Chapter Text
So, Bilbo had gone back to the past. Either that or he had hallucinated eighty year's worth of history, through prophetic visions or through the potency of Old Toby. As Gandalf spoke, the likelihood of either option began to dwindle and die. Bilbo barely listened to his words, since he already knew them.
“And these thirteen Dwarves will be coming to Bag-End for dinner tomorrow,” Bilbo said, trying to remember what he’d had in his pantry, eighty years before. He didn’t remember any of them complaining about the amount of food, but he also couldn’t remember whether he had gone shopping between Gandalf’s visit and theirs, and if he was supposed to do it again.
Hold on. Was he supposed to do everything again?
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear fellow,” said Gandalf, noticing his budding panic. “They will be content with whatever you serve them, I’m sure.”
“So long as it’s not vegetables,” Bilbo replied absently. The journey, and the mountains, and the goblins, and the dragon, and the battle, and Thorin…
Thorin. His stomach churned. If the journey hadn’t started, then Thorin hadn’t died. Thorin was alive, and headed as they spoke for the Shire. Bilbo was seized with the sudden desire to run, although the direction he wanted to run towards was unclear.
What if…
“I would change the ending.” What if this was the reason he was back here, in Bag-End, before the quest? What if this was his change to make things right? To arrive to his ideal ending, “And they lived happily ever after,” like he’d long wanted?
“Are you feeling well, Bilbo?” Gandalf asked.
“To tell you the truth, I’m a little lost,” admitted Bilbo. “Confused. Very confused. And they’re coming here. Oh, what shall I do? I need to make a will. I’ll be damned if I let this harpy get her grubby hands on my silver spoons a second time.” He got up, but even the surprise of being able to do so without help did not make him pause long; he started mumbling again and pacing as he did so. “Oh, never mind, they’re only spoons, they’re only things, and Frodo will give Bag-End up in the end.” He froze. “No,” he realised. “He won’t. He won’t have to. He can have the silver spoons. He shall have them all, and everything else. Oh, Bilbo, you fool.” He gazed up at Gandalf, who had been looking about him politely while Bilbo had been having his little crisis. “I need seven Hobbits,” he declared.
“I doubt the company would be willing to embark so many on their quest,” Gandalf remarked.
“Not for the quest. I need their signatures for my will.”
“I am not proposing to bring you to your death, my friend.”
Bilbo frowned, frustrated at the wizard’s inability to read his thoughts. He had long assumed that he had that power, since he seemed to always know what Bilbo was thinking, and now it occurred to him that magic had little to do with it; it was too bad that Bilbo had failed to notice the intimate knowledge that came with a long-lasting friendship until it was gone.
His oldest friend did not know him, and his dwarven friends would not remember him either; Thorin would look at him and see a stranger. And Frodo…
Frodo was not born yet. He was alone.
“Bilbo?”
Bilbo, surely not for the last time, shook himself from his dark thoughts. “My relatives are greedy, Gandalf. You would be shocked. Otho has been after my house for a long time, and if he doesn’t see me for a while, they’ll assume that I died and that he and his brood can invest it. I’m leaving everything to my cousin Primula’s unborn son. It’s a long story.”
“So it seems. I would love to hear it sometimes.”
Or read it; although it had taken Bilbo more than seventy years to get around to finishing it, and he didn’t know that he had that kind of time right now. “Let me worry about all of this. You’re very busy; I bet an illustre wizard such as yourself has better things to worry about than the salvation of a Hobbit hole.”
“It is a very good hole,” said Gandalf. “It would be foolish of an illustre wizard, as you called me, to dismiss it so casually.”
“That’s because you’ve always been the best of them,” Bilbo thought. Aloud, he said, “Anyway, you have to give the directions to the company. Here, you had better draw a sign on the door, just in case.” Gandalf gave him a queer look. “You never know,” Bilbo babbled, “some of them may get lost.”
“Some of them may,” agreed Gandalf. “A shame about your door,” he noted leisurely as he carved the sign into the wood. Bilbo hummed absently, his mind already far away, making plans for the future. “It looks like the paint is fresh.”
