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The fire crackled, a merry contrast to the oppressive gloom of the Midgewater Marshes that lay just behind them. The Company was settled in a rough circle, the light dancing off the weathered faces of the Dwarves and the brass buttons of one very tired Hobbit. They had been on the road for weeks now, and the initial tension of the journey had begun to melt into the easy, if somewhat grumbling, camaraderie of travelers.
The conversation had turned, as it often did among warriors, to the state of the world. Thorin was speaking of the history of the Iron Hills, his voice a low rumble that competed with the whistling wind.
"It was a dark time," Thorin said, his eyes fixed on the embers. "The skirmishes with the Northmen were frequent. There was much murder in the borderlands before the treaties were signed."
Bilbo, who had been contentedly blowing smoke rings with his pipe, paused. He blinked, tilting his head as he looked at Thorin. He rolled the sounds of the word around in his mind, but they didn't land anywhere familiar.
"I beg your pardon, Thorin," Bilbo said politely, tapping his pipe against a stone. "You said there was much... mer-der? Is that a type of weather? Or perhaps a particularly nasty form of mountain goat?"
The circle went silent. Dwalin, who had been sharpening a dagger, stopped mid-stroke. Balin adjusted his spectacles, peering at Bilbo with genuine curiosity.
"Murder, Bilbo," Gloin said, leaning forward. "You know. When one person takes the life of another. With intent."
Bilbo’s brow furrowed in deep, earnest concentration. He looked from Gloin to Balin, searching for a spark of recognition. "I’m afraid I’m still at a loss. A person taking the life of another? Why would anyone do that? Was there a very terrible gardening accident?"
"No, Bilbo," Fíli said, his voice soft with disbelief. "Not an accident. Killing. Violence. One person ending another person’s story because they want their gold, or their land, or because they simply hate them."
Bilbo sat back, his expression one of profound confusion. He looked almost as if they were speaking a language from across the Sea.
"We don't... we don't have a word for that," Bilbo said slowly. "In the Shire, I mean. I’ve never heard such a sound. A Hobbit ending another Hobbit’s story? It’s... it’s unthinkable. Why, the most violent thing I’ve ever seen was when Lobelia Sackville-Baggins tried to take my mother’s silver spoons, and even then, the most she did was give a very firm 'huff' and leave without saying goodbye."
"You don't have a word for it?" Dwalin asked, his voice a rasp of shock. "Not even for when a thief kills for a purse?"
"A thief?" Bilbo laughed, a small, genuine sound. "If someone is in a 'less fortunate situation' and takes a loaf of bread, we call them 'hungry.' We give them a meal and perhaps a sturdy pair of shoes. We don't... end them. Why would we? There is plenty of food for everyone if you just know how to share your pantry."
The Dwarves exchanged looks of pure bafflement. To them, the world was defined by the struggle for resources and the defense of honor.
"What about war?" Kíli asked, leaning into the light. "Surely you have a word for when the great hosts meet? When the banners are raised and thousands march to battle?"
"War?" Bilbo repeated, tasting the word. "Is that like a very large Market Day? I suppose we have the 'Harvest Festival,' but that usually involves a lot of dancing and a very large pumpkin. If there are thousands of people, we call it a 'Grand Party.' Though the washing up afterward is a bit of a nightmare."
"No banners," Thorin said, his voice dropping into a somber tone. "No blood on the grass. No fields of the fallen?"
"Blood on the grass?" Bilbo looked horrified. "Oh, goodness, no! That would be terrible for the soil. It ruins the nitrogen balance! If someone falls, we help them up and ask if they’ve bumped their head. We certainly don't march toward each other with the intent of falling down on purpose."
Balin leaned back, his eyes misting over as he looked at the Hobbit. He began to realize that they weren't just dealing with a lack of vocabulary; they were dealing with a lack of the concepts that had defined Dwarven history for millennia.
"Bilbo," Balin asked gently. "Do you have enemies?"
"Enemies?" Bilbo smiled. "Oh, you mean the 'Difficult Folk.' Like the Bracegirdles. They always try to sell their older ponies at the higher price. Or perhaps the Tooks when they get a bit too much cider in them and start singing those loud, boisterous songs. But they aren't 'enemies.' They’re just... neighbors who require a bit more patience than others."
