Bilbo awoke.

It was a slow process, something the hobbit had grown accustomed to over many years. There was hardly reason to rush about so. A slow morning just meant more tins to appreciate the many opportunities. Savor the smell of breakfast, take a moment to let the taste of the bread and butter linger on the tongue. Take comfort in the warmth of the sun just barely glittering through the windowpanes.

Nothing of the sort greeted him now. He awoke with a face half in mud and half still submerged in water. A riverbank though he found that luckily, he still maintained his knapsack and belongings. A blessing indeed considering he'd no idea how long he'd been in such a position.

Well, this wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all!

Scrambling to rise, the hobbit righted himself before taking advantage of the river water to cleanse what mud he could. It still left him looking the part of a rat that had misjudged the timing of spring rains but it was a much more presentable look. That accomplished and feeling much more like himself, the elder hobbit took the time to gather his bearings.

It did not take long to spy the old bridge, stone quite recognizable. No one knew how old it was but given the craftsmanship and the pride Bilbo had seen in his Dwarven companions' faces during their original trip across it, he suspected it to be of Dwarven make from perhaps the First Age. If there was one thing he had found over his adventures, it was that Dwarven craft, especially that which was done with love and passion would surpass anything the elves could make.

He'd said as much in Valinor, even rejecting Fëanor as possessing better skill with metal and stone when compared to Dwarven hands. Perhaps a bold statement, to claim such against the maker of the Silmarils but the old hobbit stuck to his belief as much as an old retired hobbit would stick to a well-worn chair and familiar mug.

Gandalf had chuckled silently, Lord Elrond had sighed but Lady Galadriel had only smiled and said that while Fëanor possessed skills beyond the mind's imagining, the skill of metal and stone when in Dwarven hands would surpass them had they been given chance. She'd said nothing more on it and while Bilbo was not certain if she had humored him or not, the look upon her eyes seemed to dictate truth.

Thus, seeing the Old Bridge again with new respect caused a deep longing to rise within his heart. Oh, he'd barely noticed it the first time they had gone past; so preoccupied he'd been with the discomfort of the pony, the loss of his handkerchief and leaving home behind. So wise he had thought he was yet so blind to everything that mattered.

Approaching the familiar structure, Bilbo allowed himself a moment of reprieve to consider what was about to come. Judging by the light rain that was slowly pattering the ground, the Company would be passing by any minute. He had not considered how he might approach this.

Telling them the truth flat out would be far too risky as far as he was concerned. Lord Elrond was correct that there were many ripples associated with time. He had returned to set correct the most egregious of them but be wary! He could hardly afford to set in course a worse future. No, such a thing simply would not do at all!

Taking a glance around, with quite the sour expression his face, he reentered the water, trudging to the area beneath it. There was room to sit and remain at least somewhat out of the water so the old Hobbit took full advantage of it. Once his feet were out of the water, it was much easier to think though most uncomfortable!

He would need to be close to them. Much as Bilbo was determined, he was no fool. He could trudge after them on foot but until they lost their ponies, he would be left far behind. There was no way that he could maintain their speed without a steed of his own and for all the wondrous gifts the Valar had given him, he did not have such an option.

That left him with little options aside from being accepted into the Company. Quite a dilemma, indeed. Thorin, as much as Bilbo had grown to love him as if he were of his own blood, was hard headed and stubborn. Coming upon not only a Hobbit but an older Hobbit would not exactly be an easy sell. As much as merciful Vána's gift was invaluable, it would not be enough to convince the King Under the Mountain.

All the same, convince him he must and he was determined to do so!

Rustling above and slightly behind him, followed by the familiar chanting of voices gave Bilbo slight pause. Oh, those voices, he knew those voices all too well but it had been too far long since they had chimed in his ears.

Rising louder than the others were the voices born and bred in youth, chanting what Bilbo now knew to be a Dwarven traveling song.

Tears prickled his eyes. "Fili. Kili…"

Aye, aye, it was them. He knew their voices as well as he knew his own. So full of energy, so full of hope and optimism and never dreaming of anything but victory. It was hard to catch but if one knew what to listen for, you could hear the low hum of Thorin adding a low bass to their cheerful banter.

Whispering, just slightly under his breath, Bilbo prayed, "Eru Ilúvatar, you have given unto me a grand gift, one that I do not take lightly. I ask you…guide my lips, my feet, my steps. I will surrender what I must if only I might set the music correct."

