Chapter Text
In books, Bilbo found, in books, it was always plain as day.
In books, and tales of old, the hero of the story could always tell they were different. They never fit in with the people around them, they dreamed of more, they were frustrated or worn down by the mediocrity of their daily lives, and by that, the reader would know that this person, well, they were always meant for something more, that was obvious. There was no contentment to be found, because that was the place they were not meant to be content. Or at least, not until they had been whisked away to fulfill their fate.
In books, the main character would dream, dream of far off lands they were meant to explore, of the freedom of exploring the wilderness, of that One True Love that would come to sweep them away on that quest they had always known in the back of their mind that they were meant for.
Oh, there would be talk of reluctance, the hero feeling the bounds of their duties, or their station in life, but ultimately, there would be no reason for them not to throw themselves into whatever great conflict had arisen for them to be responsible for.
In books, a person's destiny seemed almost a crystal clear thing to grasp, a path to follow.
It was easy.
It was tosh.
Bilbo was quite content in the Shire, always had been. She'd wondered at going on an adventure, of course she had; she was well read on dashing tales of daring crusades and excitement, and any Hobbit with even a speck of Took blood in them was going to feel a little stirred by that sort of thing. Overall, however, she'd found adventure plenty enough to satisfy in her books and a few day-trips, picnics in the far fields, excursions with fauntlings to the north-east borings, fishing occasionally with cousins, even a day of boating or two.
She loved Shire parties, and invitations to tea, and hosting both herself for relatives and friends. She was popular, and did not want for friends, and was adored by relatives, of which she was also well blessed. Bilbo had never really thought over much on marriage, other than to turn down a few offers, but really none of those offers had ever made her consider the matter overly much, and therefore, not worth considering. She'd never felt herself lacking without a spouse or children. Or even thought of their absence in her life much at all.
Of her living, Bilbo was talented, running her father's estates well. Her lands and enterprises prospered, she was kind and fair to her employees, and paid them well. Her profits were good, and kept her estate -and her pantries- bountiful. There was plenty for Bilbo to keep herself busy, and many things to enjoy when she was not, like her reading, her lace making, her garden.
Truly, she was one creature in all of Middle Earth that could claim to be truly content and happy.
Which made it all the more puzzling, really, when a Dwarrow knocked on her door.
Oh, not the door knocking, really. She had befriended a Dunedain at the local inn one day, many, many years before, and he had taken to visiting every other year or so. When she had treated and wrapped an injury for him on a visit, she had found a few of his friends taking to popping about when they were injured and weary, and she never did have the heart to turn them away. They were so sincere in their insistence that injuries treated by her healed so much faster. She'd become accustomed to odd visitors every once and a while. One time, it had been an Elf! Her neighbours found the situation to be quite perplexing, but pointed the way to her Smial if any asked the way with not much more than a tsk and a rueful smile at her strange visitors.
So, the Dwarrow was not the problem. Not really. The hour was not even a terrible problem, being that the sun was only just lowering towards the horizon, and she'd not even thought to think of starting her dinner. It was not so late in the afternoon for visitors, even if most would be finding their way home by now.
The problem was, well. There was much the matter really. It began about the time that Bilbo took one look at the Dwarrow in front of her, and instantly saw two images; that of the Dwarrow before her, and also the same Dwarrow, overlaid over the first with the most peculiar feeling that was almost familiarity, and almost adoration, and she took a step back in surprise, eyed widening in shock at the sight, one hand extended out to ward off something she could not name.
The problem persisted with the sudden feeling of wrongness. Like all speck of contentment she had ever experienced was a lie, or no, something else, not quite a lie, more like a soft blanket that had shielded her from a hurt that she never had even known that existed, and her breath caught in her chest at the pain of a loss she couldn't even explain to herself.
Further the problem, was the absolute bewilderment of the Dwarf at the sight of her. The shock and confusion on his face must have equalled her own at least, yet it was he that had knocked upon her door this late afternoon, and really he had no cause to be looking at her like that. Yet there he was, so very confused, and worried, and more than a little apprehensive at the warding arm she still held out, and quickly dropped when she noticed it.
"Dwalin," he said finally, after an awfully long time spent simply staring at each other in bemused confusion. He gave a little bow, not taking his eyes off her for a second, though he dipped low enough to have to look up to keep his eyes locked to her own, thoughtful, probing, still so confused.
She whispered his name to herself, turning the familiar sound over her tongue, and did not see the shiver that ran down his spine at the sound of it.
