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The golden lamps of the royal dining hall cast a warm, amber glow over the table, but the atmosphere in the corridors of Erebor was far from peaceful. For months, a low-level murmur of dissent had been brewing in the darker corners of the mountain. Most of the kingdom adored their Hobbit Consort, the "Luck-wearer" who had helped reclaim their home. But one particular nobleman, Lord Bruni, a traditionalist with a heart as cold as the stone he mined, could not stand the sight of a Halfling wearing a crown of Mithril. To him, Bilbo Baggins was a soft, power-hungry intruder who had bewitched the King.
Bruni had decided that the "Hobbit problem" required a permanent solution. He hadn't just used a drop of poison; he had used enough to fell a dragon.
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It started in the kitchens. Bombur was preparing a special tray of honey-cakes for the evening when he noticed a tray already departing for the royal solar. His keen nose caught a scent that shouldn't have been there, something acrid, metallic, and distinctly fungal.
"That’s not the spice I ordered for the mushrooms," Bombur muttered, his eyes widening. He looked at the wine decanter being carried away. It smelled of nightshade and concentrated hemlock.
"Nori! Bofur! Glóin!" Bombur bellowed, his voice echoing through the stone arches.
The three Dwarves appeared almost instantly. Nori dropped from a rafter, Bofur skidded in from the larder, and Glóin paused his counting of a small pouch of gems.
"The Consort’s dinner," Bombur gasped, his face pale. "It’s been tainted. Poison. Deadly amounts!"
The reaction was instantaneous. The Company had spent months protecting Bilbo from dragons and orcs; they weren't about to let him fall to a dinner plate.
"Bofur, find Óin! Get his antidotes!" Glóin commanded, already sprinting toward the throne room. "I’m getting Thorin. If anything happens to that Hobbit, the King will pull the mountain down on us all!"
"I’ll find the rat who did this," Nori hissed, his eyes narrowing. He vanished into the shadows, his mind already tracking the movements of the kitchen staff.
Bombur didn't wait to talk. He took off at a run, his heavy boots thundering against the floor, praying he wasn't too late.
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In the royal solar, Bilbo Baggins was having a lovely evening. He was tucked into a plush armchair, a book of Elven poetry in one hand and a large glass of deep red wine in the other. On the table before him sat a steaming bowl of mushrooms sautéed in a rich, dark sauce.
He took a long, appreciative sip of the wine. It had a bit of a "kick," he noted. Quite a tart aftertaste.
CRASH.
The doors burst open. Bombur skidded into the room, nearly tripping over the rug. He saw Bilbo with the glass to his lips and let out a strangled cry.
"BILBO! NO! DON'T TOUCH IT!"
Bilbo blinked, lowering the glass. "Bombur? My goodness, you look like you’ve run from the Iron Hills. What’s the matter?"
"The wine... the food..." Bombur panted, stumbling toward the table. He looked at the half-empty decanter and the bowl where Bilbo had already polished off a good portion of the mushrooms. "Oh, Mahal... oh, no."
"Is something wrong with the vintage?" Bilbo asked, picking up a mushroom with a fork. "It is a bit earthy, I’ll admit. Almost a hint of... oh, I’d say 'Death’s Veil' or perhaps 'Widow’s Sigh.' Quite potent." He popped the mushroom into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
Bombur collapsed onto a chair, his head in his hands. "You’ve eaten it. You’re dead. You’re already dead and you’re just too polite to stop moving."
Behind a heavy tapestry in the corner of the room, Lord Bruni watched through a tiny gap. He was trembling, but not with fear. He was gripped by a terrifying confusion. He had emptied three full vials of concentrated Viper’s Breath into that wine. He had hand-picked a dozen "Shadow-Cap" mushrooms, fungi so toxic that touching them with bare skin caused blisters.
The Hobbit should have been convulsing on the floor within seconds. Instead, Bilbo was currently wiping a bit of sauce from his lip and reaching for his book.
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The doors flew open again. Thorin charged in, Orcrist unsheathed and glowing with a faint, blue light, followed by Glóin, Bofur, and a frantic Óin clutching a bag of charcoal and emetics.
"Bilbo!" Thorin roared, reaching his husband in two strides. He grabbed Bilbo’s shoulders, his eyes searching the Hobbit’s face for the pale cast of death. "Are you alright? Can you breathe?"
"Thorin, dear, you're wrinkling my waistcoat," Bilbo said, looking thoroughly confused. "I’m perfectly fine. Why is everyone so agitated?"
"He ate the mushrooms, Thorin!" Bombur wailed. "And he’s had two glasses of the wine!"
