Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins was unusually young for the important job of being mayor, but he was from a respectable family, well-read and well-connected, and he had an earnestness about him that inspired trust. Perry Bolger, a middle-aged hobbit who used to work with Bilbo’s father, assisted him in his duties, and between the two of them Shire was kept peaceful and content.
But recently, that peace had been tested.
It was early evening, and in the tidy office room of Bag End, Bilbo poured over reports of missing animals and crops with weary sighs, holding page after page up to the candlelight to read. The soft golden glow lit up his worried face, and put a glimmer in his blue eyes that flickered as he read. Behind him, Perry stood by the office door, his round face perturbed.
“We know who is doing this, of course,” the elder hobbit said.
Last moon, a large troop of dwarves had settled on the outskirts of Hobbiton to much suspicious rumor. Hobbits were wary of strangers, especially ones with such large axes and swords, as was reported, and so the two groups had left each other well alone. Or so Bilbo had thought.
He dropped the papers to his desk. “Perhaps they don’t know our ways,” he said contemplatively.
Perry sighed. His major complaint about Bilbo’s leadership was always that he didn’t have a healthy aversion to things from outside the Shire. Bilbo tried, but he was just too interested. “Dwarves know what ownership is. The thefts are deliberate.”
Bilbo knew his elder was right. These dwarves were different from the ones in his books, who all buried deep into rock and mountain, carving out cities and mining precious jewels. He’d never heard of nomadic dwarves before, certainly not ones that came this far west from the mountains. “They must be desperate to be reduced to stealing,” Bilbo said. “Dwarves are a proud people.”
“Desperate or not, stealing is a crime in the Shire,” said Perry sternly. “If they want to live within our borders, they must follow our laws.”
Bilbo was afraid of the dwarves. As interesting as they were to read about, and Bilbo had poured over many volumes, he was scared of meeting them in the flesh. They were so different from hobbits; loud, warlike and hungry for gold where hobbits were quiet creatures of simple pleasures. But he had a duty to uphold.
“I’ll visit the dwarves with our complaints,” Bilbo decided, and heard Perry breathe a sigh of relief behind him. “We can take the animals back from them, too. I’m sure they’ll understand why their behaviour is wrong if we explain the effect they’re having on us hobbits.” He turned to look up at his advisor. “Perhaps we could persuade them to move on? The Shire is hardly a place for dwarves to live comfortably.”
Perry looked reassured by his choice. “And I will go with you, Bilbo, and Mr Gent Bunowes too, from the Lockholes.” At Bilbo’s confused expression, he explained himself. “Hobbits have been going to him with their complaints in the hopes that the dwarves could be locked up, you see, so he will have plenty of stories to tell if it comes to that.”
Bilbo was unsure about Gent’s involvement. He didn’t think the dwarves would take a hobbit’s warning seriously, let alone be swayed by it. But he trusted Perry’s judgement. “Very well. Let’s go.”
* * *
The three hobbits set off, travelling down the winding paths of The Hill, over rolling fields to cross the river. At the foot of the border forest there glowed three orange lights in the darkness, smoke and sparks unfurling into the deep blue sky. There was a circle of caravans and tents around each fire, surrounding the solid figures of the dwarves who were singing, cooking over the fire, eating, and drinking mead from wooden cups.
The dwarves were taller than any hobbit Bilbo knew, and stouter too, with large hands and thick limbs. They wore their hair long and all grew beards, decorated with plaits and hair beads. Bilbo had never seen anything like them before, and Perry had to nudge him so he would stop staring. The dwarves hadn’t heard their approach, and Bilbo was planning to walk right in and announce himself when Gent Bunowes caught sight of the animal pen, guarded by a sleeping dwarf with wild black hair and some sort of protrusion from his forehead.
“My prize goat!” Gent hissed, on catching sight of the white goat grazing peacefully. He shot off towards the pen even as Bilbo’s voice raised in warning, his hairy feet racing silently over the ground, but the sleeping dwarf had already woken. With a roar in a language Bilbo didn’t understand, the dwarf started towards the squeaking hobbit. The light revealed the protrusion to be, implausibly, the head of an axe stuck in his skull.
“Gent!” called out Bilbo, sprinting across the cool grass, true fear rising in his chest as Gent slipped and fell, hitting the ground with a solid thump.
