The Shire was enjoying a peaceful day, like so many others, bathed in the tranquility its inhabitants so dearly loved. Yet that serenity did not reach everyone equally.
In a corner of Hobbiton, a small hobbit spent the day utterly paranoid. He was convinced that a wizard was stalking him, intending to drag him into an adventure, threatening to destroy the calm of his everyday life.
Elsewhere in the community, a beautiful blond-haired boy was diligently organizing his followers. His presence stood out even amid the bustle, as he gave out orders with a mix of urgency and serenity.
"Keep this arrow as well," said Miquella, handing over a carefully framed object. "I have a feeling it might come in handy."
The arrow passed into Leda's hands, while he turned toward the one walking just behind him.
"Hornsent." (Miq.)
"Yes, my lord," he replied, halting with a large bag slung over his shoulder, filled with Miquella's belongings.
"This journey will be long… no less than a year, if I'm not mistaken. Leave that and go to your family. Spend some time with them. Say your farewells properly," he ordered firmly, never taking his eyes off the preparations.
Hornsent nodded respectfully, handed the bag to Leda —who was now holding both the belongings and the dark arrow— and went off to his home, where his wife and daughter were cooking under Miquella's earlier instructions.
...
By nightfall, Bilbo Baggins was preparing for a quiet, comfortable dinner. Everything was set: the tablecloth, the dishes, the steaming bread, the fish, and a soup still bubbling in the pot. It was going to be a simple evening, solitary… and perfect.
But just as he sat in his chair, the doorbell rang.
Bilbo frowned. A visitor at that hour was not common in the Shire. He got up with curiosity —and a bit of annoyance— to see who dared interrupt his night.
Upon opening the door, he found a stout dwarf, bald, with a thick beard and an expression as severe as it was intimidating. He wore traveling clothes and carried the dust of the road on his boots.
"Dwalin, at your service," he said in a deep voice.
"Uh. Hm… Bilbo Baggins, at yours…" replied the hobbit, bewildered, trying to keep the courtesy proper to his folk. "Do we know each other?"
"No," Dwalin replied as he walked in without asking permission, inspecting the interior of the house as if it were his own. "Where is it? Here, then?"
"Where is what here?" asked Bilbo, increasingly confused.
The dwarf, with complete nonchalance, handed him his cloak as if Bilbo were a coat rack.
"The dinner. They said there'd be food. Plenty of it." (Dwalin)
Without another word, Dwalin went further inside and sat at the table, helping himself to the meal Bilbo had so carefully prepared for himself.
The hobbit stared, open-mouthed, unable to process what was happening. But before he could even open his mouth to protest, the bell rang again.
With a mix of fear, curiosity, and growing despair, Bilbo opened the door a second time.
There stood another dwarf. This one had a white beard, a prominent nose, and a much more affable air than the first.
"Balin, at your service," he introduced himself with a bow.
"Good evening…" answered Bilbo almost by reflex, though he already felt his evening was thoroughly ruined.
"Yes, it is. Though I think it may rain later," Balin remarked, as if this were a normal social call. "Am I late?"
"Late for what?" asked Bilbo, utterly lost.
But no answer came. Balin soon noticed his brother Dwalin in the parlor and went to join him. Bilbo, for his part, mustered courage to say something, anything to stop this absurd invasion… but just then, the bell rang once more.
This time, Bilbo opened the door already expecting more dwarves… or at least something that might help him understand what on earth was happening. And in a way, that's what he got. Only he was a little more frightened this time.
Before him stood two short figures, who by their height also looked like dwarves. But what startled him was that he couldn't see their faces: both wore metal masks shaped like dwarf heads, with beards and braids carved in astonishing detail. If not for the fact that, like the others, they bowed in a polite —though far more elegant— greeting, and their eyes could still be seen through the openings, Bilbo might have thought them wraiths… dwarf wraiths, even more terrifying than those who had already arrived.
"Filian and Kilian, at your service," they said in unison, their voices rough and strange, pitched between deep and high, and barely above a whisper.
"Eh… hello…" replied Bilbo, still dazed by the appearance of ever more peculiar guests.
Without giving him much chance to form an excuse to politely dismiss them —as he clearly wished to do— the new visitors entered the house, left part of their luggage by the door, and went off in search of the others. It wasn't long before the sounds and exclamations from the pantry confirmed they had found the other dwarves.
Bilbo watched in mounting despair as his house turned into a sort of improvised communal hall. His belongings were being moved, a large table was being assembled, and no one asked his permission for anything anymore. But before he could utter a single complaint, the bell rang yet again.
