Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins did not want to admit that he was bored.
Puttering about the glade that protected Little Bag End, Bilbo had spent that last five hours walking around the garden pretending that one more lap would somehow resurrect his dying tomatoes.
Once upon a time he had grown prize-winners at Bag End, the garden’s fruits and flowers carefully tended to by Hamfast and Holman Gamgee. For nearly 25 years, Bilbo had taken home the first-place ribbon at the midsummer garden show, and had been the centerpoint of much jealousy in Hobbiton. Particularly from Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.
Now, Bilbo’s tomatoes were hardly worth looking at, let alone a shiny ribbon in the Shire’s most ruthless competition. The thing was, however, that Bilbo’s disappointment with the slowly browning skin of each once-red fruit was not the fact that he had failed. It was the fact that he no longer had anything to do.
Of course, he could go inside and write another story (he had written 100 unread books in the last 15 years). Or cook another meal (which he ate 3 of each day – 4 if someone came for tea). He could mend a jacket (but he would probably have to tear one first with a garden pick), or sew a new waistcoat (and invent a pattern if he wanted something truly new) from the gold fabric Prim had brought from the market. There were, in fact, a great many things he could do inside. Hobbies, both big and small, that he had picked up or mastered —usually both—in the last 15 years. But the matter stood that Bilbo was bored because although there was something he could be doing, nothing sounded appealing. Nothing was new, exciting.
Pah! Exciting indeed, the Baggins in Bilbo scoffed. The matter surrounding his enforced retirement—as Bilbo liked to call it—was altogether far too exciting for one born into the Baggins clan. And yet, he wondered if there had ever been a more solemn existence than his life at Little Bag End. Few friends called, and fewer family members besides. He could only reliably expect Hamfast Gamgee and his cousin, Drogo Baggins, and Drogo’s wife, Primula, to make the trek out of the Shire to visit Bilbo’s little corner of the woods.
Amidst these sombre musings, Bilbo failed to notice the approach of a tall figure cloaked in grey before it cleared its voice and pronounced: “Good morning, Master Baggins!”
Bilbo startled upright from his hunched inspection of a somewhat promising tomato plant. “Oh dear, I haven’t been Master Baggins in quite some time I’m afraid! Good morning, anyhow.” He peered up at the tall man, squinting into the sunlight to discern the sharp eyes that seemed to be inspecting him as an eagle might inspect a plump rabbit. “Do we know each other?” Bilbo suspected that if they did, it was from Before. For one, this stranger had a rather outdated knowledge of Bilbo’s name which suggested that they were acquainted Before his retirement. For another, not many people wanted to be associated with Bilbo Baggins—as he was at 70 years anyhow—and he rather expected that this stranger was unfamiliar with the more recent going-ons within the Shire if he had voluntarily come to visit. Then again, he was sure that he could not easily forget such a long grey beard, or the queer pointed hat that was perched atop the man’s head.
“My dear boy, of course you know me although you do not remember my name. I am Gandalf.” He stated the last part as though reciting a proclamation, whilst eagerly inspecting Bilbo’s face for recognition.
Bilbo furrowed his brow. Gandalf, Gandalf…? His eyes widened in remembrance. “Not the wandering Grey wizard who made such excellent fireworks at the Old Took’s midsummer parties? I had no idea you were still in business.”
“Well now! I’m glad you remember something about me, even if it is my fireworks,” Gandalf said with a fond chuckle.
Bilbo’s mouth quirked in response. This was a peculiar fellow indeed, and Bilbo was not certain he wanted to know the wizard after all. No, this would not do. “Good morning then,” he stated again, looking expectantly at Gandalf. Nobody came to Little Bag End unless they had a good reason to (unless they were lost, of course, but this man certainly seemed to be standing on Bilbo’s tomato plants with an air of conviction that suggested a purpose for this disturbance on such a nice, peaceful day), and Bilbo was determined to discover and dismiss that reason as soon as possible. Perhaps writing a new story is not such a poor way to fill the afternoon after all, he mused.
“Good morning!” Gandalf responded.
Bilbo stared at the wizard. Was his brain filled with feathers? Bilbo simply wanted to know why he was here, and yet the wizard seemed to be intentionally avoiding the clear question that Bilbo was asking. Irritably, he crossed his arms and scrutinised the figure in front of him.
