AN: Happy Almost-Time-For-DOS-And-I'm-Freaking-Out, everyone! This is a story I came up with after thinking of how the third movie will end.
Amidst all the crying, I wondered if they were going to incorporate Frodo, and my new headcanon for the third movie's ending is that it will show Bilbo in Bag End after the Quest, telling little Frodo about his own quest and the dwarrows he went on an adventure with. I feel like Frodo would grow up knowing about Thorin, Fili, Kili and all the rest, but it would take Bilbo quite a while to get to the point where he could talk about them without the pain. In this story, it takes him forty years to be able to even describe what they look like because remembering hurts, especially when you've lost many people you love.
I know it's not canon, but I took it and ran with it. It's a mix of book canon and movie 'verse. I tried, guys. I really did try.
There is a lot of angst here, guys. Angst and Bagginshield, and I am not sorry for it. The POV is a sort of flexible, and I didn't even realize that until the end, but there you go. I hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Like, at all. I am broke as hell. Therefore, whatever you see in this fic that is even slightly recognizable is the property of someone else. I am not making anything off of this, it's just an outlet for the tidal wave of feels that I've been hit with.
It took forty years for Bilbo Baggins to be able to speak about the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.
Of course, he could talk about the funny bits of their quest – the trolls, their reception in Rivendell, Lake Town – and he could allude vaguely to his disdain for barrels and dark forests, as well as an aversion to both gold and dragons. But, when even his fellow hobbits weren't quite dim enough to miss how he'd artfully avoid talking about the Company members themselves, the truth came out.
He couldn't speak of it. His mouth would go dry, his vocabulary would be reduced to a meagre thirteen words, twenty nine if he counted Gandalf or Gollum or the ponies' names, and he could barely breathe for the pain in his chest.
He could talk about Bofur's summary of Smaug, but not about his hat or accent, or the many laughs they'd shared going down the road. The thought of mentioning the wounds he'd carried after the Battle of Five Armies was all but unthinkable.
He could talk about the knitting patterns he'd exchanged with Ori before the latter had gone off to Moria, but he couldn't talk about the gloves that sat in his glory box, a birthday present that'd been intended for his gardening but had never been used.
He could talk about the frustration between Nori and Dori born of one too many arrests in the Blue Mountains, but not of Nori's pleas to find his brothers in Thranduil's dungeons or Dori's attempts to break down the door of his cell when he'd heard Ori calling for he and Nori.
He was happy to recount Dwalin's introduction at the door of his smial, but he couldn't bear to think of Dwalin's constant questions after the state of Balin, Fili or Kili, or his near panic at the absence of his best friend after their capture in Mirkwood.
In his later years, he'd read off the letters exchanged between he and Gloin, telling any who would listen (mostly his Took relations, but the Gamgees were always happy to hear the stories) of Gloin's life in the Blue Mountains and what his wife and son were up to. It was easier than remembering Gloin's state after the Battle of Five Armies, lying in a sickbed with half an arm missing and worrying himself to death about his brother, wife and son.
For years, he'd exchanged letters with Oin, and he was always happy to talk about the elder dwarrow's ear trumpet, and the running joke it'd been with their Company. Thinking of Oin's breakdown after the battle, when his brother was so near to death, was unbearably sad for Bilbo so he preferred to think of Oin as he'd been on the road, always looking after the brother who insisted Oin was the one in need of looking after.
Bombur's recipes had a place of pride on his kitchen shelf for as long as he'd lived in Bag End, and he'd guarded them viciously ever since. To that day, Primula Brandybuck, soon Baggins, was the only one in the Shire able to say she'd tasted one of Bombur's famous honey cakes, made with care by Bilbo. Lobelia had been most upset, and he preferred to think of that as opposed to Bombur's unconsciousness in Mirkwood, and his brother and cousin's fears that he'd never wake up again.
Bifur had come to visit him several times, and he preferred to talk about the toy makers' many attempts to teach him to whittle as opposed to the night he and Bofur told Bilbo about how the axe became embedded in his head, or the person he'd turned into during the battle, when Bofur almost died and Bombur got stabbed trying to save him. Bilbo wanted to remember the toy maker as he'd been when he'd known him, a serene, protective figure, not an unstable, violent being who couldn't tell friend from foe, or even if he was at the Lonely Mountain or Azanulbizar.
