Dwalin had never met a Hobbit before.
Hobbits rarely left their homes, and he had never stopped at the Shire on his way to Ered Luin, so it was understandable why he had never seen one. Not that he cared. He had met enough races in his life at that point, and all of them turned out made of the same cloth - a greedy, hateful, ugly cloth.
But Bilbo Baggins was different.
It was not his kindness or generous behavior that threw him off. He had met others who were kind to Dwarves - stemmed from pity more than anything else, bastards - and it was not his willingness to go along on their quest either. Being promised a reward from the coffers of Erebor would motivate anyone, after all. No, what threw him off were not the actions or words from the Hobbit.
It was simply the way he looked at them.
For most of his life, Dwalin had been regarded by other races as a stupid and greedy barbarian. He had grown used to being seen as something lesser just because he was shorter than Men and sported a beard that he was sure the weed-eaters were simply jealous of. He never liked it and never would, but he accepted it as just another fact of life.
But Bilbo Baggins did not look at him as if he were scum or trouble. He did not look at him with pity or mistrust. He did not flinch in fear of his weapons, beard, or many scars. No, he did not do any of the usual things that Dwalin had come to accept and even expected on some level.
Instead, Bilbo Baggins looked at him like a lad looked at his first weapon as if he was something wondrous and unreal.
It was unexpected.
He did not know Bilbo Baggins. He had done nothing to earn such a look from the Hobbit. He had not been friendly or even kind to the Hobbit! Dwalin did not understand why he deserved such a look.
However, for all his confusion, he could not deny that some part of him was pleased. It had been long since anyone - even his kind - had given him such a look. It made him feel as if he was worth something again, that he wasn't just a wandering old Dwarf looking for a home but a mighty warrior with the blood of an ancient line running through his veins.
Rather funny, he mused, glancing behind at the humming burglar riding on his pony. I never thought a Hobbit could make me feel like a Dwarf again.
~*~
Bilbo had never enjoyed riding. He liked the animals well enough and had grown fond of a few ponies while traveling. But the riding itself he did not find enjoyable. Hobbits were not to be removed from the ground in any manner.
Unfortunately, he was stuck riding for the time being. They had left the Shire behind and were well on their way to Erebor. During that time, Bilbo had found himself growing more and more used to seeing his once-dead companions alive and merry. The sharp ache in his heart had died into a tolerable pinch, and the memories of another life no longer plagued him at every turn. Now he could at least face Fili and Kili without flinching or wanting to burst into tears.
But for all his progress, he found that he still could not face Thorin. The leader of their Company hadn't paid him much mind and had spoken no more than a few words to him in passing, but even those few words had been awkward for him as he struggled still to see this Thorin as his person instead of a memory. It would be not easy, but he wanted to move past his memories and feelings to build a new relationship with Thorin. They would never have the same friendship as they did before, but he did at least want a decent relationship with the Dwarf.
Oh, but it was hard. It was still tricky for Bilbo to look at Thorin, and the Dwarf himself was incredibly difficult to get close to. The last time, he had to throw himself in front of a group of Orcs to get the king to smile at him. He was sticking to talking this time, with the latter being a last resort.
It was not only Thorin that he found himself struggling to win over. He noticed Gandalf had been watching him with that same look he used to (and eventually would again) give Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took whenever they got too close to the fireworks. He was expecting such a look, but that didn't mean he enjoyed being mistrusted by his oldest friend.
"Mister Bilbo, would you like to taste the soup?" Bombur asked, pulling him from his thoughts. The redhead sat before a large pot, stirring it with slanted brows and pursing lips. Bombur had always taken his cooking very seriously.
"Of course." The Hobbit carefully took the ladle handed to him and sipped the soup. It was a simple meal of meat and broth, but the spices brought it to life. "Delicious. Do I detect a hint of parsley?"
Bombur beamed. "Aye. Parsley and basil to bring out the lamb. I believe I detected rosemary in the beef you served us, yes?"
"Yes, from my mother's herb garden. She was an excellent cook and had a way with plants. After her death, I took over the garden care, but I'm afraid I lack real skills. It is enough that I keep them alive at all."
