If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the unknown characters belong to me.

Author’s notes: I know, I originally promised a 99 per cent bookverse story (save for Bifur’s gender). And this is still a bookverse story… well, mostly. There were some lines of dialogue in the first “Hobbit” film that were simply too good to ignore, so they made it into this chapter. The same is true for the Dwarves themselves – especially Balin, Bifur, Dori, Ori and Nori are very different from their film counterparts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter 10 – The Unexpected Party

Thorin came back late that night, spoke to no-one, not even Balin, and left in the next morning again, without telling anyone where he was going or when he was coming back.

The wizard was not pleased by this.

“The plague on Durin’s House and their stiff necks!” he muttered angrily. “I swear, that royal fool is doing this only to delay our meeting with Mr Baggins. Well, if he thinks he can play with my patience, he is mistaken. We shall continue as agreed: calling on Mr Baggins at teatime and whenever he chooses to deign us with his presence, it is up to him.”

“He is not going to like it,” warned Dwalin, but the wizard just shrugged.

“And I like even less his stubborn refusal to listen to me. We are going to call on Bilbo as planned, and if Thorin does not show up. At least you will be well entertained. Mr Baggins is an excellent cook and his pantries are always full. He likes visitors, too… as a rule.”

That sounded vaguely promising, so – after some more arguing – the Dwarves agreed to go with the wizard’s plan.

“I still think I should go first,” said Bifur. “Dwalin will frighten our host out of his mind; more so if he is not expecting visitors. You have not prepared him for the arrival of thirteen Dwarves, have you?”

Tharkûn – or rather Gandalf, she corrected herself, they ought to get used to call the wizard by his more commonly known name – chuckled at that.

“My dear Bifur,” he said. ‘What makes you think that you shan’t frighten him? With that heavy black beard and those warrior’s inks on your face you look every bit as fierce as Dwalin does.”

“Maybe,” allowed Bifur; her fake beard, fixed in place by the ever-reliable tree gum, was a big and bushy one indeed, covering half her face. She wore it in one thick braid. “But I am a head shorter; and prettier, too.”

The others laughed, for it was true. Unlike most Dwarrow-dams who were generally larger – and a great deal more aggressive, due to their privileged status – than their males, she was small, doll-faced and almond-eyed. Which was another reason to travel in male disguise.

She was also much calmer in nature than most female Dwarves; she was accustomed to mediate between the males of her caravan – well, Niping’s caravan now – and the other people they met on the road. She had every right to believe that she would be better suited to meet the Hobbit first.

Still, she and her family ranked lowest in the entire Company and as much merit as her arguments might have had, she was simply overruled. Thus Dwalin was allowed to go first, with Balin only a short distance after him, followed by the arrogant brats of Dís, as the wizard clearly thought they would be less frightening than the rest.

Although how Fíli, armed to the teeth, carrying more weapons on his person than an entire hunting troop of Wild Men counted together would be seen as trust-inducing was truly beyond Bifur.

Naturally, Óin and Glóin would also refuse to wait, seeing that they were related to Durin’s line to the same degree as Dwalin and Balin. And the three brawny sons of the legendary Orin Glowhammer insisted to go next, of course, arguing that they were distant cousins of Thorin and all that.

So eager they were to go, in fact, that they caught up with Óin and Glóin halfway to the bridge crossing the stream and arrived at the Hill beyond the village of Hobbiton almost the same time.

Bombur grumbled unhappily about being left behind by all those high and mighty LongBeards and Bifur secretly agreed with him. Even though, technically, Dori, Ori and Nori were considered BlackLocks as they had chosen to join their mother’s Clan. If Bofur was equally offended, he gave no sign. But again, he had always been good at hiding his true feelings under that cheerful mask of his.

At least they were going with Gandalf and thus were in no danger of getting lost among the fairly similar Hobbit holes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The way from Bywater to Hobbiton was a short one, at least in Dwarven terms: only a mile or so. Following the well-trodden road between the two villages they eventually reached the venerable old mill, the large wheel of which was being slowly turned by the quick little stream the locals simply called The Water-

There they crossed the stream using the wooden bridge and turned northwards into the Hill Lane, which led to the only suitable hill on the other side of the water: to the residence of their chosen burglar (who did not know of his questionable luck yet). The major part of the settlement was situated along The Water; between it and the Hill were mostly green, rolling lanes, used for the livestock as grazing grounds.