It was, Bilbo remembered distantly. It had just been painted green, a week and a lifetime before.
It wasn’t so much that he had forgotten the order in which the Dwarves had appeared at his door, but he hadn’t thought of it in a long time (he’d pondered it for all of ten minutes while writing the first chapter of his book. That part was the easiest to write.)
So he wasn’t surprised, exactly, that it was Dwalin who knocked first, but it still gave him pause. For some reason, he’d expected Balin. “Good evening,” he said, bearing the Dwarf’s unfriendly gaze with all the grace he could muster. There was no reason it should be otherwise; Dwalin didn’t remember that they were excellent friends. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”
“Dwalin,” he replied. “At yours and your family’s.”
“You are my family,” Bilbo didn’t say. “Please, come in,” he did reply. “Let me take your…” He considered the axes and knives that he could see poking out of Dwalin’s sheathes and pockets, and the rest that he couldn’t see. “Actually, follow me, you can leave your weapons in one of the guest rooms.”
The process of disarming himself took Dwalin a long time, which made Bilbo smile, though he made an effort to look properly intimidated by all the ways the Dwarf could potentially murder him.
He sat Dwalin at the table and began piling food in front of him while the Dwarf never stopped staring. “You know,” he said at last, “I may be hungry, but perhaps you should keep a little for the others.”
“Nonsense,” said Bilbo. “I have plenty more.” He did. He had come home to a full pantry, but then he had started panicking about making a good first impression and being a good host for his once and future friends, and he had spent the day and the evening before buying and cooking food. It was fine. “Besides, the others are going to be here soon.”
“Maybe,” allowed Dwalin. “I wouldn’t count on most of them being punctual.” As if the universe was making fun of him, there was a knock immediately after he had finished his sentence. Bilbo grinned, and Dwalin pointed at him threateningly with a chicken leg. “Don’t gloat, I said most of them.”
Bilbo went to welcome Balin, and watched him and his brother reunite with a bittersweet feeling in his stomach, and not just because he had tasted many of his dishes throughout the day (after all, he couldn’t risk serving disgusting food to his guests. He had to make the delicious sacrifice).
He couldn’t help remembering the days before the Fellowship left Rivendell, when Gandalf had told him in confidence that he wanted to pass by the mines of Moria, but that he didn’t have much hope for Balin and the others. He’d later confirmed Balin, Ori and Oin’s unhappy fate (as well as his own; Bilbo did not know why anybody had been surprised to see Gandalf reappear after his alleged death. There simply was no getting rid of that wizard, which was perfect for Bilbo’s taste). Bilbo added the Moria fiasco to the list of things that he needed to take care of.
“Am I early, or is everyone else late?” asked Balin when he and his brother had finished insulting the other’s appearance.
“A bit of both,” replied Bilbo. “Gandalf didn’t give me a precise time, but I think he’ll arrive soon.” If he recalled, he and the rest of the company had arrived only a few minutes after…
Oh, no. He was not ready for this. Nope nope nope nope nope.
“Master Baggins?” Balin called, not startling Bilbo at all.
“Yes,” he said, which was an answer for absolutely nothing. Some air, he needed some air. “Master Dwalin, would you show Master Balin to the dining room? I need to fetch something in the… garden.” They looked at him strangely, but to be fair, if he kept acting the way he was now, he would have to get used to everyone thinking he was a lunatic.
He gave them a polite smile and went outside, taking a few deep gulps of cold air. He sat on the bench, looking up at Gil-Estel as he asked for strength, and waited, until eventually, two familiar heads appeared in the distance and started making their way to Bag-End. He watched them and tried to chase away the images of their dead bodies, lying next to their uncle in the funeral chamber.
(It wasn’t a fair comparison, because Merry and Pippin were far younger than Bilbo had known Fili and Kili, and more rambunctious. But every time he saw them together, mostly at celebrations, with a young Merry steering a toddling Pippin around, that image kept coming back. He could not help it.