"I'm sure your mother appreciated the sentiment," interjected Bofur, flopping down between the two in a graceless heap. He hijacked the ladle from Bilbo and finished the rest of the soup in one gulp. "Mmm. I'd say it's ready to be served," he informed his brother, handing the spoon back. "Shall we call the others?"
"Not until Mister Bilbo gets his portion," Bombur declared fiercely, scooping soup into a clay bowl. "The rest will devour the soup without any mind to our smaller comrades."
Bofur nodded in agreement while the Hobbit in question scowled.
"You do not need to treat me any different from the others," he protested. "I may be a Hobbit, but that does not mean I'm so different from the rest of you. I don't need special treatment."
Bombur ignored his words and handed him a bowl. "Here you go. Eat up now."
"Don't bother arguing with him. Once Bombur makes up his mind, he sticks with it," Bofur explained as he grabbed a bowl and held it out.
"Hey, are you eating without us?"
Fili and Kili joined them around the stew pot, both slightly out of breath from sparring. Most of their Company had been watching them, yelling suggestions, or cheering them on. Bilbo recalled them doing such a thing often the last time around though he couldn't remember if there was ever a winner.
"Why did you start serving without telling me? You know how hungry I get kicking Fili around," Kili complained, reaching over to swipe a taste of Bilbo's soup with two fingers.
"Hey! Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's rude to put your fingers in other people's food?" he complained, attempting to smack the wandering fingers with his spoon only to miss.
Kili widened his eyes and bit his lower lip in a manner that he recognized all too easily. He remembered the young Dwarf pulling such a move to get his way or makeup whenever he did something foolish. Unfortunately for him, that face only worked on his brother and uncle and sometimes Dwalin.
"Don't even try those eyes on me. I lived among baby Hobbits. Come near me again, and I'll crack your fingers," he warned, waving his spoon to get his point across.
Long lost friend or not, you did not come between a Hobbit and his meal.
"Looks like our burglar has a pair after all," Fili snickered as he got a bowl of stew instead of trying to steal one.
"Obviously. How else could Mister Bilbo have talked back to Thorin?" Bofur pointed out.
"And join us on our quest against a dragon," reminded Bombur.
"Which, by the way, I still don't get. Why did you decide to come with us?" wondered Kili, deciding to steal from his brother after being shooed away from Bilbo's food. He got rewarded with a swift elbow to the side that he ignored.
Bilbo stirred his soup thoughtfully. Why did he join them the first time around? Was it just for an adventure? Or had their song and tale truly touched him? He knew that was why he had decided to stay later, and it was still necessary to him now. But he honestly could not recall what had influenced him into running after them that morning so long ago.
"Your goal is a noble one," he finally answered. "You lot... You don't have a home anymore. It got stolen from you. So I will help you get it back if I can."
The Dwarves around him paused and stared at him with a look much like the one they had given him the first time he had said that. It still made him feel uncomfortable.
"You..." Bofur began to trail off as the others joined them for dinner. No one else mentioned his words for the rest night, but the Hobbit could still feel the looks they gave him, making him wonder what they could have thought of him now.
Later that night, after they finished the stew and had retired, Bilbo awoke to the sound of wargs howling in the night. The noise awoke the rest of his companions around the small campfire. Bilbo joined them with his quilt wrapped around his shoulders and tried to contain his yawns.
"Are wargs common around these parts?" he questioned, rubbing his eyes with one fist.
"No. Wargs usually don't come this far out," Bofur answered him, lighting up a pipe.
"Aye. The orcs use them as mounts and usually linger around Rivendell," Dwalin added, scowling.
"Think they'll bother us?" Ori wondered, eyes wider than usual.
"Not if we keep moving. We leave at dawn," Thorin commanded, stalking off to the edge of the cliffs to overlook the canyon below.
"He seems... angrier than usual," Bilbo noted, hinting at the untold story he knew they all needed to hear.
"Aye. Thorin has more than enough reason to hate those foul beasts," Balin answered dutifully and then launched into a heroic and tragic tale of an attempt to reclaim the lost kingdom of Moria from the dreaded orcs. He sorrowfully explained how Thorin's grandfather, King Thror, was beheaded by the orc Azog, who was determined to end the line of Durin. With eyes lost in memory, he recounted how he watched Thorin struggle to hold his own against a monster thrice his size and how it was thanks to a simple piece of fallen oak that he managed to survive and cut off the beast's hand.
