The Royals That Weren’t (II)

Author Note: The song Bilbo plays in the Bywater Market Square is Beltaine: An Astrailhad

"-. .-"

Thorin Oakenshield could freely admit that the past 24 hours had not at all proceeded the way he'd expected. And he wasn't just referring to the way he got lost twice on the road. No, it was everything that happened after he knocked on the door, though now he wasn't sure whether to be more affronted at the events in Bilbo Baggin's home or at how Dwalin dragged him out and away only to spend the rest of the night arguing with and relieving hours' worth of stress on him. By relaying, in that ever so blunt manner of his, precisely what had occurred between Dwalin's arrival into the Shire (and eventually Bag End) and Thorin's own.

Gandalf had absconded almost as soon as they got him to sit at their table in the inn, the sly old coot. If the morning actions of the hobbit bartender and other patrons hadn't ben what they'd been, Thorin would have given the wizard a piece of his mind. Did he think his quest, his people's plight, was a small joke? Why else would he set up his entire company for such a distasteful prank? He sent them into the lair of such a fickle creature under false information, and he made sure the tensions would be highest by not informing the Halfling (if it even was a Halfling) of anything, even their arrival.

Gandalf had told them that everything had been arranged weeks ago!

And what had gotten into Dwalin? He had been literally drowning his sorrows in ale. What had that Halfling put him through? The warrior had relayed the bare facts, but it was as if Dwalin was hiding some dark secret about what took place within those round walls. And every time Thorin tried to demand an explanation, he would just down another half a mug and sulk, occasionally grunting something at him.

Mahal, he'd trudged over half of Middle Earth seeking to muster his dwarven kin and been turned down, not even with the appropriate amount of deference shown to him. He'd been spitting mad for days on the way back from the Council of Gabilgathol – Belegost to the Elves and Mickleburg to the Men – feeling betrayed and disappointed. The worst was his cousin's refusal, even though he understood Dain's stance. On the one hand, he of all dwarves had the manpower to spare, being the lord of the greatest Dwarven realm that remained. On the other, he was the holder of the chokehold between Rhovanion and Rhun to the east, and those men had ever been servants of the Shadow.

It had been an uneasy trek back from the meeting place, to say the least.

And when he arrived in the Shire he spent four days through peaceful and joyful villages. It felt like a slap in the face that these small creatures had such an easy lifestyle, so safe (not even through any effort of their own, but owed solely to rangers) while his own people had had to spend two hundred years scraping for even the barest necessities until they finally established a relatively decent life in Southern Ered Luin, where Menegroth had once stood.

The four hours spent trudging through pouring rain didn't help any, and when he saw the small, soft creature it was like all his lowest expectations were confirmed on the spot. It felt like that entire situation had been orchestrated to stomp on the last vestiges of his hope that his quest was not completely doomed. Clearly, the Halfling would be a dead weight they would have to drag after them just to break the bad luck of number 13 and have someone lacking in dwarf scent to send into Smaug's lair at the end.

What had he been thinking listening to Gandalf in the first place? They were better off without the Halfling. Better that he didn't feel the urge to come at all. Admittedly, Thorin was (surprised though he was to admit it) regretful that he'd sought to amuse himself at Bilbo Baggins' expense, but if the creature was so thin-skinned that he would crumble at the barest implied insult then he was not fit for the journey.

Call him insensitive but after everything he'd been through in life, he didn't bother sparing the feelings of outsiders. He had trouble enough doing it with his own kin, even before they turned their backs on him and his call for aid.

Well, no matter, he would get them back their home even if they didn't lift a finger to help bring about that dream.