On the verge of collapse, Bilbo stomped to the door with strong, determined steps, ignoring the murmurs from outside and the laughter from within.
"I must tell whoever's behind all this that this prank isn't funny, and if I find them—!" he exclaimed as he opened the door… but what he saw left him speechless.
They weren't more dwarves. This time, before him stood a blond boy —strikingly beautiful— leading a group of people who were clearly not hobbits. All of them carried some sort of dish of food in their hands.
"Miquella and his followers…" the boy announced with a restrained smile.
"At your service," they all said in perfect unison, bowing slightly as though they had rehearsed it (which, in fact, they had under Miquella's orders).
"Wh… I mean… who… you're…" stammered Bilbo, completely overwhelmed, though he managed to recognize the newcomers. Their presence in the Shire was known, and though he didn't understand what they were doing there, at least they weren't complete strangers like the others.
"Yes, it's us," Miquella answered quickly, lifting the basket of fruit he carried. "We thought it would be rude to come empty-handed, so we brought something for the party."
"Thank you… no! What party?!" exclaimed Bilbo, reacting late —but far too late: his new guests had already entered the house without waiting for a reply.
Miquella, noticing the hobbit's confusion, realized Gandalf hadn't arrived yet. So he hurried to usher his group inside and carry the food to where the sounds of the dwarves came from. As in any hobbit-hole, only Miquella moved naturally; the rest had to proceed with care to avoid bumping their heads on low ceilings or furniture.
Thus, the group of dwarves, who were arranging a large table in the dining room, suddenly came across a group of humans. In surprise, they dropped the table.
It wasn't that one group particularly intimidated the other, but both stared at each other in bewilderment: with the exception of Miquella, none had expected to encounter the other.
"Hello…" greeted Balin, the most cordial of those present, followed by the awkward silence of the masked dwarves and a snort from Dwalin.
"Hello," replied Miquella calmly, then glanced at the fallen table. "Moore, Freya, help with the table," he ordered.
Both followers set down the dishes they were carrying and moved toward the table. The dwarves tensed briefly at the sudden movement, but soon relaxed when they saw they had only come to help.
"I think the pig still needs a bit more… is there a fire burning?" Miquella remarked, pointing to Leda, who entered at that moment carrying with ease a large board with a whole roasted pig.
"Yes, I think over there," replied Balin, to which Leda nodded and went off without another word.
"May I ask what you're doing here?" Balin inquired, keeping a calm and diplomatic tone.
"For the meeting," answered Miquella without pause, setting his basket of fruit down in a corner.
Dwalin and Balin exchanged confused glances. They didn't know what was going on, but since they weren't the organizers of this "party," they assumed the wizard had something to do with it… so they let it slide. At least, they thought, these people brought hot food. And that, for a dwarf, was reason enough to overlook certain oddities.
The table soon filled with food: both the fresh, hot dishes brought by the "humans" and a surprising variety of provisions taken from Bilbo's pantry, along with frothy beer and aged wine from his cellar.
The interaction between the dwarves and Miquella was brief, almost nonexistent. So brief that Bilbo, who had come to see what was happening, simply stood watching, unable to stop anything. He wanted to say something, to put an end to this invasion of his home, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. And then, for the last time, the doorbell rang.
Bilbo, now completely resigned, went to open it. At this point, he wouldn't have been surprised to find an elf, an orc… or even a dragon. He was sure nothing could unsettle him further.
But what appeared was a scuffle of dwarves practically throwing themselves into his house, shoving one another in their impatience to enter. Behind them came a well-dressed dwarf of more dignified bearing, who advanced with composure. And with him, a very familiar figure.
At the sight of him, Bilbo let out a deep sigh, as if he had finally understood part of the chaos that had overtaken his home.
"Gandalf…" (Bilbo)
The old wizard laughed at the hobbit's expression and entered without ceremony, accompanied by the new arrivals.
To say Bilbo had any control over the situation was absurd. He looked more like the doorman of his own house. The dwarves were already inside, chatting among themselves, and Gandalf gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder in consolation before following them in.
The newcomers joined the dwarves already present, greeting each other warmly, especially upon meeting Thorin, the most notable of them all. In turn, these new arrivals noticed the presence of the unknown humans, but seeing that the others ignored them—and that they were even helping with the food—they chose to do the same, though some did not fully conceal their distrust.
Thorin cast an inquisitive look at Dwalin, who, shrugging, gestured toward Gandalf. The Dwarf King frowned, displeased by the presence of outsiders in what was meant to be a private gathering of his people. But he said nothing. He still needed the wizard, and his people were starving after the long journey. He would save his questions for after dinner.
