Chapter Text
In his exceptionally long life, Bilbo Baggins, Esq., had done battle with many fierce creatures, but none so terrifying as the stubby chestnut pony before him.
“Really, I can assure you that this is an awful idea,” Bilbo said.
The young Dwarf tightened the final strap tethering Bilbo’s belongings to the pony’s back and shook his head vigorously. “We’ll go faster if you ride with me, rather than try to—” He grinned “—hoof it.” A passing Dwarf—Bilbo couldn’t be bothered to remember his name—cuffed him on the head for that.
“I can keep up on foot. I’ve done my fair share of walking holidays, you know—even got as far as Frogmorton once,” Bilbo said. “I don’t mind walking.”
“Nonsense!” the Dwarf replied. “Hand me that sword. It’ll be easier to balance if you don’t have that thing on your back.”
Bilbo swatted his hand away from Orcrist. “I’ve consented to let the pony carry the rest of my things. Not this.”
“Have it your way, Master Bo—” He caught himself and corrected “—Master Baggins. Now, up you get.”
Bilbo glanced around, praying for someone to extricate him from this predicament. Instead, he found twelve sets of eyes watching him. The other Dwarves apparently had nothing better to do than witness his impending humiliation, even though half of their ponies were still unsaddled. It was a small mercy that they were some distance into the forest; at least he would not be seen by every farmer on their way into Hobbiton. “Oh, very well. Let’s get this folly over with so I can start walking.”
The Dwarf nodded, a quick jerk of his head that sent his hair tumbling into his face. He mounted his pony and waved Bilbo closer. As Bilbo approached, the animal’s nostrils flared and its eyes were ringed with white. Then Kíli—that was his name—lifted Bilbo by his armpits.
“You’re heavy! I’d say you’re nearly as heavy as Dwalin!” Kíli grunted, struggling as he sat Bilbo down on the saddle before him. Bilbo was not even given a chance to make himself comfortable: the pony reared and Kíli toppled from the saddle, dragging Bilbo with him.
The pony danced away until Thorin caught its bridle. He walked the beast over to where his nephew sat in the mud and pulled him up. He did not extend the same courtesy to Bilbo.
“We travel at haste, Master Hobbit,” Thorin said, passing the reins off to Kíli. “Don’t allow my sister-children to drag you into their games.” And then the damnable Dwarf was gone, off exchanging words with Gandalf and frowning at the cloudy sky.
Co-conspirator Kíli offered a hand, which Bilbo took gladly. It was only after yanking, though, that Kili was able to lift him from the ground.
“You’re heavy!” Kíli repeated dumbly, stroking the pony to soothe it. He looked Bilbo up and down, as if he thought to find hidden weights strapped to Bilbo’s ankles. “I don’t understand why.”
“Hobbits must be built of sterner stuff,” Bilbo replied, feigning confusion. “Can I walk now?”
“I don’t know. Can you?” Kíli asked. After a foul look from Bilbo, he added, “I suppose you’ll have to.” He pushed his hair out of his face with a dirty palm and looked at the pony glumly. “It’s odd, though. Minty is so mild-mannered.”
“Ah,” said another Dwarf, stumping past with his own saddle. “That’s the thing about these Shire-folk. All smiles and bows ’til you try to get them to do what they don’t want. Even the ponies. Is that right, Master Burglar?”
“Or near enough, Master ... Dwarf.”
“Bofur, if it pleases you, and none of that mister master business. Courtesy doesn’t matter much when you’re pissing together,” he said with a wry grin. “Ah, but look at the time. I best be getting my own pony ready. Wouldn’t want to hold us up, would I?”
Shortly before noon, Thorin led them onto the East-West Road towards Bree. Bilbo—who was accustomed to walking trips conducted in pensive silence—was disgusted by the Dwarves’ racket: their voices never fell lower than obnoxiously loud as they tossed jokes and jabs from pony to pony. All of it flew over Bilbo’s head, save for a few aborted attempts at pulling him into conversation. Being both sour about his current predicament and appalled by their behavior, Bilbo was as inclined to join them as he was to jump in a freezing lake.
Instead of walking with them, he trudged beside Gandalf’s horse, maintaining a respectful distance from the beast as he grouchily recalled the evening that had brought him to this point.