Walking up to the Hill, they passed the Mill Yard on their right, where small, two-wheeled carts (pulled by sturdy little ponies) were waiting for their owners to load them with sacks of freshly ground flour. Clearly, the Hobbits needed a great deal of basic food items to keep their large families well fed.

Still on their right, somewhere further up, there was a large, well-tended-to farm, with a smial of impressive size in the middle; it could have easily housed several generations of the same family. More of the well-fed, round-bellied ponies, together with red-and-white, smooth-coated cow, as small compared with the beasts of Men as Hobbits were compared with Men themselves, were grazing on the green meadow between the farm and the mill. The ample udders of the small cow seemed full of milk and swayed heavily between their legs.

They were very different from the sturdy, shaggy highland cow the StiffBeard Dwarves – the only Clan that actually bothered with animal husbandry at all – bred. These cows would never survive under the harsh conditions of a Dwarven settlement anywhere in the mountains, but there could be no doubt that they provided their Hobbit masters with milk and meat in abundance.

If there was one thing in which the little folk of the Shire was way ahead of other races, it was the producing of food. Or the consuming of it, for that matter.

Bombur, too, eyed the shiny-coated, well-fed little beasts with approval.

“The people who own this farm know how to treat their animals well,” he commented. “Each and every one of these cow and ponies is a real beauty.”

“The Old Farm has belonged to the Burrowses for uncounted generations,” explained Gandalf. “It is one of the oldest, most respected families in the Shire. Only the Bagginses are wealthier and more respected in this area. They are not as numerous as the Tooks or the Brandybucks, of course – nobody is – but they are influential. In fact, one of them is currently the Mayor of the Shire, despite his youth.”

“Is this Mayor the lord of the little folk?” asked Bombur, who had the least contact with Hobbits of the three of them.

“No,” replied the wizard. “The closest thing they have to what other people consider a lord is the Thain of Tookland… although the Master of Buckland comes close. But not even they have any jurisdiction beyond their own lands. The Mayor has an administrative function for a limited number of years,” he thought for a moment, then grinned at them. “Much like Lofar in Thorin’s Halls in Uruktharbun, actually… only that he is elected.”

They passed the Old Farm without seeing anyone moving within its boundaries, and shortly thereafter The Grange on the other side of the road – a larger building that, according to Gandalf, served both of a gathering place and a dancing hall for a locals. It was surrounded by granaries for common use.

After that point the Hill Lane made a wide eastward slope before turning to the west again and leading to The Hill. There it forked, one branch running along the south flanks, where a number of smaller holes had been dug into the hillside, while the other, the main branch, went to the top of it – to a large, open field with an enormous old tree in the middle. From there, flat steps led to the round, green door of Bag End: their destination.

By then Bombur was somewhat out of breath which made Bifur worry how he would be able to keep up with them on the rest of their journey which promised to be much more taxing than a slow, leisurely ride across the hospitable country of the Hobbits with a bit of climbing. She exchanged concerned looks with Bofur who just shrugged helplessly. It was Bombur’s decision and, unless Thorin decided to leave him behind for slowing them down – in which case Bifur and Bofur would remain with him – they could do nothing to hold him back. They could only hope that he would be able to draw strength from Mother Edhla’s healing charm.

Judging by the noise and the boisterous laughter coming from the smial the others were having the time of their lives inside. Bifur tried the doorbell, while Bombur was leaning heavily against the door to catch his breath, but it was of no use. Clearly, nobody could hear it in all the noise – not surprising if one considered that Glóin was involved.

Finally Gandalf decided to take action and started banging the door with his staff, almost making a dent in it, wiping off the mark that had been put there for the Dwarves’ sake in the process.

This time they were obviously heard within, for an irritated voice – much higher in pitch than that of any Dwarf but still pleasantly low for a Hobbit – cried out:

“Oh, no. No, no. There's nobody home. Go away and bother somebody else. There's far too many Dwarves in my dining room as it is. If this is some blunt-head’s idea of a joke, I can only say it is in very poor taste.”

