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It had been less than a week since Bilbo Baggins had stepped foot outside of Bag End. His backside had grown quite sore since then, mostly thanks to riding every day, from dawn till dusk, with the occasional short stop in between. Each night, the mere idea of sitting down pained him, and finding a comfortable enough position to lie in lost him precious moments of sleep. Gandalf (as well as the rest of the Company, he guessed) seemed aware of his predicament, assuring him he’d get used to it eventually. Bilbo wasn’t convinced, especially since he was this sore already after only a few days of traveling. How long would this adventure be? Weeks? Months? Hopefully not years, but either way he wasn’t pleased.
The hobbit did his best to ignore it; focusing on taking in the new lands around him, listening in to the conversations of the dwarves, watching how his pony Myrtle moved beneath him. Several times Bilbo felt his mind slip into thinking about the home he’d left behind. He could be seated in his favourite armchair right now, reading one of his books. Or on his bench in the garden, listening to the buzz of Hobbiton below him and lazily smoking his pipe. He shook his head, forcing his eyes to concentrate on the stitching of the cloak worn by the dwarf ahead of him. The last thing he needed was to further regret his choices.
Bilbo’s thoughts cleared when he heard something he hadn’t before. He tilted his head, brow furrowed, trying to pinpoint it without turning his head and, most likely, earning odd looks. It sounded like one of the dwarves behind him was humming to himself, some sort of tune unfamiliar to the hobbit. Bilbo’s brow relaxed, he didn’t really know why he was so surprised to hear it. The group had proven to be rather musical back in Bag End by breaking into song twice, one of which they had seemingly made up on the spot (unless some past dwarf had come up with a song that just so happened to include his name). Since then, however, they’d been silent music wise. Bilbo thought that was odd, they each seemed to have the ability to sing, and some even had instruments with them. Yet there hadn’t been a single tune sung since that night.
Hobbits had a habit of slipping into song when they knew they were nearing home for the night; humming songs about supper, songs about bed. They even had bath songs. A few times, as the sky grew dark, one of these songs would enter Bilbo’s head. Several times he’d almost started humming one, but he stopped himself each time. It was absurd but he just didn’t feel comfortable doing it in the presence of the Company, whether it was out of fear of being mocked or being told to hush up. Maybe this was partly why he felt fairly miserable so soon into their journey.
“We’ll stop here for the night,” Thorin’s voice eventually boomed from the head of the group, a few relieved murmurs answering him. They dismounted and tied their ponies up together then began making camp in the fading light; Fili and Kili collecting wood, Gloin starting up the fire, Bombur gathering what he needed to make dinner. Bilbo patted Myrtle before waddling over to the Company’s circle, not really wanting to sit again so soon but eventually finding a spot between Balin and Ori. He felt quite proud of himself over remembering their names, though he still had a bit of trouble keeping them all straight. It probably would take just as long as getting used to sitting in a saddle for several hours at a time for him to greet a dwarf without pausing to think of their name.
The white bearded dwarf next to him offered a warm smile as the hobbit sat with a grimace. “I know you’ve heard this a few times now,” he began slowly, “but you’ll get used to being saddle-sore soon enough.”
Bilbo gave a small smile back, trying to hide his annoyance over being told this once again. “If you all happen to have some sort of trick that would make me get used to it faster, I wouldn’t mind hearing it,” he replied, earning a few stifled chuckles.
“Ale usually helps,” spoke up Bofur with a smirk from where he leaned back against a rock, hat pulled low. “Any stiff drink really.”
“Aye, that’d do it,” Oin, the group’s medic, nodded while stroking his beard, “unless you're dealing with the numbness, ‘cause it’ll just spread.”
Nori let out a short sigh as he leaned against the tree behind him. “Great, now you all got me wanting a pint.”
“Just one?” his older brother Dori questioned with a raised brow, obviously knowing his brother all too well.
“We’ve got a few pouches with us,” Gloin spoke up, “it probably wouldn’t hurt to… make sure it’s still fine.”
His fellow dwarves all murmured in agreement, but Thorin, who sat on one end next to Gandalf, shook his head with his characteristic scowl. “No one touches the ale. We all need to stay sharp until we reach Erebor.” Gandalf nodded in agreement, though it was a very slight nod.
