Chapter 9: News of an Old Enemy

He'd just been punched. 

By a hobbit. 

His fingers touched his nose, coming away red. Lifting his gaze from his hand, they narrowed on the hobbit that stood before him. 

Back ramrod straight, the hobbit regarded him arrogantly, chin lifted. 

His lip curled slightly, grip settling on his sword's hilt. How dare this soft-bellied- 

"Raise your blade, and you'll find yourself and your company on my doorstep." Gaze hard, the hobbit spoke cooly. "I do hope I won't have to behave as impolitely as you have." 

Thorin snarled. "Try if you wish, you-"

Shock, brief but strong, pulsed through him when Balin stepped in front of him, offering a small bow to the hobbit. 

"Forgive our leader, Master Baggins. Our travels have been long and arduous, as I'm sure you can understand."

Master Baggins' eyes settled on Balin. "I do hope you don't always have to apologize for your Master." His eyes flicked back to Thorin. "One would think a dwarf of your years might know how to apologize."

Rage burned in Thorin's chest as he made to move forward again, but was stopped quickly by a large staff and a gray cloak. 

Gandalf's voice boomed through the entry. "Since our introductions have been made, why don't we move to the dining room to discuss why we're here?"

Thorin bit his tongue, glaring at the back of Master Baggins as he turned on his heel and left the entry. The dwarrow slowly filtered back into the dining room until it was just Gandalf and him left. 

Gandalf's eyes regarded him. "If I may offer a word of advice, Thorin Oakenshield?"

Thorin looked up.

"Please do not antagonize Bilbo. It will end poorly for everyone involved."

He sputtered. "I was not the one who physically assaulted someone!"

Gandalf hummed. "Bilbo was not in the right either, but that does not excuse your own actions. You are a king, a leader of this company - they look to you for direction." 

Thorin gritted his teeth. Of course, the wizard was on the hobbit's side. "If you wish to be biased, you shouldn't display it so blatantly, wizard." He pushed past Gandalf, following the company.

Scraping a chair from the head of the table, Thorin sat down heavily, wiping the remaining blood from his nose. Those seated were silent, and Thorin swept his gaze across them. Dwalin seemed to share Thorin's feelings, his gaze narrow on the hobbit that stood in the entryway of the dining room. Fili and Kili seemed to find some humor in the situation, unable to disguise their smiles from him. 

He would have to speak with them later. 

The rest of the company sat in stunned silence, their gazes shifting between Thorin and the hobbit behind him.

Balin was the only one to act as if nothing had happened, leaning forward in his seat. "What news from Ered Luin? Did they all come?" 

And there was the problem of the Ered Luin. 

His jaw tensed. "Aye. Envoys of all seven kingdoms." 

An excited murmur ran through the group, but Thorin was deaf to it, the memory of sharp laughter and mockery echoing in his ears. 

Dwalin's voice rumbled through the room. "What did the dwarrow of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?"

Thorin looked at his friend. The edge of Dwalin's lip was tilted the way it was whenever he was hopeful. The others leaned in close as well, eyes bright with anticipation. 

How could he tell them of the ridicule their quest had received? 

He paused. "They will not come." 

As if a flame had been blown out, the light in the company's faces dimmed, groans and exclamations sounding. 

The next words were bitter on his tongue. "They say this quest is ours, and ours alone." 

His jaw hardened. They had dismissed what they'd barely understood. 

It would be their folly. He would go back victorious; the mountain claimed from the foul beast that fattened itself within Erebor's mighty halls. 

"Surely you didn't expect them to join in such a dangerous quest?" 

The rage that had quelled as he'd spoken stirred again at the hobbit's words. 

He turned slowly to the hobbit. 

"How much of your quest is centered on certainty? From my understanding, you have none." The hobbit's eyes were hard; his arms folded across his chest. "You march towards a mountain that contains a calamity you are unsure of, as to whether it's alive or dead." 

"No one expects a soft-bellied creature such as yourself to understand," Thorin said sharply, anger roiling again in his gut. "You are far too accustomed to these rolling hills to comprehend the need for our quest."

The hobbit's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps you are right, Oakenshield. I see no purpose in you leading twelve innocents to their death."

Thorin's hands slammed against the table, chair screeching out behind him. His jaw clenched in anger. This creature had no right! "We came here upon Gandalf's recommendation, but now I can see even servants of the Valar are wrong at times!" 

He glared at the creature, but the hobbit only narrowed his eyes in response.

Thorin’s hand sought his blade at his side -

There was a boom through the room, the candles flickering and darkening. Gandalf's voice boomed through the small space. 

"Enough! I have brought you together to assist one another, not to squabble like petty children! Sit! Both of you!" 

 Tension was thick in the air as Master Baggins sighed, pushing away from the wall. Thorin reluctantly lowered himself back into his seat, his anger still roiling in his stomach.

Gandalf gestured towards the table. “Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light.”

With a lamp placed on the table, Gandalf continued. “Far to the east, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak.”

Thorin looked at the ink drawing of Erebor and the small red dragon circling the mountain.

Screams echoed in his ears, the acrid stench of dragon-fire burning his nose. The terror of that day remained embedded in his bones – faded, but present.

There had been signs before the fell-beast’s arrival. Warnings were given to his grandfather of the greed that pooled in the heart of the mountain.

His grandfather’s decline had been obvious to all, but none felt it as sharply as Thorin. His father’s shouts still echoed in his ears.

Thorin stood behind his father in the throne room, the area empty save for the three of them.

“We must vacate the mountain!” Standing at the throne’s base, Thráin pointed to the wall. “Can you not hear the stone cry? There is something wicked within our mountain; such things will only bring further madness!”

Thrór’s fist slammed against his throne. “Silence yourself, Thráin!” He stood from his throne unsteadily. His hair was tangled, the crown slipping slightly. “I am king! I make the decisions! We will not evacuate for some petty concerns!”

His grandfather had been slipping – he was gaunt, his eyes shining with a fire Thorin feared to name. 

Something had taken hold of his grandfather. 

The Arkenstone shimmered above his grandfather; its glow casting sharp shadows. 

Thráin’s jaw clenched. “Very well, my liege.” He bowed stiffly, turning on his heel and walking from the room. 

Thorin followed his father, looking back as the doors were shutting behind them. His grandfather had pulled the Arkenstone from the throne, hands caressing the jewel.

His stomach twisted, the name of what had taken his grandfather wavering on the tip of his tongue. 

Madness.  

Thorin was pulled from his memory by shouting.

Gloin's voice was fiery. "We may be few in numbers, but we're fighters. All of us, to the last dwarf!" 

An agreeing cheer rose through the room, the dwarrow pounding against the table

"And you forget, we have a wizard in our company! Gandalf must have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!”

The corner of his lips pulled up at his company's eagerness. They were good dwarrow - the best. Yet... 

Thorin shook his head. The quest would be a success; the fell dragon was surely dead after so long, if not incredibly weakened. Birds had been seen returning to the Lonely Mountain; it was time for the throne to be reclaimed. 

His eyes were drawn to their host in the corner. Something flickered in the hobbit's eyes as they surveyed the party, pausing only when he met Thorin's eyes. 

Lip curling, the hobbit moved from the dining room, lifting a glass from a side table. 

Thorin's jaw twitched. Just one night, then he'd never have to see the horrid hobbit again. 

---

The parlor was quiet. The dwarrow had settled in their respective rooms, their snoring barely muffled through the thick doors. 

The fire heated his skin, tipping near on the cusp of unbearable. His glass of unfinished Black Draft sat on the small table next to his armchair. His gaze was solemn as he looked at the wizard sitting across from them. 

"You would send them all to their deaths, encouraging such a senseless quest?" 

Gandalf didn't respond, gray eyes studying Bilbo's face instead.

The wizard was infuriating. He pushed further. "These dwarrow have a course and nothing else. They have no plan of attack if the beast is still alive within that mountain. They have no preparation for unexpected enemies or fights."

Gandalf puffed a small circle of smoke from his lips. "Few things can truly ever be planned, Bilbo."

Bilbo shook his head, lifting the cup to his lips. "It's beyond me as to why you would have supposed I would join something like this. You know me better than that at this point." The drink burned down his throat. 

The wizard paused, eyes turning towards the fire. "There is another reason."

Another reason? He looked at Gandalf curiously.

"There have been sightings of a white orc."

His blood turned to ice, knuckles whitening as his grip tightened. 

The scent of decay and wet fur stirred in his mind, empty places on his foot burning. 

His now-empty glass hit the table hard, his throat dry. "Impossible. I was told the filth died of his wounds. Elrond's scouts saw it." 

Gandalf watched him with pitying eyes. 

"Don't look at me like that, wizard." Bilbo's voice was sharp. 

Waiting for a response, Bilbo paused. His ears twitched as he heard steps outside his house – hurried and clumsy. He stood quickly, moving to the entry and opening his door. 

Matthias stood at the entry, cradling his arm, blood seeping from a cut on his temple. 

Bilbo drew him inside immediately, crouching to the Bounder's height. "Are you alright?" 

Matthias nodded. "They're at the bridge," he rasped. "Nobody saw them coming, Master Baggins." 

His jaw tightened. "Go to the parlor. Gandalf will care for you." He reached for his cloak, lifting his weapons from the rack. 

"I can go back, Master Baggins -"

"Stay here." Bilbo's tone was sharp, allowing no room for argument. He'd not let an injured Bounder back into battle.

Stepping outside the quiet comfort of the Shire pressed around him – lamplight in windows, the scent of evening bread, the gentle rustle of the leaves.

And orcs at the bridge.

His jaw tightened.  

The cool air quickly became warm as he raced through the quiet Shire roads. 

He heard the clashing blades and cries long before he saw the scene. 

Arrows whizzed through the air, orcs howling as they pierced their skin. Coded calls from the Bounders sounded as they carried out their attacks. 

Blades shrieking from their sheaths, Bilbo lunged into battle. 

He dragged his blade through an orc's leg, black blood spurting from the cut, and with another slice, the orc was silenced. 

Movement ingrained into his veins pushed his body faster, quicker, more brutally. 

Black soaked the earth as Bilbo slammed his foot into the inside of an orc's knee, a sharp crack echoing through the ground as it crumpled. Bilbo leveled his blades at its neck. 

"Why have you entered my lands?" Black speech fell heavy from his tongue.

Laughter gurgled from the orc's throat. "Our Commander was right - the small one still lives." 

Bilbo narrowed his eyes, pressing his blade harder under the filth's neck. "If your commander wishes to confirm his suspicions, tell him to come and fight me himself." 

The orc bared his teeth in a sharp smile. "The Pale one says he'll await you at the mountain. Come, lest you wish to see your peaceful land razed to the ground."

With a swift stroke, Bilbo dispatched the orc's head.

The air was finally quiet - devoid of the ugly noise of Black Speech. 

A heavy weight settled in Bilbo's chest as he sheathed his blades. 

Gandalf was right. 

Azog still lived. 

He scoffed. He should never have been so hopeful. Such evil would not die quietly. 

"Commander Baggins?" Daisy's voice was hesitant. 

Bilbo turned. "Where did the attack come from?" 

Daisy sighed heavily. "We won't know for sure until our scouting parties confirm it, but it seems they came from the Northeast. Their path in is unsure since no one saw them before now."

He gave a curt nod. He didn't need a confirmation. He knew where they came from. "I want you and Hamon to lock down the borders of the Shire. Limit travel and double patrols." 

"Is something happening?" 

Bilbo looked at the Bounders dragging the orc bodies into a pile, setting them aflame. "Not here. But there is something I have to finish." 

One more time. Then the Shire would be safe. 

---

Candlelight flickered across the room Thorin had been given. He stood near the window, peering into the dark garden.

Balin stood across from him. “It’s a difficult journey. Without reinforcements, I worry…” he trailed off, unspoken words hanging in the air.

“If you worry so much, perhaps you shouldn’t come.” Thorin’s words came clipped. Worry had no space within the members of his party – he’d deal with anything that came up.

Balin was quiet.

Thorin sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I apologize, Balin, I should not have spoken so. Especially not to you.”

He felt Balin’s gaze flicking over him.  

Balin clasped his shoulder. “We could all do with a good night’s rest. We can talk more in the morning.”

Nodding tiredly, Thorin opened the door, saying goodnight as Balin left.

A soft murmuring caught his attention. He paused on the edge of the bedroom door before pushing away, walking towards the sound.

A young voice came from the parlor. “I should have gone with Master Baggins. What if –“

“Hush, Matthias,” Gandalf’s voice was reassuring. “You have done your part.”

Thorin scoffed. It seemed their host had chosen to abandon them. But what should he have expected from such a volatile being?

He stepped into the parlor.

Gandalf was crouched in front of the large, red armchair, hands lifted upwards, touching something on the chair.

"Weren't hobbits supposed to be the meaning of hospitality?" Thorin snarked. "Imagine my surprise when I found he had left." 

Gandalf arched a brow. 

"Or perhaps he's running away so he won't have to be pressured into facing danger." 

There was a cry of outrage.

Gandalf sighed as a small hobbit rounded the armchair.

Thorin had to tamp down the surprise he felt. The hobbit appeared even younger than Fili and Kili, baby fat still clinging to his face.

A white bandage was wrapped around his head, and he steadied himself with the armchair, eyes lit with anger. "Don’t you speak that way about Master Baggins! You have no idea what he's-"

A tired voice cut the hobbit off. "That's enough, Matthias." 

Thorin whirled around, hand flying to his empty waist. He shifted uneasily, not having heard the hobbit enter. 

Bilbo Baggins stood just outside the entry to the parlor. Dressed in a dark green cloak, the hobbit regarded the room with a heavy gaze. Two others stood behind him - a male and female hobbit, dressed in the same attire.

Something dark streaked their cloaks, shiny and wet. Thorin narrowed his eyes.  

Matthis bolted from his seat, beginning to place a fist over his heart, only stopping when Bilbo waved a hand, gesturing for him to sit. 

Stepping into the room, Bilbo moved to crouch next to the small hobbit. 

"How's your head?" Master Baggins' voice was soft. 

