Bag End looked the same but it was not the same.
Or rather, Bilbo thought gloomily as he sat amid his armchair, HE was not the same. For good or ill, Gandalf had been right. He had returned from his journey, whole and well but not the same Hobbit as he had been when he left, not by a long shot. He had seen things, done things, experienced things and while he was glad of it, he was not the same.
He doubted that he would have wanted to be the same.
Thorin now ruled in Erebor, his two sister-sons strong by his side. The mountain thrived and beamed with life. When the first signs of spring had allowed him to return to the Shire, he had seen his first dwarven children arriving with the first of the travelers from the Blue Mountains and his heart had swelled and warmed. They had greeted him as if he were one of them, smiling, laughing, asking all sorts of questions. His departure had been delayed for several hours to tend to their curiosities. Then the Company has insisted on giving him parting gifts, introducing him to Roc so that messages by raven could be completed with little trouble and then Kíli and Fili had nearly broken his ribs with their embraces once more until Gandalf finally forced them on their way.
It had been a harsh contrast to his return home! Imagine, having to stop his belongings from being sold off and nearly having to pry his spoons from that wretched Lobelia's greedy mitts. Honestly! Did she just sit around, waiting for an excuse to challenge his inheritance?
Yes, he decided rather quickly, she must.
But difficulties aside, he was back.
Home, yes, home he was again, amid his armchairs, his books, his plants. He had truly missed the feel of a warm fire without the chill of the wind and the sound of chirping birds amid the morning. He had missed the taste of morning tea, sweetened with just a hint of honey. He had missed the feel of his robe, wrapping him tightly amid its warmth.
He slumped deeper in the chair, sipping his evening tea slowly. This had seemed a far away dream on the road to Erebor, something too petty to desire much. Now that he had it back, he wondered why he had made such a fuss.
Bag End was quiet, the perfect atmosphere for writing or reading.
He felt no desire to do either.
His red covered book sat unused on his writing desk even though enough material for thirty novels rattled Bilbo's mind.
The silence was getting under his skin. He pushed back his chair, loudly and much harder than needed, just to hear the slight scuff on the floor.
Oh, his nights had not been silent in some time. He would spend the time before retiring listening to stories of lore from the dwarves, or laughing at Fili and Kili's antics or perhaps joining in a song with the rest of the Company as they got out their instruments and made merry. There was no shortage of tales worthy of rhyme among them and Bilbo had taken great pleasure in helping them conclude their Misty Mountain song with a chorus of their great victory!
Occasionally, on nights that were truly full of joy or when Fili and Kili had applied extra pressure, the King himself would take his hands upon a harp and play, his deep baritone seeming to vibrate within the entire mountain, deep to its core. Everyone went quiet, even the rambunctious Princes, and listened. The voice of the King was the voice of the Mountain and one that given the utmost respect.
Bilbo laid back, looked up at the ceiling.
There was no music here. There would be parties amid the square within a few days but the kind of parties he normally avoided still held no interest. After all, a party was only as good as the people you could mingle with. He would spend more time trying to avoid people than trying to converse. The presents would be given with little thought and the food of even the best Hobbit chef was not Bombur's cooking. The stories toke about the party tree were not Balin's lore filled tales. The laughter of the children was not Fili or Kili's.
They were not Dwarven parties.
Huffing with indignation, Bilbo rose and trotted down to his bedroom. His feet left a creak and sway to the wood that rebounded as a beaten drum. The utter emptiness of the halls was suffocating. He was not picking around dwarves, picking up clothes that Fili had dropped or calling to Ori to "please go to bed, the journals will be ready for their scribe upon the morn, I assure you."
Memories. So many of them and they had not ceased since Erebir slipped behind his back.
Bilbo shook his head violently.
Surely, a night sleep in his own bed would do wonders. It had been something he had missed most desperately upon the road. A soft mattress and warm sheets would be most excellent after the harshness of a bed roll on rocky ground!
Collapsing amid the familiar sheets did little to calm his nerves nor ease the emptiness that settled in his heart and his stomach. Granted, it was just as soft as he remembered and he did not lack for warmth but it was not clothed with Dori's lovely quilts.
He rolled over and listened.
Silence.
No mutterings down the halls, no slight clanging of a late night watchman trying to be quiet and failing miserably. No light snores coming from the nearby rooms. No half whispered 'just one croissant, Fili, no more, I promise!' just outside his door.
It took another moment before the real impact to hit Bilbo and it careened through his heart as a rapid fire.
He was lonely.
He was back, back at the Shire, back at Bag End but it was no longer home.
Home was where your family was and he had none here. His relations, as that was all he could call them, had thought little of him before and even less so now. Had he not returned, the ownership of his belongings would have the concern of their hearts, not his well being.
How many times had the dwarves inquired as to his happiness? How often did Bofur insist on joining him in song with Bofur providing the dance to accompany it? Or Nori insisting that boar rides were scarcely something to fear (he'd been mistaken) and Glóin taking bets on time as Oin prepared bandages?
How many times had they gathered about the fire and listened? Sang, laughed and finally stumbled off to their rooms with Thorin half carrying around least one stubborn nephew.
Midway through the winter, Bilbo had begun to receive the gentle forehead touches from them. Warm, deliberate and meaningfully He'd been stunned at first then honored and finally a burst with happiness.
Here, his forehead felt cold.
Burying his face amid the sheets, Bilbo wept his homesickness to the quiet of his homely smial. He could not go more than ten minutes in Erebor with tears before someone was hounding him, wrapping their arms around him or demanding he join them or "who did it-I'll bury my ax so deep in his skull, Mahal himself will hafta remove it!"
No one came here.