Chapter 3: Of Luncheons and Charred Coal

It was not that Bilbo did not like hobbit lasses.

No, to the contrary, he rather enjoyed their company. All the ones whom he had met were either very pretty, or very nice, and in many instances: both. They tended to come by every piece of gossip there was, and were quite good at keeping up to date with what was happening in every borough and farm in every farthing; which parties were held when and which vendors were putting out the best offers on high quality goods; and they also tended to be better dancers than the lads.

Yes, Bilbo did like hobbit lasses, but he liked them much better before they became tweens.

As fauntlings they had all run around together, little girls and boys alike; playing in the fields for long hours under the seething sun (or pouring rain, never minding the worst of weather), and sparing no thoughts to how they had gotten their trousers and skirts as dirty as the ground itself whilst crawling around in the tall grass for a game of hide-and-seek. They would all, later, strip off their clothing and jump into a shallow forest pond for a quick bath and more games, splashes and gleeful squeals echoing through the trees, before each pair of little feet ran home to their respective warm smials – but not before catching a dozen fireflies and competing who could catch that certain one that glowed slightly brighter, or with a slightly different colour, than the rest of them.

Then, as the years came and passed, things slowly changed. The girls would much rather not have their now prettier dresses – patterned and laced, or tied with more costly silk ribbons – get dirty; they screamed when a prank was played and they did; they would never even think of bathing in the nude, no matter how warm the water or how seething the sun, and would sooner retch than miss the curfew for dinner or supper because of a few measly fireflies.

They did, in Bilbo's opinion, become slightly more boring as they became tweens. Sure there were other, newer, more grown-up games that they wanted to play, and Bilbo – like all the other lads – had engaged in their kiss-and-never-tells and I-dare-you-tos, even when his beloved glass jar, with the punctured lid that his mother had made for him, was resting beneath his bed, just waiting to chase through the forests again.

Later, as he grew a bit older, he supposed he understood the appeal of ribbons in long wavy hair, and new colourful dresses for this party and that event. He also supposed he understood the appeal of these new slightly different, slightly exciting games, and if they had encouraged him to pursue a tumble in the hay with lass, or lad or perhaps even both, that was very much his own business thank you.

What he did not understand the appeal of was marriage – as a consequence of love. It was not that he disliked it, in any way. He saw how couples around the Shire were quite happy together, and he definitely saw how his parents were still deeply in love with one another.

But he also saw how his mother's eyes would sometimes stray from whatever had her occupied, and then longingly look out to the East for a while. She would then shake her head before returning to her mundane chores, sewing this cloth and baking that tart and cleaning those shelves… and thus Bilbo knew that although she was very happy here with him and his father, loving them both from the bottom of her abundant heart, there was still something out there worth longing for.

Bilbo could understand, to some extent. He loved his books and scrolls, filled with stories and adventures, much more than he thought he could love any hobbit other than his family. And even if, one day, he did settle down he knew he would still be longing for running in the fields and imagining his own adventures – a fantasy inspired by his mother's tales and his many storybooks.

He knew who he was though – Bilbo Baggins, a Baggins of Bag-End – and he knew how it was quite expected of him to eventually become the respectable owner of the Hill and its lands, and the suitable Head of his father's family.

But he also knew Adalgrim had been quite right. He was, besides, a Took, and a young one at that, and this was the last summer during which he could blame his youth for his misgivings. Surely, he could step one foot over the figurative line he had painted in his mind and let a few bygones be bygones. He would be his own master quite soon, and before that happened he should take his jar out to catch fireflies, if only once more, before leaving such to the next generation of young hobbits that would run by his bench in the mornings – where he would sit and smoke his morning pipe, like the respectable hobbit he would be…eventually.

It took two days before Belladonna came up with a fitting chore for his punishment.

Bilbo came into the kitchen from the atrium. He had, he noticed with disfavour, just missed a nice and quite substantial second breakfast consisting of fresh strawberries, syrups and buttery pancakes. Usually he would not miss out on such a treat, but he had spent the morning going through his mother's vast collection of maps and books and gotten rather besotted with a collection of original and translated works in Sindarin. In the end he had picked up a poetic one which he decided to study further.

