Chapter Text
The largest barn in Hobbiton was a tall, spacious building owned by the Old Took. Once upon a time, it had housed many of the town’s animals, but in the early years of his appointment as Thain, the building had been renovated to serve as a community space. The animals had been relocated, the dirt floor had been paved over with carefully fitted flagstones, and a large hearth had been built into the center of one of the long walls. The barn’s hay loft had remained as a concession to those in want of privacy, and often when the good folk of Hobbiton gathered there for parties after it became too cold to host them in the field, eager young couples could be spotted sneaking up to the hayloft for a quick stolen kiss. Gerontius, the Old Took, had a tender heart for young love, and many concessions of a similar sort were present at his parties for those with an eye to spot them.
Of course, such trifles were of no particular concern to his rather odd granddaughter, Bilba Baggins. She was widely considered the loveliest of his grandchildren in the full bloom of her youth, and by equal measure, she was also the most romantically disinterested. When other girls her age seized the opportunity of Old Took’s harvest party to slip away with their suitors, Bilba was climbing the tall chestnut tree in front of the barn, determined to retrieve one of the conkers from the very top branches, merely for the satisfaction of proving Lobelia Bracegirdle wrong.
She knew she shouldn’t have taken the challenge, for Lobelia was undoubtedly hoping she’d fall. And wearing one of her finest party dresses no less. The silky gold material of the skirt threatened to catch on the branches and tear as she ascended, and the tightly laced bodice made it difficult for her to move, but its daring neckline (which her father had fretted was cut much too low, but her mother had insisted Bilba was a grown woman now and should be allowed to show it once in a while) let the cool air flow across her chest and collarbone as it whisked through the dying leaves of the tree.
Lobelia didn’t know because she never ventured too far outside, but Bilba was one of the best tree climbers in the Shire, and the Tookish lass felt nothing but triumph as she ascended into the highest branches of the tree and plucked one of its green fruit. Later she could remove the skin, revealing the inedible chestnut inside. For now, she held it gingerly in one hand and began her descent, keeping a watchful eye on her intended path as she went. Climbing back down again was always the hardest part.
Bilba was almost halfway down when she spotted a long row of lanterns coming up the road toward the party. A whole crowd of folk was on their way, but she couldn’t help finding it odd that they should arrive tardy. Certainly, none of the hobbits she knew would risk coming late to one of the Old Took’s parties, for fear that all of the best food would be gone by the time they’d arrived. These had to be very strange folk indeed, and it was curiosity that led her to stay where she was in the tangle of branches at the heart of the tree, hoping to spy them as they arrived.
The peculiarity of the situation was clarified somewhat as the party drew nearer. At their head was an unmistakable tall person wearing an even taller hat—the endearingly eccentric wizard, Gandalf, who she had known for as long as she remembered. She almost called out to him or began climbing down to greet him—but by then the party had drawn close enough that they would undoubtedly see her drop out of the tree, and that would not only be entirely inappropriate but also deeply embarrassing. So she stayed where she was and held entirely still, hoping none of them would catch the gleam of gold fabric high over their heads.
The group, all cloaked and hooded and entirely suspicious, was just passing under the tree when Gandalf suddenly paused and turned, the brim of his hat tilting upward as he strained to peer at her. “Bless my beard, is that Miss Bilba Baggins I spy up in those branches?”
There had to be at least a dozen in the group that Gandalf was leading, with four or five hooded lanterns scattered among them, and all of them turned to follow the wizard’s gaze. Bilba blushed profusely as she felt the weight of their attention settle on her awkward position, and she couldn’t think to do anything except shift uncomfortably in the sudden light. “Er, hello.”
“My dear girl,” Gandalf cleared his throat, “Whatever are you doing up in that tree?”
“Fetching a chestnut from the highest branches!” she called, showing off the green fruit in her hand. “Lobelia Bracegirdle said that I couldn’t do it, so naturally, I had to prove her wrong.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe your father would approve,” Gandalf leveled, raising his bushy eyebrows at her.
“Oh, Gandalf, you won’t tell him, will you?”