The King’s two nephews seemed the most disappointed, next to Bofur, Nori, and Bifur. The latter, who could only speak Khuzdul and through hand gestures due to the axe lodged in his head, grumbled something before crossing his arms. The hobbit snorted in an attempt to hold back his amusement, when Bombur announced that dinner was ready. Large bowls of steaming stew were handed around, Bilbo feeling his stomach rumble as he was passed his portion. The only sounds in the clearing were the noises of the hungry travelers devouring their meal mixed with the cracking of the fire. They all finished within a few minutes, everyone trying to get as much food as they could. Once satisfied, each member moved off into preparing for the night, setting up their bedrolls in prefered locations.
Bilbo followed suit, trying to not let his thoughts remind him of his warm, comfy bed back home. The ground was hard and cold, even through his roll, and his soreness from the day’s ride wasn’t helping, like usual. He ended up rolling onto his back, staring up at the moon though it’s thin veil of cloud. Crickets started up their nighttime chorus as he listened to the dwarves settling down, discussing who’d be on watch and at which times.
There was a loud huff followed by the hard sound of a body landing on a bedroll. “You know, I love sleeping under the stars as much as the next person,” a dwarf voice muttered, Bilbo believed it belonged to Bofur, “but staying at an inn right now wouldn’t be so bad.”
The hobbit wasn’t sure if he was talking to anyone in particular, but he silently agreed either way. He started thinking about the Shire again, this time of The Green Dragon Inn; of it being filled with music, friendly faces, and merry hobbits drinking away the night. The one thing he found himself missing the most was the music. It still seemed so strange to him that of all things it was the music he was missing, when he was traveling with dwarves who could pull verses out of the air. Why was that?
His mind showed him the dark, brooding face of the Company’s leader. Bilbo smirked, that was the easiest answer but he knew it wasn’t right. Thorin could sing; he had a beautiful deep, rumbling voice that had echoed down the halls of Bag End, strengthened and carried onward by the voices of the other twelve as it traveled, striking the hobbit right at his core and partially convincing him to run out his door the next morning. That wasn’t the voice of someone who disliked music. Bilbo’s eyelids flickered as they grew heavy with sleep but he kept his gaze trained on the moon, his thoughts on the Green Dragon Inn, on beer and merriment. Maybe Thorin just needed a different song to sing, something to raise his and everyone else’s spirits.
A verse came to him, then another, silencing the aching soreness in his lower body. It was ridiculous and out of nowhere, like the twelve as they teased him with his mother’s china.
There’s an inn, a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill...
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Bilbo hummed softly to himself with a grin from atop Myrtle, keeping in time with her steady gait. Though he didn’t feel self-conscious enough to keep himself from humming, he still did it quietly to keep anyone from overhearing him. The grin, on the other hand, that he couldn’t keep down. This little song project of his had already started to help him feel a lot less miserable, and it also gave him something to distract his mind from his aching backside. He looked from one side of the path to the other, then up to the sky. It was like the hobbit had woken up from a gloomy dream to a warm sunny morning; he looked at his surroundings in such a different light than he had for the past few days. Maybe this whole adventure thing wasn’t so bad.
“Ah, Bilbo! Good to see you in such a good mood,” Gandalf suddenly greeted, causing Bilbo to flinch out of shock. He turned to face the grey wizard, wondering where he’d come from since he tended to stay up at the front with Thorin. Then he realized that’s where he was.
“O-oh yes, haha,” Bilbo chuckled nervously, his embarrassment rising when he noticed the King was on his opposite side, staring at him with one raised brow. “E-excuse me,” he stammered, the tips of his ears heating up, as he pulled back on the reins of Myrtle and brought her back into line behind the two.
The wizard chuckled lightheartedly and turned back on his horse towards the hobbit and his pony. “There's no rule that says you can't join us, you know,” Gandalf called, his eyes twinkling as he waved for him to return. “The added company is most welcome!”
“No, no, i-it’s quite alright!” Bilbo returned, currently preferring the idea of just disappearing into the rest of the dwarves.
Thorin, who almost seemed amused of all things, produced a half smirk which could have been argued to actually be a snarl. “I won't bite, halfling.”
Bilbo’s lips spread into a thin line. The truth behind that statement could be debated due to the face the dwarf had made, but the hobbit relented and pushed Myrtle forward. The pony gave some resistance as she didn't seem to appreciate being hassled so much.
Gandalf simply continued to laugh softly as Bilbo returned between himself and Thorin. “There, now then, what trick did you find to help with your ‘situation?’”
