Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins wakes to his house coat floating in the air next to his bed. As he is long past the age of fearing ghosts (those exist, do not particularly care for hobbits and, contrary to hobbit children’s imaginations, do not wear bedsheets) he neither screams nor flinches, but sits up with a frown. A moment of concentration on that throbbing spot beneath his heart cuts the thread and the gown falls to the ground, but Bilbo keeps glaring at it.
It’s been a while since this happened last. He’s worked hard to get this particular talent of his under control and harder to keep it under wraps. Three decades since he last slipped up and most of Hobbiton has forgotten about that incident where Lobelia Sackville mysteriously flew into a pond. Or the floating apple pies of the late Mrs. Bolger. However, they haven’t forgotten enough to readmit Bilbo to participate in the official conkers contests, even though that truly is just talent.
A rich breakfast isn’t quite enough to pull Bilbo from the funk the sudden reemergence of his talent has caused, so after staring at the blank page that is supposed to become a short story for a while, he gives it up and heads outside. It’s a beautiful, warm day in early spring with white, puffy clouds dotting the sky and he can just feel those endless, sunny days of summer lurking beyond the corner.
But the day already began strangely, so later, Bilbo chastises himself for expecting it to end any differently. Though even in his wildest imaginations, he probably could not have foreseen the road it would take.
Faced with a weird, tall stranger who refuses to understand a solid “good morning”, Bilbo reluctantly engages him. Now that the name has been revealed – Gandalf – he does remember the wizard and his fireworks. And his absence when he would have been needed, namely those horrible five years after Bilbo’s talent first manifested itself.
Hobbiton had been appalled.
“Not natural”, some had whispered. “Cursed,” and “a bad omen,” the particularly superstitious had said. His poor parents had been worried out of their minds, with his mother proposing to take him to Rivendell or seek out Gandalf.
“Unlike you, I have not known any elves in person and Gandalf merely in passing,” Bilbo had overheard his father say one night, hiding behind a door far past his bedtime, “But from what I know this kind of ability would seem remarkable, even among them. I do not doubt your friends’ honesty, but I fear what wider knowledge of his ability may mean for Bilbo. I would not want for him to become a pawn in the big peoples’ games, not before he is old enough to decide for himself.”
Merely a teen then, no matter how much he would have loved to leave Hobbiton – especially Hobbiton as it was then, where his few remaining friends needed to sneak away from their parents to play with him – big people frightened him more. And aside from the early, uncontrolled manifestations of his ability, it did grow manageable. Bilbo learned to associate that strange sensation just beneath his heart – sometimes a tickle, sometimes a throb – with his power and soon could control it. His friends preferred the benefits of his ability to pluck stray kites, apples and pies from even the highest of places and the rest of Hobbiton tried their best to forget about his “abnormality”.
Things took another spin once the Fell Winter arrived, but Bilbo resolutely shoves those memories aside. Gandalf would have been more helpful then, anyway, but never turned up. So he doesn’t feel all that terrible for telling the wizard that he won’t join his obscure adventure and stomps away.
***
By the time the sun has set, Bilbo has mostly forgotten about the unusual encounter. He has tidied his study, visited the market and gone on to create a dinner more suited for a festival day than an ordinary evening. The routine gestures have helped calm his nerves – but the world has not changed and the throbbing in his blood has merely quietened.
It won’t do to be upset, he thinks to himself as he puts the sizzling fish onto his plate. Who knows what could happen – adventure is courting disaster. Bilbo sits down, reaches for the lemon – and a knock freezes him on the spot. It probably is just an annoying neighbor with no regard for propriety, but
Bilbo’s heart is a nervous thing and flutters in his chest. He takes a deep breath just before opening the door – and immediately wishes he hadn’t.
“Dwalin,” the dwarf introduces himself and bows politely. Bilbo only sees sharp axes, muscles and a tattooed head. The spot beneath his heart twinges, though before Bilbo can quite figure out how to defend himself – force the door shut, get the dwarf’s axes away from him, hit him with the cloak stand – Dwalin pushes past him and marches straight into the kitchen. Bilbo concentrates on that spot underneath his heart and feels for the calm, coiled presence of his power - armed with that he follows.