Gandalf stood just below Bilbo in long robes of some indeterminate grey, leaning lightly on a gnarled wooden staff with a genial smile on his face. His blue eyes twinkled with a light that Bilbo wanted to call mischief, but he reasoned that the wizard was too old to be up to silly tricks. Then again, he was up to something. That much Bilbo could tell.
“Can I help you with something, or is this a social call? I’m afraid you’re too early for tea and too late for anything else.”
“Why yes, I do believe you can help me. Let us leave the social call for later, shall we?” he paused, waiting for Bilbo to respond. When he made no move except to raise an irritated eyebrow, the wizard continued, “I’m looking for someone to join in an adventure.”
Bilbo snorted. An adventure. He had no need for those as his life had been quite turbulent enough as it was, thank you very much. The very last thing he needed was to disappear into the forest without a word and leave behind what remnants of respectability he had clung to at Little Bag End.
“No, thank you. Good day, Master Wizard and bring your adventures elsewhere,” he responded, glad to have discovered and dismissed with surprising efficiency. He turned to make a retreat from this conversation, when the wizard spoke again.
“Ah, the patience of Belladonna with the politeness of Bungo. You really are their son, Bilbo Baggins!”
Bilbo stilled with a frown curving unhappily on his face. Nobody mentioned Bilbo’s parents. They knew not to, and for many years their memory only plagued Bilbo when he stumbled across some memento that brought forth the happy days of his childhood. Or the unhappy ones that had decidedly put an end to them. When he did think of such things, he usually quelled the wave and quickly distracted himself with a pipe. Or a drink. Bilbo had an excellent collection of Hamfast Gamgee’s moonshine, despite the fact that Hamfast had only reluctantly stocked Bilbo’s pantry when he had started living at Little Bag End.
He drew himself up to his full height (which unfortunately only placed his eye level at Gandalf’s shoulder), whilst his hands curled into tight fists that had his knuckles turning white. “Now see here, Mister Wizard. I don’t know you in the slightest, and you certainly don’t know me. If we have met in the past, then well! But there are only three people welcome in Little Bag End, and you are certainly not one of them. Good morning!” He turned on his heel and stormed away toward the smíal.
Behind him, Gandalf peered with curiosity at the retreating Hobbit. “This evening then, Mister Baggins. In threes only,” he called quietly.
Bilbo, in his huffing, missed it.
He also missed the soft scritch-scratch of a nail etching an elvish rune into the front door not five minutes later, too busy muffling his panicked breathing with a fist as he sank unsteadily to the floor.
***
Bilbo did not write a story that afternoon.
Instead, he took out every spare scrap of fabric in his drawer and stitched together a new, patchwork waistcoat (and it truly was new because never had Bilbo, and likely any other Hobbit in the history of the Shire, sewed something so unsuitable for polite society. Luckily, Bilbo himself was considered unsuitable for polite society, so it befit him perfectly well) in an almost obsessive frenzy to distract his agitated mind. In the obsessive frenzy he had also smoked three pouches of pipeweed and was currently debating the dangers of opening a bottle of Hamfast’s moonshine. It was also dark; Bilbo had only the fireplace of his office and a single candle on the floor to light his work.
At 6 o’clock, a heavy knocking came at the front door; Bilbo promptly pricked his finger on the needle.
Blinking, he stood up in a daze and, after considering (for a bit longer than a moment) what to do with his work, shrugged the patchwork waistcoat on. He then took the candle and went to the front door, and was staring at the lock wondering exactly why he had come here when the pounding came again.
Reaching out, Bilbo opened the round door of Little Bag End and blinked up at the broad shouldered man in front of him. “Um, hello,” he said belatedly, still gawping at the figure with tattoos etched into the skin of his wide skull. This was certainly no Man. Or Hobbit, with his large curved ears.
“Dwalin, son of Fundin, at your service,” the stranger said as he gave a short bow of his muscled shoulders. “Are we late?” he continued, making his way through the front door and past Bilbo.
“Late for what?” Bilbo was baffled — he would have remembered if he had sent out party invitations (considering he had not done so in 15 ½ years), and it was unlikely that this stranger had just happened upon his home…“Wait, what do you mean ‘we’?”
“Good evening. Balin, son of Fundin, at your service.” This came from an equally broad, yet squatter man, with a cloud of pure white hanging from his face. He gave a deep bow before following Dwalin into the smíal, smiling benignly at Bilbo as he passed.
