Bilbo Baggins felt so very old. His worn and leathery skin clung to his bones, weighing him down more heavily each day. His eyelids moved slowly, eyes clouded and milky in their old age. Even his bones felt brittle, threatening to splinter and snap with every movement. He hadn't always been like this. In fact, he had evaded old age for far longer than your average hobbit, due in part to an old trinket of his...
The One Ring. Ever since his nephew, Frodo, had taken that particular burden, the years had piled on gracelessly, leaving him stumbling and confused. Bilbo had struggled and cursed his new limitations, but nothing would take them back. His body finally matched the age and frailty of his soul. In these, his final moments, he felt a spark, somewhere deep inside him. It flickered, a catching flame, reminding him of days long past. Days filled with orcs and dragons and gold.
His wrinkled and withered hand was clutched tightly in Frodo's sweaty grip. Bilbo tried to squeeze back, to provide any sort of comfort, but his fingers wouldn't quite cooperate. He knew that what he was feeling now, was something entirely different to just old age. He was dying, and that was that. These problems would not be bothering him for much longer. He felt at peace. Finally.
He turned his gaze to his oldest friend, Gandalf. The wizard's eyes were sad, but something in them twinkled even still. He vaguely recalled the same look on the wizard's face many years past, speaking words of wisdom that had long been lost in Bilbo's mind. Where had that been again? Oh yes, at the funeral, Bilbo thought.
"Take heart, Bilbo Baggins, for death is merely the next great adventure, and something tells me you two will meet again, although not so in this lifetime."
Images of long dark hair and warm blue eyes swam blurrily through his mind. The ghost of an approving smile, a rumble of laughter. He couldn't quite recall who this person was, but the warmth and simultaneous pain these memories gave him made his heart contract, a feeling that he felt throughout his whole body. His pulse grew weak, and the swell of emotion felt like electricity running through his veins. Slowly, the feeling changed, and a numbness swept through him. It was almost pleasant. A relief.
Above him, Frodo's eyes shone with tears, the blue so different to the ones that haunted his weary mind. He smiled at Frodo as best as he could. Bilbo would be fine, and so would Frodo.
This was death, he thought. It was not slow, it was not painful, nor was it scary. He simply let go.
Bilbo's eyes fluttered, fighting a losing battle against the light, his eyes swimming with tears. As his vision cleared, Bilbo found himself sitting on a familiar wooden bench outside Bag End, pipe in hand. He was looking out over the Shire, on a bright, clear day.
Things were entirely unchanged, he observed, allowing a lazy smile to grace his features.
The rolling hills were the same shock of emerald green, the fields alive with wildflowers and small children hiding in the tall grass. The sun was shining hot against Bilbo's skin, leaving it warm and tickled, a light breeze tousling his hair – a feeling he hadn't realized he had missed.
Bilbo quickly came to realize that something was ever so slightly off. His eyes and ears were sharp, his joints no longer ached, and his bones were strong. He hummed contentedly and looked around him, swinging his legs experimentally and marvelling at the ease of it all. There was a distinct lack of pain and discomfort that he had become so accustomed to.
After a moment of thought, he frowned. This was not what he had expected of death. He hadn't been sure that there would be anything at all, but he had most certainly not thought to end up back here, in the peaceful, yet choking halls of Bag End. Nevertheless, Bilbo decided that there were quite a few places that would be worse than this. If this really was it, death would not be so bad, if a little predictable.
He took an experimental puff of his pipe and sent a shaky circle out into the spring air. That, he thought to himself, will need some improvement. His old lungs had not been able to handle such activities later in life.
Well, he was not without time for improvement now, that much was sure.
A shadow fell upon his face and Bilbo frowned, looking up into the creased and warm eyes of Gandalf the Grey. And grey he was. His long hair and beard matched his flowing robes, but his wide brimmed, pointed hat matched his crinkled blue eyes. His face had remained unchanged for the eighty years that Bilbo had known him, although he thought he could recall Gandalf the White, being the title the wizard had recently adopted. No matter, Gandalf was Gandalf, there was no use arguing it. Bilbo had long since learned not to question a wizard.
"I should have known you'd be here," Bilbo said, closing his eyes contentedly. He might've guessed that even in death, he could not escape the meddlesome ways of the wizard. If he was to spend the rest of eternity in Bag End, a place he could not seem to be rid of, he was unsurprised to see Gandalf, there to ensure that Bilbo was never overly comfortable in his occasionally stuffy life. Life. Could he still say that?
"Well, I must say, I am rather pleased that you remember me," said the wizard.
"I never forget a face," Bilbo joked, still entirely at ease. After several moments of silence, Bilbo opened his eyes to find Gandalf eyeing him quizzically. "Is something the matter?" he asked with a hint of annoyance.
"That remains to be seen. I am looking for someone to share in an adventure."
"My dear friend, I am much too old now for adventures," Bilbo said with a laugh.
"Too old indeed," said the wizard after a pause, looking down at Bilbo with a quizzical frown. "I've come not a moment too soon, if that is the case. I think this will certainly do you some good. I shall inform the others."
"Wha- Gandalf," Bilbo said, standing up with an indignant huff, pipe laying forgotten on the bench. Gandalf was already turning away. Bilbo thought he heard the old wizard chuckle.
"Too old," Gandalf muttered under his breath, shaking his head incredulously.
