Chapter Text
Erebor was a myth – a legend. It was nothing more than a whisper. A world, a mountain, a palace; a cavern filled with gold and jewels, an entire civilization erased from the world, nothing but a lost treasure to prove it was real.
“A long, long time ago,” his mother would begin, tucking Bilbo into his bed. “Long before the pyramids and ages before the land between Euphrates and Tigris was settled, another civilization breathed and lived. Legend tells that it was a lone, solitary peak, and past the rocky exterior, found deep within the mountain was a city.”
“Erebor,” Bilbo would whisper reverently, arms wrapped around a stuffed dragon. “The Lonely Mountain.”
“That’s right,” his mother would say, lightly tapping his nose. He’d giggle as he wiggled his nose as he knew his mother liked. “Erebor.
“It was a rich and beautiful kingdom, and it lay deep within the mountain, tunnels and caverns served as halls and rooms. Giant caves where crystals lined the very stone, twinkling in the sunlight.
“Thousands upon thousands lived within Erebor, a strong city, a strong home. It was said that no one could match Erebor in brain, nor brawn. Their language so complex, their writing so beautiful, that strangers could not comprehend.
“It came so they could not leave their mountain for fear of those savage stranger who lived on the borders of their kingdom.
“Yet, the mountain was rich with the most valuable minerals. Gold, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, quartz, the list was endless. There was nothing but wealth within the mountain, and Erebor grew rich, their superiority on display for all to see.
“But all good things must come to an end, my dear Bilbo,” she said.
Bilbo would pout, his large eyes turned up at her, tears beginning to surface. “Finish the story, mum,” he’d insist. “Please.”
“It is time for bed,” Belladonna would tell him, kissing his forehead and turning off the light.
Tucked neatly into bed, Bilbo would stare up at the glowing stars stuck to the ceiling. He’d pretend they were jewels, reflecting the light of the moon like they did in Erebor.
Bilbo knew the story by heart, but still, every night he’d ask for it once more. He snuggled deep within his blankets and looked his dragon in the eye, finishing the story himself.
“It is said,” he’d inform his bedmate, “that on a festival day, a celebration for another year of peace and praus-tear-it-tee, a wind rushed through the mountain. A dragon!” He would lift his toy and make it fly, whooshing and whirring as he held it above his head.
“Fire overtook the mountain and Erebor was taken, lost to its people, forced out to wander the lands they had feared. A city destroyed and lost to time,” he finished.
The hall was empty, the clock ticking above Bilbo only adding to his nervousness. His toes tapped nervously, fingers resting on his knees, nails digging into his trousers, wrinkling the ever famous Baggins press. This was the third time he’d come to the Istari University Research Board.
He’d been rejected twice, and he wasn’t sure if he could handle a third rejection.
Though if that happened, he’d just have to chin up and work harder. He nodded resolutely. That was all there was to it.
He let go of his knees, smoothing down his trousers. Bilbo looked once more at the clock above him and pursed his lips. Surely they were done discussing It now.
The door opened and Bilbo looked up. The prominent line at Gandalf’s brow said it all. “Oh,” Bilbo muttered, taking in a breath. He nodded once more, lightly slapping his hands against his thighs before standing, gathering his books and papers. “I suppose it can’t be helped.”
“Perhaps next year,” Gandalf said cheerfully, grabbing Bilbo’s worn, leather satchel.
Bilbo smiled his thanks as Gandalf held the door open for him, and the two made their way out onto the campus, the early Summer sun saturating the green in the trees and the petals on the flowers.
“It was the map, wasn’t it?” Bilbo asked, stopping in the middle of the pavement, students passing them by as Bilbo focused on his loafers.
He looked up at Gandalf, arms helplessly flapping at his sides. “I know it’s impossible, Gandalf. I really do,” Bilbo revealed. “But Erebor is out there.”
Gandalf set a reassuring hand on his shoulder, shepherding him towards a bench. “We need to decipher the map,” Gandalf said. “It’s the only way they’ll actually consider you for the fellowship.”
Bilbo perked up. “Really?”
“Have I ever lied to you?” Gandalf asked.
A snort escaped Bilbo. More like, when hadn’t Gandalf lied to him? “You haven’t an honest bone in your body,” Bilbo told him. He watched the students pass them by, rushing off to their classes, the summer air beginning to stir a restlessness in all of them. Bilbo could feel the same bubbling up inside him.
If he could somehow find someone to translate the map, his mother’s map, then it was very much possible to get the Fellowship. And if he got the Fellowship – well if he got the damned Fellowship he’d pack his bags this instant and finally go looking for Erebor.
An expedition – an adventure! He’d finally be able to prove himself right. He’d walk into the lonely mountain and be greeted by jewels and gold and a world so distant from his own chances were Bilbo would break down and cry right then and there.
As much as Bilbo’s heart sang with the thought, his brain quickly doused the full-size orchestra to a lone fiddler. The map was his biggest issue.
His mother had given it to him, having found it when she was still in her youth, just as enamored of the legendary tale of Erebor as he. On her death bed she had made him promise not to be a foolish lad and go traipsing after a myth, but Bilbo couldn’t rest.
She was the one who had ignited the fire, and no amount of attempts to contain it ever succeeded. He had nothing but a map he couldn’t read and a bed time story keep the hope alive.
He had taken the map to experts, hoping that they’d be able to decipher the runic writing, but no luck. It was no language anyone could decipher, no roots in any dead languages, the alphabet like nothing seen before. Some claimed it appeared to be a form of Norse, but even those experts had scowled at Bilbo.
The map was impossible to decipher. And as long as that was so, he would never find his way to Erebor.
“I may know someone who could help,” Gandalf murmured.