While walking closer he had heard a familiar voice in conversation with his mother, and upon entering he saw that Rosa Took, his father's cousin, had come by from Tuckborough that morning. She sat by the end of the table, a cup of steaming tea cradled in her gentle hands (flavoured with roses, he dared guess, for she loved the irony of it), and she smiled at him as he strolled in.

Belladonna had been leaning against the counter, her back to the doorway, so she had not seen him before following Rosa's smile, finding Bilbo at the end of it. A smile of her own lit up her face as she regarded him, and she exclaimed: "Ah, Bilbo! Just the lad I was looking for!"

Bilbo returned the smile and nodded, and then respectfully turned to their guest, as was proper to do: "Morning, Aunt Rosa. How are you doing?"

"Oh, just wonderful, my lad," she replied, and then raised a jesting eyebrow. "I heard you will be spending some time down in Tuckborough in the weeks to come."

Bilbo couldn't help but let a miserable moan escape him at the reminder. "Yes, you've heard right. I will be going down first thing tomorrow morning."

Rosa laughed, but in a kind reminiscence rather than sour spite. "Ah, to be young…" she spoke, a floating expression on her gentle face. "My boy Adalgrim sure is a Took by name, but I've put a bit of Baggins in him as well. He'd go quite mad with only Flambard and Sigismond to share his chores…he's quite glad to have you, I'm sure."

Bilbo nodded curtly, agreeing, but still somewhat grim about the entire business. Swallowing, he let himself forget about it in favour of turning to his mother. "You were looking for me?"

Belladonna looked up from the counter again; away from the cup sized jars of jam she was neatly preparing and placing into one of her cherished woven baskets. There they were hidden beneath a crisp white cloth embodied with colourful flowers and leaves.

"Ah, yes… auntie was just telling me about our visitors," she started, and Bilbo raised his eyebrows in question. She grinned then, a mixture of exhilaration and delight on her face. "As it turns out, uncle Isengrim invited them to stay for the Midsummer feast – and they've accepted!"

Bilbo felt his jaw go slack as he comprehended what had been said, and Rosa stifled a giggle to supply her sister-in-law's tale: "It is true! During our little dinner party a couple of nights ago they shared that they are all craftsmen, of some sort. Tinkers, tailors, smiths, chefs and scribes, the whole lot of them!" she explained hastily. "They were on their way to the Blue Mountains to practice their crafts there, but are not at all opposed to stay in the Shire and offer their services for a month or so. It's all quite exciting!"

Belladonna's mirthful expression revealed that she could not seem to agree more. "They were invited to go wherever they pleased in the Farthings, wherever a service of theirs might be needed… and guess who moved into the old forge last night! Right here, in our Hobbiton!"

"Um… a dwarf, I'm guessing," Bilbo said.

"A blacksmith, my dear Bilbo!" his aunt tittered.

"We can finally get our saucepan and locks fixed, without heading to Michel Delving to find a proper smith! And he's a dwarf! Best metalworkers you will find in this day and age," Belladonna said. "And this makes my little chore for you much easier to accomplish! Here you go!"

She then twirled around again and handed him the basket she had been preparing rather neatly. Bilbo curiously lifted the cloth, taking delight in breathing in the scent of fresh bread and jam and cheese that had been neatly arranged inside. He licked his lips. "Is this my lunch?"

But his mother promptly smacked his hand as it wandered too close to the goods. Rosa laughed from her spot by the table and said: "Hands off, boy – those are not for you."

Bilbo looked puzzled at the basket while nursing his hand. "Then whatever is it for?"

"It's for our new resident dwarf, of course!" Belladonna chided, once again holding out the basket for her son to take now that she knew he wouldn't throw himself over it. "Now, here… I want you to bring him this for elevenses. You can talk to him, get to know him a little, and invite him up for tea this afternoon!"

Bilbo rolled his eyes, though he had half expected there to be ulterior motives. Of course his mother would come up with a little scheme like this if it allowed her to host stranger-folk at her table. He was feeling a little uncertain about the matter, though…he already wasn't on a very good foot with one dwarf, possibly not any of the others either, and there was no guarantee that they would be good company. But at the same time, the thought of talking to a real dwarf – holding a proper conversation with someone who must've travelled far across Middle-earth and seen so many cities, rivers and forests, and other unbelievable sights — was quite exciting, for him and his mother both.