Balin's words of wisdom had followed him after the quest, and many times, the echo of the old dwarrow's advice had kept him from doing something very stupid. They'd lost contact after his last visit, before his trip to Moria with Ori and Oin, but Bilbo wanted the Hobbits to know Balin as a wise, compassionate warrior who would stand by a friend through thick and thin, not as a tired, weary soul in a body not quite ready to die yet, lost and looking for something to believe in after finding out a mountain wasn't home if the people he loved like his own children were dead.
The reputations of Fili and Kili had lingered long after their death, and Bilbo took particular pride when he saw his younger Took and Brandybuck cousins grow into pranksters themselves, much to the consternation of their families and the annoyance of one wizard. He wanted to focus on that, and how happy the boys would have been to see young minds at work. It was better than thinking of long, black feathered arrows and red blood dripping onto muddy, rain slicked earth.
And Thorin… There was so much there that hurt to think about.
For forty years, all Bilbo would say about Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, exiled King Under the Mountain and Heir to the Line of Durin, was that he would have been a good king had he survived the gold sickness, and he gave everything to give his people back their home. There was no laughter with Thorin's memory. Every time he thought of him for too long, Bilbo would either recall cold wind, dangling feet, and blue eyes filled with madness, or a blood covered bed in a hot, dark tent, filled with the sound of coughing as lungs filled with blood from wounds that were too deep to heal, and a raspy apology that hurt more than the offense being apologized for, if only because it was the last words they'd ever speak to each other.
It took forty years for someone to make him speak the words that felt like they were weighing on his soul, and for once, it wasn't Gandalf. Forty years after his quest, Primula and Drogo died, and in an effort to protect him from his more noxious relatives, Bilbo adopted their young son Frodo. It was a hard adjustment for all parties and for years grief was the norm, but Frodo was a good lad, and Bilbo hadn't realized how much he'd missed hearing footsteps that weren't just his in the halls of Bag End.
The years slid by, and one winter evening, Bilbo sat in the den after dinner to think. Frodo had gone to bed, and for the first time in forty years, Bilbo picked up a pen and began to write. The words spilled out of him, and he wrote long into the morning. He was so involved in writing about the animals in Beorn's halls that he didn't hear the light footsteps behind him, or notice the little hands that pulled a chair up next to him so young eyes could read his words.
He'd just begun writing Thorin's disgruntlement over not having ponies once they reached Mirkwood when Frodo asked, "Uncle, what did Thorin look like?"
Bilbo all but dropped his quill in surprise, and it took him a moment to answer. "Thorin… Haven't I ever told you about Thorin, my boy?"
Frodo shook his head, curls flopping as he did so, and Bilbo made a mental note that the boy needed to get a haircut soon. "You told me he was a king, and that he died getting his home back, but you never told me what he looked like."
"I…" Bilbo went silent for several moments. "I never really thought about it that way, my lad. Would you like to know what they all looked like?"
"Yes please, Uncle.", Frodo said eagerly, always ready for a story.
Bilbo closed the Red Book and picked up Frodo, carrying him over to the arm chair in front of the fire. His thoughts were frantic, but when he'd sat down and Frodo looked up at him expectantly, he opened his mouth and said, "Well, my lad, where shall I start?"
Frodo frowned for a moment, and Bilbo felt his heart clench when he thought of another familiar frown, and then the child said, "I'd like to hear about Thorin, Uncle."
For forty years, Bilbo's heart had actually hurt from the thought of talking about Thorin and their Company to anyone. He hadn't even been able to discuss him with Balin the last time he'd visited. But, looking at his nephew and knowing that if there was a being on Middle Earth whom Thorin would not mind being spoke of to, it was Frodo, Bilbo began to talk. He described Thorin and their Company in detail so that even those who no longer lived were alive again in Bag End, even if only for that brief time. For years, Frodo had held them in his heart like long lost family until that wound, like all others, began to fade.
Until he and Frodo went into the West and Samwise inherited the Red Book, reading over the corrections Frodo made and the descriptions he'd added to Bilbo's tale, Frodo Baggins was the only one Bilbo had ever described Thorin to. It took a Hobbit to break forty years of silence, induced by heart ache and loss, but really, that shouldn't shock anyone.
It has been said by the very wise before, but Hobbits truly are remarkable creatures, and Bilbo and Frodo Baggins are more remarkable than most. You can learn all there is to know about their ways in a month, and even after a hundred years, they can still surprise you.
AN: Yes, I directly quoted movie! Gandalf. I am not sorry for that; Gandalf is awesome.
Thanks for reading, guys!
Much love,
Eryn.