it for you. The moment gold falls in your hands, it'll be neatly deposited in your safe box in your room." The god assured him, before he too glanced towards Thorin, who was now downing his second sardine with a grimace on his face.
I desire neither cash nor gold, Thorin, son of Thrain. I have no need of it." Hyperion said, to the outraged and offended gasps of the assembled Dwarves.
"However, once your kingdom is restored to you and your kin, I will ask one boon of you, one of a value up to, but not exceeding, one fourteenth of the treasure."
"A boon? What boon could the King of the Mountain give you if you have no desire for land or gold? The deeds to the surrounding lands? We make no use of them and Dale is still in ruins." Thorin tried to guess, but Hyperion merely smiled back until the exiled king sighed in defeat.
"Very well. It will be written into your contract."
"Excellent! Let's be underway then, the journey is long and perilous! We must away with great haste!"
"But-" Thorin tried.
"There's no time for that!"
"But-" Bilbo tried.
"There's no time for that either!"
And so it was that the wizard almost threw them all out of Bag End as they all trouped down Hobbiton towards the Green Dragon Inn in Bywater, Bilbo having left without a proper breakfast, or money in his pocket, or a kerchief in his jacket!
As such, his mood fouled until it resembled that of the still-bleary eyed Dwarves as they trudged down the road in single file, Thorin (of course) at the front. Quite by contrast, the moods of Gandalf and Hyperion seemed to be soaring far above them. Which was further punctuated by the Man's boisterous exclamation of "road trip!".
"What is a 'road trip'?" Bilbo asked, blaming the early morning and lack of breakfast on his lapse of judgement as he almost immediately regretted his question.
"It's a great undertaking, requiring camaraderie, snacks and most importantly, song!"
And with that, Hyperion burst out with a great bellowing voice that could be heard throughout all of Hobbiton as the odd group continued on.
Well, I will walk five hundred miles
And I will walk five hundred more…
Fun Fact: Christopher Lee had read the LotR books every year for over 40 years before getting the role of Saruman. He was also the only one amongst the cast and crew working on the Jackson trilogy who had actually met Tolkien himself once.
AN: So the idea that I had with this chapter was to reverse what happens in the book. Instead of the Dwarves all barging in and ordering a confused and stressed out Bilbo around, here they are the confused ones as Bilbo takes great delight in introducing the madness that is Hyperion to another victim at last.
It took quite a while to write this, not only because of real life stuff (final week of uni has been stressful af) but also because there is. So. Much. LORE. Just looking up who Bilbo's neighbours are led me on a two hour binge until I was going through the family tree of Finwë. A lot of fun, but also very time-consuming.
Rereading the book (some parts in this chapter are lifted directly from it for authenticity's sake) I was surprised to find how much Thorin differs. Tolkien is rather tongue-in-cheek with him and overall he's much less serious and dour like in the movies, almost flamboyant if he didn't take himself so seriously. I'm not entirely sure on what I want to do with that. Tolkien has a certain style for his leadership figures, and I actually prefer how Jackson tackles them. Aragon is the best example, going from forceful (bordering on arrogant to our modern sensibilities) leader who just can't wait to be King in the books, to someone who sees Kingship as a burden instead of his rightful heritage and privilege and who struggles much more with questions of worthiness, despite his obvious sense of honour. While I don't like the Hobbit trilogy (though I admit the first one is fun at least), Thorin in the movies was more compelling I feel? The survivor of a cataclysm such as Smaug's attack, who then had to lead the remnants of his people after the defeat at Moria, who has so much expectations placed on him and who has gone through so much loss, who succumbs to his own arrogance and greed only to realize it and cast off the common trappings of his people in his redemption… I dunno, I just like that more than the more flamboyant and somewhat silly Thorin in the books. Not entirely sure yet what direction I'll take him in in future chapters.
Also, another thing I realized upon rereading the book: Gandalf is an asshole.