If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the unknown characters belong to me.

Author’s notes: Again, I work with the bookverse Dwarves; therefore Kíli, too, is canonically blond. I made some allowances towards the film by making him a very dark blond, but blond still he is, with proper braids as it behoves a prince.

The All-welcome Inn never made it into the printed version, so I take the freedom of replacing it to the village Waymeet, where it would serve its purpose very well. The distances given in this chapter are my calculation, based on Karen Fonstad’s atlas, and probably full of mistakes.

Chapter 09 – We Are Going to See the Hobbit

After a great deal of hurried preparations, the day of departure finally came and Thorin and his handful of followers set off from Uruktharbun, heading to the small country of the Hobbits, led by the wizard. There was no farewell feast, for the sake of secrecy. They simply rode out of the East-Gate as if going on one of the many journeys they were known for.

Only Glóin’s lady came to see them off, together with her firstborn who still seemed mightily insulted that they would not let him join the Quest. Bifur, who had not seen him since his birth, eyed him with interest. The lad might have been a bit young to go on such a dangerous journey, but there could be little doubt that he could face a lot already.

He stood at about five feet even, just an inch or two shorter than Bifur herself, who was an average-sized Dwarrow-dam. Like his father, he was stocky and broad-shouldered, with large, strong hands, thick, corded arms and legs, and a heavily muscled chest and back. Unlike his father, though, he was all muscle and sinew, with not an ounce of fat on him.

His short and neat beard, not yet long enough to be properly braided, accentuated his handsome features, marked by high cheekbones, a strong jaw and a small nose. His coppery moustache was carefully braided with gold beads. His most notable features were, though, his large, almond-shaped eyes – a deep, rich brown that seemed almost black in sunlight – and a long, thick mane of straight dark copper hair that reached to the middle of his back.

Aye, Bifur decided, this was a son any Dwarf father would be proud to call his firstborn. She was happy for Glóin; for their entire family. It was bad enough that Óin had to give up on children of his own; at least in Glóin’s progeny the proud heritage of Gróin would live on.

Unaware of her watching eyes, Gimli unwound enough to exchange good-natured insults with the two young princes – they were distant cousins, after all – and wished them Mahal’s blessing before returning to the halls under the Zirakinbar. His mother followed suit, and the Company could begin its journey eastwards.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Travelling in the saddle was very different from travelling in a wagon, Bifur found. Above other things, it was a lot less comfortable. Sure, they had often ridden short distances – from their camp to the next settlement, for example, when it seemed more advisable to stay outside a Mannish village for the night – but being in the saddle for days upon days was a different matter.

They rode at a steady, leisurely pace, one best suited for long journeys. The distance between the Blue Mountains and Michel Delving – the chief settlement of the Shire, the annual fairs of which her caravan had frequently visited in the past – measured some fifty leagues as the crow flies. Following the Road that went around natural distances it was even longer. From there it was another twenty to twenty-four leagues to their actual destination: a village named Hobbiton, where their burglar was supposed to live.

However, Tharkûn decided not to enter the Tookland, with the reasoning that of all Hobbits the Tooks were the most inquisitive lot, which he explained with their Fallohide blood (whatever that was supposed to mean). Therefore they only followed the Great East Road to Waymeet, where they spent the night at the All-welcome Inn, at the junction of the Road and one of the smaller local roads heading northwards.

The inn was a low, wide-spreading building made of sturdy oak beams and whitewash, with a thatched roof. It was built over a stone cellar and had suitable lodgings for both Hobbits and Men; the former of which fit the Dwarves just nicely.

“’Tis called so because it is much used by travellers through the Shire, especially our own people on the way home to Uruktharbun,” explained Bifur to the young princes who had never left the Blue Mountains before.

They seemed to have taken an instant liking to her – perchance because she was the only female in their band – and often sought her company during the infrequent stops. Or they just wanted to be close to Bombur, their main source of food. They might count as adults but were still of an age when young Dwarves had a healthy appetite.

‘Still growing’, as Bombur tolerantly commented.

“Have you stopped here often?” asked Kíli.

