The Party Tree

"Farewell, Master Burglar; go back to your books, your armchair, your fireplace.
Plant your trees, watch them grow.
If more of us valued home above gold, it would be a merrier world."

Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain

Part 1 – The Planting

Third Age 2942, Spring – The Shire

Bilbo stares out the window from his kitchen. The winter snows have long since melted away and the green of spring and growing things is reappearing in the Shire. Flowers are poking their sleepy heads through the soft, brown earth for exposure to the warming sun. Hobbit boys and girls dart here and there among the rays of sunlight enjoying freedom from their often cramped Hobbit holes. A smile pulls at the corner of Bilbo's mouth as he sees the Gamgee boys fly around the corner; they almost run into his fence. The youngest, a sandy haired lad of 16, lags behind his elder brothers. He stops to look intently at a flower that is growing along the edge of a path.

Seven months had passed since the Battle of the Five Armies at the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo had only taken back control of his home a few weeks prior. He had come home to find his estate up for auction and Lobelia making off with his silverware. He has spent the last several weeks being busy at the work of setting to rights after it had been ransacked by Hobbits looking for a good deal among his family heirlooms. Those weeks had been full of tears for Bilbo. His last memories of Bag End were of the unexpected party that had swept him off his feet and out into the world on an adventure that had indeed changed him. Bilbo was no longer the Hobbit he had been when the wizard had shown up on his doorstep. A day that seems so long ago.

He cannot pass his dining room without seeing it filled with dwarves and a wizard. His pantry was full, but he sees it being emptied for one dinner with his friends. Those twinges of pain hurt and stop him in his tracks but he can carry on with the day. The day that he had found mud on his mother's glory chest left over from Kíli was the day he went back to bed and shut all the curtains so he could weep in silence for the friends that he had lost on October 10th of 2941. He did not have the heart to clean the mud away. Every time he walked past it he could see part of those two young dwarves who had been his friends. Dents riddled the lid of the glory box where he had dumped all of Fíli's weapons. Weapons that had made no difference in the end.

During one of his first days back in his beloved hobbit hole he had found Thorin's lovely golden harp in his dining room under a pile of items that had been moved there for the auction of his estate.

-O-

Bilbo is still trying to clean up his home after having returned to find all of his belongings auctioned off because he was presumed dead. Nothing was in its place anymore. His books sit in piles on every flat surface in his once neat kitchen. The furniture was lining the hallway. There were also just piles of his belongs that had been sifted through. 'It almost looks that the trolls' cave,' Bilbo thinks to himself. 'Almost.'

He is trying to reconstruct his home one room at a time; rebuilding his life piece by piece. He began with his bedroom. The items that belonged in there seemed the least dangerous. They were not suddenly going to remind him of anything that he did not want to remember too vividly. Anything that was in there that did not belong in a room was moved out into the hallway or into a room that he had not started on yet. So far the best bedroom, the two spare bedrooms, the study, and the sitting room had been set straight. The cellars and pantries had simply needed to be restocked. The rooms that were left were the ones that he had been avoiding. The dining room where they had eaten their tea and dinner, the parlor where the meeting and discussions of plans and gold had taken place, the kitchen where they had sung their queer little song about breaking all of his plates, and the drawing room where he had recovered from his shock.

'Bilbo, my lad, you might as well get on with it. The rooms will not straighten themselves and you cannot just avoid them because the task might prove to be unpleasant. And you cannot just never use those rooms again that would be absurd.' That was what the Hobbit told himself. However, he did not touch those rooms for several days after they were the only rooms left to tidy up.

On one fine sunny morning he was sitting on his porch - that he had walked to by leaving by way of the door by the kitchen garden rather than the door that just opened up to the porch - smoking his pipe and trying very hard not to think about Gandalf walking up the lane to his front door. He sighed to himself as he kept expecting the pointy top of the wizards had to appear. 'Today,' he told himself. 'I'll start today.' And with that thought he walked in his front door and straight into the parlor.

Most of the furniture had been returned to their original places when he had cleared out the hallway to make it passable. Piles of other items sat upon the floor. Bilbo looked around trying to figure out where to begin even though one place was just as good as another place. In the corner was a pile that looked like bedding. He tells himself that those will be quick and easy to straighten up. They only need folded and put into the closet at the end of the hall down by the door into the kitchen garden. He pauses to pick up a few books that made it out here and returns them to their proper places in the study. When he returns to the room the Hobbit begins folding the blankets and placing them in a pile on one of the couches.

He is working mindlessly and thoughtlessly at the task at hand until he reaches the final blanket. He picks up that final blue, woolen blanket and starts to shake it out when he freezes. There, on the floor, is a harp. The harp is lovely and golden. "No." Bilbo whispers to himself, but tears are already burning his eyes. "No."

