Ravenhill

Chapter 19: Disgrace

Bilbo trudged back across the valley under the murky clouded sky. Zephyra had led the way to Dale, her eyes being keener in the darkness. Yet Bilbo found he didn't have as much trouble as he supposed. Perhaps he was acclimating after his time within the mountain.

'How long have we been here already?' Bilbo wondered. The lack of sun and the heaviness of his mind in those halls made it difficult to determine.

Bofur awaited Bilbo at the top of the wall. He extended a rope down to him at his mourning dove coo, one of the many bird calls they'd learned from Zephyra on their journey.

Bofur informed him that no one had noticed his absence, so Thorin had no reason to suspect anything from him.

"The elves have been moving their archers into position. If there's to be a battle, it'll be over by tomorrow's eve. Not that we'll be here to see it." Bofur said mournfully.

"These are dark days," Bilbo nodded. Bofur had no idea the true battle that was to come.

"I didn't expect you to return," the dwarf said, approaching the hobbit. "No one could blame a soul for wishing themselves elsewhere."

Bilbo leaned against the rocky wall, folding his arms across his chest and biting his cheek. "I can't do that Bofur. I won't leave... not now."

They stood together, silent in their understanding. The clouds parted, passing the moon. The two stared at one another in the gloaming as another cloud obscured the glowing orb above.

"He's making ready," Bofur said finally.

"Ready?"

"For war," Bofur nodded towards the hall, "he's in the armory. He wants all of us armored to the teeth come dawn."

Bilbo and Bofur made their way to where the dwarves of Erebor were readying themselves to fight. Mail was donned and axes were heaved from their racks. Every one of them decked out in shining iron, bronze, and steel plating that had been fashioned by some of the finest armorers in the land.

Bilbo approached from the hall towards the clattering of metal where most of the men of the company prepared. Standing there facing him was Thorin, waiting for him and clutching something in his hands.

"Master Baggins, come here," he commanded calmly.

Bofur walked on past them as Bilbo hesitantly made his way to Thorin. The king held out a garment of delicate chainmail. "You're going to need this," Thorin said, "put it on."

Bilbo proceeded to shrug off his jacket as Thorin told him about the metal garment. It was a vest made of silver steel. 'Mithril' it was called by my Thorin's forebears. No blade could pierce it. Bilbo reached his hands up underneath and began pulling it over his head. Intricate gold filigree decorated the edge of the collar, similar to Zephyra's black tunic.

Bilbo looked down at himself. It was quite smooth and cool to the touch, clinging tightly to his frame. He looked at Thorin, then to the other dwarves in their full battle regalia. He felt very underdressed for war.

"I look absurd," he huffed. "I'm not a warrior, I'm a hobbit."

"It is a gift," Thorin declared. "A token of our friendship."

Bilbo's mouth twitched, as he wasn't sure he would call it that. They were beyond friendship, weren't they? Or would they be nothing of the sort when all was said and done?

"True friends are hard to come by," he lowered his voice, grabbing Bilbo by the arm and stepping away from the others out of earshot. "I have been blind but now I begin to see." There was an urgency in his voice, a desperation.