“I wish you wouldn’t invite your ghosts everywhere you go,” Gandalf said, popping up next to him at the party for Frodo’s thirtieth birthday. Bilbo emerged out of his reverie with a smile.
“I don’t invite them,” he told his friend. “They are always with me.”)
“Good evening,” he called out when the brothers were within earshot. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” He got up to give them a bow. When he finally made eye contact, his heart constricted. He forced himself to focus on them as they were, and not as they would be, lying dead on Ravenhill.
“Fili.”
“And Kili.”
“At your service,” they finished together.
Bilbo thought, “You will live a long life and grow old and be happy.”
“I have a ton of food inside,” he told them, cracking the door open. “Do you like pie? I have a lot of pie. That is, if Balin and Dwalin haven’t eaten all of it. Wait.” He looked down at their boots. More precisely, at their mud-covered boots. “Wipe your feet before you come in.”
The brothers exchanged a sheepish look, but obeyed Bilbo’s command, scraping the worst of the mud off on the grass. “You don’t have shoes,” Kili remarked.
“I don’t need shoes, I’m a Hobbit.”
“What do you do when your feet are cold?” asked Fili.
“I complain, usually. All right,” he said, examining the boots. “That seems enough. You can come in.”
“Thank you,” said Kili, barging in as soon as the door was halfway open. “Nice place, did you build it yourself?”
Bilbo snorted. “No, my father did. It was his wedding present for my mother. You’ll soon find that I’m nowhere near a builder. I’m a scholar and a writer.”
“Our friend Ori is a scholar too,” replied Fili. “You’ll like him.”
“I’m sure I will,” said Bilbo. “Excuse me, what is this?” He pointed an indignant hand at the mount of weapons Kili was dropping on the floor. “Did your mother raise you to make a mess?”
Kili did not look even remotely embarrassed. “Where am I supposed to store these? Here?” he asked, glancing at the pipe rack hanging on the wall.
“Certainly not.” He showed the brothers to the guest bedroom. “And do not mix them with Dwalin’s, you know how he is with his weapons.”
“I do,” agreed Fili, shuddering as he took off his armour. “Have you known him long, then? I wondered that Gandalf suggested you for this quest, but if you’re a friend of Dwarves, then it makes sense.”
“I am a friend of Dwarves,” Bilbo assured him. “Though not of this one yet. Gandalf and I are old friends, that is why he suggested me. I just met Dwalin this evening.”
Fili blinked at him. “But you just spoke as if you knew him.”
Oh, confusticate it all. “I am gifted with prescience,” he said. Fili stared at him. He made a face. “Fine, I’m a good judge of character with a strange sense of humour and a good wizard friend who told me a bit about all of you.” Hopefully, Fili wouldn’t check the veracity of that statement.
“How is this?” asked Kili, gesturing at his neat little pile of knives and arrows.
“Not bad,” Bilbo declared. “Now you can go and have supper with the others.”
He did not need to tell them twice. They bounded out of the room and ran blindly across the hall, heading towards Balin and Dwalin’s voices. Bilbo took advantage of this respite to catch his breath. He could not stop picturing their future selves, and the more he tried to repress it, the harder it was.
“You will live a long life,” he chanted to himself. “I will see you grow and be happy. You will live, you will live, you will live.”
(“I stayed in Ered Luin for years,” said Dis. “I refused to come to this place where all the people I love died.”
“I understand that,” replied Bilbo.
“It was Dwalin who convinced me to give it a chance. I suppose you know that he made many trips between Erebor and the Blue Mountains.” Bilbo nodded. Dwalin had never missed an opportunity of dropping by for tea and supper in Bag-End. “He told me of everything that was done, everything that had to be rebuilt. All thanks to them. My boys…” She trailed off. He politely waited for her to continue. “I keep wondering what they would have become. Don’t you?”)
