Chapter Text
Oddly enough, Bilbo had been more preoccupied with the idea of being burnt to a crisp by a dragon than anything else… which was probably why the thought that they could be attacked by anything other than a dragon hadn’t really crossed his mind.
Obviously it hadn’t crossed anyone else’s mind, which was also obvious by the surprise on their faces when there was suddenly a sword through Dwalin’s back and out the front of his chest.
Things went downhill pretty quickly after that.
Bilbo, the least talented fighter in their group, had surprisingly managed to last the longest- long enough to see Kili struck down, and then Fili moments after, long enough to see Bofur collapse on the ground, slowly choking on blood.
Long enough to watch Thorin’s head topple off his shoulders, and Azog roar triumphantly.
It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined the night ending, clawing through the forest, covered in dirt and blood, but he’s pretty sure something in his brain broke because suddenly there are horses everywhere, and someone’s shouting to get a healer.
Heavy feet land on the ground near him, and through the blood in his eyes he can tell they’re of Dwarvish make. He manages to lift his head up slightly more to get a better look at the stranger, though it turns out to be less of a stranger and more of… well; Thorin. Who Bilbo is sure was just relieved of his head not three minutes before.
But he looks… different. Odd.
But maybe that’s the insanity kicking in.
“Oh, dear,” Bilbo manages, before rolling onto his back and passing out.
He wakes up to soft murmuring, a surprisingly comforting thing. Comforting, of course, usually because he was often woke up by yelling nowadays. His stomach lurches, as if just realising it didn’t feel all that well, and his head begins to throb dully. Or, at least, he realises that his head is throbbing dully.
“…no idea where the wee lad is from,” a familiar voice says. “I’ve never seen feet like that before.”
“Seems a bit odd,” a second voice adds, gruff. “We checked the whole of those forests, scanned ‘em dry, but there’s no sign of a fight.”
Bilbo manages to open his eyes slightly, catching sight of two figures. One, very large and strapping, two familiar axes strapped to his back, and the second a smaller, thinner shape, a blur of grey hair.
“Oh,” Bilbo says, recognising them. His eyes open fully now, with realisation.
Both Dwarves turn to him. “Well, look who’s up, then!” Oin declares. “You were causing us a bit of worry.”
“Not a lad,” Bilbo manages, struggling to sit up.
Dwalin looks confused. “Sorry?” he asks.
“You called me a ‘wee lad’,” he says accusingly. “I’ll have you know I am 50 years old.” Both the Dwarves guffaw, and Bilbo huffs. “That is a perfectly adult age where I come from,” he announces, putting his hands on his hips.
“And where are you from , lad?” Oin asks.
It takes Bilbo a moment to formulate a reply. After all, he’s pretty sure he’s mad. Not long ago these people were dead and now they’re standing there in front of him looking... well, happy. Which is weird. At least for Bilbo.
“Where am I now?” he asks instead of answering, wanting to know what strange place his mind had conjured up. Maybe he was dead, and this was some sort of afterlife. Maybe he was hallucinating. That made sense. He was probably in a coma somewhere in a ditch, still in the cold and dead woods.
“You’re in Erebor, of course,” Dwalin answers, “the Jewel of the Dwarven race.”
Bilbo lets out this weird, choking sort of noise because, really, what? “Erebor?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. “The Lonely Mountain?”
Oin nods. “Certainly. Now, what happened to you? Were you lost?”
“And why were you covered in blood?”
Bilbo looks from one to the other, utterly baffled. “I’m from The Shire.” The answer receives no reaction. “The Kindly West?” he attempts again. “It’s near the Blue Mountains,” he tries finally, eliciting a synchronized ‘oh’ from the both of them. “I’m a Hobbit.”
“And what are you doing here?”
“Well, I…” he briefly wonders if he should just tell them the truth. And then he thinks the better of it. Obviously they wouldn’t believe him. They’d probably lock him away somewhere and throw away the key. And if this is some kind of dream, or hallucination, then he ought to just ride it out, right? “I don’t know,” he tells them eventually, because it is mostly true. “I don’t know.”