Dwalin has settled in Bilbo’s spot and is cheerfully devouring the fish. While not exactly a declaration of violent intent, Bilbo is a hobbit fond of his food and with a flick of his finger makes the thick iron pan behind Dwalin rise into the air. The dwarf is watching him, Bilbo realizes – he does look like a hardened warrior, of course he will be on guard – but even experienced warriors have no eyes on the back of their head.
The pan hovers in mid-air just above the tattooed head and Bilbo contemplates whether dropping it will suffice – when the doorbell rings again.
Within a few minutes he ends up with more dwarves in his house than he can count and his treacherous powers tease him by either suggesting he float all of them out (Impossible. He knows there is a limit to the weight and size of things he can shift. Discovering that was painful enough; he does not need a repeat.) or simply going to hide in his bedroom until they’ve moved on.
Gandalf does nothing except laugh at Bilbo’s bewilderment and it does not endear the wizard to the hobbit. Instead Bilbo shifts the chandelier just so – and when Gandalf turns he hits his head. It’s petty, Bilbo thinks as he watches the wizard curse under his breath, but it is a form of revenge.
And he does not yet feel like throwing them all out, revealing his power and causing an uproar in the neighborhood simultaneously.
Abruptly an arm is slung over his shoulder. “So you must be Gandalf’s burglar,” a voice far too close to his ear exclaims, “Great house you’ve got here. Did ya get that all from stealin’? Didn’t think it was that lucrative.”
Bilbo tries to slither away, but the grip on his shoulder is firm. “It’s an heirloom,” he responds icily, though the fellow - wearing the strangest hat he ever saw - just laughs merrily.
“So it’s a family tradition, burglarizing?” he asks and Bilbo regretfully looks to the chandelier. It’s too high above their heads to accidentally hit the dwarf – he’d have to pull out the fixtures.
“You’d get along great with Nori – oh, hey, there he is!” not that the dwarf seems to sense the black thoughts on Bilbo’s mind. “Nori, over here! Come and meet our burglar!” He waves cheerfully at another dwarf with the most absurd hairdo Bilbo has ever seen – including Lobelia’s terrible hats – and Bilbo uses the chance to slip out of the inescapable, friendly hold.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Bilbo states coolly, “There must have been a misunderstanding. I am certainly no burglar.”
The dwarf with the star-shaped hairdo – Nori – looks him over from his hair to his feet and shakes his head. “No, indeed. Bofur, look at the fellow – no respectable burglar would be seen wearing suspenders.”
Bilbo is gaping after him when a quieter voice speaks up. “Please don’t mind my brother, Mister Baggins. I am sure you are an excellent burglar.”
The dwarf – certainly younger than him – is still is nearly a head taller. Madness, Bilbo thinks to himself and takes a deep breath, all of them are mad and Gandalf is the worst of all of them.
“But don’t you want to get some food as well?” the youngest continues on obliviously, “I’m afraid they don’t particularly care for manners, but I think it would be shameful to have the host miss out on his own food.”
Food that was never intended for raucous dwarves, Bilbo thinks, but the fellow’s polite tone does wonders to sooth his frazzled nerves.
“I do think I could do with a bite,” Bilbo agrees. Wine wouldn’t go amiss, either.
The young dwarf smiles. Then he takes Bilbo’s sleeve and turns toward the dining room. “Kili, Fili!” he calls, “Save a plate for Mister Baggins!”
“Sure, Ori. Ale as well? He’s got an excellent taste there, our Mister Boggins!” Bilbo can’t see which dwarf replies, but he certainly recalls which one mangled his name. And indeed, once he is unceremoniously shoved into a place between Dwalin and an elderly dwarf with an ear trumpet, the young, dark-haired dwarf – Kili – sets a plate piled high with food down in front of him.
“Enjoy your meal, Master Boggins,” he says with an ear-splitting grin.
