Chapter Text
Inside Bag End, chaos reigned throughout. So much so that I was beginning to lose my way in my own home. A sea of dwarves shuffled past and around me; most carried arms full of food and pantry goods, while others busied themselves rearranging the dining room. The air had grown thick with the smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spilt ale, while the heat of too many bodies turned Bag End stifling. They were preparing a feast large enough to feed the entire Shire, with all my cousins’ food.
I watched, dumbfounded and entirely hopeless, as our neatly organised, well-stocked pantry was being raided.
In the middle of it all stood a thoroughly tousled Bilbo Baggins, futilely arguing with the dwarves. He blocked the path of an older-looking dwarf carrying an expensive leg of ham.
“Put that back,” he said sternly, pointing toward the rapidly emptying pantry, before swivelling to another dwarf with arms full of fruit.
“Put that back,” he repeated.
Another dwarf passed him with a handful of sausages.
“Put that back,” he insisted again, each command falling on deaf ears.
All of Bilbo’s efforts to protect his food were deteriorating quickly; every plea and protest was drowned out by the commotion of the dwarves. It was absurdly funny to watch it unfold.
I tore my attention away from Bilbo, who was now stressing over a larger dwarf carrying off three blocks of cheese. To my side, two dwarves were grappling with a large barrel of old, fancy ale, a delicate treat we only indulged in on special occasions.
“Excuse me,” I snapped at them.
They glanced up, then did a double-take. The dark-haired dwarf, with only the faintest shadow of a beard on his chin, offered a quick, slightly awkward smile and a wave. The blond one kept a more serious expression, studying me.
Even so, heat rose to my cheeks. For it was deeply inconvenient that the two thieves hauling away my family’s ale were unfairly handsome.
“Is there a problem, lass?” the blond asked, already bending back toward the barrel as though it belonged to him.
“Careful, Fili,” the dark-haired dwarf laughed, “you’re terrifying the lass.”
“Problem?” I scoffed, nearly laughed. “Yes, there is a problem.”
The dark-haired dwarf looked at me curiously.
“Is there any way I can assist you, m’lady?” he asked, leaning in with a crooked, devious smirk.
I stared at him in utter disbelief. These dwarves thought they could barge into my home and charm me at the same time?
“Unbelievable. You can start by leaving my ornate ale alone.” I crossed my arms, shooting them both a pointed look.
“Ornate, you say?” the blond grinned for the first time, glancing at his companion. They shared a brief nod before lifting the barrel between them and carrying it toward the dining room.
“Well, excuse me, lass, but that ale sounds fit for the gathering,” the blond added, his smirk deepening.
“W- no!” I huffed, scrambling after them.
They strode past Gandalf, who stood comically tall in the walkway, his head nearly brushing the chandelier. I knew asking the wizard for help was a lost cause, so I rushed past him instead, hoping to intercept the barrel before it disappeared into the growing feast.
“No!” I stomped, spreading my arms wide to block their path.
They exchanged astonished looks, then dramatically rolled their eyes at me.
“Hold it,” the blond said.
With surprising ease, he tilted the barrel into the dark-haired dwarf’s arms. Despite its weight, the dwarf carried it effortlessly, barely breaking stride.
I lunged forward to block him, but two strong hands caught me mid-leap. The blond dwarf had lifted me clean off the ground.
I shrieked in surprise and indignation.
“Release me!” I demanded, kicking at his shins.
He held me at arm’s length with ease. Mortifyingly, my feet dangled uselessly above the floor.
His calloused hands were firm around my arms as though I were a child mid-tantrum. Without ceremony, he set me down in one of the many chairs that definitely did not belong in the dining room.
“Take a seat and enjoy the good food,” he snorted.
“My food,” I snapped back, though that only earned me another amused huff.
Much to my surprise, the dwarves managed to pull together a rather impressive feast within the small walls of Bag End. Bowls of vegetables and towering piles of meat were spread across the table so thickly I could no longer see the wood beneath.
Lanternlight flickered across overflowing plates and brass cups while laughter bounced off the round walls of Bag End. The dwarves had all settled into their seats now, loading their plates with enough food to feed half the Shire. Watching them made my stomach tighten with hunger. I hadn’t eaten since midday, and it was well into the night, but I refused to take part in this absurd invasion of my own home.
