A/N I need to stop writing angst. Even though I seem to find it more fun to write...
I hope you enjoy :) Any feedback is welcome as always.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit.
By the time his hundredth birthday finally approached, Bilbo began to realise that he was indeed growing old.
This surprised him a lot more than it probably should have done. However, when one faced up against dragons and ferocious armies perhaps longevity was not a luxury to be expected.
He felt old too, despite his reluctance to show it. The hobbit often felt weary and his heart would ache for the adventures he yearned to go back to. It seemed that the only beautiful thing that remained in his life was his young nephew, and even then he knew that it would not be long before Frodo outgrew his care.
More than anything Bilbo wished for his youth to return. What he wouldn't give to regain the energy required in order to venture to far-off lands as he once had. He hadn't appreciated such an amazing opportunity at the time, he remembered with some regret. The call of the Shire had always been so prominent no matter how far he ventured in the other direction. He'd grown homesick and had grumbled and complained and most likely driven each and every one of the dwarves mad as a result.
And yet, now he was home. He should have felt comfortable and content but instead the growing ache in his heart had refused to relent. It had been annoyingly persistent for over forty years, ever since he'd left the Lonely Mountain behind. Bilbo had guessed the reason why of course, but he'd never allowed himself to fully contemplate it.
The hobbit knew deep down that it wasn't just the thrill of adventure that he missed so desperately. For even the most exciting of quests would feel incomplete without suitable company.
Bilbo often missed Bofur's distinct chuckles or the amused twinkle in Nori's eyes that often followed a successful spree of thievery. He missed Fili and Kili's joyful innocence and Bifur's unpredictability. Balin had visited occasionally, but that had been a long time ago.
Contrary to his attitude towards most of his guests, Bilbo had welcomed the wise dwarf's company. It was rather pleasant to discuss the past with someone who remembered as clearly as he did the events of their quest. It was nice to simply sit back and listen to Balin's tales on a warm evening. However as time had passed such visits had become far and few between before halting completely.
It struck Bilbo to think of how completely the past had left him behind.
And of course, there was one whom he missed most of all. On most days he dared not think of Thorin Oakenshield for even in death the dwarven king demanded far more attention than a fleeting thought would allow. He demanded vivid memories and grand tales and painful dreams.
It hurt Bilbo to think of him. Thorin had never truly been able to fade away, not like some of the others had. The blue of his eyes remained as striking in Bilbo's memory as they had always been, the gruffness in his manner was still preserved in the form of dreams and on some nights the hobbit could almost swear that he could hear that rich baritone voice reverberate through his halls.
Bilbo didn't understand it. How could the dead king remain so alive in every other form but physical manifestation? His relationship with Thorin had often been strained at best, regardless of the fact that they'd parted in kindness, therefore his persisting memory seemed to have little justification.
However, Bilbo would have been lying if he said that he hadn't been intrigued by the dwarven king's attitude towards him. For every lecture and harsh put-down Bilbo had received, there had been a warm smile and a reluctant, but solemn, expression of gratitude to counteract it. Small moments that were worth enduring his usual coldness.
Perhaps that was what continued to hurt Bilbo so. The knowledge that it was those softer moments that he missed most of all and that he would never witness them again.
The hobbit never told of that side of Thorin when children gathered to hear his many tales. He would speak of a brave warrior and loyal king, surely, but Bilbo had chosen to keep some aspects of the dwarf to himself. As selfish as that seemed, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.
After all, it would have been unfair of Thorin to abandon Bilbo while he grew old and weary without leaving something behind to keep for himself.
It occurred to Bilbo several times in his long life that perhaps such sentiment had stemmed from feelings he'd held long before the company had even reached Erebor. Despite how ludicrous this notion should have been, sometimes all he could do was simply resign himself to the knowledge that he had loved Thorin and perhaps he continued to do so.
That was what hurt more than any blade or the fierce heat of a dragon's breath ever could. Not the fact that the dwarf was dead for Bilbo had accepted that long ago and had had his time to grieve.
What hurt was that Thorin had never known.
And while Bilbo remained so reluctant to admit his affections even to himself, it was likely that he never would.