Well, welcome to my attempt to gently, reverently, but undoubtedly with a great rush of girliness, embrace my long beloved world of Tolkien. I do this with the utmost affection and respect, but I also know if won't nessecarily be to everyone's taste. These are sacred paths upon which we tread hehe. If it is to your taste however, I really hope that you enjoy it, and look forward to reading any comments you have to make! Also, I now have a DA account for all my fanarting/fanfiction ramblings, there are some drawings and things to go with this story, please feel free to come visit! www . trainscribbler . deviantart . com
With than then, I leave you with our dear hobbit...
Bilbo Baggins sat looking through the loose leaves of paper and parchment he had collected together at his desk, gnarled hands trembling as he slowly turned them over one by one. Occasionally he would chuckle under his breath as scraps of map with hurried notations would bring memories flooding back to him. He was not the same hobbit he had once been and very much liked the one he was now. Moreover, he was rather pleased with the way the one he was now had come about. Handling these slips, these precious relics, it was all coming back to him.
He paused as he came across a portrait on what was now softened and yellow paper, breaking into a grin, his fingers resting on his chin. Etched in ink, bright eyes were looking back up at him from underneath tousled hair, something altogether… Tookish in the slight smile that played on carefully rendered lips.
No, he wasn't the same hobbit anymore. And although he was blessed with not looking his full age, he did not feel as spry as he had been here. He was actually beginning to feel extremely tired. But not then. Then he had been full of wonder and no small amount of mischief. Though admittedly, it had taken a bit of prodding to get it out of him.
Carefully he set the portrait on his desk with the other papers, resting it on the book stand and turning to the next one in the pile. He stiffened as he looked down, gently touching the sheet. This one was less than half the size of the last and even softer. It was another drawing, the pigment all but faded with age. Reverently Bilbo slipped his hands underneath it and lay it on his desktop with a soft "oh…" Unable to help himself, he ran his fingertips over the faint lines, the profile of a woman, her features soft and framed with tendrils of hair that cascaded over her shoulder. Her gaze was somewhere beyond, light captured in her eyes, the moment immortalized on this page.
Bilbo found himself smiling as he traced the drawing with the lightest of touches. She'd sat so patiently on that bier, watching the sky change colours, the sound of tumbling water around them…
The hobbit started as he heard a door close behind him. Quickly he snatched the papers from the stand and threw them on top off of the drawing on the desk as his young cousin came into the study, boldly helping himself to the portrait of the much younger Bilbo with a laugh. As he chastised Frodo for rifling through his things, inside he felt everything slump in relief. She was his secret. She always had been and always would be. He was prepared to answer most questions, but not any concerning that…
Much later than night, Bilbo would find himself slipping the drawing into a leather roll for sake-keeping and adding it to the small bundle of possessions he would take to Rivendell with mixed feelings. All he knew was that there was no question of leaving it behind.
60 years earlier...
A stream of silver caught the light of a full moon as a figure flew between shadowed columns of pearlescent stone, satin clad feet soundless as they sprinted. Beyond there were the calls of horns, strangled and desperate in the night. Fair heads with pale faces were emerging from their homes, spilling into the streets as the shimmering creature floated down a vast, curved staircase, two plated guards abandoning their posts at the bottom to follow her. A horn sounded once more, a single silver note pealing into the night, ponies staggering into the valley that encircled them, covered with mud and sweat and worse, their riders bedecked with silver armour that was tarnished from battle. At their head was the owner of the horn, clutching the curled cream cornet in one hand while the other fist was closed around his reins, his features grim. As he and his company of broken looking men approached the girl, she saw that another man was strewn limply over his lap and her heart plummeted.
She ran, though she did not feel her feet touch the ground. The sombre faced man dismounted his dappled pony, the animal kneeling on it's forelegs so that he could retrieve the other passenger. He carried his fellow in his arms as though he was weightless, cradling him. The girl was sinking, her legs unable to bear her anymore, the stone ground cold and unyielding beneath her.
"Varnaer…" she whispered. Her voice trembled.
She could feel a tightening within as her the man knelt before her, her lily white hands reaching out to take the fallen man, his head resting in the crook of her elbow, platinum hair caked with congealing blood. He had been handsome in life but now he looked sallow, his eyes still open, sunken and lightless in his face. She held him tightly to her breast, her eyes burning as she touched his bottom lip, her fingertips stained crimson from the cracks in it that helped tell the story of the beating he had received.
"Varnaer," she said again soflty, the tightness in her abdomen growing worse. She could feel a horrible, chill wetness soaking through the sleeve of her gown from the back of his head. "What have they done to you..?"
She began to weep, pressing her cheek to the dead soldier's forehead, her tears causing tracks in the grime as they fell from her face to his.
"Forgive me, my daughter," the armoured man mumbled, his own words cracking. "He fell protecting our people. I could not save him."
Her father reached out, cupping her face, curling his fingers into the fine tresses of her hair. His other hand he rest on the back of the fallen man's head, bowing his own. Around them the people lingering in the streets began to whisper, then a wail went up into the night as the father and daughter clutched each other and their deceased loved one tightly, buried in their grief. A cry broke the air, announcing it to all;
"The prince is dead!"
In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. A hobbit who was a creature of habit and comforts, who appreciated the small things in life, like a comfortable armchair and the whistle of a boiling kettle. A hobbit who was now staring with no small amount of perplexity at the several feet of contract that had been left on his chair-side table, complete with signatures from both Thorin and Balin. The contract that had been presented to him with the intention of binding him into becoming a burglar for a band of raucous dwarves.
And the reason he was staring at it with no small amount of perplexity was because there was a blank space at the bottom and he was actually contemplating filling it in with his own name.
Bilbo Baggins slipped his thumbs under his braces, running them up and down a couple of times as he looked away, muttering to himself,
"Now just stop that right now, Bilbo…"
He wandered into his kitchen, busying himself with building and striking a fire in his hearth and hanging his copper kettle over it. He was just spooning some tealeaves into the pot when he glanced up and through to the empty drawing room, an uncomfortable lonely feeling in his stomach. Last night it had been so very full and felt so very small. But now…
The hobbit set the caddy of tea down on the table, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the back of his head as he stared. It really did look empty…
"I must be mad," he muttered, crossing towards the drawing room in three long strides.
Twenty minutes later he was racing down the path from his comfortable, safe hole, contract flailing in his tight fist, having forgotten his good walking stick and a great many other things that he would find himself missing a good deal further down the road.
Slender hands holding the leather reins of a white pony's bridle, the sylph-like girl looked down at her father with eyes rimmed red from tears. The prince's funeral had not even been an hour ago, but already her father was bundling her up into the saddle, two guards flanking her. She was still swathed in the black robes she'd worn whilst her brother's body was burned, the smell of smoke rising from the fabric and making her retch. She looked down at her father, his sharp features lined with sorrow as he avoided her gaze.
"Take her swiftly to Imladris, the elven lord is waiting for her. Do not let any harm come to her."
The girl leant over, reaching a hand out to her father, voice breaking.
"Please, father, do not send me away…"
He sloped his steel grey eyes up to hers and for a moment she could see true regret in them as he took her hand and pressed it to his cheek.
"You must go, Aereya. I cannot have you here until the goblin scum that took Varnaer from us has been destroyed. Do this thing for me, please," he said softly. He released her hand and tugged on the straps of her bridle, before giving her escorts a pointed look.
"Go now. See her there safely," he said coolly. The guards nodded and crossed their fists over their plated breasts before the king gave his daughter's pony a light tap on it's flank to send it on it's way up of the path that led out of the secluded valley and onwards to the safety of Rivendell.