Then the evening happened and Thorin, even after a night's reprieve, still felt like he'd fallen down a rabbit hole. And the feeling didn't get any better after what happened in the morning. Stone, that song and the way the hobbits so reverently listened to it. Even Gandalf had…

Thorin had actually forgotten about having been rendered mute until after the bell stopped tolling and he finally could speak again. And only when it did finally happen did he realize that he'd gravitated towards the window closest to the one the innkeeper had sat in front of. The view was stunning, even to him. Sunlight streamed through the clouds, breaking into myriads of colors as it refracted through the mist, and the colors glimmered on the dew of the morning. And with the window facing west-northwest, he was almost behind the sunbeams and could see exactly how they settled over the hills, like parallel seams holding the landscape together.

Then the entire inn cleared out as if by magic. The only people left, other than the two of them, were the two halflings that had shushed him earlier (the nerve, he'd have words with them) and the innkeeper himself (who moved to sit at the window facing south, which gave him a full view of the market square down the hill). Gandalf had exited along with everyone else at some point, when Thorin wasn't paying attention. Not long after, the handful of hobbits that had taken rooms in the floor above thundered down the stairs and ran out the door.

Thorin and Dwalin shared a confused look, and the former was glad when his friend went to ask the Hobbit what had just happened, and what was going on. As far as the King Under the Mountain was concerned, if he had to deal with another hobbit that day it would be too soon.

Dwalin's brief talk with the Innkeeper resulted in their eviction from the establishment. The dwarf King in exile had been so nonplussed that he didn't get around to protesting the rudeness of it all. To just close down the inn, and so abruptly! He was, admittedly, somewhat mollified by the fact that the two hobbits that had lingered inside had been ushered out as well. Only for a short time, though, because he never got around to having words with them about how they dared to tell him to shush earlier.

Thorin didn't even remember when they'd disappeared, or where. Then again, with the crowd outside it was easy to slip out of sight.

And to get shoved and bumped around it seemed. Why he'd gone with Gandalf's suggestion to visit the market, he didn't know. Especially after the wizard had steered them so horribly wrong in regards to that volatile Hobbit that was supposed to be their burglar. But he did go to the market, instead of following his initial plan of going with Dwalin back to Bag End to retrieve his errant company and go on their way. He was determined that it would be the last concession he made with the wizard: to look around the market until noon or so, and if his company didn't show up by that time then he could go do whatever he wanted.

Four hours of browsing trinkets, produce and foodstuffs later (Mahal, there were so many types of food too), Thorin had actually finished wrinkling his nose and silently scoffing at the total lack of weapon merchants. Or even a tool stand. Instead, he was actually thinking of buying a couple kegs of ale, the sort that he'd had at the inn during the night. And was a third of the market dedicated solely to mushrooms? And by the Arkenstone, that apothecary was half-stocked with things he'd never even heard of before but which were supposedly meant to be remedies for various things.

Jostling through the crowd (which was growing as more and more halflings came in with various products in wheelbarrows or carts), Thorin was seriously thinking he should buy himself something to eat when it happened.

A ripple of mutters and excited chatter went through the crowd. The crowd which abruptly stopped. Automatically turning in the direction of the disturbance, Thorin could only think Finally!

There, at the edge of town, high on the hilltop leading to Hobbiton, were his followers. Squinting, the dwarf king also noticed two… no, four hobbits accompanying them. And right in front was the Halfling he still wasn't sure he wanted to see. Good thing his dwarves were there at least. And Thorin had to admit that the reaction of the crowd was gratifying. As impolite as it was to stop and stare, his dwarves really were a sight to see, armed and armored, dwarven steel glinting in the sun. And unlike the humble mien they were forced to wear in the towns of men, now they strode tall and proud-

"It's Mister Bilbo!"

-and imposing- Wait, what? He must've misheard, it had been barely a whisper-

"Ho Mister Bilbo!" A hobbit man shouted, waving excitedly.

And then the crowd erupted in movement again, twice as active. Frantic even. Thorin was jostled once, then twice, then he had to beat a hasty retreat as the Halflings moved about like a whirlwind, shouting things like "Hurry up!" "Set up that Stall already!" and "Mister Bilbo's coming, you wanna be the only one without your products on display when he give his speech?"

