Work Text:
In a hole in the ground, a Hobbit sat quill in hand, working. It was not what most imagined a hole to be, it was not wet or dirty, there were no worms or other such bugs, it was not dark. It was a Hobbit hole, or in the parlance of the Shire a smial, and it was as warm and cosy as could be.
In the Shire only the very richest or the very poorest lived underground. Once all Hobbits lived as such, but as their population grew, and there were no more hills to hollow out, so squat timber buildings began to be erected above ground, leaving behind only those too poor to afford the timber and stone, and those so rich that there was no need to leave.
Bilbo Baggins was one of the former kind of Hobbits. His smial was quite small, only four bedrooms and two pantries, but despite the small size, the smial was one of the most beautiful in the Shire, for Bilbo’s father had been a skilled carpenter, and he had completely remodelled the interior of the house, reworking and varnishing every joint and floorboard. This work had been his final courting gift to Bilbo’s mother: Belladonna Took.
Peculiarity ran in the Took line. They were an extremely odd family who lived over the River by the Big Hill, and the family did such strange and disreputable things as disappear for months on end and host Big Folk as guests. Belladonna was no exception to this peculiarity, in fact she was more peculiar than most, disappearing more than once and bringing back all kinds of strange odds and ends. Bungo Baggins felt quite in love the moment he first saw her and his final gift to her, in his own words, was a home she could come back to.
In this home, their son, now fifty years of age and as respectable as a confirmed bachelor could be, was working. Bilbo was a scribe, and occasional artist, for he had very steady hands and a love of all things written and drawn. His work was infrequent but he was the best scribe for many miles and he was able to live comfortably enough. But that day, his mind was else where. He could not hold the quill perfectly steady and the black letters swam before his eyes. Sighing, Bilbo stopped writing and decided to take his pipe outside. Much like the rest of his home, Biblo’s garden was small but immaculate. His herbs were growing very fine, his tomatoes were plump and nearly ready for picking, his potatoes large and hearty and would hopefully sustain him through the Winter months when work was scarce. Appraising his garden with well-earned pride, Bilbo took out and lit his pipe, inhaling deeply. And yet the odd nervousness remained.
Bilbo settled himself down on the bench in his garden, pipe in hand, and blew a perfectly formed, grey smoke ring up across the hills. It was at that moment, at the very instant the ring dissipated entirely, that an old man with a staff walked by. He was dressed all in grey, with a large wide hat and a long beard that came all the way down to his waist. Something pricked at Bilbo’s memory.
“Good Morning!” He called out. It was a good morning, despite the odd feeling in Bilbo’s chest, the sun was shining and there was a mild breeze curling through the hills. The old man raised one of his impressively bushy eyebrows.
“What do you mean?” The old man asked. “Are you wishing me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I like it or not?”
“Both I suppose.” Bilbo was used to Big Folk, he often made the journey to Bree after all, but this particular Big Folk was making him feel quite uneasy. “Are you looking for someone?” He asked. Perhaps he was looking for Bilbo, he did look like the sort of fellow who enjoyed fine books after all.
“I am looking,” The man said, “For someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging.”
“An adventure! No, no no. You won’t find anyone looking for that here! You might have better luck across the River.”
“With the Tooks, I think you mean. But Bilbo, I believe I have found someone quite Tookish sitting right in front of me.”
“A Took, not me. I think you have the wrong Hobbit.”
“Ah, that I should live to see the day that Belladonna’s Took’s son deny his own mother. What is this world coming to, I should ask.”
Bilbo looked quite upset, for he loved his mother very much, but he knew very well that he had not inherited his mother’s love of travelling. His trips to Bree, while necessary always left him feeling rather sad.
“Who are you?” Bilbo asked, he frowned, his memory quickening at the mention of Belladonna. Something about this stranger seemed impossibly familiar. “Are you… Gandalf?”
“So you do remember me!”
“I remember my mother speaking of you. She always used to like your fireworks. They always sounded so marvellous, dragons and eagles and shooting stars. I always wished I could have seen them.”
“Well at least you know something of me. Even if it is just my fireworks. Indeed it seems I have come to the right place after all, and so for your mother’s sake, I will give you what you asked for.”
