Chapter Text
William Beauregard Baggins, or "Bilbo" as he was known to friends and not a small amount of strangers (for he much preferred that moniker over his given name, and most referred to him as such) was an entirely respectable gentleman. He kept himself to himself, was friendly to his neighbors, and didn't much mind the business that didn't pay him. Well, he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth when it came to a particularly salacious bit of gossip — but that was beside the point. He was well thought of in town, and there were very few folks who could level any serious complaints about his conduct in general. Oh certainly, he got the occasional comment on the past antics of his wild mother — god rest her soul — or much more commonly, a quip about Bilbo's fussiness. But over all, most would say that Bilbo Baggins was a trustworthy sort, if perhaps a little boring and just a touch stuffy.
In fact, before this morning, Bilbo would have found himself quite inclined to agree with them. His chiefest joys were tottering about his garden, smoking a pipe on the front stoop, eating a hearty meal, and sitting with a book by his fireplace in the evening. At the moment, Bilbo found himself quite wishing he had a pipe in between his lips as he stared at the twelve men who were currently engaged in a loud and boisterous disagreement around his dining table, crumbs falling from their bearded mouths right on to his mother's fine tablecloth and their hands gesticulating wildly — in much danger of knocking over their glasses of whiskey on to said fine tablecloth.
Yes, the trouble had started that morning, as Bilbo had been partaking in his ritual practice of a pipe smoke in the budding daylight. He'd always been an early riser, and the weather had been lovely — just the slightest breeze rustling the leaves and the dew still glistening on the grass. Then he'd squinted his eyes, noticing a figure in the distance on a horse. They were approaching at a leisurely speed, and at first Bilbo thought it might be Farmer Gamgee, on his way to discuss some issue or another with their shared property line. Bilbo then thought, if it was old Gamgee, he ought to go fetch a couple of scones and a cup of hot coffee. His long-time neighbor often had a penchant for sticking around after business was conducted to have a good yarn and talk about how Bilbo's garden was getting on — a practice which Bilbo was rarely opposed to.
However, just as he was fixing to stand up and off his well-worn chair, Bilbo took another look at the approaching horseman. As he rode closer, Bilbo could see this wasn't the Gamgee's old roan nag, but a larger gray horse, and the figure on it was larger too. Bilbo took another few contemplative puffs off his pipe as a mild curiosity tickled him. It wasn't often that he got visitors besides his neighbors at this time in the morning. Bit bothersome, really, but there wasn't much to be done but wait and see who it was.
Bilbo didn't have to wait long for they were advancing at a nice clip, and soon saw that it was a old man with a gray woolen poncho wrapped around his shoulders. The stranger's wide brimmed hat, of much the same slate color as the rest of his clothing, partially obscured his face but a long, scraggly beard poked out from under its shadow. Once the man was within about fifteen feet of the house, he hopped off his horse with surprising agility for his age, and dusted himself off.
"Good morning." Bilbo called out tentatively, as he couldn't remember having ever met this man before — he certainly wasn't a member of their small close-knit community in Hobbiton. He even found himself a little nervous, for they didn't often get strangers coming through, remote as they were.
"What do you mean?" The man replied, his voice deep and craggy, like a windswept canyon, heavy with age. "Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or, perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning, or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?"
"All of them at once, I suppose?" Bilbo replied, feeling rather disconcerted as the man leveled him a disapproving look, but continued nonetheless with an anxious puff at his pipe. "I'm sorry, can I help you?"
"That remains to be seen. I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure."
❦
Despite Bilbo's definitively negative response to this request, Gandalf (for it really was Mister Gandalf Grey, his mother's dear friend, who had arrived this morning, and Bilbo forgave himself his lack of recognition, as he hadn't seen the man in nigh twenty years) had simply said he would 'tell the others' and ridden off without a so much as a good day! Bilbo had stormed into his house in a huff, not even finishing his pipe in his anger. The nerve! The gumption! He'd never had such a ridiculous interaction in all his days. And talk of adventures, of all things! Bilbo simply wasn't interested in anything like that: reckless and ill-advised. That's how you end up deader than a doornail, his father always said, traipsing around where you have no business going.
Bilbo's irritation had barely worn off by the evening, and he'd just been about to sit down to a lovely dinner, wrapped in his dressing gown, when there was a strong — and loud — knock on the door. Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden sound of a fist sharply rapping on the wood. Shaking his head in confusion, Bilbo went in a sort of daze to the entrance. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting when he swung open the green front door, perhaps a neighbor stopping by for supper, but it certainly hadn't been a large, partially bald man with tattoos and sharp eyes that glinted suspiciously at him from the dark.