He received no indication that he had been heard but such a thing was not unheard of. Even though he had often prayed to Yavanna, you never expected an answer. You saw the answer in life. The same must apply here. All he could do is what he could do and he hoped…placed all the hope he held within his breast….that it would be enough.

Slipping from under the bridge, he washed his feet as best he could in the stream once more as well as his hands and clothes before climbing up the narrow shore and staking a position to the side of the path—not enough to block the way but close enough that he would be seen. So many things rushed through his mind. Things to say, things to think, things beyond what he might consider.

This was the start of it. This was where it began. This was where the music shifted.

They came from the surrounding forest not in a straight line; such a thing was not becoming of dwarves who spent far more time clustered in groups and indeed, there was safety in those numbers. All the same, in the front, tall and majestic as he remembered, was Thorin Oakenshield.

Long black hair, tinted with silver, the tall posture, the stoic expression that hid a heart full of passion and if you bothered to pay attention to his eyes, there was always compassion there, always concern. Always for his people.

It took all Bilbo had to resist rushing the dwarf, tears spilling down his eyes and just relishing in how very much alive and unburied he was. To savor the beat of his heart, to drown in that voice again. To cast Fate aside with a surge of energy unbecoming of a Hobbit of his age but he could not.

This Thorin did not yet know him. Not like Bilbo had come to know him. Not yet.

So, he locked his knees and stood as tall as he could. He could see confusion in Thorin's eyes, utter bafflement if one was to be honest and clear. Understandable. After all, they were nearly beyond the boundaries where one might see Small Folk. Thorin inquired as such, "Well met, Stranger." Guarded as always, but respectful. The dwarf of honor he had come to respect so much.

Oh, Thorin…we are no strangers…oh, by all that can blessed, you are alive. It is true, not merely an illusion of my old age. I have my chance. I have my chance. YOU have your chance!

"What have we here?" A softer, gentler voice than Thorin's suddenly broke the moment and oh…it was Balin! Gentle, soft hearted Balin that deserved far better than the fate he was given. The wisdomed elder that had never faltered in his belief and had shown such kindness to Bilbo throughout the journey. "Well met, esteemed Sir," he intoned with a bow of the head. "I assure you that we will not be staying long if you lay claim to this land. Passing through, nothing more."

By now, the others had emerged from the back of the line, including Gandalf and yes…there were the boys.

Young, full of spunk, all smiles and laughter. Oh, to see them again…his heart pounded with the realization. If nothing else came of this, if everything was to fall to pieces, if all were to pass into ruin and flame, he had seen them again. Them and Thorin and Balin and by everything, to see them happy…

Determination rushed through his body as if sparked by fire. He lifted his head, eyes clear and remarked, as well as his tongue could, "Ashamâkh."

Oh, that got a reaction. A very visible one. The dwarves, all of them, rocked as if physically struck and Gandalf looked at him with more than a little suspicion. Bilbo wondered if Gandalf had any inkling. How did that work with time travel? He knew from his trip to Valinor that Gandalf was a Maiar but how much did he remember as he was now? It was hard to tell.

"You speak our secret tongue?" Balin's inquiry was spoken with slight hesitation and Bilbo knew that he would need to tread carefully. Khuzdul was a deeply personal thing to dwarves but he had been at a loss to get their attention otherwise long enough to have this conversation.

He also had to school himself to keep from looking around the group, to keep from taking in all the faces he had not seen for decades. Especially the ones that had been lost to death. To be standing before them again…

"I believe speaking it would be a bit too generous." Bilbo said quickly. "I have been entrusted with a few words and I do so hope that I have used them correctly." He turned, faced Thorin and again fought down the desire to throw himself at him and squeeze him so tightly that even Dwarven skin would give under the pressure. He bowed instead, falling to one knee. "I heard that the King Under the Mountain was passing through, on his quest to reclaim what was unfairly taken from him. I hoped to offer my services, in whatever way I might be of use."

"A hobbit that wants to join in my endeavor?" Thorin directed his attention to Gandalf, "It is by miracle alone that our Burglar agreed to come. Yet here is another, and of far greater age, somehow aware of our destination?" The Dwarf King turned back to Bilbo and the hobbit could just barely make out his younger self, awkward and unsure on his pony, almost sandwiched between Bofur and Kili. "How did you learn of it?"

"I have my sources," Bilbo responded simply. "I am sure Gandalf can attest to the fact that I am not a normal Hobbit." He didn't know if that would work but he set his gaze on the Wizard, meeting eye for eye.

