Clarity of Vision, Chapter 1
Apr. 5th, 2013 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mithenTitle: Clarity of Vision, Chapter 1
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Balin, Dwalin, Fíli, Kíli
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 3300
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an item that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: On a rainy day in Bree, Bilbo Baggins runs into a dwarf. They don't get along.
Bilbo Baggins gazed at the challenge ahead of him, unsure whether or not he was up to it. It was daunting--even terrifying--but he had to get through it, no matter what.
Taking a deep breath, he mustered up all his courage and plunged through the western gate into the big city of Bree.
The instant he passed into the town, he was reminded of why he did his best to never, ever visit Bree. It was ugly, it was noisy, and worst of all, it was crowded: crowded full of men that towered above him and looked down on him and made him feel small. But even the hobbits of Bree were different: big city hobbits who didn't have the leisure to have a little smoke and pass the time with a fellow hobbit, no. Everyone here was busy and bustling, and Bilbo Baggins hated it.
Never again! he thought, dodging screaming, horrifyingly tall human children and looking out for piles of horse dung. Not for any reason! To make things even worse, it looked like rain, the clouds gathering and the wind picking up. Finally he spotted the store he was looking for: Sapphire's Sweets, with its famous sign edged with blue gems. He ducked inside, relieved, as the first drops of rain began to spatter the dusty road.
The bell jingled as he entered, but Sapphire--a middle-aged hobbit with her blond hair looped in braids--was busy with other customers and only gave him a cursory nod. Bilbo looked at the different sweets on her shelves, trying to make clear from his posture that he had come on Important Business. After all, he reminded himself, he had worn his second-best plum-colored waistcoat and his midnight-blue velveteen trousers, and that could hardly fail to make an impression.
Well, at least in Hobbiton, he had to conclude as Sapphire continued to ignore him for other customers, some who had come in later than himself. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me?"
Sapphire finished up with her current customer before turning to him. "May I help you?" she asked.
"Well, I do hope so. I am Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End," he started impressively.
"Is that in the Shire?" Sapphire asked, causing Bilbo to lose some steam.
"Yes, well...exactly. Anyway, my fiftieth birthday is coming up soon, and I was hoping to order fifty of your famous spun-sugar animals to give away to the children at my party. Some badgers, some turtles, some pigs--oh, and definitely one olifaunt. It's for Primula Brandybuck," he explained, "A dear little tyke, one of my favorite cousins, and she loves hearing stories about olifaunts." He chuckled fondly.
Sapphire had an expression on her face that hinted she was uninterested in the details of Bilbo Baggins' birthday parties. "Fifty spun-sugar animals," she said, scribbling on a piece of paper. "They'll be done in three days."
Bilbo swallowed his chagrin--he had hoped he could escape this city and return home sooner than that. Fortunately, he had brought provisions for nearly a week, and he could pass the time visiting various distant cousins (ones mad enough to live in Bree) and delivering them gifts and treats from the Shire. "Very well," he announced to the unimpressed Sapphire, "I shall return at that time."
At least he had had the foresight to bring his umbrella, he consoled himself as he pulled it out of his backpack, looking out the window at the rain that was streaking down the glass. Technically his mother's umbrella--high-quality oiled paper was hard to come by, so it was a family heirloom. As he stepped outside he opened it, enjoying the way the cheerful daisy patterns bloomed above his head.
In his second-best plum-colored waistcoat and velveteen trousers, brandishing his daisy-patterned umbrella, Bilbo Baggins began to make his way to the Prancing Pony.
The umbrella blocked his vision, making it difficult to dodge puddles, and soon his feet were soaked and muddy. Grimacing, he jumped nimbly over a large, dirty puddle--
--And collided in midair with an immovable object that sent him tumbling backwards into the middle of the water. He heard a snap and had time to hope it wasn't his ribs before landing with an extremely undignified sploosh.
Sitting in the mud, he shook his head, feeling dazed. Why was there a wall in the middle of the street? As he scrambled to his feet, though, he realized he had not collided with a wall at all.
Before him stood a person taller and broader than a hobbit, yet shorter than a man, glowering down on him from under a midnight-blue hood that was dripping with rain. Beneath the hood was a bearded face and two keen eyes that were currently snapping with impatience.