Bilbo didn't really like how he'd worded that, but ignored it. What got him more was what he should say. Should he tell the truth? It wasn't really meant to be a secret.
“Just thought up lyrics to a little song is all,” he replied with a shrug, keeping his eyes on the path before them. “Something to pass the time. Distract myself.”
“Ah well now, you'll have to share it,” Gandalf smiled.
“You can sing then, Master Burglar?” questioned Thorin, the sudden inquiry causing Bilbo to turn towards him.
“Weeeellllllll,” he shrugged again, “not amazingly . Probably just as well as any other hobbit.”
“You say that like we've heard hobbits sing before!” a voice cut in from behind. Bilbo turned to see Fili and Kili riding up closer, grins on their faces and curiosity in their eyes.
“Yes well,” he continued, clearing his throat, “you still won't until I'm sure this song is fit and ready to be heard.”
“Not even going to give a preview, laddie?” another voice called, deep and commanding causing Bilbo to jump. It belonged to Dwalin, who rode just behind the princes. As he peered back, he noticed it wasn't just the front of the group watching him, it was everyone. They all muttered some sort of encouragement with twelve grins flashed his way.
He gave a soft huff. “L-look, I barely started thinking it up last night! I don't have all the words down, let alone a proper tune!”
Twelve voices rose up behind him, smothering his weak attempts at protesting.
“Come on! Sing us the song!”
“A song is a song no matter how complete it is!”
“Sing to us, Mister Baggins!”
“We won't make fun of you if that's what you're worried about!” Bofur called from his spot near the middle, catching Bilbo’s eye and giving him a mischievous wink.
“Fine, fine, alright!” he cried with exasperation. He could feel the heat on the tips of his ears spreading through to the rest of his face as the dwarves cheered on his decision. He found himself wondering if this was what being a parent to several children was like.
The hobbit cleared his throat loudly, the dwarves hushing each other. The group went silent, the only sounds the gentle clopping of hooves on dry mud. He felt another wave of extreme self-consciousness and pushed it down. He knew he wouldn't be able to work his way out of singing for them now. Probably the only thing that could stop him would be if they were suddenly attacked by orcs. Maybe not even then. He took another breath before starting up the first verse.
His voice, which he realized was relatively higher pitched than the dwarves’, quivered with the first line. Bilbo started slow and steady, tapping one finger on his saddle to the beat. He had no idea what the dwarves thought of it, or his voice for that matter. It'd been awhile since he'd actually sang, though never this loudly or for an audience. He worried he might be off-key, of course he hadn’t exactly pinned down a key for it yet so it probably wasn’t that big of a deal. The hobbit closed his eyes and forced as much strength as he could into his soft voice, remembering how loud the dwarves had been. It got easier as he shifted into the second verse and became completely invested into the song. You kind of had to be to sing it, it was a rather ridiculous song.
Bilbo released Myrtle’s reins and squeezed her sides gently with his knees to keep himself from slipping, then brought his hands up to give the illusion of a fiddle. He wasn’t really sure why he felt the need to act it out, maybe because the verse about a cat playing a fiddle wasn’t bizarre enough on its own. He leaned back as it “squeaked high” then forward as it “purred low,” before returning upright as it “sawed in the middle.”
By now, even though he was immersed in his performance, he could hear the growing sounds of the dwarves keeping time with his singing. Some were clapping, others tapping. There was an overall deep metallic sound to it, befitting them perfectly. Each time he paused before moving to the next verse, they paused as well. At first it affected his nerves, since he felt he had to keep jumping to the more finished verses to keep them going. But as the beat sped up (and he pulled a few lines out of the air, like they had), Bilbo relaxed. Still fairly tense, but more relaxed either way.
“Aaand that's it, that's all it is so far,” he stated after five verses, back to feeling very self-conscious. “I mean I have several unfinished verses, but… well you know…” he trailed off, scratching one ear absentmindedly.
Two large hands collided with his back and nearly knocked the air from his lungs, followed by a hearty laugh that was echoed down the line of the Company. Bilbo recovered himself then met the broad grins of the King’s nephews, finding himself unable to hold back a grin of his own when he looked at them.
“Never in all my years would I have thought I would hear a hobbit compose a pub song,” Balin chuckled next to Dwalin. The latter, battle-hardened dwarf bore a grin that matched his older brother’s sentiment.