Matthis squared his jaw, and Thorin recognized the gleam in his eye. It was the same Kili got whenever he told Thorin he could still spar. "I'll be okay." 

Bilbo's lips pursed together. "I want you on bed rest for at least a week. Hamon and Daisy will help you back."

Helping the small hobbit, Master Baggins escorted the three hobbits to the door, coming back as soon as they were gone. 

The firelight flickered across his features, giving the hobbit a far hollower appearance than earlier. Something dark streaked his cloak, and Thorin narrowed his eyes. 

Sharp green eyes focused on him. 

"You have yourselves your 'burglar' as you will." The words fell in the quiet of the room, even the crackling flames seeming to still.

Strange enough, there was no trepidation wavering the words as Thorin had expected. Rather, the hobbit sounded resigned – grim.

 With one last glance towards Gandalf, their host left the room.

 “Surely there must have been another hobbit available to be a burglar,” Thorin grumbled.

"I believe you will find Bilbo and yourself far more similar than you think, Thorin Oakenshield." Gandalf's voice was soft. 

Thorin snorted. If he were similar to that hobbit, he'd have no right to be called a king. 

Chapter 8: Armor, Wizards, and Dwarrow

Bilbo’s cart rattled against the uneven ground, boxes in the back shifting with each bump. The sun was warm against his skin, a gentle breeze rustling through his hair, carrying the smell of damp earth and wildflowers after rain. The Shire’s rolling hills lay spread before him, green and gentle, blanketed in flowers of every color.

Mary, his pony, slowed to a stop at the cusp of the Shire.

There, standing sentinel over the road, was a stone. It was weathered now, lichen creeping along the bottom edge, but steadfast as the day it had been set there. Flowers, fresh and faded, were piled at its base, offerings left by hands other than his.

Bilbo climbed from his cart, bucket, and brush in hand. Walking to the stone, he placed down his items, pressing his palm to the smooth surface. His fingers traced against the names chiseled into the rock; some were shallow, others deep, each carved by someone in the Shire. Someone who'd lost someone. 

At the center, the words ‘IN MEMORY’ were carved. He could feel the ghost of the hammer’s weight, the rough leather wrapped around the grip, sweat stinging his eyes as he worked beneath a merciless summer sun.

It had been the first thing he’d done after getting back from Rivendell.

Hand dropping, he dipped his brush and brought it up, sluicing water across the face of the stone. Brown rivulets streaked downward, carrying away months of settled dust. Slowly, the names shone dark against the clean surface. His fingers brushed again over a few – Elda, Lamorac, Faro, Cedric, Bernac – pausing on each as though greeting them.

“I’ve made it back safely,” he murmured, voice roughened from the years. “The Shire remains well. Thank you . . . for keeping it so.”

Kneeling, he placed a bouquet at the bottom of the stone. Pressing his hand one last time to the damp stone, he pulled away back to his cart. Climbing on, he urged Mary forward.

As the road wound deeper into the Shire, hobbits began to appear – tending gardens, walking with baskets, children chasing one another across the paths. Each time they saw him, they paused. And every one of them pressed a fist to their heart and inclined their head.

The first time it had happened – fifteen years ago – he had been frightened. Fresh from Rivendell, scarred and weary, expecting bitterness and blame from his neighbors. 

But when he had returned, the Thain himself had stepped forward. He had met Bilbo’s eyes without judgment, without pity, and pressed his fist firmly against his chest. He bowed his head in silence. And the Shire had followed.

Now, it was everywhere. The old leaned on their sticks to perform it, slow but steady. Children did it with wide-eyed solemnity, not yet understanding but sensing the weight in their parents’ gestures. Even strangers, passing him on the road, marked him with it.

For everyone knew the tale of the scarred Bounder. Of Bilbo Baggins.

Scars had remained, none more prominent than the one Azog had carved into his face. Curving from under the left corner of his eye, through the left corner of his lip, and down the center of his chin. The raised, twisted scar had paled over the years, yet phantom pain still curled through its edges.

Bilbo had become easily identifiable because of it, earning the moniker of “Scarred Baggins” among the faunts. 

"Master Baggins!" 

A young voice pulled Bilbo from his thoughts, pulling Mary to a halt. 

A Bounder raced to the cart, a grin spreading across his face. He stopped next to Mary. 

“It’s good to see you back, Master Baggins!” Matthis Took stood rigidly, pressing his fist over his heart and bowing low.

Bilbo smiled fondly at the young Bounder. Baby fat still clung to his cheeks, his eyes wide and earnest. “How are Harmon and Daisy treating you?”

“Very well, sir!” Matthias answered.

“I’ve heard they’re quite the drill sergeants,” Bilbo teased.

Matthias’s posture relaxed just a little. He scratched his head, messing his mop of auburn curls. “They’re quite intense, sir, but they say you were worse.” He froze, face blanching. “I-I don’t mean you were bad, sir. I only mean to say- “

Bilbo chuckled, and the boy’s desperate defense faded into a sheepish grin. “I know what you mean, lad.”

Since the Bounders’ numbers had been decimated by the Fell Winter, Bilbo had taken it upon himself to train the next generation. He had driven them hard, past the limits of ordinary hobbits - drilling them in sleet and mud, sparring until they dropped, watches kept until their eyes burned. His methods had been grueling, but the Bounders who now guarded the Shire knew how to fight, how to endure, and – most importantly – how to live.

Matthis’s eyes flicked back to the back of Bilbo’s cart, eyes lighting. “Are those…”

Bilbo nodded, waving the boy onto the cart. “Come along. I’ll be dropping these off at the Southfarthing Watch.”

Clambering onto the cart, Matthias settled excitedly as Bilbo urged Mary forward.

The trip went quickly by, Matthias filling the time with excited chatter. The young hobbit’s eagerness was endearing, and Bilbo found himself smiling frequently.

The training field rang with the clash of wooden blades and the shuffle of boots. A dozen young Bounders moved in pairs, ducking and striking, faces slick with sweat despite the cool of the air. Harmon barked orders from one side, Daisy from the other, each as sharp as a drawn blade. 

Bilbo watched as a trainee lunged forward in a quick thrust, too eager and leaving himself open. His partner clipped his side and sent him sprawling. The faunt scrambled up, cheeks flushed, determination shining bright on his face.

Bilbo and Matthias's arrival did not go unnoticed, as Bilbo pulled the cart to a rattling halt. Daisy spotted them first. She waved to Harmon, gesturing towards the cart. He nodded, and Daisy left the circle. 

“Master Baggins!” Daisy jogged to the cart, placing her fist over her heart and lowering her head. “I hope your trip to Rivendell went well, sir.” Her dark hair was pulled back with a leather tie, sweat plastering curls to her forehead.

"Very well," Bilbo confirmed. "Matthias, go and fetch Harmon, will you?" 

Nodding eagerly, the Bounder darted off. 

"I have something for all of you," Bilbo said to Daisy, gesturing to the cart. She followed him to the back, where he opened the top of one of the boxes, withdrawing a leather chest cover.

Even in simplicity, Elven workmanship was something to be admired. Dyed a dark green to match the Bounder cloaks, the leather was supple yet sturdy, with stitching around the edges that was nearly invisible. Brown leather straps ensured that the armor wouldn't shift when fastened.

The armor had been the result of several years' labor. Meant to be durable yet still suit the flexible and quick movements of Bounders, it had taken experimentation and study to create something that would fit them completely. To Bilbo's surprise, the answer had been presented through Warg hide.

"Breastplates are in here," Bilbo pointed to boxes further in the cart. "Vambraces and greaves are in there." 

Daiy accepted the chest cover he handed her, eyes sweeping across it admiringly. “Thank you, Master Baggins.” She gave a grateful bow.

Hamon approached, bowing. "It's good to see you back after so long, sir. We weren't expecting you so soon - we thought next week was the earliest you'd arrive."

"Elrond defied all expectations again." Bilbo chuckled, indicating to the boxes.

Hamon's gaze stopped on the chest plate Daisy held. “The armor? It's done?”

Bilbo nodded.

Hamon's eyes lit up with the same admiration as Daisy's. He stepped to her side, brushing a hand over the leather. 

Hamon had been one of the reasons Bilbo had become certain such protection was needed. When Hamon was still a trainee, he'd come back after patrol, an orc arrow buried in his stomach. Bilbo had remained by the Hamon's side until he recovered. The recovery was nothing short of a miracle. Despite the damage and poison of the arrow, Hamon had somehow fought his way past the dangers. 

After, Bilbo had never been more certain that more protective precautions were needed. He'd sent a letter to Elrond, detailing his plans. 

His friend had been happy to assist, giving Bilbo access to the necessary skill to make the armor. Bilbo designed the material and initial prototype, seeking assistance from Elrond to create the amount he needed.  

Harmon stopped him before he climbed atop Mary – the cart of armor would be left at the watch to be distributed. “I thought I would mention that before you arrived, Master Baggins, I met the Wizard. It seemed he was headed towards Bag End.”  

Bilbo frowned. “Did he mention any purpose for his visit?”

Harmon shook his head. “He only said that he had a message of utmost importance for you.”

Thanking Harmon for the information, Bilbo urged Mary to move. He had a wizard to meet. 

Every time Bilbo saw Gandalf, he wondered about his hat. It was the first thing he saw, adding at least half a foot to the already tall wizard. It wasn't practical for stealth or fighting. He could only assume it had something to do with vanity, but even then, he was unsure. 

Gandalf puffed a pipe, sitting comfortably on Bilbo's bench. 

“Are you here to sell fireworks again?” Bilbo asked dryly, securing Mary to a post. “I believe you would have better luck trying the Tooks a few miles from here. One of their faunts' birthdays is coming up.”

Gandalf’s eyes crinkled as he smiled widely. “It is good to see you, Bilbo Baggins!”

Bilbo walked to sit next to the grey wizard on the bench. He accepted the pipe weed and light Gandalf offered, packing the weed down into the pipe he pulled from his side-pouch, puffing on the bitter weed.

“How was Elrond?” Gandalf asked.

“As dry-humored as always.” Bilbo smiled fondly, “I had issues leaving Rivendell early. Elrond wanted me to stay much longer.”

The wizard chuckled. "He shares part of the blame - completing your armor so quickly."

Bilbo smiled, pausing. “Hamon said you had a message for me,” Bilbo prodded.

Another smoke ring, and Gandalf turned to look at him. “I wish for you to join me on a journey.”

Bilbo's jaw tightened a moment. “My answer remains the same, old friend,” he responded. Over the years, Gandalf had come to him, urging him to participate in adventures. He'd always refused, and Gandalf would always leave the Shire with a different hobbit – a Brandywine or Took, but never Bilbo.

“You would do well with some excitement in your life, Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf’s eyes searched Bilbo’s face.

He wished to remind Gandalf that "adventure" often covered other words like "danger" and "death," but he said nothing. The sky was a brilliant blue, and wispy clouds brushed over it. In the distance, a larger cloud approached - dark and ominous.

It seemed it would rain soon.

Standing, he turned to Gandalf. “I fear I have a few matters I must resolve, but I wish you luck on your quest.”

There was a defeated sigh. “You are as stubborn as your mother.”

A sharp pain was in Bilbo’s chest as he walked towards his smial’s door. His parents had perished during the Fell Winter. They’d fallen to the orcs that had reached the smials before the elves could destroy all of them.

He’d learned of it shortly after he’d awoken. He could recall the silence in his room when he asked for his parents – for the ones he’d thought had been safe.

Gripping the knob, he pushed his door open.

Gandalf spoke. “Would you at least let the party remain in your smial overnight? They have travelled a great distance and could do with at least one night of good food and sleep before they journey onwards.”

Bilbo paused.

“Surely you wouldn’t turn them away. They have nowhere else to go.”

Curse his Hobbit sensibilities. He could not turn away guests, not even unwelcome ones. His Bounder side also poked at him – reminding him of past travels when he slept upon the rocky earth, not having any accommodations.

He sighed heavily. “Very well, wizard. I’ll concede. But they must be gone by the morrow, I intend to journey to the Westfarthing Watch and do not want to leave my home in strangers’ hands.”

The wizard’s smile could be heard in his voice as Bilbo shut his door. “It will do you good.”

---

If there was one thing Bilbo was certain of about dwarrow, it was that they were larger than him.

He’d met very few on his journeys and had not learned much of them regarding their eating habits or mannerisms. He knew far more about the elves after the amount of time he’d spent with them.  

Elrond’s sons always spoke of them like they were different creatures. They meant well, speaking with a wide-eyed innocence.

They mentioned dwarrow enjoyed meat. A lot of it.

So, Bilbo made sure the table was full of it.

The air was scented with mouthwatering spices. Bilbo looked at the spread of meat and went back to the kitchen. There had to be vegetables. His sensibilities reared their head at the thought of not having a balanced meal.

Strawberry salad, cooked carrots, stuffed mushrooms…

His hands prepped the food methodically, the dishes piling on his counter and table. Despite being unable to eat much due to the rations and long periods of starvation all those years ago, Bilbo found himself often overpreparing. A low knot tied in his stomach whenever he thought of not having enough - of finding his pantry empty. Even aware of this, Bilbo found it difficult for himself to pull himself from cooking when he began, even knowing the amount he'd prepare was obscene.   

Forcing himself to draw away and wiping the sweat from his brow, Bilbo nodded in satisfaction at the spread.

THUD. 

Bilbo started at the sudden knock. 

Setting his jaw, he walked to the door, pulling it open.  A dwarf greeted him – tall, bald, and heavily muscled. His dark eyes swept over Bilbo impassively, lingering for a moment on his scar.

"Dwalin, at your service,” he greeted gruffly.

Bilbo inclined his head. “Bilbo Baggins. I assume you are part of Gandalf’s party?”

Dwalin grunted in response, moving to push the door open.

Bilbo didn’t budge, refusing to let the door be forced open. "This is my home, Master Dwalin. You'll enter with an invitation or not at all."

Dwalin's face thundered, but Bilbo remained firm. The dwarf might have been large, but Bilbo could take him. His stance was sturdy, but within the confined space of the doorway, he'd have difficulty drawing his weapons, making him vulnerable to a close attack. Bilbo stared stonily back at the dwarf. 