The wizard made a sound in the back of his throat. “We’ll see.”
Completely aware that this was not an ideal position from which to conduct civilized conversation, Bilba began to descend again. She was incredibly flustered, however, and as her long toes stretched toward one of the thick branches below, she lost her footing and, with a startled cry, fell unceremoniously from the tree.
If there was one thing to be said for Gandalf’s company, they certainly had impressive reflexes. Several of them moved to catch her at once, but the one who reached her first was among the largest. She was struck by the sensation of long, soft fur tickling her bare skin, and resting in a cradle of thick arms so strong one would think that she weighed nothing at all. It took Bilba a moment to catch her breath and regain her wits, and once she did, she shrieked and wriggled her way out of the stranger’s arms.
Beard. He had a beard. A generous patch of black hair framed his mouth, matching the thick mane that flowed from the top of his head and out of his hood. His body looked as solid as it had felt, taller than any hobbit she’d ever met and easily twice the breadth in his shoulders. Everything about him was chiseled and hard, as though he’d been hewn from the stone itself, and he would have seemed cold as marble were it not for the intense, dark blue eyes that glittered at her from beneath his heavy brow. His features remained impassive in the face of her panic, as though he had predicted the reaction. “Apologies,” he murmured quietly, holding out his hands to show he meant no harm.
Bilba stared at him for a long moment, fighting against her shock, then finally tore away her gaze long enough to glance at his fellows. Beards, beards—knitted mittens?—and more beards, and she was fairly convinced she had never seen so much hair in her life.
She knew that they were dwarves. She couldn’t say that they were what she had expected from their kind one way or the other; by virtue of the fact that they were here, puffing hot breath into the cold autumn air, and not in her storybooks, they already far exceeded her expectation.
“Ah—Bilba, allow me to introduce the Company of Thorin Oakenshield: Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Dori, Nori, Ori, Bifur, Bofur, and of course—Bombur. They hail from the Blue Mountains to the west, and we are only making a brief stop in the Shire before continuing on a long journey eastward. As for you, my good fellows, this is the lovely Miss Bilba Baggins of Bag End, with whom I do hope you’ll have the chance to get acquainted.”
Still staggering from the confusing onslaught of names, Bilba narrowly managed to curtsy. Their appearance had been startling, but one of them had saved her from what could have been a nasty spill, so they deserved her courtesy. “At your service and your family’s,” she said politely. “I do apologize if I startled you—we don’t get many outsiders through here. But—“
With every intention of going on and hopefully making amends for her foolish behavior, Bilba was interrupted as a pack of young bucks inched out of the open door to the barn and squinted into the darkness. “Miss Bilba? Everything alright? We thought we heard a scream.” All four of them were hobbits about her same age, and among them were two of her would-be suitors.
“Oh, aye, and if the lass had fallen to her death you might’ve been just in time to save her carcass from the carrion-eaters,” quipped a dwarf with a peculiar winged hat on his head.
The hobbits at the door shuffled uncomfortably at the jab. “Right, well, there was a bit of a scuffle when we were trying to decide who should go look—and anyway, who’re you?? Gandalf, what sort of strange folk have you dragged to the doorstep?” Thorin, the tall dwarf who had caught Bilba, shifted uncomfortably in front of her, but he said nothing.
Gandalf was a friend of Old Took’s, but he wasn’t trusted like the daughter of a Baggins, so she saw a chance to make herself useful. “A right suspicious lot, you are,” she said reproachfully, brushing past the crowd of dwarves to make her way toward the door. “Is this or is this not a party? And hosted by the legendarily hospitable Old Took, no less! You ought to be ashamed. Now shoo, shoo! Let them in! They look exhausted!” Along with Gandalf, she led the crowd of dwarves into the large barn, abruptly interrupting the merry festivities inside. As she passed Lobelia, Bilba subtly slipped her the chestnut.
The townsfolk fell dead silent as the company of dwarves filed into the barn, parting for the strange group like water for oil. Gandalf moved toward the Old Took near the hearth to explain the situation, and unexpectedly, Bilba found herself standing between two crowds equally distrustful of each other.