Gaping after them, Bilbo’s thoughts tumbled around before he finally realised: “Khazad! You are khazad,” he exclaimed. Good Eru! Clearly he had been more affected by the wizard’s words than he had first thought if that realisation had taken two introductions from two strange persons who could be nothing else; with long hair and equally long beards, both adorned with beads and braids, there was no other race on Arda that decorated themselves in such a way. And the dress! Bilbo peered keenly at the long, darkly coloured tunics that were embroidered with geometric designs of straight lines and sharp edges.
“What on Arda are you…” he began, before being interrupted by yet another deep voice behind him.
“Did you hear me, laddie? Óin, son of Gróin at your service.”
Bilbo whipped around to look at the third stranger, a greying khuzd with a great honking nose and an ear trumpet jammed securely into his right ear.
“Oh! I do apologise, Master Óin. Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he replied, giving a short bow as he abruptly remembered his manners. “Please, come this way.” He took the offered cloak in his arms and set off down the hallway to seek Dwalin and Balin. The disconcerting buzzing in his head was finally gone, replaced by the sizzling curiosity he associated with the opening of a new book.
He found the brothers in the pantry perusing what was left of his stores. It had been two weeks since Prim and Drogo had brought groceries from the market in Hobbiton, so about two weeks worth of food was left in addition to his Extra Stores. When Bilbo and Óin arrived, Balin shouted something in Khuzdul (much to Bilbo’s excitement) and all three khazad set to work taking everything down and shuffling off in the general direction of Bilbo’s dining room.
He watched for a moment, trying desperately to catch a closer look at the intricate braids and sweeping tunics of his unexpected guests, when another banging of the door knocker interrupted his study. Frowning, he returned to the green door and opened it to find two young khazad practically bouncing on the balls of their feet.
“Fíli,” said the grinning blond.
“And Kíli,” said the equally enthusiastic brunet. Bilbo thought they had vaguely familiar features.
“Sons of Heptifíli, at your service!” they recited in unison, finishing with a flourish and matching bows. The extreme ardour of the youthful brothers sped up the thumping in Bilbo’s chest. In a panic, he tried to shut the door on them only to be stopped by a heavy steel-toed boot jammed into the doorway.
“Where are you going, Master Boggins? ” Kíli asked, his grin dropping and giving Bilbo the impression of a dog whose bone had just been taken away.
“Has the party been cancelled?” the other worried.
“Cancelled? No, nothing’s been cancelled,” Bilbo replied, intending to demand exactly what party Fíli was referring to for Bilbo had certainly not been invited.
But before he could continue, the door was shoved open by Fíli with an accompanied:
“That’s a relief,” from Kíli, and both youngsters stomped into Little Bag End, pompous as anything, and began stripping themselves of weapons and cloaks.
Bilbo tried not to whimper at the sudden invasion. “Now see here, I haven’t the foggiest…” he began, but was cut off by a shout down the hall from Dwalin.
“Ay, here are the boys. Come on, be good lads and help ready the table. We’ll need more chairs if everyone’s to fit.”
“Everyone? No, no, no! There can’t be more of you,” Bilbo pleaded, feeling mildly suffocated at the thought of more company in the smíal.
“Glóin, son of Gróin at your service,” came another voice from the doorway.
Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut before turning to see a red-faced khuzd with wild flaming hair, his wide shoulders and sturdy girth filling the doorway.
“Bilbo Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” he responded faintly, shuffling quickly out of the way as the large khuzd tramped his way in. He felt rather lost all of a sudden, left at his front door whilst deep voices and ominous thuds echoed from the growing throng within.
This was his place. Perhaps not home as Bag End was, but it was his all the same. It was a quiet place in a quiet glade, predictable in its idleness and few visitors. Different from his life as Master Baggins, but reliable all the same. And now it felt violated. There were far too many people in his smíal, Khazad or no. They had to go.
Bilbo had just mustered up the courage to order the whole lot of them out when his door knocker went off again. Grumbling with indignation, he snatched the door handle and yanked at it — only to be met with a pile of six khazad tumbling through his doorway, and a chuckling Gandalf standing behind them.
“No, absolutely not. Get out!” Bilbo barked at the bleary faces peering up at him. Unfortunately, it was lost in a sudden chorus of greetings behind him as muscled arms pushed past Bilbo to help the newcomers from the floor.
