This is my first (but not last!) post in the Hobbit fandom, so I hope you all enjoy! Just to clarify, it's an AU ending to the Battle of Five Armies where Thorin, Fili and Kili don't die; instead, Bilbo loses his memories of the company and their adventure. There will be Thorin/Bilbo romance, too, in case that's not your cup of tea.
Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkein and Peter Jackson own; I do not.
Fracture, n.
-the art of breaking; the state of being broken
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Bilbo dreamt that he was standing at the foot of a volcano, watching the flames erupt from the top. Lava cascaded down the mountain slopes, inching towards him at an alarming pace. He paid it no mind, too entranced by the heat and fire to move a muscle, let alone run away. The light was so blindingly bright, so intensely hot that it seared his eyes and then there was pain—a terrible, terrible pain bursting in his head—
The nightmare ended as consciousness flooded back into the hobbit. Unfortunately, the pain did not recede with it. It stayed, and so did the light, though now it was more of a comfort than a bother. Bilbo let the sunlight roam over his sore and sleep-filled limbs, hoping the warmth would coax them into waking as well. Flexing his fingers, his right thumb brushed against something inside his pocket. Curious, as well as confused, Bilbo traced the outline of the bump with the same thumb, revealing it to be a ring. Odd. He didn't own any rings or carry them around in his pockets. Wherever could I have acquired it? he wondered distantly.
Judging by the amount of light hitting his face, it must have been well into the morning by now. Deciding that lying in bed all day like a lazy hobbit was behavior unbefitting for his age, Bilbo's eyes fluttered open, expecting to see the familiar furnishings of his bedroom.
Had his head not been throbbing so, Bilbo might've startled at the sight of his surroundings. Oh, no, this was definitely not Bag End, nor any room in which Bilbo had ever been before. Bag End did not boast such lovely linen sheets, intricately carved decor, or an old man who sat beside his bed. Once again, he ought to have jumped upon realizing that there was another person in the room, but due to his condition, Bilbo only regarded the man in puzzlement.
And what a peculiar old man he was! He wore grey-colored robes and a tall, pointed hat. His face appeared amicable enough, with bushy eyebrows and a long beard. But it was the ancient, depthless pair of eyes staring down at him so intently that garnered Bilbo's full attention. A hobbit like himself felt even smaller than usual caught within that gaze. Upon seeing him awake, however, the gaze softened somewhat and the old man's lips curved into a smile.
"Good morning," Bilbo greeted politely, albeit groggily. Let it never be said that his manners wavered, even with a terrible thrumming against his skull.
The old man smiled in a strange fashion, as if Bilbo was privy to some inside joke between the two of them.
"Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a good morning to be on?"* The long reply left Bilbo's head swimming. That was certainly a lengthy response to such a simple inquiry.
"All of them at once, I suppose." Immediately, the old man's smile faded into a frown. Apparently, Bilbo should've known better than to give such an answer. He considered apologizing for his mistake, yet dismissed the notion as ridiculous. After all, how was he supposed to know what to say when he'd never met this man before in his life?
Reading his thoughts, the old man asked, "Have you no idea who I am?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, I do not," Bilbo confirmed, and this time he was sorry, for the old man looked very disappointed.
"Come now, Bilbo, do you not recognize me? I am Gandalf!"
Mindful of his head, Bilbo sat up and peered more closely at this old man dressed in grey who claimed to be called Gandalf—Gandalf the Grey, the wizard, the wanderer, the man both his grandfather and mother spoke of with fondness.
"Gandalf?" Bilbo repeated. "The friend of the Old Took who used to make such wondrous fireworks at celebrations? Yes, yes, I remember now! Oh, I've not seen nor heard from you since I was a lad! Er, not to sound rude, but what brings you to my bedside?"
Pleased with his remembrance, Bilbo settled back into bed with a sigh of contentment. Surely this Gandalf fellow would perk up now that he had it all squared. But, no, that wasn't the case at all. If anything, the old man—or wizard, rather—looked more dismayed than earlier.
"Oh, Bilbo," he murmured softly, as if something very near and dear to him had been lost. "Oh, my dear friend..."
