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Chapter Text

“Dread has come upon you. Alas! It has come more swiftly than I guessed.”

“Did he say bread?” Kíli stood on tiptoe to whisper in Bilbo’s ear. A few months ago, it would have made Bilbo jump. Now he was used to being followed around by children near his own height.

“Not bread, dead,” Fíli corrected, incorrectly. “He means people are going to die.”

“He said dread,” Bilbo explained to both boys. “It’s a feeling of terror, or something that causes such a feeling. Quite vague, typical Gandalf. Now hush, I want to listen to the king.”

Thrór had leaned forward on his throne to stare grimly at the wizard. “Are you a bat or a crow, that you fly always in the vanguard of disaster? It would not be amiss, Gandalf, if you were to arrive one day with good tidings.”

“If you would rather face an army of goblins and wargs without warning or time to prepare, O Thrór King Under the Mountain, then next time such a situation arises I will bear your preference in mind.” Gandalf looked around impatiently. “Where is my hobbit? I hope you have not damaged him.”

“I’m here,” called Bilbo. He stood with the young princes a fair distance from the dais, so he waved to get Gandalf’s attention. Smaug, who was draped around his neck, let out an indignant puff of smoke at the disturbance.

Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows shot up and a smile spread across his face. “Indeed, here you are—and full of surprises, as I rather expected, Bilbo Baggins!”

“How can it be a surprise if you expected it?” demanded Kíli.

“A wizard is never surprised, young master Kíli,” said Gandalf. “But he always expects surprises for others. Now, there is time yet to take council. Girion and Thranduil are even now marching toward the Front Gate, each with as large an armed company as could be gathered.”

Thrór rose to his feet, shaking his head. “Girion will I gladly fight beside. But the elf-king, never.”

“You will not be shocked to hear he holds the same attitude toward you,” said Gandalf, already leading the way out of the hall. “So we shall put Girion between you two, and all shall be well.”

“Come, Thráin, come, Thorin,” commanded Thrór as he walked.

“You had better come, too, Bilbo,” called Gandalf. “And leave your charming attendants behind.”

“Me?” squeaked the hobbit. “I am no warrior!”

“Nevertheless, you are needed in council.”

“I want to go, too!” cried Fíli.

“If Fí’s going, I’m going!” declared Kíli.

Before anyone in their family could chastise them, Bilbo pulled a handful of nuts and dried meat from his pocket. Smaug’s nostrils flared, but Bilbo ignored him and gave the treats to Fíli and Kíli. “Will you please check on Faug and Smíli, and remind them not to make sport of the raven chicks? If they’re behaving well, you may share these with them.”

With a few wistful backward glances, but without grumbling, the boys trotted off. Bilbo turned and ran to catch up with their elders. Although he had no place in any discussion of strategy, he supposed this might be an opportune time to mention the ring. Perhaps Gandalf could make use of it in battle.

When Bilbo arrived at the war room, he found Thorin holding the door for him. “You did not need to do that,” he murmured, ducking under Thorin’s arm to step inside.

“You did not need to be so kind to my nephews,” Thorin answered, and he guided Bilbo to his seat with a warm hand on his back.

The table was already full, with Thrór and Thráin and the two leaders of Elves and Men, who had ridden ahead of their armies to join the council. Bilbo felt their curious stares on him. But Gandalf allowed no time for questions, or indeed even for introductions. He plunged at once into a hurried account of how war had arrived at the feet of the Lonely Mountain.

The dragons had apparently been stealing treasure not only for themselves but also to carry by wing and by tunnel to the goblins of the northern mountains. The goblin leader, Bolg, was enraged by the dragons’ changed allegiance, now that they had stopped bringing him gold and had begun returning to the dwarves much of what was previously stolen.

At the same time, Bolg’s father Azog, who had long ago driven the dwarves from their ancient kingdom of Moria, had been craving a similar end to the kingdom of Erebor ever since the battle of—Bilbo could not catch its long name in the dwarvish tongue. But from the grief and fury on the faces of all the dwarves, he guessed their memories of the battle were no happier than Azog’s.

