Bilbo thinks of it throughout the winter months. Through frosts, through planting winter flowers, through sugared desserts, and fat snowflakes. He thinks of it through warm blankets, hot, milky tea, and lonely days waiting for the skies to break.
He thinks of Erebor and little else.
Of its conical shape, the Lonely Mountain, surrounded by desolation that has to be rolling fields and farmland now, six years after the Battle that had claimed so many lives. He thinks of its vast halls, its chilly air, and warm hearths, of fiery forges burning deep. Of ale and melodic songs, of laughter, and the tinkering of the mines. He thinks of the Company, of what they do, of their letters, and imagines their lives in the mountain.
He thinks of Thorin.
He misses him, good friend that he had become, but he had stopped lying to himself years ago. He misses more than their friendship; he misses the idea of more. He can no longer entertain the thought of more, more, more with Thorin, because he is a world away, and reduced to the occasional long letter, lacking in any hints that the dwarf king might have harbored feelings that went beyond friendship. No, not Thorin, and Bilbo knows this. Thorin has his kingdom, his people, his duties, and he doesn't think of a lonely hobbit in the Shire as anything but a member of his Company.
Bilbo knows this, and yet it still cuts deep, no matter how hard he tries to stop it. He aches with a longing to see dark hair and impossibly blue eyes. He aches to see a whole and hale dwarf, the images of Ravenhill forever burned into his mind, and no matter how well Thorin had been when he had left, he is still haunted by the pale, lifeless hands he had gripped so tightly in his own that day. He knows it's silly because Thorin writes him and complains of his achy back when he sits at his desk too long, and never anything more.
But Bilbo still wishes to see that it's true. That Thorin lives and breathes and smiles every day.
So he thinks of it.
He thinks of leaving it all behind. Of venturing back across Middle Earth, of seeing a lonely mountain again, of not leaving it… of not leaving him.
He thinks of it when spring comes to the Shire and washes away the remnants of winter, bringing with it happy, bright flowers, and fresh rains, and sweet breads. He thinks of perhaps never seeing it again, or if he does, it would be years from now, and wonders if he would truly be alright with that.
Staring east so often, with a heavy, slowly thudding heart, tells him well enough his answer.
And he starts to plan as spring steadily begins to edge toward summer. Late April passes, and the seventh year since the beginning of the Quest, and Bilbo thinks that it's truly high time he does something for himself for once. He can't stand to stare into the distance, or trail off mid sentence, or explain why he doesn't quite feel like attending any parties today, or why he goes on especially long walking holidays.
Bilbo goes through his smial, taking his time, knowing there is only the rush in his heart, but denying its fancies. He has business to tend to and won't leave in a such a rush this time. No, this time, he is going to be prepared.
He catalogues what he'll need and what he won't and finds himself surprised by just how much he's willing to part with. Even his mother's doilies don't make it into his keep piles and by the time he's finished packing up what he wants, he's left with but two packs that can be tied together and fit on his back quite easily. The rest will stay behind and in his name for a time, until he's made up his mind of where it'll all go, and who might take up residence in Bag End, though he has a few ideas.
He doesn't go shopping for his groceries one week and while this inspires many calls to his door, he doesn't quite tell anyone why yet. He thinks he'll live up to the moniker gained by running off the first time, Mad Baggins, and will surprise everyone yet again.
Bilbo knows he can't leave without telling anyone, of course, so he does go to the Gamgee house, and explains everything, and offers to pay Hamfast to keep up with the garden and his beloved tomatoes, but Hamfast merely bursts into tears and says he'll be happy to do it just to keep something of his favorite neighbor and good friend. Bilbo leaves that conversation feeling a bit flustered but altogether pleased.
And one day, it feels like the day, something warm and right settling in his heart. He finishes off the last few morsels of food left in his pantry, puts his pack on his back, locks up Bag End and gives the key to Hamfast, and then sets off down the lane. He waves at people who stop and stare and point and feels utterly content, despite the months of travel he has ahead of him. He is doing what he should have done years ago and something tells him he won't likely come across many troubles, which inspires a little spring in his step.
He is off on another adventure.
This time, his travels are comfortable, and he has a few different sets of clothes, a small pillow, and thick, warm blanket for the cool nights. He had baked himself many treats, including scones and hearty oatmeal raisin cookies, and has plenty of nuts with dried berries to keep his belly from grumbling too much. While he had gotten used to seven meals back in the Shire, he gets used to only having two with a snack fairly quickly, and doesn't struggle nearly as much as he did the first time around.
