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The Took blood in bilbo was often described as a sleeping dragon: quiet, respectable, and buried under layers of velvet waistcoats and doilies. But as the Company of Thorin Oakenshield pressed further into the wild, the "Baggins" side of Bilbo began to wither under the heat of adrenaline, and the "Took" side woke up with a roar and a thirst for heights.
By the time they reached the lands of Beorn, Bilbo wasn't just a burglar; he was a walking heart attack for thirteen Dwarves.
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It began at the skin-changer’s house. While the Dwarves were busy grumbling about the lack of meat and the size of the bees, Bilbo had spotted a massive, gnarled oak tree that seemed to touch the very clouds.
"Has anyone seen the Hobbit?" Thorin asked, wiping his brow as they gathered for the midday meal.
"He was just here," Balin said, looking around.
"UP HERE!" a cheerful, high-pitched voice echoed from far above.
The Company looked up. And then they kept looking. Bilbo was perched on a branch so thin it swayed precariously in the breeze, nearly fifty feet off the ground. He wasn't even holding on; he was standing upright, shielding his eyes from the sun.
"BILBO BAGGINS!" Dori shrieked, his face turning a ghostly shade of white. "Get down from there this instant! You’ll break every bone in your body! You’ll be a Hobbit-pancake!"
"The view is spectacular!" Bilbo shouted back, sounding far too delighted for a man defying gravity. "I can see the Mirkwood eaves! And I think I see a bear! Or a very large hairy man! It’s hard to tell from here!"
"Bilbo, please," Fili called out, his hands cupped around his mouth. "Come down carefully. Branch by branch!"
"Oh, that’s much too slow," Bilbo chirped.
Before anyone could scream, Bilbo simply leaned forward and stepped off the branch.
Thirteen Dwarves let out a collective, strangled cry. Dwalin lunged forward, his massive arms outstretched. Bilbo plummeted through the air, laughing, actually laughing, before he thudded squarely into Dwalin’s chest. The impact knocked the wind out of the Dwarf, but Bilbo just bounced on his feet, his curls a mess and his eyes bright with Tookish fire.
"That was exhilarating!" Bilbo beamed, patting Dwalin’s armored shoulder. "We should all try it. It really clears the sinuses."
Dwalin stared at the Hobbit in silent horror. "You... you jumped. You just... stepped off."
"Gravity is very reliable, Dwalin," Bilbo said, skipping toward the kitchen. "I knew you’d be there. You’re very sturdy."
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At Beorn’s, the bees were the size of small dogs, and to a Hobbit with a sudden surge of Tookish curiosity, they looked remarkably like fuzzy, winged ponies.
Thorin was discussing the route through Mirkwood when a low, vibrating hum began to approach from the flower fields. He looked up to see a giant bumblebee drifting toward them, its legs heavy with pollen. And sitting right behind the thorax, clutching the fuzz with a look of manic glee, was Bilbo.
"Look at the lift on this one!" Bilbo shouted, his voice vibrating with the bee’s wings. "He’s a bit wobbly on the left side, but the acceleration is marvelous!"
"BILBO BAGGINS, DESCEND AT ONCE!" Dori screamed, waving his arms.
"I don't think he has any steering, Dori!" Kili yelled, half-impressed and half-terrified.
The bee, annoyed by the shouting, did a sharp bank to the right. Bilbo lost his grip and slipped, falling backward. Bombur, who was closest, didn't even think. He dropped his soup ladle and braced himself. Bilbo fell fifteen feet, landing with a soft oomph on Bombur’s generous stomach, bouncing once before sliding into the grass.
Bilbo sat up, breathless and laughing. "Did you see that? I think I was airborne for a full three seconds!"
Bombur just wheezed, patting his own chest. "Master Hobbit, my heart can only take so much of this behavior."
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In the gloom of Mirkwood, while the Dwarves were stumbling over roots and hallucinating about white stags, the Took blood kept Bilbo’s focus sharp and his feet light. When Thorin ordered someone to climb the trees to see the sun, he didn't even have to finish the sentence. Bilbo was already twenty feet up.
When he reached the very top, he didn't just look; he danced. He hopped from one swaying branch to another, chasing the black-veined butterflies.
"What do you see?" Balin called up from the darkness.
"Sunlight! And hope! And a very long way down!" Bilbo yelled.
Instead of climbing back down the trunk, Bilbo spotted a thick, hanging vine that looked sturdy enough. He grabbed it, kicked off from the trunk, and swung out over the path.
"Gimli's beard, he’s swinging!" Dwalin growled, positioned directly underneath.
Bilbo let go at the apex of the swing, tucking into a ball and dropping through the thick leaves. Dwalin caught him by the waist, the force of the impact making the big Dwarf grunt. He set Bilbo down and immediately grabbed the back of his coat.
"You’re staying on the ground, Burglar," Dwalin commanded. "If you swing again, I’m tying you to my belt."
"But it was so much faster than the stairs!" Bilbo chirped, looking up with longing at the green canopy.