He feels oddly light, like the reality of the situation hasn’t hit him yet. Frankly this is probably the denial stage, and if this is real and he’s somehow slipped into some strange parallel universe, then he’s definitely not believing it just yet. Because frankly that is just a frightening prospect. He doesn’t want to think about it.
“A bit of a mystery, you are,” Oin remarks, with a bit of a grin. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore,” Bilbo tells him honestly. “My head hurts.”
“Well, you had a bit of a nasty blow,” Oin gestures to Bilbo’s head. “But a lot of the blood didn’t seem to be… yours.” He looks at Bilbo carefully now. “Do you remember anything that happened? If you were with anyone…?”
The piercing gazes are back, and in full force. Bilbo squirms under the weight of them, the way they make him uncomfortable. “I had some companions,” he’s not sure how much to divulge, how much he can divulge without appearing insane. “But they didn’t… that is to say that they were…” His stomach churns at the thought of it, and he presses a hand to his sternum. “I can’t…”
“It’s alright, laddie,” Oin puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s alright. Would you mind getting some water for him?” he addresses Dwalin now. “Best to calm him down before we ask any more.”
Dwalin nods, seemingly happy to oblige, and disappears out the door.
Bilbo closes his eyes and breathes deeply. “I suppose this is the reality sinking in, then,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Oin.
“It’s alright,” Oin repeats, sitting beside him.
“They’re dead,” Bilbo says. “I saw them die, and- I couldn’t help.” After everything that had happened, after all the things they’d survived… Bilbo had fought spiders and goblins and trolls and had walked through Mirkwood, and escaped Thranduil, and hell, he’d even rode barrels down the rapids to Laketown and lived through it (even if he did get a rather nasty cold afterwards). It seemed so… cruel to have it all end so suddenly and violently. And so close to their goal, so close to Erebor.
Murdered at the base of the mountain. How pitiful.
“We were attacked,” Bilbo manages as Dwalin comes back in with some water. “They didn’t… survive.”
“Attacked by who?” Dwalin wants to know.
“Orc.”
“Orc?” Oin repeats, surprised.
“There haven’t been Orc sighted in these parts for a very long while,” Dwalin says, sceptical.
“They were Orc,” Bilbo assures them, solemn. “I wouldn’t make a mistake about that, believe me.”
Dwalin whistles, sitting in the chair beside Bilbo’s bed. “Orc,” he breathes now. “I’d better tell the King. Get some patrols out there, send warnings.”
Oin nods.
“The King?” Bilbo asks, perking up.
“King Thrain,” Dwalin nods.
“Thrain,” Bilbo repeats, brow furrowing. Thorin’s father. “What year is it?”
Oin regards him with amusement, but answers nonetheless. “It’s the year 2941 of the Third Age.”
Time was still the same, at least. But… “The dragon?” he asks, wanting to know.
“The dragon?” The Dwarves both seem dreadfully confused.
“Yes. The dragon. Smaug.”
They share a glance. “Not all that sure what you’re talking about,” Oin says eventually. “Never heard of a dragon Smaug.”
“At all?” Bilbo questions.
Both Oin and Dwalin shake their heads.
Bilbo just sits there, frowning.
Honestly, what the hell is going on?
“I’d better go and tell the King about this,” Dwalin gets to his feet, running a hand through his- well, through what’s left of his hair. “He’ll certainly have more questions,” he points at Bilbo. “You ought to stay close.”
“I don’t… have anywhere else to go,” Bilbo informs them, rather helplessly. Oin regards him with an embarrassing amount of pity. Dwalin just considers it and nods.
“I’m sure we can find somewhere for you to stay for now,” Dwalin assures him before leaving.
Yes, Bilbo is fairly certain he’s gone mad.
