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The fire crackled low in the center of the camp, casting long, flickering shadows against the roots of the ancient trees. The Company had been traveling for weeks, and as the initial suspicion of Bilbo Baggins began to thaw, it was replaced by a deep, bafflement-fueled curiosity. To the Dwarves, Bilbo was an anomaly: a creature who fretted over doilies but walked into troll dens, who craved seven meals a day but could disappear into a shadow without a sound.
The conversation had turned, as it often did among warriors, to the security of their homes. Dwalin was holding forth on the intricate guard rotations of the Blue Mountains, and Balin was adding footnotes about the diplomatic immunity of royal couriers.
“What about the Shire, then?” Dwalin asked, grunting as he sharpened an axe that was already terrifyingly keen. He looked at Bilbo, who was contentedly puffing on his pipe. “What’s the strength of your city watch? How many spears do you muster to keep the peace?”
Bilbo blew a perfect smoke ring, watching it drift toward the canopy. “Spears? Oh, goodness, no. We don’t have those. Very pointy and difficult to store.”
“No spears?” Thorin looked up, his brow furrowing. “Then how do you man the walls? How do you patrol the borders?”
“Well,” Bilbo began, counting on his fingers with a calm, academic air. “The Shire is divided into four Farthings, you see. For the whole of the Shire, we have exactly twelve Sheriffs—the 'Shirriffs,' as we call them. Three for each Farthing. They mostly deal with stray livestock and disputes over fence-lines.They wear a feather in their caps so you know who they are.”
The Dwarves went silent. Fili and Kili exchanged a look of pure disbelief.
“Twelve?” Gloin choked out. “Twelve guards for an entire country? My family has more guards than that just to watch the pantry during a feast!”
“Oh, we also have the Bounders,” Bilbo added helpfully. “About twenty-five of them. They’re the ones who walk the borders to make sure no 'Big People' wander in by mistake and to shoo away any particularly large wolves during a Fell Winter.”
“Thirty-seven people,” Dwalin muttered, sounding genuinely distressed. “Thirty-seven hobbits in feathers are the only thing standing between your people and annihilation. It’s a miracle you haven't been conquered by a stiff breeze.”
Nori, whose mind always gravitated toward the more illicit side of society, leaned forward. “Twelve Sheriffs? What do you do for real trouble, then? What about theft?”
“We have a very stern talk,” Bilbo said. “And the item is usually returned with a public apology and a very lackluster pie as penance.”
“And brawling?” Bofur asked.
“Usually settled with a drinking contest or a very pointed snub at the next garden party,” Bilbo replied. “The social consequences of being 'that Hobbit who started a fuss' are quite severe, I assure you.”
“What about murder?” Thorin’s voice was low, cutting through the lightheartedness.
Bilbo blinked. He looked genuinely confused, his head tilting to the side as if Thorin had just asked him how many dragons he kept as pets. “Murder? Whatever do you mean?”
“Killing another Hobbit,” Thorin clarified. “Taking a life in cold blood. What is the sentence?”
Bilbo took his pipe out of his mouth. A strange, hauntingly sincere look came over his face. “But... why would a Hobbit do that? I don’t understand the question. You see a Hobbit grow up. You know his mother, you know his grandmother’s recipe for blackberry tart. You see them plant their gardens and struggle with their harvest. You watch them live their whole life.”
Bilbo stood up, his voice rising in a rare, passionate rant. “How could you look at someone whose history you know as well as your own, someone you’ve shared tea with, someone whose children you’ve seen play in the lanes, and decide to end all of that? To take away all their future sunsets? It’s... it’s illogical. it’s monstrous. No Hobbit has ever murdered another Hobbit. It’s simply not something that occurs to us. We’d much rather just ignore them for twenty years if they’ve offended us.”
The Dwarves stared at him. The sheer, terrifying innocence of the statement was more jarring than any battle cry. Bilbo Baggins truly could not comprehend the concept of kin-slaying.