The younger prince was of a more slender stature than his brother, his intricately braided hair and short beard a much darker gold; at times, when the sunlight fell upon it in a particular angle, it almost seemed the usual earth-brown of his LongBeard ancestors. Neither he, nor Fíli had any marked likeness to their mother, which made it easier for Bifur to like them. Fíli, golden, handsome and powerfully built, displayed the best traits of their StoneFoot father, while Kíli was… like nobody else, really. Still, the two seemed to get on splendidly and were inseparable.

“Oh aye, every time we crossed the Shire,” Bifur answered the question. “’Tis a nice place, and Missus Heathertoes is an excellent cook. Hobbit inns are always clean and comfortable and open to everyone.”

“You see, the Great East Road does not belong to the Shire, not exactly,” intervened Óin, sitting down next to them, obviously in loremaster-mood. “’Tis a very ancient road, built by the Mannish Kings of Arnor, way back when there still was a North-kingdom of Men. As the Hobbits accepted the overlordship of the Kings of Arnor, even though mostly just in name, they see it as their traditional duty to keep the Road in repair and provide hospitality for travellers.”

“Which, of course, is quite profitable for them,” added Bofur, grinning, “and also their main source of ‘outside news’ as they call it. The Heathertoes family has owned the Inn for at least six generations, they say. The family head is the village leader, too; has been re-elected twice already.”

“Aye, and his family was always kind to our folk,” said Bombur, making himself comfortable with a gusty sigh of relief.

He removed one of the small bronze capsules adorning his beard, opened it and put the small glob of sweetened tree gum hidden within into his mouth, chewing on it contentedly. Fíli and Kíli stared at the other random pieces of cheap jewellery scattered all over that mighty beard wide-eyed, trying to guess what other little snacks the old Dwarf might have stored there.

“That they were,” agreed Bofur. “I remember earlier times, when we were piss-poor and could barely make it from one market to another, Hjalli and his son Hunbogi were often hired as masons and bridge-menders. Me and the other miners, Tyrgg and Skeggi, may he rest in peace, worked on repairing the Road a few times, too.”

“And when we could not afford the coin for buying food, they accepted the knives and ploughshares and axe-heads forged by Órn and Mjötsognir as payment,” remembered Bifur with a fond smile. “Hobbits are a generous folk.”

Glóin, who never had much respect for those who would not haggle and showed little interest in riches, opened his mouth, presumably to say something derogatory about the Shire-folk – but the wizard glared so sternly at him from under those thorny eyebrows of his that he reconsidered and shut up.

“Quite right,” Tharkûn then said. “They are generous, and whenever you eat at the table of a Hobbit, you can be sure that the food will be good. Now, see that you rest well tonight; for we shall leave the Road tomorrow and continue our journey on little-know paths to Hobbiton.”

“But why must we do so?” asked Bifur. “Dwarves are truly not a rare sight on the East Road or its inns; why would anyone take notice of us?”

“Because, my dear Bifur, Dwarves are a common sight on the Road,” explained the wizard. “They seldom turn off it; and their appearance in a company at Hobbiton would cause a lot of talk. After all, Hobbits love to gossip almost as much as they love food, and that is saying a lot.”

“What do you suggest then?” growled Thorin, getting impatient with all that talk.

“We shall ride up on one of the minor roads till Bywater,” replied the wizard. “I will go forward and make sure that Bilbo is at home for us. Then we leave our steeds at the Green Dragon Inn – their stables are well-kept and the stable hands skilled with all kinds of horses – and approach Bag End on foot, in twos and threes. That way Bilbo won’t be too overwhelmed.”

“I will go first,” announced Dwalin, crossing his muscular arms on his mighty chest, daring everyone to argue with him.

Tharkûn gave him a doubtful look. “No offence, Dwalin, but do you really think your looks will beget instant trust in a Hobbit?”

“Aye, you’ll frighten the little fellow out o’ his wits if you appear on his threshold without warning,” supplied Bofur.

Dwalin shrugged. “I am the war-master; ‘tis my duty to go first. The Hobbit will have to get used to me if he wants to join us.”

Tharkûn’s face revealed his doubts that the Hobbit would indeed want to join the company after having been intimidated into the next Age by Dwalin. Bifur also had the impression that the wizard strongly felt that without the Hobbit going with them the quest would fail… for whatever reason.

Wizards were known to have strange insights. The true difficulty, however, would be to make those insights plausible for other people. Especially for outstandingly stubborn Dwarves of Durin’s line.

