Chapter 2,
Gandalf rose from his chair with a stretch, gathering his staff as he glanced between Bilbo and Elena. "I'll leave you two to get better acquainted," he said, his tone light but deliberate. With that, he made his way back toward the kitchen to rejoin the dwarves, leaving the room quieter, save for the distant clatter of dishes and voices.
Elena remained seated, cradling her mug of beer and taking a long sip. Bilbo, on the other hand, let out a heavy sigh as he sank into one of his hobbit-sized chairs, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief. He rested his head against the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling as though hoping it would offer answers to the chaos unfolding in his once-quiet home.
Chuckling softly, Elena set her mug down on the small table beside her. "Not used to dwarves, Master Baggins?" she asked, her voice warm and tinged with amusement.
Bilbo tilted his head to look at her, his expression weary but honest. "Not used to any of this, truth be told," he admitted. "Dwarves trampling through my home, eating all my food, arguing about who gets the last sausage… and now you—well, no offense, but you're as baffling as the rest of them. Orcs, wargs, elves—it's all rather… overwhelming."
Elena chuckled again, reaching over to pat his knee lightly. "No offense taken," she said with a kind smile. "I imagine this is quite a lot to take in for someone used to a quieter life."
"That's putting it mildly," Bilbo muttered, shaking his head. He glanced at her, his curiosity outweighing his discomfort. "And you… you're married to an elven king, have orcs hunting you, and stole a warg? You must have quite the life story."
Elena leaned back in her chair, her silver eye glinting in the firelight as she regarded him thoughtfully. "You could say that," she replied. "But everyone has a story, Master Baggins. Yours is just beginning, even if it doesn't feel that way yet."
Bilbo shook his head, his voice carrying the weight of exasperation and longing. "I prefer my quiet life," he said, each word slow and deliberate, as if willing it to be true despite the chaos surrounding him. "Story and adventure free. That's all I've ever wanted." His gaze drifted to the fireplace, the warm glow of the flames pulling his thoughts into their mesmerizing dance. The crackling fire seemed to mock his words, as if knowing the winds of fate had other plans for him.
Elena watched him for a moment, her expression softening. Her silver eye glimmered faintly in the firelight as she lifted her mug to her lips, taking a slow sip. Then she spoke, her tone quiet yet filled with a knowing that sent a shiver down his spine. "I suppose we shall see."
Her words, simple and cryptic, caught Bilbo completely off guard. He blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he turned his head toward her, ready to ask what on earth she meant. But as his eyes settled on her, he hesitated. She wasn't looking at him anymore. Her gaze had shifted to the fire, the golden light flickering across her face and catching the fine lines of her scars.
Her expression was distant, almost unreadable, as though the flames held secrets only she could see. Her features, sharp and angular, seemed etched with both strength and sorrow. The soft curve of her lips was set in an almost imperceptible smile, one that carried more stories than she would ever say aloud. The jagged scars on her left cheek and chin caught the firelight, their edges illuminated in stark contrast to the smoothness of her other features. And then there was her eye—the molten silver orb that seemed to shimmer with a light all its own, reflecting the fire's glow yet holding something deeper, something untouchable.
For a brief moment, Bilbo sat there, transfixed by the sight of her. It wasn't her striking appearance that held him—it was the sense of mystery, the weight of untold stories that lingered around her like a cloak. She seemed at once grounded and otherworldly, a figure carved from both the earth and the stars, and for the life of him, Bilbo couldn't decide whether he found her presence comforting or unsettling.
Finally, he opened his mouth, the question forming on his tongue. "What do you mean by—?"
But as he began to speak, he stopped himself, realizing that she wasn't listening. Or perhaps she was, but she had chosen not to respond. Her focus remained on the fire, her face bathed in its warm glow, and he could see the faintest shadow of something in her expression—nostalgia, regret, maybe even hope. Whatever it was, it ran too deep for words.
The silence between them stretched, not heavy or awkward but laden with a quiet understanding. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, his hands resting on the arms as he looked back toward the fire. The room seemed smaller, cozier in its stillness, yet the weight of her earlier words lingered in his chest.
"I suppose we shall see."
