Chapter Text
“It’s quite perilous, you know,” Bungo says between puffs of Longbottom Leaf where he sits on the bench on the front porch, back ramrod straight.
“Hm?” Bilbo doesn’t look up from the book he’s been reading, stretched out on his belly on the grass at his father’s feet. In his head, he’s walking the ancient roads that have been splintered by the sundering of the world. It’s a sober account of trading routes and the geography of Eastern Beleriand, but Bilbo soaks it up as though it is a thrilling novel of adventure and peril.
“Leaving your home, leaving the Shire even. One wrong step and you could end up lost forever and ever. There are crevices in Middle-Earth none who yet live know of. Monsters in the depths we do not dare put in bedtime stories for the horrors they would bring. One should stick to their mapped routes and always have a watchful eye. Two, if they can be spared. Bilbo, are you listening to me?” He wags the end of his pipe in Bilbo’s direction when Bilbo glances at him.
“It’s dangerous business,” Belladonna agrees with that velvety voice of hers as she emerges from Bag End. Her apron is stained, and little bursts of flour flakes speckle her cheeks. A spark of mischief glints in her eyes and she reaches up to loosen the knot tying her hair back. Bilbo cranes his neck to get a better view of her ginger curls, her all-knowing smile. Belladonna Took is the most beautiful hobbit lass there has ever been and Bilbo will fight anyone who disagrees. Not that there are those who do.
“What is?” Bilbo asks and smiles when she flops down on the grass next to him, rolls onto her back, and heaves a pleased sigh.
“Listening to a Baggins for an extended period of time. They will plant cautionary tales in your head and then stuff your ears with cotton so your mind will soon be drowning in anxieties, only to be cured with routine and propriety.” Belladonna throws Bilbo a wink and Bilbo giggles into the pages of his book. He would never openly defy his father, not the way his mother does. He loves Bungo for his uptightness, as much as he loves Belladonna for being aloof and strange. But the tug of war within him is decidedly going in favour of one side and it is not that of Bilbo Baggins, a glutton for books, seven meals a day, his mother’s kisses and his fathers favoured pipeweed. He is a Took. He has chaos and shenanigans carved into his bones, and wanderlust embedded in his muscles, and with each day that passes, inching towards his departure, he gets more twitchy, unsettled, ready.
“Uncultured heathens, both of you,” Bungo says, but it is in good humour. His solemnity is quick to return though. “Do you have to go?” There is a plea somewhere tucked between his words and it grips Bilbo’s heart with an icy claw.
“We have been through this. Let him have his adventure and be grateful he’s willing to take your suggestions,” Belladonna says and her hand on Bilbo’s shoulder melts the ice in a heartbeat.
“Thanks,” he says under his breath.
“Do not assume I am happy to let you go either,” Belladonna replies. “I just see the necessity of it. And I trust you to come back in one piece. You’re not my little squirrel for nothing.”
“I promise.”
---
Pure excitement - like the giddy bursts of a high from a piece of great-aunt Pansy’s honey cake - carries Bilbo out the door and all the way to the borders of elven territory. His steps bounce even with the great weight he carries with him, his heart is full, he is so very eager to finally see the world that he hardly has a mind for all the hobbit-y comforts he thought he would miss so dearly. He consults his map, and frequently, as frequently as he adjusts the straps of his backpack, almost taller than he is.
It is stuffed with more than just travel essentials and Belladonna’s selection of pickled vegetables, jerky, and hard cheeses from the Bunce’s dairy farm. Every nook and cranny is filled with sacks of seeds, from the simplest of wildflower bundles - daisies, poppies, cornflowers - to the Gamgee’s most prized pumpkin selection. In an additional burlap sack, Bilbo carries apple tree saplings, all three types the Shire has to offer
His quest is a simple one:
Travel to Erebor, trade these seeds and saplings for exotic, preferably more durable ones to enrich the flora of the Shire - and specifically the Baggins-Gamgee monopoly on arable crops - and return once the entirety of his stock is exchanged.
And while, indeed, this is the task of a simple errand boy, Bilbo can’t help but feel grand and important. It is a pretense under which he can finally set out and see the world.
