AN: This was a story that came to my head when I was pulling an all nighter, writing a paper on Descartes for a Math Mayterm. Since, then, it was expanded a bit. This is all I have right now, but I might write another chapter. -Galad Estel

The hole in the hill seemed hollow. Though it was filled with his clothing, carpets, and furniture, it was strangely empty, even alien. Having grown accustomed to the pounding voices of Dwarves, Bilbo was struck by the silence. It haunted his bedroom, the cellars, the hall, the pantries, and especially the dining room.

"There should be singing here," Bilbo said to himself as he set his table for one.

Sometimes he would look out through his door with longing towards the mountains. He would fiddle with the gold ring he had found, pressing it between his palms, feeling its soft weight. He thought of Gollum, the near death he had had under those mountains. He told himself he should be happy, grateful to be alive. He was, but he wanted more.

He had taken to sitting long in the right side rooms, away from light of the left windows. It reminded him of the darkness of Dwarven Halls and kept him away from prying eyes. Bilbo had become a chief subject of conversation in the Shire. Once, he had been considered a respectable hobbit from a good family now he was called mad, cracked, and queer.

Where had he been? Why hadn't he told anyone he was going? Who were these strangers who came at all hours of the night? Where had his treasure come from? And how rich was he now?

These questions passed from the lips of his neighbors as they passed by Bag End. Their bright eyes searched the Smial for its master, but Bilbo seldom withdrew from his house.

"Smaug must have felt this way," Bilbo thought. "Alone with only stolen gold to keep him company."

So, Bilbo decided to give it away. Those who were hungry or cold or needed a lift because they had had a hard year began to find envelopes filled with gold coins on their doorsteps in the morning. There was no word of explanation, just the words—From a Friend—in red letters on the envelopes.

This had led to great commotion in the Shire, as hobbits tried to guess whom the secret benefactor might be. Crowds started camping outside of the poorest holes to catch a glimpse of him, but it was Hamfast Gamgee, the Baggin's garden boy, who found him out. Bilbo made Hamfast promise not to tell, but Hamfast had a loose tongue, and the secret was soon circulating as far as Bree.

"He's trying to buy back his reputation," said the Sackville-Baggins.

Others took it in more kindly fashion. Those among the poorer classes looked on him as a sort of hero. Still, not many visitors stayed long at Bag End.

"It reeks of strangeness," said Aster Brown after taking tea with Bilbo one Sunday afternoon. "He has all these odd maps in the hall and half the things he says make no sense."

Occasionally, guests from other parts of the Middle-earth came over. Dwarves, mainly the remnant of the thirteen, would spend the night under his roof. They would talk about the adventures they had had together, exchange silent tears and cheery smiles. Balin came most often. He would inform Bilbo about what went on in the lands of Erebor and Laketown. Sometimes when the night was old, he would tell the histories of the Dwarves, the hardships that they had endured from the beginning and their reasons for enmity towards the Elves.

"They never gave us chance," Balin said, looking at the dying fire in the grate. "They loathed us even from the start."

Bilbo chose not to take sides on that debate. The King of Mirkwood had called him Elf-Friend and often in the twilight in the woods of the Shire, Bilbo would come across Elves and speak with them. Indeed it seemed that Bilbo was most at ease in the company of outsiders, and an outsider in the company of his own people.

"I feel out of place in the Shire," Bilbo complained to Gandalf, who was taking a rest in Hobbiton on his way south. "It just doesn't feel like home like it used to."

"And you want it to feel like home?" Gandalf said. They were sitting out in the garden in the noonday sun. It was April, and the lilies and daffodils were in bloom. Both had out there pipes and were smoking lazily.

"Why yes, why wouldn't I?" Bilbo said. He blew out a ring of smoke and watched it drift off towards the road.

"Well, it seems to me," said Gandalf, "that you rather enjoy feeling superior to your neighbors, knowing things that they probably don't even dream of."

Bilbo blushed. "I suppose I do allow myself that satisfaction sometimes, but it takes more than being smug to fill the emptiness. I've changed, Gandalf, and it's more than half your fault."

"I'm dreadfully sorry," Gandalf said. "Perhaps, on one of my long journeys through the wilderness I will come across something that can turn back time, and you can end your days a lonely, old bachelor with no adventure. Would that satisfy you?"

"How do you know I wouldn't have settled down, gotten married, had a family?"

"It wasn't your fate," Gandalf said. "Even before you went away, you were a bit of an oddity. Already fifty, not yet married, a wanderer within your borders. Something was bound to happen, and it did. So, don't go blaming me."

"All right, all right!" Bilbo said. "So, maybe I wouldn't have gotten married, but I did once have visitors, and as I recall I was rather fond of them."

"And so you would be still," Gandalf said with a laugh, "If you were still as shallow as you were pre-dragon. As you've said you've changed, but I believe it's been mostly for the better."

"Mostly?" Bilbo said. "So, you admit that there are some traits that your journey has given me that are not all together agreeable?"

"Your secrecy. I remember you as a very open hobbit. Now you're tighter with your secrets and more inclined to hide away."

"Yes," Bilbo said. "That might have something to do with the job you gave me, Burglar."

"But that job is over now."

"Well, what is it that you want to know?" Bilbo huffed. He got up and paced the garden walk.