What did she mean? Was it a warning? A promise? A simple observation? He didn't know, and for the first time in his life, he felt the edges of something unfamiliar—a sense of curiosity that went beyond the bounds of his comfortable home. It was unsettling, and yet, deep in the quiet corners of his heart, it stirred something he didn't yet understand.
The fire crackled again, its warmth filling the room, and for the first time, Bilbo wondered if perhaps his life wasn't as complete as he had always thought it to be.
Before Bilbo could dwell any longer on the unsettling thoughts stirring within him, the distinct sound of clinking dishes echoed through the house. His ears perked up, and panic set in almost instantly. His eyes widened as he bolted upright in his chair.
"Oh no! My dishes!" he practically shouted, his voice a mix of alarm and despair. Without another word, he scrambled to his feet and sprinted off toward the kitchen, his furry feet padding frantically across the wooden floor.
Elena couldn't help but chuckle softly, her lips curling into a faint smile as she watched him disappear down the hallway. "Poor Bilbo," she murmured to herself, shaking her head in amusement. She drained the last of her beer, setting the mug down carefully on the table beside her before rising gracefully from her chair.
'No harm in lending a hand,' she thought, adjusting her cloak as she moved to follow after him. The warmth of the fire lingered at her back as she stepped into the hallway, her boots clicking softly against the floorboards. The sound of raised voices and hurried footsteps grew louder with each step—proof that the kitchen was, unsurprisingly, a scene of chaos.
As Elena reached the doorway, she couldn't help but smile at the sight before her. Bilbo was darting around frantically, his face a picture of horror as he tried to intercept the dwarves, who were far too engrossed in their revelry to notice—or care—that they were using his beloved dishes with an alarming lack of care. Plates clattered, mugs banged against the table, and the sound of laughter filled the air.
"Careful with that!" Bilbo cried, his voice high with anxiety as he reached out to steady a teetering stack of plates. "That's a family heirloom!"
She leaned against the door frame, her arms crossed, her expression caught between amusement and sympathy as she observed the scene. Bilbo was clearly out of his depth, his attempts to restore order utterly futile against the unstoppable force that was a group of hungry, boisterous dwarves.
"Need a hand, Master Baggins?" she called out lightly, her tone teasing but kind.
Bilbo turned to her, his expression torn between gratitude and exasperation. "I need a miracle," he muttered, before rushing off to save another platter from an uncertain fate.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching as the dwarves worked to clean the kitchen—a sight she hadn't expected to see. Plates were passed hand to hand with surprising efficiency, and though the occasional clatter or dropped dish still drew a wince from Bilbo, they were making progress. The chaos of earlier had transformed into a somewhat coordinated effort, though the noise and banter remained.
She chuckled quietly to herself, her arms crossed as she took it all in. It's been so long since I've seen dwarves working together like this, she thought, a soft smile tugging at her lips. So long since I've felt the camaraderie that came with moments like this.
Her thoughts drifted back to the days of Erebor, to the grand kitchens where she would occasionally find herself with Thror and his family. Not in moments of feasting, but in the quieter times after, when everyone pitched in to tidy up, often while sharing stories and jokes that carried into the night. Thorin and Frerin would argue over who had scrubbed more pots, Dis would scold them for slacking, and Thror himself would laugh, enjoying the rare moments of levity amidst the duties of kingship.
Elena's gaze lingered on Balin and Dwalin, who were stacking cleaned dishes with practiced ease. Bofur was humming a cheerful tune as he wiped down the counters, while Fili and Kili attempted to outdo each other in scrubbing pans, water splashing everywhere in their enthusiasm.
Near the corner of the kitchen, Bilbo was fretting over his prized teapot, polishing it with the utmost care. Every so often, he would glance around the room, his brow furrowed with a mix of worry and exasperation.
"Careful with that, please!" he called out as Gloin handed a stack of plates to Bombur. "Those have been in my family for generations!"
Elena smiled fondly at the sight, her silver eye catching the warm lamplight as she turned her attention back to the dwarves. They may be loud and messy, but their hearts are always in the right place.
"Enjoying yourself?" Balin's voice broke through her thoughts as he approached, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.
Elena chuckled, tilting her head toward him. "It's nice to see this side of you all again. It reminds me of old times—better times."