“We’ll find out,” Bilbo told himself. He took a deep breath, made himself smile and came out of the room in time to get the door when it was knocked on again. He had the presence of mind to step aside immediately, which was the one thing that prevented him from being buried under an avalanche of guests. The smile he gave Gandalf over the chaos of Dwarves was not forced. “Right on time,” he told him. Then, to the rest of the company: “Hello, I am Bilbo Baggins, and I will be your host this evening. If you wish to put down your personal belongings, the coat and weapon room is over there, and please don’t wreck my house, I need it to make my relatives jealous.”
There was the expected chorus of introductions, which Bilbo did not even try to decipher, since he already knew all of these freaking people. Instead he took the time to have a moment of silence for his past self, who’d spent the first few days of the quest trying to subtly make people repeat their names one after the other.
“Supper is ready to be eaten.” By the time his sentence was finished, he was alone with Gandalf and Dori in the entrance. The former looked amused, the latter embarrassed.
“May I help you serve?” he offered.
“Thank you, Master Dori, I’ll take care of everything. Enjoy your evening.”
Dori beamed and left. Gandalf shrugged his shoulders as high as the ceiling allowed. “I should offer to help as well, but I don’t think I want to risk it.”
“They do say that wizards are wiser than the rest.”
Loud noises erupted in the dining room. Bilbo pursed his lips, but Gandalf seemed very pleased by this development. “Did you ever find your seven Hobbits for the will?”
He had, and it had been much harder than he anticipated to convince them that he hadn’t gone completely off the rails. “Does it matter? There won’t be a house left to pass on to my heir once the night is over.”
Gandalf laughed and joined the company. Bilbo breathed in, and out, and followed him.
The party was a lot more fun than Bilbo remembered, possibly because he didn’t care one bit about his plates this time. They still sang their little song about him and his quirks, prompted by the way he rolled his eyes when Bofur started juggling the glasses, but he had the grace to give their antics several slow, sarcastic claps. “Nice improv,” he complimented.
“Little did you know, we rehearsed it on the way,” teased Bofur.
“It was well done. So well done, in fact, that you’ve earned the right to help me wash and put everything away.” The Dwarf groaned. “Come on, Friend Bofur, you have to stimulate your appetite for dessert.”
“Worry not, my appetite doesn’t need stimulation. I’ll have dessert now, since you mention it.”
Bilbo was interrupted in the middle of his response by knocking on his door, which was the moment when it occurred to him that he had done precisely zilch to prepare himself for this. The laughter ceased instantly, which was good, since it left him the quiet he needed to really make a deep dive into his own crippling anxiety.
Gandalf grimly said, “He is here,” and started to get up, but Bilbo beat him to it.
“Let me,” he murmured. He forced his legs to move, and even though it was oddly reminiscent of trying to command his aged body to walk, too soon he found himself at the door.
“This is fine,” he thought. “I can do this.” After all, he had managed to pull himself together for Fili and Kili, and Balin, Ori and Oin. He could do this. He could definitely do this.
He pulled the door open. Thorin Oakenshield looked down at him. Bilbo closed the door.
So, nope, actually, he could not do this. His mistake.
“Bilbo?” Gandalf called from the other room.
“Mmh?” Alright, the farce had lasted long enough. This was really nice, and all, but he was ready to go back to the Undying Lands. Glorfindel had promised him to show him the cool places where the Elves hung out, and he’d prepared some songs for them. And after all, while he spent some not-so-merry time in this dream, Frodo was probably lonely, waiting for him to wake up. He shouldn’t keep Frodo waiting.
“One moment,” he called out, and then pinched his own arm as hard as he could. Nothing changed. He was still in the entryway of Bag-End.
He sighed. Well, it couldn’t be that painful. He opened the door. And no, it wasn’t that painful the second time, actually; it was worse. Very, very much worse. “Good evening,” he said. Then, wanting to circumvent a comment he vaguely remembered about looking like a grocer, he went on, “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”
Thorin frowned and stared him up and down, which Bilbo bore with no little embarrassment. After conducting his little inspection, Thorin asked wryly, “Are you?”
