Chapter Text
The first night after the eagles saved Bilbo and the dwarves was a clear one, starlight bright enough to illuminate the tops of the trees of Mirkwood forest, visible on the horizon. The massive forest would disappear from sight, Bilbo guessed, once they were on low ground again. It was maybe a two day walk on foot and fortunately for Bilbo, his feet were well prepared for such a walk. The same could not be said of some of the dwarves, whose boots were designed to protect from orc attacks, dropped tools and hot metal freshly smelted. Such boots would not be comfortable for long days of walking. Though, those with older boots, worn leather softened and shaped to their feet would be better off. Oddly, Bilbo thought to himself, having old yet soft boots might be one of the few times it was better to be poorer than richer. Not that boots look at all comfortable.
Bilbo wrinkled his nose briefly. It had been so long since he’d seen the bare feet of another. If the dwarves were to take their boots off at all, which some did when they slept, they kept their socks on. It was an unexpected reminder of how far from home he was.
Home. Bilbo once again began thinking of what decades upon decades of feeling as he was now would be like. Feeling like a boat drifting down river with no where to dock. Bilbo could, at least, take comfort in small things that reminded him of the Shire. One such thing was smoking his pipe-weed in the evening. Sadly, while his pipe remained in his inner jacket pocket, the pipe-weed was lost with the ponies. Bilbo’s clothes always had the sweet, acrid smell of smoke at home, as did most Hobbits’ clothes. Along with the sweet smell of grass in spring, it was a very distinct scent that permeated the Shire. On the road, pipe-weed smoke was just an undercurrent beneath sweat, dirt, pony and the strange herbal mixture the dwarves smoked.
The stars looked the same, at least, as they did at home. Bilbo pulled out his pipe, glad to see that it had one good smoke left. His last try at smoking it had been interrupted by rain, so there was weed leftover. Bilbo walked over to the campfire Fili had just set up, nodding at Balin who was preparing dinner. Bilbo lit his pipe, then walked away to the far edge of camp. While Gandalf was also a fan of pipe-weed, the dwarves had no taste for it, nor the smell it created. They preferred a different grass, one with a much sweeter smell and taste.
Gandalf had also run out of pipe-weed, though Bilbo doubted it had the same existential impact upon the wizard as it did upon him.
The wind barely brushed Bilbo’s cheeks as he breathed in the bittersweet smoke. Staring at the starts, he puffed out a series of smoke rings. The stars appeared to be circled in smoke, and Bilbo half smiled. He and his cousins had first taught themselves to blow smoke rings on a night much like this, each having raided their parents stashes for the nice, smooth weed, not the usual harsher variety many in their tweens smoked. Caught up in his memories of the Shire, Bilbo didn’t notice Bofur until he spoke.
“I dunno how ye can smoke that. It smells right awful.” Bilbo jumped slightly, and turned towards the now grinning dwarf.
“Have you tried it? It tastes better than it smells”
“I don’t know how ye could bring yourself to smoke it in the first place, just based on the smell. Besides, I doubt it clears the lungs like dwarven grass” Bofur replied, looking at the pipe with suspicion. Bilbo took another puff, and blew out yet another set of rings, careful to blow away from Bofur.
“Most Hobbits like the smell of pipe-weed. I certainly can’t remember a time when I didn’t smell it on a daily basis. My parents and everyone they knew certainly had a lingering scent of it when I was growing up.”
“I did notice the odd smell in your hole. Ah, well, each to their own. Most dwarves smell strongly of metal and coal, which I’ve been told is less than pleasing to others’ noses”
Bilbo looked bemused. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Aye, well, we’ve all been long out of our smithies and mines, haven’t we? There’s no smell like a well run smith, or metal and rock hundreds of feet under the earth” Bofur had a faraway look, not quite focused on the fading smoke rings drifting up towards the stars.
“Would you like a try” Bilbo asked, holding out his pipe.
“Oh, no. It’d put me off my dinner. Dinner! I was supposed to tell you it’s almost ready.”
Bilbo looked back to the fire at the centre of camp. Most of the dwarves, less the guards, were already gathered there. Bilbo sighed, licked his thumb, then stamped out the fire in his weed. It would have stopped burning without the airflow brought through when Bilbo inhaled, but he wanted to ensure that not a puff was lost before he could smoke it.
Bofur watched Bilbo, curious about his strange pipe habits.
