This was a terrible idea.

Bilbo sat on his pile of hay, nervously looking around as the Company settled in a big half-circle before him, dragging benches over or sitting on the floor. Bofur looked worried. Thorin looked apprehensive. The rest either looked like a mix between the two or were keeping their faces carefully expressionless. Oin already had his ear horn out, and Fili and Kili sat totally still, which clearly meant they were all taking this seriously.

Bilbo frowned as a thought occurred to him rather late. "Where's Gandalf?"

Gloin shrugged and answered, "Out." No one else seemed inclined to elaborate, or maybe they didn't know. Bilbo was relieved, anyway. The wizard's presence would have been too much. Thirteen expectant dwarves were more than enough already.

Speaking of which, Bilbo eyed Thorin as he fidgeted on his bench. The dwarf looked ready to get up, but remained seated after a pointed look from Balin. The Durin boys seemed to be holding themselves back, too. Everyone was giving Bilbo space, but somehow he felt even more claustrophobic. The room grew quiet enough for Bilbo to hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Finally he couldn't delay any longer.

"It started when my parents died."

Rain dripped down Bilbo's blank face as he stared at the gravestones. Someone – the gaffer? – patted his shoulder one more time before turning to go. But Bilbo couldn't leave just yet: walking away would make it real. So he stood in the mud and waited. Later he would hate himself for not being able to cry.

"I didn't take it well."

He found himself sitting on the floor of his parents' bedroom. His clothes were dry. Was the funeral today? He wasn't sure. When had he last eaten? It didn't matter. He leaned his head against the bedframe and closed his eyes again. The world drifted away without him.

"Sort of… shut down. I still don't know how I got back home that day."

The empty smial mocked him with its silence. Sometimes his mother's bright laugh rang in his ears and he'd go running through room after room, hoping to find her, only to collapse with exhaustion. When he could barely stand up, his father's patient voice would convince him to put some food in his mouth – just enough to keep going for a little while longer. Mostly Bilbo sat and waited, not sure what he was waiting for. He ignored knocks at the door. Pretended he couldn't hear concerned neighbors calling his name. They stopped coming eventually (he didn't keep track of the days).

"I hadn't ever been that alone before. We used to have parties, even louder than when you all barged in." Bilbo smiled a little in recollection. "And my mother would sing when she was happy, which was almost always. Or my father would tell stories. I remember…" he trailed off, then shook himself out of his daydreams. It was time to get to the point.

One day Bilbo took out his mother's favorite tea set. Dusted it off. Arranged three places on the table. Even set out some scones – not noticing that they were rock hard. Then he picked up the delicate teapot that she had handled so carefully. Before he knew it, the teapot was in pieces on the floor. Next he threw the cream jar, and the sugar pot, the shattering china stirring some dark emotion within him, and then he was crying. Bilbo sank down, all the pent up tears coming out at once. He choked through the intense pain in his chest and gasped in shaky breaths, sobbing them back out.

"And that's when it first happened." Bilbo's voice shook. The dwarves remained quiet and Bilbo kept his eyes on the ground, not sure he'd finish if he saw their expressions. But then someone sat down next to him, and he looked up to see Bifur looking calmly back. Bilbo took a few more deep breaths, appreciating the wordless support, and continued.

As his breathing began to ease, slowly he registered a sharp burn in his calf. Blood trickled from a cut on his leg. Maybe I shouldn't have sat myself down in the midst of broken china, Bilbo thought faintly, holding in a hysterical giggle. He watched his hand move as if from far away, reaching down to pick up a jagged piece of teapot. He looked at it for awhile, his mind suddenly calm. Then he held the broken china to his forearm, and took a steady breath.

If possible, the company was even quieter now. Tension filled the air as Bilbo spoke to the floor. "It sounds mad, but – it helped. Or, I thought it did. Physical pain is easier to bear than emotional, and it's simpler."

"How long?" Thorin's voice breaks in, low and solemn.

Bilbo tries to meet his eyes, but Thorin is looking away. "How long did I… do that?"

Thorin nods. The dwarves seem to be holding their breath.

Bilbo hesitates. "It's… complicated. After a few months, things got a little better."

Bilbo stared into his pantry. Definitely empty. How long had it been, anyway? "Maybe it's time to go out," he said aloud, trying out the idea. Either that or actually starve. That would be as much as you deserve, whispered a nasty voice. Bilbo frowned and shook it off with effort.

"Alright," he said, "I'm going." And he did, even though it took him an hour to finally open the door and step outside.

"No one asked too many questions. Most of my extended family didn't live very close by, and my neighbors had given up long ago. So I just sort of slipped back into the routine. I felt better. I cooked, and I went for walks, and I thought I was healing."

He grew used to loneliness. The emptiness of the smial didn't bother him as much, but he never enjoyed his old hobbies that much either. Life was a dull constant. No ups or downs. Bilbo existed, and that was it.

Some nights his arms throbbed with ghost pains, and other nights he couldn't sleep, thinking about the pocket knife in the bedside drawer. He started listening to the scathing voice in his head. He rarely cried.

One day the ache in his heart was too much, and he had to let it out, relishing the familiar burn that drowned out the other pain. He fell headlong back into his old habit. Then just as suddenly, he stopped for awhile, promising himself – promising the memory of his parents – that he'd stopped for good.

