Book 1: Come Home [Thorin Oakenshield]

Chapter 1

Morning arose from over the hills of Shire. The dew clung to the blades of grass, while animals began to awaken in their pastures. Slowly, Hobbits' emerged from their holes in the ground to complete their daily tasks and went on with their normal lives. Nothing unexpected ever happened in the Shire. In every hole one could predict there was good food, a warm hearth, and the comforts of home.

Outside of one sat a Hobbit, smoking on a pipe without a care in the world. Eyes closed, the young Hobbit leaned back against the bench. Lips forming into an 'O', the white wisps escaped in a similar shape. However, it took on another path, transforming into a butterfly before flying right into his nose.

The Hobbit's eyes fluttered open with a cough, waving away the smoke in his face. Something shifted further ahead to draw his attention to an older man standing just on the other side of his gate. He wore a gray hat and robes, wooden staff clutched in hand. Clearly he was a Wizard of some sorts – a traveler – and the Hobbit shifted nervously in his seat from the stranger's stares.

"Good morning," he greeted, to be polite.

"What do you mean?" the Wizard inquired. "Do you mean to wish me a good morning or do you mean it is a good morning whether I want it or not?" The pipe fell from the Hobbit's lips, clearly at a loss for words. "Or perhaps you mean to say that you are good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?"

Hesitantly, the Hobbit answered, "All of them at once... I suppose."

"Hmm..."

A long, uncomfortable pause drew out between them. "Can I help you?"

"That remains to be seen," the older man said. "I'm looking for someone to share an adventure with."

"An adventure?" His expression one of surprise, even slightly flabbergasted by the notion. "I don't imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures." The Hobbit stood, slowly walking along the edge of the gate. "Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things." Coming to the mail barrel, he reached in to pull forth a few letters. "You'd be late for dinner."

Chuckling at his own joke, he glanced through the stack before nervously looking up at the Wizard who continued to stare.

"Good morning." Turning to leave, the old man spoke up before he could get far up the steps,

"To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took's son, as if I were selling buttons at the door."

The Halfling turned in a quizzical manner. "Beg your pardon?"

"You've changed and not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins."

This stranger knew his name, which was most troubling. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Well, you know my name, only that I don't belong to it. I am Gandalf and Gandalf means... me."

It took only a moment for Bilbo to finally realize why the name sounded so familiar.

"Not the Gandalf, who made such excellent fireworks on Midsummer's Eve?"

The man nodded, smiling at the praise.

"I had no idea you were still in business."

The Wizard's face fell. "And where else should I be?"

Bilbo hesitated to answer.

"Well, I'm pleased to know you remember something about me... Even if it's only my fireworks... Well, it's decided. It would be very good for you. And most amusing for me. I shall inform the others."