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The trip down the Forest River was a chaotic blur of wet fur and Orc-arrows. When the barrels finally bumped onto the muddy banks near the Long Lake, the Dwarves spilled out, coughing and retching.
Bilbo, who had been riding on top of a barrel like a professional surfer, hopped onto the mud, soaking wet but grinning ear to ear.
"That!" Bilbo barked a laugh, wringing out his curls. "That was the most terrifyingly fun thing I have ever done! Though, I must admit, I’m glad I didn't fall in."
"Glad?" Thorin grumbled, shivering. "We were all in the water, Bilbo. It was miserable."
"Well, yes, but for me, it would have been permanent," Bilbo said casually, checking his pockets for his pipe. "Hobbits don't swim, you see. We sink like stones. No buoyant properties in a Hobbit, I’m afraid."
The silence that followed was deafening. The Dwarves, who were used to the water being a nuisance, suddenly realized their friend had been one slip away from a watery grave for the last four hours.
"You... you can't swim?" Fili asked, his voice cracking.
"Not a stroke," Bilbo said, finally finding his pipe (though it was sadly soaked). "Why do you think I was holding onto that barrel so tightly? If I’d gone under, I’d be sitting at the bottom of the river right now, looking at the fish."
Dori let out a sound like a teakettle whistling. He lunged forward and grabbed Bilbo, pulling him away from the water’s edge. "THORIN! THE HOBBIT IS A SINKER! HE’S A SINKER AND WE’RE GOING TO A TOWN BUILT ON A HUNDRED FEET OF WATER!"
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Laketown was a nightmare for the Company’s stress levels. Everywhere they looked, there was water. Holes in the floorboards, gaps in the docks, and the ever-present lapping of the lake beneath their feet.
The Dwarves formed a literal phalanx around Bilbo.
"I’m just going to the market to see the lace-" Bilbo started.
"NO," Nori and Dwalin said in unison.
Nori grabbed Bilbo’s left arm. Dwalin grabbed his right. Whenever they had to cross a particularly narrow wooden walkway, they didn't even let Bilbo walk. Dwalin would simply hook his arm under Bilbo’s middle and carry him like a sack of grain until they reached solid ground.
"I have legs!" Bilbo protested, dangling as they crossed a bridge. "And I have excellent balance! I spent half the journey in the trees!"
"Trees don't drown you, Master Hobbit!" Oin shouted, waving his ear trumpet. "Water is the enemy of the non-buoyant! Stay in the middle of the dock!"
The humans of Laketown watched in confusion as thirteen heavily armed Dwarves escorted one small, grumpy Hobbit through the streets. If Bilbo even leaned over a railing to look at a fish, at least three Dwarves would dive for his coat, yanking him back so hard he’d nearly flip.
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Once the Mountain was reclaimed and the gold-sickness had passed, the Dwarves found themselves with a new problem. They couldn't let Bilbo go home.
"We can't send him back to the Shire," Thorin argued during a council meeting. "He’ll try to walk across the Misty Mountains by himself! He’ll be dead within a week."
"He tried to ride a mountain goat yesterday, Thorin," Kili added, looking exhausted. "He said he wanted to see if they really could climb vertical surfaces. I had to tackle him."
So, Bilbo stayed. But the "Tookishness" didn't fade; it adapted to the verticality of Dwarven architecture.
To the Company, seeing Bilbo perched on top of a three-story-high chandelier was a Tuesday. To the arriving Dwarves from the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains, it was a nightmare.
Dáin Ironfoot was the first to experience the "Took Terror." He was walking through the Great Hall, discussing trade with Thorin, when a small, barefoot shadow passed over him.
Dáin looked up and froze. Bilbo was currently scaling the carved face of a stone ancestor, using the King’s stone beard as a foothold. He was nearly eighty feet above the marble floor, dangling by one hand while he poked at a loose piece of quartz.
"By my beard!" Dáin roared, reaching for his red axe. "Thorin! There is a small child climbing your grandfather’s nose! He’s going to fall! He’s going to die!"
Thorin didn't even look up from his ledger. "That’s just Bilbo. He’s fine."
"Fine?! He’s hanging by a finger-joint!" Dáin sprinted to the base of the statue. "Lad! Stay still! I’ll get a ladder! Don't move!"
"Oh, hello Lord Dáin!" Bilbo called down, waving cheerfully with his free hand. "Did you know that Thrór had a very interesting mole carved into his nostril? It’s anatomically fascinating!"
"GET DOWN!" Dáin shrieked.
Bilbo sighed, tucked the quartz into his pocket, and proceeded to slide down the statue like it was a playground toy, using the stone carvings as a series of rapid-fire stepping stones. He landed lightly on his feet right in front of a trembling Dáin.
"Would you like to see the quartz?" Bilbo asked, holding out the stone.
Dáin just stared at him, his chest heaving. He turned to Thorin. "Is he... is he possessed? Is it a dragon-curse?"
"No," Thorin sighed. "It’s just Took blood. It’s significantly more dangerous than dragon-fire…..well for our hearts it is”
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Eventually, the Company had to implement a new safety measure. It was informally known as "The Scruffing."