Bilbo knelt in the warm, wet earth, with the setting sun beating down on his back and a small pile of weeds to his right. Gandalf had convinced him to entertain some guests that evening and Bilbo wished to present an orderly garden. Generations of Hobbits had successfully inculcated him with that habit, along with many others—such as being punctual.
It was three full minutes past the half-hour when distant voices alerted him to Gandalf’s return. A quick glance over Bilbo’s shoulder showed that the wizard and his companions were still a good distance away, but his sharp hearing picked up their conversation with ease.
“Ah, and there it is! Bag End!” exclaimed Gandalf. “And if I’m not mistaken, I can see our host as well.”
“Up by that green door? Awfully … ordinary looking fellow,” said a Dwarf, his guttural accent full of sharp consonants and rolling vowels. “Much like all of these other halflings.”
Bilbo gritted his teeth and yanked on a dandelion stem, cursing when the root snapped.
“They prefer to be called Hobbits,” Gandalf corrected. “And you will find they are anything but ordinary, particularly this one. Remember your manners and take care not to offend him.”
“That is to be our burglar?” scoffed a second Dwarf. “Tharkȗn, is this a jest? He looks more like a grocer.”
“That is where you’re wrong, Thorin Oakenshield. He is often referred to as the Dragon of the Shire and there is no better creature in Middle Earth to aid you on your quest.”
Another dandelion met its untimely end as Bilbo tugged with all of his might. That was most certainly not how he was known.
“How did such a small fellow earn such a fierce name?” asked yet another Dwarf.
Bilbo stood just in time to see Gandalf, now much closer, bend to explain, quiet enough that Bilbo could not hear. The Dwarves all colored, snapping to look at him.
“Well!” Bilbo called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “You’re all a bit late, but I very well can’t turn you away now that you’ve arrived.”
Without waiting for so much as a nod, Bilbo retreated back into the smial. He fed the fire and put the kettle on, and was in the middle of putting out a plate of snacks when the doorbell rang.
He opened the door to five Dwarves and Gandalf, the latter of whom had to bend over to be seen.
“Bilbo, my dear boy,” he said. “It’s been far too long.”
“So it has, Gandalf,” Bilbo replied, smiling amiably. In small doses, the wizard was excellent company. “And these are the Dwarves?” They were a motley bunch, and all looked displeased by being made to wait on the doorstep.
“There will be more,” Gandalf said.
Bilbo’s smile dropped. “How many?”
“Not many.”
“And how many is that?”
The foremost of the Dwarves—a fearsome, noble-looking thing—spoke up. “We will be thirteen, when all of us arrive.”
By now, Bilbo sorely regretted allowing Gandalf to impose on his hospitality. “Oh, very well. I said I would hear you out, and so I shall. Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” he said, as that was a traditional greeting among Dwarves.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Gandalf, beaming. “Here we have Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin, Balin, and their leader, Thorin Oakenshield.”
“At your service,” they chorused, bowing and nodding.
“A pleasure, I suppose,” Bilbo said ungraciously. He turned into Bag End. “Come, come. Take those beastly boots off before you track mud all over the house, and put your swords in the umbrella stand. Tea will be ready soon.”
“A word, Bilbo?” Gandalf asked, nodding his head towards Bilbo’s sitting room.
The rain began as a soft, innocuous patter, but soon pounded upon the heads of Dwarves and ponies alike. Hoods were drawn up and cloaks were pulled tight around sodden shoulders. Bilbo shivered and followed suit, his cloak—borrowed from Dwalin—enveloping him to the ankles. The hems of his trousers were soaked through and he despaired of ever washing the mud out of his hairy feet. Orcrist weighed on his aching shoulders, but he didn’t dare shift it while walking.
So passed their first day together. The next was no better; it seemed as though they would all drown before even seeing the shadow of the Misty Mountains. Late into the second day, they passed over the Brandywine Bridge and the Shire’s easternmost border. Bilbo stared back mournfully at his fair country, its rolling hills and gentle fields now obscured behind curtains of rain. He was scarcely a hundred feet away and already yearned to return. He felt a momentary pang of empathy for Thorin’s company, then thought better of it.
The road wound a circuitous route between the narrow valleys hemming the Old Forest. The path thinned significantly, forcing Bilbo to evade the ponies’ teeth and hooves in tight quarters.
Thorin wheeled his pony around at the mouth of a rocky defile. “We’ll camp on the other side.”
The company sighed in relief and their ponies seemed to press forward with renewed energy. Bilbo wished he had the same strength.