“What I asked for?”
“My dear Bilbo, an adventure, of course.”
Bilbo nearly fell off his bench. “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you, but I have work and I really need to get back to it.” Then Bilbo’s Hobbitish manners suddenly reared their head. “It was nice to meet you, I hope you find someone for your adventure. If you want you might come for tea, any time you like. I’m sorry. Goodbye.” And Bilbo retreated back into his home, and returned to his work.
Bilbo quite forgot about the invitation he had given, and so the next night when he sat down for tea, he did not put down an extra plate. He was preparing himself a batch of freshly baked scones and raspberry jam, a reward for a job well done since he had finished his latest commission. But just before he could begin tucking in, there was a loud bang at the door.
Suddenly Bilbo remembered and he rushed to the door, a half-dozen apologies in his mouth, but the words died as soon as he opened his door and saw two Dwarves standing there. Bilbo had seen Dwarves before in Bree, but always at a distance for he had never had business with them before. Instinctively, Bilbo took a step back.
The two Dwarves inclined their heads. “Dori, at your service.”
“Ori, at your service.”
“Bilbo Baggins, at yours.” Bilbo replied, too confused to do anything else. The two dwarves hung up their cloaks, and very fine cloaks they were with the most delicate of stitching, and entered Bilbo’s hallway.
“Where are we meeting?” The first dwarf asked. Dori was a rather impressive specimen of dwarf, tall and broad, with intricate braids, spiralling down his iron grey hair and beard. “Through here?” He entered Bilbo’s parlour, which served as his library as well, and immediately began rearranging the chairs. “Ori, find some more, we won’t have enough seating otherwise.”
“Sorry, Master Baggins,” The young Dwarf said, well Bilbo assumed he was young given the his beard was shorter than his friend’s and his hair still a rich brown. “Are there more chairs?”
“In the dining room.” Ori did in fact go collect more chairs and Bilbo just watched for a moment, before, uninvited guests or no, he remembered his manners. “Would either of you like a scone?”
“If you would, Master Baggins.” Dori said. “And ale if you have it.”
Bilbo did in fact have ale. Two casks full and he poured three generous mugs and drank deeply of his own tankard. Dori and Ori had only just settled down.
“A little cramped, but it’ll do.”
“There’s sixteen chairs, that should be enough, including the Wizard.”
“More than enough, I’d say.” Dori said darkly.
“He’ll come. He will.”
There was another knock at the door. Bilbo hurried over, hoping this time to see Gandalf but instead seeing an incredibly tall dwarf, with ink upon his head and a large axe strapped to his back.
“Dwalin, at your service.”
“Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”
Dwalin muscled past Bilbo into the smial, looked around disapprovingly until he caught sight of Dori and Ori in the parlour.
“Would you like a scone?” Bilbo asked, rather weakly.
“Just ale.” Dwalin grunted. He turned to Dori. “Saw a group come just behind me. Looked like Bofur’s lot.”
“Yes. He said they were coming. Your brother?”
“Split up at Bree, he had business with some other Dwarves there, didn’t say what.”
Bilbo hurried backwards and forwards ensuring everyone had ale, and he wondered just how many Dwarves might be coming. There was another heavy knock at the door and there stood three Dwarves.
“Bofur at your service.” The Dwarf winked at Bilbo, who’s confusion was now turning into a simmering annoyance. Even more rudely, the Dwarf did not take off his hat, and left his large collection of knives simply clattering across Bilbo’s mother’s glory box.
“Bombur.” Said the second Dwarf, who might almost have been mistaken for a Hobbit with his rotund figure, if it were not for the incredibly thick braids of hair all across his face. “And that’s my cousin, Bifur. At your service.”
The third Dwarf, Bifur, who had what looked like an axe head buried in his head said nothing. All three Dwarves took off their cloaks, left their weapons in Bilbo’s now overflowing umbrella stand, and marched into the parlour, which already looked overcrowded. Again Bilbo asked if anyone wanted a scone or some ale.
“Yes!” Bofur said with a wink. “Better make it two for Bombur.” Bombur elbowed the other Dwarf but did not protest and looked exceptionally pleased at the scones when Bilbo presented them to him.