Erebor is a marvel and a splendour in itself, completely magnificent and unperturbed and not at all destroyed and depredated by a dragon in the slightest. Bilbo is more than a little disconcerted at the whole thing. He becomes lost after sneaking from the healing rooms and finds himself just staring up at the great, enormous pillars, the large tapestries hanging hundreds of feet down, elaborate and in such great detail that is looks like the moments had been captured by a witness and simply placed there. He receives more than a few stares, and somewhere manages to get even further lost, climbing some great big stairs and following a series of ever-narrowing corridors. And then all of a sudden no one is around and he’s fairly certain this is a forbidden part of the kingdom, because there are guards nearby that luckily haven’t noticed him yet, and they look rather severe.
So to avoid them he stumbles into the first room he can find, tripping over his feet in the dark.
He was too busy wondering what on Earth he was going to do now that he didn’t hear nor notice the presence behind him
“Well, if I’d known I was getting a visitor I might have cleaned a little.”
Bilbo jumps, obviously shocked by the voice, and he turns to find an amused Dwarrow watching him, candle in hand. A Dwarrow who was still in their nightclothes.
“I am so sorry!” Bilbo immediately stumbles backwards, putting his hands up in a sign of good will. “I got lost, and then there were some soldiers, and I don’t think I’m supposed to be here so I thought I might hide and-”
“You picked a room and got me,” the Dwarf smirks, waving a hand down at himself, “lucky you.”
Bilbo clears his throat, feeling awkward. “I am sorry,” he apologises again. “I’ll just… leave now.”
“No, no,” the Dwarf waves it off, “if you’re not here to kill me, I’m perfectly fine with the company. Although, I’ve never seen a little Elf before. Are you a child? You don’t seem like a child? I don’t think Elves have such enormous feet, either,” the Dwarf’s brow furrows now, “although, then again, I’ve never seen an Elf without shoes on.” He winks. “Although I’d like to.”
Bilbo reddens, although he is slightly confused. He’s never seen a Dwarf talk quite so much. But first and foremost on his mind right now, is the Elf comment.
“I am not an Elf,” he informs the Dwarf. “I’m a Hobbit. From The Shire.”
The Dwarf raises an eyebrow. “And what does a Hobbit do?”
“Well...” Bilbo’s not entirely sure how to reply to that. “Things,” he answered eventually. “I really ought to go,” he steps backwards. “Let you get some clothes on, perhaps.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of it.” The smirk was back again, making Bilbo vaguely uncomfortable. “Usually, though, I’d find out a person’s name before letting them in my room like this.”
Bilbo stutters, but the Dwarf cuts in smoothly. “So what is your name, little Elf who isn’t actually an Elf?”
“Bilbo,” he answers immediately, out of habit. “Bilbo Baggins.”
“Well, Bilbo-Bilbo Baggins. I am Frerin Durin,” The Dwarf gives an elaborate bow, “Prince of Erebor.”
“P-Prince?” Bilbo chokes. And of course he walks in on partially unclothed royalty, it’s just his sort of luck. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”
Frerin laughs, even more amused. “It’s quite alright. Most interesting thing to happen to me all week, if I’m honest.”
Bilbo doesn’t know what to do, partly because this is Frerin, Thorin’s dead brother, but mainly because he just walked right into his room and could probably be arrested for something like that.
Thankfully, however, Frerin appears more entertained than angry and upset, and is quite happy to show Bilbo back to the healing rooms where Oin is no doubt turning over beds looking for him. Of course, he has to put on clothes first, which leads to a rather awkward moment where Frerin just starts undressing in front of Bilbo, and Bilbo squeaks and spins around so suddenly he almost falls over.
How embarrassing.
Frerin is incredibly helpful, though, telling Bilbo all about Erebor and where to go and not to go. He waves and smiles as he passes people, and Bilbo receives a few more odd stares, but they’re certainly less disparaging now that he’s with a Prince. He’s also very helpful in the way that he doesn’t seem to shut up, so Bilbo finds out quite a lot about this odd place he’s landed in where history is completely turned upside down. A decade ago King Thror had passed away in his old age and his son Thrain had taken over. There had been no dragon, no gold sickness, no battle for Moria, no Azog. It seemed that wherever Bilbo had ended up had a far better fate than the Middle Earth he’d been in.
