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Twelve. Twelve dwarfs in her home, in her kitchen, in her larder mucking up the works.

"You there," She called. "Do not use that as a napkin; I crocheted that myself. Down. Thank you. Kili! Set that cup down this instant; it is decorative and quite delicate-" There was barely a crack as the porcelain crumbled beneath his great sausage fingers.

"So sorry, Miss Baggins." He dropped the bits into a pathetic, little pile.

Molly pinched her nose and counted to ten. When that didn't work, she counted to twenty.

Dwarves were a menace. Look at this place; it would take days to get rid of the stench alone, nevermind the-

"Ah, Miss Baggins." That voice. That horridly amused voice. "Enjoying yourself, are you?"

"Gandalf." Molly rounded on the daft, old wizard with an accusing finger. "This is all your rubbish, isn't it? There are twelve-twelve-sweaty, dirty, foul-smelling, horrid-"

"Uncouth?" One with a three braided beard supplied.

"Uncouth-" Molly nodded.

Fili raised his mug. "Oafish."

"Thank you. Oafish-"

"Handsome."

"Handso-" She caught herself and pointed at Kili. "Off you go. Go on."

Molly was sure she looked a mess; hot, blistered cheeks that looked like she'd lain on a hotplate, frizzy hair, flaring nostrils and a wrinkled dress.

"Dwarves are a merry folk." Gandalf seemed uncaring of her plight as he puffed on his pipe. "I see you know Kili and, likely, his brother Fili." But of course they were related. "The gentleman with the tattooed head is Dwalin." Man-beast. "Balin." Old man. "There's Nori, Dori and Ori. Gloin and Oin. And then we have Bifur, Bofur and Bombur. Hmm…it appears we are a dwarf short. No offence."

"That'll be Thorin," Balin chuckled. "Lad always was late to counsel."

Molly didn't care much for dwarves, she decided. Especially not thirteen and especially not when she could see them in her dining room with her good ceramic plates…

With her good ceramic plates.

"You lot be careful with those." She hustled into the kitchen as quick as her hobbity feet could take her and snatched Grandfather Baggins's silverware set right out of….Axe-Head's….hands.

Those were for special occasions only. It mattered little she'd had no special occasions to use said cutlery; it was the principle of the thing.

Dwarves were settling down at the table-her table-pushing each other and acting barbaric, grabbing for food like ravenous beasts.

A roll flew over her head. Right over it!

Molly was appalled at the blatant lack of table manners. It was awfully important to have basic table manners; no one'd want to dine with you otherwise.

"Who want's ale?" Fili hopped right up onto her table with his mucky boots and a dozen mugs, spilling everywhere. "Ale?"

Poor Molly stood there with her little hobbit tummy rumbling and her little hobbit heart thumping madly. All of her precious food down naughty dwarf gullets; gone forever.

That cheese was going into a soufflé, she thought sadly. Those carrots currently dotting dwarven beards were going to be a part of a lovely stew. I had it all planed, right down to the smallest crumb and lightest seasoning.

And now the dwarves were singing. With. Their. Mouths. Full.

Molly was sure their mother's would be proud as a pickle.

"Excuse me, Miss Hobbit." A young dwarf-Ori, she believed- tapped her shoulder with a shy smile. "What should I do with my plate?"

"Well, lad," She chose to ignore the 'Miss Hobbit'. "You can stick that plate right up your-"

"Give it here, Ori." Fili held up his hands. Across the room.

Molly squealed like a stuck pig as her mother's ceramic plate was carelessly tossed into the air. "How could you?!"

Relief filled her hectic heart as Fili plucked it from the air effortlessly. Suddenly there were plates and bowls and spoons and knives all above her head as if they'd grow wings.

Molly refused to watch and shut her eyes tight. If there was even a single chip on any of her mother's dishes there would be a Scene. There'd be twelve dwarves who wished they'd been born without ears, she'd box them so much.

But there were no crashes, no bangs or clatters. Molly gingerly opened her eyes to a stack of clean-seemingly chipless-dishes and a gathering of laughing dwarves.

"Almost gave me a heart attack, you did." Molly barely had time to breath and there were two very loud, very distinct knocks on the door.

All the laughing died.

Gandalf blew out a ring of blue smoke with a twinkle in his eye. "He's here."

"Molly Baggins, might I introduce you to the leader of this merry company…Thorin Oakenshield."

This dwarf was quite unlike the others; in stature and presence. He entered her home as if he owned it, regarding her with an intensity that made her toes twitch uncomfortably.

