Hearing the great fear gnawing at Bilbo's insides, Igris blinked, not knowing what to say for a moment. In stark contrast to the mortal perils he had been expecting, he couldn't hold himself back upon hearing this mundane, worldly trouble, chuckling softly before he spoke.
"Was that it? Is this why you put on such a pale, terrified expression?"
Igris's chuckles quickly began to evolve into a mild fit of laughter, but Bilbo, standing before him, was not pleased with this situation in the slightest. The gravity on his face only deepened.
"Please stop laughing! This is a very serious matter!"
Igris, wiping away the tears of mirth gathering in his eyes with the back of his hand, managed to compose himself with great difficulty and replied.
"Ah... my friend, do not worry. Your home will be perfectly safe."
However, Bilbo was not at all satisfied with this sentence, which sounded like an empty, hollow consolation. Tugging anxiously at his kitchen apron, he reproached his friend.
"You do not understand, Igris! Among Hobbits, if someone is not heard from for a long period, their belongings... my belongings..."
Igris looked carefully for a moment at his Hobbit friend, who was literally bordering on a full-blown panic attack. Then, with a relaxed demeanor, he turned back around, approached the tomatoes on the marble counter, and spoke in a calm tone as he resumed his work.
"I said, do not worry."
But Bilbo was in no state to listen. He began to pace back and forth frantically in the middle of the kitchen, lamenting as if talking to himself.
"My mother's lace doilies, my grandmother's antique pottery, my great-great-grandmother's dowry chest! All of them are in terrible danger!"
While masterfully peeling the delicate skins of the tomatoes with the knife in his hand, Igris turned his head slightly and looked at Bilbo with blank eyes.
"Bilbo..."
Yet the Hobbit didn't even hear him. Utterly lost in his own world of despair, he quickened his pacing and continued his frantic monologue.
"And what about my father's hat!? It holds immense sentimental value! Or my great-grandfather's jacket!? It is at least two hundred years old! My antique oak desk, gifted to my great-grandfather by my great-great-uncle and crafted by the absolute best carpenter of his time!"
Without pausing his culinary task at the counter, Igris raised his voice just a fraction to warn him.
"Bilbo!"
But Bilbo was once again entirely consumed by his own disastrous scenario. Suddenly, he stopped as if nailed to the floor, and spoke with a sudden, fierce determination blooming on his face.
"Igris! I must go! My home is in jeopardy! Tell Thorin and Gandalf that I shall return in a week!"
Bolstered by the sheer courage of this sudden resolution, Bilbo spun around and began marching toward the kitchen doors with determined steps. Right at that exact moment, Igris's booming, commanding voice echoed violently off the stone walls of the kitchen.
"BILBO!"
Startled by this sudden, thunderous shout, Bilbo jumped out of his skin. With a mixture of utter bewilderment and a twinge of genuine fear, he slowly turned around to look at Igris.
"Yes?"
Igris lifted his head from the counter and shot Bilbo a heavy, disapproving glare. Continuing to peel the tomato in his hand, he spoke in a profoundly weary tone.
"Give me patience... Bilbo, I told you to calm down."
Standing frozen near the grand doors, Bilbo tried to voice a tense objection.
"But—"
Igris mercilessly cut him off before he could even finish his sentence, speaking with absolute finality.
"There are no buts. Your house is perfectly fine; no one can take a single thing from it."
In that fleeting second, the relaxed warmth in Igris's eyes vanished entirely, and his gaze sharpened to a dangerous, lethal edge. Seeing this, Bilbo shuddered involuntarily. Igris continued, a chilling and terrifyingly cold timbre seeping into his voice.
"That is, of course, unless your Mayor possesses a death wish."
Immediately after delivering this ominous line, he dissipated his terrifying aura in an instant, seamlessly slipping back into his former laid-back demeanor as he calmly returned to peeling his tomato.
"So, stop worrying."
Driven both by the lingering tension he had just felt and a burning curiosity ignited by those words, Bilbo asked.
"How can you be so certain of this? What does the Mayor have to do with any of it?"
Igris opened his mouth to reply, but paused abruptly as a familiar scent wafted into his nose. He quickly warned the Hobbit.
"Bilbo! The carrots!"