“Very good.” Bombur said. “Is that raspberry jam?”
“Uh yes.” Thankful that at least one of the Dwarves had some manners, he went to fetch his apple tarts which were received even more cheerfully. Even Dwalin had one and Bilbo tried very hard not to mind all the drops of ale, and all the crumbs that were spilling everywhere.
There was another knock at the door.
“Just how many more Dwarves are there?” Bilbo muttered. “No, there cannot possibly be any more. I’m out of scones, and half a cask of ale.” He opened the door to yet another three Dwarves: Oin, Gloin and Balin and more importantly Gandalf. “Gandalf!” He cried, after the Dwarves had deposited their cloaks and weapons and joined the others in the parlour. He had to speak rather loud to be heard of the Dwarves all talking over each other. “There are Dwarves, all over my house! What are they all doing here? I invited you for tea, not…”
“I see everything is going smoothly then.” Gandalf folded himself through the door, and looked into the parlour. “Hmm, I would have thought you’d use the dining room. Still, this will do. Would anyone like some cold chicken?” Gandlaf asked the Dwarves, who all clamoured excitedly. Many of them left to help themselves, and Bilbo watched with dawning horror as the Dwarves began to empty out his pantry. It would take months of work to replace it, all that food…
“Gandalf, what is going on? I cannot…” But before Bilbo really could work himself up into a lather, there was a loud grunt from behind them. Bilbo, in his annoyance, had forgotten to close the door.
“Hello!” Gandalf and Biblo both turned around, to Bilbo’s dawning horror there were four new Dwarves in the entry way. Three had hair black as a raven’s wing and the third a great mane the colour of wheat at sunset. The two Dwarves at the front looked young, the dark-haired on barely had a beard at all, whilst the two at the back looked entirely disapproving. The two younger Dwarves bowed. “Fili and Kili at your service.” Bilbo looked at them and had no idea which was which.
“We’re not late are we?”
“No, my dear boy, no. Just go through and join the others.”
“Is that food?” The Dwarf without much of beard cried out joyfully, and immediately went to go snag himself a slice of ham, the blond Dwarf following close behind.
“Thorin and Dis. At your service.” The slightly less severe of the two remaining Dwarves said.
“This is the burglar. He looks more like a grocer.” The second Dwarf looked Bilbo up and down, and Bilbo felt rather like he’d been stripped. Then he realised what the Dwarf had said and couldn’t decide which of the given occupations he should be more offended at.
Presumably, Bilbo thought, he should be rather more insulted by being called a criminal, but instead what came out of his mouth was: “A grocer! I’ll have you know…”
“If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then he is a burglar. And that will be the end of it. You should join the others.”
“Everyone is here then.”
“Not yet Thorin. We’re still waiting for one more.”
“If he comes.” Dori said, having broken away from the clamouring of the others. Thorin and Dis both inclined their heads at Dori’s arrival but Dori ignored them, focusing all his attention of Gandalf.
“He’ll come.”
The door to the smial closed, and Bilbo, somewhat helplessly followed the Dwarves. He near cried at the state of his parlour, though thankfully the books had been left alone, and he sat on his foot stool watching the Dwarves talk.
It was obvious there was a hierarchy, the Dwarves all deferred to Dori, who mostly kept his conversation either to Gandalf, Bofur of Gloin. Ori’s attention was being entirely monopolised by Fili and Kili and all the other Dwarves kept shooting looks at Thorin and Dis, and Bilbo did not blame them for even with Dwalin’s bulk and giant axe, which unlike everyone else’s weapons was not piled up in Bilbo’s hallway but still strapped to his back, he found Thorin to be the most intimidating of all the Dwarves.
It was only after Bilbo’s two casks of ale and his barrel of red wine from the South Farthing’s vineyards were drained dry, that Dori looked sternly at Gandalf. “We’ve waited long enough. The map.”
Gandalf acquiesced and pulled out a long roll of parchment. “Bilbo, a light if you would.”
