CHAPTER TWO: Still Before the Storm

The loud clang of swords on swords rang throughout the Shire, but no passing hobbit turned to stare as they were all accustomed to the familiar sound by now. Had been for quite some time, in fact.

Bilbo's lame wrist trembled underneath the force of Drogo's sword as he pushed back. Bilbo had broken a bone or two when he had still been an adventurous youth that loved to climb the tallest trees in Hobbiton (though he was never very skilled at it), and the fractures had never fully healed afterwards; it was the hobbit's one physical weakness, as it had been in the past and would also prove to be in the future.

That day had been Drogo's turn to teach the hobbit fauntlings swordfighting, and Bilbo, in a cheery mood at last night's success, had opted to help him out - which he was now beginning to regret. Apparently, he'd not regained nearly enough energy from his earlier doze as he'd assumed.

Their wide-eyed watchers continued to root for them as they stared in undisguised awe. You could hear some of them whispering to one another how they wanted to be just like Uncle Bilbo or Cousin Drogo when they were older.

At this, Bilbo had grit his teeth in determination, pushing with all his might against Drogo's sword one last time before he lunged back. His cousin's blade missed him by only hairlengths. Using Drogo's brief disorentation as an advantage, Bilbo came up behind his cousin's back.

Drogo let out a quiet curse when the sword met his neck from behind, reluctantly raising his hands in submission and defeat. More than half of the fauntlings began to cheer wildly. With a satisfied smirk, Bilbo sheathed his blade, turned to the little ones, and bowed deeply. Unfortunately for him, Drogo saw his chance and took it like any respectable hobbit would, lunging for his thrown sword laying on the ground. The next thing Bilbo knew was the cold steel greeting his throat. His eyes had widened in shock before he rolled them and groaned, despite the warmth and pride surging in his heart.

Drogo declared, "And that, my little masters, is how a true hobbit wins a fight against the nasty outsiders. Using your wit instead of your strength." Addressing his cousin directly, he softly added, "Remember, Bilbo. Never turn your back to the enemy, not unless you're sure they're out of the game. It may just cost you your life one day."

Drogo pulled away and a grin grew upon his face when the fauntlings came running up to them, nearly tackling him to the groung. Bilbo chuckled as he turned to collect his satchel and caught sight of someone lurking around the arena. Excusing himself from the group, he approached the older hobbit waiting for him.

"Uncle," Bilbo cordially greeted. "It's good to see you."

Isengrim Took III, or more commonly referred to as the Thain of the Shire at the time, grinned at his nephew. "Bilbo! I'm relieved to see you're well, too. Especially after last night." Bilbo's smile slid off slightly as his uncle continued, "Faramir Gamwich saw fit to inform me about the... hitch last night and sent a rider with a letter."

Bilbo sighed. "It truly wasn't that big of a deal, Uncle. The men were easily dealt with. Merely a little surprise."

Isengrim seemed to reluctantly accept that, a frown curving his eyebrows. "Still. You can't fault an old, fussy hobbit for worrying about his favorite nephew, now can you?"

Bilbo laughed, inquiring, "So, are there any new tasks for me?"

"No, strangely enough. The men have grown quiet recently, and it's highly unnerving. We're lucky we've even got the few jobs we have now. There's never been this sort of silence since... well, a long time," said the Thain. He seemed to have aged decades in only a matter of minutes. Composing himself, Isengrim reassured his nephew, "But nothing to worry yourself about, Bilbo. You should head home, rest a bit while you still can. I have a feeling this is just the still before the storm... a dark and dangerous one at that. Something that may just change our world."

His eyes were glazed over as he spoke contradictorily, a common symptom of his "senses", a rare gift given by Yavanna herself and a curse at the same time as well. The entire Shire was aware of them - they ranged from crop fertility to the gender of an embryo - and the elders deemed Isengrim a prophet, much to the disbelief of the hobbits.

His uncle had never meant to disconcert Bilbo then, but nonetheless, it happened and it stuck in the hobbit's mind afterwards too.

Because prophet or not, the Thain's senses were never mistaken.

Bilbo was making a poor attempt at relaxing on the bench outside of his smial after tea time, inhaling from his pipe and releasing different-coloured rings with peculiar shapes. However, as much as the hobbit tried, he could not get his mind of the echoes of his uncle's warning.

The still before the storm... Still before the storm...

Change our world...

What in Yavanna could that possibly mean? Bilbo wondered, a frown coming on his gently wrinkled face. Oh, bother, this is just the trouble I needed right now...

And that's exactly when someone whose hide nor hair had been glimpsed in these parts for many years, decided to come strolling by Bag End, stirring up even more trouble for our poor Master Baggins.

This time, in the form of rude, homeless dwarrows.

The edited version of this is available under the same name at Archive of Our Own. For the link, check out my bio.