Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: The Hobbit is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: Tuckborough dot com

Hobbit Stew

Chapter One

"Bother, bother, bother!" thought Bilbo, barely clearing the gates back into the Elvenking's palace before they snapped shut behind him. His cloak had been a whisper away from getting caught between the heavy doors and only a sprightly jump through the opening had saved him from near strangulation. "Magic gates are all very good and well if one has to keep out hungry spiders, but must they be quite so unfriendly towards hungry hobbits too? It's not as if I've set my sights on roast leg of elf!"

His stomach rumbled as he trudged back through the airy halls, leading him to imagine what a roast leg of elf might actually taste like; but the thought of eating one of his fair 'hosts' made him turn quite green.

Imagine! A leg of elf! And how exactly would he come by it? It was very unlikely that any one of the tall immortals would gladly part with a limb just to sate his hunger - which meant that if he had been so inclined, he would have had to come by it forcibly, and that would involve some very un-hobbit-like stabbings and choppings …

"I'd much rather eat my own leg, if it came to that," mused Bilbo. "It's all very well pricking a nasty, hateful spider without so much as a second thought, but an elf?"

He glanced downwards, wondering what roast leg of Bilbo might taste like. Not that he could see his own legs whilst wearing the magic ring - indeed, he could not see any part of himself. But he could feel his feet beneath the limbs as he padded silently over the twisting paths of the halls. If he were entirely honest with himself, though, the thought of feasting on his own leg was every bit as disturbing as feasting on an elf's. Besides, how could he be expected to slip quietly through the Elvenking's palace or get to the dragon's stolen hoard on just one leg? He would have to hop all the way to the Lonely Mountain! Bilbo the Hopping Hobbit. What a fine name for a hungry fool!

Elven song floated down the corridor ahead. Bilbo dismissed all thought of possible one-legged adventures as he approached the large hall to where the elves he had followed back from the hunt had carried their bounty. The rabbits and deer they had caught were being prepared for a feast to celebrate the birthday of the king's youngest son. Coming to a halt a few feet from the brightly lit chamber, he watched as they skinned and boned the meats, then sliced and diced and chopped and minced; and oh my! The smell of venison and rabbit turning on spits or stewing in pots almost made him faint! And while his mouth watered and his stomach cried out for something (other than the odd crusts of bread he had been pilfering from his unsuspecting hosts for the past week), their merry tribute to the king's son rang in his ears:

Greenleaf! Greenleaf! Fair and bright

Merry shall you be this night!

For a feast we now prepare

For Elvenking's youngest heir!

Bread and roll begin to rise

Golden delights for your eyes!

Venison and rabbit stew

We cook now to honour you!

Rosy fruits from forest trees

Golden honey from the bees!

Wine and mead and port and ale

Goblets full to make you hale!

"Well, isn't that a fine thing!" huffed Bilbo crossly. "It's quite bad enough that I have to smell what I can't eat, without hearing all about what else I'm missing out on!"

He briefly debated leaving the elves to their preparations and paying Thorin a visit in the deepest dungeons instead, but quickly dismissed it. No, he would much rather remain by the kitchens and pretend he was gorging himself on rabbit and sticky fruits, than be subjected to yet more grumbling because he had not yet thought of a plan to free all thirteen dwarven prisoners.

Bilbo stole into a dark corner a few feet from the brightly lit chamber and sat on the floor, fervently wishing he were back in his own hobbit-hole and sitting in his own warm kitchen with a pork-pie or three and a freshly baked seedcake; or perhaps a mince-pie with roast potatoes, peas and gravy? Then again, roast mutton with gravy was always delightful …

No! Not roast mutton. Not any more. Or at least, not for a good long while - those dreadful trolls had quite ruined his appetite for the delicacy!

"Confusticate and bebother!" he thought, very put out that he could not even enjoy the thought of a leg of mutton any more.

And whose fault was that? Not his! No, it was the dwarves' fault! If he had known before leaving the Shire that he would lose all desire for mutton because of this little adventure, he may very well have refused to become their burglar and told them to keep his share of the treasure to themselves, thank you very much!

Circling his arms around bent legs, Bilbo clasped his hands together and rested his chin on his knees. This burglar business was all becoming a bit too much for him, truth be told. Tookish proclivity for adventure aside, the entire journey was little more than one mishap after another - most of which seemed to revolve around him becoming someone else's dinner! First the hungry trolls, then the hungry goblins, then (for him at least) the hungry, sneaking Gollum, more hungry goblins (riding equally hungry wolves) and, finally, hungry spiders!

And they hadn't even reached the Lonely Mountain yet, where, according to the dwarves, a ferociously ravenous, dwarf-eating dragon awaited them!

"I wonder if old Smaug eats hobbits too?" he thought dismally. "But then, why shouldn't he? No doubt I shall seem a tasty treat to him after swallowing hundreds of Thorin's tough, bearded ancestors. Well, I shall soon be the first to find out, if I don't take care when I burgle him."

If he ever burgled him. At the rate things were going, Bilbo and his dwarven friends would be trapped in the Elvenking's halls forever! Not that he was in any particular hurry to discover the extent of Smaug's appetite; but at this precise moment, it seemed slightly more preferable than wasting away in the dark corner of a foreign palace. Why, even Thorin was better fed here than he was. As were Dwalin and Balin, and Fili and Kili, and Dori, Nori and Ori, and Oin and Gloin, and Bifur, Bofur and Bombur - and they were all prisoners!

It was enough to make a hungry hobbit feel very put out indeed!

"Oh, what's the use of sitting here and wasting what little energy I have left feeling cross?" thought Bilbo. "If I'm so anxious for a proper hobbit meal I should do something about it!"

But what? That was the question at hand.

"Well, I have three options open to me: either I can leave Thorin and the others to their fate - which isn't so bad actually. After all, they are well treated by their captors. Perhaps the lodgings could be fairer, but they haven't been harmed and they are fed three times a day. How many prisoners could say the same?"

He mulled over the thought for a few seconds before dismissing it. No; he would not abandon the dwarves to even this pretty prison - not when he had already promised to help them recover their treasure. It would be extraordinarily rude and very un-Baggins-like to desert them in their hour of need (and anyway, he was not entirely sure about how to get home without them).

"Option number two," he mused, scratching his knee idly. "I could take off my magic ring, walk right into the kitchen and allow myself to be captured …"

Hmm. Might that not be a little extreme? True, he would at least finally get a decent meal or three (per day!!), but it would be at the cost of his freedom. And the elves would not take kindly to the fact that he had been skulking through their halls for almost a week, spying on them. The Elvenking may even order his summary execution for the affront - though at least the elf lord did seem fair enough to offer the condemned a final request. But would Bilbo feel charitable enough at that time to request the freedom of his friends over the possibility of a last (huge) meal?

"Perhaps I shan't do that," he decided with a frown, not trusting himself to choose wisely enough when faced with certain death (and simultaneously possessing an empty stomach). "So, option number three: I settle for the next lonely crust of bread I find sitting at the next lonely table I pass on the way to the dungeons."

Oh, dear! The prospect did not exactly fill his hobbit heart with delight. Bread was all very good and well when it was hot from the oven and covered in melting butter (and a thick layer of raspberry jam), but it rather lost its appeal when it had been lying abandoned for hours on some well-fed elf's dirty plate.

