Chapter 1: Of old ends and new beginnings

The battle had been horrible. Bilbo, who had never been in any fight that had left more than a bloody nose at worst (before he had went on an insane quest to help out some homeless dwarrows), had been overwhelmed by the sheer mass of misery and destruction. During the battle he had been terrified out of his mind, so much that the hobbit wasn't sure he was remembering even half of what had happened, most of it being scrambled chaos, while some instances replayed in his mind as if slowed down my magic, every single detail etched into his mind to rewatch in the nightmares that were sure to follow.

Now the battle was over and Bilbo sat between corpses, wounded and upturned earth, feeling numb to the core. He watched as elves and dwarrows, who had nearly gone to war the day previous, stood side by side searching for survivors. It didn't matter which race the survivor was from, if found, be it elf or dwarf, or human... they were brought back to the healing area, a communal one since it would be more practical than having to worry about where the patients had to go.

It was strange to see them working together now and Bilbo was left wondering if the destruction and sheer madness had really been necessary to make them hold peace between each other. It also made him wonder if it was made to last, or if this was just an exception that would revert to hostility and war before long again. Bilbo's mind cowered away from that possibility, leaving him shaking and shuddering with tears in his eyes. He couldn't imagine going though a battle like that again. Ever. Just looking around was proof to him that nothing would ever be worth that, no pretty stones or riches, not even a home.

Home is where the heart lies. Bilbo was a firm believer of that, something that his mother had often said with a smile when he had asked her how she and his dad had gotten together, why she had left Tuckborough to live in Hobbiton. He had thought he understood, and in part he did. His heart had – for the longest time – lain in his hobbit hole. Much like Thorin's had lain in Erebor. But homes could be rebuild. No, home is where the heart is, and that was where family was, where the people you wanted to protect the most rested.

Now Bilbo wasn't sure where his heart rested. Right now it felt like it was torn apart between the Shire and wherever his dwarrows would go. For all that the Shire was home and always would be, it would never bring him the life he wanted. He had always been a little too different. As a child he had been to excitable, too adventurous. Too wild and eager to wander off, looking for elves. Later on he had tried to fit in, but it had been so lonely. He couldn't bring himself to pretend to love someone, when he didn't. Not really. He could never do that to himself, someone else or his parents memory.

Rivendell... Rivendell was peaceful. He could imagine himself growing old there, at peace. But it wasn't truly what he wanted. No. His heart had only ever beat in passion again, alive and joyful, since he had gotten to know his companions. Since Thorin entered his life and had somehow turned his world on his head. Stubbornly, insistingly and without really trying. Oh they had argued and Thorin had made his blood boil or freeze at times, from anger, indignation, fear and terror. But he had also made his heart swell with pride and sorrow, lauthter and pain, both shared.

"Master Hobbit?"

The address made Bilbo blink lazily up to the elf that was approaching him.

"Hm?" he hummed, his throat feeling scraped raw and blinking at the ethereal being feeling a little dazed as he came out of his thoughts. Turning towards the elf hurt so Bilbo stopped with a wince.

"Are you feeling quite well?" The elf had reached him and mustered him with a concerned frown, looking the hobbit up and down and noting the blood that was tickling down his arm, the rips in his clothes and the various scrapes and wounds.

"Quite well... well enough at least to not bother you until the more serious cases are dealt with..." Bilbo muttered with a small gesture over the battlefield, grimacing as the movement caused a dull pain to throb through his arm.

"Even small wounds can take a turn for the worse, if left untreated for too long." the elf seemed to hold back a deep, disapproving frown as he put his bag on the ground next to Bilbo "I would like to take a look." the elf made to grab Bilbo's arm, but hesitated before touching him and gave a crooked smile as he sheepishly added "With your permission."

Bilbo let out a resigned sigh and a small shrug, careful not to jostle his arm too much.

"The worst is this bite. The others are just small scrapes," Bilbo held out his arm to the elf. He had already washed the bite with water, hoping to starve off any infection, but a second look revealed that the bite was not half as bad as he remembered. Trauma, Bilbo guessed, had made him think it was much worse. It had been painful at the time, almost unbearably so. But then again it was not like Bilbo was used to getting mauled.

The elf was handling his injury carefully, washing the bite with an ointment that smelled sharp and burned in the torn flesh, but aside from a small whimper, Bilbo held still. He was too tired to argue so he let the elf tend to his other battle-wounds too, barely listening as the elf scold him about possible poison or infection and just nodded and hummed in appropriate places. When the elf finished, Bilbo was exhausted beyond measure and just said a quiet thank you, as he waved the elf off from escorting him to a camp. He had still not made his mind up as to where to go and what to do.

His gaze returned to the now bandaged arm and his lips twisted in a wry smile. In the Shire there were stories, told to fauntlings. Stories that should prevent the small ones from falling prey to animals, Bilbo thought fondly. Telling them that if they got bitten, they themselves would turn into animals and loose their hobbit way. So better not feed that poor, starving dog by hand. Leave the food at the ground for it to eat, if you must.