I sat with my arms firmly crossed, wedged between the blond dwarf who had hauled me about earlier and a rather polite grey-bearded one who had introduced himself as Balin. Across from me sat the dark-haired dwarf, all easy charm and restless energy. They were far too occupied with their feast to offer any proper conversation.
From the far side of the dining room, one dwarf suddenly sprang up.
“Bombur, catch!”
An egg arced through the air. I followed its path, silently praying to the Valar that it would not meet any of my wood finishes.
Shockingly, it landed perfectly in the mouth of the larger red-haired dwarf.
The room erupted in cheers. Food began flying in every direction as celebration took hold.
A scoop of mashed potatoes whizzed past my shoulder, and I leaned sharply aside, narrowly avoiding it. In the motion, my shoulder brushed against the blond dwarf beside me, drawing his attention.
For a moment, I studied him properly.
His long blond hair was braided intricately along the sides, the rest falling loose in a way that somehow looked deliberate rather than careless. His beard was shorter than most dwarves’, split into two neat braids threaded with small metal beads. Unlike many of his kin, his face was not hidden away; he had strong lines, sharp features, and an openly confident expression that did not ask permission to be noticed. His light green eyes lingered on mine, searching for something I refused to offer.
“Fine reflex,” he murmured, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I shouldn’t have to be dodging food in my own dining room,” I exhaled sharply.
That only made him smile wider. To my annoyance, I could already feel my own irritation slipping.
“Now, now… sounds like you need a pint of that fancy ale, m’lady.”
He paused, drawing the words out deliberately.
“Rinantha,” I supplied, lifting my chin.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said smoothly. “Fili, at your service.”
He gave a slight bow of his head, belatedly courteous. I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could, Fili pushed up from his chair.
“Let’s get you that drink.”
“I didn’t agree to”
Too late. He was already climbing onto the table, stepping lightly between plates and scraps as though the entire feast belonged to him. A few dwarves groaned in protest and tossed bread rolls in his direction, though they quickly stopped when he began collecting mugs for the precious ale instead. Fili topped up his mug, spilling more than he poured. I almost felt sorry for him, almost.
Across the room, I caught sight of Bilbo. He stood in what was now a very empty pantry, watching the chaos with a look of complete defeat. I wanted to reach him, to make sense of all this disorder, but every path was blocked by celebration, laughter, and bodies.
When I looked back, Fili had returned across the table, stepping carefully over plates and debris, handing out pints as he went. He stopped in front of me and offered a mug far too full to be safe.
I took it cautiously with both hands, cradling it as if it might betray me at any moment.
Fili smirked down at me, satisfaction flickering across his face.
Then he hopped down from the table and slid a chair in beside mine as if he intended to stay. He lifted his rather large pint of ale, prompting every dwarf at the table to raise their mugs in turn. It was as if only the promise of ale could cast a spell of silence over them; the entire table fell quiet except for the sound of ale gurgling down their throats. The silence only lasted so long before one finished his drink and let out a loud blech, only enticing another to stand and release a dragon-like roar of a belch.
“Oh my,” I gasped, leaning back in my chair, rather disgusted. Hobbits were quite the drinkers, but nothing compared to this.
“Dwarves,” Balin sighed apologetically at me.
I gave him a comforting look before turning back to the table with a frown; the food was disappearing quickly.
“You should eat something before Bofur eats it all,” Fili whispered to me, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Wh- ” I began to protest as Fili started loading a new plate, piling it almost to overflowing. He slid it my way.
“It’s really unnecessary,” I protested, though it didn’t seem to convince the blond dwarf.
“You have not touched a thing,” he pointed out honestly. Too hungry to argue, I started digging into the food.
“See? I am right,” Fili laughed, sitting back triumphantly in his chair.
I scoffed, turning my attention to the large amount of food on my plate.
“Ignore my brother, he always thinks he’s right,” the dwarf across from me jumped into our conversation. He looked slightly younger than Fili, with only the shadow of a beard and long dark brown hair.
Fili scoffed at the younger dwarf’s words.
