Once Upon A Contract

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 18: 𝕸𝖊𝖉𝖉𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝕺𝖑𝖉 𝕴𝖓𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕿𝖜𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝕻𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖘

It was a subdued group that took off the next day.

Bilbo wasn't sure about the others, but he had not had a peaceful night. His dreams had been filled with faceless figures begging for warmth and food, all while howls and screams sang a tune for the figures to dance and jerk to like marionettes. He had woken up breathing heavily and the horror of the dream seemed to hang off his shoulders like a well worn cloak.

So, when the company slid up into their saddles and began to clomp ever onwards and down the trail, Bilbo couldn't help but be grateful for the silence. It was important to note, Bilbo did not want an uncomfortable and heavy silence to blanket the company. But that morning, he couldn't find it in himself to try and break through the division between himself and the dwarrow. He couldn't (or perhaps, didn't want to) find the words needed to bring back the cheer of the day previous.

Plodding along near the back of the odd group, Bilbo only caught flashes of the worn jacket Thorin was wearing. He hadn't seen the dwarf come back during the night, but he had seen the deep bruises under the solemn dwarrow's eyes. The frown accompanying the dark sleepless circles had been dark enough (haunted enough) that Bilbo had nearly flinched back. But, he hadn't.

There was something sharp, something twisted, behind Thorin's eyes and Bilbo had merely jutted out his jaw and dared the king to say a word when Thorin had halted beside Bilbo's pack. Bilbo was the Master Baggins. He had been spat at, sworn at, threatened, and begged by more signees than he cared to count. One dwarf who had had a bad night, was not going to throw Bilbo's whole day off.

(If Bilbo was resolutely not thinking about the realizations he had had the night before, or of the parallels and unfortunate circumstances that led an appointment to office far too young, it was only for Bilbo to know.)

Bilbo knew the stubborn pride that sat on Thorin's shoulders. Had seen it far too many times. It was the type of pride that came with having nothing but yourself. With having been run over, trod on, and beaten down until all you had left was your own sense of worth.

Privately, Bilbo thought it was a testament to Thorin's character that the man even tried to go to the council of lords and petition for help to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. Especially when one put in the consideration of the battle (and loss) of Moria. His father and his grandfather had gambled and lost. Thorin was paying the price.

Thorin might be a stubborn fool but Bilbo at least thought he was an honest one.

It was also a testament, Bilbo thought, that Thorin did not blame the lords for refusing to come. He did not yell, kick, or scream. Oh, it was obvious Thorin was displeased but he did not take it out on the company, which was a pleasant surprise. (Not that Bilbo thought Thorin would have taken his anger out on the only people who backed him, but Bilbo had seen what desperation did to a soul.)

So, when the company set out and Bilbo found himself plodding along a rather dreary group, it took very little effort to hang back and slide up next to the meddling Inbetweener. On one hand, it was infuriating. Bilbo had been trying to get the meddlesome Old Man alone for the past few days and Bilbo had thought he would have to resort to something drastic. On the other hand, Bilbo was rather pleased that Gandalf had not run off yet.

"Gandalf." Bilbo said mildly, his gaze fixed firmly off into the distance. (It would not do to look up at such an infuriating meddlesome Old Man, especially not while Bilbo was in that sort of mood.) "Why did you come for my mother?"

After he asked the question, Bilbo wished he could take it back. That was not what he had meant to ask. He had meant to tell of the ruins and of the twisted paths. He had meant to tell of the thing in the crypt.