The story of a Hobbit who's-very-uncomfortable-with-dwarvish-cursing-and-looks-amusingly-constipated-whenever-his-companions-do-so-though-he-won't-say-why.
The Valar- known also as the Ainur- once lived alone in the world, a race of beings of great power and knowledge who took many forms and devoted themselves to the exploration of both world and self. By these things they came by the knowledge of soul craft- those who were able to see the souls of others had the capacity to recreate them, as the free people of Middle earth know lúvatar did. Taught by their elder, Eru studied with his brother in this craft until Melkor turned from the light in a jealous rage that tainted the song of the world and nearly annihilated their own race, leaving but 15 whose souls remained intact. In order to save their kin, Eru had no choice but to take what remained of their souls and rend them in mortal flesh- Hobbits, as they are commonly known. With little power left to them, the Diminished Ainur (Hobbits) were secreted away and forgotten for their own safety to wait until the remaking of the world to restore their souls and forms. Bilbo Baggins, however, is rather impatient.

This is me trying to cure my writer's block everybody!

Bilbo was old. Older than most anyway, even among his own race he was thought of and treated as one of the elders- nothing like the Old Took of course, though few could claim to be so ancient that no one actually remembered how old that exactly was.

He was feeling every bit his age that evening, having just sent off a large gaggle of faunts who had chosen to ambush him in his garden where he was contentedly smoking his pipe, begging for him to revive his role as storyteller. Often he recited ancient tales of the world when it was new, when the glory of their race was an unspoken rule and they lived as they would with only themselves and the lands they had helped shape for company. When the mountains had yet to settle and listen to the laws of gravity, when the seas rose and fell with the movement of the many astral bodies their world once held claim to.

When he was whole.

They had bid him to speak of the fall of their world, how the mountains had fallen and the sky had been flushed to blackness. Dramatic a tale it may be, but it held many things Bilbo did not wish to revisit.

Now the darkening sky held only the remains of the two trees, shedding light on their world that was pale and much diminished from what it once was. From what it was supposed to have been. The land had abandoned its mischievous nature and lay near dormant, speaking quietly if it even deigned to speak at all. To the hobbits of the Shire who knew better, it was as if a pall had been cast over their world, the grand melody it had once been was tainted beyond repair- an organ left to rust and bend until it was beyond hope to fix, making only the most sour of notes should one listen.

With this pall, this tuneless song threatening to consume you should you listen too long, hobbits could only sit and wait.

It was long ago that they had lost their influence over the world, and such helplessness grated on Bilbo's old and fairly frayed nerves. Those who still held influence had neither the knowledge nor the power to fix it they were so few in number, and once again Bilbo found himself mourning his little siblings.

They were not dead- at least not as far as he knew- though one now resided far across the sea watching over the others and holding a burden much too large for his young shoulders while the eldest had fallen from the light in a jealous rage and was himself responsible for their race's unfortunate circumstance; forever banished to the darkness to which all things return.

He had other family of course, many who lived merely down the road but with his kahu having passed, not as their kind sometimes do, from one form to the next but ʻoiaʻiʻo, the true end from which no souls return, he had no close relations to tie him here.

Bilbo stayed however. He stayed because that was what he was supposed to do, he gave up his name, his wings, his spirit to the Shire as his brother had pleaded when he had nearly followed their kahu.

"You're all I have left, you foolish thing, don't make me lose you as well." He had cried last they had seen one another- when to save Bilbo's soul and subsequently his life he had bound what remained of his spirit to the Shire. Much time had passed since, and it was likely that Bilbo had healed enough to warrent leaving again, to wander back home with the stronger ones and see what remained of their unharmed kin, but he was both weary and wary of what he might find or what might become of him should he be wrong.

Even should he return home, he -like most of their race- was as diminished as the world itself. His form had been lost to him ever since his return to the Shire and he was stuck in the skin that the Diminished had been given when they fell- that which a less knowledgeable being of middle earth would know only as a hobbit.

It wasn't a problem really, he had as much autonomy as any other race wandering Arda, it was only knowing that it wasn't what he was supposed to be that irritated him so. He thought it much like loosing a limb or a sense, you learn to work around it and you endure, but it's very hard to forget what had been. Just because the other races had never experienced that loss didn't make them lesser, it simply meant they didn't understand.

The Ainur of the Shire could also never speak of it- or rather they weren't supposed to. Even the Maiar, who originated after the Fall were kept unaware of their existence save the barest of facts. It was for their protection his brother had said, the Diminished were weakened to a point that the perilous folly of mortals could do them grave harm, or worse as happened to his kahu.

It was for that reason that Bilbo staunchly refused to be swayed by the wizard that had come traipsing up the hill to sweep him away on some 'adventure' to faraway lands.

Olórin had not been wrong when he spoke of Bilbo's previous wanderlust, even his status as one of the Diminished hadn't quelled his spirit. However he had stayed in the Shire for many a year and was not about to risk his very existence just because the old coot felt he needed to get out more. With this in mind Bilbo Baggins nodded his resolution and retreated into his smial after tapping out his pipe on the corner of the bench.

It should not have been a surprise that Olórin had ignored his wishes entirely and brought down a contingent of Dwarrow onto Bag-End, but Bilbo had made the mistake of forgetting that the Maiar were some of the wiliest creatures to come of Eru's interventions and would not be easily persuaded off their schemes and he was therefore very surprised indeed. His surprise was what kept him from (politely) shutting the door in the face of Dwalin son of Fundin and putting a stop to this nonsense before it began.

It's short, and barely even read through, but I wanted to get posting it out of the way for now.

Note; When Bilbo says siblings, he doesn't mean blood relations- in this AU I imagine that none of the Valar are blood related and all their familial relationships are adoptive- they don't really understand sexual procreation as they kinda just spawn with some mysterious purpose in life. I used Hawaiian as their language, referred to for now as Hobbitish. Why Hawaiian you ask? Because it's cool and I like it. (My rudimentary google translating skills have gotten me this far- don't judge.)

ʻoiaʻiʻo- true end
kahu- guardians
ka uku- charges