Let me tell you the truth.
That evening, I had one plan — just one: to sink into my favorite armchair, enjoy a nice mushroom stew with a good slice of toast, and sip a soothing cup of mint tea.
That was the plan.
A perfect plan.
Simple. Peaceful. Sacred in a Hobbit-y sort of way.
And then Gandalf showed up.
---
That very morning, the old wizard had turned up at my door — pointed hat, beard longer than my hallway, and that mysterious smile of his that basically meant, "I'm about to ruin your day with an outrageous proposition."
And guess what? He did.
He talked about adventure, dragons, maps, treasure… the kind of things that give you chills just thinking about them.
Me? I'm a Baggins. I've never even dipped a toe outside the Shire! The only adventures I tolerate are the ones on the bookshelf in the living room.
I was sure Gandalf would move on and forget about me.
Ah… sweet, foolish optimism.
---
That night, I was lovingly spreading butter on toast when ding-dong — the doorbell. Bit late for visitors, wasn't it?
I opened the door.
And there… a Dwarf. A real one. Axe, hood, braided beard — the whole deal.
"Dwalin, at your service," he said.
Before I could blink, he'd walked in, spotted the table, sat down… and started eating.
I just stood there, frozen, toast in hand, wondering if I'd missed a chapter in Dwarvish Etiquette 101.
Then ding-dong again.
Then ding-ding-ding.
And more.
Like a cursed melody on loop.
Soon, my house was full of Dwarves. They came in like they owned the place (which they most certainly did not), dumped their gear, made music with my pots, and casually discussed dragons like they were talking about the weather.
I'd completely lost control of my own home.
And Gandalf? Sitting comfortably in a corner, grinning like this was the best evening he'd had in decades.
Meanwhile, I was on the verge of fainting.
---
But no, someone was still missing.
I should've guessed.
Just as I was trying to retrieve my teapot — which Bofur was currently wearing as a helmet — the bell rang once more.
I stared at it.
It stared back.
We both knew: this would be the last.
I opened the door. And there, standing in the golden glow of dusk, was a Man. Tall. Cloaked. Piercing gaze. The kind who could scare off a troll just by frowning.
"Edward Highland, Ranger. I believe I'm late?"
Late?
I let him in. Honestly, I was too exhausted to argue.
But to my surprise, he was polite. He didn't dive into the food, didn't speak to me like we were childhood friends, and actually asked — nicely — if there was anything left to eat.
A miracle.
He even complimented my home (well, before the Dwarves had turned it into a battlefield) and shook my hand sincerely.
"Gandalf spoke highly of you. It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Baggins."
There it was. Mr. Baggins. That simple title almost brought a tear to my eye.
---
While I scrambled to prepare him a meal (trying to avoid crumbs, beer stains, and muddy boots), I heard the Dwarves whispering with Gandalf.
"Don't you think we've got enough already?"
"A Man? Seriously?"
"He looks a bit too… polished."
I thought: You haven't seen his eyes yet. That Edward — he was hiding something. Not dangerous, no. But deep. He had this quiet intensity. The kind of guy you'd mistake for an ordinary traveler… until he starts levitating stones without touching them.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. Or maybe not.
Either way, Gandalf silenced them with one of those subtle glances of his. Then he said something like:
"He may not be of the world as you know it, but I assure you — there are few Men who match Edward Highland."
And believe me, coming from Gandalf, that's rarer than my wild strawberry jam.