One by one they leapt up and filed past Bilbo:
“Bofur, son of Odur, at your service,” was accompanied by a sweeping bow.
“Bombur, son of Odur, at your service,” came from a very hairy and very round khuzd.
A third barked out a string of strange words, which Bilbo assumed was the same greeting in Khuzdul.
“Dori, son of Mori, at your service.” This one had silvering hair and a pleasantly round face.
Nori, son of Mori, reminded Bilbo of a slinking fox, while his brother Ori seemed like an owl with his wide eyes and hooked nose.
All three sons of Mori gave bows, ranging in politeness and confidence, before the 12 unexpected guests headed into the depths of Little Bag End, stranding a rather pale-faced Bilbo beside a twinkly-eyed Gandalf.
“Well now, this is a fine thing; don’t you think?” Gandalf rocked back on his heels, looking pleased with himself as he watched the house slowly come to life.
Some khazad were busy lighting the tapers that lined the hallway, as others brought chairs from the study, living room and kitchen to be placed around Bilbo’s (admittedly small) dining table. Still more party members were adding to the already-impressively-sized feast and discovering every last cheese and biscuit. All the while, the low thrum of conversation grew steadily louder and filled the sombre halls of Little Bag End.
“What are they doing in my house, Gandalf? There’s far too many of them,” Bilbo protested, rubbing his eyes as a seemingly endless number of khazad streamed past him and hoping it was just another nightmare (albeit a strange one at that).
“Ah, yes. I do apologise about all seven of us coming at once. It was a strange coincidence, I’m afraid, nothing I could do about it,” Gandalf remarked as he accepted a small cup of wine from Dori.
“N–nothing you could do about it? It seems to me, wizard, that you’re the one who planned this party and didn’t invite me!” Bilbo exclaimed as he followed Gandalf to the dining room. “It’s very rude of you,” he added, half-heartedly.
“But I did inform you, my dear fellow. This is our social call, as you Hobbits like to call it.”
Around the table the 12 khazad were squeezing themselves in, eyeing the expansive banquet with glee. Gandalf offered a chair to Bilbo — who shook his head weakly for he was now quite lost for words — before taking the seat himself. With that, the feasting began.
As Bilbo looked on, he was dimly aware of the growing ache in his back and shoulders as the party devoured the food with a gaseous enthusiasm that twisted his stomach.
He nearly passed out when the singing began.
***
Thorin was in a dour mood. Not only had he traipsed around the endlessly curving roads of Hobbiton twice, he had also knocked on the door of Bag End only to be met by a widely girthed hobbit who had only succeeded in adding to Thorin’s headache.
“Good evening, Master Dwarf. How can I help you?” At the door was a black haired hobbit with a neatly arranged pile of corkscrew curls atop his head. He was of apparent wealth, if the golden buttons and silk waistcoat were any indication.
Thorin did not think he looked anything like a burglar.
“Evening. You are Master Baggins.” It was halfway between a question and a statement, because Thorin had been told that his Company was expected, however, he could see no sign of a troop of 12 khazad within the hole.
“Yes sir, that would be me. Master Drogo Baggins of Bag End,” came the formal reply.
Thorin frowned. “You should be expecting me and my company, Master Baggins,” he informed the hobbit.
The hobbit’s eyes widened and a faint flush of pink coloured his cheeks. “Oh, you must be looking for my cousin, Bilbo Baggins. He lives in Little Bag End, I’m afraid; some hours outside of the Shire, but on your horse it will be quicker. Maybe an hour or so, I expect.”
A wave of irritation momentarily took control of Thorin’s temper. “Little Bag End?” he spat. “What type of joker does your cousin think he is, taking the name of your house?” Thorin was already late because of the meeting in Ered Luin, and now the pettiness of this Bilbo Baggins had cost him another 3 hours.
“Now don’t you bother Bilbo about it! It’s nothing he can do anything about as you should know,” Master Baggins warned with a pointed finger waving dangerously close to Thorin’s chest. “You go find Bilbo at Little Bag End; it’s not that I agree with him and his ways, but it’ll do him good to have some company. He’s been awfully lonely lately. I’ll write down the directions for you, shall I?”