"Fornost," growled the dwarf--for dwarf it must be, although Bilbo had never met one. "How do we get there?"
Bilbo gaped at the dwarf before gathering his wits. "Well, I like that!" he huffed. "The least you could do is say 'excuse me' or 'pardon me' when you run straight into a hobbit that's just minding his business, knocking him into the mud and--oh dear," he added, looking up, "breaking his umbrella!" For indeed, his mother's umbrella hung limply on one side, one of its stretchers broken in the collision. "Oh dear, oh dear." He closed the umbrella, heedless of the rain that soaked him--how much wetter could he get?--and looked at it in dismay. "I must say," he said, rounding on his assailant again, "That you could take some lessons in manners!"
The dwarf glared down at him. "You ran into me, not--"
"--For mercy's sake, Thorin, this is neither the time nor place," said a new voice. Bilbo realized that there were two other dwarves behind the rude one: the one who had just spoken had a pure white beard that forked at the bottom, and the other's bald head was covered with tattoos. "You've startled the lad and broken his umbrella, there's no need to bark at him as well."
The rude dwarf--Thorin, apparently--made an exasperated noise and turned to stride away through the rain.
"Don't mind him," said the white-bearded dwarf, looking after him with a sigh.
"Aye, he's always that way," agreed the bald dwarf, his voice a rumble.
"But where are my manners!" exclaimed the first dwarf. "I am Balin, at your service," he said with a polite bow.
"Dwalin, at your service," the other dwarf said, also bowing.
Bilbo squeezed rain out of his dripping hair and blinked dubiously at the two of them. "Bilbo Baggins...um, at yours," he said. He started to step around them. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm on my way to the Prancing Pony--"
Balin and Dwalin fell into step on either side of him; Balin extracted the broken umbrella from his grip. "Why, that's where we are staying as well! Let us treat you to a drink in order to apologize for Thorin's rudeness," he said, and Bilbo found himself marched inexorably to the inn, cheerfully escorted by the two dwarves.
The Prancing Pony was the best inn in Bree--but then, it was the only inn in Bree, and Bilbo was glad enough of its warmth after the cold fall rain. Its rough-hewn rafters were wreathed in smoke above--far above, to Bilbo's eyes, for the common room was made to accommodate men as well as hobbits.
"Here now, innkeeper!" cried Balin, ringing the bell at the front desk. "A room for this fine hobbit!"
A stout man with a halo of white hair emerged from a back room, wiping his hands on an apron. "Very well, Master Dwarf, there's no need to yell," he said. He smiled down at Bilbo. "Welcome to the Prancing Pony, sir! Benjamin Butterbur, at your service. And I believe we have a room suited for hobbits open still--in the north wing, near the ground, with everything made small-like."
"Proper size, you mean," Bilbo muttered to himself, but signed his name on the ledger and picked up the key.
"Mr. Butterbur, fetch us a fine meal!" Balin announced. Bilbo, who had been hoping to slip away to his room, stopped at the mention of food and let Dwalin lead him to a table in the corner, near the cozy roaring fire. But his heart sank again when Balin added, "Dinner for four, and don't stint on the wine, good sir!"
"Four?" Bilbo stifled a groan. "Is that Thorin fellow going to join us?"
Dwalin tossed a cloth in his direction. "Dry off or you'll catch your death of cold, lad. And Thorin's not so bad once you get used to him."
"How long does that take?" muttered Bilbo, and Dwalin and Balin exchanged a smiling look.
"Well, we've been on the road together near ten years now," said Balin. "And before that...how long have we known him, brother?"
"Oh, he must be going on a hundred and ninety now," said Dwalin thoughtfully.
"A hundred and--"
Bilbo's sputtered exclamation was cut off by the sound of the door opening again; he turned to see Thorin himself framed in the doorway, the stormy twilight rain behind him. Somehow he seemed to fill even a door made for men, and when he strode into the room all eyes were drawn to him.
He ignored their looks and went to the table where his companions sat, pulling back his hood to reveal a tangle of dark hair gemmed with rain. "It seems Fornost is a few day's ride to the north. And in Fornost, perhaps--" his voice broke off as he took in Bilbo on the other side of the table. "You. What are you doing here?"