Balin smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling with fondness. "Aye, it does, doesn't it? A bit of chaos, but it's good for the soul."
"Poor Bilbo might disagree," she teased, nodding toward the hobbit, who was now inspecting a teacup for chips.
Balin laughed, his tone rich with amusement. "He'll come around. Takes time to get used to dwarves, but he's got spirit. I think he'll surprise us all before this journey's over."
Elena hummed thoughtfully, her smile softening as she glanced back at the bustling kitchen. "Perhaps," she murmured.
Balin gave her a knowing look before heading back to assist with the cleanup, leaving Elena leaning against the door frame once more. She stayed where she was, watching the scene unfold, her heart lighter than it had been in a long while. For all the years and all the losses, moments like these reminded her why she fought—and why she continued to hope.
By the time everything was finally tidy and cleaned, the kitchen once again restored to its former, well-ordered state, poor Bilbo's face had turned three shades redder than Elena ever thought possible for a person. His curly hair was slightly disheveled from all his fretting, and his hands still clutched a dishcloth like a lifeline, as though daring anyone to suggest the cleaning wasn't up to his meticulous standards.
Elena couldn't suppress the grin tugging at her lips as she watched him glance around the kitchen, his sharp eyes scanning every surface, every plate, every pot, ensuring no crumb or smudge had been left behind. The hobbit muttered under his breath, his words too low to hear, though the occasional "heirlooms" and "never again" made it clear he was still recovering from the ordeal.
"Poor Bilbo," Elena said softly, her tone both amused and sympathetic.
At her words, Bilbo's head snapped up, his face growing even redder as he sputtered, "Poor Bilbo? Poor Bilbo? Do you have any idea what I've endured tonight? My plates, my teacups, my grandmother's gravy boat—used to pour ale!" He waved the dishcloth in the air for emphasis, his indignation flaring like a flame.
Elena chuckled, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "You're right, Master Baggins. You've been through a lot tonight. But look at this," she said, gesturing to the pristine kitchen around them. "Everything's clean, nothing's broken, and you even managed to keep your heirlooms intact. I'd say that's a victory."
Bilbo huffed, crossing his arms, though the faintest flicker of pride touched his face. "Well… I suppose nothing is broken," he muttered, though his tone carried a hint of lingering irritation.
"See? All's well that ends well," Elena said, giving him a playful wink. She stepped into the kitchen, picking up her empty mug from the counter. "And for what it's worth, I think you handled it all rather impressively."
Bilbo blinked at her, clearly caught off guard by the compliment. "I… er… well, thank you," he said, his voice softening as he straightened his vest. "Though I can't say I'd ever want to handle it again."
Elena laughed warmly, patting him lightly on the shoulder. "Fair enough. But I have a feeling this is just the beginning, Master Baggins. You may want to prepare yourself."
Bilbo groaned, his shoulders slumping as he muttered, "Oh, I dearly hope not."
Elena chuckled again, her smile lingering as she watched him carefully stack the last of his beloved dishes in the cupboard. For all his protests and flustered demeanor, she could see the spark of something stronger in him—perhaps not courage yet, but resilience. And in that moment, she felt a quiet certainty that the journey ahead would change him in ways even he couldn't imagine.
The lively chatter in the kitchen came to an abrupt halt as three loud raps echoed through the small house. The sound was deliberate, heavy, and carried a weight that immediately silenced the room. A stillness settled over the group, the air thick with anticipation and unease.
Elena, who had been leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed, straightened instinctively. Her silver eye flicked toward the hallway, sharp and alert. Even the usually boisterous Fili and Kili fell silent, their playful banter forgotten as they exchanged a quick, knowing glance.
Gandalf, standing near the hearth, turned his head toward the door, his expression unreadable but his eyes alight with something between expectation and caution. He straightened his tall frame, gripping his staff lightly as he glanced around the room, his gaze meeting each pair of eyes before he spoke.
"He's here," the wizard said, his voice low and firm, carrying an authority that left no room for doubt.
The dwarves began to stir, adjusting their belts, pulling their cloaks into place, and murmuring in hushed tones. Balin's expression was grave, while Dwalin's jaw tightened, his hand brushing the hilt of his axe. Bombur looked nervously at the doorway, clutching the edge of the table, while Bofur's usually cheerful face was unusually subdued.