Before the crazed dwarf could do anything, another dwarf with jet black hair and an odd fur hat leapt from the circle of caravans and waved his arms wildly, shouting in that strange language. He had managed to calm the other by the time Bilbo approached and knelt by Gent’s side.
“They don’t even speak Common!” cried Gent as Bilbo pulled the frightened hobbit to his feet, his own heart beating fast in his chest at coming so close to losing someone he knew. Gent let Bilbo rub his shoulders, his back trembling like he was about to cry. Over his shoulder, Bilbo watched the crazed dwarf take his seat again and instantly fall to sleep, as if he’d never awoken in the first place.
The dwarf with the hat caught Bilbo’s eye and wandered on over. He circled the two of them, and on catching sight of Gent’s traumatised expression, ducked down to be more on level with him with a cheery grin.
“Actually, we all speak Common, little hobbit. However, my cousin Bifur here had an unfortunate run in with an orc axe.” He mimed chopping into his forehead with a wince. “Head on. It must have messed up how he learns language, because he can only speak Khuzdul now. Don’t try and teach him Common. He just gets angry.”
Perry had caught up with them, staring up at the dwarf in shock. Both dwarves were taller than them, although they weren’t the size of Big People. The dwarf’s strange clothing and jolly face, with the big round ears and black hair everywhere, were so alien to them all that they could do little but gape impolitely up at him.
“It’s a pleasure to meet three fine hobbits from this lovely town of yours,” announced the dwarf suddenly, sweeping off his hat and dipping into a deep bow. “My name is Bofur.”
Still a little shocked, the hobbits bowed cautiously in return. Bilbo spoke for them, raising his chin. “My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I’m the mayor of the Shire.” He gestured to his companions. “This is Perry Bolger, who assists me, and Gent Bunowes, who is here on behalf of those who couldn’t come here themselves.”
Bofur dipped his head at all of him. “Charmed. How can I help you? You hobbits haven’t visited us before, although of course you are very welcome.”
“As we should be. It’s our land, after all,” said Gent grumpily, but Bilbo elbowed him sharply. “Ow!”
“Do you dwarves have a leader?”
Bofur nodded, his eyes flicking off to the side. “Aye, we do.”
Bilbo nodded, confused by the dwarf’s sudden reticence. “I’m here to speak to them.”
Bofur ummed and ahhed, scratching at his forehead. “Perhaps now is not the time.”
“It’s a pressing matter, Mr Bofur,” said Bilbo, in the polite but firm tone he’d learnt from his father. He wasn’t sure if Bofur could see the fear in him, behind the bravado, but the dwarf gave in regardless.
“Right. Well then, follow me, gentlehobbits,” he said, amiably enough, and led the way into the camp. Bilbo cleared his throat nervously and followed, while his stunned companions shadowed him in silence.
* * *
Bofur led them pass many curious dwarves, who luckily were too content to do anything more than stare at them, into the largest circle of caravans around the biggest fire. Bilbo trotted up to Bofur’s side, his head tilted in query.
“How many of you are there?”
“Oh, only around sixty here,” said Bofur conversationally. “We were more, but we split into smaller groups. It makes for easier travelling.”
Resting by the finest and largest caravan in the largest circle was a huge bald dwarf, with a thick brown beard and an axe that was bigger than Bilbo. He glanced at the hobbits with shrewd eyes that glinted in the firelight, and then turned to Bofur. “Are we borrowing hobbits, now, too?”
The hobbits shivered, suddenly aware of how vulnerable they were, but Bofur just laughed like it was hilarious. “Aha! No! Of course not, Dwalin. These fellows want to see Thorin.” Bofur gripped Bilbo by the shoulder and propelled him forward. “This here is the mayor of the Shire, Bilbo Baggins.”
“Hello, how do you do,” Bilbo squeaked, then coughed. “Good evening Mr… Dwalin.”
Dawlin raised his eyebrows at them, then cast a glance up a Bofur, who smiled a winning smile. He shook his head and stepped to the side, eyes crinkled with amusement. “Go on, then,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Bilbo with barely recovered dignity, and he walked up the squeaky wooden steps into the caravan.
The curtains flapped shut behind them, shutting out the campsite, and the air smelt of cedarwood and beeswax. At the back of the caravan were two armored figures, one very tall and dark-haired, the other older with a long white beard. They were crouching over an old map pinned over a scored and marked table, lit by large yellow candles. There was little furniture, and discounting the weapons and shields there was no decoration on the wood and canvas walls. The wood was worn under his feet. It was the nicest of the caravans, but still poor accommodation.