Speech? What speech? Who was he to even give a speech?

For the second time that day, Thorin could only wonder what in blazes was going on. When Dwalin finally managed to rejoin him (he'd wandered off earlier), he had no answer. Then the two had to move aside again because "Oy! Sorry but this here's hitching rail, see? How're we supposed to tie our oxen to it with you standing there? Or d'ya wanna get horned? Move move move!"

They were able to get out of the way but Thorin was sure he'd have had to start putting effort into not drawing his sword Deathless if that went on much longer. Fortunately for the annoying Halflings, that was when Gandalf came out from an alley not far from them. The dwarf king would forever deny that the sight of the wizard came as a relief.

With some effort and much pushing, Thorin and Dwalin made their way to the wizard's side. "So these are the creatures you're so enamored with!" He drawled as soon as he was close enough. He waved a hand as grandly as he ever did, encompassing the chaos that had grown ten times worse in the few minutes since Bilbo Baggins had been spotted. "Look at them. They're worse than headless chicke-"

A sharp whistle speared through the air so suddenly that Thorin cringed and shut his eyes. It had been so loud and shrill that his ears were left ringing.

Far off and high up, Bilbo Baggins pulled his two fingers out of his mouth (maybe forbidding that whistle should be included in the contract?) and raised an eyebrow at the multitude of his kinsmen, who'd stopped and were al staring at him like deers in the torchlight. Thorin watched in bewilderment as all who'd been trying to step over one another or push their carts ahead of the line (if the word even applied anymore) ducked their heads in embarrassment.

"Now…" Bilbo Baggins' voice carried over them all, even though he barely raised it. "Let's try this again, yes?" That said, he reached out, to his right, and plucked the strings of the lute held aloft by the Halfling accompanying him.

It was like a repeat of the scene in the morning, only with a different instrument. The cadence, fast and rhythmic, washed over and through everyone like the warmth of a furnace after a long trek through the howling blizzard. Then the section completed and picked up again, without breaking stride, five seconds in. Bilbo Baggins stepped away, leaving the lute to be played by his kinsman, and crouched.

A leap carried him several feet upwards, and his jump ended with him standing perfectly upright on the fence bordering the road. Sunlight settled on his form, aged wood gleamed as it moved. The hobbit stepped forward to walk as if he wasn't precariously balanced on something as thin as a fifth of his foot sole. He strode almost on air, brought up a bow to the fiddle strings and music literally began to fly.

Thorin shivered when the notes crashed into him, and he wanted to rebel against the feeling, but he couldn't muster the effort. It was fast but centered, wild and tame at the same time, and so utterly alive that the entirety of Bywater fled his awareness. He was mesmerized by how quickly the bow slid, like a blur in the sunlight, each note perfect.

The hundreds of hobbits stared at the one closest to them, paused, then moved again. In unison. Order without stiffness. Haste without chaos. It was like they were all suddenly part of the same mind, cogs in the same, grand, well-oiled machine. Carts were heaved, beast of burden quartered, stalls were erected as easily and smoothly as water flowed down a creek. Those that had been trying to get past one another now helped each other in their endeavors. Yet they no longer seemed to walk. They almost bounced on their bare, hairy feet, as if they were too giddy to stand still because no one was dancing and there should have been some dancing.

All the while, a path was opened for the ones that had just arrived, the hobbit playing the lute, his two kinsmen and the dwarves in their wake.

All the while, Bilbo Baggins glided forward on the fence, his backup and the dwarves following several meters behind. His eyes stayed close the entire time. It would have arrested Thorin's attention up to the end of the song if a new instrument, too low for a lute but still using strings, didn't come from right above.

With a jolt, he whirled around and looked up. One of the hobbits that had stayed in the inn with them up till the closedown was sitting on the edge of the roof. His fingers plucked at the odd object in perfect sync with the others, his grin was wide and brilliant, and his mirth-filled eyes were trained perfectly on the lead singer.