He passes through Bree, stocks up on supplies, then skirts around the Trollshaws, and soon ends up in Rivendell. He is greeted by the elves as if he is an old friend and gladly stays with them for a week, enjoying their vast library and sprawling courtyards filled with wildflowers. Lord Elrond is a gracious host and ensures that Bilbo is well fed and given medicinal supplies for the road that he had rather lacked in, and though the elf lord seems bemused by Bilbo's love for Erebor, he gives advice and seems to have faith in Bilbo to make it the rest of the way.
He leaves Rivendell feeling rejuvenated and begins the short journey between the Valley and the first passes through the Misty Mountains.
Bilbo would be lying if he said he wasn't concerned about his travels through the mountains. The only memories of them include near-death experiences and he is only armed with his little sword, useful, but not necessarily going to save his life if he were to encounter any enemies like before. He is understandably, in his mind, concerned, and decides that before he enters the mountains proper, he will spoil himself with a snack.
Bilbo makes a quick camp for himself just off the road before the mountains and under an outcrop, settling back against his pack, pulling out an iced cinnamon bun the elves had given him for just such an occasion. He takes a bite of it and gazes around the road and the rocky terrain that he is surrounded with.
He's not quite halfway through his journey and while time has flown by, he is becoming decidedly impatient for the rest to be over with. He's eager to see the world again, this time with much less peril, and hopes to garner better memories henceforth, but he wishes to be in Erebor more than anything. He can already imagine the day that he will see two dwarven sentinels guarding the gates and has to refrain from souring his own mood that it has not yet come to pass.
"Have patience, old fellow, and you'll be there before you know it," he says to himself, nodding, and finishes off his iced bun. He licks his fingers clean and looks up toward the clear sky, smiling, and hopes that the summer rains are still a ways off. He will be traveling by the East-West road, rather than any sneaky, dread-filled passages, and knows that it will be less perilous, but still hopes that he will not encounter such rains like he did the last time through.
Or any thunder battles.
Bilbo stands, slinging his pack over his back, and begins to leave his outcrop when he hears a voice. Rather, a few voices, loud, and coming from the mountains.
Despite knowing it is likely elves coming back to Rivendell, Bilbo still scurries behind the outcrop, and listens closely. If it is a group of Men, he would rather not be seen, and perhaps this is a little unfair, but Bilbo has already been glad of his small size and quiet feet on the road. Some, he would not like to cross paths with.
"I still think we should skip by the elves," a voice says.
"Why? We need to stock up on supplies, we've run thin since we passed through the forest," another voice says.
"Because they're elves," the first voice answers, as if this is quite obviously a terrible thing.
Bilbo frowns to himself, because this is a very familiar conversation to him, and he begins to have a strange inkling.
"What have the elves ever done to you?"
"Do you not remember your history? Would you like me to tell you all the things the elves have done? And they weren't exactly pleased to help us through the forest, you know. That princeling kept glaring at us."
"He was glaring at your ugly mug and I can't say I blame him."
"Oh, sod off, will you? I've got a very compelling argument here."
"You try telling him that."
"I'm trying to think of the best way to go about it."
"Good luck with that. We're nearly there anyway."
Bilbo bites his lip. He knows who is opposed to elves, who has a shady history with them, and who an elf prince might glare at.
He peeks around the outcrop, squinting as he hears the clatter of ponies hooves against stone, and soon two dwarves in simple, unadorned armor appear from between the cliffs. They are both brown-haired and look as if they could be related, with the same styled beards and braids. Bilbo can't tell if they come from Erebor (and that gives his heart quite a kickstart) or the Iron Hills or perhaps even further east than that.
He is still not sure about making himself known and watches as the two dwarves come to a stop, looking back as if they are waiting for others.
They are silent for a moment, then the dwarf on the bay pony looks at his companion. "We aren't far off from Bree. Our supplies might get us there," he says.
The other dwarf groans. "It's a two week ride to Bree, you idiot," he says. "Our supplies will be gone in a week and that's if we're lucky!"
"We can thin them out," the first dwarf says, not sounding altogether sure of it. "Then we can skip the elves."
"I admire your consistent hatred of the elves but we need to stop," the other says, looking exasperated. "The king won't hear any different."
Bilbo feels his heart begin to thunder erratically and grips the rock before him, sweat suddenly coating his palms. The king… no, it can't be. It simply can't. They are too far from home, too close to the west, too, too…
"The king won't hear any different of what?" a deep voice asks, sounding rather amused, and perhaps a bit annoyed.