He marvels at the forests that mark the Shire border, sectioning off Maggot senior’s cornfields from the world at large. He spends a long night exploring Weathertop and smoking pipeweed under the shelter of its history-leaking ruin, and meanders left and right after which slows his progress, but feeds into his greed. The brushes and trees nearer the Misty Mountains are not so different from the ones he knows from home, sparser perhaps, sturdier and with weeds sprouting from every fissure in ground and rock, something no respectable hobbit would allow, and it is a lot to take in and it is not enough. Bilbo adjusts his straps once more, and he pushes on.
---
“Wither to?” the elves of Imladris ask him in that ethereal, wistful way of theirs as they serve him fine wines and berry-riddled salads under a fat, yellowing moon.
“Ever eastward,” Bilbo replies after he has thanked his tongue raw. He wants to continue right away, but is wise enough to heed his hosts’ invitation to stay the night. Sleep off the alcohol his poor little heart isn’t used to, not with how strong its notes ring through his body. It makes him more than antsy, makes him feel like he has to run, run, run. “To Erebor.”
“And pray tell,” Elrond inquires with a quirk of his glittering brow. He is the lord of the house and the most elegant, eloquent creature Bilbo has ever met. “What does a young halfling look for amongst dwarven-kind? Do you not love all that grows and blossoms?”
“We do and that is precisely why I’m going. My father instructed me to trade in plantlife to enhance our gardens and strengthen our crops.”
“An important excursion,” Elrond admits with a gentle smile. He raises his goblet for another silent toast and Bilbo, well-mannered but already quite out of his depth, clinks his against it, dealing himself the fatal blow by emptying in one draft. He punches his own sternum through a series of hiccups and burps indiscreetly.
“Quite.”
“Be that as it may, feel free to enjoy the vale’s hospitality for as long as it pleases. You have quite a journey ahead of you, young one. Do not overestimate your own endurance.
Pish-tosh, Bilbo thinks and offers up an amiable smile. He has more endurance than any hobbit, nay, any living creature in history. And if he is the only person to believe in himself then that suffices.
---
Bilbo dreams of rushing water that takes the shape of animals. Horses and bears, foxes and geese. He dreams of a flock of swans that soar over his head, gems raining from their wings and covering Middle-Earth under their brightness. He dreams of his father riding a boar through the streets of Hobbiton, screaming at Bilbo not to delay.
Bilbo sets out ere the sun rises, bids Lord Elrond farewell via a hastily scrawled note he deposits on the silken sheets he slept in.
---
It does not suffice. Lord Elrond’s warning comes back to Bilbo with an acute stab of regret as he descends the last slopes of the Misty Mountains with barely half the usual sleep under his belt. His feet ache from the constant assault of sharp rock he’s been treading on and the somersaulting vertigo of the elven wine never quite left him. All of that to say, he is tired and he yearns for the soft caress of those sheets, can still feel their lavender scent cling to his nostrils. As night falls and the rolling plains of stone turn into high grass that buzzes with the concert of early summer insect hordes, Bilbo seeks out a nearby cluster of trees to take refuge under. He has never slept in the cradle of branches before, but he doesn’t want to risk more bug bites than strictly necessary, especially as his father warned him of a long list of potential allergies that run through the Bagginses with the same viciously thick thread as their sweet tooth. Belladonna rolled her eyes at this, a fact that gives Bilbo a minimal amount of comfort as he uses the ropes on his pack to strap himself to the tree’s lower levels.
He is woken by the nagging whir of mosquitoes about a dozen times before he finally falls into an uneasy slumber that lasts well into the next day. He hoped to make it to the borders of King Thranduil’s famed realm today - famed mostly for producing even stronger wine and being full of mystical traps and long-lost creatures - but at this rate, Bilbo will consider himself lucky if he breaches Greenwood’s treeline at all. He is tired and cantankerous, and the pleasure he felt upon setting out really did carry the fleetingness of a good piece of cake. Woefully, there isn’t a bakery for miles and miles around, let alone a trace of great-aunt Pansy. Bilbo brews himself a cup of sweetened tea over a crackling fire, has a bigger breakfast than he should reasonably allow himself and continues his long walk as the sun is already descending.