Gandalf had been observing heightened activity among the goblin cities, but he had missed the mustering and arming of the great host that now marched, for it had been done in deep and secret places. But an eagle flying far afield had spotted bats swarming to meet the goblins and brought the news to Gandalf, who had raced with all speed to Erebor, warning Thranduil and Bard on his way. They were wise enough to know that goblins overrunning the Lonely Mountain spelled ruin for their own lands, too.

“So this is all your fault, then,” Thrór snapped at Gandalf. “Yours, and that blasted hobbit.”

Bilbo made an indignant noise, but Thorin spoke before he could. “No, Grandfather, it’s the goblins’ fault. The wizard and Mr. Baggins are here to help us.”

Warmed to his furry toes by Thorin’s support, Bilbo added, “Gandalf is wonderful against goblins! You should have seen him in the Misty Mountains when they attacked our camp. He can drive them off with fireworks, can’t you, Gandalf?”

“I will do all that I can. But this is a great and terrible army, and an army—or several—will be needed to turn it.”

“We have two hundred fighters with spears and swords at the ready,” said Girion. “But our real strength is in our bowmen—three hundred who can shoot at a great distance.”

“We come with twice as many elves, all well-armed for ranged combat,” said Thranduil. “If we array them on the high ground (with your permission, of course, Your Majesty) then many goblins and wargs may be cut down even as they march.”

Thrór grunted. “Very good. Elves and men shall stay comfortably clear of danger, while the dwarves as usual take the brunt of it. No matter. We have armor, axes, and courage. We will face the goblins.”

“You have yet one more army on your side, skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Or should I say, hand-to-claw?” Gandalf turned to Bilbo. “Is your army ready, Bilbo?”

“Army! What army? My dear Gandalf, I came to Erebor to manage pests, not to . . .” He trailed off. Smaug stretched across Bilbo’s shoulders, displaying his magnificent claws. Then he yawned, showing off his teeth, and finally let out a gusty sigh that carried the promise of death.

“Oh.”

Chapter Text

Thorin had to admit it was brilliant.

He did not, however, have to admit this out loud to Gandalf’s face.

While his father and grandfather argued over battle plans, Thorin thought privately that, regardless of any strategic adjustments, the dragons could turn the tide in this war. Despite their small size, they were abundant, dangerous, and practically indestructible. They were too tough to be cut, too fast to be crushed, and too obstinate to be frightened. Everything that Thorin had once found aggravating about them he now admired.

It was similar to the progression of his feelings toward the hobbit who had tamed them.

“Do we even know for certain that these dragons will attack the goblins?” Thranduil demanded, raising his voice over Thrór and Thráin.

They all looked to Bilbo for an answer, at which point it became apparent that the hobbit had already effected a silent egress from the room.

“That doesn’t fill me with confidence,” said Girion grimly.

Thorin stood up. “I’m sure that Mr. Baggins has gone to rally his army. I’ll follow and confirm.”

Thráin acknowledged him with a nod, and Thorin hurried off before Thrór could object. After a quick detour to his own rooms, he found Bilbo just where he expected to: in the Doorstep Garden, as they’d taken to calling it. The hobbit had climbed a high outcrop where he could look to the north, and sat there puffing his pipe with his hairy toes dangling. Smaug was nowhere to be seen.

Thorin stepped up and sat beside Bilbo. “Will you let your dragons fight?”

Bilbo gave a hollow laugh. “As if I could stop them! They are not my dragons, no more than they are yours or Thrór’s. They answer to their own queer logic, and if I have taught them it is good to be friends with dwarves—even as I myself learned it to be true—then they will fight at your side. I am sure Smaug is even now spreading the news, and it will travel, if you’ll forgive the expression, like wildfire.”

Perceiving that Bilbo was not in a mood to be thanked or congratulated, Thorin simply nodded and followed his gaze to the north. He wished he had time to get his own pipe, but he dared not spend more than a few more minutes on this precious errand. He thought he saw clouds of dust in the distance, but surely it was his imagination; goblins would not march during the day.

