On the fifth day out from the Shire, Gandalf—who clearly had no love for well-maintained roads or hobbit-sized footpaths—began to lead the party away from the East Road. The Great East Road wound north out of our way into the ruined lands of Arnor and was "full of shadows and possibly lawyers," which sounded ominous enough for everyone to agree we should avoid it.
Instead, we veered into wild country, hacking through brush and scrambling over hills. Bilbo, whose hiking shoes were already giving up on life, was not subtle about his displeasure.
"Is this a shortcut or a scenic torture route?" he muttered for the fifth time that morning, nursing a blister the size of a gooseberry.
Gandalf didn't answer. He was too busy making dramatic arm gestures at the horizon and muttering about moonrises and mountain passes.
Once we rejoined the East Road we would follow the path until it met the High Pass. This was the only real pass through the mountains, hewn, according to Gandalf, by Orome of the Valar in the First Age. There was some argument between Thorin and Gandalf about that bit of the route but it hadn't been brought out into the open yet, so I had no idea what it might be about. The rest of the journey on the other side of the Mountains was still up for debate.
We rejoined the East Road a week later, dusty and a bit wiser in the ways of bogs. After crossing a river called the Hoarwell (which Bilbo insisted sounded like the sort of place one caught colds and judgment), the hills began to rise. Gandalf claimed we were within six days of the Misty Mountains.
"Six days?" Bilbo said. "How far are we from Second Breakfast?"
It was just before supper (as usual, Bilbo's internal clock knew to complain) when Kíli, scouting ahead, found a desolate farm a short way off the road.
We approached cautiously. The gate was flattened, the roof smashed in, and wreckage lay everywhere like someone had held a particularly violent barn dance.
Gandalf wandered inside with that faraway look he got when he was about to say something obvious with great drama.
"A farmer and his family lived here," he intoned.
Bilbo frowned, gripping his bow tightly in hand. "Sheep farmers, maybe? No cows and certainly no produce. This soil is not the best for such," he said authoritatively, his bare toes wiggling in said soil for a moment. "But I have no idea what could do that to the house."
"This was recent," said Bofur, looking over at Thorin and Gandalf. "The furnishings inside haven't been damaged overmuch by the elements."
"Judging by the angle, something smashed this roof from above," said Fili, looking at it from underneath for a moment. "Trolls, you think?"
Thorin shook his head. "They don't range this far out from the mountains."
"Not in days past perhaps but dark things are on the move these days," Gandalf frowned worriedly. "I think it would be wiser to move on. We could make for the Hidden Valley," he advised Thorin.
"I have told you already, I will not go near that place," Thorin said immediately, face souring like milk in the sun.
Gandalf launched into a diplomatic, slightly exasperated speech about Elrond and maps and let bygones be bygones, which was met by Thorin with the emotional warmth of a frost troll.
"Why not? The elves could help us!" Gandalf suggested. "We could get some rest and some much-needed advice."
"I do not need their advice," Thorin snarled.
"We have a map we cannot read," Gandalf pointed out. "Lord Elrond could help us."
Thorin turned to look Gandalf in the eye. "Help? A dragon attacks Erebor, what help came from the elves? Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls, and the elves looked on and did nothing. You ask me to seek out the very people who betrayed my grandfather and betrayed my father?"
"You are neither of them," Gandalf insisted. "And besides, it was not Lord Elrond who abandoned you at Erebor. That blame lies with King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. I did not give you that map and key so you could sulk across Middle-earth."
"I did not know they were yours to give," Thorin said challengingly to the wizard.
Gandalf, whose temper was now visibly steaming his hat, turned and stormed toward his horse.
"Everything all right?" asked Bilbo, who was tending to the horses. "Gandalf, where are you going?"
"To seek the company of the only one around here who's got any sense," Gandalf replied without turning back.
"And who's that?" Bilbo questioned again.
"Myself, Mr. Baggins!" thundered the old wizard. "I've had enough of dwarves for one day."
He galloped off in a huff. Bilbo huffed right back. "Fine time to go gallivanting off. We're up to our knees in grumpy royalty and ghost farms!"
"Is he coming back?" Bilbo asked me in worry.
I gave him a reassuring smile and a pat on the shoulder. "He's just blowing off steam," I said softly. "He'll be back once he's had a good rant at the clouds."
Bilbo didn't look entirely convinced, but he gave a nod and went back to brushing Myrtle's mane, muttering under his breath about dramatic old men and their temper tantrums.