"Dwalin, at your service." The giant man grunted, tipping his head slightly. He had a thick brogue, which told Bilbo he must be from somewhere across the ocean — the Old Country. He was dirty and looked like he'd come a long way, and Bilbo could see a dark horse tied up to the porch, snuffling at the grass.
Bilbo blinked, and looked at the man again, "Bilbo Baggins, at yours."
The man stepped inside, despite Bilbo having not invited him, and took an appraising look around the place. As he moved into the light, Bilbo could see just how wild — and a whole lot like trouble — that the man looked. Was Bilbo being robbed? But the man hadn't brandished a gun, threatened him, or anything of the sort…
Steeling himself, Bilbo coughed slightly. "Sorry, do we know each other?"
"No. Which way, laddie? Is it down here?"
"Is what down where?" Bilbo responded, bewildered.
Dwalin removed his coat, throwing it to the side. It was then that Bilbo saw that the man was, in fact armed. To the teeth, it seemed.
"Supper. He said there'd be food, and lots of it." Dwalin shifted his shoulders back, stretching them with a crack.
Bilbo's knees were starting to feel a bit weak.
It wasn't long after that when another slightly less dirty, but no less well armed man arrived at his door. This one at least, was a touch more polite and his white hair and beard were much more acceptably maintained. Tipping his flat cap, he introduced himself as Balin Fundin. Balin crowed in joy when he saw Dwalin sitting at the table stuffing himself with what had been meant to be Bilbo's dinner, and immediately clapped his brother on the back (their relation was a detail Bilbo would only discover later, and at the time thought it simply a foreign custom of some kind to call each other such).
The trend continued as armed men, one after the other, arrived at his door. Most with foreign accents, and seemingly no regard for Bilbo's trepidation at their presence. At least they all had the manners to dump their guns at the entrance — though their boots were another matter. After the fifth arrival, Bilbo had started to feel a little less fear, and a whole lot more irritation. He was fluttering around, as his uninvited house guests raided his pantry, and handled his dishes with a complete disregard for any of his admonishments. They all seemed to know each other, and it had become quite the party — to the great chagrin of their unwilling host.
"Oh — that's been in the family for generations! Oh! Really! Put that back!" Bilbo flitted between them, hands fluttering about uselessly, poised to stop one mischief, only to be distracted by another just as quickly.
One of the younger men — Killi, he had said his name was — thoroughly ignored Bilbo as he carried his mother's finest china bowl to the table to use as a soup tureen. Killi, and his brother Filli, seemed to be the only members of this unruly troupe that hadn't clearly come from the Old Country. Their accent was similar enough to Bilbo's own, but some of their words still came out with the same lilting tones as their companions; not that their shared heritage had made them any more sympathetic to Bilbo's plight! They'd taken to calling him 'Mister Boggins', despite his multiple and increasingly irritated corrections.
"Mister Gandalf, please. Do something!" Bilbo pleaded to the eldest member of their group, who had unashamedly followed the rest into his kitchen — with absolutely no explanation as to what in the hell was going on, mind you — and was sipping on a glass of wine with an amused smirk playing on his lips.
"Just Gandalf is fine, Bilbo my boy. And they're quite a merry gathering, once you get used to them, I assure you"
"I don't want to get used to them!" Bilbo's indignation was reaching a peak, and he really had quite enough of these strange men, and of Gandalf himself! Damn that grizzled old man, and damn his friendship with Bilbo's mother! Hospitality really could only go so far!
Bilbo spoke with a tight tone, and as he did his voice grew louder and louder, his anger reaching a fever pitch, "There's mud all over the carpet and they've pillaged the pantry! I'm not even going to tell you what they've done in the bathroom — they've all but destroyed the plumbing! I don't understand what they're doing in my house!"
Gandalf merely continued to smile calmly, seeming completely unaffected by the scolding that the younger man was heaving upon him. "All will be revealed in due time. Have patience, Bilbo. I don't think it'll be much longer now."
Just as Bilbo was puffing himself up to tell Gandalf what he really thought of his 'due time' he heard a loud, inebriated voice begin to sing a rather bawdy drinking song. Bilbo turned back towards his kitchen, and saw one of the men, Bofur, leap onto his table. As he sang the others cheered and joined in, toasting their whiskey glasses (when had they gotten into Bilbo's cellar?) and egged the would-be performer on. As Bilbo watched the merriment, he suddenly felt his rage boil over completely and summarily fizzle out into befuddlement, like when all the air leaves your stomach after particularly bad fall.