"And the Orcs?" Dwalin pressed, gesturing toward the dark trees. "The wolves? The things that hunt us in the dark?"
Bilbo looked out into the shadows, his eyes soft. "The wolves are just hungry, Dwalin. It must be very hard to find a good meal in the wild when you don't have a kitchen or a grocery. I feel quite sorry for them, really. And the... the 'Orcs' you speak of... Gandalf says they live in very poor homes under the ground. No windows, no hearth-fires. It’s no wonder they’re so grumpy! If I lived in a damp hole without a tea-kettle, I’d probably shout at people too."
The fire popped, a loud crack in the heavy silence that followed.
The Dwarves looked at their Hobbit, this small, round creature who was currently fretting over whether he had enough tobacco for the morning. They looked at the brass buttons and the velvet waistcoat, and for the first time, they understood why the Wizard had been so insistent on the Shire.
"Gandalf," Thorin murmured, looking at the grey-cloaked figure who had been quietly listening from the edge of the light. "Is this true? Is the Shire really so... empty of these things?"
Gandalf blew a long, swirling plume of smoke that looked remarkably like a soaring eagle. "It is, Thorin. The Shire is a place where the sun sets on a world that has never known the bite of a sword in anger. They do not have the words because they have never needed them. In the Shire, 'evil' is just a guest who stayed too long and forgot to bring a gift."
Dwalin looked down at his scarred hands, the hands that had committed 'murder' in the name of the King more times than he could count. He looked at the Hobbit, who was now meticulously folding his pocket handkerchief.
"They don't know," Dwalin whispered, a strange, aching envy in his voice. "They don't even know the shapes of the shadows we fight."
"And that," Gandalf said, his eyes twinkling in the firelight, "is exactly why I love them. They are the only people in Middle-earth who are truly free. They aren't held back by the weight of ancient grudges or the vocabulary of death. To a Hobbit, a stranger is just a friend who hasn't been invited to tea yet."
Fíli and Kíli sat in silence, contemplating a world where they didn't have to train with the sword from the moment they could walk. A world where their only 'enemy' was a neighbor with a loud voice and a world where 'war' was just a very large party with too many dishes.
"I think," Fíli said quietly, "I should like to see this Shire one day. To see a place where the grass stays green because no one ever bleeds on it."
"It’s very lovely," Bilbo agreed, his eyes bright. "The rolling hills, the smell of the baker’s ovens in the morning... and everyone is so polite! Even when they’re being 'difficult,' they always remember to ask after your health."
The Company eventually settled into their bedrolls, but the atmosphere had changed. The Dwarves didn't talk of battles or gold that night. They lay in the dark, thinking of a language that lacked the sharp, jagged edges of their own. They thought of Bilbo,a creature who walked into the mouth of danger not with the hate of an enemy, but with the pity of someone who thought the monsters were just 'less fortunate.'
As the moon rose high over the camp, Bilbo was the last one awake. He was still sitting by the dying fire, staring into the red coals. He was still trying to understand the sounds Thorin had made.
Murder. It sounded so harsh. Like a stone hitting a metal plate.
War. It sounded like a heavy door slamming shut.
Enemy. It sounded like a cough in a quiet room.
"Why would they want such words?" Bilbo whispered to himself, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. "It seems like a lot of extra effort to remember them. And they aren't very musical, are they?"
He shook his head, tucked his pipe into his pocket, and lay down. He closed his eyes and dreamed of the Shire, where the only thing that 'died' was the fire at the end of the night, and the only thing that was 'taken' was a second helping of pie at the Harvest Festival.
The Dwarves watched him sleep, a small, peaceful island in a world of violence. They realized then that Bilbo Baggins wasn't just their burglar. He was their reminder of what they were fighting for. Not for the gold, and not for the mountain, but for a world where, one day, they might forget those words too.
Bilbo sighed in his sleep, his hand clutching his blanket like a child. He was still confused. He was still wondering why Thorin thought a gardening accident was so important to the history of the Iron Hills. But as the fire faded to grey ash, he decided it didn't matter. He would just have to be extra polite to the Dwarves tomorrow; clearly, they had been through some very 'difficult' situations, and a nice cup of chamomile tea,if he could find any,would surely help clear up their strange, jagged way of speaking.