“You better be planning to teach us all this song,” Bofur called from his spot in line, “I want to be able to whip that one out if we magically happen across an inn!” The other dwarves all cheered their agreement, heating up Bilbo’s face once again. He hadn't expected them to enjoy it this much. It wasn't even finished!
“I'm surprised,” Gandalf chuckled, regaining the hobbit’s attention, “this song isn't quite what I was expecting from you.”
Bilbo shrugged, casting a hesitant glance towards Thorin. The Company’s leader had been quiet through it all, and he couldn't tell whether or not he disapproved; probably because the hobbit had made sure not to look at him while he sang. His normally grim, serious face still looked somewhat grim and serious, but it’s features had softened, if only just a little. His steely blue eyes were even a bit… warm? It was a shade off from the look Thorin would give Fili and Kili sometimes, complete with the slightest twinge of a smile. Bilbo didn’t know why a part of him had expected more.
“Sometimes it’s just the kind of song that’s necessary,” he nodded at Gandalf. The wizard stroked his beard thoughtfully but said nothing more.
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The Company of thirteen dwarves, one wizard, and one hobbit had been through a lot. Riding through cold rain that seeped straight to their bones, narrowly avoiding becoming a meal for a trio of trolls, chased on foot across a rocky plain by a pack of orcs riding wargs, only to have them led astray by another wizard on a sled pulled by giant rabbits. It was quite something, then, to arrive in the Hidden Valley and be given a moment to catch their breath. Rivendell’s beauty was something Bilbo could have only dreamed of seeing. He was utterly mystified by the place; he’d already felt such admiration for the elves before coming on this journey, but he never imagined it would grow as much as it had now. If only the dwarves shared in his wonderment.
Lord Elrond had a feast prepared for them all; tables set up for the Company to sit, vast amounts of food and wine placed before them, even gentle background music performed by a handful of delicate harp, flute and lute players. The Elf Lord himself sat at the head of a circular table in a tall backed chair, with Gandalf on one side and Thorin on the other. Bilbo was given a place at the first of the two lower tables set up for the remaining Company, between Balin and Fili (who had been placed away from his younger brother, most likely to keep them from acting up like they had a habit of doing). Bombur, Gloin, Dori and Ori sat with them while Dwalin, Oin, Nori, Bofur, Kili and Bifur sat at the second. A short pedestal with unknown significance divided them.
Bilbo politely ate the food he’d been given, as any proper hobbit would, but he couldn’t help watching how his companions reacted to their meal. Dori tried to convince Ori that eating at least a bit of green food wouldn’t kill him. Bombur only hesitated a few times before stuffing his face. Balin took a swig of wine for each bite of his salad he took, while Gloin left his untouched in favour of eating any buns that didn’t make their way down to Bombur. The second table didn’t seem to be faring any better; Oin inspecting each piece of vegetable with disdain, Bifur foregoing cutlery like Bombur and tearing it up before putting it in his mouth. Bilbo was fairly certain he noticed Nori pocketing a pepper mill.
Behind them, he listened to Elrond tell Gandalf and Thorin the names, importance, and origin of the swords they’d claimed for themselves in the troll’s hoard. Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver, was the sword the King now had. The grey wizard welded Glamdring, Foe-Hammer; mate to Orcrist and originally forged for the King of Gondolin. The hobbit, without really thinking, reached for the blade Gandalf had found for him in that same tunnel, sliding it partly from it’s sheath.
“I wouldn’t bother, laddie,” Balin commented with a smile. “Swords are named for the great deeds they do in war.”
Bilbo’s brow furrowed slightly as he met the white haired dwarf’s gaze. “What, you saying my sword hasn’t seen battle?”
Balin’s lips pulled into a straight line as he looked down to the short weapon. “I’m not actually sure it is a sword,” he commented after a moment. “It’s more of a letter-opener really.”
The hobbit looked down to his blade then shifted it back to his hip as Balin refilled his glass with wine. Someone who wasn’t him probably would have felt some sort of “sword-envy” after being informed this. Bilbo, on the other hand, felt an absurd amount of pity. Not only was he himself deemed useless in a fight, so was his blade. Part of him felt inclined to change that, while the sensible part of him shut the former up.