Lantern lit, Bilbo stared over the map and its familiar black contours. Gandalf traced a finger across it, until it rested at a solitary mountain peak, inked larger than all others. “The Lonely Mountain. Erebor. Too long has it been under the hold of the wyrm Smaug. This map was made by your grandfather.”
Dori looked at it. “I know this. I know the road through Mirkwood, I know the Withered Heath from where Smaug was bred.”
“Yes. But this map holds a secret.” Gandalf jabbed a finger at the mountain. “Here, this symbol, means that there is a door, a secret entrance with a passage leading directly into the heart of Erebor.”
“It may be a secret no longer.” Dori said. “Smaug has had a hundred years to know the mountain.”
“It is not a large door, perhaps it might fit three Dwarves abreast and Smaug was larger than that, even a century ago. No I believe the door is a secret still, from everyone except those in this room.”
“But…” Bilbo squeaked. “That is still rather large. How could such a door be kept secret?”
“In the usual manner of Dwarves.” Gandalf said.
“It will look exactly like the surrounding rock face.” Ori told Bilbo. “Completely invisible, unless you know where to look.”
“And with the map, came a key.” From somewhere in his robes, Gandalf produce a large key, wrought in intricate silver, and hanging upon a fine chain. He handed it to Dori who traced it reverently. “Keep it safe.”
“Gandalf, just how did you get a hold of this?” Dori asked.
“It was given to me. Your grandfather,”
“Was killed at Moria.”
“Yes, but before the battle he entrusted it to me. He would not listen to reason about Moria, but he knew a return to Erebor would not come in his lifetime.”
A flash of sharp anger crossed Dori’s face. “And why have you returned it to me now. Why not before?”
“Because it was not the time.”
Dori looked like he was close to yelling, as did many of the other Dwarves, Gloin almost looked as if he was ready to lunge at Gandalf, but before a single ill word could be said, there was a loud bang at the door.
“He came!” Ori said, his face painted with hope. Dori’s face was still cast in darkness.
No one moved, until Bilbo remembered that he was in fact he host and he should go greet his guest. So he did just that, opening the door onto the fourteenth Dwarf of the party. “Hello, Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”
“Nori. At yours. My brothers are here then.”
Bilbo nodded. “Just in the parlour.” Nori muscled past him, and in the open doorway, Bilbo took a deep breath of cool night air. The parlour had become incredibly stuffy and it was a relief to breathe in anything that wasn’t heavy Dwarven musk. Bilbo still did not understand why the Dwarves were here, nor why Gandalf was insisting he was a burglar and yet, he wanted to know more. To understand what was so important about a secret door. He took a last gulp of night air, closed the door and rejoined his Dwarf guests.
In the parlour, the Dwarves were deep in discussion and the newcomer’s arrival had only inflamed the tension.
“And what good, is a secret door, if it only leads to a fire-breathing dragon?” Nori asked, one eyebrow raised.
“A sneak attack.” Gloin insisted. “The dragon had not been seen in years, an army could surround him.”
“An army that we don’t have. That we will never have if the lords have their way.” An uncomfortable silence fell upon the group. “Or have you not told them yet.” The question was directed at Dori.
“The Lords will not acknowledge my claim. They will not acknowledge my mother. Not without the Arkenstone.”
“The Arkenstone?” Bilbo asked.
A few of the Dwarves frowned but it was Dis who answered, his voice husky with melancholy. “It’s the heart of Erebor, a stone of impossible beauty that entranced any who saw it. It was found in the days of Flori the first, and with it came riches, impossible veins of gold, gemstones the size of eggs. For many, it was a sign of Flori’s right to rule.” Beside him, Thorin’s mouth tightened. Bilbo wondered if the two Dwarves were brothers, their names did not seem to follow the pattern of the others, but they were so impossibly similar in features.
“Or it was the herald that brought the dragon. It was lost when the mountain fell.” Nori said. “It lays there, somewhere in Smaug’s horde.”
“Which is why we need a burglar.” Gandalf turned his fierce gaze to Bilbo. “Smaug will not know the scent of Hobbit, and your kind are impossibly light on their feet. You will go into the mountain, and retrieve the Arkenstone. Whilst here, you can discover if the Dragon is truly sleeping.”