"He's staying here as well," Balin said quickly. "He'll be dining with us tonight."
Thorin rolled his eyes, removing his heavy fur-trimmed cloak to reveal leather armor studded with silver and a heavy sword hanging at his side. "We can't afford to treat to a meal every person I offend on the road," he muttered, sitting down.
"I've no doubt of that," Bilbo shot back, as Thorin glowered at him. "And Fornost? Why in the world are you going to Fornost?"
"You've heard of it?" Balin asked, as Thorin sat forward in his chair and then leaned back again as if to stress his lack of interest, gazing into the fire. "Have you been there?"
"Been there?" Bilbo couldn't help laughing. It was like asking if he'd been to the moon. "Good heavens, no. I've read about it in history books, but it's just a bunch of ruins. There's nothing there."
Thorin made an annoyed sound. "He knows nothing beyond his well-fed belly and his pretty umbrella, Balin."
His words recalled to Bilbo his righteous indignation. "My broken umbrella, thanks to you."
"Now, now," said Balin placatingly, "Let's not--"
"--Wine," interrupted Dwalin as four large goblets were put in front of them.
Thorin raised his, meeting the gazes of the other two dwarves. "Health and long life to Thrór, son of Dain, son of Nain, King under the Mountain!" he announced.
"To the King under the Mountain," echoed Balin and Dwalin, their voices solemn.
"Yes, to...uh, to him," Bilbo said, lifting his man-sized goblet in salute with some effort. He took a sip and coughed as raw red wine burned his throat.
"Too strong for you?" Thorin asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Not at all, not at all!" Bilbo said. "I'm just used to higher quality in my wine," he said airily, taking another, larger sip. "So, why are you going to Fornost?"
Thorin gave him a suspicious look. "I do not speak of our affairs to strangers on the road."
"Aye, he's certainly got the look of a spy," snorted Dwalin.
Bilbo huffed. "I do not--oh, you're being sarcastic." He took another swallow of wine. It wasn't so bad, once you got used to the sharpness of it. "Well, I could be a spy," he added defensively, feeling somehow insulted.
"No you couldn't, lad," said Balin gently.
"Food," grunted Dwalin, picking up his knife and fork as a plate laden with cheese, meat and bread was put in front of him. For a time there was no sound except enthusiastic eating, and Bilbo couldn't help but notice that for all Thorin's disparaging remarks, the dwarves were more than equal to a hobbit in appetite.
The fire was warm and his goblet was empty, Bilbo realized, blinking into it. A full one materialized next to his elbow and he took another long sip, feeling pleasantly sleepy. "It's a dangerous road up to Fornost, if I remember my maps right," he said a bit muzzily.
"Dwarves do not shy away from danger," Thorin rumbled.
Bilbo frowned and banged his goblet down on the table with a little more force than he intended. "Now see here, mister! I know what you're implying, and I have to say I don't appreciate it one bit!" He shook a finger at Thorin, realized he was off by a foot or so, and re-adjusted. "You don't know anything about hobbits, and you don't know anything about me. But if all dwarves are as rude and judgmental as yourself, it's no wonder we have little to do with you!"
Thorin's eyes narrowed. Balin cleared his throat urgently, but he snarled over the sound. "And you know nothing of the world, halfling, and you may count yourself lucky! You travel to Bree and think yourself adventurous, then consider it a hardship when your umbrella is broken! You know nothing of adversity, nothing of suffering, and nothing of heroism--you with your silly brocaded waistcoat and your pocket-handkerchiefs and your purple suspenders."
"Plum-colored," Bilbo corrected him without thinking. "Really, if you don't know the difference between purple and plum-colored, I hardly think--"
Thorin made an inarticulate sound of fury. "You ridiculous little being! You would not last a day outside your safe little world."
Bilbo took another swallow of wine and glared at him. He was not usually so pugnacious, but the wine and Thorin's rudeness had gotten his back up. "I have half a mind to go with you and prove you wrong!"
Thorin threw back his head and laughed as if he couldn't help himself, leaving Bilbo seething. "I would like to see that," he chuckled, wiping his eyes. He leaned forward and cuffed Bilbo lightly on the shoulder, his good humor apparently restored at the image. "Come now, Master Halfling, finish your wine and toddle off to your snug little bed to dream of adventure."