Elena exhaled softly, her lips pressing into a thin line as her gaze shifted to the door. Thorin, she thought, the name resonating in her mind. It had been years since she'd last seen him, and the memories of those days were etched deeply in her heart—days of glory and laughter, but also of loss and grief.
Bilbo, standing near the back of the room, blinked in confusion. His earlier flustered panic over the kitchen's state had vanished, replaced by an uneasy curiosity. "Who's here?" he whispered, looking around at the sudden shift in mood. No one answered him, their attention fixed on the door as though it might burst open at any moment.
The raps came again, loud and insistent, breaking the silence like thunder. The dwarves exchanged glances, their collective energy coiling like a spring ready to release. Gandalf took a step forward, his calm demeanor commanding the room.
"Bilbo," the wizard said, his voice steady but kind, "would you mind getting the door?"
Bilbo's face paled, and he stammered, "M-me? Get the door? Why me?"
Gandalf smiled faintly, his tone both reassuring and insistent. "Because this is your home, my dear hobbit. And it's time you met the leader of this company."
Swallowing hard, Bilbo nodded reluctantly and shuffled toward the door, his feet dragging slightly as though weighed down by dread. The house seemed unnaturally quiet as he approached, the silence amplifying the sound of his every step. He paused before the door, his hand hovering over the latch, his heart pounding in his chest.
With a deep breath, Bilbo grasped the handle, his hand trembling slightly as he pulled the door open. The cool evening air swept into the hallway, carrying with it a sense of something momentous.
Standing on the threshold was an imposing dwarf, his presence radiating authority and quiet strength. He wore a dark fur-lined cloak draped over a suit of finely wrought chain armor that glimmered faintly in the lamplight. The black fur collar framed his sharp features, lending him an air of both regality and ruggedness. His dark hair, thick and glossy, was partially braided in intricate patterns that spoke to his heritage and rank. A few loose strands fell around his face, softening the otherwise severe lines of his countenance.
But it was his eyes that struck Bilbo the most—piercing blue and steady, like a calm sky before a storm. They were focused, unwavering, carrying the weight of a leader who had seen both triumph and loss. There was a calmness to his expression, but beneath it lay a simmering intensity, as though he carried the fire of his ancestors within him.
Bilbo swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those eyes settle on him. For a moment, he was frozen in place, unsure whether to step aside or say something. The dwarf didn't speak immediately, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough to make Bilbo's heart pound harder.
Finally, Thorin stepped into the house, his heavy boots making a solid thud against the wooden floor. He unclasped his fur-lined cloak with practiced ease, the dark fabric falling away from his broad shoulders. Without a word, he handed it over to Dwalin, who accepted it with careful hands, folding it with the same respect one might show a banner of war.
Thorin took a moment to survey the room, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over the gathered dwarves before settling on Gandalf. His lips were set in a hard line, his expression a mixture of irritation and restrained amusement.
"Gandalf," he said, his deep voice carrying the weight of his discontent. "I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way. Twice." He raised a brow, his tone turning wry. "I'd never have found it if it weren't for that mark on the door."
The wizard, unperturbed, stepped forward, his staff tapping lightly on the floor as he approached. "The mark served its purpose, didn't it?" Gandalf replied, his voice calm and laced with amusement. "Though I didn't expect the great Thorin Oakenshield to have such trouble finding a simple hobbit-hole."
Thorin's eyes narrowed slightly, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips suggested he wasn't entirely without humor. "Hobbit-hole or not, it's well hidden," he admitted grudgingly, his gaze briefly flicking to Bilbo, who still hovered near the doorway, looking both flustered and awestruck.
Thorin's sharp blue eyes scanned the gathered company, taking in each familiar face with calm precision. But as his gaze moved to the corner of the room, it faltered. His eyes widened, his jaw dropping slightly as he froze in place, staring at the tall figure he hadn't expected to see—here, of all places.
"Elena!?" he exclaimed, his deep voice carrying a mix of disbelief, shock, and something more layered—nostalgia, perhaps, or old emotions stirred by the sight of her.