Finally, Dwalin stepped back, bowing his head. "My apologies." 

Bilbo gave a brief nod before opening his door wide. "Welcome, Master Dwalin. The dining room is to your left. Weapon rack is to your right." Bilbo would not have those large axes dragged into his dining room to scrape the walls. 

At Dwalin's disproving look, Bilbo leveled the dwarf with a stare - eyes pointedly going back to the door. 

Grumbling, the dwarf pulled his weapons from his person, placing them into the weapon rack. Despite the grumbles, Bilbo felt Dwalin's eyes on him again as he led him to the dining room, this time weighted with something else - something between curiosity and respect. 

As the dwarf entered the dining room, Bilbo couldn't help but feel the smug satisfaction as Dwalin's eyes widened at the meal spread before him. 

The dwarf sat, filling his plate with large portions, inhaling the food as if he'd been starved. Bits of food dropped, tangling in his beard, but Dwalin paid it no mind, reaching forward to grab another roll. 

A loud knock sounded at the door again.

Dwalin opened his mouth as if to comment, but seemed to rethink it, returning to eat. 

Bilbo walked through the hall again, opening the door and greeted by the sight of an older, yet kinder-looking dwarf. He bowed as well. "Balin, at your service."

“Good evening,” he greeted.

“Yes, yes, it is." Balin cast a look towards the sky. "Though I think it might rain later. Am I late?”

Bilbo shook his head. “You are among the first of your party to arrive. Your kin is waiting in the dining room.”

Opening the door further, he invited Balin in.

Balin raised a brow at the sight of Dwalin’s axes in the weapons rack.  "By Mahal, I thought we were hiring a burglar, but it seems you have some warrior in you to make my stone-headed brother put down his axes!" He chuckled. 

So Gandalf had told the dwarrow he was a thief. 

Smiling at Balin's well-meant comment, he led the dwarf to the dining room. 

Dwalin stood from the table as they entered. “Oh! Evening, brother!”

Balin embraced his brother tightly before drawing away. 

“By my beard, you are shorter and wider than we last met!” Dwalin laughed.

“Wider, not shorter. But sharp enough for the both of us.” Balin returned. 

The two shared a chuckle before cracking their skulls together, the sound echoing through the smial. 

As Dwalin handed Balin a tankard, two knocks, these lighter, rang through the door.

Leaving the brothers to open the door again, as he pulled it open, words froze on his lips. Two dwarrow stood at his door, smiles curving their lips.

“Fili,” the blonde greeted.

“And Kili,” said the burnette.

“At your service.” They bowed in unison.

Bilbo found himself unable to speak – older faces sliding over younger ones. Faces he hadn't seen in years. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils, the sting of iron on his tongue- 

He shut his eyes. 

The sight of fresh fallen snow. A frozen river. The snow bathed in red. 

"-Boggins?"

He started, images fading as he opened his eyes, now truly looking at the loud dwarf. The familiar features melted away, revealing a youthful face, eyes wide and sparkling.  

"You are Mr. Boggins, right?" Kili asked.

Bilbo straightened. "I'm afraid you've been misinformed." 

"Have we come to the wrong house?" Fili looked at Bilbo worriedly. 

"If you're looking for a 'Boggins,' I must tell you, I am unaware of such a family. If you're looking for a Baggins, however, I can help you." He smiled.

"Our apologies, Mr. Baggins, it seems we misheard," Fili apologized. He stopped Kili from speaking, seeming to note Bilbo's difficult acceptance of them. 

Bilbo allowed them in. "No apologies necessary, Master Fili. Weapons to your right." 

Kili's eyes widened as he put his blade into the rack. "Hey! Dwalin's axes are in here! How'd you get him to give them up?" He looked at Bilbo with shock. 

He held a finger to his lips. "I have my ways, Master Kili, but a thief never reveals his secrets." Gesturing, he pointed them towards the dining room. " The food is to your left. You'd best hurry before your friends eat all of it." 

That sent the young dwarrow scrambling. 

Bilbo did not follow. He found himself in his kitchen instead, small glass in his hand, dark liquid pouring from a flask. It appeared black, but upon closer inspection, a red sheen would be seen. 

It was bound to be a mistake, but he needed it. Lifting the drink, Bilbo took a sip. 

Sharp, syrupy, and almost medicinal, it burned down his throat, punching through his sinuses and making them water. It flowed down to his stomach, where it continued to burn. 

Black Draft was no longer a common drink within the Shire. Made after the Fell Winter, anyone who lived through the time had at least tasted the drink. A few months after the tragedy, that's all anyone in the Shire would drink, having claimed it would chase away unwanted memories. But, as time continued, the drink was tucked away - people healed, and the Black Draft was no longer needed. 

In the Shire, it was spoken of the way older hobbits spoke of unswept dust — a shame, a sign a person hadn’t quite kept their house in order. Regardless, if anyone within the Shire had noticed Bilbo's monthly deliveries and the heavy aroma on him after certain nights, they said nothing. 

Bilbo poured more into his glass, bracing himself against his counter. His eye might have been damaged, but he wasn't blind. He heard the whispers. Felt the stares. 

The heat in his stomach began to bloom, chasing the tremor from his hands and burning the memories. 

He shook his head. It was foolish to be shaken so easily by a pair of young faces. But, perhaps it was unavoidable.  

Ears perking, his eyes turned towards the window. 

A group was approaching, loud and entirely too large for his liking.

He moved before he registered it, Black Draft still burning in his throat.

His hand was on the door handle before the knock sounded, and he opened it smoothly, side-stepping as a group of dwarrow tumbled into his entry. 

Shouts sounded from the pile.

"Bombur, get off!"

"Your knife is stabbing me, Nori!"

"I can't breathe!"

Raising a brow, he looked at Gandalf, standing behind the fallen group. "Perhaps it would have been best if the company had continued to arrive in pairs." 

The group untangled itself enough for Gandalf to enter, the door closing behind him. He looked at Bilbo with theatrical weariness. "My friend, I've learned dwarrow are very stubborn when it comes to these matters. They'll arrive how they want, or not at all."

"It makes them rather like you then." Bilbo snarked. 

Gandalf’s brows rose at the jab, but the amusement faded the moment his eyes found the glass in Bilbo’s hand. His mouth thinned. His eyes lifted back to Bilbo's - knowing. Yvanna, how Bilbo hated that look. 

Bilbo turned away before the wizard could say anything. However "well-meant" the wizard's words would be, he did not need them. 

Pivoting, he nearly collided with a dwarf that was standing far too close. 

“Sweet Yavanna,” he cursed, startled. He hadn't even noticed the soft-footed dwarf approach. 

The dwarf seemed to shrivel with the curse, fiddling with his gloved hands. "O-oh. I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." 

Bilbo kept an exasperated sigh from escaping, smoothing out his expression. The dwarf hadn't meant any harm. It must have been the drink mixed with the chaos.

Bilbo waved his hand. "Not to worry. Can I help you?"

“O-oh, well, Mother said it’s important to thank the host — properly thank them, I mean — and, well…”

A loud shout came from the dining room. "Ori! Get in here! Food's getting cold!"

Ori looked so nervous and torn, and Bilbo felt rather sorry. "It seems your companions are in want of you."

The tips of Ori's ears flushed. "It's just my brother. I just - I wanted to thank you, Mr. Baggins! I read that manners are very important to hobbits."

Despite himself, Bilbo felt his lips twitch. "You don't say." 

The flush spread from Ori's ears to his face. "I-I did some reading about hobbits before we came! That's how I know, b-but if that information was wrong-"

Bilbo chuckled. Something about the young dwarf's earnestness pricked something in him. "Consider me properly thanked, Ori."

"Ori!" The call came again, sharper this time.  

Ori squeaked. “I—I’d better go.” He gave a small bow, more enthusiastic than proper, and hurried away to the dining room, nearly tripping over his own feet.  

Watching the dwarf leave, Bilbo felt eyes pressing into his back. Gandalf’s presence loomed behind him, patient in the way that made Bilbo want to be very rude.

He did not turn. “Don’t start.”

“I said nothing,” Gandalf replied mildly.

“You were thinking it very loudly,” Bilbo muttered as he made for the kitchen. “And I don’t need your thoughts any more than I need thirteen dwarrow tearing up my carpets.”

He hoped the wizard would let him go. Hoped, too, that the tightness in his chest might loosen once there was a bit of wall between him and that knowing gaze.

His wish wasn't granted.

“Who has all arrived?” Gandalf asked.

Bilbo finished the last of his Black Draft and set the glass aside. “If you’re so curious, go check the dining room.” The words came out quieter, dull around the edges. He leaned back against the counter, arms braced.

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed—soft, troubled. “Bilbo Baggins, drink will not persuade memory to leave you in peace.”

Bilbo opened the cabinet with deliberate calm. He took out the flask, met the wizard’s eyes, and poured himself another glass without looking away.

The wizard's gaze was disappointed but not surprised. Bilbo wasn't sure if that was why there was a pang in his chest, or perhaps it was simply the drink. 

They sat in silence for a few moments before Gandalf spoke again. 

"I assume Thorin has not arrived?"

Bilbo took another drink. "He's the leader then?" Dwalin had been the closest to seeming a leader so far, but he still lacked. Being of few words, Bilbo doubted he was the one leading the rowdy group. 

At Gandalf's nod, he shook his head. 

A head poked into the kitchen - a dwarf wearing a strange hat. "What should we do with the plates?" 

"Ah, Bofur," Gandalf greeted.

Bilbo swallowed hard, finishing his second glass. It felt heavier in his hand now, despite it being empty. He set it down. "You can go ahead and leave them. I can clean them." 

Bofur looked at him as if he'd grown a second head, scratching his own. "Nonsense! We'll help!" He turned back. "Let's clean up, lads!"

There was a roaring cheer.

 Dishes began to fly through the air, and Bilbo had had enough.

He needed to sit.

Finding himself in his armchair, Bilbo resolved to remain until the entire company was gone tomorrow.

But fate wouldn’t allow him rest. A heavy knock sounded, and a hush fell over the group within the smial.

Gandalf turned towards the door, voice low. “He’s here.”

Bilbo could feel his nerves growing more frayed with the arrival of another visitor, but the Black Draft kept the feeling dulled to some degree.

He nearly ripped open the door this time, revealing a dark-haired dwarf.

Despite the miles travelled, the dwarf’s hair was neat. He turned as the door opened.  

Gandalf gestured. “Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

The dwarf entered, filling the room as if it were his own. His furs brushed the floor, the blue coloring as regal as the dwarf himself. “So, this is the hobbit.” His eyes swept across Bilbo dismissively. “Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

Bilbo arched a brow, remaining quiet. 

“Axe or sword? What is your weapon of choice?” Oakenshield's voice was dismissive - uncaring. 

Bilbo smiled absently.  "I have some skill at Conkers, if you must know."  He observed the dwarf, noting a familiar guarded stance. It was similar to what he'd seen the orcs use, but Oakenshield's lacked the clumsy openings he'd learned to exploit.

Master Oakenshield scoffed, turning to Gandalf. “One scar does not make a hobbit a warrior, Gandalf.” His voice was even but cutting. As if his expectations of Bilbo had been perfectly met.

"If I may say, Master Oakenshield," Bilbo began. "But I fear you haven't seen enough of hobbits to make such a quick judgment."

The dwarf scoffed. "The dangers you face at most are the stray wolves that wander here. " His lip curled. "Your folk are not warriors. The smell of drink on you to prove that." 

His jaw ticked. Hobbits were creatures that were naturally more homely, but they'd bled and fought when it was necessary. 

Anger, hot and pressing, coiled in Bilbo's chest. The dwarf that stood before him, King of this group of unruly dwarrow, was utterly insufferable. Someone too self-assured and confident in every move he made. 

It was absurd — all of it. Insulted in his own home. Lectured on war by a stranger who knew nothing of the Fell Winter. The sheer audacity of it broke something loose in him.

Laughter bubbled in his chest and spilled out, Gandalf and Oakenshield looking at him strangely.

Wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes, he smiled at the dwarf. Maybe it was the effects of the Black Draft, inhibiting his judgment. Or perhaps he was just too tired to care. He balled his fist. 

Master Oakenshield frowned in confusion, opening his mouth to no doubt offer another insult. Bilbo offered him a smile instead - a warning had the dwarf cared to pay attention.

Perhaps his actions would have consequences. The heat in his veins steadied his hand. 

Gandalf's eyes lightened with realization. “Bilbo Baggins- don't you dare-!"

Consequences be damned.

He ignored the wizard, fist slamming into Thorin Oakenshield’s face.

There was gasping from the dwarrow that had gathered around the door as Master Oakenshield stumbled back, blood trickling from his nose.

 “Bilbo Baggins,” he said brightly, bowing low. “At your service.”

Bilbo Baggins watched his friends fall, homes burn, and the peace of the Shire unravel. In time, he folded away his cloak and buried his blades beneath the floorboards of Bag End, seeking to forget.

So when Gandalf appears with talk of a quest and a company of dwarrow, Bilbo is ready to refuse – until he hears a name he thought was buried. A name that was tied to the ruin of all he had held dear.

With ghosts stirring in his memory and a deep fury rising once more, Bilbo dons his cloak again. Not for the promise of gold or glory, but for one final journey of vengeance. To fulfill his vow.

Chapter One: When things were Green

Bilbo wasn’t sure if this was the moment he should start rethinking his life’s choice (not that he had many, being only sixteen.) The cold water of the Brandywine River lapped his legs as he prepared to jump into the barrel. “I’m going to regret this,” Bilbo muttered, already halfway in.

It’d been a stupid challenge from Rorric Hayward. The hobbit and a few others stood a reasonable distance from the bank, each watching. Rorric’s brother was a Bounder, and Rorric had taken it upon himself to irritate Bilbo about how he wouldn’t be able to do the things Bounders did. Apparently, Rorric’s brother recently rode down a river in a barrel as an initiation rite.

Bilbo wasn’t stupid. If Rorric’s brother had done such a thing, there would be talk. But he was not one to cower away from a challenge.

The barrel wobbled beneath him as he crouched inside it, pushing off the muddy bank with a stick he’d stolen from the garden fence. He’d seen the Bounders patrol the edges of the Brandywine at times, so if things went south... well, hopefully he wouldn’t die.