“Don’t worry about that, Tharkûn my friend,” said Balin, who had been listening to them in silence so far. “I will go with my brother. Unlike him, I know how to win the trust of gentler souls.”

Which was very true. As imposing as Balin could be in the council chamber, he had an uncanny talent of appearing all grandfatherly and trustworthy, by simply putting away his jewellery and smiling a lot. He played the role of the harmless, dotardly old Dwarf so well that people who did not know him would never imagine how determined and deadly he could be if he chose to.

This was the Dwarf who had fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar at the tender age of thirty-six, after all – and through the whole terrible, six-year-long war against the Orcs before that – and survived to tell the tale.

“Very well,” said Tharkûn reluctantly. “That might work. Let us make good use of the comfort of this fine inn tonight, then; in the next days we will camp under the stars.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the next day, the wizard rode forth at good speed early in the morning, while the Dwarves followed at a slower, steadier pace. They had no wagons to slow them down this time, but the pack ponies were loaded with burdens even a Dwarf pony would find heavy; mostly with foodstuffs, as they could not be certain how they might be able to replenish their resources, once they had left the plentiful and hospitable Hobbit country behind them. It was best to conserve the strength of the good beasts, as well as their own.

Therefore, it took them almost three days to make it from Waymeet to the point where the Bywater Road branched off the Great East Road, leading them to the village of Bywater, and their next chosen rest, the Green Dragon Inn.

Some of the more suspicious members of the Company – including Bombur, Glóin and, surprisingly enough, Dwalin – did not like the idea of staying in an inn named after a dragon, but Thorin silenced them with an icy glare. That did not bode so well with them at first; yet when they finally reached their temporary destination, everyone was relieved and pleased by the thought of a hot meal and real beds again.

The Green Dragon, frequented by Hobbits from both Bywater itself and the neighbouring settlement of Hobbiton, was a long, overground structure of several interconnected wattle-and-beam building, located on the Bywater Road. Its front looked at the local river – called by the Hobbits The Water with endearing simplicity – where it widened to the small lake of Bywater Pool, which was also fed by another stream from the Northfarthing.

They arrived in the late afternoon, when the inn was quite full and the servants busy. But Tharkûn must clearly have announced their coming, for Master Noakes, the innkeeper – called Young Noakes, to separate him from his late father, the Old Noakes, who had owned the inn  before him – was already looking out for them.

The innkeeper was a fairly big man for a Hobbit (though still shorter than even Bifur), with a rotund build, somewhat sharp features and light brown hair that, unlike by most Hobbits, did not curl. His blue jacket of fine wool, with an earth brown waistcoat and breeches, as well as a linen shirt and a silk kerchief around his neck, revealed that he was doing well for himself and his family. Probably had farm shares, too, providing his business with a steady source of foodstuffs.

“Welcome, good masters!” he called out jovially, as soon as he spotted the approaching Dwarves. “My name is Anso Noakes, and I have been waiting for you. Come in, come in; your rooms have been reserved for you, and it is almost time for dinner.”

The Dwarves did not wait for a second invitation. They dismounted with heartfelt groans, entrusting their ponies to the grooms of the inn, while other servants came running to take their bags to the aforementioned rooms and preparing baths for them.

The last one to arrive was a young Hobbit woman, so pleasantly plump that she barely fit into her tightly laced, moss green velvet bodice, her face round and rosy, her long hair a mass of dark brown curls. Her cherry mouth seemed to be in a permanent pout.

“My wife, Rosmery,” introduced her Master Oakes. “She will show you to your rooms; ask her if you find anything lacking. I must return to the Common Room to rescue my brother Jago. He is better at accounting than actually serving customers, you know.”

“Come with me, good masters,” said Missus Rosmery in a high, pleasant voice and hurried forth with a rush of her ample skirts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After settling in their rooms, they used the opportunity of a long-missed hot bath, and then went down to the Common Room for dinner – all of them, save for Thorin who had some urgent business to look after first.

“Save some of the dinner for me,” he said. “I do not know when I shall be back.”

Young Kíli, whom this request – or rather order – had been addressed, nodded dutifully and hurried after the others. His uncle might be more lenient towards him than towards Fíli who was, after all, his heir, but the younger prince knew better than forget an order given by their mother’s eldest brother.

