Chapter Text
The night was pleasant enough as the Company settled in. It was warm and dry with a gentle breeze and the fire was casting a soft light across the resting dwarrow. Óin was sitting with Dori, and Glóin, his hearing horn cast to the side as the red and silver haired dwarrow went on and on trading pride filled stories of Glóin’s son Gimli and Dori’s youngest brother Ori. Apparently Gimli was the greatest axe wielder since Durin the Deathless himself and Ori was possibly the most dexterous and successful scribe of the Three Ages. Meanwhile Ori was on the opposite side of the fire from his fussy brother, being tormented by the Durin heirs, Kíli and Fíli. The pair were asking the most inappropriate questions and every so often a squeak would emit from the younger dwarf that would have his eldest brother glaring across the encampment. Dori needn’t have been quite so concerned as not even ten feet from the young lads was Ori’s second eldest brother, Nori, who was surreptitiously keeping his own eyes on the Durin lads while he maintained a merry banter with the brothers Bofur and Bombur. Bofur had apparently come along on this ill fated quest with the promise the beer would be free, as such the three were happily engaging in their liquid fee and exchanging some of their less than appropriate escapades. That left the older warrior dwarrow to group together. Dwalin, Bifur, Thorin, and Balin were fighters and survivors of Azaulbizar, they were far less jovially loud than the rest but certainly happy recounting some of their past glory and contemplating their quest.
Each group of dwarrow was bonding, learning about their new shield brothers and reuniting with some older ones they hadn’t seen in a number of years. But there was one thing all the dwarrow had done collectively, and that was ignore the little Burglar in their midst.
Bilbo sat just outside the fire light on a felled log, watching the bonding and merriment. Her back and rear end ached from the day on the blasted beast, head stuffy and her nose rubbed raw from continued sneezing and wiping, and her stomach churned from a less then fulfilling dinner of thin soup and stale cram. But all of these grievances paled in comparison to the feeling of solitude and exclusion she was feeling as she watched the camp. The kindest gesture she’d had all day was Bofur’s handkerchief alternative, the rest of the day she’d been belittled by the harsher dwarrow and teased by the nice, or just plain ignored by the indifferent. She couldn’t tell which reaction hurt more.
Sighing to herself, dejected and wondering what had possessed her to leave her comfortable smial in the first place, she drew her pipe from her vest pocket. She was patting around for her tinderbox when she was startled into falling clean off the log by a sudden thumb thrust in her direction. Not bad in and of itself, save this one was on fire. Looking up from her unladylike position she found the amused wizard staring down at her patiently, light still proffered as he maneuvered himself onto the log next to her.
Righting herself, the hobbit lit her pipe and sent a weak smile to her mother’s old friend. They sat in silence, puffing away for a moment, when Gandalf looked down to the wistful expression on the sad lass’s face as she watched the camaraderie in front of them. Heaving his own weary sigh he told the young one at his side, “Give it time my dear. They are a race that comes from much hardship. They are slow to trust and slower to love, but when they finally do it is forever and completely.” He watched the lass’s slumped shoulders, but finding some reassurance in the considering look in her eye as she returned to blowing her traditional, and quite circular, smoke rings. It really was uncanny how well she was at that, blowing one of his own for comparison the old wizard grumbled a little at the slight lopsided end as it traveled through her own. This of course caused a small smile on the hobbit as she spared him a side-glance. Smiling his own benign grin once more he continued, “In time they will come to see everything in you I see myself. Not the least of all being your unique skill at smoke rings.”
Bilbo’s quiet chuckle went unnoticed by most of the Company, but the members who did hear turned to see the hobbit and the wizard surrounded by a slew of smoke rings and colorful smoke figures. Gandalf was never one to be so obstinate as to fail to know when he was bested, no, he’d much rather switch to a form he excelled at. He’d never let a bird tell him he was too stupid to fly, and hopefully, soon the dwarrow would realize they were being ridiculous slighting a bird for not knowing how to swim. When they did accept little Bilbo Baggins she’d soar up and over their mountains and expectations. He was sure of it; after all, Hobbits were such extraordinary creatures.