Bofur's face, which had until then only looked tired and bewildered, suddenly lit up with pain. Bilbo's words had inadvertently opened the wounds they had tried so hard to conceal with their endurance and resilience. When had they begun to "enjoy" travelling? Their migrations through mountains and wilderness had been a kind of exile after the fall of their homes. This so-called "wandering" meant banishment from their homeland by a fire-drake. The humiliation and hardship of having to seek whatever shelter they could in unfamiliar territory.
What were they now? Warriors? Craftsmen? Princes and subjects? No — their primary identity was that of wanderers. Because they had lost the Lonely Mountain, their home where the fire had never been quenched. No home, no sense of belonging — these were the heaviest shackles on the hearts of the Durin's dwarves. This was the truth that explained their determination to reclaim their homeland at any cost.
Bilbo noticed the change in Bofur's expression and immediately realised he had said something wrong. Panic and a desire to apologise swirled within him, and he hastily waved his hand, trying to make amends incoherently. "Sorry, Bofur! I... I didn't mean it! I mean... I'm only talking about myself, I'm too cowardly as well..."
Bofur raised his hand to cut off Bilbo's apologies and took a deep breath. He turned around, his gaze slowly sweeping over his sleeping companions, lying haphazardly on the ground. When he turned back to Bilbo, Bofur managed a smile. He raised his hand and gently patted Bilbo's shoulder. "No, Bilbo, you're right. We... we have no home. I wish you all the best."
In conclusion, Bofur stepped aside, no longer blocking Bilbo's path. Bilbo was utterly stunned. He stared blankly at Bofur, at the complex and indescribable emotions in the dwarf's eyes. To his surprise, Bofur had not only failed to scold him but had approved of his departure. Bilbo was overwhelmed by mixed feelings — guilt, relief, and confusion; he opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Finally, he could only give Bofur a slight nod, grip his wooden staff tightly, and step toward the crack.
One step, two steps... "Stop!" A deep cry echoed through the cave, coming from the shadows on the other side, behind Bilbo. There, Gandalf slowly rose, gently tapping the base of his staff against the ground. Bilbo stopped abruptly, his heart pounding in his throat. He turned sharply toward the source of the voice: "Gandalf? You too..."
"Bilbo Baggins, don't forget — weapons are not used. Do you think you can cross the mountains and return to Rivendell alone, armed only with vague memories? We are not strolling through the outskirts of the Shire. If you stray from the group, you will most likely not end up by the fireplace at Bag End. Instead, you will perish in some mountain gorge, becoming prey for scavengers or ferocious wolves!"
The harsh, cold truth, like ice water poured over him, instantly cooled Bilbo's mind. Gandalf was right; as a hobbit who had never truly fought, his chances of surviving in the wild were slim. Bilbo froze at Gandalf's words. Bofur, who had been silently watching, happened to glance at Bilbo's waist. There hung the spiked sword, forged by Elves and taken from the troll cave. At that moment, a faint, pale blue light was emanating from the gap at the scabbard's entrance.
"What's that?" Bofur whispered, pointing at Bilbo's waist. Bilbo flinched and looked down in the direction Bofur was pointing, where he also saw the eerie blue light. A sense of foreboding washed over him, and he gripped the hilt of the sword with trembling fingers. Then he drew the short sword slightly from the scabbard, and the blade shone with a dazzling, ominous blue light.
Bilbo tensely looked up and met Bofur's gaze. They both saw the same shock and horror in each other's eyes. "Blue light?!" Gandalf's expression changed drastically. "Orcs! They are near."
Almost simultaneously with his words, Thorin's gaze swept across the cave floor. He saw that the thin, dry layer of sand and dust on the ground had begun to move and sink, as if something beneath it was opening up. In the centre of the ground, a tiny but rapidly widening crack suddenly appeared. Thorin flinched, suddenly grabbing the sword lying beside him and leaping up.
"Wake up! Everyone wake up! Don't sleep — there are enemies underground!" "What? Orcs?!" "Where is the enemy?" The other dwarves, startled by the sudden alarm, sprang up abruptly. In the chaos, they grabbed their axes, hammers, and long swords.
But it was too late; the last syllable of Thorin's "down" had not yet fully faded. "Boom... Crack!" The seemingly solid ground beneath their feet split in two without warning. A huge circular pit suddenly appeared, and everyone fell into the dark passage below. "Ah!! Got it!" "Damn!" Chaotic cries and curses quickly faded into the distance, disappearing into the complex corridor. It was a steep, winding descent, and they slid helplessly down at high speed, crashing into protruding rocks. Everyone felt dizzy and disoriented, as if their internal organs were about to be shaken out.
"Thud! Thud! Thud! Crash!" Finally, one by one, they fell into a semi-enclosed cage made of crude wooden planks and rusty iron bars. These traps were designed to capture prey alive, causing dizziness and disorientation but not fatal injuries. Before they could fully recover from their dizziness and clearly see their surroundings... Torches blazed brightly in front of the cage. Dozens of ugly figures, dressed in torn leather armour or rusty iron plates, rushed toward their location at a frenzied pace.
Dwalin struggled to his knees, shaking his ringing head. He barely managed to distinguish the approaching wave of green-skinned creatures before letting out a roar: "Watch out!!" But there were too many orcs, and they were upon them in an instant, leaving the dwarves no time to organise an effective defence. Some dwarves tried to resist, but were soon knocked to the ground, their arms twisted by the orcs.
Gandalf was in somewhat better shape; though he was also in a sorry state, he was relatively clear-headed. He saw several orcs, grinning, rushing at him, trying to snatch his staff. "Get away from me, you dark scum!" He let out a low cry and swung his staff, knocking three orcs in front off their feet. Gandalf's attack gave the nearest dwarves a precious moment's respite.
"Well done, Gandalf!" Thorin roared. He took the opportunity to knock down an orc trying to hold him and picked up a small axe from the ground. The other dwarves roared with fury, grabbed their weapons, and engaged the orcs in fierce combat.