"What is it?" said Bilbo, feeling the cold weight of dread shift into his gut. "Why do you speak so mournfully? Are my wounds more grievous than you thought?"
"You remember being wounded in battle?" Gandalf questioned.
"Well, no. Actually, the only indication I have is this horrid ache in my head," admitted the hobbit. Blinking owlishly, he added, "I'm sorry, did you say battle?"
"And a very grave battle it was," the wizard said solemnly, ignoring his incredulity. "Grave enough to gain you a room in the Last Homely House, at least."
"Good gracious!" Bilbo gasped, realizing where he was at last. "I am in Rivendell, the city of the elves! How on earth did I get here?"
Silence met his exclamation. The hobbit began to suspect that there was more to his situation than the wizard had told him thus far, and he was willing to bet that it was somehow connected to both his injured skull and his presence in an elven city. Not that he was complaining about the latter, as he'd always dreamt of visiting the elves. Seeing it now, it was even more breathtaking than he had imagined.
"Bilbo," Gandalf began finally, eyes narrowing into the hobbit with the utmost seriousness, "what do you last remember before awakening just now?"
To be honest, it took Bilbo quite a while to sort through the mess of his mind and locate this information.
"I, well...I was about to retire for the evening. It was a warm summer night, and I remember drifting off to sleep in my own bed." He closed his eyes, the smell of Bag End surrounding him, the soft cushion of his favorite chair underneath his legs. Yet when he opened his eyes, he was still in Rivendell conversing with a wizard, proving that this was no dream. Therefore, Bilbo decided it was high time he knew what was going on.
"Enough of this beating around the bush, Mister Gandalf. I can see that something is amiss, I can practically feel it in my bones. Now be honest with me, and tell me what has happened?" he demanded, too achy and perplexed and downright tired to bother with courtesy any longer.
Gandalf regarded him with an expression that was partially sad, partially expectant. "I am afraid you won't enjoy what you want to hear, Mister Baggins."
"By the look on your face, I should say not." Bilbo took a deep breath and brushed his fingers against the ring in his pocket, its presence giving him unfounded courage. "Tell me, anyway."
After a week of recovery in Rivendell, under the kind care of Lord Elrond, Bilbo was finally well enough to return to the Shire. When he wasn't resting in bed, he spent the majority of his time in the library, or in the company of a human child named Estel, who was a very bright boy and a pleasure to talk to. When the day came for Gandalf and he to leave, Bilbo bid the boy a fond farewell, and profusely thanked Elrond for his hospitality. There was something eerily familiar about the Elf lord, something Bilbo just couldn't place.
Which Bilbo knew was because he had about a year's worth of memories missing from his mind, a fact he had been forced to come to terms with during this week of recovery.
Seeing Bag End again was a hearty relief, though. Because Bag End was precisely the same as he remembered, in spite the hoard of relatives gathered within it, all of whom were in the midst of auctioning his possessions off to the highest bidder. Many of them had a minor fright when they spotted him, thinking he was an angry spirit come for revenge. And oh, if Bilbo could eternally haunt that covetous Lobelia and her husband, he certainly would.
The nerve of those Sackville-Bagginses, moving into his humble home and claiming it as their own! Why, Bilbo had half a mind to write them out of the will entirely for that little stunt. After all, he had only been away for—
—oh. Well. According to Gandalf's account, Bilbo had been gone a great deal longer than he realized. No wonder his relatives had seen fit to start selling his possessions. Now that he was pronounced alive again, though, they all looked rightfully chastised for their conduct (barring the Sackville-Bagginses, of course). Soon, however, everyone grew accustomed to the fact that Mister Baggins was back in his hobbit hole, and life in the Shire went on exactly the same as it always had.
Except that it didn't. Not in Bilbo's case, at least. Because Bilbo wasn't the same hobbit he used to be. He was different, and he didn't know when or how the change had occurred. Outwardly, he still looked like a middle-aged hobbit, despite the new, unfamiliar scars embedded into his skin. For the most part, he still acted as he did before, too. The changes about him were subtle and hard to spot.
In an effort to understand the hobbit he had become, Bilbo took to examining the items he'd returned from Rivendell with; the items Gandalf claimed were now his (Besides the ring, of course, which Gandalf seemed to know nothing about. Bilbo could have asked him about it, but something stopped him from doing so). And the most absurd of these items was a sword.
