Chapter Text
The afternoon light was as grey as the rest of the day itself had been, despite the fact that it was July. It seemed that news of the summer months had not reached the Northumberland coast, a fact that became only more obvious as the taxi bearing Bilbo Baggins to the isolated fishing village crept across the winding moorland roads, taking them under even heavier clouds.
The wind, cooler as they neared the coast, seemed to ease under the closed windows, making an odd, whistling noise as it came.
A fleck of rain hit the window as they drove, but no downpour came, as if instead the rain was waiting.
He was already beginning to regret taking on this latest project.
Bilbo Baggins had been twenty-three and fresh out of university when an old family friend had offered him a job working for their trust, and in the sixteen years that had followed he had never been given any project so extensive and lengthy that he had been requested to pack up his quiet little flat outside of London and move on site, to the far north of the country, all within the space of three weeks. Had anyone else asked it of him he would have turned them down without question, but there was something about Gandalf that made him quite impossible to refuse.
“It’ll be a tremendous adventure, Bilbo,” he commented, in his odd, off-hand way that managed to blur tranquilly and intensity at the exact same time. His eyes, grey and lined but still as bright as they had ever been, seemed to laugh at Bilbo over the rim of his coffee cup, but there was a strange kind of sadness about him that Bilbo had found himself dwelling over in the dark nights after, surrounded by packing boxes and the unhappy purrs of his cat, who had seemed to know that he was going away. Gandalf seemed to have his own reservations about this project, but once again Bilbo was not privy to them: they remained as secretive as any of Gandalf’s thoughts, trapped away behind a razor sharp mind and a disconcerting affability.
“And you need shaking up,” he continued, as Bilbo had folded his arms across his chest, knowing already that there was little point in trying to resist. What Gandalf wanted, he always got.
That was the primary reason that his trust, only funded by small grants and the occasional private donation, had continued to succeed despite the odds: it specialised in the restoration and the preservation of the country’s most historic and beautiful buildings and gardens, which otherwise would have fallen into disrepair. Rather than buying them off their owners and converting them into exclusive hotels and spas, as was the trend, the owners were instead still able to continue living in them, and they would be kept the way that they had always been: in turn, they would open them to the public, under the supervision of the Greyhame Trust, the profits from which would be used to continue to keep them in fine condition.
It was a worthwhile cause, and a more useful role for his degree specialising in architectural history than Bilbo had ever thought he would find. The trust kept a small central group of employees, and though he was not the only one with enough experience to oversee a project as extensive as this, he knew full well that there wasn’t anyone else on staff that Gandalf would trust, a fact which the old man took great pains to remind him of.
“You’re really the only one I’d want to send up there, Bilbo,” he had said, running one thumb over the knuckles of his other hand.
His skin was dry, paler now than it had been when Bilbo had first met him, and looser too; the odd discolouration had started to appear around his hands, reminding Bilbo of the slow pad of time.
There really had been no argument against that.
And though he couldn’t have truthfully said that he was happy about leaving his quiet little suburb and his cozy, comfortable life, there was something thrilling about the unknown, something that had twisted in his chest as he had boarded the train that morning, Gandalf waving him off from the platform. He would be staying on the Lonely Rock for the next ten months, supervising not only the rebuilding of the house, which was already underway, but the restoration of the other buildings on the island, and its opening to the public in the March of the following year. It was a big job: the buildings were in a depressing state of disrepair, and the small village closest to it would need much preparation for the (hopefully sizeable number of) tourists that would descend on it the following summer months.
He wasn’t tasked just with that, of course: the trust was small enough that it necessitated Bilbo covering a number of roles. He’d oversee both the structural and the internal restoration, and the work being done on the gardens, as well as sorting through vast tomes of local history in order to compile guidebooks and information cards for once the island was open again. And, more than any of that, he would have to help with the family itself, who were due to move in the following spring.
He glanced down, now, at the folder in his lap, that he had taken from his bag when first getting into the taxi with the intention of reading, though he had committed most of the details to memory already.
