For all the endless white shores, turquoise waters, and glimmering stone cities made of marble and limestone, Valinor is not what Bilbo Baggins expected it to be.

Oh, it's lovely, there's no doubt about it; like Rivendell, except endless cities filled with bridges over rivers and behind waterfalls, hidden alcoves filled with splendor, gorgeous elven architecture and sometimes more. The Valar themselves have shaped the cities and surrounding lands, which is an unmistakable feeling when you're near what they've created.

Warmth and beauty and life, indeed, for those the Valar have chosen. There are exceptions, of course, and Bilbo and Frodo are two of them.

Life, yes, life waits here for Frodo. Healing does too. In this peaceful, serene place where no wings ever blot out the sun, and no evil can ever cross these distant shores, healing is plentiful.

Frodo is happier here than he would have ever been in the Shire and Bilbo feels guilt gnaw at him when he thinks of it. His poor lad would never have known the pain he carries if Bilbo hadn't made the choices he did.

He remembers those choices, flitting in one ear and out the other, memories never staying long enough for him to reach out and grasp them. They slip through his fingers like running water, too many and only drops are left behind, scenes that make little sense without the bigger picture.

Still, Bilbo thinks that Valinor isn't all it's cracked up to be.

He's a hobbit, and while he can appreciate long days of doing nothing but walking and reading and speaking to people you might actually enjoy talking with, food and pipeweed aplenty, something is missing.

Bilbo knows he's lucky to be here and he never forgets that it's Valinor's air that he breathes. One last adventure and quite a beautiful one, but as he sits in a rocking chair on a veranda just off the handsome and endowed study, Bilbo knows that something isn't quite right.

Turquoise waters meet white shores, and Bilbo watches gulls fly overhead. He can hardly see much anymore or walk, for that matter, and most days, he'd like to eat but can't do much of that either.

It's not easy growing old, he'd told Frodo, knowing memories have gone away while still feeling the emotions they leave behind. It's not easy growing old, he'd told Frodo, when he couldn't recall stories to tell or hold his pipe for very long because his hands are gnarled and ache too much.

It's not easy growing old, he'd told Frodo, knowing that he can't see or hear or even understand all of the beauty that surrounds him, including the conversations he holds with Frodo.

"I'm missing something," Bilbo says to Frodo when he gently grasps his shoulder. He can still tell it's Frodo, his hand hobbit-sized and far more gentle than anyone else's. "Yet I can't recall what it is."

"You told me when we arrived that Valinor was exactly what you expected it to be," Frodo says. "Except that it's forgotten its mountains."

Bilbo chuckles. "Did I, indeed? Yes, that does seem right," he says. "And I'm sure you've told me this many times before. One of these days, I'll remember."

Frodo laughs and sits on the thick cushion near Bilbo's feet, looking out across the sea. "You do remember, Uncle, most days," he says. "I'm not fond of mountains much myself anymore, but they would be a nice sight here. A distant one, if anything."

"It's very unfortunate that you should have seen such a bad side to mountains," Bilbo says. "When I had rather the opposite experience, I think. I'm sure I must have. I can't very well miss the sight of mountains if I didn't enjoy them once upon a time, can I?"

"You loved the mountains, Uncle," Frodo says. "Far in the east. You loved them there."

"Yes," Bilbo says. He sighs and touches Frodo's head before curling his hands in his lap. "The east… yes, a long journey east, wasn't it?"

"A very long journey. Gandalf talked you into going."

"Well, yes, he would've had to, wouldn't he? Meddler of a wizard he is," Bilbo says with a scowl. "I think I ought to blame him for everything."

Frodo laughs. "You always do," he says with an amused smile. "But you tell me you'll never regret your journey."

Bilbo hums in thought. "That's one of the easy things about growing old, Frodo, my lad. Regret is so painful in the beginning, and you spend many long years dwelling on the things you regret. And then you're old one day and realize you could've spent many long years living in the present. And regrets? Yes, a few, but hardly anything to talk about anymore," he says. "Regrets aren't such a burden when you can remember them and smile."