“And an ale,” adds his blond brother, setting down a tankard.
“How about a toast?” Bofur shouts from another spot on the table, “To our host!”
As the dwarfs cheerfully lift their tankards to Bilbo, he can’t quite keep his mouth from twitching and eventually lifts his own cup, inclines his head, and uses the ensuing silence to ask. “Thank you very much. However, and I realize this is a very rude question, but allow me to ask – who are you exactly and why are you here?”
Kili’s jaw drops. “You don’t know?” he utters bewildered.
“You didn’t tell him?” another dwarf asks, directing a glare at Gandalf. The wizard, in the process of shuffling out of the dining room, freezes. Bristles. “Err, I did happen to –“
“He didn’t,” Bilbo interrupts firmly, “I’m afraid I was quite ill-prepared for your arrival. All our dear wizard mentioned to me was an adventure – which I’m afraid I have no interest in joining – before leaving again.”
Gandalf coughs into his pipe, but the white-haired dwarf – Balin – clears his throat. “In this case I will apologize on our behalf. We were promised food and rest at the house of Gandalf’s chosen companion for our journey. We did not mean to impose.”
Bilbo inclines his head. “I don’t think the misunderstanding is your fault, either,” he says, “But would you indulge me anyway? What is that adventure Gandalf mentioned? Something about burglary?”
The entire group titters. Dwalin next to him clenches a fist, and Balin leans forward, past his larger brother. “Nothing quite so scandalous.”
“Or even more so,” another silver-haired dwarf adds and crosses his arms under his chest.
“Not as if we hadn’t been called insane before,” Bofur mutters and the dwarf next to him – with an axe embedded in his forehead, Bilbo notices to his consternation – nods emphatically.
“We, Master Baggins,” Balin states, “Are the dwarves of Erebor.”
“And we will take back our homeland!” the young, blond dwarf adds fiercely.
Bilbo blinks. Recalls sitting on his father’s knee and looking over maps of distant lands. Listening to legends of great battles and fearsome monsters. Heroes and villains.
“Erebor,” he echoes, “The Lonely Mountain? That’s far …” Far beyond the Misty Mountains. On a clear day he can see their distant outlines from the borders of the Shire. Erebor must lie even farther on the other side.
A shudder runs down his spine. “Wasn’t Erebor taken by a dragon?”
The group falls silent. “Aye,” Dwalin next to him grunts, “Smaug. Descended in bright daylight and even our strongest warriors couldn’t do a thing.”
“You – you were there?” Bilbo feels his blood grow cold. He’d thought Dwalin a hardened warrior – and yet to think that this dwarf has seen a dragon descend changes everything. To Bilbo, dragons only ever existed in fairytales – creatures of myths and distant lands.
Dwalin nods, silent. Balin purses his lips. “Some of us were, yes.”
“We’re too young to have been there,” Fili adds with a shrug. “And some are in for the free beer,” Bofur says and raises his tankard.
The tension diffuses and Bilbo feels the ice recede from his body. Still –
“And we will reclaim Erebor!” Kili declares firmly, “Dragon or not!”
While several dwarfs cheerfully toast his words, Balin leans over to Bilbo once more. “Rumors suggest the dragon might be dead.”
“Ah,” Bilbo nods. Though he wouldn’t want to risk his life on a rumor like this.
“That is where the burglar comes in,” another dwarf says and sets down his ale forcefully. Bilbo turns politely to the red-haired giant, “You see, we need somebody to go in and find out whether or not the dragon is dead. If he’s dead, it’s all good. If not, there is an item the King needs to reclaim the mountain.”
“What kind of item?” Bilbo inquires, mentally bewildered at however Gandalf had gained the impression to consider him suited for such a role. Even while disregarding the distance to travel, sending a hobbit to a dragon must constitute the pinnacle of madness.
“The King should be the one to tell that tale,” the red-haired dwarf deigns, “Where is he, anyway?”
***
Thorin Oakenshield enters with the sense of self-importance Bilbo has long associated with bothersome relatives. The other dwarves fall respectfully silent, appear glad at his arrival, and to his surprise Bilbo catches even Gandalf inclining his head.