Tookish a girl though she may have been, she was also the daughter of the diplomatic Bungo Baggins. Turning toward the dwarves and fighting to conceal her nervousness, she spoke in a clear voice for all to hear. “Well, now, welcome to Hobbiton. You won’t find a friendlier town in all the Shire!” she assured them warmly, ignoring the cold silence that insisted otherwise. “By all means, make yourselves at home, have a bite to eat, and enjoy the party. I’m sure some accommodations will be seen to.”
There was another beat of silence, but the promise of food seemed enough to break the icy distrust that glazed over the strangers. A tall dwarf with a bald tattooed pate was the first to stride toward the buffet table, pick up a plate, and begin sampling the dishes that had been neatly laid out. His fellows weren’t far behind—in a disheveled crowd, they shucked off their cloaks and helped themselves to the food.
The hobbits seemed inclined to act shocked in response to their audacity, but the effect was somewhat diminished by Bilba’s invitation—she was the Took’s granddaughter, after all. So most of them settled instead for disgruntlement, muttering disapproval over the way the dwarves greedily gorged themselves. Bilba felt mildly pleased with herself, hoping she’d at least somewhat eased a meeting which had the potential for disaster.
And yet, she could see that her work wasn’t over. The dwarves claimed a solitary corner of the room far from the door, and the hobbits stayed well enough away, as though they expected the outsiders to carry plague. Gandalf and Old Took were entirely unhelpful; they were deeply engaged in their own conversation, utterly oblivious to the state of the room around them.
Bilba sighed and moved toward the group of musicians lining the wall across from the hearth. They had all settled with their instruments in their laps, content to mutter suspiciously along with everyone else.
“What’s all this, then?” she chirped at them, putting her hands on her hips. Though she was younger than the lot of them, they straightened to attention as if they had been called out by someone with actual authority. “Fat lot of good you are, a band of musicians silent as the grave. For shame!” They looked properly cowed by her words, and a few of them shifted to hoist their instruments into place, but she could still see them casting uncomfortable looks at each other and the dwarves.
“Enough of that,” she said firmly, stomping one foot impatiently on the floor. “Play!”
The threat of Bilba’s wrath seemed enough motivation to get them going. They lifted their instruments and started up a jolly melody, instantly lightening the mood in the hall. Bilba watched hopefully for couples to start filling the dance floor again, but she was met only with uncertain looks. She waited through one song, then through another, and when the dance floor remained stubbornly empty, she took a deep breath and gathered her resolve. “If you want something done right,” she muttered to herself.
Bilba took a skipping step and then twirled across the empty gap at the center of the room, moving toward the corner where the dwarves had settled. She was a spirited dancer, fully Took when a good melody got a hold of her, and her gleaming gold skirts and ribbons easily caught the attention of the two crowds. Stopping in front of the dwarves with a breathy laugh, she curtsied again—this time to one of the younger dwarves, a strapping brown haired fellow with no more beard than a light scruff, and by virtue of that fact, looked almost hobbitish.
“Master dwarf, might I have the pleasure of this dance?” she asked, composing herself with a bright grin.
The dwarves looked almost as shocked as the hobbits by her invitation, and the one to whom she had spoken glanced questioningly at Thorin. The leader had settled near the door with his pipe; Bilba saw his gaze flicker toward her for a long moment before he subtly nodded his approval to his young companion.
Her partner’s face split into a broad, beaming smile and he stepped forward, swooping down to hook his arm around Bilba’s waist and lead her into an energetic reel. It was a little clumsy as she taught him the steps and learned to avoid his massive boots, but once they’d gotten comfortable with each other they had a marvelous time. He introduced himself as Kili—fortunately, he was very understanding of the fact that their names had gone a bit over her head—and despite his being a dwarf, she decided he was a very fine lad indeed.
In short order, another one of the dwarves cut into their dance and, with a bow, politely asked for a turn. Blond haired with a carefully braided moustache, she learned that his name was Fili, and he was Kili’s older brother. He was more of a showman than Kili, with more swagger in his step, but she quickly decided that she liked them both very much.