“Bounders need boldness,” he said under his breath, trying to convince himself. “Real boldness. The kind that laughs at danger and… and floats straight through it.” He could do this. He could-

The barrel rocked again.

Bilbo froze.

This was not one of those nice, well-behaved barrels made for floating. It was one of Hamfast Gamgee’s old apple barrels, barely patched and still reeking of cider. He’d “borrowed” it from one of the many parties they’d had this week. At the time, he’d chosen it because it was so rundown, thinking no one would miss it. Now he wished he’d chosen a stronger one.

The current caught hold.

“Oh no.”

The bank slid away behind him. The water tugged hard. Trees blurred past. The stick he’d been using as a paddle snapped clean in half and was gone in seconds.

“Sweet Yvanna,” he breathed.

A branch slapped him in the face. He ducked, cursed, and then nearly tipped over entirely when the barrel spun sideways. Water sloshed into the barrel, completely soaking his clothes. He squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps if he couldn’t see the river, it’d be better.

It wasn’t.

He gripped the rim and held on for dear life, his curls plastered to his forehead, praying to Yvanna.

Further down the river, two hobbits on the opposite bank stopped mid-conversation and stared.

“Is that—?”

“Bilbo Baggins,” the other said, stunned. “Riding a barrel?”

“Why?”

“Who knows. He’s one of the Tooks, isn’t he?”

“Only on his mother’s side.”

Back in the river, Bilbo was screaming. Not loudly—just enough to voice his mounting terror without actually asking for help.

“I’m fine! This is fine! It’s all under control!”

The barrel slammed into a rock, causing a sharp pain to splinter up his side.

“Mostly under control!”

By some miracle—or perhaps stubborn luck—the current began to slow just beyond the bend. The barrel coasted lazily toward the shallow bend, scraping against a sandbar and finally bumping to a halt.

Bilbo shook as he crawled from the barrel, body shaking with adrenaline. He collapsed on the ground, staring up at the sky for a moment.

He’d done something completely stupid that should have ended badly, but besides a few scrapes and bruises, he was alive. A smile split across his face. He couldn’t wait to see Rorric’s gawking.

“That,” he whispered, breathless, “was brilliant.”

A voice behind him cleared its throat.

He sat up slowly to see Cedric Underbough, head of the Bounders for Hobbiton, arms crossed, boot tapping. He was one of the tallest hobbits in all the Shire, and quite literally loomed over Bilbo.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Cedric said. “Care to explain why you were barreling down the Brandywine like a mad otter?”

Bilbo looked at him, water dripping from his sleeves.

“…Field test,” he said.

Cedric blinked. “Field test?”

“For rapid-response Bounder transport.”

Silence.

Bilbo observed the Head Bounder’s face, gauging for the slightest hint of disapproval. Cedric’s approval was necessary for anyone who wanted to enter the Bounders. Worry began twisting his stomach as time stretched.

Then Cedric started laughing.

His severe face split into a smile as he chuckled, a deep sound. He held a hand to Bilbo, hauling him back to his feet.

“Mad otter, indeed,” he said. “Now let’s get you back home before your mother comes bearing down on me.”

Needless to say, Bilbo’s mother was not impressed.

“What in Yvanna’s name possessed you to do such a thing?” Belladonna asked, torn between frustration and shock. “Did you even remember you can’t swim?”

Still dripping, Bilbo met her gaze stubbornly. “Rorric said all Bounders do it!”

Belladonna pursed her lips, shaking her head. “I know my son is smarter than that. You know Rorric likes to get a rise out of you, and you know Bounders wouldn’t do something so foolish.”

“He said I couldn’t do it!”

“You rise far too easily to provocation,” she said firmly.

"I can't disregard them if I want to be a Bounder - I have to show that I have what it takes!" Bilbo puffed his chest out slightly. 

His mother narrowed her eyes. "If 'what you have' means recklessness, you got it in abundance."

Bilbo scowled. "I'm going to be a Bounder."

“You’re much too young.”

“I’m sixteen tomorrow. Cedric Underbough was sixteen when he became a Bounder!”

Belladonna’s eyes narrowed. “We are not using other hobbits as examples - especially the Head Bounder! If you want to become one, you can do so when you come of age.”

“You want me to wait seventeen years? That’s too long!”

"While you live under my roof, you will not be a Bounder. Besides, you'd need a signed slip to become a Bounder at your age." 

Bilbo would not be telling his mother about the one he had in his drawer. "You had adventures when you were my age! It's not fair for you to deny them to me now!" 

"My answer is still no." 

He gritted his teeth in frustration. Anger boiled in his chest. He would become a Bounder - one way or another. He'd not let anything, even his mother, get in his way. 

Bungo Baggins watched his son storm from the room, then turned to his wife. “He’s right, you know.”

Belladonna looked over, eyes tired. “What?”

Bungo smiled and motioned for her to join him by the fire. She came and sank into the chair beside his.

“The first time I saw you, Bella, was when Rosco Took dragged me along on one of his so-called expeditions. He promised it would be a scholarly affair, so imagine my surprise when dares started flying and hobbits began doing all manner of foolish things.

“Marigold Brandybuck dared you to climb a cairn we all believed had once belonged to trolls. It had started raining and thundering, but up you went anyway, clambering to the top and shouting, ‘Come and fight me, you cowardly stone brute!’”

A soft smile curved Bungo’s lips. “I fell in love with you right then. You were the freest, happiest creature I’d ever seen.”

Belladonna shared his smile. “And Marigold never mocked me again. After all, I completed the dare—and got the boy.”

Bungo chuckled. “My point is, my dear: Bilbo is your son. He’s bound to have a wild streak. It’s in his blood. He’s going to want to venture out and explore.”

“I know,” Belladonna said softly. “But that’s much easier to say than to accept.”

Bungo leaned forward and brushed a dark strand of hair from her face. “As much as we want to, we can’t shield him from every hardship or heartache. He needs to learn to walk on his own two feet.”

Bilbo decided the morning of his sixteenth birthday was the perfect time to leave.

He left a note on his bed (informing his parents of his decision), then crept out of the smial, the brisk morning air waking him like a splash of cold water. This was it. He was going to become a Bounder.

The forged permission slip, bearing his mother’s signature in careful imitation, was clutched tightly in his hand.

The journey to the Bounder headquarters—better known as the Southfarthing Watch—would take a full day if he moved quickly. There were other gathering points scattered across the Shire, but none as large or as important as Southfarthing. It was the heart of Bounder life, the place where all recruits were first registered and trained.

Dressed neatly (he had to make a good impression), Bilbo stepped onto the path, heart pounding with equal parts excitement and fear.

The Southfarthing Watch could nearly vanish into the trees and hills if one didn’t know where to look. Unlike the smials hobbits typically lived in, the Watch was built partially into a hill and partially above ground—cleverly disguised to blend into the forest and terrain.

Inside, the scent of bitter pipeweed and old leather hung heavy in the air.

Bounders milled about the main chamber, speaking in quiet tones, occasional bursts of laughter echoing through the space. All wore the same dark green cloaks and harnesses, but what fascinated Bilbo most were the boots—scuffed and solid, clearly worn with pride.

Hobbits didn’t normally wear shoes. They were a fussy invention for folk with tender feet. Of all the things required to become a Bounder, boots were the one he dreaded most.

Lingering in the doorway, nerves churned in his stomach. He’d made it—within a day, no less—but now that he was here, the reality of it was settling in. He shuffled uncertainly, unsure where to go or who to speak with.

“Here for registration?” a voice asked.

A blond Bounder, hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, had approached without a sound.

Bilbo nodded, relieved someone had noticed him.

“You look a bit young to be joining,” the Bounder said, eyeing him with mild curiosity.

Bilbo squared his shoulders. “I’m sixteen. I have my paper. I need to submit it to the Bounder Head.”

The Bounder raised an eyebrow but gave a short nod. “This way.”

The corridors of the Watch reminded Bilbo of the tunnels back home—winding and interconnected like a great maze.

The blond Bounder led him deeper into the complex, stopping at a wide, circular door the color of sun-washed bark. He knocked, and a voice from inside called for them to enter.

Pushing the door open, the Bounder stepped aside for Bilbo to follow.

Cedric Underbough sat behind a large desk cluttered with parchment and inkpots, a sprawling map unrolled before him, marked with lines and notations.

The Head Bounder looked up, momentarily surprised.

“We’ve got someone here for registration,” the blond hobbit said.

“Thank you, Lamorac,” Cedric replied.

Lamorac nodded and exited, closing the door behind him.

Cedric leaned back in his chair, studying Bilbo. “Bilbo Baggins. I wasn’t expecting to see you here for at least another decade.”

Bilbo stepped forward, holding out the paper. “I have my permission slip.”

Leaning forward, Cedric pulled the paper from his grasp. He fidgeted nervously as Cedric went over the permission form, occasionally looking up to fix him with a sharp gaze.

After a few stifling minutes, Cedric placed the form down, threading his fingers together. “Your mother signed this?”

Bilbo gave a stiff nod. Any sign of uncertainty would result in Cedric knowing. He couldn’t have that.

“. . . Very well,” Cedric stood from his seat.

A small smile raised Bilbo’s lips. He’d done it! He was a Bou-

“I’ll send a Bounder to verify with your mother.”

The growing smile stopped and very quickly dissipated. Bilbo's eyes snapped to Cedric, heart pounding. “What do you mean?”

Why would Cedric send a Bounder to check with his mother? Bilbo had never heard of such a thing. If the Bounder Head was presented with a signed form, there was no need to check again. Unless . . . Cedric suspected.

“Every so often, we do double verifications. If she did sign this, you’ll have no reason to be concerned,” Cedric said. “Go to the barracks, we’ll receive your mother’s response tomorrow morning.” He gestured to the door.

Bilbo followed the silent instruction, the door thudding behind him like the final nail in a coffin.

Cedric knew.

He was dead. Surely, he was. He couldn’t think of a way out.

He hadn’t slept a wink, too concerned about how the morning was going to unravel. Would he be forbidden from ever becoming a Bounder? His fingers twisted nervously as he waited outside of Cedric’s office.

“Come in, Baggins,” Cedric called.

Stepping into the office, Bilbo fought to calm his nerves.

The Head Bounder placed the note he was reading down on his desk, looking at him. “I must say, Baggins. I’m surprised. Do you know what your mother wrote to me?”

He straightened as Cedric stood from his seat, moving towards him with his paper. It was over.

“You must know that to be part of the Bounders, integrity is crucial. That and being able to listen to commands.”

This was all going to be thrown back in his face.

“I did have my doubts . . ." Cedric said, eyes narrowing slightly. ". . . But surprisingly, you’ve received your mother’s permission.”

Bilbo had to clench his jaw to stop from gaping. He’d what?

“This page was addressed to you.” Cedric held an unopened letter towards him, Bilbo accepting it lamely. “I suggest you thank your mother.”

He glanced at the letter, then back to Cedric, confusion swirling in his chest.

The Head Bounder clapped him on his shoulder. “Be at the training ground tomorrow morning. A trainer will be there to instruct you.”

He stood in shock for a moment. His mother gave her permission? When did she... Had she known his plan all along? Or had she changed her mind? Either way, warmth spread through his chest, a smile blooming across his face. She believed in him, even if she was reluctant.

He'd done it. He was officially a Bounder.

Belladonna's Letter

To my foolish son,

I want you to know your father's and my decision was not made lightly. We are still very upset with you. 

You left without either of us knowing, took a forged letter, and attempted to become a Bounder. I seriously contemplated telling Cedric the truth, having you dragged back here, and ensuring you were banned from ever joining.

But . . . we love you dearly and want you to be happy. If being a Bounder for some time will curb that insatiable appetite you have for excitement, I will concede - for now. That said, since you have done this without our approval, we have some conditions: 

One: You must come back every three months and stay for one, learning your father's trade. You will not escape your education so easily. 

Two: If you ever sustain any serious injuries, you will resign and return home. I will not have my son gambling with his life. 

Three: You will remember that we love you, and you will write us weekly. 

Bilbo, the world is neither as safe nor as kind as you seem to assume. There are dark things that reside in this world, things that would rather destroy any happiness you might attain. Perhaps being a Bounder will help you learn that. No parent enjoys seeing their children suffer, but it is necessary. Learn and grow from the things your father and I cannot teach you. 

Chapter Three: A Bounder's Oath

"Mother, I look fine." Bilbo waved away Belladonna's hands as she fussed with his collar. 

She planted her hands on her hips. "Bilbo Baggins, this is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence; I will have you look your best."

Two years after his initial joining, he was finally becoming an official Bounder. 

He looked in the mirror. Dark tunic and trousers, harness tight, cape and boots freshly cleaned. His hair had gotten a little long during his time as a trainee, the curls brushing the back of his neck. Belladonna had wanted to give him a trim, but he refused, liking the length. 

"We must hurry, lest we want to be late!" Bungo called. 

Belladonna straightened his clothing one more time before pushing him along towards the door. 

Bungo smiled when he saw both of them, opening the door. The night sky was bright above them. 

Outside, hobbits walked along the path, excited voices chattering, following the torches that lit the path. 

The Bounder swearing took place under the stars, under Yvanna's watchful gaze. 

In the field typically used for large parties, seats had been lined up in rows. Torches lit the center aisle, leading to a platform where the Thain stood, robed in his green ceremonial robes. A dark wooden box was to his left. 

Behind the Thain, the Bounders stood in lines, each wearing their uniforms. 

Once the oath was taken, the Bounder would rise and take their place among the ranks of the others, officially becoming a Bounder. 

Belladonna placed an encouraging hand on Bilbo's shoulder before splitting off with Bungo to find seats. 

Bilbo made his way to the front rows where the trainees sat. 

Finding his way to his respective seat, he sat next to a familiar trainee - one of the Brandybucks. 

The Thain lifted his hands, and the crowd immediately settled. 

His voice boomed across the field, "We join together today to instate new Bounders - hobbits that dedicate themselves to protecting our borders and keeping us safe!" 

The Thain's speech continued for a time until the names began being called. 