After a long while lost in miserable thought, the merry sound of laughing and singing roused him from his silent dilemma. Bilbo shook his head and raised it to find a dozen elves departing the kitchen with silver trays of hot, dripping meat, warm platters of bread and vegetables, and a rather large pot of something that smelled suspiciously like gravy. They passed him by, their happy voices lifted in song, and he gazed after them wistfully, inhaling deeply through his nose and wondering if perhaps he could snatch a morsel without them noticing. But the elves were much taller than he was and, consequently, the trays they carried were too far from the ground for him to reach the treasures they held.

If only one of them would stumble and drop his load! That way, he could grab a tasty handful or two of roasted meat in the confusion that followed!

But the chances of a graceful, dextrous elf stumbling about clumsily in halls he knew at least as well as the back of his own hand was so remote, that Bilbo abandoned the thought as a bad lot.

He tracked them with his eyes as they made their way back down the torch-lit corridor, then sighed when they turned left and all the delicious food vanished from sight with them.

"Well then; bread it is," he muttered, feeling very sorry for himself as he stood and prepared to hunt down a solitary crust from a vacant chamber.

But, wait a minute …

Cursing his own stupidity (which he blamed completely on his lack of a decent meal - no self-respecting hobbit could think properly on an empty stomach after all), Bilbo's fixed his hungry gaze on the nearest vacant chamber.

The kitchen!

Of course! All the elves had abandoned it to take their beautifully cooked dishes to the great hall, which meant …

"That it's empty!" he cried in delight, very pleased at the prospect of licking the gravy pot clean, or perhaps finding a slice of roast venison that they had not deemed fit for their prince. "Well, if it's not fit for their prince, then I shall thank him later for his discerning tastes, for it shall certainly be good enough for me!"

Thrilled at the prospect of venison scraps (with gravy, if he was very lucky), Bilbo crept towards the open door of the kitchen and cautiously stuck his head around it. To his relief, the room did indeed appear to be entirely empty of elves. How wonderful! It would be so much easier to burgle their stores without witnesses.

Delighted with his luck, Bilbo slipped inside. The kitchen proper was a vast chamber with three fireplaces; shelves were carved into the rocky walls and held stacks of plates, bowls and goblets; wooden spoons, sharp knives and metal whisks hung from hooks suspended from the ceiling, which he guessed were for the preparation of food. At the far end stood a carven door, slightly ajar - possibly a pantry, or so the hobbit guessed. In the middle of the room was a tall oak table, long enough for thirty hobbits to sit at comfortably (although thirty hobbits could never sit entirely comfortably with their feet so far from the ground). And upon that great table, just behind a stack of pretty golden plates and spoons, was a large silver tureen from which wafted the unmistakable scent of stewed rabbit!

Almost giddy with anticipation, Bilbo stole towards the table, wondering how to get up to it. There were no chairs available, but he did not wonder at that; elves would hardly sit to eat in the kitchen, as elegant as they were, and they hardly needed to sit to carve meat either. He did spot a metal bucket by the fireplace though and quickly carried it to the table (puffing all the way - it was very large and heavy) before clambering on to it and peeping over the edge of the table.

"Well, there's a fine thing!" he thought aloud, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the sight before him. "An entire pot of stewed rabbit and three trays of bread rolls! Why did the elves not carry them away too?"

Had they decided stew was not quite fine enough for the king's son after all? Perhaps they had simply cooked too much and left the surplus food for later? Or maybe they had simply forgotten the stew and would return for it? Not that it mattered to him - he would have happily sated his burning hunger before they ever came back!

With the most enormous smile on his face, Bilbo prepared to climb on to the table and stuff himself silly with stew and bread - he had, in fact, raised a leg onto the table to hoist himself up - when suddenly, a silvery voice made him jump in fright.

"Ho, ho! What have we here?"

Bilbo jumped so violently, that he slipped from the table, slid off the bucket, and landed with a soft smack! on the paved stone floor. Alarmed at the thought of capture, he rolled neatly under the table and watched from beneath it as a pair of green-clad legs exited the pantry and made their way towards the table.

How silly of him not to wonder why the pantry door was still open! But what had the silly fellow been doing in there when everyone else was heading for the feast? Searching for salt?

Whatever he had been doing, Bilbo thought no more about it when his eyes fell upon the bucket.

Oh, no!

The elf would spot it for sure and wonder as to its purpose. Clearly, none of his equally tall friends required it to see over the table, so it was bound to make him suspicious …

Easing himself out slowly, the hobbit hooked his arms around the top of the bucket and lifted it. But he had quite forgotten how heavy it was: far too heavy to carry without lifting it by the handle - a handle that was now at the bottom of the bucket because he had turned it upside down to stand on in the first place. The weight took him by surprise and his arms snapped down …

The bucket was going to hit the floor! The game would be up: the elf would know there was an intruder! He would alert his friends and soon the palace would be crawling with sharp-eared elves hunting a hungry (if invisible) hobbit (much as they had hunted the deer and rabbits, though, hopefully, this time without the bows and arrows).

The elf had already pulled the pantry door firmly shut behind him and was now drawing nearer: Bilbo could see that from between the legs of the tall table. Knowing there was but one course of action open to him, Bilbo stuck one large, hairy foot under the bucket to smother the sound of its fall. His quick thinking saved him: the bucket missed the floor (though it landed quite painfully on his poor foot). Biting hard on his tongue (lest a yelp of pain give him away instead), he hoisted the bucket up more firmly in both arms and silently transported it (limping) under the table where he set it down carefully and took a seat upon it (to rub his aching foot).

"They have forgotten the stew!" said the legs, which had now arrived at the table (though, of course, he knew it was not the legs themselves that had spoken, but rather the elf they supported. Still, from this angle, it may as well have been the legs, for he could see naught else). "I shall have to take it after them, lest Prince Legolas fade without its herby goodness."

"I may well fade without its herby goodness," thought Bilbo in irritation as the legs wandered away for a few seconds, then returned. The hobbit heard the thud of wood against wood, then some small scrapes and more thuds as the tureen and trays of bread rolls were raised then lowered. With one fluid motion, the legs pivoted then walked away, and Bilbo saw they were connected to a slender torso with two arms and a head (of very shiny blond hair). As fascinating as the discovery of the rest of the elf was, though, it was rather overshadowed by the fact that said elf was walking away with a broad wooden tray of what should have been his dinner.

Feeling very put out, Bilbo dragged himself from under the table and pulled himself up straight. He brushed his cloak off and rubbed his elbow where it had banged against the floor before glaring at the elf's receding back.

What was he to do now? His splendid meal had gone the way of the venison and would soon be lining the stomach of a (very pampered) prince. As for him?

"I shall have to do without!" he muttered bleakly, casting his gaze back to the now-empty great table. "Unless …"

A very funny feeling came over him as he watched his dinner floating ever farther out of reach. A sort of tingly, reckless feeling.

A very Tookish feeling.

Normally, Mr Bilbo Baggins, Master of Bag End Under the Hill, was a very sensible sort of hobbit. He was a great lover of books, had the finest garden in all Hobbiton (and, therefore, the entire Shire), stocked his larder with goods bought fresh from the marketplace every Monday (apart from his mushrooms and turnips, which were specially delivered to him by Farmer Maggot's youngest lad every Tuesday afternoon), took excellent care of his hobbit-hole (for a bachelor), was both kind and generous to his neighbours (particularly to his gardener Holman's young apprentice, Hamfast Gamgee, who was showing great promise in the garden), and he never did anything unexpected or foolish. As a result, Bilbo was held in very high regard by all his neighbours and fellow Shire-folk (except for the Sackville-Bagginses, who were, in his opinion, a thoroughly bad lot).