Certainly, the dwarf is tall and has a certain, attention-demanding look to him, but Bilbo has tolerated enough disrespect in his own home for one night. With a frown he steps forward, just as Gandalf introduces him as the fourteenth member.
Bilbo clears his throat. “Thank you very much, but I believe I can introduce myself. Bilbo Baggins. Mr…. Oakenshield, I presume?”
The dwarf’s face adopts an expression as if watching an especially impertinent child and Bilbo feels his opinion of Thorin Oakenshield sink even lower.
“Indeed. So you are the one Gandalf chose,” Thorin says and his voice sends a shiver down Bilbo’s spine, “What are your talents, then?”
Talents? Bilbo blinks and looks to Gandalf who only smiles sagely. Gandalf knows nothing of his ability Or was there something more to the wizard’s decision than a spontaneous and spiteful reaction to a hobbit not wanting to go on an adventure? There is something about Gandalf in this moment that makes Bilbo utterly wary, but he can’t reflect on it – not when there is an imperious dwarf expecting his answer.
“I have some skill at conkers,” Bilbo returns sharply, “Or cooking, if that is more to your interest. I am afraid you must provide me with some context before I can provide you with a sensible answer.”
Thorin snorts. And Bilbo does not stop his power from wrapping itself around the chandelier and beginning to tug it ever so slowly into the direction of Thorin Oakenshield’s very big head.
“Let us have a seat and some food first,” Gandalf intervenes.
The dwarfs hum in agreement and turn to the kitchen. Only Thorin remains where he stands, looking at Bilbo in disdain for a moment longer. Really, Bilbo thinks, even the Sackville-Baggins' have better manners.
So when the dwarf finally turns to follow after his companions, Bilbo wraps the invisible fingers of his power firmly around the dwarf's long coat and pulls. Hard.
When Thorin responds by stumbling and spluttering, Bilbo gives him the most disdainful expression he has and asks: "Are you alright?"
The dwarf massages his throat and glares at Bilbo. “Quite.”
In Thorin’s presence the dwarves have calmed down remarkably. Bilbo takes a spot in the corner, still displeased at having had to relinquish his home to these unexpected guests. With a frown he watches as Thorin is offered food with a degree of reverence. From his short acquaintance with Thorin Oakenshield he would not deem the dwarf worthy of such treatment.
And yet.
And yet.
Thorin must have been there when the dragon came. Young, perhaps even a child still. And wouldn’t that have been a turn-around, to be raised as a heir to one of the wealthiest kingdoms on Arda and lose everything within minutes. It still doesn’t make Thorin’s behavior acceptable – but Bilbo finds while he can despise him, he can’t quite hate him.
The rest of them, he finds, he hates even less. They may not be good for his nerves nor property nor sense of propriety – but it’s been ages since he last felt so alive.
He should not even be contemplating this, Bilbo thinks. It is madness - even for dwarves, robbing a dragon with a group of thirteen must constitute a lunatic's plan. And he doesn't even like Thorin Oakenshield.
And yet.
Gandalf was not completely wrong - his thirst for adventure had not completely been quelled. There is a kernel in him that has always looked up at the blue sky and wondered how far it stretched. Gazed at the distant mountains and dreamt of what lies beyond. Gazed at maps and tried the strange sounds of distant cities on his tongue.
The spot under his heart throbs. Dangerous, a voice that sounds suspiciously like his father warns, others may seek to abuse your powers. And yet leaving Hobbiton and the Shire behind may be his only chance at truly exercising his powers for once. Perhaps even finding out why he was given such a blessing - or curse.
He is no longer a hapless tween with no idea of the world. And while he may not be skilled with sword or bow, he wields a power he is certain will provide enough protection. A sword will not touch him when he can simply direct its blade elsewhere.
So maybe, Bilbo decides, maybe he will join this adventure. With that thought in mind he sets aside the blanket and rises from his chair. The tumult in his dining room has calmed considerably, the dwarves having settled with the remainders of his beer and wine and their pipes. A heady smell of pipeweed greets him when he enters the living room, and several faces turn to meet him.