The harp is Thorin's. He had played it that night in the parlor when the Tolkien side of the Hobbit awoke. The last time its strings had been plucked they had created music to sing of gold, adventure, and beautiful things. Grand music that stirred the hearts of all who heard it. The last time its strings had been plucked its owner was still alive and well.

Bilbo froze. The tears that were burning his eyes began to flow freely down his round, red cheeks. This is not what he had expected. He had forgotten all about Thorin's magnificent golden harp. The hobbit sank to the floor. He bent at the waist as sobs wracked his body. His mind was back to the previous April when Thorin and his twelve companions sat around filling all the chairs in his parlor and some of the floor space. Bilbo's chest heaved as he tried to regain control over himself. 'This is unnecessary, Bilbo, old boy. It's just a harp.' Despite his words that were meant to boost his moral his tears continued.

Quite some time passed before he regained control over his emotions. Bilbo slowly clambered to his feet. He felt weary. He had not felt this weary since the day following the Battle of the Five Armies. He carefully picked up the harp and padded down the hall to his bedroom. He carefully placed the precious harp in the corner of the room. He shut the shutters over his window to shut out the cheery sunlight.

Cleaning would have to wait until another day. All he wanted to do know was crawl under the covers and sleep the day away. Bilbo did not sleep. He closed his eyes but sleep would not grace him with her presence. He walked the paths of Mirkwood again. He wandered the halls of the Lonely Mountain. He saw the entire quest - every moment - all of the moments that he spent with the dwarves that became his dearest friends.

After so much time spending every waking moment with thirteen other people left him lonely. He missed the continuous company. For the first time in his life he wishes that he had found a lovely hobbit lass to marry. He had always preferred his books and walks over any one person's company. The hall and rooms of Bag End seemed far too empty for his liking without the snores of thirteen hapless dwarves the echo among the rafters.

-O-

Much has been set right in his home, but much more remained unresolved in his heart. Bilbo reaches into his pocket to feel the two objects that he kept there. His fingers first touch the cool metal of the ring that he had found in the gloom of Gollum's cave. That simple golden band had proven to be quite useful on his adventure. He wishes that it could have saved his friends; alas, it was only a single magic ring, not fourteen magic rings. He would gladly give it up so that he could see them again. He had done all that he could to prevent that damnable war. His best had not been enough. Men, elves, and dwarves had died that day. So many who were never to see this world again as they went onwards in their journey. They all left him where he could not follow.

Next to the cool, golden ring he felt the warmth of the acorn. He has carried the acorn in his pocket since he began the journey home with Gandalf at his side. He planned to plant it in his garden. First it had been because he wanted a part of the Greenwood to come home with him. That desire had changed. He would plant it as a reminder of his adventure; a reminder of his sorrow and of his friendship with Thorin Oakenshield, his friend if not his king.

Outside the window was a wide green field. Small hobbit boys and hobbit girls would play there. Bilbo leaned forward with his hands resting on a table and his forehead pressed the glass paned window. He closed his eyes. A tear falls down his check to land with a soft plop on the table by his hands. The pain of losing his friend was much less devastating but it snuck up on him at unexpected moments such as these. A father was playing with his two sons in the tall grass. Bilbo could not help but be reminded of Thorin and his nephews over the months that they had spent together.

Bilbo turns his face away from the sunshine and happiness. He walks into his bedroom and shuts the door with a solid thud. There are no windows here. The laughter of children could not reach him here. He lays down and pulls a blanket over his shaking body as he weeps in the darkness. The darkness is quiet and eventually the hobbit drops off to sleep to dream of his lost friends and the months and dangers that they had spent together.

-O-

Bilbo is woken several hours later by a pounding on his door. He rolls over groggily feeling bereft as the blanket slips from his shoulders. He is warm even without the blankets warmth but the loss of the extra warmth causes pangs of loss in his chest. The blanket was a like a hug that he much needed and lacked. He feels warm and sleepy. He feels like he could melt away into a puddle. At least if he was a puddle he would no longer be so haunted by his dreams and memories pleasant though they may be.

The pounding comes again. Bilbo yawns and swings his feet over onto the wooden floor of his bedroom. He stretches his arms above his head. 'I wonder who that could be,' he thinks to himself. He does not remember inviting anybody for tea, nor had he received a letter from anybody saying that they would be visiting him in the near future. He rises and pads his way out to his lovely green door. He peers through the window. He does not want to open the door if it was just somebody coming to bother him with questions about where he has been and what outlandish, horrible things he has been up to. Young hobbits had also been appearing on his doorstep seemingly intent on searching his home for 'jools'.