"Bilbo Took-Baggins!"

Within the instating ceremony, the full name was called - implying the whole hobbit would be instated and dedicated to the purposes of protecting and defending. 

Bilbo felt like he was floating as he stood, making his way to the podium. This was it. 

Kneeling in front of the Thain, he placed his hand firmly across his heart. He'd memorized the oath many times over; the words came easily to his lips. 

“I, Bilbo Baggins, do swear by field and furrow, by hearth and by hill, that I shall keep the Bounds of the Shire.

I will walk where others will not, watch where others turn aside, and see that no shadow crosses our borders unchallenged.

I will hold fast to my kin and kith, shield the small and guard the green, and put the safety of the Shire above my own.

Though few may thank us, and fewer still remember, we are the watchful hedge, the quiet wall, the eyes that do not close.

This I swear, in the name of peace, and under the gaze of the stars.”

Pulling from the box, the Thain revealed a pin. 

It was no larger than a walnut, made of polished bronze, with a seven-pointed star engraved in its center. Each point represented a different farthing that the Bounders protected, as well as a sign of Yvanna's blessing. On the back of each pin, the Bounder's name was engraved, making it theirs.

With experienced hands, the Thain fastened the pin right next to the leaf clasp. "This is the mark of the Bounder, worn by those who protect the Shire. Bear it with honor, Bilbo Baggins," the Thain finished, placing a hand on Bilbo's shoulder. 

Bilbo stood, nodding respectfully to the Thain. The Thain pressed a leather pouch into his hands. Within it were the seven Bounder blades, stout blades issued to every Bounder. They were plain, but well-made. Gripping it tightly, he moved to join the Bounders. 

The ceremony continued for another hour, a great cheer rising as the last trainee took their oath and took their place. 

Tents that had been raised earlier provided refreshments and entertainment

Another party was held for just the Bounders after the instatement ceremony.

The Green Dragon was lit from the inside, noise and light spilling out as Bounders entered.

"C'mon!" Elda pulled his arm, hurrying him towards the entrance. 

Entering, they were greeted with a rush of heat and the smell of roasting meat. Old and new Bounders mingled with each other, sitting and conversing. Smoke from pipes floated into the high rafters, and the sound of a fiddle played in the air.

Elda pulled him to a seat at a free table. Bernac was already there, laughing with Harlon and Tobold. 

Plates of sausages, pies, and freshly baked bread covered the table, filling his senses with rich aroma.

"What a day, eh?" Harlon laughed. "We're official Bounders!"

"Don't let it go to your head so quickly!" Lamorac laughed, sitting down at the table. "You still have a lot to learn as Bounders!"

"More training?" Bilbo groaned. He'd had enough of that. He wanted to be out and about - scouting and patrolling. 

"More like learning on the job." Lamorac chuckled. "You'll learn things with each scouting mission and patrol." 

Chatter erupted, talking about possible scouting missions and patrols. Within the tavern, it was lively and happy, with conversation flowing. Bilbo paused when a flash distracted him, looking at Lamorac's belt where a blade was tucked away. 

He paused, taking a closer look at the hilt. "That's not a Bounder blade," he said. 

Lamorac glanced down, then smiled. "It is not." 

Curiosity prodded Bilbo. "Where did you get it?" 

"This," Lamorac pulled the blade from its sheath, presenting it to the group. "It is a dwarven forged dagger." 

The blade was made a darkened steel, broad and slightly leaf-shaped, tapering to a point. Dark blue leather wrapped along the hilt; two small green jewels embedded on the pommel and center of the guard. Along the flat of the blade, runes were carved. 

"Where did you get such a thing?" Bernac asked. 

"From an acquaintance. Faro possesses its sister." 

"Sibling blades?" Harlon breathed, admiration clear in his voice. 

It was understandable - dwarven sister blades were notoriously difficult to come by. Shaped from the same metal and forged from the same flame, they were unique creations that took sleepless days and an intense focus. 

"Surely there's a story to it?" Bilbo pressed. Sister blades were not something simply given. 

"Years ago, Faro and I were sent on a mission to Dunland." Lamorac brushed his fingers over the blade.

Dunland. That was several hundred miles away from the Shire. 

"We met dwarrow there - they'd settled there for a time after the destruction of their home."

"They were the ones that lived in Erebor, right?" Bilbo asked. 

Lamorac smiled, nodding. "Indeed. They'd been displaced by the dragon Smaug, who attacked and occupied their kingdom." 

The many hours learning by his father's side had given Bilbo a wide knowledge of not only his father's trade, but also history. His father loved maps and the stories that explained what was charted on parchment. 

"The dwarrow had taken up smithing work because of their tragedy, and I had the fortune of meeting one when Faro and I found a wandering pebble who'd lost his mother." Lamorac paused, thinking. "One thing to know about the dwarrow is that they were looked down upon in Dunland. Instead of being met with understanding in Dunland, they were despised. They were frequently cheated out of the true worth of their forgings, and some would have terrible things happen to them. When Faro and I met the pebble, he was within the grasp of individuals like that." 

The group leaned forward, gripped with nervousness. 

"What happened when you found the pebble?" Elda asked. 

Lamorac gave a wane smile. "We delivered justice to the villains that sought to harm the pebble and returned him to his mother and uncle." 

There was more to the story, Bilbo knew, but Lamorac stopped there, and in the revelries, Bilbo didn't press.

"The pebble's mother was immensely grateful, as was his uncle. So much so, the uncle offered us gifts with the little they had. Faro and I refused, of course, but dwarven pride is a force to be reckoned with." He chuckled. "He told us to give him three days, and after that time, he sought us out and presented us with the daggers."

"Do you know what the runes say?" Bilbo asked. 

Lamorac shook his head. "The dwarf never told me. If I ever meet him again, I'll have to ask him." He slid the blade back into its sheath. "Enough discussion about my blade, drink up, all of you!"

They raised their cups. 

"To being Bounders!"

They clashed their mugs together, ale spilling over onto their hands.  

Bilbo took a large swig, the ale strong and nutty, a smooth sweetness tingling on the back of his tongue.

“Tonight, we celebrate everyone’s success in officially becoming a Bounder!”

Faro grinned. “Usually there’s a speech that I’m supposed to give, but as I’m sure you all have had enough speeches for today, let’s get on with the drinking!”

A roar of agreement rang, and the ale began flowing.

There was a massive clatter as Faro climbed on top of a table. Opening his mouth, he began singing, voice bright with mirth.

My boots are torn from walking long, 

But not from walking straight!

I’d rather stray to a lass’s bed, 

And sneak back home too late!

Voices slowly joined in, feet thumping and hands clapping to the beat. Bounders climbed on tables, joining the song while dancing.

So, swing your lass and drink your glass,

And kiss ‘em if they’ll let ye!

For Bounders bold keep out the cold,

And guard the Shire so steady!

Glasses banged together, words slurring as the ale flowed. Faces bright from heat and intoxication, the Bounders sang, voices proud.

I tried to court a Tookish maid, 

They’re trouble through and through!

She kissed me twice, then stole my pipe, 

And drank my brandy too!

Bernac looped his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder, pulling him towards a table. “Let’s go, Baggins!”

Bilbo found himself clambering up and stumbling along with the song. Ale warming his stomach, a pleasant humming in his head, the Bounders around him sang and clapped, voices rising at the last verse.

So swing your lass and drink your glass,

And kiss ‘em if they’ll let ye!

For Bounders bold keep out the cold,

And guard the Shire so steady!

The celebration continued long into the night until hobbits were struggling to keep upright. Bounders trickled out one by one, until only Faro remained, singing to the empty air. Lamorac laughter could be heard as he tried to convince his brother it was time to go. 

Stumbling outside after hours, Bilbo supported Tobold as he drunkenly sang, words slurring.

"You should know your limits next time," Bilbo grunted.

"You're a surprisingly good drinker, Bilbo," Elda said. Bernac supported her as she struggled to walk straight. She wasn't nearly as drunk as Tobold, but she was swaying.

"If anyone here was unaffected, it was Bernac," Bilbo grumbled. It stung to admit it, but Bernac Baggins could probably outdrink him. (Though he'd never say it aloud.)

"I'm going to have such a hangover tomorrow," Harlon groaned. 

"At least you're still on your feet!" Bilbo said as Tobold tripped, sending them both to the ground. 

The group laughed, and Bilbo smiled, something stirring in his chest. Something like contentment or belonging. 

Chapter 7: What Was Left

The morning dawned gray – the scent of metal and blood on the breeze.

High in the trees, Bilbo perched, eyes scanning the snow.

“Are we sure they’re coming this way? Bernac might’ve remembered wrong.” Tobold was tense, fidgeting.

Bilbo didn’t answer, unease pooling in his gut. Bernac said he’d seen the orc map. The path led through the pines and across the Brandywine.

But they’d been waiting too long.

Bounders shifted with unease and the cold, eyes growing tired from scanning the endless white.

Faro, in a far tree, held up a swift hand, silencing any murmurs.

Bilbo felt it before he saw them – the silence, heavy and wrong. Then came the smell: iron and rot, thick as smoke.

Dark shapes bled from between the trees. First a handful, skulking between trunks, then a surge, ranks pressing through the snow, banners snapping in the wind. Armor glinted dully, blades jagged with rust, and still they came – more than Bilbo had imagined.

A warband.

The string creaked as Bilbo drew it back, arrow fletch brushing his cheek.

Faro’s hand cut the air.

A hiss of bowstrings – and arrows fell like rain. Orcs staggered, shrieking, pierced clean through. Arrows were loosed again before the enemy could close. For a heartbeat, it worked. Bodies sprawled across the white drifts.

Then the orcs lifted shields, crude boards bristling with nails. Arrows thudded uselessly into oak and hide. A horn bellowed and the horde surged forward.

Black-feathered shafts hissed upward in reply. A Bounder cried out, toppled from his perch, and was caught on spearpoints below.

“They’re climbing!”

Bilbo’s blood went cold.

Axes bit into bark, claws scraped wood. The trunks shook with the weight of them, orcs swarming upwards like spiders, yellow eyes glinting.

Notching another arrow, he fired downward – one fell, another slipped, dragging two with him – but they kept coming.

A Bounder fought hand-to-hand, stabbing desperately at an orc clinging to the same bough. They grappled, shrieking, until both tumbled, vanishing into the swarming throng.

There was a flash, and one of the trees ignited, fire climbing up its trunk. Bounders shouted in fear as it licked upwards.

The trees were no longer safe – turned into deathtraps.

“Down! To the river!” Faro roared, swinging to a lower branch.

Bounders jumped. Some caught ropes and slid, others dropped hard into the snow, stumbling but alive. Orc arrows chased them, biting into bark, into flesh. Bilbo hesitated, heart hammering. Until Faro’s voice cut through the chaos – sharp, commanding, desperate.

“Bilbo! Go!”

He leapt. His knees jolted with pain as he landed, nearly falling.

The Bounders fled toward the Brandywine, snow flying beneath their boots. The orcs came behind, shrieking and roaring.

The trees broke, and the river stretched before them, surface sheathed in ice. Bilbo’s breath came in ragged puffs as he pushed himself faster. Just a little further.

“Onto the ice!” Lamorac shouted.

Scattering across the white sheen, the Bounders crossed quickly, turning to watch their pursuers.

As the orcs thundered onto the ice, the ice groaned…

Then it split.

The first orc plunged straight through, vanishing with a strangled roar. Another step and another crack, the surface shattered, dragging the ranks of orcs into the churning water below, sucking them under.

Clawed hands struck the underside of the ice, shapes writhing beneath. Some broke through, only to be dragged back under by the current.

The Brandywine frothed black with blood and struggling orcs.

And then it was quiet.

A cheer burst from the Bounders, fierce and ragged. They’d done it – against all odds, they had broken the horde.

But Bilbo did not join. His gaze scoured the field, unease twisting in his gut. The white orc wasn’t among the orcs.

From the tree line, new shapes stirred. Lines of orcs marched forward, shielded and steady. No charge this time – only a tide advancing without hurry, without fear.

"Yvanna guard and keep us," Bernac whispered, eyes lifting skyward. His voice was no louder than a prayer lost in the wind.  

They couldn't face such numbers alone. 

Like flies to a carcass, the orcs emerged endlessly. The cheers died, smothered by the drumbeat of boots on snow.

 Large wooden structures were carried from the trees.

“Bridges,” Bilbo murmured, stomach twisting. He turned towards the group. “Prepare for battle! They have bridges!”

Snow stung Bilbo’s face as he stumbled through the churned battlefield, searching for Lamorac. He needed to tell him.

Shouts and steel rang around him, but one cry was sharper than the rest.

“Bilbo!”

He spun. Lamorac was holding ground near the riverbank, blades flashing in practiced arcs. Orcs fell before time – two, three, four – but then the crowd parted like grass before a scythe.

The pale orc.

“Lamorac,” Bilbo shouted. Lamorac would not be able to take such a beast on by himself. Bilbo fought to reach his side, desperate to prevent what he saw.

Orcs parted for the pale beast, allowing him a line to Lamorac.

Lamorac met him head-on, blades clashing like thunder, and it seemed for a moment that he'd be able to hold his ground. He ducked, driving steel across the orc's side and drawing blood.

But the orc only laughed, catching Lamorac's wrist, lifting him from the snow. 

"You'll not have the Shire," Lamorac growled, meeting the beast's eyes. 

With a sick grin, the orc lifted the blade and drove it through Lamorac’s chest. The steel burst from his back in a spray of red.

Lamorac’s eyes found him. Fading, but still fierce, still proud. His lips moved soundless, a last word – or a name – before the beast ripped the blade free. The Bounder’s body crumpled into the snow, blood steaming in the frigid air. The pale orc turned, walking away. 

Bilbo staggered back, breath ragged, grief crashing like a wave.

Faro appeared, dropping at Lamorac's side. "No. No, you stubborn bastard, wake up." He cradled his brother's face, eyes searching for some sign of life. He was quiet for a moment before his head snapped up, looking at the pale orc's back and standing, gripping his blade tightly. 

"Faro, don't!" Bilbo shouted, stumbling forward. "You can't fight him-"

But Faro was already charging. 