He gnawed on his lip to seem like he was considering it, but in the end he knew he would not be able to refuse. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Goodness… oh, fine. I will."

Belladonna let out a squeal of excitement that she seemed to have contained since the moment she first mentioned the dwarf. "Oh goodness! How thrilling! Who knows where he has come from? Perhaps the Iron Hills or even returning to the Blue Mountains… or perhaps even Erebor! Oh, Bilbo, hurry along! It's already past ten and I'm not getting any younger!"

"Oh, only you Bella, only you…" Rosa laughed.

Bilbo couldn't help a smile of his own at his mother and her endearing happiness, and quickly complied by setting out the door – basket on his arm and his book under the other. "I'll be back by tea, then. Good day, auntie. Good day, ma!"

The last he heard before closing the door was Belladonna calling after him: "And ask him if he prefers sausages to ham!"

The forge in Hobbiton was built on the south side of the Water, looking straight over at the Mill and to the marketplace beyond. It was a short walk, barely five minutes for a young hobbit lad who was used to taking long walks around the Farthings (unless he was running, of course), and it didn't take Bilbo very long at all to get there.

On his way he greeted his neighbours and friends on Bagshot Row, and the homes beyond, with various "good mornings" and "how do you dos". He manoeuvred his way through the lively marketplace, dancing around stalls, vendors and customers, lifting his basket up high to avoid a flock of fauntlings rushing by him, and regrettably turning down their offer to come with them and dig for worms to use as bait (but he promised he would show them some good fishing spots sometime in the afternoon). He waved politely to a pair of blushing young lasses he recognised to be Boffins from Yale, probably there to visit their relatives in Overhill. Soon he was through the market and on his way past the Mill. Mrs Sandyman offered him a buttered bun hot out of the over as he walked past, which he accepted gleefully before continuing over the bridge. It was hardly a second breakfast, but it was tasty and satisfying nonetheless.

It was a strange thing to see the forge's dark chimney smoking and burning.

The old forge had not been in use for decades – and certainly not in Bilbo's life time – but it had always stood there, right by the little cottage that had once served a lone blacksmith. When he had been much, much younger (perhaps eight or nine, but no more) the Hobbiton fauntlings would tell ghost stories of it and dare each other to break in. As far as he knew no one ever had, for while it was not in use the adults still kept it safely locked up. They would, occasionally, have the smith from Michel Delving come by to maintain it and keep it from rotting away, as though someone might have use for it one day.

At least, he must've done his job properly, Bilbo concluded, for the forge was now blazing with life.

He slowly stepped up to the door, listening to the steady rhythm of clinging metal from the inside, and watching the dancing red light that shone through the crack under the door. The scent of burning coal and ashes was very unfamiliar, quite different from twigs and firewood in the hearth during long winter days. It was new, and rather exciting, and Bilbo found he quite enjoyed it.

Not wanting to interrupt what he deemed to be a craftsman at work, he decided to wait for the clinging to stop. Once it did, after a hiss of steam and the clang of something heavy being put down, he knocked thrice.

At first there was nothing, so he tried again and nervously added, "G-Good Morning! Um, can I have a moment of your t-time, please?"

It took a little while, but after some shuffling and grumbling the door swung open, and a dwarf stepped into the opening.

The first thing he noticed about the dwarf was that he was quite different from the ones Bilbo had imagined from his mother's fairy tales. While the dwarf spokesman, Onar, had been stout and bearded, gruff and round faced with a nose reminiscent of a potato in shape, this one – though he would never admit to it outside the confinement of his own thoughts – was, in a sense, incredibly handsome.

His face was quite shapely, with high cheekbones and a sharp, regal nose. He had a beard, albeit far shorter than the given expectations, though Bilbo supposed it was practical for working in a forge. Two quite outlandish braids – like the ones a girl might think to weave through her tresses, and adorn with flowers to draw attention – ran down on either side of his noble face, and the rest of his dark, shimmering mane was held back in a simple tie. His skin was darkened by the dirt and the warmth of the forge. Bilbo couldn't help but take notice of his wear: a light tunic shaded a dark blue and dirtied with black stains, worn over a very, very sturdy upper body by hobbit standards. It was nothing like the heavy traveling gear he had seen on all the dwarves a few days earlier. It was to deal with the heat, undoubtedly, for it was cut open at the neck and running down his chest. Before his wandering gaze could discover just how far down it went, a voice at the back of his mind made him snap his head up to look straight into a pair of strikingly familiar blue eyes.

