"I've signed!" Bilbo Baggins's breathless voice pierces the morning air, startling the company already making its way along the dusty road out of Hobbiton. The hobbit is running flat out, his face flushed with effort, waving the signed contract above his head like a victory banner. His bare feet slap the ground in a frantic rhythm, while surprise and then amusement appear on the faces of the dwarves who tug on their ponies' reins. Zac watches the scene with distant calm, a slight smile tugging his lips as fate unfolds exactly as he knows it must.
"Stop! Wait!" Bilbo weaves between the ponies, nearly getting trampled in his haste. He finally reaches Balin, offering the crumpled parchment with the ceremony of a man who has just made the most important decision of his life. "I've signed it."
Balin takes the contract, pulling a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examining the signature with a notary's meticulous attention. His eyes, squinting beneath thick white brows, scan the document, while a satisfied smile slowly grows on his face.
"All seems in order," he declares at last. "Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield."
Laughter and cheers rise among the dwarves. Some exchange coin purses, the spoils of wagers on the hobbit's arrival. Nori, scowling, tosses a particularly heavy pouch to Bofur, who catches it with a mocking grin.
Thorin, at the head of the column, regards the scene with a mix of resignation and impatience. "Give him a pony," he orders, turning away to end any further debate.
"No, no, that won't be necessary," Bilbo protests immediately, shaking his head vigorously. "I can walk just fine. I've gone on many hikes, you know. I even made it as far as Frogmire once…"
His sentence trails off as Fili and Kili, one on each side, grab him under the arms and unceremoniously deposit him onto the back of a small honey-colored pony. Bilbo clings awkwardly to the saddle, an expression of pure terror freezing his features as his legs dangle stiffly, careful to stay as far away from the animal's flanks as possible.
"I assure you, there's really no n..." he tries to say, but no one is listening anymore. The caravan moves on, ponies' hooves sending up little clouds of golden dust in the morning light.
Zac observes with amusement as the hobbit tenses atop his mount as if it might rear at any moment, though the placid animal merely plods along with its companions. Myrtle, as Bofur has named the pony, seems as placid as Bilbo is anxious.
Suddenly, the hobbit straightens, alarm flashing anew on his face. "Wait! We have to turn back!"
The company halts, the dwarves turning toward him in concern, fearing he's changed his mind already.
"I forgot my handkerchief!" Bilbo cries, frantically patting his empty pockets.
Groans and mocking laughter ripple through the ranks of dwarves. Bofur, with a theatrical flourish, rips a bit from his own garment and tosses it to the hobbit.
"Use this!" he offers cheerfully.
Bilbo gingerly pinches the filthy rag, holding it at arm's length as if it were a venomous creature, his face wavering between disgust and resignation.
Then Zac nudges Ash forward and approaches the hobbit. With a fluid motion, he pulls from his tunic a finely embroidered linen handkerchief, immaculate despite days of travel.
"I took the liberty of bringing one along," he says simply, handing it to Bilbo. "I thought it might come in handy."
The hobbit stares at him in astonishment, then in gratitude, accepting the handkerchief as if it were a priceless treasure. "Thank you," he murmurs, puzzled but deeply grateful. "That's... very foresighted of you."
The glance Gandalf casts at Zac is laden with curiosity. How could this stranger have anticipated such a specific need? The wizard silently adds this question to his already long list of mysteries surrounding their fifteenth companion.
"Onward!" booms Thorin, and the company resumes its journey.
The hours pass, the Shire unfolding all around them in its full springtime splendor. Green fields ripple in the breeze, blossoming hedgerows line the roads, crystal streams wind between rolling hills. It is a land of plenty and peace, so far from the perils awaiting them that the contrast is almost painful for Zac, who knows what lies ahead.
Ash moves at a steady pace, allowing Zac time to observe his companions. The dwarves travel in small clusters, chatting in their gravelly language or humming tunes under their breath. Bilbo, still stiff on his mount, seems to be getting used to the pony's motion, though his expression remains that of a man bracing for impending disaster.
Pouches keep flying from dwarf to dwarf, coins jingling merrily.
"What's going on?" Bilbo asks Gandalf, who is riding nearby.
"They bet on whether you'd come along," the wizard replies, his eyes twinkling in amusement.
"And what did you think?"
Gandalf does not answer immediately. Then, with perfect timing, he snatches a pouch tossed his way. "I never doubted you for a moment," he declares, stowing his winnings in a robe pocket with obvious satisfaction.
Bilbo doesn't look entirely convinced by this claim, but before he can ask further, Gandalf slows his horse to draw level with Zac.