Faro fought like a wolf, striking, striking again, driving Lamorac’s blade at the orc’s chest. He fought with rage, driven by grief. For a breath, it seemed he might land a mortal blow – steel biting deep into the beast’s thigh.

But a massive hand caught Faro by his collar, lifting him from the snow easily. Another hand tore Faro’s weapon away, throwing it away in the snow.

“There’s another little rat,” the pale orc sneered.

Faro spat blood into its face, red mixing with black.

The orc’s grin widened. Then, with a savage twist, he snapped Faro’s neck.

The crack echoed across the battlefield, the orc hurling Faro’s body aside as though it were nothing, discarded into the snow beside his brother.

A strangled scream tore from Bilbo’s throat.

They were gone. They were both gone.

Surrounding orcs began to slowly encircle him.

Forcing the shock away, he reached towards his quiver. Empty.

Reached to grab a dagger. Nothing.

His sheath was empty.

A glint in the snow caught his eye—Faro's and Lamorac's blades.

Springing forward, Bilbo scooped the blades from the snow, turning and slashing an incoming orc. The blades cut through the monster's skin like butter, and it howled, backing away. 

The pale orc spat something in Black Speech, and the enclosing orcs froze, backing away. 

Bilbo scoffed. The beast wanted to fight with honor now. 

He raised the blades, the gleam of the blades shining through the black blood. 

The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for movement. 

Eyes flicking over his opponent's form, Bilbo looked for a weakness - anything he could use. 

Red streaked its pale skin, 

Faro had struck true, injuring the orc's leg. Its stance was weaker now, legs slightly further apart. 

He could make it. 

Lifting the blades, he raced forward, preparing to slide...

He got too close.

The orc’s blade carved a line down his face – sudden, searing. Pain exploded, blinding his left eye, nearly driving him to his knees. He stumbled back into the snow, tripping, catching himself with a bloody hand, Faro's blade slipping from his grasp. Red blurred his vision, blood dripping into the snow like blooming flowers.

The pale orc advanced, dragging his monstrous blade, gouging a red line in the slush.

Bilbo’s chest heaved. His pulse thundered. He could taste iron, thick and bitter on his tongue.

He still had Lamorac’s blade, and he would not cower.

He lunged.

Sliding low through the bloody snow, he drove the blade into the beast’s calf, tearing up through muscle and tendon. The orc roared, black blood hissing where it struck the frozen ground. The creature staggered forward onto one knee.

Bilbo didn’t hesitate. He leapt, scrambling up the pale back, locking his legs tight around its throat. His teeth were bared, eyes wild. He glared into disgusting blue eyes – eyes he’d seen in every nightmare.

“I hope this hurts,” Bilbo spat, raising a blade high.

The steel plunged into one icy eye.

The beast howled. Its huge body thrashed, bucked, blood streaming over Bilbo's hands.

A vicious grin spread across Bilbo’s lips. 

Something dark stirred in his gut – something animalistic. A dark, purring satisfaction at the creature’s agony. At its screaming that sounded like music.  

This thing had ruined so much. And now it suffered.

His triumph, however, was short-lived.

Clawed hands seized his legs and tore him from the orc’s shoulders, flinging him to the ground.

Pain shattered through him as his back slammed into the snow-packed earth, the air bursting from his lungs in a ragged gasp.

He rolled, choking, struggling to his knees. His body shook, his head rang, but he would not die on his back.

A wheezing laugh escaped him as he watched the orc rise, black blood streaming from his ruined socket.

An eye for an eye.

Though it hadn’t been the revenge he wanted, he was satisfied.

The blade dragged behind the beast, carving a red line to where Bilbo knelt. The beast loomed, lifting the weapon.

The cold steel kissed Bilbo’s throat, and he tilted his chin up, meeting that hateful gaze with a bloody smile.

“Do it,” he rasped. “Kill me.”

He closed his eyes, bracing for the final bite of metal.

Instead of death, the blade slid away from his neck.

His eyes snapped open. The pale orc loomed over him, black blood streaming from its ruined eye, its grin a horror of teeth.

“I want you broken, little rat,” the orc growled, voice thick with malice. “Every dawn, every hearth, every step in your Shire—you will think of me. I am Azog, the Defiler. I slew your kin, and I will slaughter the rest. And you… You will live to know you could not stop me.”

Rage flared in Bilbo’s chest, cutting through pain and terror. He forced himself upright, meeting that monstrous gaze.

“Beneath Yavanna’s watching eye,” he swore, voice breaking but steady as steel, “this will be your folly. No matter where you crawl, no shadow will hide you. Your life will end with my blade at your throat.”

The world seemed to tremble with his words. 

It was a promise. An oath. A vow.

Azog’s laughter was low and cruel. He turned, limping towards the Shire, leaving a trail of black blood. “You may try.” The remaining orcs followed him.

And then he was gone, leaving Bilbo on his knees, shaking with fury and pain.

The battlefield was a frozen tangle of hobbits and orcs, limbs jutting out at impossible angles.

And it was quiet. He was the last living being in the field of death. 

The sight turned blurry as he swayed, toppling over into the snow, staring upwards.

Flakes fell from the ashen sky, almost caressingly. A fitting setting to die in – cold and surrounded by silence.

He could feel the snow against his back, pulling the warmth from him, pushing him closer to death. Soon he’d be in Yvanna’s Garden.

Reunited with his parents and fellow Bounders.

At peace.

It didn’t take long for his red-hazed vision to blur. His left eye was too crusted with blood to see out of, and the pain slowly seeped from his body. Or perhaps he was simply becoming numb.

As he was fading, he felt a thrumming noise through the earth. The feeling of a marching army or stampeding horses.

Whinnies of horses and sharp calls . . . in Elvish? With great effort, he shifted his head. Golden armor and mighty steeds blurred into view.

The elves.

They’d arrived.

But far too late.

Bilbo’s last eye slowly began closing when he felt the brush of something against his frozen cheek.

A moth? No – something more . . . something watching.

He heard the crunch of snow as someone approached him before aged hands – familiar, impossibly gentle - touched him, checking for a pulse.

As he was lifted from the ground, he wanted to scream and fight to be placed back down. To let him die among his friends.

“You’ll be healed, my boy,” a familiar voice said.

He wanted to weep, but all he could manage was a shudder.

He closed his eyes, wishing for a death that would never arrive.

---

A piercing pain in his head and the sharp scent of herbs roused him. He groaned, lifting a hand to his face. It itched horribly. Quiet voices spoke.

“He is waking.” It was a light, smooth voice, like a gentle breeze.

“Bilbo, my boy, can you hear me?” The second voice was deeper, more gravelly.

He squinted his eye open, seeing a blurred silhouette. It slowly came into focus, revealing an aged face and long white hair. Gandalf.

“. . . why?” he mumbled.

A sad smile spread across the wizard’s face. “It is good to see you awake after so long, my boy.”

“We had anticipated you would be sleeping for much longer.”

Bilbo turned toward the smoother voice. A dark-haired elf sat on the other side of the bed, the nightstand next to him full of bandages and medicinal herbs.

“Who . . .”

“This is Lord Elrond,” Gandalf introduced. “He came leading the elven forces. He’s been attending to you this past week.”

He licked his chapped lips. He felt horribly weak, and his voice was thready. “I was out for a week?”

“You’ve suffered much; both the physical and emotional trauma made your consciousness retreat, and we anticipated you to be asleep for much longer.”

Bilbo clenched his jaw as an unexplained heat rose in his stomach. He turned towards Gandalf.

“Why didn’t you let me die, Gandalf? Surely you knew I wanted to.”

The Wizard had eyes; surely, he could’ve seen that he’d wanted to go to Yvanna’s Lands.

“You were not meant to die in that field, Bilbo Baggins. Not like that.” Gandalf’s voice was gentle.

Bilbo wanted to argue, spit that none of the Bounders deserved to pass like that, but he had no strength to do so. Instead, he sagged against the pillows, turning from Gandalf and lifting a bandaged hand to his face.

Bandages covered the entirety of his left face.

“Will I... the question remained unfinished.

Will I be able to see?

“It’s hard to say,” Elrond said. “The damage done to your face was extensive. We were able to recover your eye, and we have hope that you will be able to regain some semblance of sight in a few years.”

Bilbo nodded numbly.

“Keep the eye covered for at least 3 months. Light exposure will cause further damage.”

Bilbo stared emptily at his bandaged hands. He’d blinded Azog, too. Did he go deep enough to blind him permanently?

Why was he alive? Why did the orc spare his life?

What was the point in living when everyone he cared for was gone?

Cedric.

Lamorac.

Faro.

Elda.

Bernac.

Tobold.

Harlon.

Something ugly twisted in his mind.

“. . . aster Baggins?”

A hand placed on Bilbo’s shoulder caused him to jolt violently, lifting his arms to defend himself.

Lord Elrond raised his hands placatingly.

Gandalf hummed, and Bilbo’s eyes jumped to him. He puffed his pipe. “I do believe it wise for you to accept Lord Elrond’s offer.”

“Offer?”

Elrond stood, moving fluidly to where Gandalf sat, deftly removing the pipe from the Wizard’s grasp, opening Bilbo’s window. “No smoking near a patient,” he scolded.

Gandalf huffed.

Elrond turned back to Bilbo. “As I was saying, I believe coming back to Rivendell with me will be for the best, Master Baggins. I’m sure you’re aware of Rivendell’s reputation in healing. We’ll be able to provide you with the best care there.”

Bilbo shook his head immediately. “I can’t leave the Shire.”

“My boy- “

“No, Gandalf. There’s no telling when the orcs will come back.”

“Elven troops will be stationed here for the remainder of the Winter and longer to assist with the recovery of the Shire- “

“I’m sorry, Lord Elrond, but my mind will not change. I will remain in the Shire.”

His door slammed open with a sudden force. “You will do no such thing.”

Lobelia stood in the doorway, clothed in black. She looked at Elrond resolutely. “Even if you must drag him, he will be going to Rivendell.”

Bilbo clenched his jaw. “Lobelia, I am not going.”

She scowled at him. “You won’t be any good here. Look at you. You can hardly lift a finger without being in pain. If you go to Rivendell, you’ll be out of our way, and we’ll be much more effective. We can’t spare anyone to wait on you hand and foot right now.”

“I’m not asking for that,” Bilbo growled, her words stinging.

“Asking or not, it will be necessary unless you intend to wither away in bed.” Lobelia shot back, hands on her hips.

Bilbo’s retort died on his tongue. Her words were hard, but true. He was incapable of helping the Shire in his state. He scoffed. He hadn’t been able to help anyone in the first place.

A gentle hand was placed on his. “You can come back once you’re recovered and ready, but no sooner.” Lobelia gazed at him, her eyes unwavering.

They were red and raw – surely from days of crying over the loss of her brother, but there was a solidity within them. Something hardened that wouldn’t give, no matter how hard he pressed.

He had no strength to fight her. No strength to stay.

Perhaps going to Rivendell would be a place where he could remember how to be himself again – or at least, what remained of him.

He nodded, just once. Quietly.

“Very well.”

Gandalf stood. "Then it is decided!" 

He stepped over to Bilbo's bedside, placing a package down, wrapped in leather. Undoing the string, Gandalf pulled the leather back - revealing familiar sister blades. 

Bilbo pursed his lips, eyes catching on the leather-wrapped hilts - now stained in black. 

Flinching at the hand placed on his shoulder, he looked up at Gandalf. 

"They would have wanted you to have them, Bilbo." 

Bilbo's hands hovered over the blades for a moment until he pulled away, turning his gaze from them. 

"...Take them away." 

"Bilbo-"

"I do not wish to see them. Take. Them. Away." 

With an unreadable expression, Gandalf rewrapped the blades, tucking them into his cloak. "I shall keep them with me until you need them." 

Bilbo turned from Gandalf, looking out his window. He'd been a fool. He had always been a fool. Always careless. 

And it had cost him his world. 

Annnnnnd we have reached the end of the Bounder arc! Whooooh!

The next chapter will kick off the beginning of the quest!

I hope ya'll have enjoyed this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it!

Updates will probably be a little slower now, as school has started for me, and I haven't written much past the initial backstory. That said, this story will be updated at least once a week.

Chapter 6: Fury of the Bereft

Morgoth’s flames licked through Bilbo.

Everything hurt.

He pressed his face to the dirt, desperate for relief. The feverish heat bled from him, seeping into the cold earth, and for a moment, he eased.

But then the warmth was gone entirely, and he was left hollow, trembling in the tent, aching even for the burning fire to return.

A mound caught the edge of his gaze, and he strained to focus on it. Elda’s prone form blurred into focus.

He frowned. Why wasn’t she moving - why was she even here? Hadn’t they escaped?

The world tilted around him. He was forgetting something–something terrible.

The flicker of memory: warm blood covering his hands.

Blinding rage seizing his heart.

A pale orc – grinning, victorious – as Bilbo’s heart broke.

His heart stuttered to a stop.

Elda was dead.

He tried to struggle upwards but fell. He looked at his feet, noticing something off. But that wasn’t important.

He crawled toward Elda, nails scraping against the hard earth, tears slipping down his fevered cheeks.

He’d failed.

Elda was gone – and he’d been left behind, alone with her corpse.

The white orc’s laughter echoed in his skull, low and cruel, refusing to die.

Bilbo pressed her forehead to her still shoulder, her body cold. Stiff.  “I was supposed to save you.” His voice broke.

Whether it was the fever or the mental damage, he found himself unable to console himself, weeping until he was too tired to move. He could feel darkness on the edges of his vision again, and he hoped this time it’d be death.

He must have slipped into sleep at some point.

The sound of muffled voices made him rouse, something gripping his shoulder – rough and urgent, waking him.

“Bilbo, move!”

His head lolled upward, blinking through the haze at the dark form above. “Bernac?”

The Bounder’s face was taut, eyes sharp with fear. “On your feet, you fool. We've not much time.”

A rescue.

“Elda,” his throat scraped raw. “We can’t leave her body.”

“Faro has her,” Bernac said softly, voice cracking before hardening. “Now up – or we’re finished.”