But his fellow hobbits would not think him so respectable now if they could see him; trapped in the Elvenking's palace and skulking about like a thief; overcome with the very same Tookish tingle that had got him into this mess in the first place (or was it the burning heat from his empty stomach? He could not say for certain), His plain hobbit sense had deserted him the moment he had rashly decided to leave the comfort of his cosy Smial and join thirteen dwarves and one (now absent) wizard on a rather silly quest to find treasure (buried under a vicious dragon, of all things). And it was deserting him again as he watched his stew disappearing from sight. He was now very far from the rolling green lands of his comfortable home and farther still from his share of dwarven gold; he had evaded consumption by trolls, goblins, Gollums and spiders; Gandalf was long gone on some jolly adventure of his own (and no doubt enjoying six square meals a day while he was at it), the dwarves were imprisoned in the cellars of an angry elven king (but still enjoying three meals a day more than Bilbo) while he was left to wander the halls of this vast, earthy palace feeling cold, lonely, hungry and thoroughly miserable.

"Well, I shan't stand for it any longer!" he vowed firmly. "Hobbits were not made for adventures. Or starvation. The adventure I can do little more about; like it or not, I am quite in the middle of it, and the way backwards is equally as long and dangerous as the way forwards. I may as well stay and finish the job I was hired for, if I ever think of a way to free those silly dwarves. But I can't do that on a stomach lined with little more than bread crusts - and few of those to boast about! I am for a hot meal this evening, and a hot meal I shall have, come what may!"

And with that, Bilbo slipped out of the kitchen and crept silently behind the tray-laden elf, hatching a clever scheme to get that which his heart desired more than gold or renown or the good opinion of his fellow hobbits: a very large bowl of steaming hot rabbit stew.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: My first Hobbit fic - hope Bilbo's characterisation is acceptable!

Kara's Aunty :o)

Disclaimer: The Hobbit is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: Tuckborough dot com, Sindarin dictionary.

Hobbit Stew

Chapter Two

Bilbo padded silently behind his quarry for several minutes, inhaling the fragrant smell of rabbit stew with every step he took. At one point, the delicious scent emanating from the tureen had caused his stomach to rumble so loudly, that the blond elf caught the sound and stopped to throw a puzzled glance behind him.

Naturally, he saw nothing, thanks to Bilbo's magic ring; but the hobbit's heart had almost failed him regardless.

"What a thing to happen!" thought the little burglar, flattening himself against the cave wall. He took a few deep, calming breaths to steady his rattled nerves. "I've given goblins and spiders and all manner of unpleasant creatures the slip for weeks on end, but am almost betrayed by my own stomach!"

He slapped said stomach lightly as if he were reprimanding a naughty hobbit-lad.

Allowing his quarry a few seconds to gain some distance, the hungry hobbit peeled himself from the cave wall and followed more cautiously. Tunnels twisted left and right before him, and rose up and down, up and down, until Bilbo began to be rather frustrated.

"Good heavens! Where exactly is this Feasting Hall? What a silly idea to have it so far from the kitchens! If I have to walk any farther, I may very well find myself popping out from under the Grey Mountains!"

It was really very annoying! And he had thought the Mirkwood elves such a sensible sort of people, too! They dressed well, kept themselves and their (strange) elven Smials clean and tidy, and were considerate, well-mannered and thoughtful (apart from the fact that they had imprisoned his travelling companions - but even then, they still fed them). They were also learned in lore, and very fond of a song - which was always a good thing, of course. Bilbo himself loved to sing (and rather an excellent voice he had too, even if he did say so himself).

All these attributes should have combined to make them a very civilised sort of people.

But how civilised could they be, if they kept their dining room so far away from the kitchen? Why, his lovely, hot stew would be as cold as an S-B's heart before he ever tasted it!

If he ever tasted it. Because, truth be told, Mr Bilbo Baggins, (reluctant) hobbit adventurer and spider-slayer extraordinaire, had still not thought up a daring enough plan to liberate his hosts from their dinner (despite the fact that his rather long journey to the Feasting Hall was providing him with plenty of time to do so). He had certainly pondered a few options, but did not deem any of them sufficiently … sufficient to achieve his cherished goal.

The elf ahead took another right turn and continued down (yet) another lengthy corridor, giving Bilbo further opportunity to examine his (increasingly desperate) possibilities.

Perhaps he could scatter his hosts somehow? Clear the chamber of them long enough for him to slip inside and stuff his face while they were gone? But how? Perhaps if he started a fire nearby?

No, no, no! Bilbo chastised himself roundly. That would never do! What if someone got hurt?

What else then? Assault by slingshot? He had his nestled at the bottom of his pack …

How ridiculous! That hardly seemed fair. Why attack the elves when they had not attacked him? They were no threat to him (as long as he remained undetected).

Oh! What about rounding up some rats and sending them scurrying into the Feasting Hall? That should certainly work!

Hmm. But where would a hungry hobbit find rats in this (very) clean place? He hadn't seen any during his stay yet; so chances were that his hosts were extremely fastidious in their control over the pests. Which was just as well really. If a plague of rats could frighten mighty elven warriors away from their party, they would certainly frighten one poor little hobbit! And even if desperation did make him overcome his fear, he would then have infinitely more (disgusting) competition for his stew than he would have had prior to their introduction!

So; no rats, then.

And still no master plan to get his hands on that rabbit stew …

Confusticate and bebother!

The sound of high, silvery voices raised in song disturbed Bilbo's ruminations. Ah, it appeared he was finally nearing his goal. He shook his head to clear all thought of rats from it, and found that he was now following his stew (and the accompanying blond elf) down a short, brightly-lit passage. A few metres ahead, the torch-lit walls disappeared completely, giving way to a large, airy chamber that glowed with light and laughter.

The Feasting Hall!

Relief and dismay both flooded the Master of Bag End as his stew-wielding escort crossed the threshold and joined the hundreds of graceful elves already present to celebrate the birthday of their prince.

Well, at least his journey was finally at an end, he thought, as he surveyed the fair beings milling around the Hall, all dressed from head to toe in glowing greens or yellows, reds or blues. Blond tresses were worn either in plaits or left to tumble becomingly down shoulders (in the case of the extraordinarily beautiful elf-maidens), and many of their golden locks were decorated with ribbons or flowers. All moved with the ease and grace of poetry as they took their seats for the birthday feast to begin. Bilbo was impressed: they seemed to him like brightly coloured jewels brought to life, all sparkling and shimmering and filled with joy and laughter.

Though, fair or not, they were all obstacles between his empty stomach and the delicious pot of stew he'd been following for the past five minutes! However was he to get at it now?

Bilbo sighed in frustration and took another few steps toward the Feasting Hall. He stopped just outside the entrance and, keeping to the side, took a critical look at the chamber proper.

Oh, dear! If he had thought the kitchens to be large, then this grand place was infinitely larger - easily four times its size from end to end. The walls appeared to be composed mainly of tree boles whose mighty, living branches grew up then over the chamber, creating a sort of arched roof from which the elves had suspended glowing lanterns. Two long trestles ran the length of the chamber, and upon a dais at the far end was another, though much shorter in length. For their monarch and his family, if he guessed correctly.

Central to the trestles was a large open space where elves could perform for their king before, during, or after his meal, as was his wont. At present, it was bare, for most of the elves were now seated and readying themselves to commence with the festivities (and eat his dinner). One or two elf maidens floated gracefully behind the seats filling silver goblets from large ewers.

Bilbo gazed longingly at the tables. Every few metres, a pot filled with some delight or other was suspended over a raised copper tray and, as he leaned over the threshold to peer closer, he could just make out small flames dancing inside them.