Sensible, Bilbo thought and mused how often he had repeated that particular story to the youngsters, loving the way their eyes turned huge when he described how they would turn into monstrous wolves and played up how sad their parents would be, if that happened and how wolves would never get invited in for biscuits and tea, and there would never be any dessert. A horrible life, that nobody wanted.

Well, if he ever returned home, he would have to hide that particular scar if he still wanted to install fear into their tiny, little hearts, the hobbit mused in fond remembrance.

Raising his gaze he looked at the three camps that surrounded the area of shared healing. Dwarrows, human and elves. He wondered where, if at all, he would fit and felt his shoulders slump.

He couldn't imagine going to the elves. They were nice, but Thranduil just rubbed him wrong, but maybe that was his experience from the woodland-realm speaking. And the elves of the woodland realm were so... distant. More vicious than the elves in Rivendell. And Bilbo had never felt particularly comfortable in the presence of those huge people, that all to often overlooked a simply hobbit as they went about their business, nearly running him over.

The humans... he was not sure how well he would be received after the horrible events that had practically made him an oath-breaker. Sure, he had tried to make up for that and had even given over his part of the treasure, but they were still eyeing him with distrust and scorn. Bard, the hobbit was sure, would welcome him and offer his protection. But he also had three mouths to feed and the other humans relied on him, making him take up the role of a leader in spite of his protests. Bilbo was loath to add to that burden.

And the dwarrows...

Bilbo longingly looked towards their tents, one tent standing out. Guards were practically surrounding the place where Thorin and his nephews were currently fighting for their lives. One of the only patients that were separated from the shared healing area.

With a sigh Bilbo turned away with a heavy heart. Thorin had banished him after all, and he was sure that going there, without Thorin conscious and able to rescind his banishment in front of witnesses, he would be at best thrown out roughly and at worst chased out at weapon-point. No, the dwarrows, while preferred, were not an option to him.

All of a sudden Bilbo felt incredibly alone. And homesick. He was the only one of his people here, and while he had never really fit into the Shire, there had been no denying that he had belonged there. Now he was an outsider, a burden, a betrayer and didn't know where to turn to. Gandalf had disappeared, Bilbo had seen neither hide nor hair from the wizard since they had separated in battle. He wondered if Gandalf had been injured, or if he was off for some other wizardly business and had forgotten about Bilbo.

With a sigh Bilbo slowly stood up, ignoring the aches as he slowly picked his way through the battleground towards the elvish area. He would ask for supplies and try to make do on his own until Thorin woke. If he woke.

He avoided talking to any elves he had already met. He was already a familiar face for all of them, since Thorin had almost thrown him off the ramparts. Everybody knew the strange little halfling that had traded the Arkenstone and his treasure. The elf frowned at his request but subsided quickly, giving him a little bit of food and water, some medical supplies and a basic kit for survival. Flints to make a fire, a blanket that could also be used as a raincoat and a sleeping-bag. It was more than Bilbo had hoped for and he had thanked the elf earnestly, knowing that supplies were already running low even though the races tried to share the basics.

Afterwards he left. He dragged his feet over the battleground towards a corner, near the mountain, that had mostly been left untouched by the battle. It was close to the dwarven camp, but not too close that they would try and make him go away, even though some eyed him with suspicion and not even an hour later the guards near the entrance to Erebor had doubled.

Bilbo was fine with that. Riches, cold and gleaming, held no worth in his eyes after all.

Setting up a make-shift camp for one person was an experience. He had no wood to make a fire with, and no strength left to collect some. He used the blanket and environment to make a small rain-cover over the area he wanted to use for sleeping, nestled in between heavy rocks that had landed when the entrance of Erebor had exploded before Thorin had charged out into the fray. It hid him from view and provided cover from not only sight but also the elements such as wind. In the end Bilbo was rather happy with how it had turned out and without thinking further on it, he nestled down into his sleeping-bag and drifted off, the steady pulsating warmth of his injured arm following him into his dreams.

Notes:

So... I went to this Halloween party and saw someone dressed up as a werewolf, fur and all. Cool huh? Yeah, and somehow that ended in me wanting Bilbo to be a were-something, or shapeshifter. I already have 2 other open stories so this. was. not. planned.
At all.
I'm not sure when I will write more but if the idea intrigues you, leave me a note. Reviews feed my writing-fenzy! They are the lifeblood of my stories. Besides, who doesn't want to see a Warg!Bilbo? I'm not sure about the pairing eiher. I might do no pairing, I'm partial for Bilbo/Thorin but since I'm already doing that in another story I might go for something else here... if you have a wish, you can say so.
I will not promise to continue/finish this story, my main concern is my other story for now. I'll write on it whenever I find time or my muse forces me to.