I turned and walked toward Thorin, who stood a little apart from the others, arms folded, gazing out toward the darkening hills as if he could summon Erebor through sheer angst. His expression was stormclouds and stone.
"Do you have something to say as well?" he asked without turning, his voice low and edged with challenge.
"Yes, actually," I said, coming to stand beside him. "I was wondering if you'd found a way to read the information hidden in the map."
He stiffened slightly, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "Balin and Dori are working on it," he replied curtly. "If they fail, we'll find someone else who can. I don't lack for options."
"No," I agreed. "But you might lack time."
That made him glance at me, just a flick of his eyes.
"What do you mean?" he asked warily.
I turned toward him fully. "What if the hidden door only opens at a specific time? A phase of the moon, a season, a date on the calendar. What if we miss that window and the door won't open again for a year? Ten? Fifty? What then?"
He didn't respond, but the flicker in his eyes told me he'd thought about this before—and shoved it aside.
"I know you're angry at the elves," I continued, quieter now. "And you have the right to be. I can only imagine how much your people suffered after the dragon's attack. What your people lost because of the elves' inaction. I'm not asking you to forgive that. I'm asking you to lead past it."
His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking.
"You're not just a prince anymore, Thorin," I said. "You're a leader. Of this company. Of your people's hopes. And a good leader—" I paused, choosing my words carefully "—knows when to compromise for the good of his people."
He looked away again, toward the dying light beyond the hills. I let the silence stretch for a moment.
"Reclaiming Erebor is all that matters," I finished. "Don't let pride turn a key into a lock."
I left him with those words and walked away, back toward the firelight and the smell of grilled cheese and peppered steak. Behind me, I didn't hear footsteps. But I did hear the faint sound of a breath let out slow and ragged, like a man realizing the weight he was carrying might be heavier than he thought.
---
Bilbo pulled his cloak tighter around himself as the night settled over the hills, the stars pricking through the darkness like bits of silver thread. The company was gathered under Ben's latest magical marvel: the Bubbly-Ben-Dome, as the dwarves were calling it. It shimmered faintly and made everything inside feel like a cozy sauna crossed with a really smug weather forecast.
"I still say this thing hums like a badger with a harmonica," Bofur whispered.
"Does it come in portable?" asked Dwalin. "My knees haven't felt this good since the Second Battle of Azanulbizar."
"Ben, you got a spare one o' these gadgets? Maybe one that farts pancakes?" Bombur asked hopefully.
"Working on it," Ben replied cheerfully.
They were just about to settle in for the night when Dwalin stiffened.
"Light," he muttered, pointing toward the eastern hills.
Sure enough, far in the distance—past a low rise and nestled between clumps of trees—twinkling lights flickered like tiny stars just above the ground. Campfire? Torches? Something was out there.
The dwarves immediately began murmuring among themselves.
"Could be travelers," said Balin.
"Or bandits," grunted Gloin.
"Or goblins," muttered Ori, shivering.
Eventually, Thorin's voice cut through the debate. "We need to know. Bilbo," he said, turning those strict eyes on him, "this is your chance. You're the burglar, after all."
Bilbo blinked. "I—I beg your pardon?"
"You're the burglar," said Bofur with a grin. "This sort of thing is your job, isn't it?"
"My job?" Bilbo's voice squeaked slightly. "I—I was promised maps and keys and perhaps the odd locked door. No one said anything about sneaking off into the darkness toward strange flickering lights!"
"You'll be fine," said Dori, though he didn't sound entirely convinced.
"I won't!" said Bilbo, very much not fine.
In desperation, he looked towards Ben, but the young wizard merely gave him a big grin and two thumbs up in what was likely a compelling gesture in his home world.
"Help me, Ben! I can't scout out some strange light in some strange woods in some strange lands!" he whispered urgently under his breath as the young man leaned towards him.
"Of course you can, you're a hobbit!"
"Well yes, but what has that got to do with anything?"
"It means sneaking is in your blood!"
"That's offensive."
"In your soul?"
"That's both strange and still somewhat offensive."
"In your eyes?"
"That makes me slightly uncomfortable."
"That's homophobic."
"That's Man-speak."
"That's offensive."
"Dammit!"
Ben sighed theatrically. "All right, all right. I'll help."
He stood and waved his hand, murmuring something under his breath. A cold, slippery sensation crawled over Bilbo's skin. He looked down and nearly yelped—his arms were gone. Or rather, they were there, but only faintly, like heat shimmer on stone.