Aha! So that's how they kept the food hot after the trek from the kitchens. If he wasn't feeling quite so hungry, Bilbo would have thought it very clever indeed.

But he was hungry. Frightfully so. In fact, he couldn't recall having ever felt quite so hungry before in his life - other than the time when, three days before his cousin's pending nuptials, he had wagered Falco Chubb-Baggins a whole day's provisions that he, Bilbo, could drink ten mugs of the Green Dragon's finest ale before Falco finished his fifth. Unfortunately for him, Falco had prevailed. Luckily, Bilbo had been far too delicate (and nauseous) the following morning to care how cleanly Falco picked his well-stocked larder. But it had been an entirely different story a day later, when he was feeling somewhat better, and soon discovered there was nothing left in the larder with which to line his poor, shrivelled stomach).

Oh, if only a gluttonous cousin were all he had to worry about! Tipsy or not, he'd still had a better chance of shooing Falco from his larder then, than he had of shooing all these elves from the Feasting Hall now!

What to do?

His stomach rumbled loudly. Fortunately, the hubbub of talk and laughter in the chamber meant that no one other than Bilbo heard it. He rubbed it consolingly.

"Don't worry, my lad. You'll be fit to bursting with tasty delights before the night is out. I'll make certain of that!"

Somehow.

His stomach was not impressed. It rumbled in protest when Bilbo's eyes tracked the stew-wielding elf. He was depositing its desired dish in front of an imperious-looking elf sitting at the very top table. The king, no doubt. Bilbo scowled when the lordly elf dipped a finger inside, brought it up to his lips, and licked at the rich brown sauce. The king nodded in apparent approval, and Bilbo's former escort suspended the pot on a silver hook before him, then bowed his way from the king's table.

Bother, bother, bother! Of all the people he could have left the stew front of, it had to be the very king himself! What was Bilbo to do now? He could hardly walk up to King Thranduil's table and whip the stew out from under his royal nose. The elves were certain to notice a floating pot (even if they couldn't see its bearer)!

Just as he was settling in for a good long glower, something caught the corner of Bilbo's eye. He quirked his head to the side and saw, standing at the far left of the dais, what appeared to be a rather elaborate, but beautifully constructed carving of a giant horn. It rested on its conical bore atop a small wooden base. The slender tip rose slightly to the left, and the great, circular bell to the right; and two short poles protruded from either end of the base

What a very odd thing to have at a feast! Surely the elves weren't thinking about playing it? It was far too big for that! But what, then, was it for?

He debated the matter for a few seconds, but could think of no practical reason for an oversized horn to be at the prince's birthday celebrations. Perhaps it was nothing more than a rather peculiar decoration. Or a gift for the king's son, put to the side until after the feast? For all he knew, it was quite possible that the elven prince was fond of giant horns. Perhaps he collected them? What a very odd pastime for an elf! Then again, Bilbo was only a hobbit. What did he know of the ways of elves?

Decoration or not, the horn was an ideal hiding place. And if he were lucky, he might even be able to steal out from behind it and pinch a morsel or two from the king's table while they were busy caught up in the celebrations!

The thought spurred the hungry hobbit into action, and Bilbo slipped into the Feasting Hall, staying close to the tree boles on his left as he crept towards the dais. Fortunately for him, hobbits' feet could tread as lightly over grass or ground as elves, when they had a mind to (which he definitely did). Even were that not the case, the unsuspecting elves were far too busy talking amongst themselves, waiting for their monarch to give the official word to begin the feast, to notice that their party had acquired an uninvited guest. And so it was that, after less than a minute, Bilbo had covered the length of the chamber and now found himself creeping towards the massive carving of the horn. Within seconds, he arrived at his goal.

Hmm. What now? Should he remain hidden behind it? If he did, it would mean having to navigate his way around the horn in order to mount the dais and slip toward the nearest unsuspecting plate.

No. He didn't like the thought of that very much. Boldly mounting the dais in front of all and sundry would leave him feeling ... exposed, whether or not his ring afforded him invisibility. No, he would simply have to think of another solution.

What about climbing up onto the base of the wooden horn? That way, he'd only have to step onto the dais, instead of circling the horn and mounting it! And he'd also save time that would be much better invested in sneaking tasty morsels from the table.

A splendid idea! Worthy of Gandalf, even. Well, maybe not. Gandalf would simply have used his magic to clear the Hall, leaving him free to feast in peace. Or have introduced himself as a wizard, and been cordially invited to join the king and his son - he must surely know these elves after all, as old as he was.

A flicker of irritation stirred in Bilbo at the thought of the absent wizard. If Gandalf had not left them at the borders of the forest, then thirteen dwarves and one lonely hobbit would not be in this predicament. But Gandalf had left; to see to 'pressing business' in the south (and with a full complement of their supplies, at that) - though what could be more important than helping fourteen weary travellers through the hostile environment of Mirkwood he couldn't tell.

Pressing business indeed!

Quashing all further thought of Gandalf, Bilbo used his rusty climbing skills to scale the base of the wooden structure. Though it wasn't very high, it was still taller than it had first appeared from the front of the Hall, and the poor little hobbit was soon puffing and blowing as he endeavoured to pull himself up. Finally, with one great heave, he hooked a leg over one of the short poles and used it to anchor himself as he dragged himself over the base.

Good heavens! What a to do! Why, he was quite exhausted after that.

Bilbo flopped down on top of the narrow bore and rested his curly head against the wider curve leading up to the bell. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, closed his eyes, and dabbed away the moisture from his glistening brow, trying desperately to ignore the tempting smells around him, and wishing for all the world that he was back in the cosy kitchen of Bag End enjoying a tart or three. This stew of his had better be worth all the trouble he had gone to get it, or else he would be writing a strongly worded letter of complaint to the cook (from the safety of his own Smial, of course)!

So wrapped up in his musings was he, that Bilbo didn't notice that the king had risen until the stately elf's voice pierced his thoughts. He opened his eyes, pocketed his handkerchief, and looked to the left.

Thranduil stood tall and proud as he surveyed his guests. In his golden hair he wore a finely wrought silver circlet shaped like leaves, which appeared to cling delicately to his head. Silver was also the colour of his tunic, which caught the light of the lamps above, so that he glimmered like earthbound starlight. He lifted both hands in one smooth motion, and silence fell immediately on his command.

"Greetings, my people," he began in a melodic voice. "We are gathered here in joy to celebrate the birthing date of one whom I love dearly."

"Would you be referring to the vintner from Dale, Adar?" queried an elf sitting at his right-hand side. The remark raised merry laughter from the crowd (except poor Bilbo, who was far too famished for laughter). "I did not know he and I shared a birthday. I must send him my regards."

"I will send him your tongue if you interrupt me again, Legolas!" quipped the monarch humorously, eliciting more laughter from his guests. "As I was saying; today we celebrate the birthing date of my youngest son, Prince Legolas …"

A cheer broke out, and when it died down, Thranduil continued.

"… who has enriched my days - and plagued them more often than not - for one thousand years. To mark his first full millennia, I hereby declare that we shall begin a week of feasting and celebrating!"

Another cheer rose in the chamber, for which Bilbo was exceedingly thankful: his stomach had chosen precisely that moment to issue its loudest rumble yet - one which the sharp-eared elves could not have failed to miss otherwise. Oh, when would the king stop talking and start eating (his stew)? He'd never be able to pinch anything if everyone was looking at the regal elf's table!

