Chapter Text
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Bilbo Baggins had been quite happy with his life as a gentlehobbit of the Shire. Of all his lives, his hobbit life as the son of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins had proven quite the comfortable life.
Then, the wizard came, turning greetings into riddles and invitations into rhymes, and Bilbo found himself inviting the wizard to dinner to shut him up, only to immediately regret it.
If the wizard came to dinner, he would have to listen to even more of Gandalf’s nonsense!
Oh, peas.
He would have to make dinner for two, now.
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As it turned out, he had needed dinner for fifteen.
Following the light of a rune - a rune! - Gandalf had scraped - scraped! - into Bilbo’s door the day before, thirteen dwarves had arrived to Bag End, apparently after deciding to use Bilbo’s home as their meeting point - a meeting point!
They were serving themselves from the pantries.
Bilbo was in an armchair with a small glass of strong wine.
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It was at the dinner table, some time later, the dwarves caught Bilbo’s interest - with a map.
“...The Lonely Mountain…” Bilbo read, looking down at the worn map, showing a lone mountain in a wasteland, with a red dragon flying above.
“Aye! Óin has read the portents and the portents say it is time.” the very fluffy of the red-heads - brother of Óin… Glóin? - said.
Several dwarves groaned, likely at the mentions of portents. Divination had never been very popular for more than a few years at a time, and even then with a side of scepticism.
“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold: When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.” the grey-beard with the hearing device - Óin himself, no doubt - declared.
Bilbo glanced at the map with the red dragon on it.
“Uh… What beast?” he asked, carefully, having paced in the hallway while the brothers spoke.
“Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age.” the brunette with the silly hat said, waiving his pipe around theatrically as he spoke. “Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meathooks. Extremely fond of precious metals.”
“Yes, I know what a dragon is.” Bilbo said, tiring of the explanation to such a point that he grew careless.
“I’m not afraid! I’m up for it!” the young red-head with the unfortunate bowl-cut declared, standing up to the scraping sound of his chair beeing shoved back. “I’ll give him a taste of Dwarfish iron right up his jacksie!” the youngster declared and Bilbo was both happy for the distraction and quietly amused by the phrasing.
“Good lad, Ori!” one dwarf called, in a choir of enthusiastic agreements, while another grey-air with very tight braid-work pulled the youngling down.
“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us, but we number just thirteen!” another grey-hair, this one completely without braids of any kind, reminded the lot with a strong voice. “And not thirteen of the best, nor brightest.”
Quiet fell on the table and Bilbo took care to remain within hearing range, quietly wondering what the dwarves were up to, exactly.
There were protests, biggest one from the carefully braided blonde. “We may be few in number.” the blonde said - Kíli? Fíli? One of those - fist knocking on the table for attention, and he had it. “But we’re fighters, all of us, to the last dwarf!” The blonde slammed his palm into the table again, to underline his point.
Not a very good point, considering they still numbered only thirteen and a dragon could eat as much and more in a single snack, but at leasts he was enthusiastic.
“And you forget.” his dark-haired neighbour picked up - the other one of the two. “We have a wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!”
“Oh, well, no, I wouldn’t say-!” Gandalf started protesting and Bilbo walked away smiling to find himself a fresh cup of tea.
Gandalf, kill a dragon? Maybe a cold-drake, but the wizard used fire as his focus. A fire-drake was quite safe against him…
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“...the dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years.” the impressive dark-haired leader was saying as Bilbo returned. “Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing…”
…it was a prideful speech, building some urgency to their quest.
Bilbo sipped his tea, then nearly spat it again as Gandalf the Grey handed Thorin Oakenshield a key. A key! To a secret door!
“If there is a key… there must be a door.” the blonde - Fíli? Kíli? Oh, these names were killing him already - reasoned, echoing Bilbo’s own thoughts.
Gandalf nodded and pointed to the map. “These runes speak of a hidden passage to the Lower Halls.” the wizard confirmed.
Bilbo stretched his neck to see, reading the script with ancient, probably outdated knowledge. Languages changed so very fast, and yet, not at all…
“There’s another way in.” the other brother said excitedly.
…and Bilbo knew he would need to stop them.
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He had not been able to stop them.
Despite overeating and overdrinking and staying up far too late, and despite Bilbo refusing to sign on as the burglar they desperately needed to have any chance of success in this venture, Bilbo still woke up to find the dwarves departed and the contract for burglary on his mantelpiece.
Bugger it all.
He picked up the contract and ran.
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