Bilbo went to protest, but the gaze of so many Dwarves upon him made him swallow his words. Their stares varied, some hopeful like that of Fili, Kili and Ori, some sceptical like Nori and Gloin, and some impossible to parse, like that of Thorin, his heavy blue eyes fixed solidly upon him.
“Give him the contract.” Dori said and Bofu pulled out a thick wad of parchment, throwing it into Bilbo’s arms and the sudden weight made him almost buckle to the ground. He skimmed it as best he was able.
“Evisceration, incineration, disembowelment?” Bilbo’s voice went embarrassingly high pitched. “Starvation.”
“Need to cover all the possibilities.” Bofur said cheerfully.
“I.. I…” Bilbo was a Baggins, and everything Baggins within him was telling him simply to say no. But a voice, that sounded much like his mother, was telling him to read contract, properly read it, to understand what he might be giving up if he did say no. “Let me read it, it’s rather large. You’ll have my answer in the morning.”
Gandalf frowned but Dori nodded. “That’s acceptable. We’ll be ready to leave at first light.”
“First light. But that’d hardly enough time for first breakfast. You must at least wait until then, I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t provide at least that.” Bilbo protested.
“He’s right you know.” Bofur said. “No point starting a trip on an empty stomach.”
“Fine.” Dori sighed. “After breakfast.”
“Alright. Let me get you sorted into my guest rooms.”
Four bedrooms did not go very far with fourteen Dwarves and a Wizard but Bilbo managed, pulling out every spare linen and blanket that he had. Gloin, Oin, Balin and Dwalin agreed to share as did Thorin, Dis, Fili and Kili. The last of Bilbo’s bedrooms went to Dori, Ori and Nori, who took the largest of the three. Bofur, Bombur and Bifur were sleeping in a hastily made up sitting room: “Why didn’t we meet in here, it’s much larger” whilst Gandalf simply disappeared. Bilbo went to his own room and stared at the contract. It took several hours to read the whole thing through but Bilbo simply couldn’t sleep. According to the contract, Bilbo was entitled to a fifteenth of the treasure, if they succeeded in retrieving the treasure at all and if he died during the course of the adventure, he was entitled to a fine oak coffin, if they could retrieve his body. Bilbo sighed and his stomach grumbled. In all the excitement of the evening, he had entirely missed supper. Contract in hand, he went back to his kitchen, hoping to find a snack to tide him over. He found some bread and managed to scrape out some jam. Eating quickly, he looked over his pantry and decided there would be enough eggs for omelettes, and perhaps some porridge. There was very little meat left, but what was left was smoked and Bilbo decided to give it to the Dwarves for their journey, regardless of whether he joined them.
Bilbo was just about to go back to bed, when he heard the fading notes of a song.
Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and old
We must away with the break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold
Just outside, sitting on Bilbo’s garden bench, was Thorin, haloed by the light of the moon. His voice though soft, was rich and deep and it cut through the silence of the night like a blade.
“That was beautiful.” Bilbo said.
Thorin did not startle, but his knuckles whitened. “I didn’t hear you.” Once more he looked Bilbo up and down and Biblo’s skin prickled. “Perhaps you are a burglar after all.”
“Perhaps.” That did seem to be the lie that Bilbo was caught in.
“Why are you still awake?” He asked. “It will be a long journey tomorrow.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Too much excitement.”
“Strange word for it. We might well be heading towards our deaths.” Thorin frowned. “You should not sign that contract. You look like a strong breeze might kill you, and Nori has light fingers enough.”
Bilbo bristled. “It would take more than a strong breeze.” He might be a Hobbit but he was not that frail.
“Would it?”
“Then why are you coming, if you so believe that this will end in failure?” Bilbo asked, bristling, but also curious as to why this Dwarf would even want to come. It was obvious why Dori wished to go. And Nori and Ori by extension. But the motives of the other Dwarves remained elusive. Maybe it was simply loyalty.
“Because Erebor is home. And even if it is occupied by a dragon, I should like to see my home one last time.” Thorin stood up. “I’ll see you in the morning, Burglar.”
Bilbo watched him leave. And then, once he had returned to his bedroom, signed the contract.