Ignoring the young dwarves, Bilbo directs his feet toward Thorin and Balin and forces himself to ignore the many eyes watching him.
"I will join you," Bilbo agrees.
The dwarves begin to whisper excitedly and Bofur leans out to pat his head. Some faces, Bilbo sees, do look skeptical – Thorin, however, does not even pretend to be gladdened by the announcement.
“Give him the contract,” the dwarf rules and turns away. Balin procures a piece of folded parchment from the inner pocket of his coat, while Bilbo blinks – he’d heard dwarves were fussy and formal, but did they really need a contractual agreement on a suicidal, mad undertaking? He’d thought hobbits were the ones to have utterly formalized their lives, but apparently he had underestimated the dwarven specialty of translating madness into legal terms.
“Just the usual,” Balin tells him while Bilbo unfolds the paper and begins to read the tiny text. The language quickly descends far past the needed degree of detail and at the stomach-turning descriptions of evisceration Bilbo stops reading. He isn’t certain he is actually made for this.
“You know,” he tells the dwarves watching him expectantly, "I will join you, as I said. But I will not sign this contract."
Thorin frowns and Balin tilts his head. "Does the phrasing not please you? I am certain we could work out the terms."
Bilbo grimaces. "It’s not the terms or the contract. Those are fair enough – I am just not certain I want to sign onto this.”
Somebody chuckles in the background and Bilbo directs a wry smile Balin’s way. “I would ask you to give me time to consider, but I understand you need to be on your way as soon as possible. Which is why I would suggest the following: I will accompany you until I come to a decision. You do not lose any time and I doubt you will find anybody willing to be your burglar on this side of the Misty Mountains.”
Before Balin can say anything, somebody exclaims “Great!” in the background, while Thorin frowns. “You expect us to host you until you can make up your mind? Cover all your expenses in the meantime and protect you?”
"I believe tonight's feast and board as well as my second pantry’s contents ought to provide for any expenses," Bilbo returns quickly, "Any costs incurred on the road I can very well cover on my own. I will certainly be no drain on your resources."
"Aye, those foodstuffs would be mighty helpful," Dwalin says, "Though I believe it is in battle that you may find yourself ill equipped. We are unused to protecting others in battle – we depend on everybody being able to hold their own ground."
Bilbo gives him a wry smile. "Certainly, my kind are not skilled in the arts of war. But do you expect to find many battles ere you reach the mountain?"
The dwarves fall into an uncomfortable silence that makes Bilbo's hackles rise. So obviously the dwarves expect to run into trouble before they even get to the dragon.
Well, he thinks to himself, it’s not as if he couldn’t deal with that.
***
The next morning Bilbo wakes feeling slightly queasy. Far in the east the sky is growing lighter, overhead the stars still sparkle and promise a cloudless day. A good day for travel.
He swallows down the unease and drags his weary body from his bed, unable to dispel the notion that this may be the very last time he sees his own bed for a very long time. Perhaps forever – but that does not bear thinking about. There is much to do yet.
Breakfast to be prepared, letters to be mailed. Instructions to his tenants and to the mayor. A copy sent to the Thain and an apology to his aunt as he will likely miss her birthday. Maybe he can bring her a nice tea when he returns.
Bilbo shakes his head, feeling a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. If he returns, he will be deemed insane.
Perhaps he should stay. There is little reason to give up on the comforts of his home. What awaits is danger, trouble and turmoil. Possibly death, and he does not even know the dwarves well. Some seemed nice, though not Thorin Oakenshield. There is no rational reason for joining with the dwarves.
And yet –
When the sun peeks over the horizon and Bilbo closes the door to his home one last time, he cannot help but cast his eyes eastward. No cloud covers the still pearly sky, and the air is yet cool. Fresh green lines the roadside, spring flowers blooming along the path.
Deep in his chest something opens. For the first time in decades Bilbo feels a spark of that old, childish excitement.