Bilbo staggered, pain screaming up his leg. The ground tilted, and he collapsed forward with a grunt.

"What is-" Bernac stopped, inhaling sharply. "Sweet Yvanna. Bilbo, your-“

The tent flap tore open. Lamorac burst in, breath ragged, eyes widening at the sight. "What's taking so long?"

"It's going to be hard for him to move. His foot..." Bernac trailed off. 

Lamorac looked down, eyes widening in horror, but it was quickly gone as noises came from outside the tent. “There’s no time.”

He was at Bilbo’s side in an instant, hauling his arm across his shoulders.

Together they stumbled into the night. The air struck him like a blow – cold, sharp, blessedly clean after the stench of blood and fever.

 Looking down, he watched as his foot left red splotches in the snow. He frowned. “Something’s wrong with my foot . . .”

“We’ll deal with it later,” Lamorac hissed. “Quiet.”

Bilbo nodded limply.

They reached the tree line, the trees enfolding them like old friends. A tight ball in Bilbo’s chest released slightly.

There was a cry.

Lamorac cursed. “They know we’re here. We must move faster.”

“We’re not going to make it,” Bilbo mumbled.

“Shut up,” Bernac growled.

 Shouts. Arrows. A clash of steel in the dark.

And blessed darkness took him once again.

---

His head felt packed with straw. Groaning, Bilbo pushed himself upright.

He was lying on one of the barracks beds. The room around him was empty, silent.

Swinging his feet over the edge, he paused. His foot was swaddled in bandages, stained dark. But even through the wrappings, he could see it: the blunt shortness where two toes should have been.

Bile surged in his throat. He bent over the edge of the bed, dry heaving until his ribs ached.

When he finally forced himself upright, his skin was clammy with sweat. He couldn’t look again. He couldn’t.

“You shouldn’t be up.”

Lamorac stood in the doorway, face shadowed with exhaustion.

Bilbo watched him draw closer. “How did – how did you find us?”

Lamorac sat across from him. “Your group came back frantic. They’d said that you were ambushed, Elda was taken, and you went after the orcs alone.”

“How long were we...” The question hung unspoken in the air.

“It took some time to recall a group big enough to go after the orcs for Elda and you. You were there for about four days. I’m not surprised you didn’t know – you had a bad infection.”

Bilbo’s eyes trailed to his toes.

Lamorac’s gaze was heavy, but gentle. “Your toes weren’t infected. The bite on your arm, however, was nasty. Nearly took you from us. You’ve been asleep for three days.”

He swallowed hard. “And Elda?”

Lamorac’s pause was heavy. “We haven’t been able to bury her yet.” Sorrow drifted in his eyes.

Bilbo gave a jerky nod, turning his gaze to the rest of the room.

“Where is everyone?” Bilbo rasped.

“They’re in a meeting. About the orcs.”

“I need to be there,” Bilbo muttered. He’d seen the camp – seen the map full of future attacks.

The packed earth was cold against his bare skin as he forced himself to stand. His legs trembled, unsteady.

“You need rest.” Lamorac hovered close, his hands half-raised, ready to catch him if he collapsed.

He shook his head. Rest was impossible. Not now—not when it mattered most.

Lamorac sighed and moved to his side, taking some of Bilbo’s weight as he staggered.

At the tent’s opening, Bilbo stopped.

The snow rose near his shoulder, the world drowned in white, like a shroud.

“The weather turned,” Lamorac said at Bilbo’s silence. “The Brandywine froze solid. Nobody is leaving their burrows.”

 Bilbo stared at the white expanse. The snow might have buried the Shire, yet the earth was still too hard to put her to rest.

---

Bilbo leaned against Lamorac’s arm as they pushed into the Watch. The air inside was stifling, thick with pipe smoke and frightened voices.

“…we have to evacuate—” “—suicide, in this storm! —” “—better than waiting to be butchered!”

Bounders shouted over one another, words crashing like waves. At the center of it, Cedric sat hunched forward in his chair, fingers pressed to his lips. His eyes flicked from one speaker to another, but he said nothing.

Bilbo swayed, clutching the doorframe. His chest tightened. He needed to say something—warn them, tell them what he’d seen, of the map. His lips parted, but no sound came. The words withered in his throat.

The smoke stung his eyes as Lamorac guided him further into the Watch.

Bernac’s voice cut through, sharp and ragged: “We can’t sit on our hands! Every night, they’re closer. Do you want to wake to fire at your door?”

A heavyset hobbit snapped back, “What would you suggest? March the children into snow up to their necks? I’ve already buried one babe—I’ll not see another frozen stiff in the drifts!”

The Watch shook with the din until Cedric surged to his feet. “Quiet!”

The roar fell to a nervous murmur. Cedric’s face was gray with fatigue, but his voice carried iron. “If we march now, the storm kills us before the orcs do. If we huddle here, the orcs bleed us out one by one. Either way, we’re finished.”

The silence deepened.

Cedric jabbed a finger toward the rafters. “But the trees are ours. They know the land, but not as we do. They’ve got numbers—we’ve got the woods.” His words came fast, like he was piecing them together as he spoke. “We can’t fight a battle. So, we don’t. We harry them. Cut their stragglers. Tear at the edges till they’re ragged.”

---

Snow muffled every sound.

The woods pressed close, branches heavy with white, bowing low like watchful sentries. A line of Bounders crept through the drifts, cloaks pulled tight.

Bilbo raised a hand. The line froze. Ahead, three orcs plodded through the snow, stamping and snarling, torches guttering in the wind. Stragglers.

A whistle came, soft as a birdcall. From the trees above, two Bounders loosed arrows. One torch dropped, extinguished in the snow. An orc pitched forward with a gurgle.

The other two spun about, blades flashing. But no one approached. Bounders melted into the trunks, arrows whispering from the dark. The second fell thrashing, the third staggered into the drift, only to be met with a thrown dagger landing in its eye.

Silence returned.

Bilbo exhaled. One more patrol that wouldn’t be coming back. The map he’d seen provided them with the routes the orcs took – making it easier to find them.

The group looked at each other, faces pale in the moonlight. It had been quick, clean, with no losses. But there was no joy. Only the sound of the carcasses being dragged deeper into the woods, leaving no sign behind.

“Like wolves picking at sheep,” a young Bounder muttered.

Bilbo’s jaw tightened. “Better a wolf than a sheep.”

Above them, the branches creaked.

---

The Bounders struck again the next night. And the night after.

Always in the woods, always from the dark – arrows from above, stones from the brush, knives whirling through the air. The orcs would curse and shout, torches bobbing wildly, but their numbers shrank.

The younger Bounders began carrying themselves with steel. Their eyes were still scared, but their steps were quicker, their voices tighter with a grim sort of pride.

“They bleed as well as we do,” Faro muttered, yanking his knife free of an orc’s throat.

Another Bounder laughed, short and brittle. “Never thought I’d see a Bounder fell an orc, least of all ten.”

Despite the weather and circumstances, hope–as thin as smoke – had begun to stir.

---

Voices murmured in the Watch.

Bilbo sat alone at a table, drawing his spoon through his bowl. Small scraps of meat had been added to boiled snow, with a spoon of flour to thicken it into something more filling.

Things had eased. Bounders laughed more freely, their shoulders lighter with every report of another orc patrol cut down.

Bilbo’s hand tightened around his spoon. Too easy. He had seen the camp—seen the map full of routes and attacks. A horde that size would not go quietly. Not with a leader like the white orc.

The door slammed open. Bilbo jolted, looking up.

Bernac staggered in, clutching the frame. “They’re going after the Shire,” he wheezed and toppled to the ground.

Bilbo rushed to his friend’s side. A long arrow protruded from between Bernac’s shoulder, black fletched and slick with blood.

For a moment, Bernac’s shape seemed to flicker, showing a short, blonde hobbit, eyes open in death.

He shook his head, ridding the image. It’d not end like that this time.

Gripping the shaft, Bilbo snapped it close to the skin, hands trembling as he eased Bernac onto his back. Faro and Lamorac appeared on either side of Bilbo. 

“What happened?” Bilbo asked, wiping the sweat from Bernac's face with his sleeve.

“They knew we were coming this time.” Bernac’s face was pale, taut with pain. “It was an ambush. The rest... are gone.”

Panic in the watch rose immediately. 

"-we should have evacuated-"

"-it's too late-" 

The noise rose to a deafening thunder. 

Bilbo stood, giving his place to Lamorac as he made his way towards an empty table. 

Bilbo climbed on top of the table in front of the group. He clenched his jaw as pain threaded through his foot. Now was not the time to show weakness. Now was not the time for hesitation.

“Listen up!” His voice echoed through the Watch at his shout.

The Bounders' voices slowly quieted. Bilbo gazed about the room.

“I used to think that the danger like we face lived far away – past the Brandywine, beyond the mountains. I believed the worst thing that could happen was not becoming a Bounder . . . or being caught by Farmer Maggot when I raided his field.”

Bilbo squared his shoulders. “But being a Bounder taught me otherwise. Danger doesn’t wait at the edges. Darkness creeps in, quiet and relentless. It takes,” His voice caught, eyes burning. “It takes those we love if no one stops it."

"So, I ask you, if we don’t stand now, when those Fell creatures come through the trees, when they set fire to our fields and tear down what we love – what will be left?

You say we’re not warriors. And you’re right. We aren’t.

We’re Bounders!

We’re the ones who stand in the face of evil like this! We’re the ones that stand between happiness and what exists in those trees!

We’re the ones who choose to make the sacrifice to walk that edge, so those we love within the Shire never have to look over their shoulders!

We are stubborn! We are furious! We may be small, but we are not helpless!”

Bilbo slammed his fist onto the table. “And I’ll be damned if I let these orcs win without a fight!

So, I say let them come! Let them crawl from their caves and march from their black pits. Let them think us weak! Let them laugh when they see our size!

And then let them learn.” He spat the last word, loathing heavy.

“Let them learn what happens when a hobbit has nothing to lose!

Let them learn that a hobbit’s fury bites!”

It was silent, the air heavy.

Then a cheer rose. Slow but quickly gaining momentum until a rallying cry echoed through the room.

Faces that were once shadowed by fear and grief were now lit by purpose and fire – and hope.

A hand was held up, and the cheers quieted as someone stepped forward.

Cedric.

His face was tired, but there was a quiet resolve. He looked at Bilbo, nodding once.

“You’ve always been a reckless one, Baggins,” he said. “But you’re right. If this is the last hill we stand on – it’ll be ours.”

He turned to the rest of the Bounders. “We move tomorrow!”

A rallying cheer sounded in the air.

Bilbo watched the rallying Bounders, at their rising confidence, setting his jaw. He’d not lose anybody else. They’d wipe out the orcs, and the Shire would be safe.

Chapter 5: The Edge of the Trees

Surprise! Another chapter!

I've been trying to crank out these chapters so I can get the entire story out before going back through and refining and editing. Editing is my kryptonite and halts me in the middle of a project, so I'm trying to push through on this one, hahaha.

***Trigger Warning: This chapter does get very dark towards the end with themes of torture and such. If that makes you uncomfortable, please be mindful and stop when you get uncomfortable!

I hope you all enjoy! Let me know what you think!

The orcs weren’t difficult to track, but they were fast.

Tracks were imprinted deep into the snow, black blood staining the white. He followed them for a while before halting.

The tracks split.

It broke off into three directions: East, South, and West.

“Yvanna’s stars,” Bilbo cursed.

He went East. He crouched low, fingertips brushing the edge of the trail. Bow in hand, he raced along, desperate to reach Elda.

The trail wound through a ravine. Twice, he caught glimpses of things in the trees – a hulking shape, the sound of boots in the snow. But when he pressed forward, bowstring taut, there was nothing.

 When he eventually caught up to the owners of the tracks, he cursed, felling the two lone orcs, and turning South.

The southern path cut through a line of broken pines, dark clouds heavy overhead. Twice, he stumbled, moving too quickly and missing the roots that snagged his boots.

A band of six orcs tromped through the snow ahead, careless and loud, their laughter sharp.

Elda wasn’t with them.

If they were decoys again, then the group with Elda had gone West. He cursed. If she were still with them, then every hour he’d spent chasing the decoys was wasted.

With a growl low in his throat, Bilbo loosed an arrow into the nearest orc, dropping it like a stone. The orcs shrieked as he sent two more – burying it deep into their heads.

Dropping from his perch, Bilbo drew his daggers, rushing towards the remainder. His dagger slashed, and the beasts fell, laughter silenced.

Wiping the black blood off his daggers against snow, he forced his legs westward, snow crunching with each hurried step.

The land began to change. Pines thinned, giving way to a low, frost-bitten slope. The air grew heavier... fouler.

The sky had darkened when Bilbo finally spotted a flickering light through the trees. The orange glow split and grew as he got closer. He stopped before the light – observing from the shadows.

An orc encampment.

The smell from earlier grew stronger as he approached, smoke weaving through the trees, accompanied by the smell of rancid meat.

Tents were raised, poor structures of patched fur, cloth, and... Bilbo drew back in disgust. Skin.

Despite the large encampment, it was empty save for a few orcs that milled the perimeter.

It was the noise that drew his attention next, away from the tents and further into the midst of the patched tents. He snuck around the perimeter of the camp, sneaking past the loose watch of the orcs.

A clearing near the center had been made, circled by torches. Within, two Wargs snarled and fought, surrounded by the jeering and roaring of the orcs.

Bilbo swallowed hard. There were at least thirty orcs that watched the fight.

How had such a large group escaped the Elves’ notice? Something was wrong.

Turning from the scene, Bilbo crept into the largest tent in the encampment. It seemed important enough to hold a prisoner.

A small torch within lit the tent, and Bilbo turned to leave after seeing that Elda wasn’t inside. He paused, seeing a piece of parchment spread across a log.

Drawing closer, horror rose in his chest at the familiar map.

They were planning to attack the Shire.

It outlined the Shire near perfectly, with dark ink marks detailing spots of attack.

Under the onslaught of such a large group of orcs, the Shire would be brought to ruin – most hobbits that lived within the Shire were too gentle, too soft. They wouldn’t last such an attack.

He slipped from the tent; another mission was added to his rescue. A warning needed to be spread to the Shire.