"What did you do?" Bilbo gasped.
"Disillusionment charm," Ben said casually. "Also added noise suppression and scent masking. You're practically invisible now. Even better—you won't trip over any twigs and your scent won't carry."
The dwarves stared at Bilbo, astonished.
"I can't even hear him breathe," whispered Oin.
"He smells like nothing," sniffed Bifur, deeply offended.
Bilbo straightened a little, his anxiety replaced by a strange flutter of confidence. He was invisible. He was silent. He didn't even smell! He was... he was a realburglar now, wasn't he?
He nodded, mostly to himself. "Right then. Here goes."
He turned and padded off into the night, completely silent, completely hidden.
---
The woods were thick with shadows, but Bilbo moved like a breeze through them. With Ben's spells working their quiet magic, he felt more like a whisper than a person. The lights grew clearer as he moved closer, weaving between gnarled trunks and ducking under low branches.
He reached the edge of a clearing and crouched behind a fallen log, peeking just high enough to see.
Three very large persons sitting round a very large fire of beech-logs. They were toasting mutton on long spits of wood, and licking the gravy off their fingers. There was a fine toothsome smell. Also there was a barrel of good drink at hand, and they were drinking out of jugs. But they were trolls. Obviously trolls. Even Bilbo, in spite of his sheltered life, could see that. While Ben had already dealt with trolls in his school once, the young wizard had been very interested in the various monsters and creatures from Bilbo's world as well.
While hobbits generally don't have a great many deal of adventure books lying around (on account of there not being very many adventuring hobbits) they have many excellent books on the dangers that can be found on (and under) Middle-Earth (on account of them needing to know how to best run away from said dangers). And so Bilbo had taken a great compendium of bestiaries collected by his grandfathers and granduncles and sat in front of the hearth with Ben as they poured over one horrific drawing to the next.
And these creatures' likeness had been caught especially well in charcoal and parchment. The similarities were simply uncanny: from the great heavy faces of them, and their size, and the shape of their legs, not to mention their language, which was not drawing-room fashion at all.
"Mutton yesterday, mutton today, and blimey, if it don't look like mutton again tomorrer," said one of the trolls.
"Never a blinking bit of manflesh have we had for long enough," said a second. "What the 'ell William was a-thinkin' of to bring us into these parts at all, beats me-and the drink runnin' short, what's more," he said jogging the elbow of William, who was taking a pull at his jug.
William choked. "Shut yer mouth!" he said as soon as he could. "Yer can't expect folk to stop here forever just to be et by you and Bert. You've et a village and a half between yer, since we come down from the mountains. How much more d'yer want? And time's been up our way, when yer'd have said 'thank yer Bill' for a nice bit o' fat valley mutton like what this is." He took a big bite off a sheep's leg he was roasting, and wiped his lips on his sleeve.
"We could go back to the road," said the first. "Snag a farmer or a merchant or summin'. Maybe even one of them fancy folk wot travels at night."
Bilbo felt his stomach twist. Trolls. Talking trolls. And talking about eating people like they were roast chicken.
He ducked down, heart pounding, and whispered to himself, "You've seen them. You've done your job. Time to go."
But as he turned to sneak back to the company, one of the trolls suddenly sniffed the air.
"Oi," said the sniffer. "You smell that?"
Bilbo froze.
The other trolls paused. "Smell what?"
"Smells like... never mind," the first said, shaking his head. "Thought I smelled pies for a second."
The other two laughed, their grumbling forgotten for the moment.
Bilbo didn't wait. He slipped away into the darkness, making his way back to the others, his mind racing.
Three trolls. Hungry trolls. Complaining about mutton and wishing for manflesh. If they weren't stopped soon, it might be someone else's bones roasting on that spit.
And that thought, surprisingly, made him pick up speed.
---
The Company huddled beneath the spell-warded canopy as Bilbo, panting slightly, returned from the hills. His cheeks were flushed, eyes wide, but there was a spark of exhilaration in them now.
"Well?" Thorin asked as the hobbit skidded to a halt, brushing off a stray leaf from his jacket.
"There are trolls," Bilbo said breathlessly. "Three of them. Big, ugly ones. Eating mutton and arguing over whether they're hungry enough for manflesh."
At once, the dwarves sat up straighter, hands instinctively reaching for weapons. Excitement buzzed through the air like charged lightning.
"Trolls, eh?" said Dwalin, cracking his knuckles. "About time I stretched my arms properly."