Bilbo blinked into his goblet, surprised to find that it was empty again. "I guess I already did," he muttered. "But you're wrong about me, you know. If you really are almost two hundred years old, I would expect you to know better than to judge by shup--superfish--um, first impressions." He crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them to keep the inn from spinning quite so much. He yawned. "The wine was a little strong, don't you think?" he said. Or started to say, but somewhere in the middle of the sentence the words got rather fuzzy and slow, and he nodded off into darkness.
Bird song and a square of sunlight across his face woke him. Blinking blearily, he sat up, then clutched at his head for a moment, groaning. Peering down at himself he realized that instead of his second-best waistcoat, he was looking at an expanse of white linen--his nightshirt, to be precise.
"Wha?" His head jerked up, and ignoring the hammering behind his eyes he stared around the room.
He was in his room at the Prancing Pony, on his bed. His pack was on the floor at the base of the bed, lying open--Bilbo jumped up in a panic and rummaged through it, relieved to find that everything was still in place. His change of clothes, his three embroidered handkerchiefs, the lemon drops, the butterscotch biscuits, the packet of viola tea, it was all there.
He looked up from the pack to see his velveteen trousers folded across the foot of the bed. He picked them up and looked at them: free of mud and brushed clean and dry.
Leaning against the bed was his mother's umbrella. Gingerly, Bilbo opened it. The broken spreader was cleverly mended, as good as new.
Bilbo Baggins stood in the middle of the room, blinking up at the sun shining through the daisies.
: : :
It was still sunny three days later when Bilbo Baggins emerged from the Prancing Pony to pick up his sweets. He hadn't felt much like leaving his room for the first two days, so he never had gotten to visit his relatives.
The innkeeper had informed him the first morning that the three dwarves had checked out early, and there had been no further sign of them.
He got to Sapphire's Sweets without incident and picked up his brown-wrapped package with "Fragile!" stamped all over it. The little bells jangled as he left the store and began to walk along the rutted street toward the stables. He would find a wagon heading back to Hobbiton, and soon he would be back in Bag End where things were safe and comfortable and never changed, and he would never have to deal with strange people from faraway lands again.
He realized he was grumbling to himself, glaring down at the neatly-wrapped paper, and looked up to see a group of unfamiliar dwarves standing in the road in front of him.
Swerving sharply to the right, he ducked into an alley, then cautiously peeked around the corner. They were standing in front of the Prancing Pony, blocking his way to the stables. Frantically, he looked around for an alternate route, then started hurrying down the alley away from them.
He emerged from the alley and found himself face to face with two more dwarves.
They were not Balin or Dwalin or Thorin, but they moved with the same purposeful stride and keen look, their eyes scanning the buildings. Bilbo felt his eyes widen and he whirled to walk away from them, but not before they had caught sight of his expression.
He walked faster as they fell in on either side of him, but with their longer stride and his paper-wrapped burden he couldn't seem to shake them.
"Pardon us," said the one on his right--a young dwarf with blond hair and a braided beard. "My name is Fíli."
"And I am Kíli," said the dwarf on Bilbo's left.
"At your service" they chorused together, bowing--and Bilbo took the opportunity to increase the distance between them as they did so, hurrying his steps.
"We were wondering if perhaps you'd recently seen some other dwarves," Fíli said as they effortlessly caught back up to him.
"There would have been three of them," Kíli added.
Bilbo heard himself make a small, alarmed noise without really meaning to.
"The eldest had a long white beard, forked at the bottom."
Bilbo shook his head, resolutely not making eye contact.
"One would be balding, lots of tattoos?"
"Nope," Bilbo said, and kept walking.
"And they'd be with a third dwarf--well, I hope," added Fíli in an undertone. "Younger, dark hair, and very--"
"--Infuriating?" Bilbo said at the same time Fíli finished, "--majestic?"
Bilbo stopped and glared at him. "I think the word you are looking for is 'annoying'? Or perhaps 'exasperating'?"
The two young dwarves shared a delighted look. "He's met Uncle Thorin!" Kíli exclaimed.