He was pulled from his thoughts when Thorin suddenly got up from his seat, walked between their table and the pedestal, then came to stand a few feet behind Dori, Ori and Gloin. The dark haired, steel eyed dwarf wore his default hard scowl as he drank from a flagon handed to him by one of the elves tending to them. He looked just as uncomfortable and out of his element as the rest of his Company, perhaps even more so but Bilbo couldn’t tell. Behind him, Gandalf appeared to be trying to assure Lord Elrond that the dwarves he’d invited into his home were well cultured descendants of Durin. That was right when Bofur got up from his seat and climbed up onto the pedestal.
All eyes turned to him, the elven musicians stopping short in their playing and shot their neighbours confused and nervous looks. Bofur stood tall and adjusted his hat, a mischievous twinkle in his eye that could rival the look Fili and Kili got when they were up to something.
“Alright, I know this isn’t exactly an inn,” he began, his smile growing as he looked over his companions, “but as far as I can see, it’s close enough! I think it’s about time we had some proper music, what do you lads think?”
The other dwarves gave a resounding cheer and clanged their glasses and cutlery on the tables, making the most noise they had since sitting down. Bilbo snorted as he tried not to burst out laughing over the twelve’s immediate change in demeanor. He had a feeling Elrond wasn’t buying Gandalf’s “cultured descendants of Durin” line anymore, if he even had. Bofur’s smile somehow got even bigger as he motioned for them to quiet down.
“Well then, if you’d all like to join me, cause I certainly can’t pull this off alone! You all should somewhat know the words too, though we only really heard them once!” he called, earning another cheer from the dwarves and more concerned looks from the elves. Just as Bilbo got ready to listen to what he assumed was a dwarf song he hadn’t heard yet, Bofur’s gaze singled him out. He stared back, slowly feeling rather confused. And worried.
“ Theeeeeeeerrre’ss ,” Bofur crooned, stretching the word out in a familiar pitch.
...Oh no , thought Bilbo, his small smile switching into a look of pure horror.
“ Aaaaaaaaannnnnn ,” the dwarf raised a hand as if to tell him to join in. It was his song after all.
Eru no, not here of all places! The blood had all but drained from the hobbit’s face. He wished the floor would swallow him whole.
“ Inn, there’s an inn, there’s a merry old inn ,” Bofur sang, dancing in place on the pedestal to keep time, “ beneath the old grey hill! ” The other dwarves, with a huge amount of delight in their eyes, began to stomp along. “ And there they brew a beer so brown, the Man in the Moon himself came down one night to drink his fill! ”
Why , was all Bilbo could think, his face buried in his hands. Why? Why did he have to come up with this song? Why did he have to have shared it? Why was Bofur singing it? WHY HERE IN RIVENDELL?!
“ The ostler has a tipsy cat that plays a five-string fiddle! ” eleven booming voices suddenly joined in. He felt one of Fili’s hands collide with his back, just like when he’d first sang the song to them. The blood returned to Bilbo’s face as it began to heat up, shooting straight to the tips of his ears. “ And up and down he runs his bow! Now squeaking hiiiiiiigh! ” He peaked through his fingers to watch Bofur mimicking his “pretend fiddle” motions. “ Now purring loooooow! Now sawing in the middle! ”
Honestly Bilbo, he started to tell himself to regain what little nerve he had, this isn’t the worst thing that could be happening to you right now.
Then his gaze landed on Thorin.
Thorin Oakenshield, the most solemn, serious, broody, stick-up-the-backside person Bilbo had ever been introduced to, was dancing in place! To the beat of his song! With the biggest, goofiest grin that the hobbit swore had ever split the King’s face before! Thorin. Freaking. Oakenshield!
He was going to faint. Or cry. Maybe throw up. Probably all three at once.
The “courage of hobbits” indeed.
“ Soooooooo, the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle, a jig that would wake the dead! ” Bofur continued, food flying past him and barely missing several of the elves unlucky enough to be serving them. The stamping of thirteen dwarves seemed to shake the very stone floor beneath them, or at least it felt like that to someone as small as Bilbo Baggins. He’d finally released his face from his hands, feeling extremely resigned to his fate.
“ He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune! ” All the dwarves at his table (including Bofur on the stone pedestal) were looking at him with wide grins and gleaming eyes. Balin placed a hand on one of his shoulders as Fili did the same on his other side. Still burning up from the blush on his face, Bilbo found he really couldn’t help but smile back at them.
“ While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon: ‘It’s after three,’ he said! ” He looked over the faces around him, faces he’d begun to feel familiar with. Bilbo realized this was the happiest all of them had looked since they’d left Hobbiton. Throwing food, banging their cutlery against the table, stomping their feet. It was like a strange mirror image of what had transpired in Bag End. Only this time with a song he’d written. The hobbit’s gaze shifted behind Dori and Ori again. Well, that wasn’t the only difference.