"This is the hobbit?" the dwarf stalked around her, like a wolf circling his prey. "Tell me, do you prefer axes, swords or bows?"

Molly twiddled her thumbs nervously. "None of the above, I suppose."

Weapons were not kept in the Shire; no use for them. Mum's old daggers were hanging above the mantle but they'd been there for quite some time.

The dwarf's icy eyes narrowed to slits. "I see. Just as I thought; more a housewife than a burglar."

"I am no housewife, sir." The dwarf had turned his back on her but glanced over his shoulder, past his flowing, wavy mane that shined from strands of silver in the firelight. "I am Molly. Molly Baggins. And this is my home and I shan't be disrespected in it."

"Indeed." She certainly had the dwarf's attention now, though she wasn't sure she wanted it. So, like any decent hobbit would, Molly offered her hand to be shook.

If looks could burn, her hand would be aflame, of that she was sure.

Thorin did take her hand but he did not shake it. The dwarf bent and lifted her hand to his lips; his beard tickled her soft skin.

"Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the mountain, at your service."

"Oi! I got a talking to for doing that."

Molly cleared her throat and firmly brought her hand back to where it belonged. "Molly Baggins…at yours"

Did he say king? He did, she was sure. There was a king in Molly Baggins's home. Mum would have a-

…there was a king in her home.

Molly blanched. No. No, she was in no mind to entertain a king. Her kitchen was all but ruined, there were curious stains on the ceiling and she didn't want to think about that smell coming from the loo.

"Well, then." Gandalf smiled happily to himself. "That went better than imagined. Molly, if you would be so kind as to follow us to the dining room?"

Molly did as asked dutifully and settled in nicely between Gandalf and…the fat one whom she'd not remembered the name of just yet.

If only she'd known he was coming, the king wouldn't be eating sloppy-looking, second-hand stew out of a wooden bowl. Although the dwarves had raided her poor larder so, likely, he'd be eating sloppy-looking, second-hand stew out of a nicer bowl.

"What of Dain?" Man-beast pressed his knuckles into the table. "Is he with us?"

The king laid his spoon down and leaned back in his chair with an audible creak that made her cringe. These chairs were made by hobbit hands for hobbit behinds, not massive dwarf.

"They will not come." He spoke solemnly. "They say this quest is ours and ours alone."

A sort of shadow fell over the table then, palpable and sorrowful.

"Quest?" Molly found her voice among the rabble of silence. "What sort of quest?"

Gandalf brought out a folded piece of parchment from the folds of his robe and laid it out flat on the table. Molly nearly broke her neck to see passed the old goat.

"The Lonely Mountain." She read softly.

Gandalf nodded, taking a puff of his pipe. "Far to the east a single mountain rises from the earth, reaching toward the heavens in all its splendor. Quite the sight to behold, my dear Molly for it also runs deep beneath the surface for miles."

"Aye. Oin, tell them-"

"Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain," Oin said then closed his eyes tight. "When the birds of yore return to Erbor, the reign of the beast will end."

Molly's brows shot right up into her hairline. "Beast? There's a beast?"

"That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible." The dwarf with the silly had offered. "Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, soul as black as a moonless night and a temper to boot."

"A…dragon, then?"

Oin shot up, red-faced and huffing. "I'm not scared! I'll give him a taste of dwarfish iron, right up his jacksie!"

A ruckus erupted among the dwarves; cheering, jeering and arguing.

"A quest difficult enough with an army behind us," Balin didn't raise his voice but it was heard above the din. "We number just thirteen and not thirteen of the best nor brightest."

"That may be but we're fighters," Fili pounded his fist on the table. "All of us, down to the last dwarf and we'll take back what's ours."

"And you forget," Kili beamed. "We have a wizard in our company. Gandalf must've killed hundreds of dragons in his time."

"Positively. Told me all about it, he has." Molly beamed as Gandalf choked on smoke. Bring thirteen dwarves into my home without proper notice…

"Really? Come on, give us a number."

"Well-I"

"I'll bet it's higher than twenty!"

"More like around five, laddie."

"Twenty!"

Suddenly there were dwarves everywhere fighting and yelling and getting their nasty spittle on her table.

"Would you please-" she tired. "Excuse me but-" Molly jumped to her feet and banged her fist on the table to no avail.

"Shazara!" the king shot from his chair with a force that knocked it clean over. "If we have read the signs, do you not think others have seen them too? The dragon Smaug has not been seen for 60 years. Eyes look the east; waiting, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lay unprotected. Do you sit back and bicker while they take what is rightfully ours, or do you seize this chance to take back Erbor?!"

The dwarves cheered.