While his mind slowly worked to place them together with a slightly different face at a slightly different time the smith's regal features twisted into a more recognizable expression of distaste, and everything clicked together just as the dwarf opened his mouth.

"You…!" was accusingly heard from a deep, throaty voice, but in unison with a lighter one that he recognized as his own.

Still, it was the only confirmation Bilbo needed: this was definitely the dwarf from the river.

Bilbo was aware that they had both been staring numbly at each other for quite a while before anyone spoke again. The dwarf had composed himself first, tiredly rubbing his obvious dislike away from his face before crossing his arms and glaring expectantly at the hobbit.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, pulling Bilbo out of his stupor.

"What am I—me…? I live here! Oh, well not exactly in this house – but here, in Hobbiton!" he answered, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he fumbled with his words. "I should be the one asking you what you are doing here."

"I'm working…in the forge." The following 'obviously' needed not be added, for it was written all over the dwarf's face.

"Oh," Bilbo simply said. And then it dawned on him. "OH."

Of all the dwarves that had travelled through the Shire that day, the one who had come to stay in Hobbiton was the exact same one he had thoroughly embarrassed himself in front of in his failed rescue attempt.

While Bilbo went through his realisation and the following inner turmoil the dwarf seemed less than amused at his antics.

"Unless you have a reason to be here… I am rather busy," he said and gestured to the forge, "and I will not have my time go to waste arguing nonsense with a halfling."

"H-Halfling…!" Bilbo spluttered, unbelieving of what he had just heard. The nerve of the dwarf! Settling for work in a town of hobbits and then insulting them in such a manner. "I'm not half of anything, I will have you know!" he defended fiercely.

Though the dwarf only huffed, "Half-of-a-wit, surely."

At this point Bilbo only wished to let go of all property and hospitality and smack the rudeness out of the dwarf with the nearest hard object at hand, and then be on his way. It was through clenching his teeth and hands that he noticed his mother's basket still in his grip, and Bilbo remembered that he hadn't come there to banter and throw insults with a dwarf. He was there to make up for his wrongdoings, and to deliver a welcome gift on his mother's behalf.

Biting down hard on the inside on his cheek, he steadied his breathing and calmed his temper, exhaling his frustration in favour for raising the basket and holding it out for the blacksmith to accept.

"Here," he said, but the dwarf did not move to receive the gift, opting for staring at Bilbo with a mixture of confusion and disinterest, as if whatever work he was currently occupied with was more important than this. Bilbo sighed, and prompted: "Take it! It's for you."

Slowly the dwarf took the basket from him, curiously lifting the adorned cloth to peek at the contents. Bilbo saw something akin to surprise on the dwarf's face, and then he looked up with the same puzzled expression, but his impartialness fading considerably.

"So you're a grocer, then," he said, "when you're not out letting wild birds loose on unexpected travellers."

And Bilbo could barely take it after that. Being called a grocer was one thing – and really, he! A Baggins, and Took, a grocer! Ha! – but being called on the mischief he was already regretting and paying for was taking a shot far below the belt, and it hurt his pride.

"It wasn't supposed to happen that way," he defended, masking his anger by speaking calmly, "We didn't know you were… dwarves. And we did try our best to help!"

The dwarf snorted at that. "Your best could hardly be anything at all. It landed you in the river as well, requiring me to save the both of us – so abundant is the help of the halflings."

Never mind property, Bilbo thought as he glared hotly at the smith, I am far done with this thrice damned dwarf and his insults!

"Thank you," he gritted out through a tight lipped smile that he did not even attempt to pretend to be real, "is what most people would say. That's the way we do it in the Shire. But then again, I suppose it's quite obvious that they don't teach you much in regards of manners and gratitude where you are from, Mister Dwarf – I'm sorry that I didn't see it sooner, though I do, after all, only possess half-of-a-wit, or so I've been told. Good Morning!"