"Bil-" she started, and her breath caught, and Dwalin's eyes went wide and shocked as he straightened quickly. "Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins," she managed to finish, and his face, oh it was part hurt, part longing, part anger, and she was frozen, looking at this strange fellow she should not know, while a gnawing ache of anxious need clawed its way larger and larger in her gut.
Bilbo really wasn't sure how long they would have stayed there, staring at each other for all that time, if not for the rumbling of the Dwarrow's stomach, loud and demanding, and while he seemed to pay it no mind, it startled Bilbo, and all of a sudden she knew what was wrong with the fellow that stood before her, as opposed to the one in her head.
He was awfully thin.
Well, he wasn't thin, by all that was good and real, he was broad and well-muscled, healthy enough, for a Dwarrow. But still, his cheeks lacked the good roundness that enough square meals a day would bring, and he ignored the sign of hunger from his body as if he were used to doing so.
His clothes, too, well-tended and as clean and well-kempt as any could keep themselves while travelling. Sturdy and durable. And yet, old, speaking not so much of poorness, but of a need to make do where possible, to tend and mend rather than replace.
Scars and tears in places there shouldn't be, a roughness and lack of polish that left her uneasy.
It was all so wrong.
Bilbo was moving without even noticing, analysing even as she boldly stepped into his space and unclipped his cloak, taking it to the peg while frowning at his bared arms- no matter how attractively it showed off his muscled physique, one cloak was not near enough cover to keep off the rain and the cold when needed, and she worried and worried, while she took his hand and nudged the door shut and led him off down the hall.
The sheer heat of his hand in her own, burning like a brand, she ignored. It surely meant nothing.
She pushed him to the table with a look and a gesture that meant dire things if he did not seat himself, and then promptly ignored him in favour of rummaging in the pantry for suitable items to feed the fellow. Thick slices of hearty honeyed rye bread, spread thickly with a liberal helping of soft cheese and carrot chutney were served quickly, and a generous wedge of cold chicken pie plated to go beside it, to sustain the Dwarf while she made him something more substantial.
Dwalin seemed startled to be presented with a laden tray, with a large mug of ale to wash it down, and a plate of strawberries -picked fresh from her garden that very morning- for a sweet. Despite being startled at the presentation of food, it didn't stop him from tucking in, though, and she left him to it while she descended to the cold cellar, taking down a slab of smoked ham from a hook, the two dressed geese Farmer Hogg had brought her the day before, and a few thick smoked sausages.
He was a large Dwarf, after all.
There were cold chickens in the larder if worst came to worst, and a few of Mrs Holburn's best meat pies from Market just this morning, and Bilbo herself had baked three sweet berry pies the day before. Some boiled eggs would not go astray, nor would a few roasted potatoes, some parsnips as well, she should think.
If all else failed, she had pottage simmering in the back fire, made with a fine beef broth she'd prepared, thick with barley, and cabbage and pumpkin and carrots, herbs from her garden, and she'd chop something from the meat cellar to add with some peas, if he was still hungry come supper time. Goodness, he might not have even had lunch, let alone tea!
By the time Bilbo had stirred the fires for her ovens up, and greased her trays for roasting, the Dwarf- Dwalin- had finished all she had placed out for him, even licking his plate clean, and she fetched a basket of scones and a few plums, and another piece of chicken pie, and set about stuffing the geese with some herbs and eggs and a few stale seeded rolls she'd thought to crumb some fish with that eve for her supper.
Geese would be a fine change, especially with a guest.
She felt him watching as she chopped and stuffed and scrubbed and set the roasts to the oven. His gaze was a burning thing, considering and suspicious while she sliced ham and sausage and a few loaves, assembling towers of meat and spinach leaves and slices of tomatoes with her preserves on each thick slice of bread, sliding one straight to him when he took his eyes off her long enough to look interested at the new lot of food.
He wrinkled his nose at the spinach, but stuffed the concoction into his mouth regardless, and hummed at the flavour, managing to snaffle another from under her nose before she smacked at his hand with her spoon.
"Fetch yourself another ale," she huffed, pointing off into the larder with the same spoon, before she dipped it back into her soused herring and wrapped the fish into another slice of bread, and stuffed it in her own mouth before she resumed slicing sausage.
Hobbits ate for many reasons. Usually for the pleasure of it. They were not above eating out of misery, though.
Or worry.
Or anxiety.
A stray memory that was not her own zinged through her mind and was gone before she could even remember it, but it made her breath catch, and she put her carving knife down slowly, holding on to the counter for balance for a moment.
Dwalin watched her from behind his ale mug, frown firmly in place.