But another day always came when the ache in his heart was too much.

"It was years. Years of off and on. I'd have good weeks, and bad days, and bad months. I didn't really find anything that helped – just, sometimes I did it, and sometimes I didn't." Bilbo paused to count. "When you all showed up, I'd stopped for almost a year. My best record yet. And I almost broke it, that night. Before the goblins." He noticed Thorin tense, a scowl deepening on his face. At that moment Bilbo couldn't help but remember Thorin's contempt for Bilbo's lack of worldliness.

"I know," Bilbo faltered. "I know this isn't very, well – it's not like you all thought. That I was in a war or something. Nothing so grand, nothing to be proud of." He fell silent, not sure what else to say. Apparently the Company was at a loss as well. The only one who didn't look slightly pale was Bifur, but then he'd put the pieces together awhile ago.

To Bilbo's shock, it was Dwalin who eventually spoke up – the hardened warrior who rarely said a word to Bilbo. He cleared his throat loudly, and Bilbo readied himself for scorn. But instead Dwalin said with surprising eloquence, "Not every battle is fought with axes and swords."

Bilbo considered this for a few long moments. "Thank you," he finally said. "That means a lot to me."

"But – " Bofur broke in, brow furrowed. "I'm stuck on something, Bilbo. After your parents had been gone for awhile – and in the goblin cave – why did you..?"

Bilbo looked from Bofur to Thorin. They both stared back uncomprehendingly. "Well," Bilbo said slowly, "I suppose I thought I rather deserved it."

Silence.

Then the dwarves all found their voices at once.

"No!" Ori gasped, clinging to Dori, who clucked, "Don't say such things, Mr. Baggins!"

"Deserved a wound?" Oin cried incredulously as Gloin sputtered, aghast.

"That's the maddest thing I've ever heard," Dwalin contributed tactfully.

Bofur shook his head frantically. "By Durin's name, lad, that just isn't true!"

"Absolutely unfounded," Thorin growled.

They hushed immediately when Bilbo stood abruptly. "But, you said, and I wasn't," he mumbled, looking from face to face. "I'm not helpful," he tried to explain.

Maybe he would accidentally tear a page in a book. Or he would forget to buy a certain ingredient at the market. Or he would sit in his chair all day and do nothing. It didn't matter, really. There was always something to criticize. Something that was the last straw in a bad day. Something that would leave him seeking refuge in the only way he knew how anymore.

It didn't exactly go away, the voice. Some days he could ignore it, let it fade into the background again. Sometimes it was just a mild scolding that he'd chuckle in agreement with – "Clumsy Bilbo, I've spilled flour everywhere again!"

Some days it pressed down on his shoulders until Bilbo felt like he was sinking into the ground, too heavy to pass through life or the rest of the afternoon.

And on this quest, the voice had been a constant companion. Bilbo wasn't cut out for adventuring. Not a warrior, not the outdoors type (except for gardening). Isn't that what Thorin had been saying? That he wasn't helpful?

"This voice in my head tells me everything I'm doing wrong, so much, all the time. And so sometimes I just need to, well, balance the scales a little."

Thorin moved forward and placed his hands on Bilbo's shoulders. "Master Baggins," he said gravely. "Bilbo. I would take back my words in the mountains. You left your home to join us on this quest, and you have gifted us with your courage and your resilience. I owe you my life, and I will do whatever I can to restore your faith in yourself – as we all have faith in you."

The Company took its cue to join in again, and Bilbo started developing whiplash from looking around so quickly.

"It's alright, laddie," Balin said reassuringly, smiling at Bilbo. "It'll be alright."

Ori looked like he was going to cry. "I didn't know, I'm so sorry – "

Nori nudged him. "Don't make it harder on him or yourself. We can be there for him from now on."

Bombur agreed. "We move forward, don't look back!" he enthused, jabbing a hand towards, presumably, the future.

Bewildered at the sudden influx of positivity and the noisy dwarves crowding around, Bilbo didn't see the young brothers rushing over until they were upon him.

Kili hugged Bilbo tightly. "I'll make sure you always have something to eat," he promised.

Fili wrapped an arm around Bilbo and the other around his brother, adding, "And we'll make sure you aren't ever alone."

"Unless you want a break from these rascals, of course," Bofur said, winking at Bilbo. "But you just tell me if you're feeling down, alright? I can sit with you as long as you need."

Bilbo could only nod, blinking rapidly and letting himself be held. This would be a bad time to panic, he reminded himself faintly. There's nothing to panic about.

Bifur barked out something in Khuzdul, and the Company grudgingly moved back, except Fili and Kili, who stayed firmly attached to Bilbo.

"Need a moment?" Bofur asked.

"A little, ah, overwhelmed," Bilbo admitted. He hesitated before saying to the group, "I really appreciate your support (though to be honest I don't understand it), but – you realize I can't really turn it off? This doesn't fix everything."

Thorin replied in a suitably majestic fashion. "The battle may go on, Master Burglar, but we will fight with you from this day forward." The dwarves cheered, eager for something to be happy about. Bilbo couldn't help but smile, and he held onto the boys a little tighter.

Well alright then, Bilbo thought to himself, looking around at this group that had taken his deepest secret in stride. That went ridiculously better than expected.

This isn't the end. It's not the beginning. It's a quiet moment in the middle of the battlefield.