The room grew silent as every dwarf turned to watch the exchange, their curiosity piqued by Thorin's uncharacteristic reaction. Gandalf raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his expression unreadable, as if he had anticipated this moment all along.
Elena, who had been leaning casually against the wall, straightened at the sound of her name. Her silver eye gleamed in the firelight as she turned to face him fully, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Thorin," she said, her voice warm but steady, tinged with just the faintest trace of surprise. "It's been a long time."
Thorin's mind raced as he struggled to process her presence. He hadn't seen Elena since the days of Erebor, back when she had been a trusted friend of his family, before Smaug's attack had scattered their people. And before…
His chest tightened as memories flooded back. Back then, he had admired her fiercely—more than admired her. He'd harbored a deep, unspoken affection for her, one he'd kept close to his heart until the day he learned she was married. Not just married, but wed to Thranduil, the Elvenking of the Woodland Realm—his now mortal enemy. That knowledge had stung like a blade, though he had long since buried those feelings beneath layers of duty and bitterness.
Though I won't hold that against her, Thorin thought, pushing the old wound aside. Whatever had passed between their people and Thranduil, Elena had never wronged him or his kin. She had always been loyal, kind, and strong.
"You're alive," he said at last, his voice softening, though the disbelief still lingered. "We thought… I thought you perished when Smaug came."
Elena's smile widened faintly, though her eye reflected a flicker of sorrow. "So did I, for a while," she admitted. "But as you can see, I'm harder to get rid of than that."
Thorin stared at her for a moment longer, still caught off guard. Finally, he straightened his posture, clearing his throat as he tried to reclaim his composure. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice regaining its firm edge, though it lacked its usual harshness. "How did you come to be with Gandalf and… them?" He gestured vaguely toward the company.
Before Elena could answer, Gandalf stepped in, his tone light but pointed. "She's here to help, Thorin. Elena's skills and strength will be invaluable to this company. You would do well to welcome her presence."
Thorin glanced sharply at the wizard, then back to Elena, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he gave a small, reluctant nod. "If Gandalf trusts you, then so will I," he said, his voice quieter now. "It's… good to see you again, Elena."
Elena's smile softened, her voice carrying a warmth that cut through the tension. "And you, Thorin. I wouldn't miss this for anything."
The room remained quiet, the tension slowly giving way to a mix of curiosity and anticipation. The other dwarves exchanged glances, sensing that there was far more history between the two than had been spoken aloud. For Bilbo, who stood off to the side, the moment only added to the growing list of mysteries surrounding this company.
Thorin turned to Gandalf at last, his voice regaining its commanding tone. "If she's here to help, then we have much to discuss. Let's not waste any more time." But as he turned back toward the room, his gaze lingered on Elena for just a moment longer.
The entire group merged into the dining room, the once-chaotic space now a little more orderly as everyone found their places. One of the dwarves, likely Bombur, had somehow procured a steaming bowl of creamy soup and a piece of fresh bread, which was placed neatly in front of Thorin. Despite the humble setting, Thorin ate with proper decorum, his movements precise and deliberate, a reflection of his royal heritage.
Gandalf had taken the seat beside the dwarf lord, his staff resting against the table as he observed the group with a calm, watchful eye. Elena, however, chose to lean casually against the wall, her silver eye sweeping over the room as though she were taking the measure of everyone present. Bilbo lingered near the doorway, half-hidden behind Gandalf, his wide eyes darting nervously from one dwarf to another, then to Thorin, and finally to Elena, his curiosity getting the better of him.
The hum of quiet conversation filled the air, but it stilled as Balin, seated near the head of the table, leaned forward, his expression tinged with cautious hope. "What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?" he asked, his voice breaking the silence. "Did they all come?"
"Aye," Thorin said, his voice steady but somber as he gently placed his spoon down beside the bowl. "Envoys from all seven kingdoms came."
A murmur of quiet anticipation rippled through the gathered dwarves, their expressions alight with hope. Balin leaned in closer, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, as though bracing himself for Thorin's next words.
Elena, still leaning against the wall, closed her eyes briefly, listening intently to the conversation. She knew this moment was pivotal, though the weight in Thorin's tone told her the news was unlikely to be good.
