Summary: Bilbo tells his adventure and watches those he knew fade into memory.
'And this.' Bilbo wondered, 'This is how you turn people into stories.'
The little ones gathered around him as he settled himself on thick green grass just beyond Bag-End, even before his Adventure he'd been known for his stories, his tales of Dragons, Dwarrow, and Wizards.
He'd spent many a Party entertaining the young ones while their parents cavorted with distant relatives and so it was no oddity to find Bilbo Baggins sat in a field of grass or flowers surrounded by children of all ages telling tales of make believe.
And so, as the children settled themselves around him, little Frodo climbing into his lap to tuck his fingers in the collar of his vest, Bilbo began.
Some days, when Bilbo was of a mood, filled with sorrow and longing, he'd begin with Gandalf's arrival, he'd let the children's laughter at the way he'd spoken to his unexpected guests remind him of what had been gained. He'd let their joy and giggles remind him of Fili and Kili as they told him to hoot twice like a barn owl and once like a brown owl... or was it the opposite? He'd let their cries of delight, their bouncing, their singing along to 'That's what Bilbo Baggins Hates' remind him of Bofur, Bombur, and Ori, who had set them off with his simple question of what to do with his plate.
Other days Bilbo began at a proper beginning, with the arrival of Smaug in Erebor and he'd whisper about the Elven-King turning the Dwarrow away, and how the young prince could not forgive nor forget what the Elven-King had denied them.
And he'd whisper his way through Balin's tale of looking over to see Thorin's first battle with the Pale Orc, his voice dropping quieter when Bilbo spoke Balin's reverent vow, 'There was one I could follow, there was one I could call King.' And they'd look at Bilbo with awe and stars in their eyes.
It made him wonder what might have been had Thorin lived. Would Bilbo have remained with him all his days in Erebor, calling the Dwarf his King? Would Thorin have sat next to him as he told these small faunts their tale? Would Thorin have been a king of peace in the Shire with Bilbo, willing to come home with Bilbo and make it Theirs?
Oh, how Bilbo wondered what might have been had Thorin lived, but never dared to speak his wonderings aloud.
Then he'd pause his tale, at the Trolls turning to stone in the morning; at their departure from Rivendell; their arrival at Beorn's; their leaving Laketown; the Fall of Smaug to Bard the Bowman's Black Arrow; or at the very end of it all, 'Tea is at four, don't bother knocking.' And turning his feet towards home.
Only... it wasn't quite home anymore. He let the children believe it was only his missing possessions that made it so very un-home for him, but even now, with his grandfather's chairs, his mother's doilies and dishes, his father's dining table and maps, it wasn't quite the home Bilbo had left behind, he'd found a new one.
He'd found a home in Thorin's arms, his soft smile, rare though it had been, even mad with Dragon-sickness Bilbo had been home with Thorin. He'd found home in Fili and Kili's laughter and silliness, in Bofur's songs and tales, in Bombur's stew, Dwalin and Nori's fighting, Ori's questions, in Balin's wisdom, Gloin's epics on his wife and son, Oin and Dori's fussing, and Bifur's carving, oh, Bilbo had found a home among Dwarrows and been sent back to an emptiness he'd not noticed before.
And how right Gandalf had been when he'd promised that Bilbo would not be the same should he return to Bag-End.
Perhaps he'd been changed that first night, when Thorin and the others had sung that lonely, deep, song about their lost mountain.
As he paused his tale for the night and sent the children home to supper and their parents, he heard the children begin to sing, the children's voices fading out until all Bilbo heard was the echoes of Dwarrow rumbles.
'Far over the Misty Mountains cold to dungeons deep and caverns old we must away, 'ere break of day to find our long forgotten gold The pines were roaring on the height the wind was moaning in the night the fire was red, it flaming spread the trees like torches blazed with light.'
Bilbo breathed out a sigh from the sob it tried to be and let his memories fill him, let the Song take him from the Shire until his thoughts were surrounded by golden coins, carved rock and high ceilings that sparkled in the night by Dwarven design.
But Bilbo was always brought back to the present, to a coldness where warmth had once bloomed at Dwarrow laughter until Bilbo was reminded, reminded that he was not at Erebor, that there were no Dwarrow raiding his pantry.
That there were no Dwarvish songs being sung in low voices at his hearth.
And that was how one turned Kings and Dwarrow into stories.