Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins was around three years old when his mother decided to throw him off a cliff.
Obviously, it’s a terrible idea to throw your infant off a cliff, but it seemed that Bilbo was a particular case.
During early spring, when the morning was dim and cool, Belladonna Baggins heaved her pack on her back; she bundled her son close to her chest, gripped her trusty walking stick in hand, and kissed her husband goodbye on their front porch.
She took off towards the general direction of the Lone-lands and did not return until precisely three months and two weeks later.
When she did, Bilbo had, curiously enough, learned to walk.
Thorin always loved the sight of the night sky.
When he was a child, he would sneak out to the guest rooms on the east side of the Palace, to admire it from the balconies.
He would clutch the thick, stone railing, throw his chin towards the sky, and lean so far forward a gentle wind could push him over the edge. Sometimes, when he dared enough to, he sat on the railing to swing his legs over the oblivion below, his feet fluttering above a lethal expanse.
Those guest-rooms were meant for Elves and Men, who hailed as diplomats from Mirkwood or Laketown. Big People.
Big People obviously don’t live underground. They lived where the boundless sky hung above their heads, which gave them generous room to grow, and the sunlight was never far, which gave them soft, airy skin like a leaf. People who lived like that, and visited the Lonely Mountain, needed balconies during their stay because they couldn’t bear the weight of Erebor on the top of their tall heads, and frequently needed breaks to “breathe”.
Frerin used to whisper to him, “People with weak necks,” and that always made Dís giggle.
Thorin thought he understood the Big People. It’s comforting, he pondered as he gazed upwards, stars twinkling like specks of diamond in a dark cave, to look at a side of the world that is so much bigger than you.
He was joltingly reminded of those moments, as he watched the Company’s burglar climb a gigantic fir-tree, a dangerous height increasing below his furred feet. From the dwarf’s angle, he could only see Baggins’ back, (and backside), as he nimbly pulled himself up on the branches.
“Go, Bilbo!” Kíli yelled through cupped hands.
A few of the Company were gathered at the base of the fir tree to watch the halfling retrieve Kíli’s mis-aimed arrows. Baggins had tried to teach him how to hunt squirrels, and Kíli tried for one too high.
“Quiet,” Thorin snapped, “let him concentrate on his task. If he falls, he may die.”
Gandalf chuckled behind him. “No need to worry, Master Thorin. You’ll find that Bilbo is a quite skilled tree-climber.”
Thorin clenched his jaw, and the wizard blew smoke past his ears.
“Besides, he’s fallen from worse heights.”
Thorin’s eyes widened, and he looked back towards Bilbo who was partially obscured in the thickets of the tree. He was tiny now. Thorin could fit his figure in the palm of his hand.
“Then he’s a fool . I’m surprised he hasn’t gotten himself killed yet.”
The wizard merely chuckled again.
A few minutes later, Thorin could hear Bilbo call, “Found it!”
Kíli, Fíli, and a few other jolly members of the Company cheered.
“And it got the squirrel, nice shot, Kíli!”
Kíli whooped.
The burglar started to make his way down, lithely dropping from branch to branch with alarmingly quick speed. As he got nearer, Thorin saw he de-scaled one-handed, as his left hand was busy holding the squirrel’s neck, which was firmly dead with an arrow in its eye. He felt proud that Kíli had such fine accuracy.
Suddenly, Bilbo’s right hand lost its grip, and he tumbled through some leaves a few feet. Thorin started to run to catch him, but as quickly as it happened the burglar caught another branch.
“Oh, well!” the burglar huffed. “It seems I’m a little rusty.”
“Might do well to slow down there, Master Baggins!” Bofur yelled upwards. “There’s no rush.”
There was a general wave of agreement and many nodded their heads. Thorin backed away from the base of the tree. He watched nervously for any time Bilbo may fall again, (Bilbo noticed Thorin’s gaze and it really just put Bilbo’s nerves out.)
As Bilbo finally dropped to the ground, and Thorin finally took a breath, Bombur started to hum in thought.
“We shall have a nice stew if Kíli should catch a few more squirrels then,” the chef said intently. “I know of a recipe we could use… Just replace fish with squirrel and a few spices here and there.”
“Mahal, please,” Glóin groaned. “We’ve been eating naught by Cram and bones.”
“I can do that!” Kíli said, already unslinging his bow. “I can catch a lot of squirrels! It’ll be good practice, eh? And it will feed us, too!”
Thorin interjected, “Aim for squirrels low to the ground which you can retrieve yourself. We cannot have our burglar killed this early in the quest from rescuing your stray arrows.” He looked pointedly at Kíli, who flushed.
“Kill me?” Bilbo exclaimed. “Falling off a tree won’t kill me, I assure you, Master Thorin. I’ll have you know I ranked first for many years in a row in the annual Ranking of the Tree-Climbing Skills for Young Hobbit-Lads-And-Lasses-And-Just-Hobbits-In-General, and that is no easy feat without practice! I took home many handsome awards back in the day.”
“Is that a real thing, Gandalf?” Fíli asked doubtfully. “The uh, Tree-Climbing-Ranking of Hobbits-And-Whatever?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve been to one myself. The air of competition is unbelievable!”
“I floored them,” Bilbo announced pridefully. “They absolutely hated me. My streak lasted so long, that second became first, and third became second, and first became an automatic given to me.”
“Well, obviously, dear Bilbo…” murmured Gandalf, amused.
Bilbo chuckled and pulled the arrow from the squirrel’s eye.
“Well, here you are, Kíli,” Bilbo said,”go on and catch us dinner.”
“Yeah! I will!” Kíli said excitedly, and he took off towards the trees.
Taking the squirrel, Bombur started to prod around the areas with the most flesh. “Oh Mahal, this is skinny. Lad, get us a lot more!” he called out.
“I will!” Kíli yelled back, and he disappeared among the trees.
“Well! Alright then,” Bombur clapped his hands, “I’ll get started on the stew!” He excused himself to the camp.
Murmurs of excitement arose through the Company as they all went to follow him, eager for the first freshly-cooked meal since the disaster in Bag-End, but Bilbo lingered underneath the trees. The hobbit surveyed the branches with a curious look in his eye, almost looking wistful.
Thorin found himself holding back. “Master Baggins?”
“Oh- pardon?”
The hobbit turned back and Thorin caught a small glint of red light in his pupils from the campfire, like how an animal’s eyes reflect light in the dark. There was a tightness around Bilbo’s eyes that wasn’t there before, an attentiveness in the way his green eyes stared back at Thorin’s own and Thorin suddenly felt as if Bilbo could see right into his soul. He could admit freely that the hobbit had the sharpest eyes out of anybody in the Company, but now he was thinking that those were the sharpest eyes out of anybody he’s ever met.
Thorin, unnerved, shook his head.
“Nevermind.” He averted his gaze from Bilbo’s face. “Don’t linger too long. The woods are dangerous at night.”
“It’s evening,” Bilbo corrected, and he turned back to gazing at the trees.
Thorin huffed and walked away. He did not see when Bilbo slipped into the woods.