But Thranduil was not quite finished yet …

"Yet ere we commence with our merrymaking, there is a millennial tradition to be upheld. One which all who reside in these Halls hold dear to their hearts: Galu i Faroth. Many long years we have lived in hope that the legend of this ceremony may one day come true: for it is said that if Valaróma answers our plea, that all the evil in Arda shall quail in fear! That our enemies shall fall within the next hundred years, and that all the Peoples of Middle-Earth will know peace for a thousand generations of Men thereafter."

In spite of his empty stomach, Bilbo was intrigued. A thousand generations of peace? That sounded rather splendid! Not that hobbits would be affected, of course. The Shire was always at peace, if one discounted the uproar created by Otho Sackville-Baggins the previous summer when he trampled all over Bilbo's best begonias in a fit of anger (because Bilbo would not conveniently drop dead and leave him Bag End). His gardener, Holman, had been so furious, that he'd actually dragged Otho out of the garden and onto Bagshot Row lane before telling him to 'Clear off, yer silly old good fer nuthin'!'. But Otho, incandescent with anger, launched himself into Holman's stomach, and a very loud (and very un-hobbit-like) brawl had thusly ensued, drawing Gamgees and Twofoots (or was it Twofeet? He could never remember) and all manner of hobbits out from their holes and ready to speculate on the outcome. Odds were placed and wagers were taken as the pair tumbled down the slope and onto the Party Field below, where the fisticuffs had lasted for almost half an hour thereafter (which was precisely how long it had taken Lobelia to prise Holman away from her husband's throat).

Bilbo grinned at the recollection of the S-B's fury when he refused to admonish his gardener for behaving 'like a vicious Bree-lander'. Lobelia had huffed and growled before waggling her finger at him crossly, and dragging her (bleeding) husband past the very amused crowd. As for Holman? Well, he'd given his faithful gardener an extra week's wages for providing the best entertainment of that whole year.

The smile was still on his face when Bilbo shook the memory from his head and returned his attention to the king.

"Yet even if legend does not become reality this evening, do not dismay! For with this ceremony, we may still call for the blessing of Oromë upon our newest millenarian, my son, Legolas Greenleaf: that he may he ever know fortune in his travels, that his bow may ever sing keenly, and his arrows fly ever truly in hunt and battle both."

Heavens! Hunt and battle?

Of course, Bilbo's study of elves (from the few books in the Shire that dealt with that particular subject) had alluded to the great battles of old they had partaken in, specifically during the War of Wrath and the War of the Last Alliance. Even so, it was one thing to read about their warrior ways, but it was another thing altogether to hear that the elegant people actually relished the conflict (if the elf king's hearty declaration was anything to go by).

Whatever happened to all the songs and poetry they were supposed to be fond of?

Hunting and battle, indeed!

He shivered at the thought of his hosts' fair faces twisted in the thrill of the fight as they slew spider after orc after dragon. Their skill in combat made him feel quite insignificant. Hobbits, as a rule, were not made for such great deeds. In fact, Bilbo's own hunting prowess extended only to searching for a fourth pork pie in his larder (apart from today, when it extended to searching for his very first plate of stew in an elf king's hall). And battling? Well, any battles that he partook of were usually reserved for the lamentably frequent visits of the S-B's; and even then they were only verbal (unless Holman got to them; in which case the chance of bloodshed increased significantly).

Still, perhaps he was mistaken. Of course elves would fight, if they were forced to do so. And, given the amount of orcs and spiders he had encountered since leaving the Shire, they were doubtless forced to do so constantly. So there was nothing at all wrong with the stately elf wishing his son good fortune in battle. He could hardly wish him less than that(unless the boy really did plague his father a lot, as the king had mentioned earlier; in which case, Thranduil may very well be rather relieved to be rid of him).

Well, whether the king wished his son's imminent doom or not was of little concern to Bilbo at the moment. His only concern was the immediate stuffing of his face. Whenever would the blasted elf stop talking?

His eyes travelled from the fair features of his (sort of) host to the pot suspended over the little copper tray and he sighed wistfully.

Rabbit stew …

Even from this distance, Bilbo could see the steam emanating from the silver pot. He took a deep breath and almost fell off his perch when his nose was assailed with the delicious aromas of not only stew, but venison, hot rolls, spiced mead …

It was more than a poor hobbit should have to endure! To be so near so much, and still have so little (or even nothing at all. This must be how the S-B's felt every time they saw him). And dear, oh dear! but how strongly tempted he was to just run up to that silver pot and stick his head in it! True, such behaviour would be frowned upon by any respectable hobbit, including himself - under normal circumstances. But circumstances were not normal, and there were no respectable hobbits present to witness his disgrace, so why should he care? Even the sharp-eyed elves couldn't see him, as long as he wore his magic ring.

Though, said elves could certainly talk as much as any respectable hobbit. Thranduil was still going strong.

"Let us now commence with the ceremony of Galu i Faroth!" declared the elf king loudly. He clapped his hands twice. "Bring forth the tribute! Bring forth the minstrels! Let us once more tempt legend into life. May Valaróma sound its call this very eve!"

Hope sprang up in Mr Bilbo Baggins' heart when the elf lord took his seat and two tall elves moved from the other end of the Hall towards the dais. Splendid! The welcoming speech was (finally) over. Not only that, but there was to be some sort of ceremony which would certainly distract everyone long enough for him to practice his burglary skills!

He rubbed his hands in glee as the thought of hot rolls, sweet fruits and (if he was very lucky) some of that delicious rabbit stew he'd been stalking all evening.

But his hope turned to confusion when the two elves paused only long enough at the dais to bow - and then made their swift way to the very place he was hiding.

And it turned to horror when they stopped, one at each end, of the horn he was perched upon and grasped the short poles sticking out the base.

Oh, no! The horn was Valaróma?

Shock held him fast, and Bilbo had no time to scrabble off his perch before it was lifted into the air. He could only hold his breath and cling on for dear life as they carried it (and him) across to the large open space between the long trestles, where they set it down carefully. He threw a wild glance at the only open space between the long tables - at the front of the Hall where he had hidden in the doorway - and considered making a dash for it. But to his dismay, four elves carrying dainty silver instruments were now blocking his path.

And as those same four elves struck up a delicate tune, every single elf in the Feasting Hall rose as one and faced the giant horn expectantly. Bilbo's heart sank.

Bother, bother, bother! He was trapped!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: The term Galu I Faroth is my sorry attempt to translate the phrase 'Hunter's Blessing' from English to Sindarin. So it's probably wrong. But pretend it's not … As for Legolas' actual age, I haven't a scooby. Couldn't find it anywhere, so I selected a nice, round 1,000 years old (which suited the purpose of the chapter).

It seems Bilbo's adventure in the Elvenking's Halls has one more chapter in it, but it will definitely be finished after that.

Hope you enjoyed,

Kara's Aunty :)

Disclaimer: The Hobbit is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: Tuckborough dot com, realelvish dot net, Sindarin Lexicon, arwenundomiel dot com, folk dot uib dot no/hnohf/khuzdul

A hush fell over the assembled company of elves (and hobbit) as the minstrels began to pluck a haunting, mesmerising melody. Bilbo (still clinging valiantly to the horn) could feel his heart thundering with fright as his companions left their seats and began to circle the tribute he'd been unfortunate enough to select as a hiding place.

Round and round they went, each elf completing one circle, then another, and another, before retiring to their seats; and all the while Bilbo was in a flutter, wondering if they would go as far as to reach out and touch it …

What a silly, silly hobbit he was! Of course the horn hadn't been a birthday present! Birthday presents were always wrapped prettily, and the horn certainly hadn't been.