Since Bilbo was prone to wandering off and climbing things he shouldn't, balconies, mine shafts, the very peaks of the mountain, the Dwarves started treating him like a particularly adventurous kitten.
If Bilbo was spotted near a ledge or a high wall, the nearest Dwarf would simply reach out, grab the back of his sturdy wool coat, and lift him bodily into the air.
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Bilbo was eyeing a tall stack of supply crates, clearly calculating the path to the roof. He took a running start, only to be suddenly yanked backward. His feet kicked uselessly in the air as Dori lifted him by the scruff of his neck.
"Absolutely not, Master Baggins," Dori tutted, carrying the dangling Hobbit away from the crates. "You are not climbing the bakery. The shingles are loose."
"But the view of the valley-"
"The view of the valley can be seen from the window, like a respectable person," Dori said, setting him down in a chair and handing him a scone. "Eat. Stay on the ground."
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Dwalin was watching the recruits when he saw Bilbo trying to scale the weapon racks. Without breaking eye contact with his soldiers, Dwalin reached out a massive hand, hooked Bilbo’s collar, and set him down on a nearby bench.
"Stay," Dwalin grunted.
"I was just looking for a better vantage point-"
"Bench is your vantage point," Dwalin growled. "Or I’m sitting on you."
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Gandalf arrived a month later to find the Mountain in a state of high-alert. He walked into the Throne Room to find Thorin looking gray with stress.
"Gandalf! Thank the Valar you’re here," Thorin groaned. "Talk to him. He’s currently on the roof of the Western Watchtower because he wanted to 'touch a cloud'."
Gandalf let out a booming laugh that echoed through the halls. "Ah, the Took blood is finally in full bloom! I told you he had more in him than met the eye!"
"It’s not funny, Wizard!" Dáin Ironfoot cried, joining them. "Yesterday, he tried to slide down the main water-flume! We had to catch him with a net! The Men of Lake-town think he’s a forest spirit, and the Elves are taking bets on which day he finally misses a ledge!"
Gandalf followed the Dwarves to the ramparts, his robes snapping in the high-altitude wind. Sure enough, Bilbo was sitting on the very edge of the highest battlement, his bare feet swinging out over a dizzying thousand-foot drop. Thranduil, the Elven King, stood a safe distance away, his regal composure slightly frayed.
"He has been there for an hour," Thranduil noted dryly, his eyes fixed on the Hobbit. "He is currently attempting to whistle at the eagles. I offered him a silken rope, and he told me ropes were 'for people with no sense of adventure or balance'."
"Bilbo!" Gandalf called out, leaning heavily on his staff. "My dear Hobbit! Are you quite finished with your sky-gazing? There are people down here whose hearts are not as sturdy as your mountain!"
Bilbo looked back, his face alight with a manic, Tookish joy. "Gandalf! Come look! If you tilt your head just right, the waterfall looks like a silver ribbon winding through the valley!"
"I think I shall stay right here, where the stone is wide and stationary," Gandalf replied, his knuckles whitening on his staff. "Bilbo, your Dwarven friends are on the verge of a collective medical crisis. Perhaps you should come down?"
"Oh, very well," Bilbo sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed that his time in the clouds was over.
He stood up on the narrow ledge, which was barely four inches wide, and didn't bother with the stairs or even a cautious scramble. Instead, he looked at the group of frantic Dwarves, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Catch me!" he chirped.
Before Gandalf could shout a warning or Thranduil could reach out a hand, Bilbo simply stepped out into the open air. He didn't slip; he jumped, his coat billowing behind him like a green sail as he plummeted toward the rampart floor.
Gandalf’s heart skipped a beat, his jaw dropping as he let out a strangled, "Bilbo!" Thranduil actually recoiled, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword in a reflex of pure shock.
But below them, the Company moved with the synchronized precision of a professional rescue squad. Dwalin stepped forward, his feet planted wide on the stone, his massive arms ready. With a heavy thud, Bilbo landed squarely in the Dwarf's grasp. Dwalin didn't even wobble; he simply absorbed the impact, his grunt echoing off the tower walls.
Dwalin held the Hobbit for a moment, looking down at the grinning creature in his arms. "That's the third time today, Burglar," he growled, though there was a hint of begrudging pride in his voice.
"And a new record for height!" Bilbo laughed, patting Dwalin’s cheek before being set down on his feet.
He turned to the petrified Wizard and the stunned Elven King, brushing a stray leaf off his waistcoat. "What’s for dinner? I’ve worked up quite an appetite for something savory."
Gandalf let out a long, shaky breath, leaning his forehead against the cool head of his staff. "I believe," the Wizard whispered, "I am going to need a very large glass of wine. And perhaps a chair that is bolted to the floor."
Thranduil merely stared at the Hobbit, his eyes wide. "He... he jumped. He just stepped into the abyss and expected to be caught."
"Welcome to Erebor, Your Majesty," Thorin muttered, walking past the Elven King to check Bilbo for scratches.