“And your name is?” I asked, leaning into a flirtatious tone.
“Kili, at your service,” he bowed his head, looking up through his brow with a wide grin.
I hated that I laughed at that before shaking my head and taking a sip of my ale. I stayed with the dwarves for a while. Somewhere between the laughter, the ale, and the ridiculousness of it all, I had forgotten the dwarves were ever unwelcome in my home.
~~~~~
The table had finally started to break apart, and groups of dwarves started congregating in different rooms, giving me a clear escape route. Failing to leave unnoticed, Fili gave me a pair of sad eyes I had to shake off before I made a beeline toward my cousin, whom I had barely managed to speak to since the dwarves came bombarding through the doors. I weaved through the crowd searching for Bilbo and found him in the kitchen looking just as dishevelled as the last time I saw him. His eyes met mine, relief washing over him despite the rigid posture he still held.
“Bother and confusticate these dwarves!” he exclaimed, stomping his foot in frustration like an aggravated lamb.
“What in Valar’s name do these dwarves want?” I mimicked his frustration.
“My dear Bilbo and Rinantha, what on earth is the matter?” Gandalf came around the corner, crouching terribly beneath the low ceiling.
“What’s the matter?” Bilbo scoffed.
“We are surrounded by dwarves,” I exclaimed, finishing his sentence.
“They’re quite a merry gathering once you get used to them,” Gandalf tried convincing us.
“I don’t want to get used to them. Look at the state of my kitchen,” Bilbo bit out through
clenched teeth; he was growing more agitated by the second.
“There’s mud trodden into the carpet. They’ve pillaged the pantry!” I started listing our frustrations.
“I’m not going to tell you what they’ve done in the bathroom,” Bilbo said somberly, looking at me with a horrified expression. “They’ve all but destroyed the plumbing.”
He stormed down the hallway, leading the wizard and me after him.
“I don’t understand what they are doing in my house,” I said, horrified by the mess scattered across the floor.
I looked over to Bilbo, who also seemed to be reaching his breaking point, but before either of us could continue our rant, a dwarf politely approached us.
“’ Scuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt, but what should I do with my plate?” the younger dwarf asked with complete sincerity. I couldn’t even be mad at him.
“Here you go, Ori, give it to me,” a familiar voice called from behind me.
I whipped around to face a well-acquainted smirk. Fili took the delicate china from Ori’s hands and gave both of us a wide grin before flinging the plate across the room.
I audibly gasped, reaching out fruitlessly as I watched it soar through the air, only for Kili to catch the delicate china like a frisbee before tossing it further toward the kitchen. From the lack of shattered pottery, I prayed someone out of my view was catching them. More delicate dishes began flying through the air as the dwarves turned my family heirlooms into part of some childish game.
“Excuse me! That’s my mother’s Westfarthing pottery!” Bilbo exclaimed frantically, reaching for the plates sailing overhead.
“It’s over a hundred years old!” I begged ineffectively for them to stop.
I stood frozen as I watched my family heirlooms fly recklessly across the room. I turned back to Fili in hopes of stopping this madness, only to find him bouncing a bowl from shoulder to shoulder like some tavern performer, his face plastered with a proudly boastful grin.
With each pot thrown and juggled around me, the dwarves seemed to sink into unison, creating a subtle beat with each clang. A few still in the dining room started scraping old cutlery together.
“Can you not do that? You’ll blunt them,” Bilbo pleaded helplessly, waving his hands around.
“Ooh, do you hear that, lads? He says we’ll blunt the knives,” a dwarf with a large floppy hat mocked humorously.
A few of the dwarves laughed, continuing to scrape the knives and bang the cutlery in unison. The mockery of my cousin caused anger to rise inside me. I opened my mouth to defend him before being cut off.
“Blunt the knives, bend the forks,” Kili started singing in a deep, husky tone, a large smile plastered across his face.
I took a step forward in protest.
“Smash the bottles and burn the corks,” Fili jumped in ahead of me, causing me to spin on the spot. He maintained eye contact with me while boisterously performing one of his reckless tavern tricks.
I scoffed, failing to keep my face stern.
