With every passing second, the ship came closer and closer to the shores of the Grey Havens. Bilbo felt the light taking on a different, ethereal quality, sparkling and glowing almost tangibly. The shores rose up to greet them, waves cresting to announce their arrival, and the elves surrounding him at the bow of the ship began to raise their hands in greeting to those waiting on the beach.
Bilbo felt small, smaller than he ever had in his life. He could not see much of the shore from his vantage point, but the buzzing energy on the ship made it obvious that they were within clear view. He rocked back and forth slightly as the ship's keel made contact with the sandy sea floor, and heard a splash as silken ropes were dropped into the lapping waves. He moved across the deck, avoiding elves as he went, trying to see onto the shore, trying to find the one person he cared most about seeing again. But still, his view was obscured by too much commotion, too many obstacles in the way. He could make out a small gathering of elves, clad in grey, on the beach, looking statuesque and somber as they waited to greet their kin.
Nowhere in the crowd could he see a dwarven figure.
Once the ladder had been lowered, the ship's occupants climbed down onto a wooden boat, inlaid with silver and carved from white elm, which bore them through the shallow waters to the shore. Bilbo hung back, awaiting his turn, trying to hid his apprehensiveness.
Gandalf stood beside him, also waiting to climb down the silken ladder and take the last ride to shore. "Do not worry, Bilbo," he said quietly. "He will come."
At his friend's words, Bilbo felt a rush of emotion that almost brought him to his knees. He could still feel strong, warm arms encircling him; the scratch of a braided beard at his face; an all-encompassing, desolate sense of loss as he held his lover's bloodstained body at the base of the Lonely Mountain.
And then, suddenly, he was on the silver boat, Gandalf by his side, the tide lapping quietly at the bow as they moved silently through the waters. Elven hands helped him out of the boat, and he moved numbly towards the crowd, nodding his head when he made eye contact.
For a few long moments, he thought there was no one there to greet him. All around, the elves embraced their long-lost kin, their not-forgotten lovers, their dearly departed. But he, Bilbo, felt nothing but emptiness, a loneliness that made his bones ache.
There was no one here to greet him.
He stood, by himself, staring unseeing at the crowd of elves, cursing his own hopefulness and his own imagination. So many years of despair, so many years of that devouring sense of loss—and he had thought that maybe, somehow, coming here could help.
And then, he saw the figure at the other side of the beach.
Walking, slowly at first, then picking up the pace until he was jogging, then faster, faster, until he was running faster than he had in his life, he covered the distance between them without even noticing it. The dwarf had his back to him; he was looking out to sea, lost in thought.
Bilbo was thankful to see the wounds that had been so achingly visible at their final meeting were no longer there. His king was resplendent, a wrought crown on his head, the Arkenstone returned to its rightful place above the dwarf-king's brow.
When he was but a few feet away, Bilbo came to a full stop. The dwarf turned slowly, almost unbelievingly, and when he saw who was standing before him, a radiant smile broke over his face and tears filled his eyes. Bilbo tried to say something, anything, but then he was crushed in the dwarf's arms.
Back where he had always known he belonged.