Bilbo gaped at him. “Why didn’t you ever say?” he snapped, standing up in a fit of fury. “I’ve been trying to read the damned thing for years!” He ripped his bag from Gandalf’s hands and stormed away, huffing angrily just thinking of stupid Gandalf.
“Shall I give him a ring?” Gandalf called after him.
“Yes!” Bilbo shouted back. “And then throw yourself into a river, you thorn in my backside.” Gandalf’s chuckles irked him further. If he wasn’t so fond of the old man, he would have thrown him in himself.
Thorin had been reduced to introductory Archeology classes.
He had once been a revered and respected archeologist and professor, and now he was teaching at a two-bit tech school where every student took a liberal arts class simply to get enough credits to graduate. He used to enter a lecture hall overflowing with students, all eager to hear him teach.
Now he was lucky if half his class showed up.
He stared down at the students in front him, all tapping their pencils anxiously, and Thorin couldn’t help but grin. It was the final. And dear god above, he was going to make them suffer.
“You’ve got two hours,” he said, holding up the stack of tests above his head. “You’re each going to come up here, grab a test, and I expect every single one of these back in my hand at exactly ten o’clock.”
Thorin threw the stack down onto the table and sat down in a chair, pulling his laptop out of his bag. The students rushed towards him, nearly fighting each other for the test.
He chuckled quietly. There were at least two hundred questions on that test, and only half of it was covered in class.
Now he wasn’t unjustly cruel. If his students actually read the textbook then they’d ace the test. But no one ever read the textbook. Oh, a few would learn their lesson after the midterm, but none had ever studied sufficiently enough to get higher than a barely passing grade.
It was the little things in life, Thorin always believed.
Perhaps one day he was going to be wowed, but today was not going to be that day. Not with this lot of students.
The minutes ticked by, all of which Thorin spent playing Solitaire, staring down every student that felt they had finished their test. He’d smirk up at every one of them, as if to say, “Are you sure about that?” The nervous gulps quite easily told him that they weren’t.
“Alright,” he finally said, “Time’s up. Tests in.” He watched as his students groaned, shuffling out of their seats and turning in their tests.
He was shuffling them into a neat pile when he spotted someone sitting the back of the classroom, still in their seat. “I said time’s up,” he declared, turning to look the troublemaker in the eye only to met with Gandalf’s mischievous grin.
Thorin scowled, stuffing the pile of tests into his bag. “What do you want?” he asked, feeling Gandalf watching his every move. “Whatever it is, I’m not interested.”
“I just came to visit an old friend,” Gandalf answered. “And perhaps grab a bit to eat at that Korean restaurant down the street.”
Thorin sighed, jerking his head at Gandalf to follow him. There wasn’t a point in putting up a fight.
Thorin sat in the booth across from Gandalf, arms crossed, drilling a suspicious glare into the older man. Gandalf just smiled, humming under his breath as he played with the straw wrapper. “They’ve got the best bibimbap,” Gandalf commented.
“What do you want?” Thorin asked, knowing that Gandalf would just beat around the subject. Thorin liked to face conflicts head on, none of this dodging the issue that Gandalf excelled at.
“Why must you always be so suspicious?” Gandalf tried, smiling at a passing waiter.
Thorin placed his hands on the table, leaning forward, saying, “The last time you came to speak to me, I became the laughing stock of Ered Luin University.”
“You weren’t wrong, you know,” Gandalf insisted. “Moria does exist.”
“You had me traipsing all over Belgium, making a fool of myself,” Thorin continued. “And all because you had a hunch.” The derisive tone was apparent, and Gandalf could do nothing more than accept the verbal assault. “Then in swooped Thranduil!”
“I was unaware he had a map,” Gandalf cut in.
“Finds the damned city in three months – in Austria!” Thorin nodded curtly at the waitress who placed his food before him. Thorin angrily tore apart his chopsticks, the wood breaking in half. “While I’m in Ghent, brushing up on my Dutch.”
A new set of chopsticks was placed beside him and Thorin snatched them up, holding them tightly in his hands. “So pardon me, if I’m not very happy to see you, Gandalf.”
Gandalf sighed, looking forlornly at the professor. He had truly believed Moria was in Belgium. All the signs had pointed to it. And yet somehow, Thranduil had worked it out before Gandalf realized he had made a mistake; sending Thorin on a wild goose chase over 600 miles north of the city’s resting place.
He knew it was going to be difficult to enlist Thorin. But he was the best, and Bilbo deserved the best. He had spent his whole life fantasizing of discovering Erebor, and it was about time he went looking for it.
“It’s Erebor,” Gandalf carefully said. Thorin looked up from where he was practically stabbing his chicken teriyaki, mouth agape. He saw the glint in the professor’s eye. The one that lit up at the thought of adventure, discovery – Thorin had been dreaming of Erebor for ages.
Then just as quickly the fire was doused and Thorin resumed his scowling. “Somewhere near Egypt?” he snarled.
“It’ll be different this time,” Gandalf stated. Thorin looked completely unimpressed. “For one, we have a map.”
Thorin dropped his chopsticks. “That’s impossible,” he breathed. “Erebor doesn’t exist.”
“It very much so exists,” Gandalf chastised him. “A very dear friend of mine needs the map deciphered.”
A frown quickly replaced Thorin’s look of shock. “A friend? You expect me to work with some professor who’s probably never left the comfort of his desk,” Thorin scoffed. “No, thank you.”
“I supposed you’re right,” deflated Gandalf. “It was worth a try.”
Thorin stopped mid-bite. Gandalf never gave up. He was a persistent old man. Thorin suddenly had a feeling we was being played, and he didn’t like it one bit.