The quest breaks down barely begun. With half the Company dead, Gandalf's rousing words fall flat. The dwarves, mourning their relatives and friends, refuse to listen and turn around. Bilbo watches them go, feeling numb. He knows they won't survive the orcs and wargs. It doesn't matter.
"Well, Bilbo," Gandalf says, his voice heavy. His shoulders are bent as if the weight of the Misty Mountains dropped on him overnight. "Just you and me. What say you to a trip to Rivendell?"
That was the plan. The library. Bilbo nods and follows the wizard.
-[break]-
His stay with the elves is pleasant and uneventful. Lord Elrond gives Bilbo unreadable glances as he listens to the wizard's tale, but Bilbo doesn't mind. As long as he is allowed to peruse the ancient tomes he came to Rivendell seeking, all else is a secondary matter.
He spends his days reading in a quiet corner, sunlight slanting across the pages through the open window at his back. From time to time, a fresh cup of tea appears at his elbow, a blueberry scone or a lemon tart — his favourite childhood sweet treats — keeping it company. Bilbo meets them with muted surprise. He knows from his previous visit that the librarian here is stringent in his adherence to the rules, and 'no food around books' is a significant regulation.
The elves pity him, Bilbo decides, the poor traumatised halfling. Their murmurs, lilting voices filling the hallways like gently babbling brooks of Bindbole Wood, wash over him as Bilbo drifts to and from his room in the early morning or late at night, his thoughts foggy and gaze clouded. It doesn't occur to him to wonder why he is never left alone. It doesn't occur to his hosts to wonder if he is starting to grasp their language, either.
As evening shadows come faster and the air grows colder while the sun weakens and fails to warm, the sections of the library with books written in Westron Bilbo hasn't touched dwindle in number. And then, one autumn day, he crawls into bed in Rivendell, the bedding silky-soft and pillow cloud-like under his cheek, and wakes up in his own bedroom.
The journey starts anew. Again and again, Bilbo goes through the cycle. He greets the Company with relief, reluctance, warmth, and, finally, indifference, not interested in conversations he can repeat verbatim. Besides, they won't remember him come next attempt, and it will come like the inevitable change of seasons. He has a goal: find a solution, a way out, whatever it may be. Most times, he reaches Rivendell. Sometimes he doesn't.
He dies and dies and watches the others die — by trolls or wargs or orcs and once of sickness. The trolls smash Ori. An enraged, grief-stricken Dori manages to kill Bert all by himself before Tom falls on him. They eat Bombur, and Bofur and Bifur end up as a collection of limbs. A warg gets to Kíli and rips out his throat before the archer can take a shot. Thorin and Dwalin dice the beast into a thinly sliced fillet. It doesn't matter, so Bilbo does nothing to interfere. He is a silent bystander, the only solid being wandering the land of shadows. It does not matter, for the dead will rise and find their way to his doorstep one late Astron evening.
When Bilbo survives for long enough, he strides to Rivendell with single-minded purpose. And in the end, as Halimath advances, he slips into his bed — and after many repetitions, it is his bed, his room, and Rivendell is almost home — and… The smells of bluebells and daisies, sunlight across his face. Restart.
Books have no answers, he discovers. He reads them all, Westron and Sindarin and Quenya, and nothing ever mentions a time loop. The fervour of the earlier visits changes to desperation, to depression, to apathy, to determination, to resignation, and settles on being a routine.
After a while — it might be months or years or decades, he doesn't know; he lost the count of the cycles after twenty — Bilbo notices a pattern. When he survives, the time resets itself on Halimath 16. He marks the date, and writes the timeline of the first journey as best he can remember, and finally arrives at a conclusion: the reason it all started is—
"The ring!" Bilbo starts, the sound of his voice unnaturally loud in the hushed library. He glances left and right, but nobody is around. This time, the Company arrived in its whole. "Of course," he murmurs after a moment, brimming with excitement. Only when he had the ring, that curious little trinket, did he live longer, or so it seems; his memories of the time under the Misty Mountains aren't the most reliable. Unable to stay still, he breaks into a jig, laughter bubbling like sparkling wine on his tongue. It doesn't last for long.