Despite all this verbal protest, the door was suddenly torn open with a jerk and they all fell in, one on top of the other – with the exception of Gandalf, of course, who was standing a step behind them, leaning on his staff and chuckling quietly.

“Carefully, carefully,” he said. “This is not like you, Bilbo, to keep friends waiting on your mat and then open the door as if you were tearing a cork out of a bottle. Let me introduce Bifur, Bofur and Bombur.”

The person he was talking to was a Hobbit, of course, somewhat taller than the average but still shorter than Bifur herself. He was wearing a strange robe that seemed to have been sewn together from a great many different patches of cloth over his moss green breeches and fine white cotton shirt; and, like all Hobbits, he went barefooted.

His round, usually cheerful face – if all the laugh lines around those blue eyes were any indication – was framed by a halo of dark gold curls. That and the upward tilt of his nose gave him an almost child-like appearance, but he was clearly of mature age, and he was looking at the wizard wearily.

“Gandalf,” was all he said, his voice full of resignation.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bifur, Bofur and Bombur clambered to their feet – with some help in Bombur’s case – and stood in a row, intending to greet their host properly.

“At your service!” they said as one, bowing low enough for their beards to sweep the floor; again, Bombur needed some help to get up after that. Then they hung up their hoods – the yellow ones for Bifur and Bofur and the pale green one of Bombur – and moved on to the room where the noise and laughter of their companions came from.

“We are all here now,” said Gandalf, looking at the row of twelve hoods on the pegs. “Save one, it seems. I hope you have left something for us to eat and drink.”

And with that he, too, moved on to the parlour where the Dwarves had already made themselves comfortable, plundering the pantries and using every single bottle and dish and knife and fork and plate and bowl and mug and tankard they could find in the artfully carved sideboards and cupboards. These were made of chestnut and cherry wood, oak or ash like the rest of the furniture. Their host clearly had a fine – not to mention expensive – taste… and the money to pay for it.

By now the aforementioned host had become truly aggravated over what he most likely saw as the wilful destruction of his beautiful home. He was running to and fro, trying to hinder the various Dwarves in completing their work of pillaging.

“Those are my plates!” he protested. “Excuse me, not my wine. Put that back. Put that back!” he said forcefully to Fíli, while still trying to sound polite as a proper host – even an involuntary one, overrun by guests he had not invited – was supposed to do.

He had clearly been raised with good manners.

“Not the jam, please!” he all but yelled at Nori, taking the portly earthenware pot back. “Excuse me, excuse me.”

Then he spotted Bombur carrying half a dozen blocks of cheese and his eyes grew as large and round as saucers.

“A tad excessive, isn't it?” he said faintly. “Have you got a cheese knife?”

"Cheese knife?” echoed Bofur, gurgling with laughter. “He eats it by the block.”

Indeed, Bombur had a particular weakness for good cheese, and now he was beaming as if he’d been sitting on Mahal’s own lap.

In the meantime Óin and Glóin tried to get some more chairs from the other rooms so that everyone would find a seat around the long dinner table. That made the Hobbit even more anxious.

“No, no,” he grabbed the chair Óin was about to drag into the parlour and wrestled it from the Dwarf’s hand. “That's Grandpa Mungo's chair. No, I'm sorry; you'll have to take it back, please. Take it back. It is antique, not for sitting on. Thank you.”

Barely had he brought the precious family heirloom back to safety, he spotted Ori rummaging in one of his cabinets and swatted his hand – which, considering that he barely reached to the shoulder of the huge BlackLock, was a surprisingly brave thing to do.

“That is a book, not a coaster,” he snapped indignantly. “Put that map down.”

Ori looked down at the irritated Hobbit with his kohl-rimmed indigo eyes – a fashion quirk he had picked up somewhere in the East during one of his journeys – in a slightly condescending manner.

“Worry not, Mr Baggins,” he said. “I am a scholar and a calligrapher myself. I know how to handle books properly.”

Before the Hobbit could have said anything, Dori emerged from the kitchen like a vision of male Dwarven beauty with his chiselled features and artfully braided hair and beard. He was carrying a teapot that seemed precariously delicate in his large hands, and the Hobbit started panicking at the sight again.

