A passion for Mushrooms

All Is Not Well

Dwalin was standing just outside of the privy, keeping guard over Bilbo as he had promised. With an ax in each hand, he was more than ready to deal with a hundred attackers or more. If only their enemy was the sort to fight in the open instead of leaving wicked paintings in people's rooms and poisoning canapés. Fortunately, he was not alone. With him were Fili and Kili, as well as Oin, Bifur, Bofur, and Nori. All of them bristled like porcupines with visible weaponry, and not even devious, quick thinking Nori had yet realized that weapons would do no good. Bilbo managed a smile for his friends.

“How do you feel?” Fili demanded the moment BIlbo appeared in the door.

Bofur shoved the prince away. “GIve him some air. It’s obvious he feels horrible. But will you be alright, Bilbo?”

“Yes, yes,” the hobbit said quickly, stalling further inquiries regarding his health. “I simply needed a few minutes to gather myself.”

“It’s been two hours,” Nori said with his usual diplomacy.

Bilbo scowled at him. “Well, when you are poisoned I’ll make sure to set a clock and we shall see how well you do.”

“If any one of us had been poisoned,” Oin said gruffly, “he would not be standing right now. Do you need anything, lad? Some poultice your people use to ease the suffering, perhaps?”

“Ginger tea would be very welcome,” Bilbo said, “but it can wait.”

“Yes,” Kili agreed. “We should make for Erebor at once.”

“We are not going to the mountain,” Bilbo said firmly.

Dwalin scowled. “Yes, we are. The Man who poisoned you hasn’t been found. Until he is, and we know exactly how many Men of Dale are involved in the plot, you’re safest in the mountain. Thorin is going to bar everyone but the dwarves from Erebor until we know the danger is passed.”

Bilbo sighed. “Of course he is. Nevertheless, I am going back to the party. If you lot want to help, you’re more than welcome to join me.”

“It isn’t a party any longer, Bilbo,” Bofur said. “For a while it was a shouting match between Thorin and Bard, but Gandalf proved to have the loudest voice, and now I don’t know what it is.”

“No one has left yet, have they?” Bilbo asked sharply.

“Thorin and Doron both got a good look at the poisoner’s face,” Fili said gently, “but they cannot find him among the servants. We think he must have snuck away before the exits were closed. That is not to say that he will not be found.”

Humming thoughtfully, Bilbo marched back into the main hall. If some people had gone in search of the poisoner, most still remained, staring at the spectacle of the two kings. Bard and Thorin were glaring balefully at one another while Gandalf stood between them like a wall separating warring armies. Perhaps the citizenry found the sight entertaining. Perhaps they found it horrifying. Bilbo had no doubts that his death might have caused an irreparable rift between Erebor and Dale. Thorin was not one to accept loss, or forgive it. Blameless though Bard might be, the King Under the Mountain would need a target for his rage, or he would lash out at anyone who looked like one.

The hobbit was not given long to take in the sight of the room. Just as he spotted Thorin on the dias, so too the king saw him, and crossed the room in a swift, masterful stride to gather Bilbo in his arms.

“Amrâlimê,” Thorin murmured, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead. “Ghivashel,” he whispered, kissing the burglar’s cheek. “Sanâzyung,” he continued, trying to kiss the hobbit’s lips, but Bilbo was forced to turn his face away, taking the kiss on his other cheek. “You are yet unwell?”