What Thorin didn't know was that Gandalf was just as surprised as he. He hadn't invited anyone else. The presence of such heavily armed individuals with such an unusual aura in the Shire drew his attention strongly. Even more so, the wizard could see beyond the obvious, and what he perceived unsettled him: none of these strangers carried the aura of those born of Arda.
Old concerns he had long ignored came rushing back with force. But, like Thorin, he decided to remain silent. He supposed that his "future burglar" had invited these people… or perhaps they had simply intruded at the most inopportune moment. He didn't know, but prudence had always been one of his virtues. He observed in silence, his hand firmly gripping his staff, ready to study the strangers before taking any action.
The house was already packed, the dinner served… and the dwarves, true to their loud, blunt, uninhibited nature, began the banquet in a manner that could only be described as brutal.
The dwarves ate and drank without pause, laughing, toasting, even throwing food at each other, becoming the liveliest—and loudest—part of the table. In contrast, Miquella and his warriors also dined, but with a much calmer bearing. They watched with a mix of curiosity and fascination these small, sturdy, bearded men. Despite the time they had spent in this world, it was the first time they had the chance to observe this native race so closely.
Bilbo, meanwhile, sat not far from Miquella and his group, clearly apart from the dwarven uproar. Of all the unexpected guests who had invaded his home that night, they were—obviously—the most pleasant: they weren't wrecking the place, they ate politely, and they had even brought provisions for a "party" he hadn't planned.
The hobbit had no idea of the magnitude of the event unfolding in his own home. The Dwarf King, a maiar, a demigod, Thorin's Company, Miquella's followers… even himself, destined to be the Ringbearer. That night, figures who would shape the history of Arda had gathered in Bag End to share a meal that, unknowingly, would change their fates.
No, Bilbo didn't know. He simply spoke now and then with Miquella, letting out a complaint or a remark between sighs. Of all those present, he was the only one who didn't intimidate him or force him to look up, so he had become his favorite conversational partner. Although not especially sociable, Bilbo was already familiar with these new strange inhabitants of Hobbiton, which made him feel more comfortable with them than with the dwarves, still unknown and far too noisy for his liking.
Gandalf, watching them, began to convince himself that perhaps these other diners had indeed been invited by Bilbo… though he still wasn't entirely at ease. His gaze remained fixed, trying to decipher the element that was slipping through the threads of fate.
Meanwhile, the dwarves kept enjoying the free food. Many pieces ended up in their beards or fell to the floor without a shred of remorse.
"I've never had pork like this before," commented Nori, holding an entire leg in his hand. "Its seasoning is… strange."
"It was cooked by Hornsent's wife," replied Miquella, gesturing toward his loyal companion.
"Hmm… it's missing…" Nori began, but Balin, seated beside him, discreetly elbowed him, forcing him to reconsider his critique. "It's good," he corrected quickly, taking another bite.
Hornsent nodded silently, showing no emotion, and kept eating. The table was clearly divided in two: one end chaotic and festive, the other calm and observant.
From the quieter side, Gandalf kept a certain distance from the "non-dwarves," but close enough to Bilbo to intervene if necessary. Yet his attention was fixed on a single being who stood out in the whole room: the smallest one, of stature similar to a hobbit, but whose essence belonged to no known race of small folk in Arda.
His gaze, deep and piercing, seemed to want to tear the veil of the visible and see beyond the earthly. There was something in him, something that triggered the wizard's ancient alarms. Although the entire group of strangers exuded mystery, it was that being—apparently a child—who radiated a disturbing presence. Of course, Gandalf did not make the mistake of judging by appearances: he himself had worn the guise of an old man since he set foot in these lands, and he knew appearances deceived more often than they revealed.
Miquella, biting into a lamb shank, eventually locked eyes with the wizard. He did not look away, and though he didn't stop eating, his body froze, as if time itself had halted between them.
Their gazes clashed with such intensity that, had it been perceptible to the others, it would have shaken even the steadiest spirit. On one side, blue eyes that at times revealed a sacred flame; on the other, golden eyes with a divine gleam that was no less.
If it weren't for Bilbo passing between them with a mug of beer—handed to him by an enthusiastic dwarf—perhaps that silent confrontation might have escalated into more than a battle of stares.
Gandalf, after that exchange, did not look directly again as before, but his attention never wavered from the small being and his group. The pressure of his hand on the staff grew stronger and stronger.
Miquella, though clearly aware of the intensity of the wizard's scrutiny, acted calmly. He grasped the mug that Bilbo had ended up passing along, as if it had traveled hand to hand until reaching an uncertain recipient. However, before he could drink it, Leda snatched it from him and passed it elsewhere, to the evident annoyance of the demigod.