Frodo's quiet for a while. "I think you must be right," he says. "As always," he adds with a soft smile. "But I think I've got some growing up to do yet before I can smile when I think of them."

"Yes, indeed. Wounds need to be tended to before they can heal and some take longer than others. Scars take the longest to form, and you end up feeling a bit miffed about it when it does," Bilbo says. "Until you stop noticing it. And one day, the light catches it and you realize you've forgotten all about it and what caused it. You smile then. Of course, it all takes so blasted long, but that's only another reason to laugh, in the end."

"I'm glad to see you smile and laugh, Uncle," Frodo says. "Even if Valinor doesn't have the mountains you most want to see."

Bilbo sighs and closes his eyes. "Yes, the mountains," he says, feeling quite tired. "I would have liked to have seen them one last time. There were great green gates, you know. No one can rival dwarven craftsmanship. Not even by the Valar, but you mustn't tell them I said so."

"I won't, Uncle," Frodo says, soft and gentle and with a melancholy Bilbo doesn't quite understand.

But he gets confused often, especially when he's tired, and a short kip seems to do him some good most days.

He thinks of Erebor and a company of dwarves, who follow him into his dreams.

—

"Frodo, my lad?"

"Yes, Uncle?"

A warm hand grasps Bilbo's own, which must be very cold. He opens his eyes and looks up at Frodo, his nephew's face so young still, though even at this distance, it's hard to see him anymore.

"I feel like I've not walked in a long time. I should like to take a walk."

"I'm sorry, Uncle," Frodo says and touches Bilbo's forehead. "You have to stay in bed."

"Why? I hardly feel sick. Unless you think my knees aren't up for it."

"Your knees have ached for a while, yes. Stay here, Uncle, and I'll read to you."

Bilbo sighs. "Very well, lad. Very well," he says and closes his eyes. "Though my mother won't have anything good to say about being a layabout."

Frodo reads to him, his voice soft and soothing, flowing like the sea's breeze, gentle but sure. He must read for hours, and Bilbo doesn't know many of the words he says, but it seems like a good tale.

Frodo has a knack for choosing good tales, one Bilbo likes to think he gave him.

The bed sinks near his side, and Bilbo opens his eyes. It takes a great deal of effort, but his vision loss isn't so terrible today, and he squints at his visitor as Frodo reads on.

They've got long, dark hair, but it's still too wavy for an elf and a bit shorter. And they're rather broad, aren't they? Bilbo thinks they're wearing blue or perhaps black to match their hair.

"If I didn't know any better," a voice says, deep as the mountain goes, "I'd say you didn't recognize me."

Bilbo frowns irritably. "Well, you haven't bothered coming around recently, have you, Thorin?" he asks and pulls his blankets up higher. "I can't remember the last time you bothered, in fact."

"I wouldn't have liked to come any sooner," Thorin says with a chuckle. "Only when the time was near."

"What time is that?"

"Uncle?"

"He's quite alright," someone says, and it must be Gandalf. "This is merely a part of the journey and nothing to be alarmed by."

"But… but he sees—"

"Men call it unfinished business. Rather apt, I'd say," Gandalf says. "And best to let them finish it without interfering. He'll be happier with a clearer conscience, my boy."

Bilbo looks up at Thorin and smiles wryly. "As if I'm not in the room," he says. "I suppose they think I'm imagining you." He feels much less tired now and sits up next to Thorin, looking around the room.

It's a beautiful marble rotunda, only a solid wall behind the bed but wide open at its foot that looks out over vegetation and gleaming white shores. The clearest blue waters lap at the sand, and an ocean breeze flutters white curtains hanging from pillars.

At least, that's how it looked before. But now it's all blurry, like one of those purposefully smudged oil paintings. Gandalf and Frodo are blurry too and their voices sound warped as if they're underwater.

Bilbo frowns and looks at Thorin, who is as clear as day to him. So is the bed they sit on. Thorin gazes back, as beautiful as he's always been, his hair shining black, the mid-morning sunlight catching on the strands of silver. His eyes are as blue as the sea, but his smile is far warmer.

