A Shot in the dark (Bagginshield)

Chapter Eight

The Misty Mountains.

If there was ever a place in Middle Earth that Bilbo would have been happy never to see again, it would have been that mountain range. He could see it from the distance even miles away, and the sight of it made his stomach twist into knots.

—all he can focus on is the cold. It is the type of cold that he has never felt in all his years. It is a cold that burns when it touches his skin, makes every breath hurt, and turns every joint in his body stiff—

"Is there really no other way than this mountain?" he asked Bombur as they lingered in the back of the Company.

"Well, one could go around the mountain if they were up to it," the cook answered. "But it takes a lot longer."

"And we don't have time to spare," added Óin from his other side.

Bilbo frowned. The first time around he had never given much thought to the reason why their journey was made in haste besides the obvious reason of the door. But now he found himself curious as to what the cause could possibly be.

"Why is it so important for us to get to the mountain as quick as possible?" he asked aloud.

"Because others have heard the rumors that Smaug may be dead or gone and are seeking our treasure. We must hurry to beat them," Bombur answered, rubbing his belly.

"Besides, we've been waiting for decades to reclaim our home. We will wait no longer," Óin added with a fierce scowl that could rival Dwalin's on a bad day.

"Ahh, that makes sense." He nodded before another question formed from the answer. "But who would want to challenge a rumor of a possible dead dragon just for gold?"

"When it comes to greed, there are no depths that one will not go to satisfy their lust," Óin replied. "We Dwarves know it well. It is a fine line we walk between greed and passion. It is one we must always tread with caution."

—there is a look in Thorin's eyes that he does not know. He has never seen those blue eyes darken so greatly or become so detached from any sort of life. He follows the king's gaze and finds it is on the Arkenstone, and feels himself turn cold—

I think I understand what you mean, Bilbo thought, glancing to the front of the Company where Thorin led them on.

I think I understand quite well.

It was dark when they finally reached the mountain.

It was agreed that they would rest for the night before beginning the journey through the mountain. Camp was set up and everyone began to attend to their own needs duties and needs. Without anything to do, Bilbo found himself a snug nook to curl up in, and watched his Dwarves go about their business.

It was a silly and overly sentimental thing for him to do, but he found that he enjoyed watching his comrades more than he did speaking to them. He enjoyed watching Bombur become so engrossed in his cooking that he tuned out the entire world. He watched fondly as Ori scribbled in his book and smeared ink on his cheeks every time he pushed a braid out of his eyes. He liked to memorize the melody that Dwalin hummed to himself while cleaning his weapons, and the sound of Kíli's laughter as he teased his brother.

I have become the old man I swore I would never be, he admitted to himself, snorting and shaking his head.

"Something funny, Master Burglar?"

Bilbo glanced up to the Dwarf that had joined him, and shook his head with a grin. "Simply laughing at myself, Master Bofur."

"Often times that is the best thing to laugh at," Bofur agreed, taking a seat next to him. In his hands he held a small, curved knife and a piece of unmarked wood.