"Are you intending to spend forever alone?" Gandalf said. He stooped and placed his pipe in his pack.

"Do I have a choice? It's not like anyone wants to live with me. Even the nieces and nephews who like me seldom come by. Their elders won't let them, not even the Tooks. I've out taken the Tooks, out bucked the Brandybucks."

Bilbo stared at the hillside and laughed. Gandalf reached out and touched his friend's arm.

"You're always welcome in Rivendell," Gandalf said. "Elrond will make sure of that."

"Thanks," Bilbo said. "But I'm not quite willing to give up on my fellow hobbits—yet."

Spring passed to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter. Bilbo ate, wandered, and wrote poetry, some of which he bound in volumes and even got published. As years passed, he grew fatter and more content. Sometimes his Brandybuck and Took cousins would venture over or would have the decency to invite him to their houses.

At one Brandy Hall party, Bilbo met Primula. She was helping host the party, as she was the daughter of Master of the Hall, Gorbadoc. Bilbo walked in, and she was the first thing he saw, a buxom, rosy-cheeked hobbit lass wearing a yellow frock and pouring mead. She noticed him staring and smiled.

"Would you like some?" she said, holding up a glass filled with glowing gold.

"Yes, thank you," Bilbo mumbled. He took it, and she poured another glass for herself. The Hall was crowded, but at the moment, only a half dozen were at the tables looking for food. Most everyone was dancing. Music streamed from bells, pipes, and flutes, and a fast chant had broken out among the youngsters in the back. Skirts and hair flew.

"It's a shame you're stuck here," Bilbo told Primula, waving at the tables. "You should be out there enjoying yourself."

"It's a little too loud for me," Primula said.

"Is it?"

She nodded and laughingly placed her hands over her ears. "My cousins can make so much noise."

"I enjoy smaller parties myself," Bilbo said.

"More quiet," Primula said with a nod.

"And less likely to get trampled," Bilbo said, as two big boned boys squeezed past him to get to the well-stocked table.

"I can't see you getting trampled. Not if half the stories I've heard of you are true."

"Then they are decidedly not."

"So, you didn't kill a dragon all by yourself?" Primula said, taking a sip of her mead.

"No, I most definitely didn't," Bilbo said. "I only told the man how to kill it, that's all. Well, actually I told a thrush to tell a man how to kill the dragon. No, I told the Dwarves but the bird overheard. It's complicated."

"I see," she said, "and you did not fight off a family of giant spiders?"

"Well, actually I did do that," Bilbo said. "But I had some help."

He stroked the ring in his pocket and smiled.

Primula shifted from foot to foot and looked across the crowded room at her father, who was busy in conversation with his son, Rory.

"Do you want to talk outside?" she said turning back to Bilbo. She reached for her shawl. It was autumn.

They walked out together. Bilbo sucked in his breath not knowing what to say. Primula looked twice as pretty out of doors, the sunlight turning her reddish brown hair to copper.

"The sky is so blue," Primula said.

Bilbo nodded and kicked absently at a patch of grass.

"I wish I had a dress that color," Primula said.

"I've seen a dress that color," Bilbo said. "In Rivendell, an Elf maid wore one."

"Elves, giant spiders, and dragons. I really don't know if I should believe you." She leaned back against an apple tree, her skirt flapping lightly in the breeze.

"You can choose not to if you want, but its all true."

"What else have you seen?" she said, reaching up for a branch over her head.

"Trolls for one and goblins," Bilbo said. "A whole bunch of unpleasant things."

"Tell me more," she begged.

"What do you want to know?" he said.

She seized an apple from the tree and tossed it to him. "Everything!"

So began a friendship that bordered on courtship. Bilbo told Primula a first hand account of all his adventures he had had with the Dwarves, about the trolls, elves, goblins, and men, of his plans, escapades, and treasures, the only thing he left out was the ring. Something always warned to keep his mouth shut about that.

Primula told him tales of the Shire and the Old Forest. She had learned many of them from her cantankerous great aunt who lived quite near the Shire's northern border. Some of the stories Bilbo had heard before, but others that spoke of spooks in the Forest made his heart shiver.

Their relationship was based on more than storytelling though. Primula provided Bilbo with a feeling of home that he had not felt since his journey. In her presence, he felt truly happy, and Primula was always glad to see him. Her father however was not pleased with the attachment between them. He could not see why his beautiful, young daughter should be seen so often with a madman thirty years her senior. He did not interfere though, and in the end, it was Bilbo who broke up with her.

"You deserve better than a restless heart," Bilbo told Primula one bright June day. "It's warm and I will wander."

"Let me walk with you," she said.

So, they walked together over the rolling hills and through the woods of the Shire, but Bilbo seldom spoke and his eyes roved ever towards the Misty Mountains. He had grown used to walking alone and did not know how to entertain. Neither did he want to. He had grown selfish he realized, only wanting company when it suited his needs.

Afterwards, Bilbo took to avoiding Primula and hobbits in general, shutting himself away with his books. When visitors came, he spoke nonsense until they left. Primula moved on, but not entirely. She married a Baggins, one twelve years older, Drogo son of Fosco. Her wedding gown was the color of a September sky.

When Bilbo heard of their deaths he grieved silently and went back to writing poetry, most of which he burned later because he believed it to be badly written. It was not until years later that he would discover a kindred spirit in Primula's orphaned son.