"But," Thorin continued, his gaze darkening as it swept over his company, "not a single dwarf among them would lend their support to our cause."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The hopeful light in Balin's eyes dimmed as he sat back, his shoulders slumping slightly. Dwalin's jaw tightened, and a low growl escaped his throat. The others exchanged uncertain glances, their earlier cheer and camaraderie replaced by a heavy sense of disappointment.
"They refuse to risk their lives for a lost cause," Thorin said bitterly, his voice carrying a hard edge. "They call it folly—an impossible dream." His fists clenched on the table for a brief moment before he forced himself to release them, his expression a mask of steely resolve. "They have forgotten what it means to be dwarves of Erebor. To have a home worth fighting for."
Elena opened her eyes, her silver gaze flicking toward Thorin. Though she remained outwardly composed, a pang of disheartenment pierced her as well. She had hoped—against the odds—that at least one of the kingdoms would offer aid. The idea that Thorin and his company would face this peril alone, without the backing of their kin, made the task ahead feel all the more daunting.
Balin sighed heavily, his usually calm demeanor giving way to a flicker of frustration. "The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us," he said, shaking his head as he spoke. "But we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor the brightest."
"Hey!" Ori piped up, his voice rising indignantly as he looked across the table at Balin. "Who are you calling dim?"
Óin, seated nearby, furrowed his brow and leaned closer to Dori. "Sorry, what did he say?" he muttered, his voice loud enough to carry, earning a few chuckles from the group.
Fili, his expression fierce and determined, leaned forward, slamming a hand lightly on the table. "We may be few in number, but we're fighters, all of us! To the last dwarf!" His words were bold, his confidence contagious, and several of the others nodded in agreement.
Kili grinned mischievously, adding with enthusiasm, "And you forget, we have a wizard in our company! Gandalf here has probably killed hundreds of dragons in his time!"
All eyes turned to Gandalf, whose expression shifted from calm to slightly bewildered as he leaned back in his chair. "Oh, well… no, uh, I… I wouldn't say hundreds," he stammered, waving his hand as though brushing the notion away.
Dori raised an eyebrow, tilting his head inquisitively. "How many then?"
"What?" Gandalf asked, caught off guard.
"How many dragons have you killed?" Dori pressed, his curiosity genuine but relentless. "Go on, give us a number!"
Gandalf opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden interrogation. His gaze darted briefly toward Elena, who raised a playful brow but remained silent, her amusement clear.
Gandalf, sensing the mounting pressure from the group, cut in quickly before anyone else could press him further. "I have not slain any dragons!" he declared, raising his hands as if to fend off the line of questioning. "But that is precisely why I requested the help of someone who has!"
With a deliberate wave of his hand, he gestured toward Elena, effectively diverting all attention onto her. The room went still as every pair of eyes turned to the tall woman leaning against the wall.
Elena's silver eye widened in mock irritation, though the faint curve of her lips betrayed her amusement. She chuckled softly, shaking her head at Gandalf, who gave her an innocent, almost mischievous smile in return.
"Well," she began, pushing off the wall and standing a little straighter, "if you must know, I have slain a dozen or more dovah in my lifetime." She spoke the unfamiliar word with reverence, its weight hanging in the air before she clarified, "Dragons, in your tongue."
The room erupted in murmurs of astonishment. Fili and Kili exchanged wide-eyed glances, their earlier bravado giving way to genuine awe. Balin leaned forward, his face etched with disbelief and curiosity. Even Dwalin's usually stoic expression shifted, his brows furrowing as he regarded her with newfound respect.
"A dozen?" Ori blurted, his voice almost a squeak. "You've killed twelve dragons?"
"At least," Elena confirmed with a faint smile, her voice calm but firm. "Perhaps more—I stopped keeping count after a while."
Dori gaped at her. "Stopped keeping count? That's… that's madness!"
Óin cupped a hand to his ear. "What's that now? She's counted dragons?"
Kili, leaning forward eagerly, grinned. "Tell us, how did you do it? Did you charge in with a sword, or use magic?"
Fili jabbed him lightly in the ribs. "Let her speak, Kili. You're embarrassing yourself."
Elena shook her head slightly, raising a hand to stop the stream of questions directed her way. With a calm gesture toward Thorin, she spoke, her voice steady and firm. "That is a story for another time. For now, we listen to Thorin."