As Bofur finished his song, he bowed to raucous cheers. He seemed to be preparing to begin another, when the chatter was cut by the clear, startling sound of one last knock on Bilbo's wooden front door. Everyone inside froze, whiskey glasses paused on their journey to open mouths, and the second knock rang through the sudden silence like a gunshot.
Every head in the room snapped to the entrance.
"He is here," Gandalf said simply, and went to open the door.
It swung open with a creak, and from the dark night stepped in a man. His hair was long and dark, streaked with silver, and was held back from his face with a loose tie. The silence still reigned, and he removed his leather hat and placed it gently on a hook above the piles of coats that lay tangled on the floor. As he turned to face the room, his expression stony and assessing, he glanced around at all the figures in the huddled around the crowded table. Bilbo felt trapped under the man's steely gaze as it drew slowly across him and then flicked away, leaving Bilbo feeling entirely undone in its wake.
"Gandalf, I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for the horses tied outside."
He, like the younger two, had a strange mix of accents, though perhaps his was less alike to Bilbo's than the boys, with more of the intonation of a foreigner. As the man stepped further into the room, his eyes once again landed on Bilbo, assessing, as he removed his outerwear, and as with all the others, revealed a holstered gun.
Gandalf took the man's fur-lined coat as it was handed to him, and spoke to the group, though Bilbo assumed it was mostly for his benefit, "Allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Durin."
Thorin took another step forward, and once again looked at Bilbo, who hadn't moved an inch, "So, this is our man. Tell me, Mr. Baggins, you done much fighting?"
"Excuse me?" Bilbo was thrown, both by being referred by this stranger as his man, and by the ridiculous question. Fighting? Why, he was a respectable gentleman! Not some ruffian who was prone to getting into scraps.
"Revolver? Rifle? What's your weapon of choice?" Thorin probed, his voice was rich and sonorous, but tinged with a bit of amusement that rankled at Bilbo's pride.
"Well, I'm a deft hand at whist, if you must know, but I fail to see why that's relevant." Bilbo replied, with a snippy tone and a mite more confidence than he felt at the moment.
Thorin scoffed, and spoke around Bilbo to the group sitting behind, "Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar."
Bilbo wasn't sure what that meant, really, but he knew he should be offended — and offended he was! Rude bastard. Just went to show you that nice looks didn't equate to a nice attitude. Before Bilbo could think of a quip in return however, Thorin had removed his weapons and made his way to the table where the other men sat quietly. Balin handed him a bowl of soup, which Thorin tucked into quietly. All the other men seemed to treat Thorin with silent reverence, watching his every move intensely, and filling the room with their heavy anticipation.
"What did your cousin say, laddie? Will Dain help us?" The white haired dwarf questioned Thorin, his tone hopeful.
Thorin shook his head. "He will not. He won't risk his life, nor his livelihood. This task is ours and ours alone."
The other men looked somber, and Bilbo grew more and more confused.
"A task?" He murmured, mostly to himself.
It seemed that Gandalf heard him, and motioned for Bilbo to grab an oil lamp and bring it closer. In the flickering light, he pulled something from the small satchel he had looped around his waist. As Gandalf drew it forth and laid it on the table, Bilbo could see it was a map, though he wasn't sure of what area.
"To guide us on our journey. I've marked the clearest path, but make no mistake, it will be a long and dangerous trek back to Lonely Mountain Ranch. It would be, even without the bounty on your head Thorin." Gandalf said gravely.
"A bounty?" Biblo sputtered. Was he harboring fugitives?
"Aye. A bounty. Placed and paid for by Damien Smaug, the biggest low-life, bottom feeder you'd ever have the misfortune to meet," said Bofur, his tone half joking, but with an edge to it that hinted that he harbored a great distaste for this man, "He's mean enough to steal the coins off a dead man's eyes."
"It's time for Smaug's reign of terror to be done with, I say!" Yelled Oin, perhaps a bit too loudly. Bilbo was beginning to think the man was bordering on deaf, but clearly he'd heard enough to interject.
"Right you are, brother!," Gloin shouted back, standing up and pushing his chair away with a scrape on the floor, his fiery red beard still harboring remnants of his last biscuit, "He's gotten away with his crimes for long enough!"
The other men all began to stand and shout as well, some with affirmations, others with warnings, and some, Bilbo suspected, simply for the joy of making noise.