“Ye haven’t smoked in a few nights” He commented, as they neared the fire. Bilbo could feel the warmth from the flames as he got his share of the rabbit stew Balin had made. Bofur made to sit near Bombur, and Bilbo followed.
“Well, I haven’t had time to as of late. And since my pipe-weed was lost along with the ponies, I suspect this will be the last time I smoke for a very long time”.
With that, Bilbo looked away and began to focus on his dinner. The stew was surprisingly good given their current situation. Kili must have killed some plump rabbits, since the stew was full of meaty flavour. As he stared his stew down, Bifur came over and sat next to Bombur, chatting away in that old dwarvish tongue Bilbo couldn’t understand. Well, to be fair, the other dwarves could only half understand him, so Bilbo wasn’t much better off.
Bofur looked towards the hobbit, whose shoulders were hunched as he determinedly stared at his stew.
“Did I ever tell ye the time Bombur, Bifur and I made off with the hindquarters of a cow?”
“The time you what? How do you only take the back half of a cow?”
“Well, ye see, the cow was already dead, and the butcher had tried to pay me with some counterfeit silver for some large knives. Well, I accepted those coins, since I wasn’t in a place to make a fuss about it. Why he thought dwarves wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between solid metal and gilded coin I’ll never know. Bombur distracted the butcher while Bifur I took the difference in what he owed us out of his cellar.”
Bifur grinned at this, and chattered out a series of syllables Bilbo’s teeth hurt to hear. But Bifur sounded proud, so Bilbo assumed it had something to do with how they achieved such a task, and he smiled and nodded. Bofur commented back to Bifur something about idiots who don’t understand silver, and Bombur turned to Bilbo with a comment about how they cooked that beef. From there the conversation turned to Bofur and Bombur’s youth.
Dinner passed quickly, as more dwarves joined in and the conversation turned to how incompetent many smiths were in the lands of men. Even the lowliest dwarven apprentice smith is as skilled as men’s most skilled blacksmiths, the dwarves assured the hobbit. The skills of dwarven smithcraft were lauded until it was time for the sentries to shift, signalling it was time to sleep. Dwalin and Ori headed out of camp as Gloin and Nori sat down to finish off what remained of the stew.
Bilbo lay down on a soft patch of grass, wrapping his cloak around himself as a blanket. He put his hands under his head as a makeshift pillow, but, alas, it was not enough for the hobbit. He shifted positions a few times as Bofur settled down beside him.
“Would ye like me hat? As a pillow, I mean. Dwarves are by far more used to sleeping in hard places than hobbits, I’d wager” Bofur offered earnestly.
“I couldn’t possibly accept” Bilbo replied.
Bofur paid his comment little attention as he took his hat off and handed it to Bilbo.
“Our burglar needs his sleep” is all he said. As Bilbo hesitated, Bofur’s smile slid into an anxious frown. Before he could speak again, Bilbo reached for the hat, it wouldn’t do to offend him Bilbo thought, before thanking Bofur for his generosity.
Bofur smiled widely, then settled down to sleep, closing his eyes as he pulled his cloak around his shoulders. Bilbo placed the hat under his head. It smelled smoky, like coal, and with a faint must that could only be Bofur’s unique scent. It was homey in an alien way, so very different from Bilbo’s pipe-weed. As Bilbo ruminated on how something so strange could seem so familiar, he fell into a deep sleep.
As soon as Bilbo’s breathing slowed down, Bofur leaned up on one arm to watch the sleeping Hobbit. Across from the two of them, Nori was watching the entire exchange. Nori tapped the ground to get Bofur’s attention, then made a face as he mouthed words that sounded, muffled by distance, a lot like “Rue Glove”. Bofur just shrugged. Nori, not having gotten the response he wanted, followed up with a rather rude gesture aimed at both Bilbo and Bofur. This Bofur returned with another rude gesture, this time aimed at Nori, the shrub behind him, and Bombur’s battle spoon. Nori’s eyes went wide, not believing such a thing to be physically possible, before turning to Dori, nudging him, and pointing at the sleeping Bilbo.
Dori’s eyes, drawn first to the hat, flickered up to Bofur, who remained unrepentant. Dori then nudged Nori and said some quiet, yet heated words. The then two lay down to sleep. Bofur watched Bilbo a moment more, before lying down once again.