Hello again!
I'm back! Thanks to everyone who's read this!
I DEFINITELY won't be updating this regularly in future, I just had nothing else to do at 6:00 this morning.
I don't now why I keep writing this, it's actually pretty dark. I should have warned people beforehand about the MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH found in the previous chapter, but I didn't. Sorry 'bout that, everyone.
It gets kind of depressing here, but I've labelled it 'humor' so don't worry, it'll lighten up, I promise!
Alas, I am still without an editor, so I am responsible for all mistakes.
DISCLAIMER: In my dreams, I've written the Hobbit, but in reality, NOPE! The Hobbit belongs to the amazing J.R.R. Tolkien and to him alone!
Bilbo Baggins attended his own funeral.
It was a small affair, with a small, makeshift casket Bifur and Bofur had made from loose branches and twigs. Bofur and Kili had both volunteered to say a few words, but Kili had broke down in tears in the middle of his speech and couldn't go on.
Bofur stood up, his eyes shiny and moist, and began his eulogy in a quivering voice. "Bilbo was my friend." he said simply, and nodded once or twice. "Yeah. And I like to think that I was his friend too. Bilbo was a small person, even smaller than us dwarves, but he had the heart of an oliphaunt, and I'll always love him for it." he smiled dryly and continued, despair tugging at the edges of his voice. "I didn't know Bilbo for very long, but I can say that it wasn't long enough. There are about a million things that I wish I had said, or things I wish I had done, and now I can't ever say them. I wish I could tell him how deeply I cared about him, and I wish I could apologize for the way we treated him at the beginning, and-" he paused to choke back a small sob. "I wish I could tell him how much he changed us all." He took a shuddering breath, determined to finish his speech for Bilbo. He had failed him before; he had doubted him, and he wasn't about to fail him again. "Bilbo Baggins began this journey with us as a simple burglar. He was just another hobbit from the Shire. But now," Bofur's eyes wandered to the slapdash casket sitting beside him. It was so small; Bofur hadn't really realized exactly how small Bilbo was until he had to make his coffin. Directing the remainder of his speech to Bilbo's coffin, he finished with, "Bilbo, you are our family." He could hardly stutter out the words before he fell to his knees and wept bitterly, his body shuddering from sobbing tremors.
Bilbo looked on in moved shock. It's okay, Bofur, he wanted to say. Don't cry. But he knew that Bofur couldn't hear him, nor could he see him. As a matter of fact, none of the company seemed to be able to see the hobbit or hear him, and if Bilbo tried to touch them, his ghostly hand passed right through their bodies as if they weren't there.
It was very weird, being dead, and Bilbo didn't much like it. It wasn't very different from being alive, except that all of the laws of science he had learned as a fauntling didn't apply to him anymore. He could walk through solid objects and slide through water without making waves or ripples. He found out the hard way that fire was not immune to his touch and he could somehow be burned, and now sported a red mark on his hand as proof.
Being a ghost wasn't like he had expected it to be. He couldn't float in thin air, and he wasn't a silvery-white, in fact, he looked pretty much exactly like he had when he was alive, but all of his cuts and bruises were healed. He couldn't touch plants, animals or people, but he could pick things up if he tried very hard, and could touch solid objects with great focus. He also couldn't see his reflection in a mirror or in a pool, and, worst of all, he couldn't eat or drink anything, and if he tried, the food or drink would just pass through him as if he didn't exist.
As much as possible, Bilbo tried to be optimistic about it. At least he was still around the dwarves, and at least he could still play jokes on them. It was actually much easier to prank the company, now that he didn't make any noise. Just the other day, Bilbo had made Balin scream like a fauntling facing a bear.
He had waited for Balin to go out on watch duty, and then began throwing things around and making a rather large mess of twigs, rocks and leaves. Balin yelled in shock and ran off to tell the company that the mountain was haunted.
Bilbo also enjoyed poking the dwarves with a stick and watching them look frantically around to try and locate whoever it was who had touched him.
But his amusement g was short-lived. He longed to chat with Bombur about food, or practice his swordsmanship with Fili and Kili. He wished he could share a smile with Bofur, a pat on the back from Balin and Dwalin, even a grunt or two from Bifur. He wanted to be alive again, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to accomplish that.
Thorin had been crying again, Dwalin could tell. Ever since Bilbo's passing, Thorin had grown more and more withdrawn and sad, and cried much more often. Dwalin understood why; though Thorin and the hobbit hadn't been the closest of friends, it was almost impossible not to like Bilbo Baggins.
Dwalin himself had been deeply affected by their burglar's death, but he had learned long ago not to wear his heart on his sleeves. In fact, so had Thorin, which only showed how deep his sadness went.
After their quiet dinner, the company mingled around the fire and moped, but Thorin had slunk away into the small crevice they had buried Bilbo by. He had looked so depressed and dejected during dinner that Dwalin followed him and stood in silence as they both stared at Bilbo's small grave.
Ori had made a little headstone out of a wooden board they had found and the dwarves together had burned these words into its smooth surface:
BILBO BAGGINS
The burglar who stole the hearts of 13 dwarves.
The two dwarves stood together in silence, gazing in dismay at the grave marker amongst the craggy sides of the mountain. Bilbo deserved better, Dwalin thought, shaking his head. He deserves his own golden casket and a huge tomb filled with riches.
Thorin, it seems, had similar thoughts. "When we retake Erebor," he mumbled, not looking away from Bilbo's grave. "I will make him a grave as no one has ever seen before. We will dedicate memorials to him, build him a statue, do anything so he will be remembered." His voice was rough and deep, and much quieter than usual.
Dwalin's heart twinged in his chest. "Thorin," he said, putting a reassuring arm around the dejected king. "Bilbo will always be remembered by us. It's almost as if..." he searched for the words that he knew Thorin needed to hear just as much as he needed to say. "It's almost as if he's still here with us."
Thorin scowled. "Bilbo is..." he paused, and his voice broke as he spoke his next word. "Dead." He swallowed and nodded his head twice. "...Bilbo is dead. He's not here with us. He will never again be here among us."
Dwalin watched in awe as a single, gleaming tear slipped from the king's closed eyes and slid down his smooth cheek, splashing on the rocks below.
Thorin sank to his knees in front of Bilbo's grave, weeping. The cool, mountain air whistled through the trees and blew the king's dark hair into his face, but he didn't bother to wipe it away. He buried his face in his dirty hands and cried for their burglar. "I'm sorry, Bilbo," he muttered, wails tugging at his voice. "I'm so, sorry."
Meanwhile, Balin was still confused. Earlier that day, while he had been guarding, twigs and rocks had started to move on their own accord, and leaves blew in some unseen or felt breeze. The rest of the company had shook off his claims telling him that he must have dozed off and started dreaming, but Balin knew otherwise. He had seen something spectacular, but what was the cause?
A ghost. He immediately thought. A restless spirit trying to torment us.
Balin knew this probably wasn't the case, though it being the only logical explanation, tried to flesh out his theory.
If it is a ghost, he thought to himself. Whose ghost would it be? For of course only someone with deep tied to the mountain would choose to haunt it evermore. A king, then, perhaps Thror?
Balin mentally went over all the people who he knew had died on the mountain. There were many, of course, but only one who had unfinished business to attend to on the mountain would remain as a ghost. Thror was looking to be the most likely option until a jolt ran through Balin's body as he realised that there was one other candidate: Bilbo Baggins.