Relationship: Thorin/Bilbo
Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Balin, Dwalin, Fíli, Kíli
Fandom: Hobbit
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 3300
Story Summary: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an item that will cure the ailing King Thrór.
Chapter Summary: On a rainy day in Bree, Bilbo Baggins runs into a dwarf. They don't get along.
Bilbo Baggins gazed at the challenge ahead of him, unsure whether or not he was up to it. It was daunting--even terrifying--but he had to get through it, no matter what.
Taking a deep breath, he mustered up all his courage and plunged through the western gate into the big city of Bree.
The instant he passed into the town, he was reminded of why he did his best to never, ever visit Bree. It was ugly, it was noisy, and worst of all, it was crowded: crowded full of men that towered above him and looked down on him and made him feel small. But even the hobbits of Bree were different: big city hobbits who didn't have the leisure to have a little smoke and pass the time with a fellow hobbit, no. Everyone here was busy and bustling, and Bilbo Baggins hated it.
Never again! he thought, dodging screaming, horrifyingly tall human children and looking out for piles of horse dung. Not for any reason! To make things even worse, it looked like rain, the clouds gathering and the wind picking up. Finally he spotted the store he was looking for: Sapphire's Sweets, with its famous sign edged with blue gems. He ducked inside, relieved, as the first drops of rain began to spatter the dusty road.
The bell jingled as he entered, but Sapphire--a middle-aged hobbit with her blond hair looped in braids--was busy with other customers and only gave him a cursory nod. Bilbo looked at the different sweets on her shelves, trying to make clear from his posture that he had come on Important Business. After all, he reminded himself, he had worn his second-best plum-colored waistcoat and his midnight-blue velveteen trousers, and that could hardly fail to make an impression.
Well, at least in Hobbiton, he had to conclude as Sapphire continued to ignore him for other customers, some who had come in later than himself. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me?"
Sapphire finished up with her current customer before turning to him. "May I help you?" she asked.
"Well, I do hope so. I am Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End," he started impressively.
"Is that in the Shire?" Sapphire asked, causing Bilbo to lose some steam.
"Yes, well...exactly. Anyway, my fiftieth birthday is coming up soon, and I was hoping to order fifty of your famous spun-sugar animals to give away to the children at my party. Some badgers, some turtles, some pigs--oh, and definitely one olifaunt. It's for Primula Brandybuck," he explained, "A dear little tyke, one of my favorite cousins, and she loves hearing stories about olifaunts." He chuckled fondly.
Sapphire had an expression on her face that hinted she was uninterested in the details of Bilbo Baggins' birthday parties. "Fifty spun-sugar animals," she said, scribbling on a piece of paper. "They'll be done in three days."
Bilbo swallowed his chagrin--he had hoped he could escape this city and return home sooner than that. Fortunately, he had brought provisions for nearly a week, and he could pass the time visiting various distant cousins (ones mad enough to live in Bree) and delivering them gifts and treats from the Shire. "Very well," he announced to the unimpressed Sapphire, "I shall return at that time."
At least he had had the foresight to bring his umbrella, he consoled himself as he pulled it out of his backpack, looking out the window at the rain that was streaking down the glass. Technically his mother's umbrella--high-quality oiled paper was hard to come by, so it was a family heirloom. As he stepped outside he opened it, enjoying the way the cheerful daisy patterns bloomed above his head.
In his second-best plum-colored waistcoat and velveteen trousers, brandishing his daisy-patterned umbrella, Bilbo Baggins began to make his way to the Prancing Pony.
The umbrella blocked his vision, making it difficult to dodge puddles, and soon his feet were soaked and muddy. Grimacing, he jumped nimbly over a large, dirty puddle--
--And collided in midair with an immovable object that sent him tumbling backwards into the middle of the water. He heard a snap and had time to hope it wasn't his ribs before landing with an extremely undignified sploosh.
Sitting in the mud, he shook his head, feeling dazed. Why was there a wall in the middle of the street? As he scrambled to his feet, though, he realized he had not collided with a wall at all.
Before him stood a person taller and broader than a hobbit, yet shorter than a man, glowering down on him from under a midnight-blue hood that was dripping with rain. Beneath the hood was a bearded face and two keen eyes that were currently snapping with impatience.