Bungo Baggins would be rolling in his grave at the sight of his son wielding such a weapon inside his beloved home. But Bilbo was too focused to feel remorse over bothering the dead, so he went ahead and wrapped his hand around the hilt, surprised at how light the sword was. Or how it felt like the blade belonged clenched between his fingers, aimed at some fiendish foe. He brandished it around his living room, swiping and striking at imaginary adversaries, feeling very much like a lad as he did so. However, he did it with the proper stances, and a steadiness that was born out of practice, not play.
Afterwards, Bilbo put the sword in a proper place above the mantel. Even if it was of no use in the peaceful Shire, it was a lovely piece of Elvish craftsmanship, which was more than enough reason to display it proudly. The only other item was a white shirt a little too large for his size, which Bilbo admired for a long time before storing it away in one of his wardrobes.
Nevertheless, it was the changes in his behavior that stood out most vividly to the master of Bag End.
One day while he was perusing the market for a new book to add to his collection, there came a terrible commotion from a few feet away. A cart had come loose and was barreling down the road, right into the path of a young hobbit lass, who would have no time to scream or run as the cart came tumbling towards her—
And without thinking, Bilbo dropped the book he'd been browsing and dashed over faster that he thought possible. The cart was nearly upon her when Bilbo leapt over—staying in front of her, in case his speed failed—and crushed her small body against his before rolling them to safety. In reality, the rescue happened in one, swift moment filled with only the shouts and awes of the market bystanders.
Then Aunt Mirabella was suddenly there, alternating between hugging (and scolding) her inattentive daughter and thanking Bilbo with all her might. That's when Bilbo discovered that the child he'd saved was his cousin Primula Brandybuck, who also proceeded to thank him, large blue eyes shimmering gratefully from behind her dark curls. Other hobbits came and patted him on the back, as surprised by his brave endeavor as they were impressed.
They hailed him as a hero for the deed, although Bilbo was simply glad that little Primula came out of the incident unscathed. Saving her had seemed so natural a reaction, risking his own life to rescue another. When had these instincts taken hold? Eru, he wished he knew.
Bilbo never let it show, but he went about his daily routine feeling as though his life was utterly, fundamentally wrong. Some days, he went from room to room, pretending to tidy up when actually he was looking for something—anything—that might make sense, something that might ease the terrible void that had carved itself into the center of his heart. He would sit outside in the evenings and smoke his pipe, staring out at the horizon and wondering what lay beyond it, and pondering why he so badly yearned for whatever it was.
Sometimes, he thought that this something might be a someone, or several someones. At night, he would awake with a name on the tip of his tongue, wanting to yell it into the dark night, hoping to hear another voice call back. Sadly, the name would always disappear before he could grasp it, leaving him with an emptiness not even breakfast could fill.
Maybe what bothered him most was that while he felt like he was missing people who were such a vital part of his life, none of these persons ever came looking for him, even though their minds were presumably intact. Thinking about this always disheartened Bilbo; for if he wasn't someone worth searching for, perhaps he had become someone terrible during those lost days...
But Bilbo strived to keep these awful ideas and emotions hidden from sight. He wasn't comfortable sharing such personal aspects of his life with his family, since they weren't very close; nor did he really have any friends to confide in. Furthermore, the hobbits of the Shire already considered him queer ever since his return from places unknown. If he let slip that he was having adventurous urges again, the title 'Mad Baggins' would surely stick.
So the dreary days bled into weary weeks, which eventually formed months. Life went on, and if the solitude that Bilbo had once enjoyed now felt lonely, his neighbors and relatives were none-the-wiser. Because Bilbo Baggins was a respectable hobbit, as far as he remembered, and that meant acting as any respectable hobbit should. Therefore, he spent his days eating, reading, smoking his pipe and other activities that were heartily approved of by his kin.
And if every night he dreamt of songs about mountains that reached the sky, riddles in the dark, dragons or piles of glistening gold, what did it matter? Bilbo could not see the significance in them, anyway.
*I borrowed this line directly from the book.
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