Bilbo flinched at the word, and the very moment he caught the faint, tantalizing scent of caramelized sugar in the air, he sprinted toward the stone oven. As he carefully pulled open the heavy iron door, adorned with elegant elven craftsmanship, a wave of scorching steam rushed against his face. Accompanied by the intense heat radiating from the open hearth, Bilbo inspected the condition of the tray at the very front. He pierced a carrot with a small paring knife; seeing that the root vegetable had softened to the absolute perfect consistency, he let out a profound sigh of relief and began pulling the heavy trays from the inferno. Just as Igris had instructed earlier, he pinched off walnut-sized chunks from a block of butter resting nearby and nestled them between the steaming, roasted carrots. Then, scooping a generous measure from the elves' golden honey jar, he began to drizzle it in a fine, glistening ribbon over the vegetables. Even as he diligently performed these culinary tasks, his internal anxiety and curiosity forced him to ask.
"Igris, will you please answer my question?"
--- The Shire ---
It was an ordinary night in the Shire—the home of the Hobbits, a land where absolute peace and tranquility reigned over every corner, and where ancient trees, vast meadows, and vibrant green grasses seemed to radiate an aura of pure serenity. The sweet, comforting darkness of the night had descended upon those warm, meticulously kept, round-doored homes built deep into the earth. On the winding dirt roads of the Shire, under the flickering, warm glow of torches, a few drunken Hobbits were making their way home, singing merry tunes. While the lantern lights in some of the hillside smials slowly winked out one by one, cheerful giggles and boisterous laughter still spilled from the open windows of others.
Yet, amidst all this idyllic peace, the situation inside one particular home was vastly different. A large group of Hobbits had gathered in the Mayor's spacious parlor, arguing vehemently and actively trying to back the elderly official into a corner. A stout, highly ambitious-looking Hobbit stepped forward and spoke harshly.
"We haven't heard a single peep from Bilbo Baggins in over a month! Why haven't his belongings been put up for auction yet?"
A sharp-tongued female Hobbit standing right beside him fiercely chimed in.
"Exactly! Bilbo is surely dead by now. The outside world is incredibly dangerous, and there is absolutely no guarantee he will ever return. I believe you should surrender his estate and his home to his rightful heirs, Mr. Mayor."
Another Hobbit, naked greed flashing in his eyes, eagerly jumped into the fray.
"The Sackville-Bagginses are right! Those fine chairs sitting in Bilbo's home are rightfully mine! Hand them over immediately!"
From the back of the dense crowd, another Hobbit voiced a loud objection.
"The silver spoons and forks belong to me!"
A female Hobbit raised her voice, making an entirely different demand.
"The porcelain sets and the dowry chest are mine!"
The Hobbit right next to her opposed her with visible fury.
"No, they are mine!"
Yet another voice rose above the din of the room.
"Who do you think you are? I am perfectly entitled to them!"
Within seconds, the Mayor's traditionally quiet hall transformed into a marketplace due to Bilbo's belongings, leading to a chaotic verbal altercation. The elderly Mayor, sitting exhaustedly in his plush armchair, rubbed his brow as if desperately trying to soothe the violent, throbbing headache pounding at his temples. His patience had finally completely evaporated; filling his lungs with air, he bellowed in a thunderous voice.
"SILENCE!"
The Hobbits, so deeply engrossed in their bitter squabbling, jolted at the Mayor's sudden outburst and fell dead silent in an instant. The only sound left in the room was the soft, rhythmic crackling of the fire in the hearth. The Mayor cleared his throat and spoke with heavy gravity.
"Bilbo Baggins was hired by a company of mercenaries and will not be returning to the Shire for well over a year. The belongings inside his home are strictly under my official protection, which means there is absolutely no need for you to worry about this matter."
Following this shocking revelation, a brief, stunned silence blanketed the room. However, the moment the Hobbits recovered from the initial shock, they erupted into a unified chorus of fierce objections.
"What in the world is that supposed to mean!"
"Why are you the only one who knows about this?"
"Are you trying to hoard Bilbo's treasures all for yourself?"
"Yes, yes! He definitely has his eyes on the loot!"
"Those belongings are our rightful inheritance!"
"We won't let you rob us of what is ours!"
The elderly Mayor's face darkened progressively at the vile accusations being hurled at him; the absolute last drop of his legendary patience had been drained. He surged up from his chair and roared in pure fury.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTHS!"