Óin shoved Thorin aside, thrusting a finger into Bilbo’s face. "Let me see your tongue! Open up! Are your pupils dilated? Is your heart racing?"
"My heart is racing because thirteen Dwarves just stormed my dinner!" Bilbo snapped, though he obediently stuck out his tongue.
Just then, a scuffle broke out by the tapestry. Nori emerged, dragging a struggling Lord Bruni by the collar. The Dwarf nobleman was pale, staring at Bilbo as if the Hobbit were a ghost.
"I found him muttering behind the curtain," Nori growled, throwing Bruni to the floor.
"It’s impossible!" Bruni shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Bilbo. "There were three bottles! Three full bottles of the Assassin’s Distillate! And the Shadow-Caps! No living thing survives a single bite! Why aren't you dead?!"
The room went silent. The weight of the words hung in the air. Three bottles. Even a dragon might have felt a stomach ache from that amount.
Thorin’s face went from pale to a terrifying, stony black. He turned toward Bruni, his sword tip hovering inches from the nobleman’s throat. "You tried to murder the Consort."
"He’s a demon!" Bruni yelled. "Look at him! He’s still eating!"
Indeed, Bilbo had just picked up another mushroom. He stopped, realizing everyone was staring at him.
Bilbo looked at the mushroom, then at the frantic Óin, and finally at the murderous Thorin. He let out a long, weary sigh and set his fork down.
"Oh, for heaven’s sake," Bilbo said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "Is that what this is all about? The 'poison'?"
"Bilbo, you've consumed enough toxin to kill a battalion!" Bofur cried. "Óin, give him the charcoal! Quick!"
"No, no, put that away," Bilbo said, waving Óin off. "It tastes like burnt toast and I’ve just had a very lovely meal. Thorin, put the sword down. Lord Bruni, stop screaming, you're being very dramatic."
Bilbo stood up, smoothing his robes. He looked around the room with the patient expression of a teacher dealing with particularly slow students.
"Do you Dwarves truly know nothing of Hobbit physiology?" Bilbo asked. "We live in the Shire. Do you know what grows in the Shire? Everything. Including a vast variety of fungi that would make a Troll’s skin melt."
He gestured to the bowl of mushrooms. "As fauntlings, we play in the woods. We eat things we shouldn't. Over the centuries, Hobbits have built up a... well, a bit of a tolerance. My Great-Uncle Isengrim once accidentally seasoned a roast with 'Night-Stalker' mushrooms. He didn't die; he just felt particularly energetic and painted his house bright purple. By the time we’re adults, most common poisons are little more than a spicy seasoning to us."
The Dwarves stared at him, mouths agape.
"And the wine?" Óin managed to ask, his ear trumpet trembling. "That was concentrated Viper’s Breath."
"Oh, the alcohol," Bilbo chuckled. "Honestly, have you ever seen a Hobbit at a midsummer festival? We drink ale that would strip the lacquer off a shield. Compared to a vintage '12 Boffin’s Stout, your 'assassin’s distillate' is really quite mild. It’s given me a bit of a pleasant tingle in my toes, I suppose, but that’s about it."
Thorin looked at Bilbo, then at the half-empty bowl of death, then back at his husband. The terrifying tension in his shoulders broke into a confused, shaky laugh. "You... you're immune?"
"Not immune, exactly," Bilbo corrected. "I might have a slight headache in the morning, and I wouldn't recommend anyone else try the sauce. But to a Hobbit, poison is mostly just... a very adventurous spice."
Nori kicked Lord Bruni, who was now weeping with frustration. "So he spent all that money on the most expensive poisons in the East... and he basically just gave Bilbo a well-seasoned dinner?"
"Essentially," Bilbo said, picking up his glass and raising it toward the captured nobleman. "Next time, Lord Bruni, if you wish to offend me, try serving a wine that hasn't been aged. That would be a truly unforgivable crime."
Thorin stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Bilbo and burying his face in the Hobbit’s neck, shaking with relief. "I am going to lock you in the royal vault," he whispered.
"Only if you bring me more of those mushrooms, dear," Bilbo teased, patting Thorin’s arm. "They were actually quite tasty."
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The following week in the royal dining hall was, by all accounts, an exercise in psychological warfare. While Lord Bruni had been hauled off to the deepest dungeons to contemplate the futility of trying to out-eat a Halfling, the news of Bilbo’s "special dietary requirements" had stayed within the small circle of those who had witnessed the event.