As he left, he nearly missed the small, dark tent that stood behind the large one.

Bilbo approached and slipped inside.  

Bloodied and pale, Elda was slumped over, chained to a stake driven into the frozen ground.

“Elda,” he breathed, rushing to her side.

Her clothes were ragged, blood staining her skin.

He cupped her face, untying the gag and releasing a tight breath when her chest rose.

“Elda,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

She groaned, eyes fluttering open.

Elda gave a dazed smile. “The Barrel-Rider has come to save me. How romantic.”

He smiled slightly. Her humor was still intact. That was good.

“I need you to move.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to walk very well,” she mumbled. “My feet . . .”

He glanced down, eyes widening in horror. Her feet were blistered and charred, the hair on top completely gone if her feet had been set on fire.

Bilbo grit his teeth. His hand trembled, hovering over her ruined feet, afraid to touch, afraid to cause more pain. Rage curled hot and tight in his chest. Orc cruelty. Always worse than he imagined.

He swallowed hard. “I’ll get you out.”

“You came alone?”

His silence was enough of an answer.

Elda’s lashes fluttered, a flicker of humor in her gaze despite the agony. “I should scold you for leaving on your own . . . but at this moment, I’m glad you did.”

“Don’t speak,” he murmured, fingers brushing her cheek. “Save your strength.”

The tent flap stirred – shadows moving outside. His heart jolted. Time was up.

Bilbo slid her arm over his shoulders, bracing her weight. She hissed through her teeth as her feet touched the ground, but she made no complaint beyond that.

“Stubborn,” he whispered.

Her faint smile ghosted again, but her face was pale, sweat beading her brow.

The shadows deepened. A guttural voice barked orders in Black Speech.

Bilbo froze, breath caught. He looked to the flap, then back to her. His hand tightened around his knife.

He peered through the gaps in the tent flap.

Outside, the orcs were still distracted, shouting over the snarls and howls of Wargs tearing into each other.

“I know it’s going to hurt,” he said quietly, “but we must move fast. If they see us . . .”

“Don’t worry about me,” Elda groaned. “I’ll be fine.”

Bilbo gave a short nod.

They slipped out of the tent. The winter air hit them like a wall – raw, biting, cruel. It seared Bilbo’s skin and stole his breath. He tightened his grip on Elda, her weight dragging against his side as they staggered through the snow.

If they reached the trees, escape was possible.

Elda sagged against him, her breath shallow, eyes bright with pain. She murmured a string of apologies, voice fraying with exhaustion.

Bilbo’s arm tightened around her, his steps quickening despite the drag of her weight. Every crunch of snow seemed deafening.

“Almost there,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the dark wall of trees ahead. Just a few more yards.

Then –

A howl split the air. The Wargs had scented them.

Elda stiffened, clutching at him with surprising strength. “Bilbo-“

“I know.” His pulse hammered in his ears. He forced his feet faster, half-carrying, half-dragging her.

Snow sprayed beneath their stumbling steps as another howl joined the first, closer. Then the sound of boots – orc voices rising in alarm.

They’d been seen.

Elda gasped, stumbling. Her ruined feet gave way, and she nearly pulled them both into the snow. Bilbo caught her, but barely. His legs shook. He couldn’t carry her far.

His eyes darted around – the tree line ahead, too far. Wargs behind, closing fast. Orcs shouting, weapons crashing.

They would not make it.

“Bilbo,” she rasped, her lips pale and trembling. “Leave me. You can still –“

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, gripping her so hard his knuckles went white. “We leave together, or not at all.”

Elda’s gaze wavered. She managed the ghost of a smile, even as tears blurred her eyes. “Stubborn hobbit.”

The snow shook with pounding paws.

Bilbo shifted, placing himself between Elda and the closest approaching Warg. His knife looked pitifully small against its hulking form. Still, he bared his teeth.

“Come on, then,” he growled.

The Warg’s lips peeled back, muscles coiling – readying to pounce.

Elda gripped his cloak. “Bilbo, just run-“

“Quiet,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the beast. If the Warg jumped, he’d have one strike. One chance.

And it wouldn’t be enough.

The Warg tensed –

A command split the clearing, guttural and harsh, barked in Black Speech. The Warg halted, snapping its jaws but dropping low, obedient.

Out of the dark stepped an orc unlike the others. Taller, broad-shouldered, and pale as the snow that surrounded them. His eyes were blue – icy and cruel. The pale scars across his face caught in the firelight.

“It seems,” the orc drawled, Common Tongue thick but clear, “a rat has snuck into my camp.” His voice was a rasp, cruelly amused.

His gaze shifted to Elda, sneer widening. “And my prize tried to crawl away. Foolish.”

The orc hadn’t spoken in Black Speech.

He stared. “You speak the Common Tongue?”

“Your shock is amusing, little rat.” The pale orc began to circle them, eyeing them. “It serves to know the enemy’s tongue. Now it’s a question of what to do with you both. Attempted escape?”

Bilbo tracked the orc’s movement.

“Usually, I’d just kill both of you and be done with it, but your appearance serves a solution to one of my problems.”

“What’s that?”

The orc stopped circling, gesturing to the encirclement of orcs. “My men have gotten . . . restless. They entertain themselves with the Wargs, but the excitement has been fading. They’re craving something more . . . stimulating.”

He tightened his grip on the knife until his hand ached. Entertainment. He knew what that meant.

“If I agree,” Bilbo said slowly, voice rough, “you’ll release Elda. She goes free.”  

The orc’s smile widened. “Bold. You’d bargain with me?” He laughed, a deep, humorless sound. “If you fight – if you bleed – perhaps the other rat will see another sunrise.”

“Bilbo, no!” Elda’s voice cracked.

He ignored her cry, focusing on the enemy in front of him. “I want your word.”

The beast tilted its head, amused. “Very well. You have it.”

Such a creature’s word was worth little, but it was better than nothing. Drawing a shaky breath, he squared his shoulders. “Then let’s get on with it.”

Eyes gleaming with a cruel delight, the pale orc barked something in Black Speech, and the orcs roared their approval.

At the wave of the beast’s hand, two orcs came forward, seizing Bilbo. He was quickly rid of all his weapons as they tossed them to the ground.

The orcs gripped his arms tight, nails digging into his flesh. One approached Elda, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her away.

“Elda!” Bilbo desperately struggled against his captors. He couldn’t let them take her.

“I’ll be fine,” Elda shouted. “Don’t worry about me!”

Her words only caused him to struggle more. If she was going to be fine, she wouldn’t have looked at him like that. Like she’d given up.

“How sweet,” the pale orc purred. “Such care.”

“Let her go,” Bilbo snarled.

“Defeat the Warg, and I will.”

Jaw clenching, Bilbo was helpless against being dragged to the circle where the Wargs had been battling.

The snow within the ring was soaked in black blood and pieces of flesh.

The orcs shoved him forward, and he slipped, landing face-first in the slushy snow. He pushed himself up, ignoring the laughter of the audience.

Something landed to the left of him with a wet thunk. He reached down, lifting the blade.

“It’s only fair to give you a chance, little rat,” the pale orc said.

Bilbo scoffed, looking at the weapon. Of course, they gave him a dull blade. It wouldn’t be sharp enough to pierce his foe’s hide.

The crowd of orcs parted as Bilbo’s opponent prowled forward, yellow eyes gleaming, foam dripping from its slavering jaws.

Bilbo’s stomach twisted as he tightened his grip on the blade.

In fighting this Warg, he didn’t have the high ground or his bow. Only a dull blade and a desperation to survive. He bent his knees, readying himself for any action.

The Warg lunged.

Bilbo dove low, sliding through the slush as claws raked the earth where he’d stood. He rolled to his feet, knife raised, heart hammering so loud he barely heard the orc's laughter.

The Warg whirled around, snarling, hot breath steaming in the air. It prowled closer, head low, circling.

Too fast. Too strong. You can’t meet it head-on.

His eyes flicked over the beast’s body, searching for some kind of weakness.

Left back leg. Favored. 

The Warg pounced –

And Bilbo shoved himself sideways at the last instant, slashing the beast’s leg. It barely cut through its hide, but the beast yelped, staggering.

A flutter of hope rose in his chest.

He raised his blade, watching the Warg circle. Within the limited space, it was only a matter of time until he’d be downed.

The Warg lunged again, and Bilbo was too slow to evade, the beast slamming him to the ground, the knife dropping from his hand. He bit back a scream as agony lanced up his arm, the Warg’s teeth burying deep into his forearm.

A cheer rose, the orcs slamming their weapons together.

The blade lay a foot away. Bilbo strained, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue.

His fingers brushed the handle.

He locked his hand around the rough hilt and drove the blade into the underside of the beast’s jaw.

The teeth released his arm with a cry. Bilbo rolled out, scrambling to his feet.

Flickering light caught his eyes – the torches lining the ring. If he could grab one...

He raced towards the edge of the circle, arm close to his chest. Lunging, he grabbed one of the torches, swinging around and throwing it at the Warg as it jumped.

There was a spark, and the fur caught fire, the Warg howling at the heat. Bilbo pushed forward, driving his dull blade into the creature’s eye.

There was a wet squelch, and the beast’s body shuddered before freezing and toppling over, blade still buried in its eye.

Standing on shaky legs, he pulled the knife out, looking up.

The pale orc was easy to spot – standing out in the flood of filth like a beacon.

Bilbo levelled the blade, the silence of the audience deafening. “Keep your word, filth.”

He was dragged to the same tent he’d released Elda from. The orcs shoved him in, leading him to the pole where they secured chains around his feet, connecting them to the pole.

There was no light in the tent, save the flickering glow that came from one of the torches. His eyes flicked around, stopping when he saw Elda lying by the far edge of the tent.

Stepping over to her, he dropped to his knees, brushing a shaking hand over her matted curls.

“Elda, I’m here.”

Silence.

He shook her shoulder gently. Then harder. Nothing.

“Elda, wake up.” His voice cracked as something warm seeped into his trousers. He looked down, the flickering light catching on something dark.

Blood.

He didn’t want to look. He knew what he’d find.

He turned her over.

A gaping hole yawned in her stomach, torn open. Her eyes were still wide, fixed on him. Still looking.

With a shaking hand, he closed them, streaking her lids with blood.

She was still warm.

He stared at his hands, slick and red. Her blood. Still warm. Still real.

Had she screamed while he fought? Had her cries been drowned out by the orcs' jeering as he battled the Warg?

“You said you’d let her go,” Bilbo whispered.

The pale orc’s laugh tore through the frozen air behind him. “She was freed from her miserable existence.”

Why hadn’t he been there for her?

“My men said that one tasted especially sweet. It’s a shame – I would’ve tried her if I didn’t despise leftovers.”

Bilbo’s body shook.

“I’ll let you catch up. I’m sure you have much to tell her.”

The orc left, leaving Bilbo alone in the dark with Elda’s body for company.

---

Dawn broke, a thin sliver of light leaking through the entrance of the tent.

Bilbo stirred, rubbing his raw eyes as noise made its way into the tent.

Exhaustion had taken him at some point in the night, Elda’s head resting in his lap.

He felt empty. Broken.

He brushed his fingers across her face. She was cold now, beginning to freeze with the weather.

He looked up as the tent flap was pushed to the side, an orc entering. His hackles raised immediately.

“What do you want?”

The Fell creature was jolty, eyes fastened on Elda. “A hobbit – she’d taste so sweet . . .”

Bilbo clutched her closer.

“Touch her and I’ll kill you,” he snarled.

Her life was already gone – her eyes glassy, her body limp - but he’d be damned if they defiled her anymore. She deserved a grave in the green hills of the Shire, not the teeth of a beast.

The orc hesitated, then grinned. “A piece won’t hurt. An eye, perhaps . . . or a hand?”

Bilbo laid Elda’s head down gently, rising with the chains still clamped around his wrists.

The orc stepped forward.

Bilbo lunged.

Surprise flashed across the filth’s face as he leapt, chains snapping taut around its neck. Its screech was cut off as the iron links bit deep.

The creature’s eyes bulged as it clawed at the metal and Bilbo.

Bilbo’s body shook with the effort, the bite on his arm screaming, but he didn’t let go. He pulled back harder, teeth bared.

The orc thrashed. Then slowed. Then spasmed.

At last, its hands fell limp.

Bilbo held the chain tight for a moment longer until the twitching stopped and the weight sagged. He let the body drop, sinking back against the tent pole, chest heaving.

“This won’t do.”

The pale orc pushed through the tent flap, looking at the orc’s dead body. He approached Bilbo, crouching in front of him.

“I can’t let your murder of one of my men go unpunished.”

Bilbo’s lip curled, spitting. The spit landed squarely on the beast’s face. “Do your worst,” he sneered. He knew the shock was making him reckless, but he didn’t care.

The orc wiped the spit from his face, flicking it onto the ground.

“Do you know, nothing unravels a soul faster than pain.” The orc traced the blade lazily through the dirt. “I’ve seen kings fall to it – great dwarves, proud warriors. None of them lasted long under my hands.”

Bilbo met the creature’s gaze, steady though his chest heaved.

“For how sturdy hobbit feet are,” the orc sneered, “they’re quiet... sensitive. Your companion made plenty of sweet screams.”

The knife slid closer to Bilbo’s foot. His heart thundered. The thought of what this beast could do sickened him to his bones.

But this orc had killed Elda. He’d seen her body defiled, felt her blood on his hands. And he would not cower.

“You’ll be disappointed,” Bilbo spat, a twisted smile on his lips. “I don’t break easily, beast.”

The orc’s grin stretched, more teeth than mirth. “Good. I like it when you fight. It’ll make crushing you sweeter.”

The blade bit. Fire lanced up his leg. For an instant, his vision went white with death.

A strangled scream forced its way between his clenched teeth.

The orc lifted his severed toe delicately, like a morsel, and swallowed – never breaking eye contact.

Shock. Confusion. Disgust. Terror.

The beast had just . . .

He’d just . . .

The orc hummed, tapping his bloodied knife against the dirt. “What my men said was true – hobbits are quite sweet.” His eyes sharpened. “I think I shall have another piece.”