 "Excuse me,” he practically squealed. “That's my mother's Southfarthing pottery. It's over a hundred years old. Could you, please, be a tad more careful with it? Thank you.”

He could not know, of course, that Dori – while modestly calling himself a mere stone-mason – was, in fact, a gifted sculptor and cutter of gemstones, capable of handling the most delicate items with utmost care.

Ignoring their desperate host, Dori turned to the wizard, lifting the teapot in an inviting manner.

“Do you want a cup of this, Tharkûn?” he asked, remembering to use the non-dwarrow name for the wizard.

Gandalf frowned. “What is this? Tea? No thank you, Dori. A little red wine, I think, for me, if you don’t mind.”

“And for me,” said Dwalin.

“And raspberry jam and apple tart, if you can spare any,” requested Bifur, having spotted her favourites – hard to come by on the Road – in one of the larders.

“And mince-pies and more cheese,” added Bofur, grinning at his brother who had not looked this happy for a very long time.

“And pork-pie and pickles,” beamed Bombur.

“And more beer – and tea – and coffee, if you don’t mind!” called the other Dwarves.

“Put on a few eggs, there is a good fellow,” said Gandalf, while the Hobbit was just staring at them, positively flummoxed and looking less than willing to empty his pantries completely to feed a horde of hungry Dwarves (and really, who could blame him?) “And just bring out the cold chicken and the tomatoes.”

The wizard seemed to know more about the inside of the Hobbit’s larder than the Hobbit himself. At the last request, however, the aforementioned Hobbit finally put down his hairy feet.

“Not my prized tomatoes, thank you,” he said indignantly and snatched the large bowl full of the beautiful red garden fruits back from the hand of Nori who had obviously done a lot of private pillaging already. “No, thank you.”

Nori opened his mouth to protest but Dori, who was returning with the requested red wine for Gandalf, gave him a quelling look. The eldest of the Glowhammer’s three sons did not like it when his baby brother behaved like the spoiled brat that he was.

“A little glass of red wine, as you requested, Tharkûn,” he said, handing the wizard the glass that was quite small indeed – Hobbit-sized. “Quite a fine drop, actually. It has got a fruity bouquet.”

“Ah, thank you, Dori,” the wizard emptied the glass and nodded in satisfaction. “A fine drop indeed.”

“Who wants some ale?” called out Fíli, coming from the cellar, carrying several mugs in both hands. “There you go.”

“Let us have another drink,” agreed Óin, accepting one of the mugs, and Balin did the same.

Dori laughed. “All right, on the count of three. One, two...”

“Drink up!” called Kíli, and the other Dwarves obeyed eagerly.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

By then, they were practically filling every nook and canny of the smial, eating and drinking and laughing, as if they had been in one of their inns, among their own kin. Their host sat on a stool at the fireplace, nibbling a biscuit and trying to look as if this was all quite ordinary, but Bifur could see that he was getting more upset by the minute. Quite understandably, too; having one’s home invaded by a dozen Dwarves would have upset anyone – except another Dwarf. Still, he tried to hold back and endure the invasion with as good a mien as he could manage… for the time being.

He did, however, jump to his feet when Nori snatched one of the decorative little… things from one of the sideboards to dry his cup with it.

“Excuse me, that is a doily, not a dish cloth,” he snapped, tearing it off Nori’s hand.

Bofur, who was leaning against the wall nearby, looked at him with wide, bewildered eyes.

"But it's full of holes,” he commented. The Hobbit rolled his eyes.

"It's supposed to look like that,” he explained with forced patience. “It's crocheted.”

And he began to fold the thing accurately.

“Oh, and a wonderful game it is, too,” agreed Bofur helpfully, though he clearly had no idea what that meant. “If you've got the balls for it.”

“Too exasperated to answer, the Hobbit threw the doily back onto the sideboard and clenched his fists in frustration.

“Confusticate and bebother these Dwarves,” he hissed through gritted teeth… whatever that was supposed to mean.

At the same moment the wizard ducked through the doorframe, carrying a large mug. He spotted the irate Hobbit and stopped for a moment.

“My dear Bilbo, what on earth is the matter?” he asked in amusement before continuing his way back to the parlour.

The Hobbit stamped after him like an agitated little hound.

“What's the matter?” he echoed incredulously. “I'm surrounded by Dwarves. What are they doing here?”