Again, they were interrupted by one of the dwarves hoping for a dance—the one with the funny hat whose name she learned was Bofur—and by this time, she noticed with a great deal of satisfaction that other couples were beginning to fill the dance floor around them.
As the party crept later into the night, Bilba had a chance to dance with most of the dwarven company. A few of them were shy enough that she was left to make more trips to the dwarves’ corner to ask, but the only ones who declined were those who gently explained that they were married and preferred not to dance with another lady.
Exhausting though it was, Bilba considered it to be a fine system of getting to know their new guests. All of them were more open toward conversing with her once they were dancing, even if one or two of them seemed to have trouble communicating properly (one was completely deaf and misinterpreted every word she said, and another didn’t seem to know the common tongue).
Well into the night when it looked as though the party was finally beginning to wind down, Bilba’s feet were ready to fall off at the ankle. Her would-be suitors would begin asking her to dance soon, because she surely couldn’t say no to hobbits if she was willing to dance with dwarves. So before they had the chance, she slipped out the back of the hall where the far doors of the barn opened onto a small deck. Set on the edge of a large pond, the back railing overlooked a calm black stretch of water, reflecting glittering yellow lights from distant hobbit holes.
She hurried out into the cool autumn darkness, closing her eyes and resting back against one of the tall wooden columns set intermittently into the railing. Baring her sweat slicked neck to the icy breeze that blew in from the north, Bilba smiled as she fought to catch her breath, thinking back on the excitement of the evening. The dwarves had been an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. She’d always wanted to meet outsiders, to see for herself the brave adventurers from Gandalf’s stories—this was everything she’d ever dreamed of, even if she’d die before she admitted it.
Of course, her father was sure to have a few words for her when she got home that evening, but she had no doubt her mother would come to her defense. Belladonna and Bilba had a very clear understanding of each other, one which often left Bungo at a distinct disadvantage.
Bilba breathed another long sigh and focused on her slowing pulse—then jumped when she heard someone clear their throat from the direction of the door. Opening her eyes, and laying a hand over her breast when her heart started racing anew, she discovered it was none other than Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of the dwarven company. Only as she spotted him then did it occur to her that she had never gotten the chance to dance with him. He must have slipped outside soon after the dancing started, as she hadn’t seen him in the corner with his dwarves when she made trips back to retrieve those she had yet to meet.
Had she not gotten such a clear look at his features before, she might have had a difficult time recognizing him. He was cloaked in deep shadow where he stood leaning beside the door, his face only illuminating when he took a deep draw on his pipe and set the embers inside glowing bright orange. He stared at her as he let the smoke curl out from between his lips, wreathing his glittering eyes in a translucent veil. Bilba hadn’t the faintest inkling what a dragon might look like, but she got the distinct impression that from where Thorin stood in shadow puffing on his pipe, he must surely bear some resemblance to one.
“Master Oakenshield,” she greeted, her hand over her heart. “You startled me.”
“Voyeurism is no pleasure of mine,” he answered, his voice a deep and full timbre. “I thought you should be aware of my presence.”
“Of course,” Bilba nodded, dropping her hand. “Thank you.” There was a long moment of silence where they sat sizing each other up, then she spoke again. “And—thank you for saving me earlier. I didn’t meant to come across as ungrateful. I just—I was expecting a hobbit is all.”
“Understandable.” It seemed as though he was going to let the conversation ebb away from there, but to her surprise, he moved across the deck to stand next to her. Splaying his large hands on the rail on either side of him, he leaned forward and looked out across the water. “This is a lovely village,” he remarked. “It seems to be very peaceful.”
She grinned, turning away from the party and leaning her head against the tall wooden post. “Sometimes I’m fairly certain that it’s the most peaceful place in the world. But you know what they say about too much of a good thing.”
Thorin turned a curious eye toward her at that, taking another long draw on his pipe. Though he said nothing, the question rang loud and clear in his face.