And with that he turned on his heels and didn't look back, leaving the dwarf to think whatever he might about Bilbo Baggins and his sort, for Bilbo certainly did not care.

Confounded be all if he would ever invite someone like this dwarf to a meal!

Bilbo got home around tea time, as he had promised, but his mood was not a very good one. He had spent his day trying in vain to study the poems under one of his favourite trees on the road going to East Farthing, but his thoughts had been plagued with the episode from that morning, driving him mad with the details of the "meeting". So bothered had he been that he did not have it in his heart to stop and play with the Bywater fauntlings on his way home, nor show the Hobbiton ones the fishing spots he had promised.

Belladonna was setting the table as he trekked in through the parlour, putting down his book, and seemed anxious to know how his delivery had gone – which, of course, was the first thing she asked about.

"Good," Bilbo answered, dismissively, and hoped to avoid further questioning.

But his mother would not be brushed off. "Good. And…?"

"Yes, good – very well, he really liked the… bread."

He knew he was lying through his teeth, but it would be so very humiliating for his mother to know how indecent he had acted… and how rude the dwarf had been when she had wished so desperately to hold a conversation with him.

Belladonna hummed softly, putting down the last of the plates and cutlery. "And is he coming this afternoon?"

"Oh—oh, no, very busy was he, no time at all for tea, newly opened and all, ahem."

She could, of course, see right thought him, but did not make mention of it.

"I see…" she hummed instead. "Alright, we shall have to attempt again then, shall we not? Why don't I make him something for elevenses tomorrow, and you can drop it off after breakfast before you head to Tuckborough."

"Oh, yes–absolutely," Bilbo agreed, even though the last thing on earth he wanted was to talk to the dwarf again.

Belladonna smiled, and there was a slight glint in her eye. "Great! I would absolutely love to meet him after all, this mister… hm. Bilbo, remind me, what was his name again?"

"Oh, um…" Bilbo fumbled, suddenly reminded that for all the insults and name-calling he had not learned the dwarf's name, nor introduced himself as he should have done. "Ah, he was very, very busy you see – we didn't talk much at all, really."

"Hm… Bilbo, dearest, you make it sound like you didn't go see him at all," she said teasingly, "Shall I need to have you describe him to me so that I know you didn't just run away with the food for your own lunch?"

Bilbo flustered a little when he realised that out of all the things he actually could do for his mother was describe the dwarf with great accuracy, from his regal nose down to the shade of his piercing eyes.

Belladonna sighed. "Well, I shall still have the basket ready on the morning. Did you place it back in the kitchen for me?"

"I left it at the forge," he said, a sort of dread creeping up his back as he grasped it was the first truthful thing he has said that afternoon. "I forgot to pick it up on my way back – I'll do so right now. I won't be a minute," he said hurriedly, and his mother just shook her head as he rushed out the door.

Bilbo quite dreaded the thought of seeing the dwarf again; he was mentally preparing himself for whatever scenario might come to pass once he got to the forge as he ran down the Hill and across the bridge… but he had not expected that he would find the basket quite quickly. There it was, though: resting on a bench right outside the forge's door – like the dwarf had expected him to come back for it, eventually, and had not wanted to see him again, either.

As he picked up the familiar item, lighter from the lack of content except for the neatly folded cloth, Bilbo found that he did not mind that at all.

"At least we have this in common, if nothing else," he muttered to himself as he walked back up the path towards Bag-End.

Notes: To be honest, I don't like the air at the end of this chapter. I will head back to the drawing board and possibly rewrite the last part once I'm more confident in writing Thorin. Until then, it might be a while until I can properly write on this again... I'll try, but I usually don't post things I'm not happy about. *sighs*

I'm also currently home for Christmas so I'm spending more time with my family than with anything else, and I have exams coming up in January, sadly.

And DOS came. I'm shattered all over the place right now.

Other than that, thank you all so much for your support! It's really helping me to take the story in some interesting directions.

Also, I really need to brainstorm for sub plots. While I'm confident in the main story I'd still like to develop the universe around it some more, explore characters and flesh out the bones a little.

Goodness. Anyway... Thank you for reading! Happy Holidays!