“Oh, they're quite a merry gathering, once you get used to them,” replied Gandalf, without actually… well, replying.

“I don't want to get used to them,” the Hobbit snapped. “Look at the state of my kitchen! There's mud trod in the carpet, they – they've pillaged the pantry... I'm not even going to tell you what they've done in the bathroom; they have all but destroyed the plumbing. I don't understand what they're doing in my house.”

Are we really that bad? wondered Bifur. This was fairly normal – and widely accepted – behaviour for Dwarves in the home of friends and family, but Hobbits were a much gentler folk and very protective of their homes. If they wanted to win Mr Baggins for the Quest, they probably were not starting relations in the right manner.

“Perhaps a helpful gesture would be in order,” she said in Khuzdul, in a quiet yet authoritative tone. “Why do we not clean up after ourselves to smooth the feathers of our host?”

Her tone made it unmistakably clear that this was not a mere suggestion. And while most of the others outranked her where birth and status were considered, she was still the only female among them; therefore her suggestions were to be taken seriously. At least until someone of much greater importance countered her orders.

This, however, was not the case right now, and so the other Dwarves – with the exception of Dwalin, who stayed in the parlour to discuss strategic matters with Gandalf – got up and piled the things in tall piles. Then they marched off to the kitchen, not waiting for trays, balancing whole columns of plates with bottles on top on one hand, while the poor little Hobbit ran after them, squealing “please, be careful”, and “please, don’t trouble, I can manage” one after another, his voice rising steadily in pitch.

Then, suddenly, Kíli began to sing, “Chip the glasses and crack the plates!”

“Blunt the knives and bend the forks!” Fíli picked up the next line.

“That's what Bilbo Baggins hates,” continued Nori with a truly feral grin. “Smash the bottles and burn the corks!”

One by one, the others chimed in:

Cut the cloth and tread on the fat!

Pour the milk on the pantry floor!

Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!

Splash the wine on every door!

Dump the crocks in a boiling bawl;

Pound them up with a thumping pole;

And when you've finished, if any are whole,

Send them down the hall to roll!

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!

So, carefully! carefully with the plates!"

Of course they did none of those horrible things, and everything was put away quite safe, while the Hobbit was turning round and round in the middle of the kitchen, trying to keep an eye on what they were doing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Once they were done, they went back to the parlour. Dwalin was still sitting there, with his feet on the fender, smoking his pipe. In fact, he was doing more than just that: he was blowing the most enormous smoke rings, sending them up the chimney or behind the clock on the mantelpiece or under the table or round and round the ceiling – wherever he wanted.

This was a favourite pastime among Dwarves; it usually required two players: one to produce the big smoke rings and another one to blow smaller ones that would chase them. Dwalin was currently playing catch-my-ring with Gandalf, who smoked a small clay pipe with a long stem. Dwalin’s own pipe was much more impressive: masterfully cut from pale yellow pumice, with a large, hexagonal head and a short, thick stem forged of silver, the shape eminently suited for the game.

But wherever he sent his smoke rings, they were not quick enough to escape Gandalf. Pop! He sent a smaller one straight through each and every one of them. Then Gandalf’s smoke ring would magically turn green and come back to hover over the wizard’s head, casting green patterns on his beard. He had a whole cloud about him already; it made him look positively sorcerous.

It was such a unique sight that even the Hobbit stood still and watched the game in awe… not surprisingly. The little folk were quite fond of pipeweed, too. Bifur wondered briefly if Mr Baggins would be good at the game and decided that he probably would. Hobbits were generally good at tasks that required simple skills.

The comfortable little smial became peaceful and quiet once more, as if the rambunctious Dwarves had never turned it upside down. Bofur fished his flute out of his jacket and began to play a merry tune, and the smoke-rings seemed to dance to the melody. Some of the other Dwarves hummed along – he played a well-known children’s song they all remembered fondly – and even Mr Baggins seemed to calm down considerably, now that he felt he no longer had to worry about the safety of his home.

The peace and contentment, however, was at once broken by a loud knock on the front door, Bofur’s flute made a final, squealing sound, and Gandalf and Dwalin set aside their pipes as one.

“He's here,” announced Gandalf. The ears of the Hobbit perked up anxiously.