“It is a sheltered life you lead, Master Baggins,” Balin said softly, breaking the silence. He turned to Gandalf, who was sitting on the edge of the light, his eyes twinkling. “How is it possible? In a world of Orcs, Men, and Wargs, how does a land of thirty-seven feathered guards remain so... pristine?”
Gandalf leaned on his staff, the wood creaking. “The Shire is a curious place, Balin. It is remarkably isolated. To the east, you have the Brandywine River, deep and swift. To the south, the rolling hills and the vastness of the empty lands. To the west, the Tower Hills. And to the north, the ancient eaves of the North Moors and the Old Forest.”
“It’s a pocket of peace,” Gandalf continued. “Most of the world has forgotten the Hobbits exist, and the Hobbits are more than happy to return the favor. No one bothers them because there is nothing there but gardens and good tobacco. There are no gold mines, no strategic fortresses. Only peace.”
“But surely someone wanders in,” Dwalin pressed. “Men of the wild? Rogue Dwarves? What happens when hospitality isn't enough?”
Bilbo, who had sat back down and was refilling his pipe, nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, we get visitors. Quite a few, actually. And we are very big on hospitality. If a traveler is polite, they get a warm bed and three meals. We’re very proud of our guest-rooms.”
He paused, lighting a match. The flame illuminated a sudden, sharp stillness in his eyes.
“But,” Bilbo said casually, his voice dropping into a conversational tone that chilled the air. “If they are violent... if they come into our homes and threaten our fauntlings, or try to take by force what we would have given for a song... well, we deal with it.”
“How?” Thorin asked.
“Poison,” Bilbo said simply. “We are excellent herbalists, you know. Most things in a Hobbit’s garden can be a cure or a curse depending on how you brew the tea. We invite them in, we offer them a very lovely meal, and they simply... go to sleep. Very peacefully.”
He took a long drag of his pipe and exhaled a cloud of smoke that looked remarkably like a mushroom.
“And then?” Nori whispered, gripped by a sudden, morbid fascination.
“And then we bury them in the orchards,” Bilbo said, his face returning to its pleasant, Hobbitish smile. “Men, Elves, Dwarves... it doesn't matter much to the trees. They make excellent fertilizer. The North Farthing apples are particularly crisp because of it. We don't like to waste anything in the Shire. It’s a very practical place.”
Bilbo stood up, stretched his hairy feet, and patted his stomach. “Well, I think I shall turn in. Long day tomorrow. Goodnight, everyone.”
He waddled off to his bedroll, leaving thirteen Dwarves frozen in a state of profound psychological distress.
Dwalin looked at the spot where Bilbo had been standing. “He... he just said they turn people into apples.”
“Crisp apples,” Fili whispered, looking down at his own hands.
“Gandalf,” Thorin said, his voice tight. “Is he joking? Tell me the Halfling is joking.”
Gandalf didn't look at them. He was staring into the fire, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Hobbits are a very practical people, Thorin. They value peace above all things, and they will do whatever is necessary to maintain it. They don't have a need for wars or soldiers because they have... other methods.”
He stood up, his tall shadow looming over the Dwarves.
“But you should also know,” Gandalf added, his voice dropping to a low, secretive rumble. “That there are others who watch the Shire. Rangers, Men of the North, who patrol those borders night and day. They keep the Great Evil at bay so that Bilbo can worry about his doilies and his fertilizer.”
“Why?” Balin asked. “Why would the greatest trackers in Middle-earth spend their lives protecting a land of gardeners who poison their guests?”
Gandalf looked toward Bilbo’s sleeping form, which was currently snoring softly. “No one truly knows why. Perhaps because the world needs a place where murder is an impossible thought. Or perhaps... perhaps even the Rangers like a good apple.”
With a final, mysterious wink, the Wizard turned and walked into the darkness, leaving the Dwarves to spend the rest of the night wondering if the "Burglar" they had hired was the most innocent creature in the world, or the most dangerous.