In utter astonishment, every single Hobbit fell silent once again. Their Mayor had always been a remarkably docile, mild-mannered man, and this was the very first time they had ever witnessed him so blindingly enraged, so completely driven over the edge. Pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at the crowd, the Mayor spoke with iron severity.
"Bilbo Baggins's home is under my direct protection! If a single item goes missing from that house, or is damaged in any way, and I find out who is responsible, the culprit will be thrown directly into the lockup until Bilbo returns! And it will be Bilbo himself who passes judgment on the guilty party!"
The Hobbits were completely and utterly dumbfounded; they had never expected such a draconian decree from their Mayor. Just as a few of them opened their mouths to launch fresh protests, the Mayor threw his hand high into the air, silencing them instantly, and forcefully slapped them with the raw truth.
"I received direct payment from the Black Knight Igris himself to safeguard Bilbo's home! I am doing this for the absolute good of us all, meaning this subject is permanently closed to discussion! Do you understand me?"
A profound, ice-cold silence gripped the parlor. The Hobbits exchanged bewildered glances, and after a long moment, they began to murmur among themselves with bizarre, entirely uncomprehending expressions etched across their faces.
"The Black Knight? Igris? Who on earth is that!"
"Yeah! Who does he think he is, meddling in Hobbit affairs!"
"Are you seriously going to let an outsider dictate our business! Huh!"
"You are an incompetent Mayor!"
As the petty complaints and grumbles swelled once more, rapidly devolving back into a deafening argument, the Mayor's face turned a violent shade of crimson, the veins bulging visibly on his forehead. With every ounce of strength he possessed, he screamed.
"SHUT YOUR MOUTHS!"
Once the room fell into a deathly, paralyzed silence once again, the Mayor spoke with a terrifyingly absolute, unquestionable tone that had permanently settled into his voice.
"If you are so terribly curious about the Black Knight Igris, go to Bree and ask the innkeepers or the town guards! They will gladly paint you a picture! This gathering is officially over! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE AT ONCE, YOU WRETCHED FOOLS!"
As the Mayor literally thundered, the Hobbits practically jumped out of their skins. They hesitated for a brief, foolish second before moving toward the door, but the Mayor's tolerance had been utterly obliterated. He roared a second time.
"GET OUT RIGHT NOW!"
Utterly terrified of the raging man standing before them, the greedy Hobbits scrambled wildly out the parlor doors, practically trampling over one another in their desperate haste to escape the house. Watching the chaotic departure of the mob that had caused his migraine, the Mayor collapsed back into his armchair, utterly spent. Waiting anxiously in the adjacent room, his equally elderly wife, along with their daughter and son, slipped quietly into the parlor and looked at the Mayor with deep concern. The old woman tenderly placed a comforting hand on her husband's shoulder and spoke softly.
"My dear, are you alright?"
The Mayor drew a long, shuddering breath and slowly shook his head.
"I don't know... Bilbo has truly brought a terrible headache upon us... Why in the world did he ever want to go on an adventure?"
In truth, the Mayor himself didn't even know how to properly react to this entire ordeal. Igris had blatantly, mercilessly threatened him into protecting Bilbo's home, but he had also not neglected to drop a remarkably heavy purse overflowing with solid gold onto his desk as compensation for his troubles. For a Mayor who was drowning in debt up to his very neck, this purse was an absolute godsend, a miracle fallen straight from the heavens. In the film, the primary reason the Mayor had auctioned off Bilbo's estate was precisely this crippling financial desperation; in fact, when Bilbo had unexpectedly returned, the man had panicked so severely that he hid behind the absurd excuse of demanding Bilbo prove his identity just to avoid returning the belongings.But now, thanks to that mysterious knight's gold, every single one of his debts had been cleared, and his affairs were finally in order.
However, his true source of terror was Igris himself! He had followed Igris's instructions to the letter. The old hobbit had deliberately misled the Silver Jackal mercenaries and bounty hunters who had come to the Shire, leading them southeast toward the Isen Passes. Afterward, the very first thing he did was to launch a quiet investigation into this enigmatic knight. Finding a knight in all-black armor in Bree wasn't too difficult, as there was almost no one else wearing armor as uniquely black and custom-designed as the one Igris wore. Yet, the horrifying tales he unearthed in the smoky taverns and bustling streets did nothing to soothe the elderly Mayor's nerves; on the contrary, they were the stuff of absolute nightmares. The terrifying words the innkeeper had spoken to him still echoed vividly, word for word, in his ringing ears.