He clung desperately to the bore, stiff and silent, wishing the elves away as fast (and as far) as he could. Not until every last one of them had completed their final circuit of the horn and returned to stand before the trestles did he feel able to release the breath he'd been holding.

But he was soon robbed of his short respite. The horn had been placed at an angle to the dais, and so Bilbo was perfectly able (and perfectly horrified) to see that Thranduil had now left the table of honour and was making his way to the steps of the dais.

"No! No! Go away!" he thought desperately as the king slowly descended the stairs. Fortunately, the lordly elf did not approach his poorly-selected hiding place; instead, Thranduil paused at the base of the steps and held up both arms. Slowly, in a loud, clear voice, he began to chant:

"Ai Oromë, vaethor veleg! Lasto beth vin! Alae, torthal ven! Aníra ammen nan galu!"

Bilbo's Sindarin was hardly impressive by anyone's standards, but he had managed to pick up a few words and, in conjunction with what he'd overheard at the table earlier, surmised that the king was calling the spirit of the warrior Vala to bless his son.

For a second, the hobbit stilled, wondering if it the elf-king's prayer would actually work. And - if it did - whether the Vala would mention the fact that there was an invisible hobbit clinging to his tribute, and would Thranduil please do him the favour of shooting the silly creature off of it.

But the moment passed and nothing happened. Which came as a relief to Bilbo - he didn't want to be shot. Anyway, the Vala surely had better things to do than pop over to Mirkwood for a nice chat with the locals.

Through the dim light, he could just see a brief look of disappointment on the king's face as the elf realised that, yet again, Oromë obviously couldn't be bothered to show up. Thranduil lowered his arms and his shoulders sagged slightly, but then he straightened and turned with the intent of resuming his place at the table of honour. A ripple of murmurs broke out among his guests and Bilbo almost felt sorry for the elf, who had so yearned to have the honour for his son's millennial birthday …

But wait! Perhaps he still could. Perhaps there was a way to give the king what he wanted - and for Bilbo to get what he wanted too - his stew!

He eyed the steaming pot of rich, thick, herby rabbit on the table behind the crestfallen king ...

That settled, Bilbo set about collecting his thoughts and steeling himself for the task ahead.

Now, what did a Vala sound like? Silvery and merry, like the elves? Or deep and rumbly, like Beorn?

Hmm. Perhaps he was a mixture of the two, being both a deity and a warrior? Well, Bilbo should be able to make the appropriate adjustments to the tone of his voice (with a lot of luck). But there was still the problem of Valar vernacular. How did such grand personages express themselves?

Not to worry; Bilbo would think of something. Hadn't he a whole library of books back in Bag End from which to take inspiration? He had to think of something! His shrivelled little stomach was depending on it!

Feeling rather desperate, Bilbo briefly debated trying to clamber up the bore and slip inside the bell so that his voice issued from within the massive carving itself, but he promptly dismissed the idea. Knowing his luck, he would tumble off the other end of the horn and land at the elven-king's unnaturally small feet. Or worse: land upside down inside the bell! In which case, he'd be stuck like that with his legs sticking up for the rest of his natural life - like some sort of invisible, upside down, hobbity sacrifice to the Valar (which would be a fitting punishment for trying to impersonate one of them) …

Instead, he pulled himself up as close to the circular bell as he could and, with his heart banging nervously against his ribs, tipped his curly head back, cupped his hands to his mouth, and sought his best 'Vala' voice.

"Greetings, Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm!" cried Bilbo in a voice so deep, he might have summoned it all the way up from his toes.

But oh, dear! He hadn't quite managed the silvery part. Would the king notice? Would the king even care, or might he not just be too thrilled to have finally gotten an answer?

A thin bead of perspiration slipped down Bilbo's temple and tickled at his cheek, but he didn't dare move to wipe it off, and it coursed its way down his chin and onto his rather rumpled cloak. He held his breath as he waited for the elves' reactions.

Thranduil froze halfway up the steps to the dais. A wave of awed gasps swept the room and every elf within the chamber suddenly dropped gracefully to their knees and bowed their heads reverently in Bilbo's direction. The king turned slowly about.

"Can it be?" he whispered, taking cautious steps back toward the horn. "Has Valaróma answered our call?"

"He who bears Valaróma hath answered thy call, child," replied the hungry hobbit daringly. Though, truth be told, it was more a case of Valaróma bearing him than the other way about.

Unaware of the deception, Thranduil inhaled sharply, then he, too, sank to his knees (gracefully).

Bilbo frowned. Well, this was no good! His Sindarin was practically non-existent. As was his Quenya - or whatever language it was that the grand fellow was speaking. He made a mental note to study the elvish tongues in greater depth at his earliest convenience (if he made it out of the Feasting Hall alive). But for the moment, his main concern was his present predicament. It was all very pleasant for his ruse not to have been discovered, but what good would all this effort do him in the end if he didn't understand what the elf was saying?

Well, no; not really. But that was beside the point. The elves thought he was, so he should at least start acting like one!

"O ye most magnificent of Elven-kings -" began Bilbo, wondering exactly how many elven-kings there currently were in Middle-earth (for if there was only one, and the hobbit was currently speaking to him, then the greeting wasn't much of a compliment), "we would command thee to indulge our whim and address us in Westron, for the present."

There. That solved his problem nicely - and it sounded suitably Valar-ish. They wouldn't be shy about giving orders to a king - elvish or not. Mind you, they might strike Bilbo down with a lightning bolt (or a hobbit-eating dragon) if they ever found out he'd impersonated one of their kind. Oh well. He'd have to take his chances. He could always apologise later (in the unlikely event he ever met one).

Thranduil raised his head, and confusion was clear in his deep grey eyes. "Westron?" he asked rather stupidly. "Oromë, greatest huntsman of the Valar, would converse in mere Westron?"

"Dost thou await an explanation from a Vala, child of the Eldar?" boomed the hobbit grandly.

Oh, that sounded good! Very imposing. And Thranduil was obviously mortified, for he splayed his hands at the horn in a placatory gesture.

"Nay! Forgive me, greatest of all hunters, champion of all warriors! I intended no slight. I was merely … surprised by the request."

Bilbo tipped his head back once more. "We speak all the tongues of all the Elves and Men of Arda, and yet more again than that -"

"- yet seldom do we have opportunity to utilise those other than the High Tongues. We ask that thee indulge our whim. Nay, we command it! Yet we are prepared to indulge thee in kind: if Westron offends thine ears, perhaps thou wouldst prefer -"

He wracked his brains for inspiration, and realised it was closer than he thought.

Hmm. Being no great philologist, Bilbo wasn't entirely sure, but - from the limited snatches of the language he had picked up from Thorin and the other dwarves - he may just have wished 'great, red long-beards' upon 'the Lord of the Underground Halls'. And, technically speaking, it was a wish that had already been fulfilled, for there were ten great red long-beards in the cellars at that very moment (Thorin's was greying, Fili's was yellow and Dwalin's was a very odd shade of blue, of all things).

Yet perhaps, for that very reason, it wasn't such a good idea to have used Dwarvish as an example? The king might well become suspicious …

"Or Entish?" Bilbo added quickly. "A-rello-bello-ballo-tamba-kombanda-tar-a-la-nokandu-lallo-lello-randu-barolla-farolla-mandu-harra-herra-harra-lombu-manna-kommana-falala-lala-landu-biggy-baggy-boggy-bandu."