Bilbo feels the ground beneath him fall away and his mouth falls open as he stares, stares so hard at the cliffs. And then two ponies appear, one grey, and the other black, and sitting atop the grey one is the most beautiful dwarf Bilbo has ever seen, with dark hair, and impossibly blue eyes, and a familiar heavy brow that is arched, expecting an answer.
Thorin Oakenshield.
Bilbo's vision spots black and for a moment he thinks he might actually faint but he pinches his hand and simply gapes at Thorin.
"Nothin'," the first dwarf says, and looks rather uneasy.
"Aye, nothin'," the fourth dwarf, another so familiar, on the black pony says.
Dwalin looks much more stern than Thorin and levels the two guards with an unimpressed scowl. "We're stoppin' to see the elves. It was decided before we left home," he says firmly.
The two guards, quite young, nod their heads quickly, and when Dwalin gestures, they turn and begin to ride forth again. Dwalin and Thorin follow.
Bilbo watches them, rooted to his spot, trying to move his feet, but they don't seem to be listening. He is afraid what he is seeing isn't real and the idea that he might have fallen asleep is so troubling that he leaps forward and onto the path, stopping in the middle of it and looking at the backs of the ponies.
"Thorin?"
They move quickly, Dwalin turning his pony around and reaching for one of his axes, only to fall short when he catches sight of Bilbo. His mouth falls open and it would be funny if Bilbo weren't so terribly shocked.
Thorin turns his pony and freezes, staring at Bilbo. He looks as if he has just faced Smaug once again and Bilbo has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Perhaps Thorin will not be glad to see him after all this time. Despite their friendly letters and occasional gifts, perhaps Thorin is only writing to him out of guilt, and does not care for Bilbo much more than that.
Bilbo admonishes himself for his foolishness and continues to stare at Thorin.
Thorin finally spurs his pony into movement and comes within a few paces of Bilbo. He slides off of the pony, holding its reins, and shuffles a bit closer. "Bilbo?" he asks, and there is a quiet awe in his voice, as if he cannot believe what he is seeing either.
"Hello, Thorin," Bilbo says, and waves a little, then feels rather foolish for doing so. He is quite nervous and his stomach is in knots because… because there he is. The one that Bilbo cannot stop thinking of. The one that he is currently crossing the world to see. Whole and hale, real, there.
"Bilbo," Thorin says, as if he has just come to a realization. He begins to smile. "Why are you so far from home?"
Bilbo feels his cheeks warm. "Oh, well. Erm," he says, fiddling with the strap of his pack. "I was, ah… traveling to Erebor, that is. Thought I'd… thought I'd come and say hello, see how the mountain is doing. See how, erm, my friends are."
Thorin suddenly looks concerned and steps closer. "By yourself?" he asks, frowning.
"Well, yes. I'm quite capable of travel these days, you know," Bilbo says, a tad defensively. "I've done very well so far. Why on earth are you so far from home?"
Thorin stares at him, his mouth open a little, and doesn't say anything for a moment. Someone clears their throat, rather loudly, and Bilbo glances back at Dwalin, waving at him, before he looks back at Thorin, waiting for an answer. Curiously, Thorin's cheeks look flushed, and he begins to look rather sheepish.
"I was…" he starts, then stops. He sighs. "I was coming to see you."
"Me-e?" Bilbo asks slowly, his heart fit to burst, and blinks a few times. "Were you really? That's quite unexpected."
"Is it?" Thorin asks quietly, then steps even closer, close enough that Bilbo could touch him. "Perhaps it is. I wished to see you and…" he trails off, sounding a bit frustrated.
"Aye, and he unexpectedly told me a month ago about it," Dwalin chimes in, and laughs when Thorin shoots a glare over his shoulder.
Bilbo frowns. "Was your trip so unplanned? Why didn't you write me to let me know you were coming? I say! We could have missed each other and what a business that would have been!" he says, feeling very lightheaded at the thought. "Oh dear, that would have been dreadful. You could have written me."
"You could have written me," Thorin returns, but there is a slight curve to his mouth. "I would have had a guard escort you to the mountain. I trust you, Bilbo, but it is a long distance to travel by yourself. Even I would be nervous to do so."
"You do so often expect the worst to happen," Bilbo says, and then huffs. "But why were you coming to see me?"
"Do you not know?" Thorin asks, low, and steps even closer.
Bilbo peers up at him, frowning. "Well, no. Perhaps to see an old friend, I suppose," he says, feeling as if he is missing something. It is hard to think with Thorin so close to him, smelling of campfire smoke, the oil he uses in his hair, and leather. "Surely you weren't traveling all this way for a social visit."