--- Flashback ---
"A knight clad entirely from head to toe in black? Riding a pitch-black warhorse?"
Slowly wiping the inside of a wooden tankard with a damp rag, the innkeeper stared with profound suspicion at the profoundly anxious Hobbit Mayor sitting across from him. At that particular hour of the day, the inn was as crowded, smoky, and overwhelmingly noisy as ever. The local townsfolk were completely absorbed in heated debates at their tables, a few rough-looking scoundrels loitering in the dim corners were ogling and catcalling the serving women scurrying about, and a handful of town guards were clustered tightly around the ale barrels, chatting boisterously to blow off steam after a grueling watch. Setting the polished tankard down onto the scarred wooden counter, the innkeeper leaned in close to the Mayor, his eyes narrowed strangely.
"Mr. Mayor, why exactly are you asking about the Black Knight Igris? Are you looking to hire him for a job?"
The innkeeper's loudly spoken question instantly snagged the attention of several patrons nearby. The drunken vagrants at the next table, about to pass out, suddenly stood up at the mention of Igris's name; their alcohol-numbed minds instantly awoke. Even the conversing guards abruptly ceased their idle chatter, turning with piqued curiosity toward the Hobbit Mayor and the innkeeper at the bar. The mayor, unaware of the attention he was drawing, nodded innocently.
"I am only just learning his name from you. Who exactly is this man called Igris?"
The innkeeper shot his eyebrows high into his hairline at this revelation. Lowering his voice, he asked in a mysterious whisper, full of curiosity."
"May I ask why you are inquiring about him?"
Desperate to calm his frayed nerves, the Mayor took a massive, greedy gulp from the ale sitting before him. He let out a long, deep sigh, and then, fueled by the pent-up anger and frustration from the recent stressful experience, these words escaped his lips.
"Three nights ago, he barged into my home and threatened me!"
The curiosity etched on the innkeeper's face instantly vanished, replaced by a deep, genuine expression of pity; an expression that was deeply disturbing.
"Mr. Mayor... Have you committed any crime?"
The Mayor was utterly blindsided by the question.
"What on earth do you mean?"
The innkeeper placed the freshly cleaned tankard up onto the shelf, drew another dirty mug from beneath the bar, and began to polish it with slow, deliberate motions.
"The Black Knight doesn't just go around threatening people for no good reason. That means you must have done something that greatly displeased him."
Outraged by this entirely unjust accusation, the Mayor straightened his posture on the tall barstool and snapped indignantly.
"I didn't do absolutely anything!"
The innkeeper paused his work for a moment, his calculating eyes closely scrutinizing the Mayor's round face. Seeing the raw, unfeigned sincerity and grave honesty in his eyes, he slowly nodded.
"Well, that is a very good thing. If you truly haven't done anything wrong, then it means your head is safe."
Startled out of his wits, the Mayor stammered.
"M-m-my head!?"
Tossing his damp rag casually over his shoulder, the innkeeper leaned heavily against the wooden counter and spoke with dead-serious gravity.
"Igris is not a normal man, Mr. Mayor. He is notoriously famous across countless towns and villages for ruthlessly punishing leaders and officials who engage in... unsavory activities."
The Mayor stared back at him with an expression that fundamentally failed to comprehend what he was hearing.
"Punishment? What kind of punishment?"
The innkeeper opened his mouth, fully prepared to elaborate on the grisly details, when a burly town guard, who had been unabashedly eavesdropping from the adjacent table, forcefully interjected.
"Take your pick. Beheading, the gallows, impalement on a greased spike, stoning to death... things of that incredibly cheerful nature."
With every gruesome method of execution casually listed off, the Hobbit Mayor shrank further and further into his seat, his rosy complexion bleeding out until it was as ghastly pale as snow. Right at that very moment, another guard sitting at the table eagerly joined the morbid conversation.
"Honestly, if he simply kills you, consider yourself lucky. Sometimes he humiliates a man so thoroughly, so completely, that you'd be absolutely terrified to ever show your face in public again."
The remaining guards emphatically slammed their heavy tankards against the wooden table, loudly voicing their agreement with their comrade.
"He speaks the truth."
"He's absolutely right."
"Crossing the Black Knight is a fate far worse than death."
The scarred, battered scoundrels lurking in the dimmest corners of the tavern, absolutely refusing to be left out of this gossip, enthusiastically chimed in.