The first Lord of Durin had been awarded his peerage in 1485; they were one of the oldest noble families left in the United Kingdom to date, though they had been lacking any of the wealth or prestige that their title suggested since before the First World War. Apparently the current Lord had run his own business since completing a spell in the armed forces, and lived in a relatively modest house somewhere outside of York, close to his widowed sister and her sons: according to the file, he’d only been to the island three or four times in his life. The oldest of the boys was only twelve, but already the heir to the peerage: Bilbo had been a little curious that the Lord, only five years older than he himself was, already seemed so certain that he would not be having any children of his own.
But this curiosity was hardly professional, and he pushed it firmly to the back of his mind as his gaze left the folder once more, and returned to the landscape outside the window.
Bilbo’s excitement was dwindling somewhat at the moors, so cold and bleak looking even in the summer. The blur of grey-brown was beautiful in its own, stark way, but nothing at all like the soft green of the gentle hills only a few minutes away from his leafy suburb, where he so often happily whiled away idle weekend days in the sunshine. Already he could feel the ache of homesickness starting, dampening his enthusiasm, and he swallowed hard, searching the skyline instead for some glimpse of blue, some indication that the sun lived still beyond those low and heavy clouds, bruised and angry looking, threatening in the odd light, dim and strangely browned, like fruit left too long on the branch.
The air felt claggy and unpleasant. He shuddered a little, and tucked his arms a little closer to his side, almost regretting the decision to pack his coat in the boxes of winter things due to be sent up to him at some point in the next few weeks, for when he had settled a little better into the town.
A few drops of rain hit the glass, and he glanced at the front of the cab; the driver caught his eye in the rear view mirror for a moment, and made a low, whistling noise between his teeth.
“Your first time up here, then?” he asked, though it did not sound much like a question.
He glanced at Bilbo’s jumper, cozy enough when curled up with a book in front of the fire, but no help against bitter, coastal winds.
Bilbo nodded.
“Just visiting?”
“Working,” he replied, finally. “Up here for the year.”
The driver looked back at the road.
“All the building work out on the Rock, then?”
Bilbo blinked.
“On the Lonely Rock? Yes, I’m with the Greyhame Trust, we’re supervising the work. Are you a local, then?”
The man shook his head.
“My ma lives in the village,” he answered, after a long, slow moment, and said no more.
“Ah,” Bilbo offered, breaking the awkward silence. After another moment, he tried again. “What do the locals think of the work, then? It’ll bring a lot of tourists here, after all. Good for business.”
That wasn’t just his own opinion, either: time after time the same thing happened – isolated communities suddenly getting a burst of new visitors from the opening of one of their estates, an often-much needed boost to their otherwise stilted economies. But the driver made a low noise of amusement, and would not meet Bilbo’s eye; he seemed unimpressed with the argument, with this slight and ill-equipped man from the south, and Bilbo felt his shoulders slumping at the lack of enthusiasm.
“I’m sure you’ll hear all about it soon enough,” the driver muttered, and this time Bilbo did not try to break the silence between them.
That had certainly killed off any lingering positivity for the day, but still that twinge in his chest remained, though perhaps it should be better labelled anxiety than excitement, if he was going to be entirely honest with himself. He regretted for a moment not having brought his cat with him, a grumpy but reliable source of comfort, but he had been packed up to stay with relatives for the next year: if Bilbo didn’t like the rain and the cold then Smeagol liked it even less, and he had felt a little guilty at the idea of dragging the poor creature out to some windswept sea-side town where he would no doubt spend the year huddled under a radiator, refusing to outside lest he be hit by some spray from the sea.
And speaking of the sea, there it was; a grey line growing closer every moment, and Bilbo suddenly thought he could smell it, the heavy brine of it, though the windows were up and he hadn’t just a second before. None the less the taste of it lingered in his mouth, clammy and unpleasant, and he swallowed compulsively as the road joined with the coastal one, skirting high cliff faces, the screech of gulls wheeling high overhead breaking the still-awkward silence between Bilbo and the driver.
It was raining, far out to sea, though it wasn’t here: Bilbo watched the distant curtain of rain idly, the ebb and flow of it somewhat hypnotic, and much less distressing than it would have been if it had been closer to the shore.