“Do you see the birds?” Bilbo asked.

Thorin remembered that the hobbit’s eyes were keener than any dwarf’s in the daytime, though adorably helpless in the dark. “Those are birds?”

Bilbo nodded. “Huge flocks, black as ravens.”

“They will be carrion crows, then, gathering for the battle. They will have much to feed on tonight; mostly goblin, I hope.”

“Do the ravens, er . . .” Bilbo paused and looked around as though he expected Roäc to appear and scold him for indiscretion. “Do they feed as well?”

Thorin shook his head. “They would not despoil our dead out of respect, and they find the taste of goblin repugnant.”

“I wonder if the dragons will behave more like ravens or crows.” Bilbo blew a set of tidy little smoke rings. “There is still so much I don’t know about them.”

Thorin hastened to reassure him. “We will not grudge them, if they do feed, for unlike the crows they will earn their feast.” He winced. This was not the sort of talk that lent itself to his purpose, but he had no time to make a gentle transition. Battle would be joined in mere hours.

“Mr. Baggins,” he began.

“I thought we were past that level of formality, O Thorin Thráin’s son Oakenshield.”

The teasing smile on Bilbo’s face warmed Thorin from boots to beard. “Bilbo, then. I would like to offer you a token, which is a formal occasion among dwarves, but if hobbits prefer familiarity I am happy to oblige.”

Bilbo looked puzzled. “A token?”

Thorin drew the mail shirt out of his coat to erase any doubt of his intentions. He let it cascade from his hands, the late afternoon sun lending a warm glow to its silver links. “I would ask you to wear this,” he said, heart hammering.

“Yes, all right,” said Bilbo agreeably.

If the response was less enthusiastic than Thorin had hoped, at least it was unambiguous. As he watched Bilbo set down his pipe and take off his coat, he wondered if hobbits found strong reactions at such moments unseemly. He tried to moderate his own delight at seeing his gift fall over Bilbo’s head and into place.

“I’m sure I look ridiculous,” said Bilbo with a little chuckle. “Still, I wish I had a mirror!”

Another hobbit custom, Thorin told himself, refusing to believe that Bilbo could truly consider the mail ridiculous. He wasn’t sure of the proper response, so he simply spoke his mind. “You look magnificent, though it is only a beginning. After the battle, I shall array you in matching finery from head to toe.”

“Thorin . . .” Bilbo’s face clouded over again. “I don’t wish to be a coward, but I must tell you I have never wielded any weapon beyond a garden hoe or a conker.”

“Oh, no! No. You are not expected to fight, Bilbo.” Thorin was chilled by the very thought.

Bilbo looked down at his mail shirt in confusion. “Then why—”

“It is a token,” said Thorin firmly. He waited for Bilbo to make eye contact, to be sure he understood. “You are to stay inside the mountain with the other noncombatants. Dís and Fíli and Kíli will keep you company.”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “I would have thought Dís would prefer to protect her boys by cleaving goblins.”

“You know her well,” said Thorin with a wry smile. “It pains her to sit out the battle, and it pains me not to have her fighting at my side, but we cannot risk Fíli and Kíli losing their mother. They have already lost their father and one uncle to goblins.”

“How did that happen?” asked Bilbo. “That is, if I may know.”

“Of course. Time is short and I must go, but when the fighting is over, I will tell you about them at length. They both died in the battle of Azanulbizar.”

“The battle of—can you say that slower, please?”

Thorin spoke Azanulbizar syllable by syllable, watching Bilbo’s lips mirror each one, and felt a fierce satisfaction at the sight and sound of his own language in the mouth of the hobbit. “I will teach you more Khûzdul,” he said intently. “After the battle.”

“I would like that.” Bilbo picked up his coat and pipe and followed Thorin back to the door. As they passed through the garden, he stooped and plucked a yellow flower, which he offered to Thorin. “A token for you, in return.”

Thorin’s breath caught in his throat as he took the delicate stem between his fingers. He had never seen or heard of a flower token, but if this was tradition among hobbits, it was hardly the most peculiar thing about them. “I will treasure it.”