"You forget; the gate is sealed." Balin mentioned. "There's no way into the mountain."

"That, dear Balin, is not entirely true." Gandalf twiddled his fingers and produced a key; rusty-looking, clearly old and oddly shaped. "This was given to me by Thrain, for safekeeping. It is yours now."

Molly watched the king's fingers close reverently around the key.

"If there is a key, then there must be a door." Fili sounded stunned; real. Molly heard the wonderment and hope in his voice.

"There's another way in."

"Well, if we can find it; dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies somewhere in this map though I do not have the skill to read it, there are others who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage but I believe it can be done."

Ori smiled brightly. "That's why we need a burglar."

Molly laughed. "You'll need far more than a burglar, dears."

"Is that so?" the king drawled, staring her down from the end of the table. "And what else could a hobbit-a female no less-offer?"

Molly felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. "I shall have you know-"

Gandalf squeezed her shoulder no-too-lightly. "Hobbits are light on their feet and fast." He said. "And, while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit is all but unknown to him. Is that not an advantage? Thorin Oakenshield, you have asked me to find the fourteenth member of your company and I have chosen Miss Baggins. I ask that you both trust me in this."

Thorin's face was as stone then he nodded once and snapped his fingers. "Give her the contract."

"Contract?" Molly was beyond flustered as a very pristine, very important-looking document was hurled her way.

"Just the usual, lass. Out-of-pocket expenses, time required," She unfurled the parchment and begun to read. "Funeral arrangements and so forth."

And her head shot up faster than a shooting star. "Funeral arrangements?"

"Aye, lass." Oh, no. Not silly hat again. "Due to the dragon and all. Melt the skin right off your bones; we'll need to know how to honor you if there isn't anything left to honor."

Molly blinked like a madwoman.

"Think furnace with wings."

She gulped. "I-I see." A future flashed before her eyes of a pathetic heap of ashes that once was a little hobbit named Molly. They'd probably scoop her up in a dustpan. Assuming there was anything to scoop.

"No." She shook her head and threw the contract down with unladylike force. "No. No. No. No. I'm a hobbit not a burglar and I am certainly not kindling but I do think I'm going to be ill so If you'll excuse me."

And she was ill; unfortunately it was over all her beautiful hydrangeas.

Molly coughed, bent over the flows and praying that none of her neighbors could see or hear her. They'd think she was drunk or worse and she did not feel like addressing those rumors tomorrow.

When she was finished, she sat back against her fence and wiped the sweat from her brow.

"Are you quite alright, Miss?" She heard nothing but concern in the young dwarf's voice.
"Oh, Fili." Magnificent. "Besides smelling and tasting sick, I'm pretty as a peach."

"I've smelled of worse." Fili laughed, slipping down beside her in the dark. "We were worried about you."

Molly hummed softly, listening to the night bugs chirp and knowing full well that the nasty little things were munching on her garden as they spoke.

Who would take care of it if she were gone? No one that's who. When-if-she came home; it'd be to a rotten graveyard and a musty hole in the ground that hadn't seen air in who knows how long.

"Do you know how many meals a day hobbits eat, lad?" She said, quite out of the blue. "Six; six hearty meals a day to keep the sickness away and put some meat on these bones. Can't imagine I'd get six meals a day out questing."

"No. No you won't, Miss Baggins." Fili agreed. "And you won't have your mother's ceramic plates or your warm bed or comfy chairs-"

"That's what I thought." She nodded to herself.

"-but you'll have been a part of something great." He finished, leaning back comfortably with his arm propped on his bowed leg. "Hobbits will tell stories of your deeds for many years to come."

At that, Molly sighed. "That, dear lad, is what I am afraid of. I'm quite sorry," she said, coming shakily to her feet. "But I'm not the burglar you think I am. I'm not a burglar at all. The company is, of course, welcome to stay the night. Goodnight, Fili."

And Molly grabbed skirt and ran; ran until she found herself safe and snug in her bedroom surrounded by her books, smelling-herbs and the drying remains of the horrid insects that plagued her garden-forever preserved between pockets of glass.

"Questing," she mumbled as she plopped herself down before her mother's vanity. "Nasty things, quests."

Molly twisted her copper curls into a loose bun atop her head for sleeping and shrugged out of her dress to change into her nightclothes.

And with thirteen males, no less. How would she change? How would she bathe? Or...use the facilities? And, assuming she returned to the shire, her reputation would be irreparable-worse off than it was now.

No. Come morning, Molly Baggins, daughter of Bungo and Belladonna Baggins would not be doing any questing. No thank you.