"Fornost," growled the dwarf--for dwarf it must be, although Bilbo had never met one. "How do we get there?"
Bilbo gaped at the dwarf before gathering his wits. "Well, I like that!" he huffed. "The least you could do is say 'excuse me' or 'pardon me' when you run straight into a hobbit that's just minding his business, knocking him into the mud and--oh dear," he added, looking up, "breaking his umbrella!" For indeed, his mother's umbrella hung limply on one side, one of its stretchers broken in the collision. "Oh dear, oh dear." He closed the umbrella, heedless of the rain that soaked him--how much wetter could he get?--and looked at it in dismay. "I must say," he said, rounding on his assailant again, "That you could take some lessons in manners!"
The dwarf glared down at him. "You ran into me, not--"
"--For mercy's sake, Thorin, this is neither the time nor place," said a new voice. Bilbo realized that there were two other dwarves behind the rude one: the one who had just spoken had a pure white beard that forked at the bottom, and the other's bald head was covered with tattoos. "You've startled the lad and broken his umbrella, there's no need to bark at him as well."
The rude dwarf--Thorin, apparently--made an exasperated noise and turned to stride away through the rain.
"Don't mind him," said the white-bearded dwarf, looking after him with a sigh.
"Aye, he's always that way," agreed the bald dwarf, his voice a rumble.
"But where are my manners!" exclaimed the first dwarf. "I am Balin, at your service," he said with a polite bow.
"Dwalin, at your service," the other dwarf said, also bowing.
Bilbo squeezed rain out of his dripping hair and blinked dubiously at the two of them. "Bilbo Baggins...um, at yours," he said. He started to step around them. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm on my way to the Prancing Pony--"
Balin and Dwalin fell into step on either side of him; Balin extracted the broken umbrella from his grip. "Why, that's where we are staying as well! Let us treat you to a drink in order to apologize for Thorin's rudeness," he said, and Bilbo found himself marched inexorably to the inn, cheerfully escorted by the two dwarves.
The Prancing Pony was the best inn in Bree--but then, it was the only inn in Bree, and Bilbo was glad enough of its warmth after the cold fall rain. Its rough-hewn rafters were wreathed in smoke above--far above, to Bilbo's eyes, for the common room was made to accommodate men as well as hobbits.
"Here now, innkeeper!" cried Balin, ringing the bell at the front desk. "A room for this fine hobbit!"
A stout man with a halo of white hair emerged from a back room, wiping his hands on an apron. "Very well, Master Dwarf, there's no need to yell," he said. He smiled down at Bilbo. "Welcome to the Prancing Pony, sir! Benjamin Butterbur, at your service. And I believe we have a room suited for hobbits open still--in the north wing, near the ground, with everything made small-like."
"Proper size, you mean," Bilbo muttered to himself, but signed his name on the ledger and picked up the key.
"Mr. Butterbur, fetch us a fine meal!" Balin announced. Bilbo, who had been hoping to slip away to his room, stopped at the mention of food and let Dwalin lead him to a table in the corner, near the cozy roaring fire. But his heart sank again when Balin added, "Dinner for four, and don't stint on the wine, good sir!"
"Four?" Bilbo stifled a groan. "Is that Thorin fellow going to join us?"
Dwalin tossed a cloth in his direction. "Dry off or you'll catch your death of cold, lad. And Thorin's not so bad once you get used to him."
"How long does that take?" muttered Bilbo, and Dwalin and Balin exchanged a smiling look.
"Well, we've been on the road together near ten years now," said Balin. "And before that...how long have we known him, brother?"
"Oh, he must be going on a hundred and ninety now," said Dwalin thoughtfully.
"A hundred and--"
Bilbo's sputtered exclamation was cut off by the sound of the door opening again; he turned to see Thorin himself framed in the doorway, the stormy twilight rain behind him. Somehow he seemed to fill even a door made for men, and when he strode into the room all eyes were drawn to him.
He ignored their looks and went to the table where his companions sat, pulling back his hood to reveal a tangle of dark hair gemmed with rain. "It seems Fornost is a few day's ride to the north. And in Fornost, perhaps--" his voice broke off as he took in Bilbo on the other side of the table. "You. What are you doing here?"