"All right," he says as exhilaration abates, replaced with the cold reality of a daunting task before him, "back to business." And, heaving a sigh, Bilbo looks at the mountainous bookcases. He does remember seeing a mention of jewellery… Somewhere.
Days pass. The Company departs and so does Gandalf while Bilbo hides. By then, he has avoiding people down to an art form. For all of Afterlithe, he reads and reads, and finally, the only hint he finds — by chance — is hidden in a ballad.
"One ring to rule them all," Bilbo says, tracing the lines of text with the tip of his finger. He read or maybe heard somewhere that as long as it exists, Sauron will live — a banished, disembodied spirit but a constant promise of a threat.
"This must be it." Dread coils in Bilbo's stomach. He had a piece of the Dark Lord — his power or soul — in his grasp. He shudders. He needs to get it and destroy it. Smash it or… melt it. Surely, a dragon's fire is hot enough for the task.
With this new goal, Bilbo redoubles his efforts. He is a perfect host — again — and dwarves find nothing to complain about. His uplifted mood and helpful attitude sway the members of the Company to extend a hand in friendship. Two days after leaving Bree, Bilbo is joking with Bofur, the royal siblings listening in and joining on occasion. A week into the journey, and he discusses history with Ori and tea blends with Dori and shares his favourite recipes with Bombur.
The trolls are left for Gandalf; they outrun the wargs and orcs — the elves show up in time — and reaching Rivendell, Bilbo is tentatively hopeful. I'll get the ring and travel all the way to Erebor, and soon it will be over, he thinks on the eve of Mid-year's Day, sipping a fragrant elven wine, liberally mixed with water. But life, as it often happens, never follows plans.
There are, he discovers, so many ways to kill a hobbit. He falls off a mountainside that turned into a leg of a Stone Giant. Somehow, after so many repetitions, Bilbo forgot about them, an oversight he is unlikely to repeat. For once, Eru shows mercy: his head hits an outcropping long before Bilbo reaches the ground.
He makes it to Goblin-town. His fall into its deepest caves has an unfortunate landing. With a broken spine — he doesn't feel his body past his neck — Bilbo can do nothing but watch as Gollum creeps closer, brandishing a large rock. When it descends onto his skull, it's a relief.
Next time, Bilbo clutches a nearby goblin for dear life. The stench of years spent without bathing, bad breath, and foulness that clings to all creations of Morgoth is worth enduring as the goblin cushions his landing. Flesh meets stone with a meaty thud. Bones crack like twigs — snap, snap. Shuddering, Bilbo scrambles off and melts into the shadows. He hides behind a rock formation, its surface glinting in the barest hint of light coming into the cave from above. The smells of fungus, mushrooms, and a tang of fish assault his senses with the strongest déjà vu. His stomach hurts with phantom pangs of hunger. Not now, Bilbo thinks. Not ever again.
He finds the ring. It looks innocuous and friendly. His fingers curl around it as if they have their own will. Cool metal warms in Bilbo's fist in moments. Use me, it would say if rings could talk. I wish to help. You want me.
Sauron, Bilbo reminds himself, shivering. It must be evil. With an effort, he does not fling it into the murky water of the shallow pond or leave it for Gollum. An odd possessiveness fills him like rain a barrel in a summer storm. There is a whisper on the edge of his perception. If only he could concentrate a little more, he'd catch the meaning… He shoves the ring into a pocket with all the haste due to a scalding kettle.
It must be evil, and it is. I must be cautious.
To find a way out, Bilbo riddles with the creature. Despite its pitiful appearance and obvious insanity, it's smart, so very smart that Bilbo has to cheat.
"What's in my pocket?" he asks with daring arrogance. He wins. Of course, the creature cheats as well. It lunges.