The dwarves looked up as Bofur announced, “We have little visitors from Hobbiton.”
The white-haired one smiled kindly at them, but the dark-haired one remained expressionless. He had a proud bearing, and icy eyes that buried into Bilbo like fishhooks. Neither of the parties spoke, and Bilbo in his nervousness at the end of that imposing gaze had forgotten all he read of dwarvish custom, so he timidly stepped forward to introduce himself.
“My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he began, “and I’m—”
“The mayor of the Shire,” interrupted the dark-haired dwarf. He had deep, loud voice, even for a dwarf. “We heard.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Baggins,” said the white-haired dwarf with a little bob. “My name is Balin. This here is our leader, Thorin Oakenshield.”
Perry and Gent gaped like fish at his side. Bilbo swallowed down his apprehension at being in this small enclosure full of strange dwarves and sharp weapons, and directed his gaze at Thorin. “It’s you who I’ve come to see, Mr Oakenshield.”
“I guessed as much,” said Thorin, rolling the papers off his rickety table and stowing them to the side. He was dressed in midnight blue armor with glinting steel scales, and a thick grey fur coat that shielded him from the cold. He seemed too royal and grand to be standing in a caravan, even a large one such as this. “How can I help you, Mr Baggins?”
“I’m here on behalf of my people,” said Bilbo, raising his chin. “For the past month you have been living here peacefully enough, for which we are thankful, but it seems you can’t live off the land. I am happy for you to continue living here -” Gent squeaked in protest, “- but stealing is against the law. My people have found their animals missing, some have reported thefts on crops at the edge of town. Indeed, we recognised many of our animals in your pen outside, including my companion’s prize goat.”
Gent fixed Thorin with a frightened but determined scowl. Bilbo could feel Perry’s proud glance in his direction. He’d been more eloquent than he thought himself capable.
Thorin and Balin exchanged shamed glances. Bilbo could tell they didn’t want to steal, and he guessed it was out of necessity or ignorance of the land, rather than a desire to harm. “The Shire is a land of plenty,” he said, and the dwarves looked to him again. “There is no reason you can’t live here comfortably without taking from others. If you want food, you can hunt, farm, and shop like everyone else.”
It was hard to hold Thorin’s gaze, but Bilbo managed with his head held high.
Thorin dipped his head. “I must apologise on behalf of my people,” he said, and it was clear the words were hard for him to say. “We arrived here desperate and starving, and we are only trying to provide for ourselves.”
“I understand,” said Bilbo, filled with relief. He’d been scared Thorin laughing at him and sending him on his way. The dwarves were certainly strong enough to take from the hobbits without fearing reprise. “But it has been a month, and I must get my people’s animals back. I hope that won’t be any trouble,” he quickly added on.
While Thorin mused broodingly at the tabletop, Balin quickly nodded and glanced around. “Not a problem at all. Ah, Bofur?”
“Hm?” Bofur started from where he’d been resting at the side. “Oh!” he exclaimed, and scuttled off.
“Bofur will round everything up for you, said Balin. “I hope that’s alright.”
“It is.” Bilbo’s returning smile was genuine. “I’m very glad. I must confess, I was afraid you would keep everything and there would be nothing I could do about it. We hobbits aren’t capable of taking things back from you dwarves by force.”
“You don’t need to worry about that” said Thorin firmly. “We dwarves have honour, although we may not look it right now.”
From the finery of their clothes, Bilbo could tell that these dwarves weren’t always wanderers. His curiosity, a Tookish trait he’d never been able to shake off, grew stronger. “I hope your situation improves, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, with a short bow. “Hopefully our two peoples can stay in contact and avoid things like this in the future.”
“That would be beneficial,” said Thorin, inclining his head in return.
“Have a good evening,” said Bilbo, and now that he was so close to leaving he felt his throat start to swell out of nerviness. He silently gestured for his companions to follow him and they hopped out of the caravan, all shivering in the night air.
“You didn’t let me tell any of my stories,” said Gent huffily, as soon as he’d stopped shaking.
“We didn’t need to antagonise them,” Bilbo explained. “Look!” Bofur had gathered the animals, and was waiting for them at the edge of the campsite. He also had a basket of the stolen vegetables. “We’ve gotten them back,” said Bilbo with a sigh. “Everything’s worked out.”