They would not be far off, now; Bilbo checked his watch compulsively, before patting his pockets to make sure, once again, that he had not left anything on the train.
The Lonely Rock was an odd place, though not entirely unusual. The island was tidal, accessible by foot only at low tide. There had once been a causeway built across, centuries before, that meant a determined visitor could arrive for longer in the day, though apparently it had still been submerged during the few hours in which the tide was at its highest. It had not entirely been rebuilt, yet, though they had re-laid the first layer of it so that the builder’s vehicles could get across. Since then, though, they had been left on the island, and any other trip to the island necessitated waiting for low tide, or getting an obliging local to take you across in their boat.
He reached for the map of the island, sticking out of his bag, but before he could they rounded the headland and the view distracted him: there, suddenly, was the Lonely Rock, jutting up from the sea like some great old monolith, imposing and old. It seemed to glare at him as he stared at it for a long moment, with a sense of entitlement and a long, weary wisdom, as if it had seen the passage of time and knew full well the weight of it.
It was an impressive site, even with the ugly jar of the scaffolding that stood firm guard around the main buildings: surrounded on all sides by the dark and angry waters of the North Sea, the steep cliff faces off the southern side seemed to bleed into the water, the same colour and shadowed where deep fissures had been worn away.
Bilbo had seen pictures, of course, but it was nothing compared to the real thing.
No wonder Gandalf had been so adamant that they were to get involved with it.
He swallowed, reflexively, running the facts through his head in an attempt to still the unpleasant fluttering in his chest.
It had been the seat of the Durin family since the 1750, when the eighth Lord had bought the land: before then they had lived in Khazad House, in the North West, but the place had been burnt to the ground, killing the seventh Lord, though his son, Thrain I, had thankfully escaped: arson was suspected, though never proved, and history had rather blurred the somewhat shadowy involvement of the Lord and his son with the Jacobite rebellions.
Bilbo had been a little surprised to discover that they were, as figures, the subject of much speculation and study, a popular topic of many an article from eminent historians who worked with the period. Some seemed convinced that they had been a part of the rebellion, and that Khazad House had been targeted in response, but others argued that the they had actually been an informant on behalf of the monarchy, and it had been Jacobites themselves who had struck the match, in retaliation for the betrayal.
Either way, it proved to be just another area of the long history of the Durin family that was ambiguous, and a little tragic.
Erebor House, which the eighth Lord had built on the rock had been an austere and cold place, and alongside it he had built a modest chapel for the family, with an attached house for the resident vicar. They were the oldest buildings on the island, and though the chapel had changed little over the years, it was still the most complete of the buildings, having avoided the various mishaps that had continued to plague the family. Bilbo had seen pictures of the chapel, which had already been repaired under the supervision of a local historian, apparently an old family friend, before the final contracts between the Durins and the Greyhame Trust had been completed, something which had annoyed Gandalf to no end. The roof had needed replacing, one wall required some structural support, and water damage from years of being at the seas mercy had needed attention: otherwise it was quite sound, and now awaited internal renovation.
Alongside the house and the chapel, the Lord had built a rather extravagant conservatory, apparently as a gift to his young wife. His letters to her had been preserved, uncovered by her family and the work of a tireless historian who studied the Durin line, and it was quite clear that he had loved her ardently, though her own replies had unfortunately been lost. Separated from the house by a hundred feet or so, it had been intended as a place for the young girl to sit and watch the sea behind the safety and security of great window panes, which had been long broken.
It would once have been a hard but beautiful place to live, impressive from the shore and even more so from the island itself, the symbol of the strength and wealth of a great family whose lineage dated back to the fifth century.
Now Erebor House sat, crumbling but no less intimidating.
The great windows of its south-facing halls seemed to stare belligerently at Bilbo, as if asking what he was doing here.
Honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure himself.
He glanced down, for just a moment, at the file in his lap, before staring back out the window again.
Across the sea, a beam of sunlight broke through for just a moment, thin and wavering; under its touch the sea seemed bluer, gentler, and it lit the side of the island. Once the gardens had been lush and extravagant, the walls tall and unparalleled, and for a moment Bilbo could almost see the beauty that must have been there once: a solitary and blunt beauty, but undeniable none the less.