The large room was populated mostly by local Hobbits, both from Bywater and Hobbiton, as usual, but there were a few others, too, from different parts of the Shire, and they were doing what Hobbits were known to do: eating and gossiping. But again, who could have blamed them for such small pleasures after a day of hard work on the fields?

When the Dwarves filed in, the general noise in the room dropped to almost shocked silence. Clearly, the Hobbits in the heart of the Shire were not as used to outsiders among them as those nearer the borders. At least not when there was no fair in the village.

But when the strange folk sat down and started to eat with a healthy appetite, the worthies of Bywater and Hobbiton just shrugged and returned to their conversation.

“You were saying, Master Worrywort?” somebody urged the old Hobbit sitting near the hearth, with an enormous mug of ale before him.

The old chap with the leathery face and rough, calloused hands gave them a grim smile.

“I was sayin’ as Mr Baggins caught a bit of Tookish queerness from that mother o’ his,” he said with quiet dignity. “Somethin’ that’s only waitin’ for a chance t’ get out. An’ it will get out sooner or later, mark my words. One day, it will get out!”

“Stuff an’ nonsense!” countered an old Hobbit matron, sitting in a corner and stitching away on a handkerchief in the light of an oil lamp. She had a ruffled bonnet on her head, covering her hair and a crocheted red shawl around her bony shoulders, knotted in the front. “Mr Bilbo is every bit as respectable an’ reliable as his father was, may he rest in peace. A true Baggins, he is, and Bagginses never have any adventures.”

“But the Tooks do,” someone else argued. “An’ his mother was a Took; a daughter of Ye Aulde Took himself. Even you have t’ admit, Grammer Noakes, as there’s something not wholly Hobbit-like in them Tooks!”

“He’s right, Mum,” a well-dressed Hobbit with the same sharp features as the innkeeper but with curly, straw-blond hair, commented, laughing. “Everyone knows as from time to time one of them Tooks goes mad in t’ head and leaves the Shire on some mad adventure. Some of them are never seen again.”

Oh, so this was the innkeeper’s brother; the one better at accounting than at serving customers, Bifur realised. The old matron had to be their mother, then… and apparently a level-headed person.

Which could not be said about the rest of the crowd, apparently.

“It had always been said as long ago some or other o’ them Tooks had married into a fairy family,” somebody said in a hushed voice.

“Goblin family, more likely,” somebody else retorted.

The Hobbit matron gave the latter one a sharp look.

“Be careful with that loose tongue o’ yours, Rollo Sackville,” she warned. “I shan’t tolerate people settin’ mean rumours in motion about perfectly respectable gentlehobbits. Bilbo Baggins is a good customer of mine – much better than you, tight-fisted and ill-humoured rascal as you are. He never caused you, or anyone else, for that matter, any harm.”

“But Grammer, you can’t deny that he is odd,” insisted the Sackville. “He’s sittin’ in that hole o’ his, readin’ books all day… or wandering off to t’ wild places an’ woods, talkin’ to strange folks: Big People and Elves, even Dwarves! ‘Tis not natural!”

Somebody hissed at the fool angrily, reminding him of the presence of Dwarves – and grim-faced Dwarves, armed to their teeth at that – within earshot, and he hurriedly threw some coppers onto the counter and left. The conversation then turned to other topics… among the Hobbits, at least.

“Do you think they were talking about our burglar?” Óin finally asked.

There were identical shrugs all around the table.

“If he was ever talking to Dwarves, those Dwarves were certainly not us,” replied Bifur. “We never ran into any Hobbits outside Bree – or the annual fairs within the Shire. And most Shire Hobbits rarely even visit Bree. They do not leave their small country if they can help it.”

“But lots of other caravans travel the Road,” pointed out Bofur. “He could have met wandering craftsmen, too. Many Dwarves cross the Shire on their way between the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills; ‘Tis hard to tell.”

“You are quite right, my good Bofur,” a gruff voice said unexpectedly, and Tharkûn sat down with them, folding his long body somewhat uncomfortably on the Hobbit-level bench.

 “Fortunately, it matters very little what kind of Dwarves Mr Baggins has been talking earlier,” he then continued. “What matters is that he is not averse to talking to Dwarves to begin with. He is also curious about Dwarves; and he is quite an adventurer in the heart of his hearts…. Even though he is not aware of that fact yet.”