It meant no such thing. In fact, that is exactly what it meant: nothing. Bilbo had composed it himself, taking his lead from a very odd walking song which Gandalf had sung, in a very strange language called Entish, when the company was crossing the Brandywine Bridge. Fascinated, he had tried to memorise it, but had failed.

Still, at least his attempt had sounded something similar to Gandalf's song, and how was the elven-king to know any different?

The elven-king did not know any different. Indeed, the graceful being was entirely flummoxed, and not entirely successful in concealing the astonished look on his fair face. But he smoothed it quickly away and smiled serenely.

"I would be honoured to continue our discourse in Westron, if that be your desire, o mightiest among warriors!"

Phew! What a relief, because Bilbo had already stretched his rather sparse language skills to the limits of his knowledge (and beyond)! Of course, Thranduil's knowledge of Entish and Dwarvish were probably worse than his own, and the hobbit had been counting on that. Fortunately, his gamble had paid off. And just as well - it would have been most unfortunate for Bilbo if his host had suddenly started spouting either of the languages like some sort of hardened native ...

Feeling a little more secure that communications with his 'host' had been established (and that the Valar had withheld their wrath for the present - possibly due to the fact that lightning bolts could not quite reach him down here), Bilbo took a deep breath and resumed the conversation.

"So be it. Arise, child," said Bilbo, struggling a little with the grand vernacular, and feeling rather silly at calling such an ancient elf 'child'. "Thou hast summoned us here this day to bestow our most magnificent of blessings on the fruit of thy loins, hath thee not?"

Hmm. That vernacular needed work; and Oromë sounded rather pompous to Bilbo's ears. Though elves and hobbits might describe a Vala's blessing as 'magnificent', might it not be a little arrogant for said Vala to do so himself?

It was too late to debate the matter; a beaming Thranduil was already rising to his feet and beckoning his equally golden-haired son forward. The prince pressed a hand to his heart and bowed in deference to his 'deity'.

"My youngest heir and Prince of the Woodland Realm," declared the king, gesturing proudly at his progeny, "Legolas Thranduillion -"

Gracious, what a mouthful! Legolas Thrandu-thingumabob. He hoped the king didn't expect him to say that - Bilbo would never manage it without swallowing his tongue!

"Felicitations, young Greenleaf," said Bilbo. "We understand that thou hast achieved thy first millennium this very day. Is this so?"

"Indeed, Lord Oromë," said the prince, looking both awed and thrilled at being addressed by a Vala.

"Then allow us to wish thee a joyful day, young one!" continued the hobbit, wondering what he should say next. What did one say to an elf on their birthday? He could hardly wish for him to have a full larder, a brimming mug, and an endless supply of pipeweed.

Bilbo studied the golden-haired son of the king rather desperately. "May thy years be long and thy hair be longer still," he said finally, thinking that might do the trick – after all, every elf he had encountered so far had locks far surpassing the length of any hobbit-lass of his acquaintance (not that he was acquainted with that many hobbit-lasses, confirmed bachelor that he was).

A frown flitted briefly across Legolas' face as he fingered his hair in concern: the elf was obviously worried that it was about to shoot down the length of his body and start pooling around his feet. Hmm. Perhaps that wasn't the best of things to say? Feeling a little flustered, Bilbo hastily added "And may thine arrows ever find their mark."

Relief flooded the young elf and Bilbo relaxed. But not for long. Thranduil cleared his throat.

"O mighty Oromë, strongest and most cunning of all who bear arms, does your most honoured presence among us this day confirm what the prophecy Galu i Faroth has ever rumoured to promise?"

Galu what? Of course! Peace for a thousand generations of Men, to begin within the next century.

Oh dear, oh dear! In all the kerfuffle over languages (and hair), Bilbo had quite forgotten about that. What to do now?

"Beneficent Oromë, shall it be thus? Dare we hope that the evil which infiltrates our glorious realm will be banished beyond recall? Will the darkness of the Necromancer fall from Dol Guldur, and the spiders that infest our land perish? Will Greenwood truly become Great once more?"

Silence fell as king and subjects stared hopefully at the horn. Bilbo swallowed nervously.

How in the name of the green, green Shire was he supposed to know? He was just a hobbit! He had absolutely no idea what Necro-whatsits and Dol-whatnots even were! What did it all mean?

Whatever it meant, it was of great importance to the elves; they gazed at the horn en masse, a sea of silvery grey eyes watching their tribute expectantly and hoping for a confirmation that the hobbit was quite unable to give them. The air was thick with anticipation and Bilbo squirmed uncomfortably on the bole.

Feeling very much out of his depth, the little hobbit clung to the horn rather desperately, fervently wishing he was back in the comfort of his own warm Smial and tucking into a very large roast chicken. Served with creamy potatoes, peas and buttered carrots, of course. Perhaps a cup of honey-sweetened tea to wash it down? Plus a cake or four for afterwards. Oh! and a lovely big slice of strawberry tart and clotted cream to fill in the corners …

So lost in his delightful thoughts was he that Bilbo almost missed the bewildered murmurings of the elves, who were growing distinctly uneasy at his prolonged silence.

"'Tis an evil omen," said another. "The prophecy will remain unfulfilled after all, and we shall know no peace despite all our endeavours to protect our beloved home!"

"Silence!" ordered Thranduil, throwing a warning look at his subjects. The chamber fell still instantly. Bilbo cursed his foolish flightiness and dragged his attention back to the golden-haired king.

"King of the Elves," he began, and there was a collective sigh of relief from his audience when he spoke, "the Necromancer shall indeed fall -"

Well he would eventually, surely? Whoever he was, once he had conquered the world and had no enemies left to slaughter, he may very well die of boredom.

Though, if it had been some sort of home to this dastardly-sounding Necromancer person, someone might want to give it a thorough scrubbing-out first. With plenty of soap. And lots of steaming hot water!

A loud cheer rose from the assembled guests and their beaming monarch. Bilbo felt rather guilty for raising their hopes and thought perhaps he should temper their joy with a little caution - it was the very least he could do after lying to them so scandalously. He made a mental note never to include the outrageous fibs in any correspondence with his cousin, Dora Baggins, who would no doubt jump at the opportunity to give him a sound telling-off as thoroughly and as often as she could (in prose, of course. She rarely visited).

Mainly because he really didn't know when it would happen (if at all). But his words had the desired effect of stilling the elves' premature joy. Thranduil looked slightly bewildered.

"He who seeks answers from horns must first pose a question of himself," replied Bilbo solemnly.

"Why am I speaking to a horn?' Bilbo was sorely tempted to say, but he wisely refrained. Instead, he said:

"The question thee must ask thyself is this: what answer do I seek that my heart doth not already know, were I but to search for it?"

Very Gandalf indeed, then! Bilbo rarely understood what the wizard was talking about either …

"Knowledge is not always wisdom," replied Bilbo sagely, adapting a quote from his favourite read, A Took In A Book: The Unofficial Biography of Hildifons the Queer (a cautionary tale in which the author, Fando Chubb, detailed the life of his unnaturally adventurous second cousin thrice removed, and proposed the theory that Hildifons had perhaps fallen foul of a will-o'-the-wisp outside the Shire's borders, and had thus been lured into a bog, where he surely drowned). "Knowledge is not always wisdom," Bilbo repeated. "This thee must surely know. Ask not how long darkness shall endure! It may be one hundred years of Men, or one thousand more again. Or it may well be that it wanes sooner than all would guess. But wane it shall, one way or another. Such is the way of the world."