Then the clouds closed, the sunlight went, and everything looked grey again.
It had been several hours since high tide, but the sea still lapped at the jutting rocks that surrounded the island, cutting it off from the mainland, and that anxiety in his chest made itself known again as he remembered that he would not simply be able to get into his car and leave whenever he liked: the caretaker of the island apparently brought across the builders once a day, and returned for them in the late afternoon, when the tide was highest. It was only possible to walk across around noon, and at midnight: should he miss that boat, he might be stuck on the island for a rather chilly and uncomfortable night.
You're being ridiculous, Bilbo, he told himself, in that firm voice that his mother had once used to lecture him. They aren’t just going to leave you on the island, and even if they did, you can survive one bloody night outside.
But it did not stop him from taking a mental note to have the team start working on rebuilding the causeway proper as soon as possible, when he started work tomorrow. It would have to be done eventually, after all.
Thinking of the boats, he craned his neck slightly to see if he could spot any moored around the small bay of the island. The reports that the representative of the Durin family had not mentioned any of the locals getting involved in helping with the building work, but then, that kind of small, unofficial aid often went unaccounted in official documentation. Perhaps an enterprising shop was already making a tidy profit, sending fresh lunches over every day - it would certain be a positive report to send back to Gandalf, that the town was adjusting to the idea of the changing island.
He frowned as he leant a little closer as something caught his eye, his breath misting the glass.
Was that a boat? Or just a shadow in the rocks?
Seaweed, perhaps, caught up by the press of the water.
Dark rock, just under the surface.
That must be it.
Was that… ?
For a moment Bilbo was certain that he saw it move, more than just from the rock of the waves: the motion seemed oddly jolting, deliberate, more like a man turning to stare at something in the distance. Were it not entirely suicidal, he might have thought that it was someone climbing down the rocks, but who would, in this weather? Besides, there was no one on the island save the building team, and they wore bright jackets that would have shown up even on this miserable day.
He breathed out a low, odd noise.
The white of the spray seemed to blur the shadow for a moment, and then it was moving again, away from the open sea and into something that was definitely more than a shadow against the cliff face: one of the great fissures, no doubt, perhaps even one of the caves. They had been in the reports, of course, the narrow, slippery caves that seemed to worm their way through the bedrock of the island, no doubt worn down by years of patient encouragement by the sea.
Bilbo continued to stare, his eyebrows creasing as he strained to focus on the shape, so indistinct and impossible.
The road twisted, and he was forced to crane even further –
And then with a loud, wet slap something hit the glass, right in front of his face, and he jumped, his heart suddenly in his throat, his blood pumping with an immediate and unexplainable fear; the scrap of rubbish blew off quickly, and by the time he looked back, the shadow was gone.
If it had ever been there to begin with.
Probably just a trick of the light, he thought to himself. Nothing more.
No one would be stupid enough to try and climb over those rocks in this weather.
But none the less the disquiet in his chest would not ease, and he hunched back into his seat as they began their steady descent into the village by the shore.
The old clock on the wall ticked a slow, unhappy rhythm: Bilbo sat in a hard, uncomfortable chair and tried not to fidget as the white-haired man opposite beamed at him in a way that reminded him uncomfortably of Gandalf; a third man perched on a high stool across the room, a furred hat tucked down over his ears and his eyes on the ceiling as he smiled in amusement underneath his moustache.
Bilbo still hadn’t quite caught onto the joke.
From the open doorway to the kitchen came the low scream of the kettle, and then the comforting sound of water being poured.
Balin, currently the spokesperson for the Durin family, had met him at the caretaker’s house, a sour and frowning man named Bard who had looked the both of them up and down with a look of such unhappiness that Bilbo had almost had to take a physical step backwards, away from the doorway and the house and perhaps even this whole damn village, depressing and subdued as it was, though oddly familiar at the same time, if just for the way that the curtains had twitched as the taxi had pulled up on the street, as if ready to assess this newcomer to their quiet, grey world.