Thorin looks down at his boots and shakes his head. "No," he agrees, then takes in a deep breath, and slowly lets it out before raising his gaze. "I wished to tell you something."
Bilbo swallows, and feels light on his feet, and also incredibly nervous, his stomach roiling, and his heart fluttering. "Oh?" he says, his voice faltering. "What did you want to tell me?"
"I wished to tell you of my heart," Thorin says, so quietly. "I wished to tell you of what I think of every day. And I wished to ask you to come back to the mountain. It has missed you… I have missed you."
"Oh," Bilbo breathes, and blinks a few times. His heart is racing and beating so loudly he wonders if he is the only one to hear it. He breathes shallowly and bites his lip for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. There is a sting at the back of his eyes and he tries to will it away. "I've missed you, Thorin. Truly. Quite a lot, in fact. I wanted to come to Erebor because… because I wanted to see you, too. It's been a while and, erm, well, I think of you often."
Thorin's next breath comes out shaky and he lifts his hand, dropping it on Bilbo's shoulder. "And I you," he says, something rather desperate in his tone. "It is you, Bilbo. It is you that's on my mind every day. It is you that I think of when I wake and when I go to sleep. It is you that I see in my dreams. And I can hardly bear to be parted from you any longer."
Bilbo looks at Thorin, his mouth hanging open, but he can't quite find it in himself to snap it shut. He is simply too shocked. He stares, and stares, trying to think of something to say in return to that. But what words would be adequate enough? He blinks, and is startled to find his eyes have grown wet, and quickly ducks his head, wiping at them. The hand on his shoulder squeezes tight and Bilbo sniffs, looking back up at Thorin.
"I didn't realize," he says, his voice thick. "I didn't even think you might feel as I do. Because I don't think I can bear to be parted from you any longer, either, Thorin. I think I've made a grave mistake staying in the Shire for as long as I have."
Thorin begins to smile, a glorious thing, and his eyes light up, and if Bilbo isn't mistaken, they look rather wet as well. "As grave a mistake as I have made in letting you stay there?" he asks. "I should have come long ago. And you would have been with me all this time, by my side." He lifts his hand and settles it on Bilbo's cheek, his thumb stroking across his skin. "But now I have you and I do not intend on letting you go."
"Good," Bilbo says hoarsely, nodding. "Very good. Not that I plan on leaving again." He shrugs a shoulder to indicate his pack. "Rather packed up my whole smial and didn't really intend on going back. I meant to come to Erebor to stay."
Thorin grins and slips his hand down to rest over the back of Bilbo's neck. "Erebor will gladly welcome you," he says, and leans in, pressing his forehead to Bilbo's, his eyes closing. "Âzyungel. Heart of all hearts."
"Oh dear," Bilbo says, and grasps Thorin's arms. "Âzyungel. I quite like the sound of that."
Thorin chuckles and only pulls back enough to look down at Bilbo, his gaze open, and full of love. Bilbo can see it now. Then Thorin wraps him up in a bruising hug, fairly lifting him off his feet, and he clings back just as tightly, arms wrapped around Thorin's neck and shoulders. They breathe each other in and soak up each other's warmth.
Thorin murmurs something in Khuzdul and Bilbo isn't sure he's prepared to hear whatever sounds so intimate, so he doesn't ask. He merely hugs Thorin until he can't stand not seeing his blue eyes and pulls back to look up, lifting his hands and resting them on either of his cheeks.
"I was going to stay in the Shire until you agreed to come home with me," Thorin murmurs, and grins.
"Stubborn thing," Bilbo says, smiling, and shakes his head. "You wouldn't have been staying very long. Now you won't see it at all, will you?"
"We will have to visit your rolling green hills," Thorin replies, his warm hands settling at Bilbo's hips. "I would like to see where you were raised."
"Then I suppose we'll simply have to come back," Bilbo says, sliding his fingers through Thorin's silky hair. His hands come to a rest on the back of his neck and he tugs him close. "You have yet to give me a proper greeting."
There is something soft in Thorin's eyes. "Aye," he whispers, wrapping his arms tight around Bilbo, and pulling him against his solid body. "I will give you many proper greetings. For the rest of our days."
Bilbo is feeling a bit flustered. "Starting now, I hope," he says hesitantly.
"Starting now," Thorin agrees, and kisses him.
And so a hobbit meets his dwarf again, and they rejoin a mountain in the east, and all is well in the wide world.