“Chip the glasses and crack the plates,” the dwarves echoed, singing gleefully together like some rowdy children's choir.
“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”
There was no stopping them now. They continued throwing heirlooms across the room and piling dirty pans everywhere. I stood close to Bilbo as together we watched this loud choir unfold before us.
“Cut the cloth, tread on the fat,
Leave the bones on the bedroom mat,
Pour the milk on the pantry floor,
Splash the wine on every door!”
We stood in utter disbelief as a dwarf carried a towering stack of delicate pottery through the musical chaos. The beat quickened, and plates started to whiz past us faster.
“Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl,
“Pound them up with a thumping pole!”
“When you're finished, if they are whole,”
“Send them down the hall to roll!”
“That’s what Rinantha Took hates!”
With a final cheer, they erupted into laughter.
Bilbo led the charge, pushing through the crowd of dwarves with me close behind. In front of us sat a high pile of clean pots and pans, with polished cutlery neatly stacked beside it.
“Bilbo...” I breathed, almost impressed by the dwarves' work.
Around us, they laughed and celebrated their accomplishment before a loud knock came from the front door. Instantly, they fell worryingly quiet. Every face shifted from merriment to sombre seriousness.
“He's here,” Gandalf said, filling the silence.
I looked at him with concern before following him to the door. He glanced back at Bilbo and me, nodded to himself, and opened it.
A dark-haired dwarf stood outside, silver streaks glinting through his hair in the moonlight. He stood tall for a dwarf, possessing a commanding presence. He was strikingly handsome, with features distantly similar to the brothers.
The dwarf slowly turned to Gandalf and bowed his head slightly.
“Gandalf,” he greeted.
Without waiting for permission, he stepped inside.
“I thought you said this place would be easy to find.”
He walked with confidence, barely bothering to look around. His dark eyes landed on me first, lingering only briefly before shifting to my cousin. There, they stayed a moment too long.
“I lost my way. Twice.”
I held back a scoff, barely concealing my displeasure. Foolish dwarf couldn't even find his way through the Shire.
“I wouldn’t have found it at all if I hadn't needed that mark on the door,” he continued matter-of-factly.
The mention of my freshly painted door immediately drew my attention.
“Mark? There's no mark on that door.” I stepped forward. “I painted it this morning.”
“There is a mark. I put it there myself,” Gandalf corrected.
The anger immediately began bubbling up again.
I stepped forward to argue, only for a hand to wrap around my arm. Bilbo. He looked more frazzled than before, concern evident in his eyes—mostly because I appeared ready to start a fight with a centuries-old wizard.
“Bilbo Baggins and Rinantha Took, allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.”
I rolled my eyes dramatically and huffed my displeasure. Another dwarf in my house. Perhaps this one would at least keep the others in line.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Bilbo looking slightly flustered by the taller dwarf before quickly straightening himself and stepping forward.
Bilbo was a forty-five-year-old bachelor, which was highly unusual for hobbits unless something prevented them from finding their one true match. I rarely brought it up, assuming he'd simply never found the right person.
Amused, I let the thought go, for now, promising myself I would bring up later just how much this handsome dwarf seemed to affect my cousin.
“So these are the hobbits,” Thorin observed, crossing his arms and leaning ever so slightly toward Bilbo.
“Tell me, Mr Baggins. Have you done much fighting?”
“Pardon me?” I asked, completely bewildered by the absurd question.
“Axe or sword?” Thorin redirected his attention to me.
I nearly scoffed at him.
Disappointed by my lack of response, he turned back to Bilbo.
“What’s your weapon of choice?”
“Well, I do have some skill at conkers,” Bilbo answered, rocking slightly onto the balls of his feet. “If you must know.” He said it sarcastically.
I tilted my head toward my cousin, confused as to whether I was witnessing an attempt at flirting.
He was definitely going to hear about this later.
“But I fail to see why that's relevant,” I cut in before Bilbo could launch into a lengthy explanation of the childhood game.
“Thought as much,” Thorin muttered, crossing his arms again. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”
A few dwarves behind him chuckled.
I opened my mouth to defend Bilbo.
“And she looks more capable with a needle than a sword.”
Thorin looked me up and down disapprovingly.