“You are very optimistic, Bilbo,” said Perry with a deep frown.
“That Thorin person seemed suspicious,” said Gent. “What was he looking at on his maps? Do you think they’d try to invade?”
“Of course not,” said Bilbo. “Dwarves like mountains and gold. They are at our borders out of necessity, not because of anything we have in the Shire.”
“How long will you let them stay?” asked Perry in a hushed voice as they approached Bofur.
“I don’t know,” murmured Bilbo, smiling at Bofur. “Let’s see how it goes.”
* * *
It could have gone better.
A few days after the terrifying trip to the dwarvish camp, Bilbo was writing at his table when Perry interrupted him by knocking firmly at his front door.
“Is everything okay?” asked Bilbo, ushering the elder hobbit indoors.
Perry had a small sheaf of paper. “I have more complaints from the people.”
They smoked their pipes on the porch of Bag End as Bilbo read over the complaints. The hobbits who lived near the forest and the dwarvish camp were growing increasingly afraid. The noises of drunkenness, fighting and carousing were threatening to them, and they were only getting louder.
“I shall talk to Thorin this evening,” decided Bilbo, already fretting at yet more trouble landing on his doorstep. He took an agitated suck of his pipe, brows lowered.
“Mr Gent Bunowes is busy today,” Perry began, but Bilbo shook his head.
“It’s fine. I’ll go alone.”
“Alone?” Perry looked doubtful.
“I’ll be fine.” Bilbo tried for a reassuring smile. “They won’t hurt me.” In truth, he wanted to find out more about the dwarves without Perry berating him for his unhobbit-like curiosity. Besides, he’d done all the talking at the last meeting himself anyway.
“You’re a braver fellow than I, Mr Baggins,” said Perry with raised eyebrows. “Pass the tobacco jar.”
* * *
That evening, with the moon high in the sky, Bilbo grabbed his coat and walking stick, and set out on his own.
It was a refreshing stroll down the hill and farmland. He heard the camp before he saw it, certainly louder than last time. This time the largest circle had two fires, glowing in the dark. The smoke furled up into the treetops, over them all, and the ponies champed at the lush grass, their tails swishing.
Bofur saw him first, and rushed out of the camp to greet him joyfully. “Mr Mayor! A fine night to see you again,” he exclaimed. “Come, I’ll introduce you to everyone…”
“That’s very kind,” said Bilbo, pushing away Bofur’s guiding hand at his shoulder. “But I’m not here to socialise.”
“A great pity,” said Bofur, although he still smiled. “I’m guessing you want to see Thorin again?”
His eyes glimmered in a way Bilbo didn’t understand.
“Ye-es,” said Bilbo uncertainly. “Where is he?”
“Off on a solitary walk in the forest, as he is wont to do. There is a lot weighing on his mind.” Bofur tipped his head towards the trees. “Follow me!”
* * *
Bilbo followed Bofur into the forest, down a winding path that Bilbo knew well from when he was a child and went off exploring, much to his father’s disdain (and his mother’s proud delight). It led into the forest for a while, and then wound along parallel to the river. It was where the road met the river that Bilbo and Bofur caught up with Thorin, solemn and alone as with his back to them, walking his slow stride. All they could see were the back of his boots, his coat, and his long dark hair.
“He’ll walk you back, Mr Baggins,” said Bofur, tipping his fingers to the brim of his hat.
“Thank you, Mr Bofur.” Bilbo gave him a little bow. “Have a good evening.”
Thorin heard their exchange, and turned to watch Bilbo walk towards him. He cut a solid, dark figure by the glimmering silver stream and tall thin trees. He bowed his head as Bilbo drew near, oddly graceful for a dwarf.
“Good evening, Mr Baggins,” he said in his low voice, his eyes kinder than they were when they first met.
“Likewise,” said Bilbo, dipping forward nervously, and his throat was acting up again, making his voice sound odd to his own ears. “Thank you for returning the animals without fuss, those days ago. I managed to reunite them all with their owners. It did much to improve your standing in the community.”
“I’m glad of it,” said Thorin. “I don’t want to make an enemy of your people, but like I said, we were desperate.”