Thorin, having moved from terror to a strange, fierce pride in his husband’s resilience, had decided that if his Consort enjoyed the "adventurous spice" of toxic fungi, he should have the very best. Bombur, naturally, was delighted to experiment with ingredients that usually required thick leather gloves and a death warrant to handle.
The rest of the Company, Dwalin, Balin, Dori, Ori, Bifur, Fíli, and Kíli, were gathered for a casual dinner. They were chatting about masonry and trade routes, blissfully unaware of the culinary landmines on the table.
Bombur entered with a flourish, placing a small, exquisite tartlet directly in front of Bilbo. It was topped with mushrooms that glowed with a faint, sickly iridescent purple hue.
"The 'Pale Jester' variety, My Lord Consort," Bombur said with a wink. "Sautéed in a reduction of hemlock and butter."
Bilbo’s eyes lit up. "Oh, Bombur! You remembered. They have such a lovely, numbing quality on the tongue."
He picked up a fork and took a generous bite.
Dori froze mid-sentence, his fork hovering inches from his mouth. His eyes went wide as he stared at the glowing purple fungus. "Bilbo... is that... is that a Pale Jester?"
"Mmphm," Bilbo nodded, chewing happily. "Excellent vintage."
"THORIN!" Balin shouted, standing up so quickly his chair clattered to the floor. "The Consort is eating the Jester’s Cap! He’ll be dead before the second course! Why are you just sitting there drinking your ale?!"
Fíli and Kíli both scrambled over the table, hands outstretched to snatch the tart away. "Don't swallow it, Bilbo! Spit it out!" Kíli wailed. "We’ll get the stomach pump!"
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To the sheer horror of the "uninformed" Dwarves, Thorin didn't move. He simply took a slow sip of his ale and watched Bilbo with an amused glint in his eye. Beside him, Glóin and Bofur were already beginning to chuckle into their napkins.
"Sit down, lads," Dwalin growled, though even he looked a bit twitchy as Bilbo reached for a second tart. "The Hobbit’s fine. He’s sturdier than he looks."
"Sturdier?!" Ori shrieked, clutching his sketchbook to his chest. "That fungus causes respiratory failure in under three minutes! I’ve written poems about its lethality! Bilbo, please, stop chewing!"
Bilbo looked around at the panicked faces, a small smear of purple sauce on his lip. "Honestly, the drama in this mountain. It’s a mushroom, Ori. A very tasty one."
Óin walked in just then, carrying a small vial. "Here you are, Bilbo. A little tincture of 'Widow’s Weed' to help with the digestion. I’ve checked the potency; it should give you a nice glow by dessert."
Dori looked like he was about to faint. "Widow’s Weed? Óin, you’re a healer! You’re supposed to stop the dying, not facilitate it!"
"He’s not dying, you old badger," Bofur laughed, finally losing his battle with his composure and slapping the table. "Haven't you heard? Our Bilbo is a walking apothecary! He’s been eating this stuff since he was a fauntling!"
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The rest of the evening was spent with the "Informed" Dwarves explaining the Shire's unique relationship with toxins while the "Panicked" Dwarves slowly went through the five stages of grief.
Bifur was leaning in close, poking at a leftover mushroom with his knife and muttering in ancient Khuzdul about "impossible biology."
"So," Dwalin said, crossing his massive arms as he watched Bilbo finish the tartlet without so much as a hiccup. "You’re telling me that while we were out there fighting Orcs and Wargs, the real danger was just... letting the Hobbit into the pantry?"
"Precisely," Thorin said, reaching over to wipe the sauce from Bilbo’s face. "The next time we go to war, we don't need axes. We just need Bilbo to invite the enemy to dinner."
"I would never!" Bilbo huffed, though he looked quite pleased with himself. "It would be a waste of perfectly good hemlock. Besides," he added, looking at the horrified Fíli and Kíli, "it’s really quite helpful. I haven't had a cold or a sniffle in years. I think the poisons are too busy fighting each other to bother with me."
Fíli sat back down, looking utterly defeated. "I spent three months protecting you from spiders, Bilbo. Spiders. Whose venom is basically just... breakfast for you?"
"Oh, the spiders were still very bitey, Fíli," Bilbo comforted him. "The venom just made the forest look like it was made of sparkles for a few hours. It was actually quite lovely."
The Company sat in silence for a moment, watching their Hobbit Consort happily sip on a wine that was now officially labeled "The Assassin's Special."
"I’m never complaining about your cooking again, Bombur," Kíli whispered, eyeing his own perfectly safe stew with newfound suspicion. "I’m just glad I’m not a Hobbit. I don't think my heart could take the 'sparkles'."