The End
As the shadow of his doom drew ever nearer, Bilbo Baggins found himself strangely growing increasingly at ease. The heady days of his adventures clung to him in sweet, fond memories that he held close. They would fade – already, most had – as all things were to. Though sorrowed by the loss, he found some blessing.
His limbs were weakened, his eyes had fallen frail and words were not so simple as before. Yet, he was glad still. He was a weaver of words that would be forever held in reverence. The tales of old had their place. They were treasure. It would take a fool to see them as anything but and he trusted its current possessors.
He drew his arms about him. His eyes peered all around. He struggled to, but smiled. The Undying Lands were beyond any measure of magnificence. He clutched at that truth in his trembling hands. So often the world grew shadowed as thoughts flickered from his mind to a place he had no knowledge of. He had thought to ask Gandalf – for, surely, an Istari would know. Be that as it may, he kept his tongue and looked with long wearied speculation to what may await him.
The melodious sound of song came forth, and Bilbo rejoiced. With a greater smile – and a deepening of the creases surrounding his wise eyes – he raised a hand and once more set to writing the words. For, despite his age, he still knew that there was more to know, and he craved its touch. Knowledge was his final purpose. He would have it, however small, whether it be of use to him in the looming shadow of his doom or not.
Perhaps a Hobbit, in all his simplicities and eccentricities, could perceive something that would be of value to these rich and wholesome lands. Perhaps he would find his peace in these strange words. Though, perhaps it was all a falsehood and there would only be more for his weary mind to lose and recall.