Bilbo catches a flash of bulbous, protruding eyes, too large in a gaunt face, and a mouth full of sharp teeth. He stumbles backwards. The ring slips on his index finger — How? Why? I put it in my pocket! — and Gollum's hands pass him by a wide margin.
The creature stops. "Gone, my precious. Whats should we do?" it bemoans and answers in another tone, its whole demeanour changing, "finds him, yes, yes, we finds him and skins him and eats him, yes, yes, my precious, we wills. Gollum, Gollum."
Bilbo freezes, barely daring to breathe, his heartbeat Horn-call loud, almost deafening. Muttering to himself, the creature continues its search, but soon its target changes.
"Precious! Gone, stolen, my precious!" The creature's scream echoes in the cave. "Thief! Nasty, filthy thief! Catchs him! We will catchs him, we will!" And Gollum rushes into an inconspicuous passage.
This is it, Bilbo thinks. Feet slapping the cold, wet stone floor, he runs after the creature. A whiff of fresh air tickles his heated skin. A while and five turns later, weak sunlight brightens the end of the narrow tunnel. Bilbo can almost taste the sweetness of an escape when Gollum stops, pivots around, its spindly arms outstretched toward the walls, and jumps right onto Bilbo.
Bilbo stumbles. Invisible or not, he isn't incorporeal. The creature bites his neck and with a vicious snarl rips out a chunk of flesh. Hot agony makes Bilbo clutch the wound, releasing his grasp on Gollum's scrawny forearms. The creature smiles, its mouth — a terrible gash of bloodied, pointed teeth. Its pupils dilate so much, they eat the irises.
"We gots him, precious. We gots the thief, and now he will pay. Gollum, Gollum," is the last thing Bilbo hears as razor-edged pain blasts into his skull along with a sharpened rock.
Next time, Bilbo dives for the ring as soon as he and his goblin cushion land. It slides onto his finger, and Bilbo senses eagerness not his own. Huddled in the deepest shadow, he waits for Gollum to notice the goblin. The urge to stab the creature in the back is so strong, he finds his hand on the Sting's hilt… and lets it go like a hot iron's handle. His other hand is curled in a fist.
This is not me, he thinks. Cold sweat plasters his hair to his forehead. It isn't right. When did he start with such unhobbity behaviour? His stomach drops. He glares at the ring. No, you don't. No tricks and no mind games. I'm on to you.
The ring continues its innocent act, but Bilbo knows better now. He promises himself to never listen to the almost-there voices. He leaves the caves with Gollum still alive; complaints about the stringiness of meat and the sounds of chewing follow him out.
Rejoining the Company, Bilbo dares to hope that the worst part of the journey is over. Alas, the orcs catch up with them.
"Not trees again," he mutters, earning bemused looks from Bofur and Kíli. Of course, Bilbo thinks with a touch of bitterness, it didn't happen. Not this time. They rode to Rivendell and left the ponies there — the mountain road is too treacherous for the gentle beasts.
Things go downhill. Knowing quite well how high wargs can jump, Bilbo has scaled a pine to its crown. He hasn't considered that it could be uprooted. He chances a glance into the chasm. Pale moonlight illuminates the distant plain below. The sight makes him dizzy, and vertigo momentarily overcomes him.
Another warg adds its weight to the already overburdened tree. The trunk swings down. Bilbo's arms give out. He drops into the abyss. The rush of wind, its feel against his skin and sound in his ears are depressingly familiar. His scream echoes off the cliff wall all the way to the ground. It's not a pleasant death if any of them were.
Waking up, Bilbo bangs his head against the headboard. Eyes tightly shut, he lets a string of vicious swearing escape the confines of his mouth. Glancing at the portrait of his parents, he winces. Bungo's warm brown eyes radiate disapproval. "Sorry, Father."
His mother would have understood and, probably, approved.
With a sigh, he wows if this "adventure" is ever over — when, he reminds himself — to never ever not for a million cakes or Aunt's Isabelle apple crumble pie recipe climb anything higher than a chair.