"Is there... another one? Dwarf. Coming here?" she asked absently, the words feeling clumsy and thick in her mouth, staring at the bench like it might help her catch the uneasiness that alluded her and focus it into something that made sense.
"He's coming," Dwalin said, voice low and rough with something that made Bilbo's stomach twist itself further, and she watched him a long, long moment, before she started slicing more of the ham.
"Suppose he'll be hungry, too," she said, more to herself than questioning her guest, and he only looked at her strangely, in any case.
"What's his name?"
Bilbo started, almost dropping her knife, gaze darting back to Dwalin. It was the question that she had been thinking to herself, but she had not asked it.
"What's his name?" Dwalin challenged again, leaning over her bench top to peer at her closely. "The one who is coming. What's his name?"
"How should I know?" she said numbly, and pushed another loaded slice of bread at him.
"You know."
She ignored him, and set all her creations on a long platter, covering them a damp linen to keep them fresh. He plonked a mug of ale for herself at her elbow after she'd fetched butter and flour and ale-barm, as a few loaves of bread and some scones would not go astray, if this fellow ate near as well as a Hobbit did. Besides, he clearly needed the feeding.
Assuming that he intended to stay, of course.
(Not that Bilbo was really in doubt of that. Now that he was here, he was most certainly staying.
Wasn't he?)
"Dwalin," she said to herself, whisking ale-barm and water with some honey. He'd seemed to enjoy the honeyed rye bread well enough before. She'd see how he liked it with fine milled wheat flour.
"Dwalin," she wondered to herself, as she poured her liquids into the flour with one hand, her other mixing the dough together with her fingers, until she had a nice firm ball. Dwalin shot her a look while she covered the bowl and wiped her hands and set another bowl out to mix her scones, cutting butter and milk into flour without really seeing what she was doing.
"Dwalin," she muttered again to herself, absently reaching for the mug by her elbow and sipping at the brew within for a bit, before she drizzled the last of it into the scone mix with a good pinch of salt. A double batch of scones would really be best. Should Dwalin not be staying, or planning to return (a thought that almost made her gasp aloud at the pain of it) then she could take them round to her aunt's house on the morrow, and have tea with her. It had been a while since she had visited with Aunt Belba, and her aunt did always appreciate a chance to catch her up on family news.
"What's his name!" Dwalin roared, all of a sudden, slamming his own tankard down on the bench, grief and fury written across his face, and Bilbo threw her own mug at his head in frustration (vaguely glad she had finished the ale, as she quite didn't have the patience for cleaning right now) and went on with shaping her scones and brushing them with milk, shaking with anger.
"Please, Bell," he said, whispered really, her name sounding foriegn and familiar in the way that he shaped it, and she loaded her two large trays with the scones, and took them to the oven, sliding them on to the baking stones with the peel.
The scones would really only take minutes to bake, and she really had no desire to sit and wait. Moving and doing would go a fair way into preventing her from sprinting from the Smial and running hard and long, and never looking back. Biscuits would do nicely. This great hulking fellow pacing back and forth across her kitchen like some feral, caged beast looked like he might enjoy sweet things.
A cake. Something to go well with the jug of fresh cream tucked into the coldest part of her larder. And blackberry jam.
He retired to a seat in the corner for a bit, head in his hands while she mixed her biscuits and shaped them, swapping out the trays of steaming scones for the biscuit trays. She took a plate to set beside him, warm scones with fresh butter and fruit jam, and then ignored him completely while she mixed up a rather large cake, using up the last of the eggs as she did so; she scowled at the empty basket. She'd have to set it out with the milk jugs, and hope that her milker had some on his cart to leave her when he came past in the morn.
The bread was in the oven with the cake, and the geese and potatoes and parsnips well on their way to cooked by the time she stopped, hovering in the middle of the kitchen and admitting to herself that she really had nothing else to keep herself busy with.
At least, not in the kitchen.
"The wood pile is by the back door," she said, but did not look to Dwalin's corner of the room, had not, since she had brought him scones. "All the lit fires will need another log, at least, and if you're to stay, we'll need to stir a fire in one of the spare rooms for you. You can do that, while I make sure the linen is fresh."
"What's his name?" Dwalin asked her, and she stopped dead in the doorway.
"Dwalin..." she whispered to herself, gaze far, far away, in lands distant, foreign, so unknown...
"And Thorin," she finished on a breath, and left the kitchen, making her way down the hall to open up one of better spare rooms, steeling herself against the sobbing sigh that echoed along the hall behind her.
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