"Enough!" Thorin's voice rang clearly, like a church bell, and a hush fell over the company. "You speak truly, my friends. The time for revenge is now, but we must have an accord. I'll not have you risk your lives without cause. A deed to the land may no longer exist, and even if it does, we may not be able to find it. It is surely stowed away behind lock and key."
"You mean to say, we have no way to get to the deed?" pressed Balin.
At that moment, Gandalf cleared his throat, "That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true."
At this he reached once more in to his satchel, and when his gnarled fingers reappeared, they were wrapped around a small metal key attached to a braided cord of green and brown.
Thorin seemed struck by this, his eyes wide in disbelief as he reached for the key. He held it reverently in his hand, like something precious. "My grandfather's safe key…. how did you come by this?"
"It was given to me by your father — by Thrain — for safe keeping. He had two copies made, but kept one secret. For a situation like this, I imagine. The original was destroyed by your mother, as I came to learn later. It is yours now."
After a beat, Filli piped up, "Well, what use is a key? Smaug could have gotten rid of the safe, couldn't he?"
Thorin shook his head, "It's unlikely. My grandfather had it built into the house, so it couldn't be stolen — you'd have to tear down half the building. It's hidden as well, looks just like the floor. There's half a chance they never even found it. If the deed is anywhere, it's in there."
Gandalf nodded, "The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."
"That's why we need a burglar!" Ori piped up, the youngest member of the group speaking for the first time. He sounded a bit nervous, but the excitement was flooding into his voice like a river after a rainstorm.
Bilbo found himself nodding along and spoke, almost without noticing he was doing so, "A good one too. An expert, I'd imagine."
"And are you?" demanded Gloin.
Bilbo frowned, confused. "Am I what?"
"He said he's an expert!" exclaimed Oin joyfully, clearly having only heard part of what was said.
Bilbo blinked and shook his head "Me? No, no, no, I'm not a burglar. I've never stolen a thing in my life."
Suddenly, he felt eyes on him and Bilbo glanced to the side to see Gandalf raise a single, bushy eyebrow.
"W-well, perhaps a couple of trinkets, but nothing of any consequence! Silverware, baubles, that sort of thing. And not for years now!"
Balin sighed. "I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He's hardly burglar material."
"Aye, the wild is no place for a gentleman like him, who can neither fight nor fend for himself." Dwalin agreed.
Bilbo nodded along even more fervently — finally, someone was speaking sense! However, Gandalf did not seem to agree. He frowned and his craggy face darkened.
"If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is." Gandalf leveled the group with a fearsome glare. "The man is remarkably light on his feet, and I can attest that I saw him liberate a parishioner of his pocket watch in the middle of a church service, without a single nose twitching in any aisle. He's the exact type to easily go unseen in a crowd full of people, and furthermore, he's well educated and far more pleasant company than the rest of you."
Thorin seemed unconvinced, and Gandalf continued, speaking with a finality that begged no disagreement,
"You asked me to find the 14th member of this company and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know. Including himself. You must trust me on this."
Thorin was silent for a moment, once again assessing, then nodded sharply at Balin, "Very well. We will do it your way. Give him the contract."
"A contract?" Bilbo felt as if he had been swept along like a tumbleweed on a great gust of wind, entirely disheveled and not quite sure how he ended up here.
Balin rose, and drew out a long document from the bag he'd slung across the back of his chair, "It’s just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth."
"Funeral arrangements?!" Bilbo heard his voice reach a pitch he hadn't heard since he was a child, as he scanned the papers now firmly pressed into his hand and saw how fine the print was.
Bilbo also heard — though he was sure he wasn't meant to — Thorin lean over to Gandalf and speak quietly.
"I cannot guarantee his safety. Nor will I be responsible for his fate."
Bilbo heard Gandalf murmur an assent, and had half a mind to be upset once he finished reading this contract. He mumbled the words to himself, nodding, as it all seemed rather fair if he really thought about it, until he reached several phrases that sent a chill down his spine.
"The present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including, but not limited to…lacerations. Loss of limb or body part….. torture?!?"
"Oh, aye," Said Bofur, conversationally, "Smaug has been known to chop off toes one by one with a knife and work his way up to your family jewels. Just for fun."
Bilbo let a long breath out through tight lips. For some odd reason, it felt as if the room was getting darker around the edges. Surely the lamps hadn't burned out already?
Balin frowned at him, concerned "You alright, laddie?"
"No. No I don't think I am." Said Bilbo, and he promptly hit the floor in one great lump.