Thorin grunted in acknowledgement and turned away from the door; he did not pretend to understand half of what the hobbit had just said and saw no reason to try either. He simply needed the proper directions and then he could be on his way.
After waiting impatiently outside for a few minutes, the hobbit returned with a sheet of parchment in his hand. He then bid Thorin a good evening with another faint flush of pink on his cheeks before promptly shutting the front door with a resounding thud.
Now it was deep into the night and Thorin had finally arrived at a clearing in the forest where 14 horses were tied to a line and the jolly sound of song was echoing from within the golden warmth of the strange hole-in-a-hill house. Irritated as he was, Thorin was loath to interrupt his Company’s merry-making — for he seemed to always quell the laughter in any room he entered — so he paused at the door until the last echoes of music had drifted into the night before raising his fist and—ignoring the dignified brass door knocker — hammered at the round door.
It was opened by the wizard.
“Tharkûn,” Thorin drawled as he gave a slow nod. “I would have been here hours ago, if you had bothered to give me proper directions. I got lost in the Shire twice, and some petty hobbit decided on one name for two homes 3 hours apart.” Had he been in a better mood, Thorin likely would not have spoken so childishly. As it was, the hour was late, he was hungry, and he had just spotted the supposed burglar that Tharkûn had dragged him out to the Shire for.
At first glance, Thorin thought there was something familiar about the creature in front of him, however he quickly dismissed the feeling. He had seen hobbits before on his travels around Eriador, and he loathed to recall that night spent with a pretty hobbit lad some years before he became King of Durin's Folk, but the man in front of him looked far from the fat, happy creatures whose plentiful comforts he wished to give to his own people.
In fact, if it wasn’t for the tell-tale pointed ears, beardless face and loosely curled brown hair, Thorin would have sooner called himself a Man than this creature a Hobbit. Baggins was thin faced and pale, his skin missing the warm, sun-kissed bronze associated with the green farmlands of the Shire. His shirt hung from his narrow frame, several sizes too big, while the fabric of his pants bunched around his waist and was only held up by the braces that the hobbit had nervously tucked his thumbs into. His wide brown eyes were bloodshot, as if he were in desperate need of proper sleep, while his slender hands and bare—slightly too big and slightly too hairy—feet were covered in dirt. The general state of the man was one of neglect, and Thorin immediately concluded that he was a small-minded creature with little ambition or care for himself or the world. And judging by the general clutter of nonsensical things filling the Hobbit Hole, Master Baggins also had the hobbitish propensity for filling his day with frivolous activities. Thorin wondered if he had ever met someone more unsuited for the Quest for Azsålul'abad than the creature in front of him.
He raised a questioning eyebrow toward the wizard. “This is what you have for me? A —,” his eyes did another once-over of the creature, “— hobbit, I suppose I would call,” he paused again, enjoying the stunned look on the hobbit’s face, “him. He looks more like a burrowing mole than a burglar.” Thorin offered his most sardonic smirk, which seemed to have the desired effect if the narrowing of the hobbit’s eyes was anything to go by, followed by a sputtering as Thorin’s words registered.
“Excuse me!” Master Baggins squeaked, eyes widening. “I’ve never been more offended in my entire life.” His face suddenly turned rather stern as he crossed his arms viciously. “I’m not sure where you’re getting these ludicrous ideas from, Master Thorin, but I can assure you that I am neither a mole nor a burglar.”
Thorin sighed, turning to the wizard beside him. “Tharkûn, this hobbit has no place in my Company. You can see that as well as I, and you have wasted my time.”
“Now Thorin, don’t be so hasty! Bilbo Baggins will make an excellent Company burglar if you just give him a chance.” The hobbit frowned at Tharkûn's words and opened his mouth, likely to say something inane and cause Thorin’s mounting headache (and temper) to implode. He quickly interrupted so as to prove his point to the wizard.
“Tell me, Master Baggins, have you ever held a weapon? Looked danger in the eye and held your ground? Ever ventured outside of your Shire and seen what the real world is like?” He glanced at the hobbit, whose face had paled in fear while his head shook rapidly from side to side. “No? Look at you, trembling from the mere thought. Not many things surprise me, but if you survive five minutes in the wild you might just succeed.”
With that, the Company—who had gathered around in the front hall behind the hobbit—stifled light chuckles and parted as Thorin sought the expected meal that Tharkûn had promised. If the burglar was anything to go by, however, the food would also be a disappointment.