My eyes widened, and my mouth tightened with displeasure. The dwarves laughed louder before filing back into the dining room, leaving Bilbo and me standing foolishly at our own front door.
Inside the dining room, the dwarves now sat more calmly at the table while Thorin sat at the head, cradling a bowl of soup and the last of the bread rolls. They chatted about distant lands and other dwarves, which I prayed wouldn’t mean more company.
They spoke about a quest they must go on, stories and questions swirling in my head until Bilbo finally stepped forward.
“You’re going on a quest?” he asked curiously. All faces turned to him.
“Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light.”
Bilbo scrambled around, looking for more candles. I helped for a moment, searching for matches to light the dim table before joining Bilbo at his side.
Thorin had now unrolled an old map, his finger tracing across the worn paper as he spoke.
“Bar to the east, over rivers and rangers. Beyond woodlands and wastelands lies a single solitary peak…”
“The Lonely Mountain,” I read quietly from the map.
My mind flicked through memories of books and stories I had read. Dangerous and forgotten. That mountain was guarded by a dragon. There was no way these dwarves intended to risk their lives for it.
“Aye,” a dwarf said. “Óin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time.”
Another dwarf shifted uncomfortably. Others muttered in disagreement, unease passing through the room.
“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold,” a salt-and-pepper-haired dwarf added in defence.
“When the birds of Yore return to Erebor, the reign of the Beast will end,” he continued solemnly.
The room grew heavier with the words.
Bilbo stepped back, pacing slightly, only to be drawn again by the conversation.
“Uh… what beast?” he asked nervously, as if regretting the question as soon as it left his mouth.
“Oh, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chieftain and greatest calamity of our age,” another dwarf replied matter-of-factly, as though discussing the weather.
I had heard tales of Smaug, of destruction, fire, and death that followed wherever he went.
“Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely fond of precious metals,” the dwarf continued in a quieter, more serious tone.
“I know what a dragon is,” Bilbo cut in quickly, voice tight with nerves, stopping him mid-flow.
“I’m not afraid. I’m up for it! I'll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jackside!”
A smaller dwarf, Óri, I remembered, stood proudly. His statement caused a small laugh to escape my lips, while the other dwarves around him cheered. An elder pulled him down impatiently.
“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen.” The older dwarf’s voice was filled with sorrow. “And not thirteen of the best, nor the brightest.”
An eruption of defence and argument filled the room.
I cast my eyes across the table, watching the group’s faces twist between hope and pessimism. This adventure truly sounded futile. My attention settled on Fili, who held an unreadable expression, deep in thought. For a moment, he looked up at me, holding my gaze, and must have read the disappointment in my thoughts. He shook his head at me, then slammed his fist down on the wooden table, defying authority.
“He may be few in number, but we’re fighters all of us! To the last dwarf!”
His demeanour shifted entirely, becoming sharp and commanding. His gaze swept across the table, settling on each of his companions in turn. Finally, his eyes landed on mine, and something in his words carried such force that it sent a cold shiver down my spine.
“And you forget, we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf would have killed hundreds of dragons in his time.”
Kili chimed in, his voice filled with more hope and whimsy than sense.
Gandalf stumbled over his words for a moment. For the first time that night, he seemed uncertain.
“How many, then?” another dwarf cut in optimistically.
“What?” Gandalf asked, caught off guard.
“How many dragons have you killed?” the dwarf pressed.
The dining room fell deathly still, except for the slow curl of smoke from the wizard’s pipe.
“Go on, give us a number,” another urged.
The room broke into renewed argument, dwarves throwing insults across the table. Bilbo tried to calm the storm, but his voice was swallowed by the chaos.
“No more!”
Thorin rose sharply from his seat. The room stilled at once.
“If we have read these signs, do you not think others have as well? Rumours have already begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years.”
His gaze turned across the table, keeping the room silent.
“Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unguarded.”
“Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?”
Cheers erupted at his words.
“You forget, the front gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain,” Balin muttered.
“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true.”
Gandalf spoke again, his voice thick with mystery as he spun an old golden key between his fingers.
“How came you by this?” Thorin asked, recognising it at once.