"He once impaled a corrupt town leader and his entire wretched family on greased spikes for actively capturing and selling his own people and innocent travelers to vampires! And he did it right in front of the entire town!"
Another vagabond violently slammed his drink down onto the table, eagerly taking over the narrative.
"I heard he personally castrated over two hundred bandits just because they committed rape, or that he had them dragged to a crowded square and mercilessly stoned to death by the angry mob!"
The toothless man sitting right next to him added another detail to the growing gossip, his expression utterly nauseating.
"I heard that to punish nearly a hundred thieves for their crimes, he forced them to wear women's dresses, tied them backward onto donkeys, and hung massive signs around their necks that read 'I am a thief'! He paraded them from town to town, village to village. The men were so utterly consumed by the unbearable shame that they eventually committed suicide by smashing their own heads against the cobblestones!"
A deep, booming voice echoed from a completely different table across the room.
"I heard that he either forces thieves to work like absolute slaves until they have fully repaid every single coin they stole, or he mercilessly chops off a finger just to teach them a permanent lesson."
The man sitting directly next to him raised an immediate objection, vehemently insisting on his own horrific version of the tale.
"I heard he lops off the entire arm."
The first man shook his head sternly, offering a precise correction.
"He only chops off the arm of those he catches for a third time. So, if the Black Knight catches you stealing twice, you'd better pray you don't steal a third time! Otherwise, you're definitely losing an arm!"
An elderly traveler sitting directly across from them raised his glass in solemn agreement.
"Indeed. It is infinitely better to never cross paths with the Black Knight."
The other patrons in the tavern also nodded their heads in hushed, fearful whispers, unanimously agreeing with this consensus.
"Too right."
"He is absolutely someone who should never be provoked."
"Once, some fool tried to impersonate him, but Igris relentlessly hunted him down for weeks. Then, right in the center of the largest nearby city, he publicly beheaded the man in front of a massive crowd."
"Yes! Yes! I was actually there! He impaled the severed head on a tall spear and paraded it through the entire city and all the surrounding villages! He told everyone, 'Let this be a harsh lesson; this is the inevitable end of anyone who dares to impersonate me.'"
"He is the worst nightmare of every slave trader in Middle-earth! Only Eru knows how many innocent souls Igris has saved from the clutches of slave traders!"
"Yes! My own cousin is actually among the ones he saved. My cousin says he will feel indebted to him until his dying day!"
"He is even known to have slain a Manticore and a monstrous Black Serpent!"
"He is a man who single-handedly raids entire Orc tribes!"
"The absolute minute he sets foot in a city or town, the crime rate instantly drops to near zero until he leaves; the thieves, the perverts, the bandits, the murderers—every single one of them is utterly terrified of him."
"I once saw a mammoth of a brute actually dare to challenge him! Without so much as blinking an eye, Igris shattered both of the man's arms!"
As these horrific, somewhat exaggerated stories continued to multiply in the tavern with feverish, breathtaking excitement, the last trace of color vanished violently from the poor Mayor's face; it was as if the blood flowing through his veins had literally frozen solid. Cold, clammy sweat poured in rivers down his forehead, and due to the overwhelming, heart-stopping terror he was currently experiencing, a few involuntary drops of moisture formed in his trousers. A subtle, completely uncontrollable tremor seized his entire body. Licking his desperately dry lips, he slowly turned back to the innkeeper and asked in a violently shaking voice.
"H-h-h-he threatened me, telling me to p-p-protect a specific house and its belongings until the owner arrived. He even offered a large sum of money for it! What will happen if I don't do it?"
The innkeeper leaned his weight against the bar and looked at the old hobbit for a few seconds. Then, with a pitying expression on his face, he spoke.
"He will either humiliate you utterly in front of your own people, violently beat you until you are in a deep coma, or..."
Instead of finishing his sentence with words, the innkeeper brought his thumb to his throat and slowly dragged it along, mimicking a cutting motion. The mayor recoiled in pure and unadulterated terror at this simple gesture. Adding an even heavier, darker tone of seriousness to his voice, the innkeeper delivered his final warning.
"My advice to you, Mr. Mayor, is to protect that house with your very life. If you fail, both the thieves and you yourself will be mercilessly punished by his hand."
The old Hobbit Mayor swallowed hard and looked at the innkeeper with utter dread and fear.
--- End of Flashback ---