Thorin looked over his singing Company with such a warmness that Bilbo didn’t honestly believe he was capable of. Alright, that wasn’t exactly true; a warmness he wasn’t capable of showing him . As he watched his people cheering and laughing, Thorin’s blue eyes sparkled like the depths of reflective pools of clear water. His face pulled back as his mouth released peals of a thunderous laughter the likes of which Bilbo had never heard before. He looked as genuinely happy as his companions, a look that should have made Bilbo feel elated (considering how grumpy Thorin looked at every other moment). But for some reason it made him feel even more like an outsider; peering through a window and watching a close-knit family enjoying each other’s company.
“Now, I really hate to admit it,” Bofur stated through deep breaths, “but I can’t quite remember how the next few verses went.” Bilbo met his eyes again, the dwarf nodding to him in encouragement. “Mister Baggins, if you’d be so kind as to remind me?”
The group had silenced, not a calm silence but merely a break in the storm. All eyes were fixated on the hobbit, looks of expectancy and contained excitement. He looked back at them all, not realizing at first what they wanted of him, then began to shake his head at Bofur.
“N-no, no, it’s fine!” he stammered out, “I’m sure whatever lyrics you could think of would be better anyways!”
The dwarves immediately broke out in calls of protest. Everyone, right from Bombur on one end to Nori and Bifur at the other, encouraged him to sing.
“You sang for us before! You can do it again!”
“It’s just us! You have no reason to be scared!”
“If an elf starts laughing, I’ll punch them out myself! Promise!”
“Come on, laddie,” Balin encouraged with his usual smile and a gentle pat on the back. “Besides, you’ve got a lovely voice!”
Bilbo couldn’t help but chuckle while taking in all this enthusiasm for him to sing for the second time, slowly shaking his head. The various shouts morphed into a chant, the dwarves pounding the table as they called his name over and over: “Bilbo! Bilbo! Bilbo!” He really didn’t know how to take it.
Once again, his eyes drifted to where the dwarves’ King stood, and found himself met with a face he hadn’t expected. It was a soft face, a reassuring face, almost as warm as the face he’d given his fellows. He even gave him a smile. Thorin motioned with his free hand for Bilbo to proceed. It wasn’t a command, like a King to his Subject, more like a ‘they won’t stop until you start singing, so I suggest you do so’ sort of wave. Bilbo gave him a small smile, nodded, then turned to the others.
“Alright, okay! I’ll sing it!” he cried, throwing his hands in the air just in case no one heard him. That didn’t appear to be the case, as the chanting erupted into cheers. Balin and Fili patted him on the back for one last piece of consolation as he rose to his feet. He was certainly surprised by the fact Lord Elrond hadn’t called for an end to all this. Obviously he was finding some kind of amusement in it. Bilbo looked over his companions. They leaned into the tables, cutlery and glasses at the ready to match the beat, eyes trained on him with faces beaming.
He took a breath. “ Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle ,” he started; much slower than the verse previous, tapping his foot in time along with everyone else. “ The dog began to roar! ”
Thorin put his flagon under one arm and began to clap, still giving the hobbit his uncharacteristically warm smile. Bofur had returned to dancing on the pedestal. Bilbo became very aware that all pairs of eyes in the area were on him, but for some reason he didn’t care.
“ The cow and the horses stood on their heads! ” his voice strengthened as he sped up. “ The guests all bounded from their beds and danced upon the floor! ” The dwarves, his dwarves, gave a quick cheer then settled in preparation for the last verse.
“ Ooooooh the round Moon rolled behind the hill, as the Sun raised up her head! ” Bofur joined him at this point, either because he’d remembered this verse or had lied earlier. The other eleven followed suit, as well as (unless he imagined it) Thorin. His voice rose over the others like it had when Bilbo first heard him sing in his drawing room. Bilbo should have felt more nervous than he already did, that would have been natural. But he didn’t. He felt… accepted . For the first time since he’d joined them. Even more so than after he’d partly saved them from the trolls. He wanted to laugh. This ludicrous, silly, ridiculous song had made him feel this way. He couldn’t help but feel quite proud of it.
“ She hardly believed her fiery eyes! For though it was day, to her surprise, they all went back to bed! ”