“It was given to me by your father.”
The wizard extended the key toward him.
A flicker of memory struck me. Books. Stories. Things I should not have forgotten.
“By Thrain,” I breathed.
The room shifted. Thorin’s attention snapped to me instantly, his gaze sharp and questioning.
“I’ve read,” I said quickly, hoping to avoid explanation.
Bilbo stepped in awkwardly. “Yes, she reads.”
“A hobbit who reads?” Gandalf repeated dryly, before turning back to the key.
“It is yours.”
Thorin took it slowly, as though it were heavier than gold.
“If there is a key,” Fili said quietly, “there must be a door.”
I nearly rolled my eyes. Fortunately, he was pretty enough to keep my eyes on that I refrained.
Instead, I turned to the map spread across the table. Old markings caught my attention.
“These ruins…” I leaned forward, fingers brushing the fragile paper. I could feel every eye in the room on me.
Heat rose in my face.
“You can read them?” Fili asked, sounding impressed.
“Read them, yes. Deciphering is more difficult.”
I cleared my throat and looked up at them all.
“Well, go on, lass,” Balin urged.
I studied the map more closely, tracing faded text with my finger.
“It speaks of a passage into the mountain,” I said carefully, recalling fragments of Dwarvish script I had once read in the elven halls.
“There is mention of something hidden within the stone itself,” I added, frustrated. “But I do not have the skill or time to fully comprehend it.”
Disappointed sighs spread through the room.
“But there are others in Middle-earth who can help you,” Gandalf said, waving a hand lightly.
“This task will require stealth and no small amount of courage.”
His gaze shifted across the room now, not just to me but to all of them.
“But if we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done.”
His eyes flicked back to me, mischief glinting within them.
“That’s why we need a trickster and a burglar.”
Ori grinned from the end of the table.
"And good ones too.” I humbled
“Experts, I’d imagine,” Bilbo added.
“And are you?” Balin asked.
The question caught me so off guard that I forgot how to speak.
“Are we what?” Bilbo asked.
“He said they are experts,” someone called.
Before I could protest, the room erupted in agreement.
“Us? No, no, no, no,” I tried.
“I am not a burglar,” Bilbo added quickly.
“And I have no tricks,” I said at once.
“We’ve never stolen a thing in our lives,” Bilbo insisted.
“I’m afraid I must agree,” Balin said reluctantly. “They are hardly quest material.”
A murmur of agreement followed.
“Aye. The wild is no place for gentle folk who cannot fight nor fend for themselves.”
That stung more than I expected, and for a moment I wanted to argue the point.
“Enough!”
Gandolf's voice cut through the room like magic
.
“If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, and Rinantha Took is a trickster, then that is what they are.”
He rose fully now, commanding the space as if it belonged to him alone.
“Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. They can pass unseen if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of a dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him.”
The more he spoke, the tighter my chest became.
Bilbo huffed beside me.
“You asked me to find the fifteenth member of this company,” Gandalf continued, “and I have chosen Mr Baggins and Miss Took.”
We stood there side by side, gripping each other’s arms for support, looking less like adventurers and more like terrified children.
“You must trust me.”
“Very well,” Thorin said at last, before either of us could refuse. “Give them the contracts.”
“No, no, please,” I whispered.
Balin stood and handed us two thick scrolls.
“The usual terms: expenses, duration, remuneration… funeral arrangements, so forth.”
“Funeral arrangements?” Bilbo’s voice cracked.
The scrolls unrolled endlessly, spilling across the floor like a bad omen.
“Oh my…” I murmured.
Bilbo made small, panicked sounds beside me.
“Incineration?” Bilbo gasped, his face draining of colour.
“Oh aye,” a dwarf replied far too cheerfully. “He’ll melt the flesh clean off your bones in the blink of an eye.”
Bilbo swayed where he stood, one hand finding the table for support.
“Think furnace with wings,” another added, as if that helped.
I stepped forward at once. “That’s not helping him.”
But Bilbo barely heard us. His breath came shallow and uneven, his eyes glassy with panic.
One deep, unsteady inhale he then collapsed.
The thud echoed through the room.
“Bilbo!” I shouted, rushing forward.