He still wants to see, still wants to know. But he finds he would very much like to do so with the prospect of a warm bed at the end of the day.
You are beginning to sound like your father, Belladonna’s voice teases him and Bilbo flushes furiously. He is not his father, nor is he like his snoozy aunts and uncles, and he most certainly shares no similarities with his inflexible grandfather Mungo. He is a Took as well as a Baggins. That, he keeps telling himself as he snaps his suspenders and marches on.
“A Took as well as a Baggins,” he murmurs, dodging away from a school of ravens that fly overhead.
“A Took as well as a Baggins,” he says as he begins to count the trees that draw nearer, old and crooked, emanating magic so thickly Bilbo’s nose itches.
“A Took as well as a Baggins,” he sing-songs, chasing bumblebees, chasing the bursting pinks and oranges of sunset.
And that mantra, a manifestation of his new-found determination, the sheer will to make his mother proud, carries him all the way to the other side of the Greenwood and to the shores of the Long Lake where he happens upon a tan, dark-haired man in a long leather overcoat. More than a man, his gently rocking barge presents a solution to Bilbo’s most pressing problem: cross the lake without having to take the long hike around it.
“Hello,” Bilbo says as he approaches the man, hoping he doesn’t look nearly as wretched and tired as he feels. The feeling in his feet disappeared somewhere around the same time he passed by the gates of Thranduil’s halls. His clothes are dirty and smell like dirt and sweat and misery, his curls have become matted and sticky as his soap ran out days ago. Sleep has been a tricky travelling companion, elusive and slippery and Bilbo hasn’t had a hot meal in too long. But all that can be fixed once he arrives. “Good morning.”
The man is loading barrels onto the boat and hums a merry tune under his breath. A constant smile, like a persistent strawberry stain, graces his features as he goes about his work and he only glances up briefly as Bilbo comes to a halt before him.
“I should think so,” he says. “Although you should not discount the possibility of hail later.”
“Hail?” Bilbo cries out, incredulous.
“We call it the curse of Erebor around Dale, the unpredictable weather patterns. Been like that ever since the dragon attacked. Best not to mention it around the dwarves though, they are touchy about the subject.”
“DRAGON?”
“What’s your name?” the man asks and deposits the last barrel onto his boat, then stretches out his hand. His fingers are calloused against Bilbo’s and the wool of his fingerless mittens is scratchy.
“Bilbo… Baggins.” Bilbo’s nostrils flare and he tries to cover the horror he feels with a tight-lipped smile.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Baggins. Call me Bard.”
“Bard the Bargeman?” It slips out before Bilbo can stop himself, a welcome distraction to the fact that he has run straight into peril’s welcoming embrace. Hailstorms and dragons?
Adventure, Bilbo. This is an adventure.
“Amongst others,” Bard says lightly and lets go of Bilbo’s hand. “You look a little green around the nose. I don’t have anything stronger than cold tea on me, bless my oldest, but I can offer you… no? Well, I wouldn’t want to impose nor pry, but what brings you here?”
“My… uh… my father sent me. To trade in seeds and plant life.”
“Indeed? And yet, the Greenwood is behind you.”
“I’m headed to Erebor,” Bilbo explains hastily and retrieves his pouch of coins from his pockets. “Which is my reason for approaching you in the first place. Would it be possible to book passage on your humble barge?”
“Of course. Tell you what, you can join me free of charge if you tell me about your journey. It’s been half a decade since I have left this part of Middle-Earth.”
“I would be most delighted,” Bilbo replies.
Bard proves a pleasant companion for the journey across the lake and though Bilbo is queasy when he steps onto the boat, the view quickly washes away that feeling. He speaks to Bard of his father’s intentions and the road behind him, but his eyes remain transfixed by the solitary peak that climbs ever higher to the skies the closer they come.