“So you have found him home,” said Bifur, lowering her voice for Tharkûn’s ears alone, while the other Dwarves drank deeply to celebrate the reunion with their advisor.

The wizard nodded, but he seemed a lot less delighted about the whole topic than he ought to be.

“I called to see him this morning; and though I know more or less what to expect, I must say that my confidence is somewhat shaken,” he replied in a similarly low voice. “I fear that things are going to be far more difficult than I have thought.”

“How so?” asked Bifur, worried by his obvious concern.

If a wizard was concerned, then things had to be looking very grim indeed. Hopeless even.

Tharkûn sighed, seemingly lost in his memories.

“How would you select any Hobbit for such purpose?” he murmured, more to himself than to Bifur. “You know them, my dear Bifur, albeit perhaps not as good as I do, even though I have been away from the Shire for more than twenty years till now, on less pleasant business. I saw their tough, uncomplaining courage during the Long Winter, which alone enabled them to survive. That and their pity for one another. They were very hard put to it then: one of the worst pinches they have been in, dying of cold, and starving in the dreadful dearth that followed.”

“As one who had spent her entire life on the Road, I know to value such courage and compassion,” said Bifur thoughtfully. “Yet the others may think differently. As you know, pity is usually not something of value among Dwarves. And even if this particular Hobbit possesses all those traits in abundance, that might not be enough to face the perils of the Road, especially across the Wilderland. And then there is still the Dragon to consider.”

Tharkûn nodded, slowly and grimly. “Yes, there is the Dragon. We must not forget about the Dragon. But I do tell you, Bifur, as I have told that stubborn, pig-headed King of yours repeatedly, that the only way to deal with the Dragon is through stealth. And stealth is something that Hobbits are best at.”

“I do not doubt that,” answered Bifur. “But I wonder if that would be enough?”

“Well, we will see, we will see,” replied the wizard. “There are hidden depths in every Hobbit, especially this one, that would – and hopefully will –surprise you from time to time. And while you are right about them not being eager to leave their pleasant little country (and really, can you blame them for that?) some of them are adventurous enough to do so.”

“You mean those Tooks the locals were talking about?” asked Bifur. “But they seem to think that our burglar is a Baggins, through and through.”

The wizard nodded again. “True; and a good, stolid one at that. But his mother, Belladonna, was a Took, as you heard yourself, one of the three famous daughters of the Old Took, and at least two of his uncles on the Took side have ‘gone off’, as they say in the Shire.”

“Gone off to where?” asked Bifur, a little confused.

“To have an adventure,” replied Tharkûn. “Apparently, Hildifons Took went off on a journey and never returned; while Isengar Took – the youngest of the Old Took’s twelve children – is said to have ‘gone off to sea’ in his youth. And though he had eventually returned from his adventures, he was a Hobbit changed forever, who is still living withdrawn from the rest of the Shirefolk on his own. They call him the Mad Took – when they cannot avoid speaking of him at all. Usually, they choose to behave as if such scandalous people had never lived among them.”

“Not the best reasons for any Hobbit to go off on an adventure, then,” commented Bifur dryly. Cast out of clan and family was a terrible concept for Dwarves.

“Nay,” agreed the wizard. “Less so for people who tend to breed large families. I was surprised to learn when I went back to the Shire that Bilbo was still unattached, as they say; that he had never married.”

“That is odd,” said Bifur. “I have never met a bachelor Hobbit before. Did people give you a reason for it?”

“Indeed, they did; though the reason I guess is not the one that most Hobbits gave me: that he had early been left very well off and his own master.”

“That could be the reason, though,” said Bifur. “If he got settled in his habits at a young age, he might find it unpleasant – and unnecessary – to change.”

“That may be so,” allowed the wizard. “However, my guess it that he wanted to remain unattached for some reason deep down which he does not understand himself – or would not acknowledge, for it would alarm him. He wanted, perhaps unknowing, to be free to go when the chance came, or he had made up his courage. I remember how he used to pester me with questions when he was a youngster – about the Hobbits that had occasionally gone off.”

“Yet something has obviously changed,” said Bifur, “or else you would not be so concerned about the outcome of our meeting with him.”