Her words brought a stillness to the room as all eyes turned back to the dwarf lord, who sat at the head of the table, his demeanor commanding. Thorin nodded once in acknowledgment of Elena, then leaned forward, his sharp blue eyes sweeping over the company.
"If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?" Thorin began, his voice low but filled with intensity. "Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look East to the mountain—assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. "Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?"
Balin let out a small breath, the faint hint of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The Front Gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain."
At that, Thorin leaned back in his chair, the weight of Balin's words settling heavily in the room.
Gandalf, however, interjected with a spark of energy. "That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true." He reached into his robe and produced a small but intricately crafted key, holding it up for all to see. Thorin's eyes widened in recognition as he leaned forward.
"How come you by this?" Thorin asked, his voice sharp with curiosity.
"It was given to me by your father," Gandalf replied. "By Thrain. For safekeeping. It is yours now." He handed the key to Thorin, who clutched it tightly, his knuckles whitening as he stared at it with a mixture of longing and determination.
Fili, ever eager, leaned forward with a grin. "If there's a key, there must be a door."
"Indeed," Gandalf affirmed, nodding. Reaching into his robes he pulled out a small, timeworn, map and opened it. "These runes speak of a hidden passage to the Lower Halls." He said, pointing towards the small bunch of runes in the bottom right hand corner of the parchement.
Kili's face lit up. "There's another way in?"
"There is," Gandalf replied. "But finding it will not be easy. Dwarf doors are invisible when closed, and the answer lies hidden somewhere in this map." He gestured toward the map on the table. "And I do not have the skill to find it."
Gandalf looked at the company, his eyes scanning each face. "But there are others in Middle-earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth... and no small amount of courage. If we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done."
"That's why we need a burglar," Ori said suddenly, the realization dawning on his face.
Bilbo, who had been standing quietly behind Gandalf, felt a sudden jolt of panic as the conversation shifted toward him. "Hmm. And a good one too," he said nervously. "An expert, I'd imagine."
The dwarves turned to look at him, their stares uncomfortably intense.
Óin leaned closer, his hearing catching up. "And are you?"
Bilbo blinked, confused. "Am I what?"
Óin tilted his head. "He said you're an expert. Hey."
"Me? No, no, no!" Bilbo stammered, waving his hands frantically. "I'm not a burglar. I've never stolen a thing in my life."
Balin nodded solemnly. "Well, I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He's hardly burglar material."
Bilbo exhaled in relief, muttering, "Nope."
Dwalin growled, his arms crossed. "Aye, the Wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."
Gandalf rose, cutting through the murmurs with authority. "Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is. Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most, if they choose. And, while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of Dwarf..." He paused, glancing meaningfully at Bilbo. "...the scent of a Hobbit is all but unknown to him. Which gives us a distinct advantage."
The room fell silent as Gandalf's words settled over them. He looked to Thorin. "You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There is a great deal more to him than appearances suggest, and he has more to offer than any of you know—even himself. You must trust me on this."
Thorin hesitated, his sharp gaze fixed on Gandalf before shifting briefly to Bilbo. After a long pause, he gave a reluctant nod. "Very well. We will do it your way. Give him the contract."
Glóin reached into his pack and pulled out a long, folded piece of parchment, handing it to Bilbo, who accepted it reluctantly.
Bilbo, looking increasingly overwhelmed, unfolded the contract, muttering to himself. "'Total cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding, one fourteenth of total profit, if any. Seems fair. Uh… 'The present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including but not limited to… lacerations, evisceration—'" He paused, paling. "Incineration?"
Bofur leaned over with a grin. "Oh, aye. He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye."
Balin, noticing Bilbo's growing distress, leaned forward with concern. "You alright, laddie?"
Bilbo nodded quickly, though his face was now ashen. "I… I need air,"
Chuckling Bofur continued. "Think furnace, with wings." At those words everyone laughed lightly as Bilbo promptly fainted, a light thud as he landed on the floor.
Elena shook her head, glancing at Thorin with a small smile. "Perhaps he just needs time to adjust."
Thorin's lips pressed into a thin line, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "He'd better adjust quickly. We leave at first light."