"He's staying here as well," Balin said quickly. "He'll be dining with us tonight."
Thorin rolled his eyes, removing his heavy fur-trimmed cloak to reveal leather armor studded with silver and a heavy sword hanging at his side. "We can't afford to treat to a meal every person I offend on the road," he muttered, sitting down.
"I've no doubt of that," Bilbo shot back, as Thorin glowered at him. "And Fornost? Why in the world are you going to Fornost?"
"You've heard of it?" Balin asked, as Thorin sat forward in his chair and then leaned back again as if to stress his lack of interest, gazing into the fire. "Have you been there?"
"Been there?" Bilbo couldn't help laughing. It was like asking if he'd been to the moon. "Good heavens, no. I've read about it in history books, but it's just a bunch of ruins. There's nothing there."
Thorin made an annoyed sound. "He knows nothing beyond his well-fed belly and his pretty umbrella, Balin."
His words recalled to Bilbo his righteous indignation. "My broken umbrella, thanks to you."
"Now, now," said Balin placatingly, "Let's not--"
"--Wine," interrupted Dwalin as four large goblets were put in front of them.
Thorin raised his, meeting the gazes of the other two dwarves. "Health and long life to Thrór, son of Dain, son of Nain, King under the Mountain!" he announced.
"To the King under the Mountain," echoed Balin and Dwalin, their voices solemn.
"Yes, to...uh, to him," Bilbo said, lifting his man-sized goblet in salute with some effort. He took a sip and coughed as raw red wine burned his throat.
"Too strong for you?" Thorin asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Not at all, not at all!" Bilbo said. "I'm just used to higher quality in my wine," he said airily, taking another, larger sip. "So, why are you going to Fornost?"
Thorin gave him a suspicious look. "I do not speak of our affairs to strangers on the road."
"Aye, he's certainly got the look of a spy," snorted Dwalin.
Bilbo huffed. "I do not--oh, you're being sarcastic." He took another swallow of wine. It wasn't so bad, once you got used to the sharpness of it. "Well, I could be a spy," he added defensively, feeling somehow insulted.
"No you couldn't, lad," said Balin gently.
"Food," grunted Dwalin, picking up his knife and fork as a plate laden with cheese, meat and bread was put in front of him. For a time there was no sound except enthusiastic eating, and Bilbo couldn't help but notice that for all Thorin's disparaging remarks, the dwarves were more than equal to a hobbit in appetite.
The fire was warm and his goblet was empty, Bilbo realized, blinking into it. A full one materialized next to his elbow and he took another long sip, feeling pleasantly sleepy. "It's a dangerous road up to Fornost, if I remember my maps right," he said a bit muzzily.
"Dwarves do not shy away from danger," Thorin rumbled.
Bilbo frowned and banged his goblet down on the table with a little more force than he intended. "Now see here, mister! I know what you're implying, and I have to say I don't appreciate it one bit!" He shook a finger at Thorin, realized he was off by a foot or so, and re-adjusted. "You don't know anything about hobbits, and you don't know anything about me. But if all dwarves are as rude and judgmental as yourself, it's no wonder we have little to do with you!"
Thorin's eyes narrowed. Balin cleared his throat urgently, but he snarled over the sound. "And you know nothing of the world, halfling, and you may count yourself lucky! You travel to Bree and think yourself adventurous, then consider it a hardship when your umbrella is broken! You know nothing of adversity, nothing of suffering, and nothing of heroism--you with your silly brocaded waistcoat and your pocket-handkerchiefs and your purple suspenders."
"Plum-colored," Bilbo corrected him without thinking. "Really, if you don't know the difference between purple and plum-colored, I hardly think--"
Thorin made an inarticulate sound of fury. "You ridiculous little being! You would not last a day outside your safe little world."
Bilbo took another swallow of wine and glared at him. He was not usually so pugnacious, but the wine and Thorin's rudeness had gotten his back up. "I have half a mind to go with you and prove you wrong!"
Thorin threw back his head and laughed as if he couldn't help himself, leaving Bilbo seething. "I would like to see that," he chuckled, wiping his eyes. He leaned forward and cuffed Bilbo lightly on the shoulder, his good humor apparently restored at the image. "Come now, Master Halfling, finish your wine and toddle off to your snug little bed to dream of adventure."