Dwalin grabbed his arm and pointed elsewhere, so he looked, around Gandalf. There, opposite of the first, on the other building, was the second of those hobbits, fiddle poised to start.

What on Middle Earth was going on?

That was when the song lulled, and the beats of a hand drum slipped into place. He didn't bother looking for it. He couldn't hear the direction anyway.

Thorin turned back to the source, in spite of himself. Bilbo Baggins was standing on the nearest fence pole, and the music had changed, though it stayed familiar. Like the hiss of a properly heated blade dunked in cold water, the rhythm slowed, then began to drift up again. Slowly. It was building up to something, even Thorin could tell that much.

That was when the apex came. Bilbo Baggins, instead of digging his heels into his nonexistent platform, instead of standing still to focus on his fiddle, instead of doing anything that made even the slightest nick of sense, stepped forward. Stepped on nothing…

Stepped on a bench that half a dozen hobbits had grabbed and held aloft length-wise for him to walk on. He cleared it in four steady strides, then there was again nothing, almost, but a rake, of all things, came out of nowhere, and a second one, then the same bench showed up and he was half-way to the center of the market, pacing along with the song he wove. On and on he went, makeshift path never failing to emerge before him, as if the song he played held him above everyone, as if it pulled him ever higher.

Numbly, the dwarf king noticed that the song did not falter or hit even the slightest false note. Not even once. The only other sounds were those of laughter from the assembled hobbits, especially the ones that kept building the bridge, yet even those seemed to add instead of detract from the spry tune.

Thorin would have understood if the Hobbit stopped in the center of the square. Even if there was a well there, it would have made more sense than him ending up on the opposite edge of the market. But that was where he ultimately headed, where he bent at the knees and leapt for the second time, off the proffered stool under his feet. He made it neatly to the top of the slightly sloped roof of the largest stall there, the one selling bread and pastries.

There he spun on his heel, carrying the uninterrupted song of the violin all the way to the end, joined by two other fiddles and instruments of who knew how many kinds. Thorin couldn't even tell where the sound was coming from anymore. It was like it made itself heard right in his ears, always faster, always grander but ever so perfectly fit for the small folk surrounding him on all sides.

When the end came, it was surprisingly fast, like a bonfire that burned all its fuel in one great eruption, with the way the final glide of the fiddle bow drifted into stillness.

The world seemed to hold its breath. The echoes of the last section still hovered in the air.

Then Bilbo Baggins finally opened his eyes and the entirety of Bywater erupted into cheers and applause.

The realm-less royal did not immediately realize he was gaping. He likely would not have noticed for quite a while, as arrested as he was by the mass of round-bellied halflings that were waving and shouting "Bilbo! Bilbo! Bilbo!" But when Bilbo Baggins's cloak flapped like a cape in the wind and he bowed before his audience, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain, breathed out without even meaning to: "Definitely not a burglar."

Dwalin coughed on Gandalf's other side, but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Thorin clamped his mouth shut and only managed a half-hearted glare in his direction, even after he saw his smug, vindicated smirk. Mahal, why did he have to let that awe seep into his tone? He may as well have added something inane like "too much style" and his slip of the tongue would have been complete.

Between them, the wizard was shaking with restrained laughter, pipe giving off smoke with each muffled snicker. "What is this, Wizard? What do you know!?"

Gandalf was visibly restraining his impending guffaws. "Oh, I assure you I am as lost as you are." It rung true, but the old man seemed to find the situation of being totally caught by surprise utterly pleasing. Exhilarating even. Fortunately, the Valar took pity on Thorin and the old wizard didn't get a chance to say whatever witty (to him) follow-up was on the tip of his tongue because the hobbit crowd settled, only for a different cheer to start.

"Speech! Speech! Speech!"