"I've been waiting to test this hammer on something that screams," Gloin muttered, a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
"Let's not be hasty," Thorin said, though he looked no less eager. He turned to Ben. "Can you make us quiet like Bilbo, and cover our scent?"
Ben cracked his knuckles. "Time to activate the Sneaky-Boy-Protocol."
"Someone write that down," Bofur said. "That's going on the gadget list."
Ben gave a half-smile and snapped his fingers once. The familiar shimmer of protective charms washed over the group—sound deadened, their scents vanished on the breeze. The forest went quiet around them, save for the distant grumbles and slaps of the trolls arguing in the clearing ahead.
As the group adjusted to the spells, Thorin caught Ben's gaze.
"You stay back. Only engage if things get… complicated."
Ben gave a mock salute. "Aye aye, captain. I'll man the watchtower."
Thorin raised an eyebrow but let it slide. He nodded once. "If they run—stop them."
Ben's smile turned razor-sharp. "With pleasure."
They moved like ghosts through the dark trees. No twigs snapped, no leaves crunched. Even Bombur, who normally wheezed like a bellows, was silent under the effect of Ben's magic.
As they reached the edge of the clearing, Thorin raised a hand, waited for everyone to get into position—then brought it down sharply.
In a flash, the company burst from the undergrowth with battle cries and glinting weapons, catching the trolls utterly by surprise.
Fíli, Óin, and Balin moved first, slicing the air with their swords—each swing unleashing crescent-shaped blades of cutting wind. The magic-enhanced gusts slashed into troll hide, drawing thick black blood and startled howls.
Dwalin and Glóin came in low and hard, swinging their Gravity hammers in twin arcs. The impact reverberated like thunder, sending shockwaves through the clearing and slamming two trolls to their knees.
Bombur, Dori, and Nori flanked the third troll. Their flame-attribute axes blazed with angry orange light, singing skin and setting the troll's trousers ablaze. It bellowed and danced like an oversized torchbearer.
Bifur, Bofur, and Ori kept their distance, hurling enchanted throwing knives with uncanny precision. As each blade struck, it vanished in a shimmer and reappeared back in their hands, ready to be thrown again.
The trolls roared in fury and panic. One lashed out with a massive cleaver at Thorin—but it struck his shield and could go no further. The kinetic force was absorbed and transferred spatially into the runes running along the middle of his sword, which crackled with lightning. Thorin gave it a mighty swing and a bolt of raw energy shot forward, hitting the troll square in the chest. The impact yeeted the beast into a tree like a particularly ugly cannonball.
Kíli and Bilbo, from opposite flanks, loosed arrows of pure light. They streaked through the night like shooting stars, striking with precision and burning through troll flesh. The creatures recoiled, hissing like vampires under the sun.
The trolls, now bloodied, burned, and overwhelmed by weapons they'd never seen nor imagined, panicked. Howling, they smashed through the underbrush and fled into the dark.
Ben stood in the trolls' path like a wizard-shaped traffic sign.
He looked utterly relaxed, arms behind his back, head tilted as though mildly curious.
"Good evening," he said in greeting.
The trolls paused, looming over him.
"Who's that?" asked Tom.
"No idea," replied William.
"Can we eat him?" Bert rumbled, licking his cracked lips.
Ben's smile widened. "Afraid I'm not on the menu, boys."
And then, with a smooth flick of his wrist, he cast:
"Lumos Solem!"
A burst of radiant sunlight exploded overhead, turning the night into blazing day for a brief, searing instant. The light pierced every shadow, igniting the very air in golden brilliance.
When it faded, all that remained of the trolls were three grotesque stone statues frozen in expressions of surprise and fear.
A beat of stunned silence followed—and then the dwarves burst into cheers.
"By Durin's beard!" Balin exclaimed. "He turned them to stone!"
Bombur laughed until he nearly fell over. "I was hoping to make troll stew, but this is almost better!"
Fíli clapped Bilbo on the back. "Nice shooting, Master Baggins!"
Thorin stepped forward, his expression unreadable. He gave Ben a long look—then nodded once, respectful and grim.
"Well done."
"I'm still invisible," Bilbo huffed. "Someone un-shimmer me before I trip into a fire."
Just then, as though summoned by the commotion—or perhaps perfectly timed, as he always was—Gandalf appeared from behind a tree, leaning on his staff.
"My, my," the wizard said, surveying the scene with twinkling eyes. "Leave for a few hours and you lot start throwing sunlight around like fireworks at a wedding."