And Bilbo remembers him, all of him, all that came with him. Their journey to Erebor and what transpired on it, the dragon in the mountain, the dragon in Thorin's heart. Thorin's heart bled dry and no longer beating beneath Bilbo's cold hand.

He remembers it all like it was only yesterday, and Bilbo looks down at his hands. They aren't wrinkled, curled, or old. They're young hands, hands made for kneading bread and planting flowers in the garden.

Winding braids in Thorin's hair.

"Thorin," Bilbo says quietly and looks at him. "Have you come to take me home?"

Thorin smiles, wider now, and takes Bilbo's hand. His is much warmer and stronger, healthy with blood and life. "Not yet," he says. "Soon, ghivashel."

"I've forgotten you," Bilbo croaks, his cheeks unexpectedly hot and his eyes stinging. "I knew I was missing something, but I'd forgotten it was you."

"You've forgotten nothing, Bilbo," Thorin says and squeezes Bilbo's hand. "Memories are only difficult to find now and then. All of them will be awaiting you when you next wake."

"Will you stay with me until I do?" Bilbo asks. He tightens his hold on Thorin, but Thorin only smiles and turns to him. He engulfs Bilbo in a tight embrace, one so very familiar, and Bilbo clings to him. "Oh, Thorin. For so many years, I hoped it would be you at the door, so I might hold you just like this again."

Thorin's hands slide along Bilbo's back and his lips brush against his neck. "What I wouldn't have given to make that so," he says quietly. "But I would wait a thousand years for you, Bilbo, and a thousand more, if I had to."

Bilbo laughs tearily and holds tightly onto Thorin's shirt. "I suppose that… eighty-some years doesn't seem like so long of a wait then, does it?" he asks and sniffles. "Oh, my dear, dratted dwarf. There were so many things I never got the chance to say to you."

"I have no doubts you've said them all and more in the past eighty-some years," Thorin says with a chuckle as he pulls back, just enough to look at Bilbo. He brushes his tears away. "I've never been so scolded in all my life. One might think I never wore a crown on my head."

"It's hard to believe anyone found one large enough," Bilbo says. "Only an arrogant sod with a head three times too big would think he's free from any scolding he almost definitely deserves."

Thorin laughs. "Aye," he says. "A hundred times over, I deserve it. And a hundred times over, I'll beg for your forgiveness."

Bilbo smiles and touches Thorin's jaw, his beard and his cheek. "There was never anything to forgive, you know," he says. "Beyond being brave to such a fault that I lost you because of it."

"That is my regret, ghivashel, and not one I think I'll have the courage to smile about one day," Thorin says. "But we might ease the burden should you choose to remain at my side until the world is remade."

"Am I even allowed to?"

Thorin chuckles. "Aye," he says. "I've made sure of it. An eighty-year long campaign, but sometimes I am successful in my quests."

Bilbo grins. "Then I suppose I ought to thank you," he says. "I wouldn't be parted from you again, Thorin Oakenshield. If you've been privy to any of my past eighty years, you must know exactly how I feel about you."

"I'm confident in that some days," Thorin says, his eyes twinkling as mischievously as Fili's often did, "and on others, you call me an arrogant clothead who could never see past my own nose."

"Well," Bilbo says and clears his throat, "you've got to admit that's true on some days."

"You might be surprised how much I've learned, Master Burglar," Thorin says. "Especially in regards to what I took for granted."

Bilbo sighs gently and cups Thorin's cheek. "We made many mistakes, you and I," he says. "But I rather think we made good choices too. And anyway, we've got a long time to talk about it, haven't we? Whenever you come back."

"Soon, ghivashel," Thorin promises. "When you're ready, I will be waiting for you."

"Do you promise?"

"I swear it," Thorin says. "The mountains are not so far away."

Bilbo smiles and closes his eyes when Thorin caresses his cheek. "I should very much like to see them again," he says softly. "Come for me soon, Thorin."

"Rest, Bilbo."