Bilbo’s head was spinning and his mouth was dry. His heart was thudding away rapidly in his chest, the sound drowned out by his own short, shaky breaths. Memories swirled in a raging storm as he shook his head, trying to fight them away. He couldn’t think about it. He couldn’t think about That; about Them. His body felt hot. Too hot. The waistcoat was too tight. He needed to get it off. He needed to get outside. He needed air.
Bilbo felt a hand on his shoulder and someone’s—Gandalf’s—voice washed over him and he allowed himself to be steered towards the dining table where he dimly registered Thorin speaking to his Company. He focused on the low voice; tried to find something—anything—to distract from the impending darkness.
“Atkât!” Thorin roared. Bilbo focused on the khuzdul, on how he so wanted to hear it. To understand it. He thought of his years of reading about Khazad society, and his childhood dreams of being whisked away by a handsome dwarf prince.
Ice.
Bilbo shook his head, chasing away the intrusion. “...more light? Bilbo?”
Gandalf.
He wanted light. Bilbo could get that. A light. A candle.
Bilbo focused on finding the candle. There was one by the front door.
He lit it.
When he returned the khazad were still speaking. There was now a map on the table. Bilbo liked maps.
“The lonely mountain,” he read, only realising it was out loud when someone responded. Bilbo latched on to the words that were spoken. An explanation on why there were currently 14 people in his house.
A quest.
Snow.
A treasure.
Forest.
A…burglar.
“I’m not a burglar! I’ve never stolen a thing in my life,” Bilbo exclaimed.
His chest started to ache as Gandalf tried to convince the khazad of his (imaginary) thieving abilities.
“No, no, no,” Bilbo rushed out — not sure if he was talking to himself or to the wizard—even as a thick parchment was pushed into his chest. He looked down.
A contract?
Needing a distraction, Bilbo started to read it out loud so as to keep the words straight in his head. Fourteenth share of the treasure (he could do with some gold), funeral arrangements (he could probably do with that too at this rate), utmost secrecy (he was quite skilled at keeping secrets), arbitration held in Khuzdul (that didn’t seem quite fair) (but Bilbo wasn’t going to sign the contract anyway so it did not matter that he couldn’t understand the khazad’s tongue) (but what if that meant he could learn..?). Bilbo was about to open his mouth and discuss the fairness of the contract when he read the next line:
“The Company holds no liability for laceration…evisceration…incineration?”
A dragon. A flaming dragon. They wanted him to play hero and face a monster. On his own.
Shadows.
Flash of metal.
Blood.
“Air, I need air,” he said as he stumbled backwards, down the hall and away from the curious stares of the khazad and wizard.
Inching along the dark hallway, he leaned against the wall feeling for the handle of his bedroom door. He sagged against it, almost falling through the doorway when it opened. Finally. Finally he was alone. His sleeping chambers were cool and blessedly silent and here he could chase away the memories that Thorin’s words had awoken.
Bilbo’s knees crashed to the floor with an alarming thud as he knelt beside his bed and buried his head in the quilt. Breathing.
In. Out.
Cold.
In. Out.
He had done this a hundred times before. It had been 45 years since the war against his own mind had begun. He had fought this battle over and over again. He knew how to win.
Bilbo started to stroke the quilt, focusing on the ridges of the patchwork squares under his fingers. The roughness of the fabric.
Elves.
He remembered making it. Each mismatched square had been intentionally cut from the large swaths of fabric he had requested that Prim buy him from the market. Little Bag End was cold, so he had added more layers to the quilt in an attempt to make it thicker. Warmer. He had run out of thread, twice, and had been delayed in finishing it while waiting for Prim to come for tea so he could ask for more. The second time she had returned with 12 spools of deep red. With the extra thread and fabric he had made some pillows for the living room.
Screams.
Bilbo forced the image of his quilt back in his mind. Remembered the feeling of the needle diving through the fabric.
In. Out. In. Out.
As his breath returned, Bilbo forced his hands, then his arms, and finally his shoulders to relax and slumped his forehead onto the bed. His fingers were now resting on the floor so he felt for the floorboards and started to trace the curling grain. An unfamiliar edge caught his attention and he glanced down so as to inspect a knot that had previously escaped his notice, only to find he could not see it through the twilight in the room.
