I thought I'd already seen chaos — like the battle of Rivendell or Oin's kitchen after a poorly balanced stew. But nothing, I mean nothing, had prepared me for what thirteen hungry Dwarves could do in a Hobbit's living room.
The table groaned under the weight of the dishes. The floorboards were littered with crumbs, sauce, and a Bombur who had slipped on a chicken leg. It smelled of spilled cider, ripe cheese, and Dwarvish pride. A true feast. Or a miniature apocalypse.
I was leaning near the fireplace, between Gandalf and a visibly traumatized Bilbo, watching the joyful mess with the distinct feeling I'd been teleported into a Dwarven tavern on mushrooms. Kili had just climbed onto the table to propose a toast, spilling half his mug on Ori. Everyone cheered.
Myself included. Gotta match the vibe, right?
"How about introductions?" I said. "Might be nice to know who's sharing our forks."
Kili loved the idea. The Dwarves stepped up one by one, drumming on the table like they were auditioning for a traveling theater troupe: Dori, Nori, Ori… the acrobatic brothers. Bifur, Bofur, Bombur… the walking stomachs. Gloin and Oin… demolition experts and eyebrow champions. And of course, Balin and Dwalin, veterans with beards thick enough to double as stage curtains.
Bilbo, encouraged by my glance, stood up timidly.
"I'm Bilbo Baggins," he said, fiddling with his handkerchief. "And, uh… welcome to my home."
Polite applause. Then came Thorin, with all the poise of a fallen prince, and me — Edward Highland, Ranger on a semi-secret mission, feeling like the only adult in a daycare full of bearded toddlers.
"I propose… we get serious," said Thorin.
The room fell silent immediately. Even Bombur dropped his half-eaten chicken thigh. Gandalf calmly puffed his pipe. He loved to let the suspense simmer.
Gandalf unrolled an old map onto the hastily cleared table. He tapped a point in the northeast.
"The Lonely Mountain. Erebor. Your former kingdom."
I stepped closer. On the parchment, the silhouette of the mountain stood alone in the wilderness. A tiny, almost invisible door was etched near the western flank.
"We are going to take back what is ours," Thorin continued. "And to do that, we must enter the Mountain… without alerting Smaug."
A murmur spread across the room. I glanced at Bilbo — he was perched on the edge of his seat, somewhere between "I'm running away" and "I'm going to faint."
"We have a map," said Gandalf, unrolling an old scroll. "And a key."
He pulled out a small silver key and placed it gently on the table. The Dwarves froze. The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a sword.
"This key opens a forgotten path. A service entrance, if you will. Discreet. Accessible only at sunset on Durin's Day."
"My father, Thrain, entrusted it to me," Thorin murmured. "This door leads to the great hall. Where lies…"
He paused.
"…the Arkenstone."
And even I felt a shiver run down my spine.
The Arkenstone. The Heart of the Mountain. A legendary gem, radiant as the sun, capable of legitimizing the kingship over Erebor. It was more than a trinket. It was a promise, an obsession, a symbol.
"The dragon sleeps upon it," Balin whispered. "Has for decades."
That was the real goal of the expedition. Forget gold, forget glory. It was that stone that held all their hopes.
Gandalf continued:
"That's why we need a burglar."
Every gaze turned toward Bilbo. Poor guy.
"You are… a Hobbit," Gandalf explained, as if that alone justified everything. "Naturally discreet. And your Tookish heritage has given you more than you think."
"I've never stolen so much as an apple!" Bilbo protested. "Not even from my own orchard!"
"And yet," Gandalf murmured, "you're perfect for the job."
The Dwarves began arguing noisily. Some scoffed that a Hobbit could never do it. Others thought it was a brilliant idea — probably those who'd drunk too much. Gloin called it madness. Kili offered to teach him lockpicking, like it was as simple as boiling an egg.
"You want to sneak into a dragon's den without waking the beast. None of you will make it through the door without being noticed. Bilbo can."
"Hobbits are quiet. Very quiet. They can slip in anywhere unnoticed. And most importantly, they don't carry the scent of Dwarves. Smaug has lived in the Mountain for centuries. He knows your smell. He'd sense you the moment you stepped inside."
Edward glanced at Kili, who was sniffing his own arm absentmindedly.
Kili blinked in confusion.
"Huh? What?"