Whoever was at his door was standing where he cannot see them without opening the round green door itself. Bilbo sighs; he prepares himself to send away one of the elder Gamgee brothers, or one of the other small hobbits that live below him on the hill. Bilbo pads over and places his hand on the yellow door knob. The golden orb is warm beneath his palm. He slowly turns the knob. The bright green door swings aside to reveal a white haired and bearded dwarf.

"Balin!" Bilbo shouts. He lunges forward to hug his dear friend. "What brings you here?"

"Ohh… Laddie, I was on my way back to Ered Luin as an emissary from Dain. I was happing through this lovely land and I thought that you might be in need of some company to keep you on your toes. And you said that tea was at four," Balin chuckles and releases the Hobbit from his embrace, but not until he slaps the Hobbit firmly on the back several times.

The two friends stand facing each other; they each have a hand clasping the other's shoulder. They are both smiling broadly. "Come in! Come in!" Bilbo exclaims. He pushes the door wide open; inviting his dear friend into his home.

The two sit at the small table in Bilbo's kitchen sipping tea and munching on seed cakes. Bilbo was pleased that he had made a new batch of cakes during his baking that morning. The two old friends sit at the small table in Bilbo's kitchen and they talk about small things. Balin fills Bilbo in on all that has happened at the mountain since he left. "Dain is king now. He's brash and ill-tempered at times, but he is learning. He's managed not to start a war with Thranduil, which is more than I originally hoped for," Balin chuckles. "Though that was a bit touch and go for a while. He's friendlier with Bard. I think it's because Bard isn't blonde, to be honest." Balin chuckles again as he says the last part.

Bilbo smiles. He dearly misses the dwarves. He almost wants to go with Balin when he leaves in a few days. He could leave Bag End to the Sacksville-Baggins and that would be the end of that. He could wander the paths of Mirkwood again. Internally he sighs. He knows that no matter how much the plan tempts him that he would not go. He was a Baggins of Bag End after all. There had always been a Baggins living under the hill for long as anyone in the area could remember. He would miss Hobbiton, the gentle hills, and the little rivers. He had left before but there had been a promise of return. If he leaves again then it will be forever. He would never return to the small rivers and to the broad, cheerful faces of his neighbors.

"What about everyone else? Bofur, Dwalin, and everybody else?" Bilbo inquires while softly stirring his tea with his fingertip.

"Maybe we will speak of them later." Balin says quietly. "How have you been, laddie?"

"I've been well," Bilbo replies. "I . . . I found Thorin's harp." Bilbo pauses, unsure of how to continue. "I think maybe his sister would like it back . . ."

A small, sad smile crosses Balin's lips. "Aye, Bilbo. I think that she would. But she can wait a while longer for it. It can linger here a while longer without being dreadfully missed."

"I still have this." Bilbo reaches into his waistcoat pocket and places the acorn on the table. "I have not had the heart to plant it yet."

Darkness has fallen while the two were talking and drinking their tea. Balin reaches over and rests his large, rough hand on top of Bilbo's smaller paw and squeezes it gently.

-O-

The next morning the hobbit and his dwarvish friend walk out into the field that Bilbo's cozy hobbit hole overlooks. "They like to throw parties here sometimes," Bilbo informs his friend.

The two pause at the furthest end of the field. "Here?" Balin asks.

Bilbo nods. Bilbo kneels to the ground and uses his fingers to scoop away some of the turf and the soft soil beneath. The small hole was as deep as his fingers and wide enough for the small acorn. He gently presses the warm acorn into the earth. He covers the small acorn with the soft soil and rings the place with stones so that he will not forget the exact location. He rises back to his feet and gazes at the small ring of stones. He shoves his hands into his pockets. His fingers miss the warm acorn that he has carried in his pocket for several months. He would rub it's smooth surface when he was worried or particularly missing his friends. All that is left is that cold ring. It is smooth but it is not the same under his fingertips. It is not warm like the friendship that he has the dwarves of Erebor.

"It will grow well," Balin assures the hobbit. He places his hand on Bilbo's shoulder and squeezes. "I look forward to seeing it spread its branches when I return."

The white haired dwarf and the hobbit smile at one another. Their eyes meet and they both know that they will stand here many more times as the tree grows but their memories remain and grow stronger as the acorns roots run deep into the earth. Deep roots for stability. Deep roots like those that Thorin and company have left in one quite hobbit from the Shire.

FIN

A/N: I may write more parts for this. They will be one shots that will be centered around the Party Tree. I will title them by the year that I have them taking place.