Oin was slightly panicked and rather irritated when they returned. “Bilbo!” he cries, hands on hips. “You are not supposed to be out wandering in your condition.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Bilbo insists, sounding (admittedly) rather like a child. “I just needed to stretch my legs.”
“He did get a little lost though,” Frerin, the ever helpful bastard, chimes in. “I thought I’d help him find his way back.”
“How thoughtful of you, Your Highness,” Oin lowers his head slightly in respect, but there’s a bit of a smile there, like he knows about Frerin’s roguish personality and knows there’s a little more to it than a simple generous offer. “The royal family seems to have taken quite an interest in you,” Oin goes on now, turning his attention to Bilbo once again. “Frerin’s brother Thorin was here before, looking for you.”
“Thorin?” Bilbo repeats, choked.
Oin, oblivious, simply nods. “He’s one of the ones who found you,” he informs Bilbo casually. “You’d be forgiven for not remembering, of course. He wishes to ask you about your attack on behalf of his father.”
Bilbo relaxes. “Right. Of course.”
“I could stay if you like,” Frerin suggests now, grinning. “To hold your hand. Support and all that.”
“I thank you for the kind offer, Your Highness, but I can assure you I’m perfectly able to handle questions from your brother.”
Frerin just shrugs, clearly not deterred by the rejection. “Fair enough,” he answers. “Now,” he claps his hands together as he speaks, “I’m afraid I’ve got royal duties to tend to. But it was lovely to meet you, little Elf who is not an Elf,” he bows to Bilbo before grinning cheekily. “Don’t let my brother scare you off; he’s probably the least charming Prince in the whole of Middle Earth.”
Oin snorts as he leaves, and Bilbo just feels even more confused than he was yesterday, which is saying something.
Bilbo realises what’s different about Thorin the moment he steps foot in the healing room. He looks younger, is the problem.
He very clearly wasn’t younger, because no matter what strange universe he might be in, it was still the same year. Not to mention the streaks of grey coming through his hair. But he looks lighter, happier.
Although he still didn’t smile.
There was perhaps a tight, polite smile, but he held a furrow in his brow of irritation, maybe confusion at Bilbo’s situation. Like he thought perhaps this was an inconvenience and a waste of his time. Like he thought Bilbo was lying about the attack. Which, in all honesty, probably seemed like a sane thing to believe in, after all, if he had come into some different world, then he would have left the Orcs behind, right?
“How many were there?” Thorin asks, watching Bilbo carefully.
Bilbo closes his eyes and tries to think. Along with Azog, there had been maybe six others and a number of Wargs. He tells Thorin as much.
“So many this far South?” Dwalin seemed as perplexed as Thorin did, but slightly more believing of Bilbo’s story. “It’s rather odd.”
“Yes it is,” Thorn agrees, levelling Bilbo with a stare. “Is there anything you’re leaving out, Master Hobbit?” he wonders now. “Something that might perhaps make the story a little more… understandable?” By ‘understandable’ he obviously means ‘more believable’, but Bilbo isn’t delving into the details on that.
He does pause for a moment, though, and thinks of something he could say. “We had run into these Orc before,” he explains. “Before Mirkwood. They followed us.”
Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if Azog existed in this place. It seemed good fortune had befallen all members of Erebor, so perhaps they were also blessed in this. “We were surprised. We thought we’d be safe, so close to the Mountain. But we were wrong.”
“We have found no evidence of your friends,” Thorin huffs, irritated. “No camp, no fire, no blood- nothing. Can you explain that?”
Bilbo shakes his head. “Not at all. As I’m sure you’re aware I came crawling out covered in blood. I mean, obviously it happened.”
“I do not doubt something happened, Master Hobbit,” Thorin tells him. “Only your interpretation of it.”
Dwalin kicks him, not very subtly, but Thorin just frowns at his companion and turns his attention back to Bilbo, looking expectant.
“I’m not lying,” Bilbo insists. “And if I were going to lie, don’t you think I’d be able to come up with something better than that? And why would I lie in the first place?”