“I do,” admitted the wizard. “For in one thing his fellow Hobbits are right: he has become his own master early and grown too comfortable in that role during the many years I have not seen him. More comfortable even than I would have thought. Thorin will not be pleased; if he was contemptuous before, he will be twice as contemptuous once he had seen Bilbo. For our Hobbit is far from what a warrior Dwarf would wish for a travelling companion – more so if the journey is dangerous, which yours surely will be.”

“And yet you firmly believe that he has to come with us,” said Bifur. It was not truly a question but Tharkûn nodded nevertheless. “Why?

The wizard sighed.

“I cannot tell you for certain, as foresight is vague business at best. But yea, I am certain – more certain than about anything else concerning this Quest of yours – that you can only hope for success, whatever kind that might be, if Bilbo goes with you.”

“I notice that you are saying comes with you instead of comes with us,” said Bifur. “I thought – we all thought – that you would be accompanying us on this Quest.”

“And I will… ‘til a certain fork on the Road,” answered Tharkûn. “There, though, our ways will have to part, for I will have other business to tend to; dark and perilous business that has nothing to do with your Quest. But I would ask you not to mention this to the other.”

Bifur shrugged. “Certainly. Your business is yours and it concerns us not. I guess we shall be busy enough with our own. But why have you told me all this? I mean why me, of all Dwarves in the Company? The three of us are not even LongBeards; and the only ones not nobly born.”

“Which is the very reason why I told you everything,” said the wizard. “Some of your companions are too high-nosed and full of themselves for their own good; and the two young princes, while friendly enough, are still somewhat foolish and irresponsible. You, however – I know who you are, Sigrún Kuonisdóttir, and I know that you and your cousins are simple, warm-hearted, easy-going Dwarves. Bilbo, if we ever manage to make him accept Thorin’s offer, will need friends like the three of you – for he will not be able to count on the rest of the Company; not for a while yet.”

Bifur nodded thoughtfully, giving her travelling companions a measuring look in the light of that which she had just heard. Which one would be an able and willing supporter of the Hobbit? It seemed as if she had seen for the first time these Dwarves, some of whom she had known all her life.

Balin, with his magnificent beard and wisdom, appeared more kingly than even Thorin himself. He certainly looked older, his hair and beard having turned gradually white after the horrors seen in the Battle of Azanulbizar at a way too young age, and later during the long search for Thráin under the dark eaves of Mirkwood. He might act kindly and grandfatherly, but he was of royal blood, and it showed beyond doubt.

Still, it was good that he would be one of the first to approach the Hobbit, as she had realised earlier. Even if soothing the feathers after Dwarlin’s first appearance would not be enough of a foundation for a future friendship.

Dwalin, his brother, however, younger by years but much larger in stature, was a truly intimidating sight with his bald, tattooed and scarred head and huge muscles. Albeit of the same blood – BlackLock nobility married into he line of Durin – he had to discover the finer side of life yet; a side beyond weapons and battles.⁽¹⁾

Dori, Ori and Nori, also coming from a noble BlackLock clan – one related to Thorin on a female ancestor’s side – all looked very venerable and intimidating… not a sight that would endear a Hobbit to them right away⁽²⁾. All three of them had their blue-black beards elaborately braided and decorated with silver or gold clasps, in a fashion that needed patience and skilled fingers, not to mention a great deal of time to finish.

There were rumours that the three brothers descended from one of the BlackLock Kings of old, only out of wedlock, but no-one could ever find any actual proof for that. Fact was that their forefather had come to the Grey Mountains with a kinswoman who had married King Náin II m and after Dáin son of Náin had been slain by a Cold-drake and the colony abandoned, their family had followed Thrór back to Erebor.

Therefore, while not of the Line of Durin themselves, they counted as Thorin’s kin and were unlikely to make fast friends with a Hobbit of the Shire. Especially not Nori, who was quite high-nosed about their origins and quick to look down at others, even fellow Dwarves of simpler origins. Which, in Bifur’s opinion, was rather unfounded, seeing as he was the youngest of the three and possessed neither Ori’s classical BlackLock beauty nor Dori’s natural authority and enormous strength.

Dori was the kindest of them all, perhaps due to the fact that he was a thrice-over father, while Ori was a bit cold and aloof, more concerned about ancient lore – in which he was very well-versed – than about people. Although, in truth, he needed to be aloof to keep any unwanted suitors at arm’s length. His beauty attracted unbound Dwarves – or even daughters of Men – like a flame attracts moths.