With the attention set on the wizard, the party went quiet, waiting for the older man's response. The grey haired man narrowed his brows, studying the older Bilbo with cautious eyes. He was silent for far longer than was comfortable for anyone then as if recognizing something, his eyes went wide.

"So it appears. A hobbit you are indeed but it is a rare creature that comes with the glow of Valinor about them."

Kili leaned forward in his childlike curiosity. "The Undying Lands? Where Mahal's Halls dwell?! You've seen it?!"

"In a manner of speaking…"

Dwalin spoke out, "So the ol' wizard says. Lotta things come from Valinor that ain't been kind to us." The unspoken deeds soured the scene, leading to many shakings of heads and mutterings. "What have you to offer us?"

Balin winced, "Brother…"

"If he means us no harm then he won't think nothin' of answering it!"

Bilbo lifted his hands, held them empty and bare, "I am in my later years. The twilight of my life is upon me, true enough but I carry wisdom with that age. Wisdom of things you will encounter. Things you will deal with that I pray you would like me help you maneuver." He paused, considered. "You go to reclaim your home from Smaug the Golden." He waited.

Thorin, with clenched teeth, nodded. "So we do."

"He took your home from you and a great many loved ones. So he has taken three of mine. And his acts led to the deaths of three others." Bilbo considered this to be an exaggeration rather than an outright lie. Smaug's attack had led to their attempt to retake the mountain and his curse upon that gold surely carried weight that led to the deaths of Thorin, Fili and Kili directly…and Balin, Oin and Ori indirectly. "I would have justice served for them."

The group looked upon one another. Thorin observed him again, "We cannot bear you as a burden."

"And you need not." Bilbo assured him and pulled Sting from its holster. "I am completely capable of managing for myself. I require no payment. All I ask is the chance to lend my aid."

Sheathing the blade again, he folded his arms and waited, patiently. He did not know if he was convincing enough. His old age was proving more of an obstacle than he had planned though perhaps he should have…

"Master Hobbit," it was Ori that spoke, "Might we have your name?"

His name? Oh. He had not considered that. He had only ever been the Mad Baggins of Bag End but given that the much younger Bilbo Baggins sat not five feet from him, he certainly could not give that as a moniker! Well, no matter, he had all manner of relations and…

"Bango," He answered and added "Bango of the Goodbody family line." He had done quite a bit of butchering of some of his relatives' names but he surmised that they would not mind. When he saw the group turning to his younger self for confirmation, he moved quickly to avert it. Waving his hand dismissively, he added, "I dare say that while your Hobbit friend and I may share some blood—nearly all Hobbits do to some degree—we will not be close enough to share many stories."

"Haven't heard from the Goodbodys in quite some time," his younger self finally spoke out. "I had thought they had all left the Shire or intermarried so often to lose track of who held what name."

"Little matter," Thorin interrupted, "I am not convinced I…"

"Wait." It was Fili that spoke, the first time since their little gathering had started. Fili, while young, carried the weight of the royal line, something his Uncle had taught him well so when he swung off his pony and approached, the company grew quiet, all but Thorin.

"What is it, Fili?"

"Mister Bango," he spoke politely. "Might I see your hands again?"

That caught him a bit off guard but Bilbo obliged. Unfolding his palms, he held them out for the young dwarf to investigate. It did not take him long to see why. He had not taken note, despite the many number of times he had washed them since arriving—a set of dwarven runes were embedded on the palm of one of his hands, as clear as any birthmark.

"Unc—Thorin," Fili said, correcting himself from using the family title, "He bears the mark of Mahal."

Thorin paled, significantly and while he did not dismount, he led his pony closer and let his eyes fall on Bilbo's palms himself. As he did so, Bilbo found himself considering how he had come upon such a thing—and without his knowledge at that!

Time is short, even for the Valar, but Lord Aulë was insistent.

The mark was on the palm with which he had taken the blade carved by the Smith Valar from Gandalf back on Valinor. Had he known? Had he suspected? Or was he merely as determined to have the past be changed as Bilbo was?

"Lad?" Balin asked.

Thorin looked at Bilbo a moment more, as if searching his face for falsehood. Their eyes met and for a moment, Bilbo let himself remember the friendship he had felt with the dwarf, the companionship. The deep belonging. The belonging he felt even now, without the connection reestablished. He was back among his family…

"He will ride with you, Master Baggins. Onward. Before we lose what little daylight we have left."