The sun set as they passed, single-file, along the slim path. A steep wooded incline dropped away on their right and a line of boulders as high as Gandalf’s shoulder boxed them in on the left. The light was fading rapidly and Bilbo stumbled often, barely keeping his footing on the rough road. So distracted was he that he didn’t notice the hunters approaching until they were already among them.
With a cry, a group of Men, roughly dressed and roughly armed, leapt down from the rocks, waving their hands and yelling at the ponies until they spooked. Many of the Dwarves dismounted their frightened animals, grabbing their weapons and shouting Khuzdul battle cries as they dove at their attackers.
As Bilbo dodged churning hooves and swinging blades, he tried to count the Men in the raiding party, but he gave up after it was evident they were outnumbered and surrounded. The Dwarves were adept fighters—or made up for it in heart—and Bilbo hoped it would be enough to tip the scales in their favor.
Bilbo threw his hood back and pulled Orcrist free, only to drop its heavy and rain-slicked hilt. He ducked an over-enthusiastic blow from Bofur’s mattock and snatched Orcrist from the mud, sheathed it with great difficulty, and pulled out his dagger to reenter the fray.
The Men ignored him in favor of taller targets. This was their mistake, as Bilbo would dart behind them and slice their legs, cutting hamstrings and tendons. With a cry, the Men would fall, and Bilbo would leave them at the mercy of his companions.
As Bilbo slipped away from his most recent victim, he heard a growling streak of Khuzdul and the scream of a pony, and turned in time to see Thorin pulled bodily from his mount. He sprang up bare-handed in the midst of four men, his sword lost in the scuffle.
“This is the one?” one Man asked.
“Can’t really tell. They all look the same to—”
His words broke off as the tip of Bilbo’s shortsword forced its way through his chest. With a strangled shout, Bilbo pulled the blade free and pushed past the dying man. He threw Orcrist at Thorin, squaring up beside him without checking to see if he had caught it.
The three swords hung above the mantle, framed by the portraits of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. The pictures and their frames had been fastidiously cleaned, but the swords bore a thin layer of dust.
“You still give them a place of honor,” Gandalf said, running his finger along one dirty hilt.
“They make good statement pieces, even without the complete set,” Bilbo said.
“And what sort of statement is that?”
“Well, it reminds Lobelia Sackville-Baggins just whose silver spoons she has in her pockets,” Bilbo replied, grinning puckishly.
Gandalf didn’t seem impressed. “And you’re sure that they no longer have any sway over you?”
“None whatsoever,” Bilbo said. “Simply nostalgia.” Gandalf frowned, and Bilbo was quick to correct himself. “Oh, it really was a pleasant feeling. You can’t fault me for missing it.” The damnable wizard still looked unconvinced. “Look, I haven’t dusted them for weeks! Sometimes I forget they’re up there.” He sighed. “You still don’t believe me.”
He dragged over a bench and stepped onto it to take down the longest sword. It had a solid weight: heavy steel made heavier by enchantment. When it had been used against Bilbo, it had glowed blue day and night, but it had lain dormant for years, and continued to do so as he offered it to Gandalf. “Take it.”
“You’re giving this to me?” the wizard asked. As Gandalf took the sword, he watched Bilbo’s face, as if seeking some radical change in expression or mood. Bilbo regretted that the sword’s absence left a dark patch on the faded wallpaper. Then again, he had planned to remodel...
“I would rather the old thing be put to use than sit here collecting dust,” Bilbo said, carefully climbing off the bench. “Its name is Glamdring. Use it well.” He flinched as something crashed in the kitchen, and fled to play host.
“What did I tell you?!” Gandalf exclaimed. “Fierce as a dragon in a pinch.”
Bilbo groaned and resisted the urge to slam his head against a tree.
The company sat upon stumps and rocks as they licked their wounds. Some counted their losses: keepsakes and tokens squirreled away in the baggage lost with five of their ponies. Others, with the battle still coursing in their blood, paced in tight circles, reliving the skirmish over and over again.
They had won free after a short battle, leaving many of the Men dead or injured as the company retreated to the flatter country surrounding the bridge. Thorin and Balin were reluctant to try the road again, so they took conference with Gandalf on the other side of the clearing.