“I only mean that, well… it can be awfully dull sometimes.” She ran her long finger across the cool grain of the wood, absently digging her nail into the tiny crevices. “I do love the Shire, but all too often it makes me feel like a bird locked up in a birdcage. The same small town—the same small life, day after day after day. The same nosy busybodies getting into each other’s business, turning up their noses at the first hint of impropriety. I just wish that I could… escape it all. Only once. I want to do something wild and daring and utterly magnificent.”
Thorin looked at her for a long moment, and she caught herself wishing in the back of her mind that she knew what he was thinking. He looked so much and said so little, and she couldn’t for the life of her guess what his opinion of her might be.
“Never wish away peace,” he said quietly, turning his gaze back to the water. “It is a precious and fragile thing, hard won and easily lost. Consider yourself blessed to have lived such a life. I have seen many wars in my time, and much calamity. I would trade all my long years of strife for even a single day of peace for my people.”
Bilba averted her gaze from the dwarf and stared down into the water, suddenly feeling very foolish for voicing her desires. Of course he wouldn’t sympathize with her childish fancies; why should he feel any lust for adventure when he had spent his entire life living it? She didn’t attempt to reply, for it felt as though there was very little she could say in the face of such frankness.
The silence was filled by the sound of tiny waves lapping against the rocks of the shore. From inside the hall a sliver of warm light was cast across the deck and over the pond, carrying with it the muffled hint of music and the featureless noise of a large crowd. The sweat and heat that had gathered from the evening’s exertion had long since disappeared from Bilba’s skin, and as the north wind crept across the dark water, she shivered.
Wordlessly, Thorin shifted beside her and before she registered what he was doing, he had removed the fur mantle from atop his coat and draped it around her shoulders. She glanced up at him in surprise, ready to protest, but something in the way he was looking at her discouraged argument, so she pulled the pelt tighter around her and muttered quiet thanks. It was incredibly warm—moreso for having rested on his body, which exuded heat like a furnace. She savored the warmth, breathing deep, then took a moment to admire the smell of leather and wilderness and masculine musk.
“Gandalf said that you were traveling east,” she began, unable to resist looking up toward him again. “Are you going to Moria?” She hoped that the question wasn’t a petulant one; she knew very little about dwarves, only what she had heard from stories and books and seen on her mother’s maps.
Thorin sighed, sending a wisp of hot steam into the cold air. “No,” he said. He was staring into the distance but his eyes were unfocused, and she felt certain that the object of his attention was hidden deep within his memories. “Farther. Much farther.”
Giving him what she hoped was an encouraging smile, she laid a gentle hand on his thick arm. “If anyone can make such a journey, I’m certain it’s you. You have an excellent company—a loyal group if ever I’ve seen one.”
He drew himself away from his distant memories and looked down at her, and in the pause that followed she could have sworn the shadow of a smile pulled at his lips. “Thank you.”
She meant to say more, but just then they were joined on the deck by a familiar face—Gandalf came shuffling out toward the railing, lighting up his pipe with the tips of his fingers. “What a lovely evening!” he exclaimed, smiling out toward the water. Though she hadn’t any evidence to support the theory, she would have sworn he’d been hovering by the door, waiting for an opportunity to interrupt.
“Yes. Yes it is,” Bilba agreed, turning shyly away from Thorin.
An easy quiet reigned between them for a minute or two, then the wizard made a noise of surprise in the back of his throat. “I say—is that mistletoe?”
Bilba looked toward Gandalf in surprise, then followed his gaze to the post where she’d been leaning—and sure enough, there was a leafy sprig of white berries tacked to the wood over her head. Feeling her cheeks suddenly catch fire, she glanced at Thorin in mortified embarrassment. Fortunately, he seemed entirely lost to the awkward situation; she could only assume that meant dwarves did not have the same traditions. She considered retreating into the party without another word, but Gandalf was watching her with sly eyes, and his look was enough to let her know she’d been cornered.
Pulling Thorin’s fur mantle from her shoulders, she moved to give it back to him, and just as his hands brushed against hers to take it she leaned up and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. It was brief—barely a kiss at all—but they were intimately close for the span of a heartbeat, and their breath mingled long enough for her to taste the smoke of his pipe.
Unable to meet his intense eyes as she drew away, Bilba all but ran back inside the barn.