“Yes, we understand,” said Bilbo quickly. His face felt hot, and so he glanced over the cool river that shimmered under the trees, hoping his face wasn’t flushing. There was a rustle of fur and Thorin turned to look over the river with him, When Bilbo stole a glance at his sharp face, he saw that the dwarf looked deep in thought.
“You didn’t come all this way to thank me for returning your animals,” said Thorin eventually, his voice quiet to better match Bilbo’s.
“No,” said Bilbo. “I didn’t.”
Thorin’s head tilted towards him, and there was something like hope in his eyes.
“There have been other complaints,” said Bilbo, digging about in his pocket to fetch the sheaf of paper.
Thorin nodded slowly, his brow lowered, and his expression returned to its former grimness. What had he been expecting Bilbo to say?
Bilbo shook those thoughts away and glanced at his note. “Hobbits know little of dwarves and their ways,” he explained. “Those whose hobbit holes are close to your camp are afraid of the loud noises you make, especially the fighting and the clash of weapons. We are simple, peaceful folk, and many hobbits go their whole lives without ever seeing a sword. To hear their sounds every night is frightening, even if it is in jest for you dwarves.”
Thorin’s expression turned stern. “I will not order my people to stop making merry. We have gone through hard times and find happiness where we can. I’m sorry if that offends you.”
“I’m not offended,” said Bilbo quickly. “I understand. All I ask is that, perhaps, you can keep the noise to a minimum? At the very least do the fighting elsewhere, out of earshot.” He stared up into Thorin’s softening gaze, and gestured weakly with his hands. “You can see how it might panic people not used to such noises.”
“Yes.” Thorin nodded agreeably. “I shall inform my people right away.”
He stepped out onto the path and waited for Bilbo to join him. Together they turned from the river and walked back to the camp side by side, Thorin’s heavy coat swishing, Bilbo’s walking stick tapping the soft earth. Thorin’s armor clinked as he walked freely, as if unburdened by all the steel and weaponry that Bilbo couldn’t begin to imagine carrying. He looked fearsome. Even Bilbo, who knew him a little by now, was frightened of him.
Thorin looked at him again and caught Bilbo staring. Bilbo quickly turned away, his face heating up again.
“For all that you claim hobbits are simple,” said Thorin. “You yourself are quite sharp, Mr Baggins.”
“In what way?” croaked Bilbo in surprise, clutching at his walking stick.
“You don’t leap to conclusions or assume answers before knowing all the facts. It is rare to meet someone from so sheltered a place who realises that the world is a lot bigger and more complicated than he is.” Thorin glanced up at the sky, just visible over the treetops. “Unlike your companions.”
“I collect books and maps, and while that makes me an oddity among my people, it helps me put things into scale,” Bilbo explained, unsure whether to be flattered or insulted. “However I admit that, whilst I’ve read a lot about dwarves, I have never met one before. I have never left the Shire.”
Thoring glanced at him in interest. “Do we live up to your expectations?”
Bilbo worried at his bottom lip, wary of offending this dwarf. “I associated dwarves with mighty halls and underground cities, not camping in farms and forest. I didn’t know what to expect when I heard of your arrival.”
“We weren’t always nomadic people,” said Thorin, and his voice had gone low and somber. “We once lived, as you may expect, deep under a mountain where we mined for gold. Erebor.” His eye met Bilbo’s. “A great city.”
Bilbo frowned. “Did something happen?”
“Yes,” said Thorin simply, and he would speak no more of it, as they had just reached the camp. The light hit them both, and the sounds of the dwarves music and song. A few dwarves near the edges of the camp turned to look at them, their eyes on Bilbo in particular.
It would be prudent to head back to Bag End. He turned to Thorin, who was waiting silently by his side with the firelight gleaming in his eyes.
“If you want to integrate yourself into the Shire more, you should come to our morning markets,” Bilbo advised. “You can buy provisions and introduce yourselves to the people.” He shifted his shoulders and smiled. “It may help with the peace.”
“If you think it a good idea, I will,” promised Thorin.
“And…” Bilbo waved his hands, “the noise…”
“I shall inform them all right away. Are you alright with walking back by yourself?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Bilbo said with a friendly nod. “Good night, Thorin.”
He bowed, and Thorin bowed back.
“Good night, Bilbo.”
The great dwarf swept off into the camp and started quietening them down to disgruntled complaints. Bilbo smiled and set off across the grass, energised for the walk back home with the knowledge of a job well done. He hoped there’d be no more trouble.