A Shot in the dark (Bagginshield)

Chapter Three

Dwalin had never met a Hobbit before.

Hobbits rarely left their homes and he had never stopped at the Shire on his way to Ered Luin, so it was understandable why he had never seen one. Not that he cared, really. He had met enough races in his life at that point, and all of them turned out to be made of the same cloth—a greedy, hateful, ugly cloth.

But Bilbo Baggins was… different.

It was not his kindness or generous behavior that threw him off. He had met others before who were kind to Dwarves—stemmed from pity more than anything else, bastards—and it was not his willingness to go along on their quest either. Being promised a reward from the coffers of Erebor would motivate anyone, after all. No, what threw him off were not the actions or words from the Hobbit.

It was simply the way he looked at them.

For most of his life, Dwalin had been regarded by other races as a stupid and greedy barbarian. He had grown used to being seen as something lesser just because he was shorter than Men, and sported a beard that he was sure the weed-eaters were simply jealous of. He never liked it and never would, but he had come to accept it as just another fact of life.

But Bilbo Baggins did not look at him as if he were scum or trouble. He did not look at him with pity or mistrust. He did not even flinch in fear of his weapons or beard or many, many scars. No, he did not do any of the normal things that Dwalin had come to accept, and even expect on some level.

Instead, Bilbo Baggins looked at him the same way a lad looked at his first weapon. As if he was something wondrous and amazing and unreal.

It was unexpected.

He did not know Bilbo Baggins. He had done nothing to earn such a look from the Hobbit. He had not been friendly, or even kind to the Hobbit! Dwalin did not understand why he deserved such a look.

However, for all his confusion, he could not deny that some part of him was… pleased. It had been so long since anyone—even among his own kind—had given him such a look. It made him feel as if he was worth something again. That he wasn't just a wandering old Dwarf looking for a home, but a mighty warrior with the blood of an ancient line running through his veins.

Rather funny, really, he mused, glancing behind at the humming burglar riding along on the pony. Never thought a Hobbit could make me feel like a Dwarf again.

Bilbo had never enjoyed riding. Oh, he liked the animals themselves well enough, and had grown quite fond of a few ponies during his time traveling. But the riding itself he did not enjoy. Hobbits simply weren't meant to be removed from the ground in any manner.

Unfortunately he was stuck riding for the time being. They had left the Shire behind and were well on their way to Erebor. In that time, Bilbo had found himself growing more and more used to seeing his once dead companions alive and merry. The sharp ache in his heart had died down into a tolerable pinch, and the memories of another life no longer plagued him at every turn. Now he could at least face Fíli and Kíli without flinching, or wanting to burst into tears.

But for all his progress, he found that he still could not face Thorin. The leader of their Company hadn't paid him much mind and had spoken no more than a few words to him in passing, but even those few words had been horribly awkward for him as he struggled still to see this Thorin as his own person instead of a memory. It would be difficult, but he wanted to move past his own memories and feelings to build a fresh relationship with Thorin. They would never have the same friendship as they did before, but he did at least want a decent relationship with the Dwarf.