At least someone did, because Bilbo hadn't a clue what he was talking about. What he did know was that if he didn't end this conversation soon, the king and all his fair folk might suddenly realise it, too.

As if to emphasise this, the aroma of hot, tasty rabbit stew came floating down the steps. Bilbo breathed in deeply, reflexively, and the smell entered his nostrils and circled his heart. In reply, his stomach gave the loudest protest yet, rumbling long and repeatedly. The eyebrows of Thranduil, Legolas and every elf present rose in astonishment as angry rumble after angry rumble echoed around the cavern.

Bilbo cringed in horror, terrified that the game was up. He had been betrayed by his own stomach, and would now be captured by the king and tortured for his unmitigated gall in impersonating a Vala. And then tortured again for his insolence to a king. And then tortured once more for breaking into said king's home …

The eyes of every elf seemed to be searching the horn for an explanation – it would not be long now before their sharp senses picked up a faint shadow under the flickering torchlight ... Sweat poured down the frightened hobbit's forehead, and suddenly Bilbo felt quite sick.

No, actually, it wasn't. 'Oromë' was in fact a burglar hobbit who had invaded the elves' caverns, who was trying (unsuccessfully) to free thirteen dwarves without Gandalf's help, who hadn't eaten a decent meal in, oh, far too many days to think about, who was now clinging to a giant horn in a great hall where he had been fooling the King of Mirkwood for the past ten minutes by pretending to be a deity. And he had just been betrayed by his own stomach – a stomach which was now in danger of emptying itself in fright right at said king's pointy-shoed feet (and wouldn't that come as a shock to everyone?).

But wait: Oromë was not just a warrior - Thranduil himself had made reference to this earlier.

In that moment, inspiration struck, and a solution presented itself to Bilbo that was so simple he could have laughed.

"All is indeed well, child," boomed the hobbit with renewed confidence. "'Tis but thunder thou hears. It rolls across the plains of Aman, calling us to the Great Hunt. Alas, but we must now depart. Yet perhaps thou may join us, in thine own way? Both thee and all thy subjects at this feast? Let it be our birthday gift to the young prince."

Thranduil, who had been looking slightly dismayed that his unexpected visitor was to leave him so soon, suddenly perked up, to say nothing of Legolas, whose jaw had almost dropped off his face in astonishment. "Join you, Mighty Huntsman?" gasped the king in amazement, probably wondering if the entire Feasting Hall was just about to be magically transported across the Sundering Sea.

"Not literally, we fear, not yet at least. Perhaps one day, when thou cross the Sea and we both stand together in the Undying Lands, then we may hunt together, thee and we ..."

Or should that be 'thee and me?' he wondered. Not that it mattered, Thranduil and Bilbo would never hunt together. And the hobbit's chances of setting foot on the Undying Lands were about as great as his chances of freeing thirteen very irate dwarves, successfully burgling a flesh-eating dragon, and returning safely to the Shire within his own lifetime.

"... we mean that thou must join us symbolically. As we depart thy company to hunt the elusive white stag of Aman, so must thee gather all the revellers in thy Thamas: let us hunt together, little elflings. Let us leave together this very minute, even though we are parted by the vastness of the Sea! And let us bring back the greatest game we each may find and feast thereafter upon it in companionship. For though distance may part us, friendship cannot. To the hunt!"

Beyond all expectation, and to his utter delight (and very great relief), an enormous cheer rose in the hall.

"To the hunt! To the hunt!" cried the elves in unison, each and every one electrified by the 'Vala's' invitation (despite the fact that he had referred to them all as 'elflings').

"We shall bring back our own white stag, that we may feast upon the same meat in honour of the Huntsman of the Valar!" declared Thranduil effusively.

"Then we bid thee farewell, King of Elves, great friend of the Huntsman of the Valar!" cried Bilbo grandly, almost giddy with hunger and relief.

"Farewell, Lord Oromë!" cried the elves, who burst thereafter into joyful song. Thranduil and his son both bowed sweepingly before the horn and, abandoning all the excellent dishes which had already been prepared for the prince's birthday feast, they led the mass of jubilant immortals from the Feasting Hall and into the same rocky corridor which Bilbo had followed from the kitchens. The sound of their merry, tinkling voices rebounded pleasantly off the walls then slowly receded.

It was another five minutes before the hobbit dared to move. Slipping cautiously from the horn, Bilbo tiptoed to the entrance and peered down it: there was neither sight nor sound of the elves.

His daring plan had worked! Thank goodness! Oh, how Gandalf would laugh! Although, come to think of it, given that Gandalf was a wizard, he might be less than happy that Bilbo had dared to impersonate a Vala – even if it had been to save himself from starvation. What if, in his anger, Gandalf turned Bilbo into a rabbit for his cheek? Presented him to the king for his next meal as punishment? What if Thranduil had him made into a horrible sort of rabbit-Bilbo stew. Or rabbit-hobbit stew? Or maybe Gandalf would forgo the magical transformation and the elf king would just make a plain hobbit stew instead?

A shudder ran up and down Bilbo's spine. It was probably best not to mention this to Gandalf, if he ever saw him again. It wouldn't do to upset the wizard. Just in case.

He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face and hands. Hobbit stew aside, if Bilbo had suspected for a minute that his ruse would work so well, he might have told the king to take every elf in the caverns with him, instead of just everyone in the Hall – something which would have made freeing Thorin and all the other dwarves much easier. But he hadn't ...

"Don't be foolish, Bilbo Baggins. You can't expect poor old Oromë to do all your work for you. He is far too busy hunting stags and doing all sorts of other important Valar-y type things to bother about one silly little hobbit. You shall just have make a plan to free Thorin, and Fili and Kili, and Balin and Dwalin, and Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, and Oin and Gloin, and Dori, Nori and Ori all by yourself!"

Completely alone. In a room full of hot, fresh, tasty food. And with hours to himself in which to do some very serious damage to the roasted venison, boiled fish, smoked cheeses, golden breads, sticky honey-and-fruits, mead, port and ale which had been so hastily abandoned by the elves in their rush to hunt with a Vala! His heart soared.

Ai Oromë, vaethor veleg! Lasto beth vin! Alae, torthal ven! Aníra ammen nan galu! - Hail Oromë, mighty warrior! Hear our voice! Behold, we are yours to command. Honour us with your blessings!

Aníra ammen nan galu - Honour us with your blessings (cobbled together, and therefore probably inaccurate)

Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded vîn! - A star shines on the hour of our meeting!

A-rello-bello-ballo-tamba-kombanda-tar-a-la-nokandu-lallo-lello-randu-barolla-farolla-mandu-harra-herra-harra-lombu-manna-kommana-falala-lala-landu-biggy-baggy-boggy-bandu – Hello (some of you may recognise this as Pippin's line in 'One Little Word' from the Drabble Drop-outs series, but it was actually Bilbo's first. I wrote it for him for this fic, but borrowed it in my then-desperate attempts to write a drabble. Okay, so I cheated …)

Author's Note: Yes, after over a year of waiting, Hobbit Stew is finally completed. I apologise unreservedly for keeping you waiting, but writer's block won't disappear simply because I wish it would (which is a huge pity). I had about 2/3 of this final chapter written when it hit, and was unable to finish it afterwards. But I'm trying to work my way back into the creative frame of mind and, after a fresh burst of inspiration, and more than a bit of tweaking, I have managed it well enough to complete Hobbit Stew successfully. I only hope I did it enough justice, and that you find it some compensation for the lengthy wait.

Hobbit Stew by Kara's Aunty