“It seems unlike Thranduil to wave you through his realm without offering at least the most basic of courtesies,” Bard says when Bilbo relays how the clipped tone of the noble Elf that received him made him feel unwelcome and it was quite the contrast to his experience in Rivendell, resulting in his traveling through the realm without pause for so much as a snack. Not a hidden trap, nor a thick magic, but the simple disdain of the wood-elves.
“From what I gathered, it was not Thranduil himself I talked to, but his son.”
“Ah. It is not my place to excuse Legolas’ behaviour, but I am sorry nonetheless. He is… complicated. Lost after his mother’s early passing and scarred by the constant state of passive warfare.”
“Warfare?”
“Look, Mr. Baggins… I do not know what on Arda prompted you to come here of all places nor what your father told you when you set out. But this is not a peaceful place and I would advise you to rent lodgings outside of Erebor. Dale is as neutral as the ground can get around here. I have a friend that rents out rooms, I can introduce you if you like,” Bard says, pensive as his gaze also finds Erebor. They are coming up on Dale’s little port and from this distance, Bilbo can make out the massive statues that flank the Lonely Mountain’s gate. The clamour of the city at its roots - laughter, the rattling of carts, shouts, barks - is muted by the tapestry of clouds that have woven together overhead.
“That is kind of you,” Bilbo says, distracted.
“You caught me on a good day,” Bard says and claps Bilbo on the back before concentrating on steering the vessel safely into its predestined slot.
A hundred questions form a cyclone in Bilbo’s head, threatening to rip the wood out from underneath him. What dragon? When did it attack? How big do the hail corns get around here? And what is that about war? Sure, Bard wears a blade at his hip, a finely crafted one as far as Bilbo can tell, and yes, there are guards patrolling Dale’s port, the wood-elves were all armoured and armed, but there is no sign of skirmishing. No pillars of smoke nor lingering fire as all accounts Bilbo has read of war would suggest.
No, the mostly peaceful, if a little drab, sight of Dale before him, the mountain looming overhead, suggests nothing of the sort. Bilbo has arrived. He has finally arrived. He is here. He snuffs out all those nasty little uncertainties and steps off the barge with freshened resolve. He has a mission and everything outside of it is of no concern to him.
---
Bard’s acquaintance turns out to be a kindly old woman with fewer teeth than fingers, but twice the twinkle in her eyes to make up for it. Her name is Marie and she ushers Bilbo into her house and points him to a room on the second floor without even asking what he is doing on her doorstep.
“My old bones won’t carry me up the stairs any longer and ever since my Everik died I have been so dreadfully lonely. It’ll be good to have company,” she says.
“The rent-”
“Be a good lad,” she interrupts and claps him on the behind to get him into motion, up the stairs that creak under Bilbo’s feet. “And help an old woman with her housework. Sweeping the floors and the streets, doing the shopping, some such. That’s all I require from you. Oh, but you smell like you spent the last month in a ditch. I will get a fire going so you can have a bath and get settled in properly.”
“I insist on paying,” Bilbo protests. He glances back to the doorway where Bard leans with an arm against the frame and a knowing smile on his lips.
“She’s great, isn’t she?” he mouths and Bilbo flinches at another clap. He glares at Bard, then scurries up the stairs to escape another onslaught, swaying left and right as the great weight of his backpack resists the quick movement.
“It’s to the left,” Marie calls after him and Bilbo murmurs an affirmation as he heads for that door, ignoring the one on the other side of the sparsely decorated hallway. His room is nothing like the one he occupies back in Bag End. It has a rickety-looking desk and a stool that reaches up to Bilbo’s navel beside it. The bed is short for human standards, long enough for Bilbo and the frame looks to be made from discoloured sandstone, the linens on it grey, fraying at the edges. There is a nightstand with a potted plant that has seen better days and the curtains flutter in the cool breeze that has started to waft through Dale in the last hour or so. Bilbo forces his teeth to stop chattering and sets down his pack.
He’s cold and tired. He wants that bath. He wants Aunt Pansy’s honey cake and Belladonna’s kisses and Bungo’s wise words.
“Warmth,” he says. “Food. Sleep.”
Tomorrow will paint the world brighter, replenishing his excitement. It has to.