“Who is here?” he asked.

Gandalf gave him a long, meaningful look.

“You will see,” he replied. “Why don’t you come with me and greet him?”

And a joyous encounter that is going to be, thought Bifur, following them down the hallway. After all, somebody had to make sure that all these stubborn, pig-headed males would not be at each other’s throat as soon as the matter of the Quest came up again.

When she caught up with them at the end of the hallway – followed by half the Company who all wanted to know if their leader had finally arrived and if yes, where had he been all day – the resigned Hobbit was already opening the door. And there he was, ducking through the doorframe, all majestic and aloof and quietly annoyed: Thorin Oakenshield, the crownless King of the LongBeard Dwarves, Lord of the Deep Halls of Uruktharbun and one time the Prince of Erebor, kingly and intimidating at once in his short chain mail and midnight blue, fur-lined coat.

Ignoring their host for the time being, he looked at the wizard coolly.

“Gandalf,” he said by way of a greeting. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way twice. Wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”

“Mark?” repeated the Hobbit in bewilderment. “There is no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago.”

“Oh, I assure you, there is a mark on your door,” grunted Glóin. “At least it was there last night. Óin found it, and we were relieved to learn that it was a fresh one.”

The Hobbit actually went out of the door to take a look at the outside and came back frowning. “No, there isn’t any mark there. You must have been imagining things.”

“Oh, but it was, until Thar… I mean, Gandalf wiped it off upon our arrival,” explained Bifur. “Burglar seeks work, plenty of excitement and reasonable reward, it usually means. Fortunately, Dwarves can see magic signs even after they have been wiped… for a while, at least.”

“Quite right, my dear Bifur,” agreed the wizard. “There was a mark indeed. I put it there myself – for very good reasons, which we will discuss later. For now, let us deal with the formalities first. Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin, as was his wont with people he did not know well and thus did not trust, looked their host up and down with one sweeping glance that signalled utter disdain.

"So... this is the Hobbit,” he said, and though his words were coldly courteous, the tone in which they were spoken clearly told everyone who cared that he was emphatically not satisfied with the wizard’s choice.

“Tell me, Mister Baggins,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Have you done much fighting?”

The question was utterly ridiculous, of course, and clearly meant to be exactly that. No Hobbit had been ever known to have done much fighting; not since the Tooks had allegedly sent a few archers to the Battle of Fornost to support Arvedui Last-King against the evil forces of Angmar – an event that the Hobbits of current times rarely mentioned and only with a disapproving shake of heads.

The general opinion among them was that no self-respecting Hobbit ought to meddle with the affairs of the Big People – no good thing had ever come of that. Bows and arrows were good and handy against wild beasts and for the hunt, but that was the summary of their use. A sling and a few well-chosen stones were all a Hobbit truly needed to protect himself.

The only exception from this rule was Bree, and only because it had been settled earlier than the Shire itself.

The only actual battle ever fought within the Shire had been a minor skirmish with a band of Goblins from the Misty Mountains, and even that had been several generations previously. Therefore it was not surprising that Bilbo Baggins, although he could claim kinship with the long-gone hero of that particular “battle”, just blinked in confusion at Thorin’s question.

"Pardon me?”

Thorin rolled his eyes. “Axe or sword?” he clarified. “What's your weapon of choice?”

Which, again, was a ridiculous question, obviously meant as a thinly-veiled insult. The Hobbit was clearly intelligent enough to realise that, for there was a challenging glint in those blue eyes of his; he tilted his head to the side and almost-smiled at the haughty, imperious Dwarf.

“Well, I have some skill at conkers, if you must know,” he replied airily. “But I fail to see why that would be relevant.”

Bifur bit the inside of her cheek and, from the corner of her eye, he could see Bofur do the same. Only Wanderer Dwarves, who did regular business with Hobbits, did know about the game of conkers and the little folk’s love for it. Of course, it had absolutely nothing to do with fighting, even if it did require a sharp eye and a steady hand.

Thorin did not know that, though, and clearly realised his disadvantage. Nonetheless, he did his best to save face.

“Thought as much,” he commented in disdain and shouldered his way down the hallway without actually being invited in.

“That went well,” remarked Bofur, following their leader back in.

~TBC~