Bilbo blinked, wondering if he’d missed something. He probably had, to be honest; his mind did tend to wander. “Am I what?”
“At my service.”
“Well, I haven’t signed the contract yet,” admitted Bilbo, “but I am your host, so I am at your service, at least for the night.”
“It doesn’t usually involve slamming the door in guests’ faces,” remarked Thorin.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” said Bilbo, wincing at himself. Ah, the dreaded consequences of his idiotic actions. “It may have seemed strange, but there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
Thorin didn’t reply at first, but as Bilbo determinedly didn’t provide said explanation, he was obliged to ask, “Am I likely to hear it?”
“Certainly,” he replied cheerily. “You see, it’s a Hobbit custom to slam the door in the face of an esteemed guest. I didn’t do it earlier with the others, because I thought I might be axed for my politeness, but you seem like an understanding fellow.” Thorin didn’t speak. “It’s a mark of respect, really,” babbled Bilbo, fighting valiantly not to squirm under his dead friend’s watchful eye. “Anyway, please come in, I’m sure the others are waiting.”
When Bilbo had shut the door and turned to show Thorin in, he realised that though the others had in fact waited, they hadn’t done so in the dining room; and he found himself stared at by twelve Dwarves and a wizard. The latter seemed to think that Bilbo had lost his mind or was weirder than expected, and that in either case, the spectacle would be entertaining to watch.
“Gandalf,” said Thorin. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way twice.”
“How,” Bilbo mouthed to Gandalf, who gave him a quick wink.
“You found your way in the end,” Gandalf said lightly.
“Yes, and then I was almost turned away at the door.”
Gandalf cleared his throat. “Well, Hobbits have their customs, I suppose,” he said with a significant look at Bilbo, who pretended not to see it. “I believe introductions aren’t needed, so we…”
“Actually,” Bilbo cut in, “ I introduced myself.” He gave Thorin a pointed glance.
Thorin did not look impressed. “I did introduce myself. To the door.”
Dreadful consequences. Bilbo wondered how long he would hear about this for. “Nobody appreciates old regional customs anymore,” he declared sadly. “Soon people will even disregard basic etiquette and stop introducing themselves to the Hobbit who cooked a large meal for their company.”
Thorin made a point to straighten up and show off how much taller he was than Bilbo. “Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, inclining his head. “Leader of this company. At your service.”
Despite what he’d said, Bilbo spared Bofur the chore of doing the dishes. Instead, he took it as an excuse to avoid the dining room, and found that it made the whole business easier.
He tried to convince himself that he would see Thorin live past the Battle of the Five Armies, but, and this should not have surprised him, his heart was a stubborn thing which refused to listen.
He leaned his forehead against a cabinet and tried to calm down. How was it that what should have been an absolute blessing, what should have generated tears of joy, caused him a universe of pain? How did it not erase a lifetime’s worth of grief? How long had he vainly wished to see Thorin again, how many nights had he dreamed of their last goodbye, and of what he wished he’d said? Why wasn’t he happy? Why did he want to curl into a ball and wail until he found himself back in a boat sailing West?
“Ah, Bilbo, come here, my dear fellow,” called Gandalf.
Bilbo straightened up and pushed it all away. He could do that. He’d chosen good humour for decades, he couldn’t allow himself to fall apart now. Later. Later. Later.
He wiped his hands and made his way back to the dining room. “I’m here,” he told Gandalf, and only Gandalf, and not anyone else in the room whose presence may or may not trigger a fainting spell.
“I was just explaining to everyone that you’d accepted the position of burglar in Thorin’s Company.”
Let it be known that he had, in fact, said no such thing. “I did, then?” he asked wryly. “I have not seen the contract.”
“And I did not offer him the job,” Thorin remarked. He half turned in his seat to peer at Bilbo. “He doesn’t look like a burglar, more like…”
“Looks are deceiving,” Bilbo cut in. He swore to Eärendil, if he got compared to a grocer, Thorin was not having any dessert. What was even the problem with grocers? No way to get groceries without them. “For instance, you look like you were going to say something rude, but I’m sure you’re way too polite to do that. For all you know, I robbed all of your Company right under their noses.”