❦
It wasn't until Bilbo was sat in his armchair, wrapped in his mother's quilt, and holding a warm drink that he started to feel like himself again. The other men were washing dishes in the kitchen and tidying up, which Bilbo admitted to himself was mannerly despite his great irritation with them. As he sat, Gandalf was looking at him intently with what Bilbo could, if he was being kind, describe as concern.
"I'll be all right. Just let me sit quietly for a moment." Bilbo sighed.
Gandalf harrumphed. "You've been sitting quietly for far too long. Tell me — when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you? I remember a boy who was always running off and catching snakes, climbing trees, and coming back with all manner of scrapes and bruises, full of stories to tell of his adventures. I also remember a young man who craved for something more than what he could find here in this backwater."
"I can't just go running off, Gandalf. I have a job. At Town Hall! I have responsibilities." Bilbo said, exasperated.
Gandalf waved his hands dismissively, "That can all be taken care of, and I know for a fact that the savings your mother left you would be more than enough to maintain a comfortable lifestyle for quite some time, Bilbo Baggins. A fortune that, I'll have you remember, I helped your mother to acquire."
"Yes, yes." Bilbo grumbled. "I've heard the tale a million times."
He really had heard it many times, though perhaps not a million. Gandalf was an attorney, or at least he was on occasion, and had represented Bilbo's mother, Belladonna, in court. Her relatives had tried to take her family home and the inheritance her father had left her, and would have abandoned her penniless and destitute if they'd had half the chance. But with Gandalf's help — he'd been a friend of the Old Took's and wouldn't stand to see his daughter mistreated — they'd ended up winning the case, and Gandalf had never charged her a dime.
After winning, Bilbo's mother had promptly sold the property to the highest bidder, invested a portion of the money she'd gotten from the sale (at the guidance of her attorney, of course) and had doubled her profit. Afterwards, she had fallen in love with and married Bilbo's father Bungo, whom she was introduced to through none other than Gandalf, of course. Bungo had built her this house himself as a wedding gift, and she'd never had to look her nasty relatives in the eye again.
Though, she'd ended up having to deal with the Sackville-Baggins brood in the end, and that wasn't much better in Bilbo's opinion.
"I wager you'll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back." Gandalf said softly.
Bilbo brought his eyes up from where they had been locked on the steaming cup between his hands. "Can you promise that I will come back?"
Gandalf held his gaze. "No. And if you do, you will not be the same."
Bilbo shook his head and looked away. "That's what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf, I can't sign that contract. You've got the wrong man."
He heard a soft noise at the doorway then, and saw Thorin standing there. The man said nothing, only looked at Bilbo with those steely blue eyes for a lengthy moment. The intensity in them once again made Bilbo feel like a bug under a glass; being measured up and most certainly found wanting. Bilbo shivered a little involuntarily, even with the warmth of the cup in his hand and the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Thorin turned abruptly, and left the room, calling out to the other men.
"We camp outside, boys. The night is mild, and we won't encroach on the hospitality of Mr. Baggins any further."
It wasn't long until the men had lain out their bedrolls in the grass and built a small fire. Bilbo stayed in his armchair a while and listened to the gentle noises of their conversation. He almost found himself drifting to sleep until the thin and reedy notes of a harmonica mixed with the soft plucking of a banjo came floating in through his open window along with the fresh, clear night breeze.
Then a voice, deep and melancholy, began to sing. Bilbo knew that it was Thorin, for that voice had been playing on a loop in his mind since the first moment he had heard it. So deep and aching was the sadness that wrapped around every word that he'd spoken, and Thorin's singing was somehow even more raw and painful to hear.
"O bury me not on the lone prairie."
These words came low and mournfully
From the pallid lips of the youth who lay
On his dying bed at the close of day.
He had wasted and pined 'til o'er his brow
Death's shades were slowly gathering now
He thought of home and loved ones nigh,
As the cowboys gathered to see him die.
"O bury me not on the lone prairie
Where coyotes howl and the wind blows free
In a narrow grave just six by three—
O bury me not on the lone prairie"
"It matters not, I've been told,
Where the body lies when the heart grows cold
Yet grant, o grant, this wish to me
O bury me not on the lone prairie."
"I've always wished to be laid when I died
In a little churchyard on the green hillside
By my father's grave, there let me be,
O bury me not on the lone prairie."
"I wish to lie where a mother's prayer
And a sister's tear will mingle there.
Where friends can come and weep o'er me.
O bury me not on the lone prairie."