“He is right there,” Dwalin agrees. “It would be a rather ridiculous lie to conjure up.”
“We cannot believe something simply because it sounds too ridiculous to be a lie,” Thorin scolds Dwalin. “We have to look into it.”
“I hate to change the subject,” Bilbo interjects before Dwalin can reply, “but would you mind if I asked a question?”
Thorin waves a hand at him. “Go ahead.”
“Do you know a Wizard? Gandalf is his name. But I think you call him… Tharkûn?”
Thorin raises an eyebrow, recognising the name. “He comes and goes sometimes. A nosy sort of Wizard,” he sounds highly unimpressed, and it makes Bilbo smile a little. “Why?”
“Well, it’s only… I need to speak with him, rather urgently. I think he can help me, you see,” he adds. “Perhaps he can answer your questions as to why you can’t find any Orc in these woods, as well.”
Thorin seems to contemplate it for a moment. “Last I heard he was in Minas Tirith. I shall send a raven, if you wish?”
“That would be wonderful,” Bilbo says, breathing a sigh of relief, “thank you.”
Thorin just nods. “We shall leave you to your rest, then.” He stands, and Dwalin follows his lead. “Good day, Master Baggins.”
Bilbo wants to tell him to sod the ‘Master’, but it probably seems strange to say that to someone you hardly know, so he keeps his mouth shut and nods politely at them before they leave.
He doesn’t know what to do with himself for the rest of the afternoon.
Curiosity got the better of him late that evening, and with the help of Oin he made his way to the food halls, partly to eat but mainly because he wanted to see if he could find out what had become of the other members of The Company. Oin, he found, was quite talkative about his brother, Gloin, and his family. From that he found that Bombur was a cousin of his, and all doing rather well. Bombur was working as a Royal Cook, making food for the King.
He knew of Balin and Dwalin, obviously, both with such close ties to the Durin family.
Dwalin was obviously a Royal Guard, and if Bilbo was correct, then Balin would most likely be advisor to the King. After all, he was before, and as most things were true to Bilbo’s knowledge, it was highly possible that that would be as well.
But he still didn’t know about the others. He hadn’t seen Ori, Dori or Nori anywhere. Although he supposed that wasn’t too much of a surprise. Ori, if he even was in Erebor, would be working in one of the libraries, no doubt, and Nori would more than likely be rushing about, stealing things from unsuspecting shoppers at the market.
Bilbo still hadn’t seen Fili or Kili either, which he found oddly disconcerting, even though he’d barely been here a day. But it was… strange.
He asked Oin about the libraries during their eating, and Oin told him where to find it, offering to take him there once they were done. Of course, Oin was very busy, and had many other patients, so Bilbo kindly declined and insisted he could find his way on his own. After all, Hobbits had a very good sense of direction.
The library is the biggest Bilbo has ever seen. And he’s been to the one in Bree, which is fairly large, thank you very much. He gawks at it for a long while, unable to do much else, until there is a slight snuffle behind him, capturing his attention.
“Can I help you with anything?” asks a very small voice behind a very big handkerchief. Bilbo recognises him instantly.
“Ori!”
Ori frowns at him, but seems pleased by the eagerness to which he is greeted. “Do I know you?” he wonders, smiling slightly.
Bilbo makes a face, only just now realising his gaffe. “Oh. No. I mean, yes. I just…” he searches for a convincing lie. “I heard the other Dwarf say your name before.” It sounds more like a question than a statement, but thankfully Ori buys it.
“Oh, of course,” he waves it off. “How silly of me.”
“I’m Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo offers a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you,” Ori replies, smiling still. “Now, can I help you with anything?”
“Oh, I’m just taking it all in,” Bilbo tells him. “It's so wonderful.” He looks back at the stacks of parchment and books now. “So many books.” He wonders, morbidly, what this room looks like in the desolated Lonely Mountain, in the world he’s from. It was probably all burnt to a crisp, which is a pitiful prospect, he has to admit. What a waste of books.
“Yes, it is,” Ori’s voice takes on a dreamy tone. “It really is.”