“Likely,” scoffed Dwalin.
“Where are your weapons?” asked Bilbo.
A hint of doubt crossed Dwalin’s face, and it came back when Bilbo didn’t break eye contact. He became red in the face. “What…”
“I’m joking, they’re still in the other room. Made you scared though.”
Dwalin scowled fiercely, but he did seem to believe him, at least. He grumbled something about Hobbits who should be careful lest they be murdered for a joke, but since he didn’t have his weapons on him, there was a limit to the efficacy of his threats.
“Besides in jest, have you any experience in thievery?” asked Thorin.
(Thorin’s beautiful eyes flashed as he looked at Bilbo. “You would steal from me?”)
“Not yet. Have you?” He still wasn’t looking at Thorin’s face, so he missed his reaction, but he could tell with moderate to absolute certainty that he was being glared at. “Are you willing to enter a mountain and risk ending up in worse shape than my cousin Lobelia’s rosemary pie entry at the 677th annual pie contest of Buckland?”
A few of the Dwarves snickered openly, and a few more cleared their throat to hide their amusement. Thorin did not laugh, but Bilbo was not overly surprised. “A dragon is no laughing matter.”
“Neither are burnt-up pies. You did not answer my question. Are you willing to do it?”
“No,” admitted Thorin.
“There you have it, then,” said Bilbo. “I’ll go inside. I’m light on my feet, and I’ll wager that Smaug’s never smelled a Hobbit before, so he won’t hear or smell me coming.”
“How do you know the dragon’s name?” asked Gandalf.
Bilbo frowned at him. He’d forgotten that he had to pretend not to know about what he hadn’t been told yet. This may be easier if he remembered to pay attention when people were talking. Though honestly, if he couldn’t count on the wizard to cover for his blunders, who could he count on?
“I’m a scholar,” he said lightly. “I read it in a book.” Gandalf raised his eyebrows and stared at him, but Bilbo averted his eyes. They landed on Thror’s map. Perfect. “Is that the map, then?”
“Yes,” replied Thorin. “I suppose you’ll want to take a look at it, Master Scholar?”
Bilbo looked up at his face by reflex, and got lost there. Thorin looked younger than Bilbo recalled; probably because Bilbo had grown very old and Thorin had died way too soon. But he looked sterner than in Bilbo’s memory. Of course, most of Bilbo’s memories of him had been replaced by his last moment, and the tranquil smile on his face when he’d spoken his last words.
That memory came to him again now (“I’m glad you’re here…”), but Bilbo pushed it far, far away. He really needed to get a grip on his drifting mind, this was becoming annoying.
He shook his head and blinked several times in quick succession, focusing his gaze on the map. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t know how helpful I could be. For all that I can decipher Cirth, I’m sadly not proficient in Khuzdul.” He wondered whether he should say something about the moon runes, but that may be suspicious, at least to Gandalf.
Besides, Bilbo was loath to miss an opportunity to visit Rivendell; if Gandalf knew about the runes, he would have no reason to push the company that way to ask for Elrond’s advice, since all they’d have to do was wait out the moon cycle and make Gandalf read them. Plus, the change of route would impact the rest of the journey and negate Bilbo’s advantage. Better to keep the runes to himself.
“I am not too sure about this, Thorin,” said Balin. “No offence, laddie.” Bilbo waved this aside. Last time, he’d agreed with him wholeheartedly.
“Aye,” said Dwalin, “the wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves.” Well, alright, that was a little hurtful.
“I’ll be fine,” said Bilbo. “Besides, I just redid my will. Even if I die, I’ll at least have the satisfaction of posthumously causing my cousins extreme frustration and disappointment.”
This did not seem to assuage Balin’s concern. In fact, more of the Dwarves seemed to share it now.
“I was joking,” he said. He had a feeling it wasn’t the last time he would need to specify this. “This was a joke. Please don’t worry about me, I may not fight, but I can fend for myself. I’ll at least be safe until the dragon.”
