They did not speak of the tunnels that night.
The Company made camp in a shallow hollow sheltered from the wind, stones stacked into a rough fire ring. The flames burned low and steady, more for warmth than cheer. Packs were dropped. Bedrolls unrolled. Food was passed around in tired silence.
Bilbo sat slightly apart at first, knees drawn up, hands wrapped around a tin cup of warm tea. He listened to the familiar sounds: the scrape of boots on stone, Bombur's heavy sigh as he settled down, the quiet clink of cookware. Ordinary things. Comforting things.
No wet breathing.
No echoing dark.
Eventually, without anyone saying a word about it, the Company shifted closer. Balin sat across from him. Ori passed him a piece of bread without comment. Dwalin wordlessly nudged the fire closer to Bilbo's side of the circle.
They were keeping him where they could see him.
Bilbo noticed.
He didn't mind.
Edwen stood near the edge of the camp, looking out toward the mountains they had passed through. Firelight caught faintly on his armor and in his hair, but his expression was distant. Gandalf joined him, pipe unlit, staff resting against his shoulder.
"He's different," Gandalf said quietly.
Edwen didn't look away. "Yes."
"He does not know how yet," Gandalf continued. "That is often the most dangerous part."
Edwen's jaw tightened slightly. "He's stronger than he knows."
"So was Sméagol," Gandalf replied, not unkindly.
That earned a slow glance.
"You think it has already begun?" Edwen asked.
"I think," Gandalf said carefully, "that the Ring never waits."
Across the camp, Bilbo felt the weight in his pocket shift as he moved. He didn't reach for it. He didn't need to. Just knowing it was there was enough.
Sleep came poorly.
When Bilbo did drift off, it was shallow and restless. He dreamed of stone and water, of long tunnels folding back in on themselves. Once, he dreamed he was walking through the Shire, but the hills were too steep and the doors too small.
He woke with a start just before dawn.
For a moment, panic flared in the darkness, stone, nowhere to go.
The fire had burned down to embers. The sky was pale. Dwalin was already awake, sharpening an axe with slow, steady strokes. When he noticed Bilbo stirring, he nodded once.
"Mornin'."
"Good morning," Bilbo replied, surprised at how steady his voice sounded.
They broke camp quickly. No one lingered. The Misty Mountains still loomed behind them, and no one wished to tempt fate by staying too close.
As they set out, the path narrowed and rose, winding through broken stone and sparse trees. Bilbo walked near the middle now, no longer tripping over roots or lagging. He paid attention to where he placed his feet. He listened.
More than once, Edwen glanced back at him.
By midday, they paused to rest near a stream. Cold, clear water ran over smooth stones. Bilbo knelt to drink, splashing his face. The shock of it cleared his head.
When he stood, Thorin was watching him.
"You kept your wits," Thorin said abruptly.
Bilbo blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"In the tunnels," Thorin clarified. "Panic kills faster than blades down there. You did not panic."
Bilbo thought of the riddles. Of the voice in the dark. At the moment his foot slipped, and he had nowhere left to run.
"I was terrified," he admitted.
Thorin gave a short nod. "Courage is not the absence of fear."
That was all he said before turning away.
It was more than Bilbo had expected.
They walked on.
As the day wore on, the Company began to move differently around him—not hovering, not guarding, but aware. They spoke to him more. Asked his opinion on small things. Where to stop? When to rest.
It was subtle.
But it was real.
Bilbo noticed something else, too.
When danger brushed close, loose stone, a sudden noise, the sense of being watched, his hand no longer trembled. Fear still came, but it no longer ruled him. It sat beside him, sharp and watchful.
That night, as they camped again beneath open sky, Bilbo lay awake staring at the stars.
He thought of the Shire of its round doors and full pantries and quiet evenings.
He missed it.
His fingers brushed his pocket, just once.
"What you are," he whispered, so softly no one else could hear.
The Ring did not answer, but it was calling to his heart's darkness as it does to all.