Bilbo turns to look at Ori, only to find he isn’t exactly looking at the books like Bilbo was. Instead, his gaze is directed to the entryway of the library where the guards were. Bilbo recognises one.
“Mister Dwalin!” He calls, because a friendly face is a wonderful thing in a time like this, and at least Dwalin has some idea of who he is. Ori certainly doesn’t.
Ori makes an undignified squeak when Dwalin notices them and starts coming over, and all of a sudden he’s gone, darting off like a little mouse to hide somewhere. Bilbo feels marginally guilty, but he’s more entertained by the whole thing than anything else.
“Yer friend ran off,” Dwalin says in lieu of a greeting, nodding in the direction Ori went. So they didn’t know each other then. That would certainly have to be remedied. “Did he steal something?” Dwalin has his Guard-face on, the angry one. Perhaps Bilbo should make sure they meet under non-arresting circumstances.
“Oh, no, no,” Bilbo insists, waving a hand. “He’s just shy. You know how Scribes are.”
Dwalin looks confused. “I don’t, actually,” he replies. “But I’ll take yer word for it. Lookin’ at the library, then?” he turns his attention to the books Bilbo had been studying a moment before.
“Yes,” Bilbo smiles, “I do love books. You have such a large collection here. I don’t think even the Elves have as many.”
Dwalin raises an eyebrow. “You’ve been with the Elves?”
Bilbo shrugs, panicking for a moment, but then he remembers that the Elves and Dwarves have a long standing mutual loathing of each other, so the chances of him being called out on this were very slim. “Just briefly. In our travels.”
“And why were you travelling so far from the Kindly West?” Dwalin asks, looking genuinely curious. It’s a look that beguiles him slightly, which in itself is odd and more than a little frightening. This Dwalin has seen little to no war, little death and loss. Bilbo feels an odd pain in his chest, looking at him now.
“It was a fools journey,” Bilbo laments, instead of giving a proper answer. “I made the fourteenth member of our company, which didn’t seem to make a difference. I don’t think it could have turned out any worse if I hadn’t of gone at all and they’d remained with their unlucky thirteen.” He sighs. “It’s a very long story, and I very much doubt you’d believe a word of it, Mister Dwalin, but perhaps after Gandalf comes… he may be able to explain it better.”
Dwalin, thankfully (and a little surprisingly) relents, nodding politely. “Yer business is yer business, Mister Baggins. Have a nice night.” And then he bows and leaves Bilbo frowning after him for some time.
“So polite,” he remarks to himself, sounding disbelieving.
“He’s the nicest, most wonderful Royal Guard in all of Erebor,” a little voice chimes from behind him, and Bilbo turns to find Ori peering around the shelves, watching him.
“Why don’t you tell him that, then?” Bilbo wonders, “I’m sure he’d appreciate the compliment.”
Ori reddens. “He doesn’t even know I exist,” he whines, and Bilbo’s heartstrings give a painful tug. “And even if he did it would be because of my brother.”
“Your brother?” Bilbo frowns, wondering what Dori would have to do with this.
“Nori,” Ori explains, sighing and coming into full view now. “He’s the bane of the Royal Guard, always stealing things. They hate us here.”
Ah, Nori. Of course, that made complete sense. “Well, maybe if you talked to him next time he came in here, rather than hiding?” Bilbo suggests now, trying to help.
Ori makes a face. “He wouldn’t pay attention to me. I’m a Scribe. And my family is poor. And I’m…” he gestures down at his jumper, which is admittedly a little threadbare. “Well, you can tell.”
“I think you’re wonderful,” Bilbo tells him, realising belatedly that that probably sounds odd to someone who had only just met him. But Ori just beams.
“Thank you, Mister Baggins. You are very kind.”
And Bilbo decides right then and there that even if this is some sort of dream or if he’s somehow slipped into another dimension, he might as well try to fix things while he’s here. After all, what else was he supposed to do with his time now? There was no dragon to slay, no Mountain to reclaim, no gold to find.
He couldn’t risk getting bored now, could he?