Shortly thereafter, Thorin announced they would be moving again. Since none of the company was seriously injured, they redistributed the packs among Dwarves and ponies alike. It was a subdued group that plodded away from the road, but they made camp within the hour, and Glóin was able to light a fire for the first time since they had set out. Thorin did not object to this overt sign of their presence, perhaps to raise morale, and Bilbo liked him all the better for it.
Chatter cropped up in fits and starts, and soon even Bilbo couldn’t be left alone. Bofur dropped down beside him, omnipresent grin in place.
“Never got the chance to thank you,” he said.
Bilbo blinked. “Whatever for?”
“Well, I daresay you saved my life back there, coming in with that little ankle-biter of yours.”
“Ankle biter?” Bilbo scoffed. “I’ll have you know that this dagger has seen hundreds of battles and slain warriors far greater than yourself. It was forged in Gondolin, before … oh, never mind. This is all lost on you, isn’t it?”
Bofur grinned sheepishly. “I’m no warrior, and can spit farther than I care about your Elves. But it sounds a mighty blade. What’s it called?”
“It … well.” Bilbo flipped the tiny blade in his hands. “I—huh. It doesn’t have a name, I suppose. Swords are supposed to be named for their great deeds in battle and mine hasn’t done anything. It’s rather small.”
“Well, on you it’s a proper sword, I think,” Bofur said, “and it deserves a name after today! Saving the life of Thorin Oakenshield! Beset by bounty hunters on the road and—”
“Wait a moment,” Bilbo interrupted. “Bounty hunters?”
“Well, yes,” said Bofur, faltering. “Didn’t you know? Thorin said so to Balin, and Balin told Dwalin, who told Ori, who told Kíli. And once Kíli knows something, everyone does.”
“I most certainly did not know,” Bilbo said.
“Now you do.”
“Now I do. So someone does not want this king of Dwarves reaching his mountain,” Bilbo mused.
“Perhaps, but it’d not be wise to discuss that now,” Bofur said. He jumped up, brushing down the front of his tunic. “That ‘king of Dwarves’, as you called him, is coming right this way, probably for a word with you.”
A glance over his shoulder confirmed it. “What could he want?” Bilbo muttered. He spared a quick half-smile for Bofur. Bofur saluted in return and made himself scarce.
“Master Baggins,” Thorin said.
“Master Dwarf,” Bilbo replied with forced civility. Gandalf would no doubt want him to be cordial, and, really, Thorin could be no worse than a Sackville-Baggins.
Thorin offered Orcrist to Bilbo hilt-first. “This is a fine blade. Thank you for permitting me to use it.”
“I couldn’t let our journey come to a grisly end so soon. Though you and I must discuss why you would ever be hunted at some point.”
“Kíli,” Thorin hissed under his breath. “Of course.”
“Anyway, I think it would be in all of our best interests if you kept the sword.”
“Keep it?” Thorin pulled the blade close, then paused, eyeing Bilbo warily. “Why?”
“Why not?” Bilbo demanded. “This an ancient Elvish blade, forged in Gondolin in the First Age. You couldn’t find a better sword in all of Arda!”
“It would not do for me to wield an Elf-forged blade,” Thorin said, though Bilbo could hear the reluctance in his voice.
“This sword is much better than that up-jumped fire poker,” said Bilbo with a disdainful sniff.
“My sister forged this sword for me and I named it Deathless when I slew the orc Azog the Defiler upon the threshold of … of Khazad-dûm.” Thorin turned away, half his face in shadow, and Bilbo blanched, realizing his mistake. “But I shall accept your sword for the gift it is.”
“Its name is Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver,” Bilbo said. Thorin was about to walk away when Bilbo added, “I apologize for speaking ill of Deathless.”
“Your gift and apology are accepted, Master Baggins,” said Thorin stiffly. “As you were.”
Bilbo met Gandalf’s eyes across the fire. If Bilbo could bear to pass the sword to a Dwarf he disliked, then surely he was free from its hold.
Bilbo returned to Bofur’s side and said, “You know, I think I’ve thought of a name for this sword.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, I think I’ll call it Nagtelch. That’s Sindarin. For ankle-biter, as you suggested. It’s an apt name.”
Bofur tossed his head back and laughed, clapping Bilbo on the back so hard that he stumbled. Yet Bilbo couldn’t find it in himself to be frustrated by the display. “An apt name indeed! Hopefully you won’t be using it again, though.”
“Hopefully,” Bilbo said, but if the attack was anything to go by, their journey would be anything but a pony ride in the May sunshine.