Bilbo blinked into his goblet, surprised to find that it was empty again. "I guess I already did," he muttered. "But you're wrong about me, you know. If you really are almost two hundred years old, I would expect you to know better than to judge by shup--superfish--um, first impressions." He crossed his arms on the table and rested his head on them to keep the inn from spinning quite so much. He yawned. "The wine was a little strong, don't you think?" he said. Or started to say, but somewhere in the middle of the sentence the words got rather fuzzy and slow, and he nodded off into darkness.
Bird song and a square of sunlight across his face woke him. Blinking blearily, he sat up, then clutched at his head for a moment, groaning. Peering down at himself he realized that instead of his second-best waistcoat, he was looking at an expanse of white linen--his nightshirt, to be precise.
"Wha?" His head jerked up, and ignoring the hammering behind his eyes he stared around the room.
He was in his room at the Prancing Pony, on his bed. His pack was on the floor at the base of the bed, lying open--Bilbo jumped up in a panic and rummaged through it, relieved to find that everything was still in place. His change of clothes, his three embroidered handkerchiefs, the lemon drops, the butterscotch biscuits, the packet of viola tea, it was all there.
He looked up from the pack to see his velveteen trousers folded across the foot of the bed. He picked them up and looked at them: free of mud and brushed clean and dry.
Leaning against the bed was his mother's umbrella. Gingerly, Bilbo opened it. The broken spreader was cleverly mended, as good as new.
Bilbo Baggins stood in the middle of the room, blinking up at the sun shining through the daisies.
: : :
It was still sunny three days later when Bilbo Baggins emerged from the Prancing Pony to pick up his sweets. He hadn't felt much like leaving his room for the first two days, so he never had gotten to visit his relatives.
The innkeeper had informed him the first morning that the three dwarves had checked out early, and there had been no further sign of them.
He got to Sapphire's Sweets without incident and picked up his brown-wrapped package with "Fragile!" stamped all over it. The little bells jangled as he left the store and began to walk along the rutted street toward the stables. He would find a wagon heading back to Hobbiton, and soon he would be back in Bag End where things were safe and comfortable and never changed, and he would never have to deal with strange people from faraway lands again.
He realized he was grumbling to himself, glaring down at the neatly-wrapped paper, and looked up to see a group of unfamiliar dwarves standing in the road in front of him.
Swerving sharply to the right, he ducked into an alley, then cautiously peeked around the corner. They were standing in front of the Prancing Pony, blocking his way to the stables. Frantically, he looked around for an alternate route, then started hurrying down the alley away from them.
He emerged from the alley and found himself face to face with two more dwarves.
They were not Balin or Dwalin or Thorin, but they moved with the same purposeful stride and keen look, their eyes scanning the buildings. Bilbo felt his eyes widen and he whirled to walk away from them, but not before they had caught sight of his expression.
He walked faster as they fell in on either side of him, but with their longer stride and his paper-wrapped burden he couldn't seem to shake them.
"Pardon us," said the one on his right--a young dwarf with blond hair and a braided beard. "My name is Fíli."
"And I am Kíli," said the dwarf on Bilbo's left.
"At your service" they chorused together, bowing--and Bilbo took the opportunity to increase the distance between them as they did so, hurrying his steps.
"We were wondering if perhaps you'd recently seen some other dwarves," Fíli said as they effortlessly caught back up to him.
"There would have been three of them," Kíli added.
Bilbo heard himself make a small, alarmed noise without really meaning to.
"The eldest had a long white beard, forked at the bottom."
Bilbo shook his head, resolutely not making eye contact.
"One would be balding, lots of tattoos?"
"Nope," Bilbo said, and kept walking.
"And they'd be with a third dwarf--well, I hope," added Fíli in an undertone. "Younger, dark hair, and very--"
"--Infuriating?" Bilbo said at the same time Fíli finished, "--majestic?"
Bilbo stopped and glared at him. "I think the word you are looking for is 'annoying'? Or perhaps 'exasperating'?"
The two young dwarves shared a delighted look. "He's met Uncle Thorin!" Kíli exclaimed.