Slowly, he raised his head and looked around. It was dark, seeing as Bilbo had not yet lit any tapers this night. So he scrambled from the floor and moved around the room to light them, grounding himself in the familiar actions, and when he reached the fireplace, he lit that too.
As Bilbo stood in the middle of the warmly glowing room and revelled in the quietness of his mind, a low sound began somewhere in the bowels of the smíal. A deep humming; the start of a song.
Far over the mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day
To find our long forgotten gold
The music itself was beautiful, and the words tugged at something in Bilbo’s chest. They were sung with a longing that lived in Bilbo too. Longing for a past that no longer was.
But this longing had hope. Hope to reclaim that which had been forgotten and seemed out of reach. To make right what had gone wrong.
Past. Bilbo had a past.
His eyes alighted on the trunk that lived at the end of his bed. There were not many things in Little Bag End that had come with him from Bag End, seeing as most things belonged to whoever was The Master Baggins, but this trunk had been something that was all Bilbo’s. Slowly, he walked to the trunk and lifted the oaken lid.
On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
He peered down at the items that lay there. Memories from his past.
Allowing the low hum of the song to occupy his thoughts, Bilbo looked inside the trunk.
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun
On top of the pile of things inside lay a walking stick. It was carved with swirling lines that raced up and down its long length. He traced the engravings and focused on the feel of the valleys under his fingers.
The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night
Next, a pack. Deep green with brown leather and lovingly embroidered with acorns and oak leaves. Don’t think about who embroidered that. He lifted it to his nose. Behind the newer scent of dust it smelled faintly of old sweat, so Bilbo quickly put it back down.
An oiled cloak, also green. He remembered fondly that it had been his favourite colour as a fauntling. He had requested that all his Adventuring gear be made up in it. Don’t think about who listened to your requests. He lifted this to his nose too, only for a slightly moth-eaten bedroll to fall out from within the folds of the cloak.
Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
Ah, the thrill of adventure. The song echoed with it, filling Bilbo’s bones with a longing for well-beaten paths and rainy nights. For clear nights and climbing up trees to see the stars; for filling his pack with berries and mushrooms. For Before. (Don’t think about what it was before, though).
Lost in fond memory of his youthful days exploring the forest alone, a sudden knock at the door startled him; it preluded Gandalf’s entrance as Bilbo hastily shut the top of the trunk and jumped to his feet.
“My dear boy, I have tea to calm the nerves; I’m afraid we have rather startled yours. You should drink that right up,” Gandalf said, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet that had settled in Bilbo’s mind as he handed over a filled teacup. “Thorin Oakenshield has informed me that his Company will be leaving on the morrow, at the break of day, so we will be out of your curls soon.”
Bilbo nodded absentmindedly and took a sip of the (strangely) blue tea to delay answering. His eyebrows jumped, surprised at the subtle sweetness mixed with comforting aromas. “That’s good tea, Gandalf. Did someone bring it?” he asked.
Gandalf hummed in an ambiguous way, before bidding Bilbo a good night and a sweet, dreamless sleep. If there was something strange in the way he said that, well, Bilbo chose to ignore it in favour of the drowsy fog that was beginning to fill his mind. As his eyelids fluttered he made his way to the bed, falling on the quilt in a heap before the blessed darkness of sleep overtook him.
***
Sunlight was filtering in through the window when Bilbo awoke late the next morning to a quiet house. When he peered out the front door, the sight of flattened grass in an empty glade greeted him.
Standing barefoot on the front step, Bilbo felt as though the sun was dimmer, and Little Bag End emptier, than yesterday. Like a rumour in the Shire, 13 khazad had hurtled brazenly through his smíal and disrupted his life, and today everything was different for one Bilbo Baggins.
If asked (at that moment) why he did what he did next, he likely would have responded with “I was bored,” or “my pantry was empty and wouldn’t be restocked for another 2 weeks.” But the truth was, well, the truth was that Bilbo had not felt this excited about anything in almost 15 years and although he was not one for gossip, this was one rumour he did not want to let fly without him. And so, much to the astonishment of Primula Baggins who stopped by for tea at 4pm two days later, Bilbo Baggins hastily emptied the trunk in his bedroom, shrugged on his patchwork waistcoat and ran off into the woods leaving nothing but a note on the mantelpiece:
To Prim, Drogo, Hamfast:
Will be away for some time.
Cheers, BB