Óin, used to Hobbits and friendly towards them, could be another anchor for their prospective burglar among all that Dwarven haughtiness, despite his royal blood, decided Bifur. But Glóin was the exact opposite; and with his fiery beard and boisterous attitude, he could frighten gentler souls, without actually meaning to do so.

And while Bifur was glad that Lady Nei had the wisdom to forbid her firstborn to join the Quest, having young Gimli with them would have made a Hobbit’s life much easier. Despite his noble origins and the wealth of his father (acquired in recent years due to Uruktharbun’s rich mines), Gimli was a simple soul, curious and open-minded, willing to make friends quickly, even among other races. Still, it was better for him to stay at home with his mother and younger siblings, no matter how angry and disappointed he had been.

That left the two young, golden princes of Durin’s House as possible companions for the Hobbit, but Bifur had her doubts that they would be willing to befriend Mr Baggins so soon. They had been, no doubt, fed lofty ideas about how much above the average Dwarf – not to mention other races – they all stood, due to their birth alone. That was Dís’s attitude, and with their father long dead and Thorin often absent, she could twist the minds of her sons as she pleased.

Bifur was trying very hard not to be prejudiced against those two, just because that insufferable mother of theirs… especially as they had shown nothing but courtesy towards her so far.  But she had to honestly admit that she had failed, so far. Of course, the airs the young princes put on at times did not help to endear them to her.

Aye, they were young, but they were also trained warriors and the heirs of Durin’s throne, for Mahal’s sake! And yet not even Thorin’s death glare could always keep them in their reins. If they did not grow out of their attitude soon, they could get themselves into nasty trouble on a journey like the one before them.

“I see what you mean,” she said to the wizard. “I shall speak with my cousins. We will take your Hobbit under our wing.”

“He is not my Hobbit,” answered Tharkûn seriously. “If anyone, he belongs to himself alone. This is the most remarkable thing about Hobbits: cheerful and carefree though they may seem, deep down they are fiercely independent and tougher than the roots of ancient trees. They cannot be easily enslaved, and they cannot be bought for gold and treasure. For they prefer the simple joys of life, are content with that which they have and do not even understand the Dwarven obsession with riches.”

“Again, not something that would show him a desirable ally him in Thorin’s eyes,” commented Bifur dryly, and Tharkûn nodded.

“I know. Thorin Oakenshield may be a great hero and might even become a great King of Durin’s House, should your Quest succeed, but he still has a great deal to learn about people, Especially those not of his own. Speaking of which, where is he? Had we not agreed to meet here tonight?”

“He has ridden out to the Road to meet some of our messengers,” said Dwalin, having caught the trail end of their conversation across the table. “He will follow us as soon as he can. Óin went over to Hobbiton a short time ago and found the door with your sign upon it. He explained us all the way.”

“Good,” said the wizard. “Now, for the sake of not raising the suspicions of the good Shirefolk, it would be better if you started to call me Gandalf, as everyone does. No need for them to wonder why you have a different name for me.”

“Gandalf,” repeated Dwalin, as if trying the taste of the name in his mouth. “It means the Staff-Man, does it not? Well, it surely suits you. And the less outsiders hear of our sacred tongue, the better it is.”

That was certainly true, even though BroadBeams did not usually share the LongBeard paranoia about Khuzdul. As long as they did not give the meaning of the name, what harm could be there? But LongBeards liked to have their own way in everything, and they were currently in majority, so Bifur saw no gain in starting an argument with them.

Besides, Gandalf was not a bad-sounding name for a wizard. They all did carry long staffs, after all.

~TBC~

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(1) In my headcanon, after the Quest Dwalin became somewhat calmer and discovered for himself the rich rewards of ancient lore, working with his brother on restoring Erebor.

(2) I want to emphasize again that my Dwarves are not Peter Jackson’s Dwarves. They are book!Dwarves, equipped with backgrounds and looks that have been my headcanon ever since I first read the book several Ages ago. So yeah, my Dori is a noble-born warrior, my Ori is a lore-master and a heart-breaker, and my Nori is a spoiled brat. They have the older claim than the film Dwarves, and they are going to remain that way.