Bilbo listened to the familiar tale while watching his companions. Each Dwarf seemed hypnotized by the story, and he realized that this moment cemented their loyalty to Thorin Oakenshield instead of just the King Under the Mountain. At this moment, they all realized how much their king had lost and how hard Thorin would continue to fight to reclaim it. In the way they all stood and turned to their king standing on the cliffs, he could see that they would follow the Dwarf until the end.
And so would he.
~*~
They traveled on.
The days continued, and Bilbo became increasingly more at ease around his long-lost comrades. Soon he found that he could even meet Thorin's eyes without feeling like he got punched in the chest. But the most startling thing he discovered was his youth.
Bilbo had forgotten how it felt to walk without creaking and aching bones. Hell, he had forgotten how it felt to be able to move for more than ten minutes without feeling tired and out of breath. He had been an older man for so long - longer than he should have been, thanks to the ring - that Bilbo had forgotten that there was ever a time that he was young.
It was an exhilarating realization.
"Um, Mister Bilbo, why are you walking along with the ponies instead of riding one?" Ori asked him one day as he guided his pony along on foot.
"Because one day I won't be able to," Bilbo replied, earning an odd look for his remark. He quickly ignored it, well-used to being regarded as strange even among his kin for most of his life. He had grown to accept the looks.
Thankfully the rest of the Dwarves didn't seem to care whether he walked or rode the pony.
He had noticed that other than Fili, Kili, Ori, Bofur, and Bombur, the rest of their Company never spoke to him or paid him any mind. He understood, though, that it was to be expected. Dwarves were mistrustful of outsiders by nature, and until he proved himself trustful, the rest would not open up to him. That was fine because it allowed him to focus on another problem: Gandalf.
Bilbo realized that he had to end the tense silence between him and the wizard. He thought he could handle the mistrust and suspicion until they reached Erebor, but it was becoming too much for him. He had enough that he had to deal with, and having Gandalf against him did not help.
So one night, as the rest gathered around Bombur for dinner, he cornered the wizard as he sat alone on a nearby rock.
"Bilbo," the wizard greeted pleasantly as his eyes gleamed under his hat. "What can I do for you?"
"You don't trust me," he stated bluntly because old age had brought about more than wrinkles for him. "You think something is wrong with me, yes?"
Gandalf stared at him silently for a moment before slowly nodding. "Yes. Yes, you are quite right. You are hiding something from the rest of us, Master Baggins."
"Yes, I am," he admitted, watching the nearby campfire cast dark shadows across his old friend's face. It made him look quite menacing.
"I have to keep this secret for the moment," he continued, "but only until a certain point."
"What is the reason for this secret?" questioned the wizard. "What are the consequences if you speak of it?"
-the Dwarves begin to sing in low and deep voices as they bury the bodies of the three royal Dwarves. The song is in Khuzdul and is beautiful and alien to his ears. The voices resonate as one paints a heartbreaking melody with the grief that carries through. Their king and his heirs are gone, and they mourn for all three-
Bilbo closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. "The lives of those very dear to me are on the line. So until I know they are safe and well, I will keep my secret to myself."
Gandalf's eyes widened as he took in the meaning of his words. Once he did, his face softened, and the harsh line and wrinkles eased up, making him look much younger and kinder.
"In that case, I will not hound you for an answer. I will wait for you to come to me in your own time," the wizard said, giving him the same smile he shared whenever Bilbo had done something foolish and then attempted to make up for it. It made his heart hurt a little to see it again in this lifetime.
"Thank you, Master Gandalf. I appreciate your trust in me," he replied, giving the wizard a small smile. "And I promise that it will not be misplaced."
And I am sorry that I cannot tell you the truth. You are a good and noble person, but you may make things worse in your attempts to help. I do not know the consequences of my actions or what you may cause. So all I can do is try to change things and hope that my choices don't condemn us all.
Gandalf kept smiling, his kind smile. "I'm sure it won't, Bilbo. I'm sure it won't."