Bilbo's very tired and rest sounds perfect. He lies down, holding Thorin's hand until it's gone from his and the breeze is louder.

Frodo's voice and Gandalf's too. They're much clearer and Bilbo doesn't know why they wouldn't have been all this time. He thinks he must have fallen asleep, which happens so easily these days.

"Frodo, my lad?"

Frodo's hand takes his, small and cool, and Bilbo thinks the last hand that held his wasn't quite the same.

"Yes, Uncle? I'm right here."

"Won't you continue that story? It was quite lovely."

"Of course, Uncle Bilbo. We only have two more chapters left."

"Hmm, yes. We'll choose another adventure after, my boy."

Frodo reads to Bilbo and Bilbo smiles as he listens to his nephew's voice and the ocean waves. A large hand touches his forehead, Gandalf's, he thinks, and there's a whisper on the wind, one that sounds like farewell, but perhaps that's not what it was at all.

Perhaps it's minutes or hours or days, Bilbo isn't sure, but the sun is shining when he opens his eyes.

He remembers a voice.

When you're ready, I will be waiting for you.

Bilbo looks at Frodo, no longer in the armchair next to the bed, but asleep next to Bilbo, curled up close by. He gently takes his nephew's hand, though there is not much strength left in his own, and Frodo wakes.

He looks at Bilbo, sitting up and clasping his hand. "Uncle?"

Bilbo smiles. "You're a very good lad, Frodo," he whispers. "And I'm glad to have seen your smile again."

Frodo smiles, his eyes bright. "You've helped me to smile, Uncle Bilbo," he says. "I'm glad to share this adventure with you."

"And I am as well, my boy," Bilbo says. "And yet, I think another adventure awaits me." He smiles. "I'm quite ready for it."

Frodo gazes at Bilbo, tears bright in his eyes. "Alright, Uncle," he whispers. "You'll see mountains again, Bilbo."

Bilbo smiles and nods, patting Frodo's hand. He closes his eyes. "Yes, I ought to. A dwarf promised to take me to them, after all. Farewell, my lad, farewell."

It grows darker and Bilbo feels his nephew's kiss to his forehead. Frodo's farewell and blessing and Bilbo is ready to set off on his next journey. Away from white shores and perhaps in the blooming mountainside where the air is fresh and crisp and mountain laurels grow in the cracks between sturdy stone.

When Bilbo opens his eyes, he's lying on a soft, comfortable bed still, a feather pillow beneath his head.

But something is different.

He feels well-rested and the air he breathes doesn't hurt his lungs. His knees and hands aren't stiff and he feels strength in his bones. He looks at Thorin, standing next to the bed, smiling.

Bilbo smiles in return and sits up. Thorin offers his hand and Bilbo takes it with a laugh and finds it isn't so hard to leap out of bed and into Thorin's arms. Thorin's laugh is carefree and joyful, new to Bilbo, and wonderful.

Thorin murmurs sweetly against Bilbo's hair and kisses him when Bilbo turns his chin up. It's a gentle, soft kiss, a kiss that says we've waited so long but there is no more limited time, a kiss that says we have forever and an age ahead of us, so why rush things?

Thorin presses his forehead to Bilbo's when they part. "There are many others eager to see you, Bilbo," he says. "And I have much to show you."

"Yes, well," Bilbo says, "I think that can wait a moment longer."

He kisses Thorin, smelling the sweet oil in his hair and clove on skin, fire smoke on his clothes. There's soft grass beneath Bilbo's feet and fresh air on a cool mountain breeze. Flowers are in bloom and the sun is shining on his skin.

Bilbo will take the time to appreciate these things. But he has Thorin in his arms, Thorin who he has waited so long to see, and they have eighty years to catch up on.

Kissing him for a while more seems like just the right thing to do.

Thorin came to take Bilbo home and Bilbo thinks it's the second time he's done so. But this one will last, a home that's safe and free of pain, a home that they can share together and never worry about belonging anywhere else ever again.

Home is in their shared hearts and they won't be parted.