It had been exactly what he had expected, this grim little place, full of narrow streets and the slick press of the sea air, the screech of gulls loud and disconsolate overhead. The locals seemed to keep themselves to themselves, those that were not sat down on the dock smoking tight roll-ups presumably out at sea or huddled in their houses: despite the summer month, there were no children playing in the street, no chatter of housewives or any of the pleasant sounds you might expect from a late summer afternoon.
Bard didn’t say anything as he carried through a tray of cups, the china service old and worn but fine; they looked odd in his large, callused hands as he passed them out to the visitors, keeping the last, chipped one for himself.
He took a long, slow sip as he watched them carefully, wearily.
“Well,” Balin said, cheerily, though the slight frown that hovered around his eyebrows suggested that he might not be quite as at ease as his tone implied. “Thank you all for agreeing to meet today. And a particular welcome to Mr Baggins, whose arrival we have all been greatly anticipating! Perhaps Bofur can start by filling us in on the progress of the building work?”
Bofur made a clicking noise with his tongue and nodded, the brim of his hat falling forwards over his eyes for just a moment.
He’d been introduced to Bilbo as the ‘chap in charge of the rabble over there on the Rock’ – Bofur’s words, not Balin’s - and from what Bilbo had been able to grasp, he was the coordinator of the various building teams and freelancers working out there at once. He seemed like the ideal man for the job, too – his wide smile managed to ease a little of even Bilbo’s discomfort with the afternoon, and as he proceeded to explain what had been done it became obvious that he knew both his team and his work very well.
Balin smiled again as Bofur came to a close, and turned instead to Bilbo.
"And what do you think, Mr Baggins?"
Bilbo cleared his throat.
“It's Bilbo, please," he said, not for the first time. "And we’ve been very happy with the reports you've sent over, but I’m sure that Gandalf has already told you that. There isn’t much more I can say until I can get over to the island tomorrow, of course, and see it all for myself.”
Balin nodded, and his gaze flickered to Bard, a brooding and uncomfortable presence in the parlour.
"Well, we've set you up with a nice apartment here," he told Bilbo, his fingers forking in his lap. "One of the old cottages down by the shore, converted quite recently - I do hope it will do well for you. Bard has been kind enough to buy in a few provisions for you until the rest of your things arrive, so you don't have to dash off immediately to buy food - you did bring a car with you, I suppose?"
Bilbo shook his head.
"Gandalf will be driving up with it in a few weeks," he replied. "The engine broke down at the last minute."
Bard made a low noise that could have been amusement, but could have equally been something entirely different.
Bofur grinned.
"So you're stuck in the town until then?"
Bilbo nodded, and tried not to let the twisting discomfort rise again; the thought of being trapped in this grim, miserable little place, shadowed by a brooding island, surrounded by townspeople who quite clearly didn't want him here did not exactly comfort him.
Balin seemed to sense his hesitation, and glanced over at Bard, his smile becoming a little forced now.
“You’ve got lovely children, I must say,” he nodded at a framed photograph, hung above the empty fireplace, of two girls and a boy, the oldest of which might only have been about fourteen. There was an air of Bard’s strong jaw and dark eyes about the son already, but his daughters had a fairer look about them, pale and slender. “I’m sure your wife is, too.”
Bard took another long sip, and cast an eye down to his ring, and wide wedding band that glinted dimly in the light.
“Aye, she was,” he said, quietly.
Bofur bit his lip; Balin seemed entirely lost for words.
They left, soon after that, and Bilbo was most unhappy to find that the rain he had watched across the sea had finally arrived to the shore, drenching them all to the bone; by the time he reached his temporary accommodation he was cold, miserable, and exhausted, but still Balin and Bofur shook his hand with cheery smiles before disappearing again into the grey sheets of rain, leaving him to struggle his way into the damp, quiet little apartment and collapse against the bed.
Despite that, he found that he lay awake for hours, listening to the disconcerting noise of the sea outside, a strange hush more like a whisper, trying to tell him some secret that lay just out of his reach, bloated with a peculiar sense of potential.
His dreams, when they came, were quiet, and full of shadows.
The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.
The salt is on the briar rose,
The fog is in the fir trees.