He must have done a piss job of being persuasive, because Gandalf still felt compelled to add, “You asked me to find the fourteenth 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 to offer than any of you know, including myself. You must trust me on this.”
Thorin nodded his assent, and asked Balin for the contract. Bilbo made a show of reading it. “About the funeral arrangement,” he said, “what do they entail, exactly?”
“Burial, typically,” replied Balin.
Bilbo hummed. “Where?”
“Where it’s possible, I suppose. Though we can add a mention that you be moved to a place of your choosing when we can afford to do so.”
“That would be lovely. Do you have a pen?”
Balin took out a quill from his pocket. Bilbo handed him the contract, sidestepping Bofur, who made a point to shove his pointy hat into his face, because if he couldn’t make him faint, he would at least be as obnoxious as he could. “Should I write down the address to your family plot?”
Bilbo shook his head. “Just refer to my will, it’s all in there.” He imagined the expression on Elrond’s face, if he did die and a bunch of Dwarves showed up in Rivendell to claim a spot as a grave for their dead Hobbit.
Balin gave him the contract back, and Bilbo borrowed his quill to sign it.
“Well, it’s done,” he announced.
“Welcome, Master Friend,” said Bofur, giving him a healthy slap on the back. “Good to have you on board.”
The others bade him welcome as well, though none more enthusiastically than Gandalf, and none less so than Thorin.
“We should drink to that,” intervened Gloin. “Master Baggins, I don’t suppose you have any wine left?”
“You know very little of my people, to ask such a question,” Bilbo scoffed, turning to head to the pantry.
As he did, he caught Thorin’s voice, low and near Gandalf’s ear. “I cannot guarantee his safety, nor will I be responsible for his fate.”
He halted a second, listening for Gandalf’s reply. When it came, it made him smile. “Somehow, I don’t believe this will be a problem.”
If Bilbo could brag about one thing, it was that he had timed his retreat more or less perfectly. “Well,” he said after clearing up the glasses for a second time, “I’d better go to bed now, since we leave early in the morning.”
“What, now?” asked Nori. “But what about dessert?”
“Oh, yes, do feel free to help yourself to anything that’s left. In fact, please eat all you can, it would be better not to leave anything to rot. Good night!”
“But wait,” cried Kili, grabbing at Bilbo’s arm. “We were about to sing.”
“Please do. Stay as long as you like, all night even, although I don’t have many beds. Sweet dreams!”
“Don’t you want to hear our song?” asked Ori.
Bilbo hesitated. “I… I would love to hear it,” he lied, “but I’m very tired. Maybe you could sing it again later? It’ll be a long trip, I’m sure we’ll have a lot of time for singing.”
“But it’s not a travelling song,” protested Fili.
“Leave him be,” commanded a stern voice. Bilbo felt a rush of gratitude for Thorin, but he went on: “A Hobbit would not care about dwarven songs.”
Bilbo’s smile waned. “I should let it go,” he thought. His mouth did not follow that order.
“All due respect,” he said, “you do not know the things a Hobbit would care about. And though you did not ask, I will tell you one of them: getting a good rest before a long journey.”
Thorin bowed his head. The other Dwarves looked sheepishly between the two of them. Before the silence became heavy, Bilbo forced himself to cheer up, and said, “You will all be grateful in the morning, when you take the road with a fresh and well-disposed Hobbit instead of a cranky one. Good night.”
He received a few answers on his way out, and paused to catch his breath in the hallway. None of them commented on him, which was good, but he tore himself away when he heard the sounds of instruments being tuned. He closed the door of his bedroom right before the first notes of the song started, but they filtered through anyway, and so did the Dwarves’ voices.
As Thorin and the company began the mournful ode to their lost home, Bilbo finally, finally allowed himself to break. He wept as he took off his clothes and dressed for the night, he wept as he crawled under the covers of his bed, and he wept as he fell asleep, lulled by the melody and the voice that had been taken from his past and thrusted into his present.