Gandalf extends the key to Thorin, who takes it with almost religious reverence. The dwarf holds it in his open palm, as if it weighs far more than its physical weight, charged as it is with the weight of history and hope.
"If there's a key," says Fili, "there must be a door."
Gandalf nods, indicating a detail on the map. "These runes speak of a hidden passage to the Lower Halls."
"There is another way in," Kili murmurs, his face lighting with hope.
"One must find it first," Gandalf tempers. "Dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere on this map, and I do not have the skill to find it, but there are others in Middle-earth who can."
Gandalf casts a meaningful look at Thorin, who understands the implication. "The task I have in mind will require great stealth, and no little courage. But if we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done."
"That's why we need a burglar!" Ori exclaims.
All eyes turn to Bilbo, who examines the map with fascination mixed with apprehension. Suddenly feeling the attention directed at him, he looks up.
"And a good one too. An expert, I'd imagine," he says.
"And are you?" asks Gloin, fixing the hobbit with new interest.
Bilbo looks around him, confused. "Am I what?"
"He said he was an expert!" Oin exclaims, mishearing through his ear trumpet.
Bilbo shakes his head vigorously. "What? No! No, no, no! I'm not a burglar! I've never stolen anything in my life!"
"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins," Balin interjects. "He's hardly burglar material."
"The wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves," Dwalin adds, casting a disdainful look at the hobbit.
A new wave of animated discussions rises, each dwarf voicing his opinion on the wisdom of including Bilbo in their quest. The din increases until Gandalf rises, his shadow suddenly extending, filling the room with threatening darkness. His voice, amplified by some magical power, thunders above the protests.
"Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!" The effect is immediate, reducing the dwarves to silence. Gandalf returns to his normal size and continues in a calmer voice. "Hobbits can pass unseen by most if they choose, and they are quiet of foot. While the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit is completely unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage."
He turns to Thorin. "You asked me to gather intelligence on the enemy. I have done this. I have discovered his one weakness."
He turns to Thorin. "You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including himself."
Thorin sighs, weighing the wizard's words. "Very well. We'll do it your way." He turns to Balin. "Give him the contract."
Balin draws a long folded parchment from his tunic and hands it to Bilbo. "It's just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth."
Bilbo takes the contract hesitantly, unrolling it to discover a document that unfolds almost to the floor. "Funeral arrangements?" he murmurs, his face growing paler with each line he reads. "The Company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof including but not limited to... lacerations... evisceration..." His voice becomes increasingly faint. "Incineration?"
"Oh aye, he'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye," Bofur specifies, apparently oblivious to the hobbit's mounting distress.
Bilbo doubles over slightly, visibly dizzy. "I feel faint."
"Think furnace with wings," Bofur continues, ignoring the warning signs.
"Air, I need air," Bilbo gasps, fanning himself with the contract.
"Flash of light, searing pain, then poof! You're nothing more than a pile of ash."
Bilbo seems to consider this information with almost comical seriousness, then straightens his posture, taking a deep breath. "No," he says simply, before fainting and collapsing on the floor of his own parlor.
The dwarves look at the unconscious hobbit with expressions ranging from amusement to concern. Gandalf sighs, rising to help their host.
"Very helpful, Bofur," he comments dryly, as two dwarves lift Bilbo to settle him in an armchair.
While Gandalf tends to the fainted hobbit, Balin draws another contract from his tunic and approaches Zac. "We had prepared for the possibility of a fifteenth member," he explains, extending the parchment. "Though we hadn't anticipated someone of your... particularity."
Zac takes the contract, but unlike Bilbo, he doesn't unroll it to read. Without hesitation, he grabs a quill from a nearby table, dips it in an inkwell, and signs with a fluid gesture. The motion is so quick, so decisive, that it surprises even the dwarves accustomed to lengthy deliberations.
"Don't you wish to know the terms?" Balin asks, puzzled.
"I already know the risks," Zac replies simply. "And I know my destination."
He returns the signed contract to Balin, who examines it with evident curiosity. The signature is elegant, assured.
The evening stretches on, discussions continuing in small groups. Bilbo, having come to, has retired to his room, categorically refusing to sign the contract despite Gandalf's encouragements. The dwarves disperse throughout Bag End, some smoking their pipes near the fireplace, others examining the hobbit's trinkets with respectful curiosity.
Zac retrieves his mithril sword, gently drawing it from the table where it was embedded. He silently apologizes to the scored wood, running a finger over the mark his demonstration has left.
As the night deepens, a profound and melancholic melody rises. Thorin, standing near the fireplace, begins to sing in a deep and powerful voice. One by one, the other dwarves join him, creating a harmony that fills Bag End with sad beauty, the song of an uprooted people dreaming of finding their home again.
"Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold."
Zac listens, motionless, touched to his very depths by this lament. He knew the words, of course, but hearing them sung thus, by these authentic voices weighted with the burden of true exile, of true loss, transcends any previous experience. Almost despite himself, he finds himself humming softly, adding his own voice to the harmony, his different but complementary tone like a natural counterpoint to their melody.
"The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night.
The fire was red, it flaming spread,
The trees like torches blazed with light."
Gandalf, seated in a corner, observes Zac with renewed interest, noting how the dwarves' song seems to touch him, awakening something deep and ancient within him. The wizard draws on his pipe, his eyes narrowed in silent contemplation. An unexpected ally has appeared in his plans, a variable he hadn't foreseen but which might prove valuable.
When the song ends, a respectful silence fills the hobbit's house. In this moment of shared calm, a silent resolution seems to crystallize among the company members. Despite doubts, despite dangers, they will depart at dawn for this impossible quest. And with them will march this strange man with luminous eyes, whose miraculous sword and unlikely story have rekindled a flame of hope that even Thorin believed almost extinguished.
In the early morning, when Bilbo awakens, his house is empty. Silence has replaced the previous evening's din. The dwarves have departed, leaving behind an impeccably tidy house, as if their visit had been nothing but a strange dream.
But on the road leading away from Hobbiton, fifteen silhouettes already advance, thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a man with bright eyes whose gaze carries further than the visible horizon, toward a mountain he has never seen but knows better than anyone.