Bilbo stood stock still, staring after the wizard, mouth agape, eyebrows drawn. He couldn't shake the strange feeling of familiarity that he had gotten from the conversation he had just had. In fact, his mind was clearer than he had remembered it feeling in years, and he knew for certain that he had had this conversation before.
Was he reliving certain moments of his past? Was that how death worked? Could he be living his greatest moments of regret? For he did think upon the day he had been forcibly signed on to an adventure with regret indeed. Nothing good had come from his trip to the Lonely Mountain whatsoever.
The only thing he had gained was empty halls, far too much treasure than an old hobbit had need for, and a Ring of power that had destroyed both himself, and his beloved nephew. Yes, Bilbo refused to think of any good that he had experienced in the company of Thorin Oakenshield, because if he thought of the good, he would be lost, and that was something he had resolved to never be again.
Head swimming, Bilbo scurried into Bag End, slamming the door behind him. Well, so much for death being peaceful, he thought bitterly. He made his way into the kitchen, thinking that some cake and a drink might calm him down after such an excitement.
Busying himself in the kitchen, he did not hear the faint scratching on his front door. Even if he had, he likely would not remember its significance. Bilbo was old now. Was still old. He may no longer feel it in his body, but he felt a precious little difference in his soul.
As Bilbo ate, he ambled down the halls, taking in the appearance of his home with a hint of confusion. Something was not quite right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew that something had changed. Things were neat. More neat than he remembered leaving them. And there were things missing. He couldn't pick out one thing, but there were spaces that were empty, that he was quite sure shouldn't be.
Oh, what did it matter? He was quite dead, so what if he was missing a couple of baubles?
With a start, Bilbo realized he had forgotten his pipe on the bench and made his way back outside, once again relishing the warm caress of sunlight.
Feeling altogether strange, he scurried out and grabbed his pipe, hoping to get back inside quickly, but he froze when he came face to face with his door. There on the crisp green paint, was a crude symbol etched right into the middle. He stood in silent confusion for a moment, before his blood began to boil. What kind of game was Gandalf playing? Was he sitting somewhere, smoking his superior smoke rings and chortling to himself about poor, excitable old Bilbo?
Clenching his fists tight enough that there would surely be a pipe-shaped indent in his palm, he spun on his heel and marched down the hill, eyes scanning the surrounding area for a tall grey figure.
So consumed by his righteous anger, he barely even took a moment to appreciate how much better his body was working, focusing solely on finding the wizard and giving him a piece of his mind. How dare he mock Bilbo in such a fashion. Gandalf of all people should know what Bilbo had gone through. Should know what kind of emotions that mark would evoke.
The longer Bilbo walked, the less sure he felt of his mission. Gandalf was likely long gone by now. As a matter of fact, it was possible that he had never been there in the first place. This whole situation was surely just a figment of Bilbo's imagination, possibly the last thoughts of a delusional and dying mind.
Finding himself in the bustling market square, Bilbo slowed to a stop. This was a fool's errand. He would be much better off going back to his home and spending the remainder of his time in peace, no matter how much time that may be. With a sigh, he turned back towards the big hill, his mind confusingly empty.
His shoulder came into contact with someone, but could not find it in him to care. "Beg your pardon," he said tersely, barely acknowledging the outraged huff.
"Bilbo Baggins, whatever has gotten into you?" came the shrill rebuke. Bilbo froze. He knew that voice, and would have been happy to never hear it again, if he had his way, which he never seemed to.
"Lobelia," he said, as politely as he could muster, though his teeth were bared and his long underused battle instincts were flaring up. He felt his fingers twitch towards his pocket and gave himself a shake.
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had been a thorn in his side since the very day they first met. She was of the jealous sort, and had spent much time trying to pry all manner of possessions from him. Why, she would have seized Bag End, if she had had the means, but he always miraculously seemed to thwart her, a fact that did not endear him to her in the slightest.
But whatever was she doing here, in his afterlife? Her face was young and her hair was devoid of the characteristic grey that it had been last he'd seen her.
Stomach sinking like a stone, Bilbo realized that this must be his punishment. He was not here for peace and rest, he was here to experience pure torment. Bag End was punishment, Gandalf was punishment, and so was Lobelia.
With one more look at what he could safely say was his least favourite hobbit he had ever had the misfortune to come across, Bilbo took off at a near run, brain whirring through every misdeed he had ever performed in his sorry life for him to end up in such a situation.
He had been far from perfect. He had lied, he had cheated, theived, betrayed, and he had been a downright coward to boot. It's no wonder I'm being punished, he thought to himself miserably as he finally found himself back at his hobbit hole, slamming the door behind him, breath heavy.
He ran his hands down his face, and was surprised at the sensation of soft skin coming into contact with soft skin. He brought his hands out in front of him, curiosity getting the better of him at the odd, alien sensation.
His wrinkles seemed to have smoothed themselves out overnight. His hands no longer bore the marks of old age. The little scars and blemishes that had decorated his arms had vanished. His skin was no longer browned and leathery from years of summer sun. With trepidation, Bilbo made his way to the bathroom, and gazed at his reflection in the mirror.
He knew instantly that this Bilbo was not one that he had been for a long time. This was a Bilbo that he barely recognized.
This Bilbo had mysteriously disappeared one morning. Run off with a band of dwarves, and never come back. This Bilbo's shoulders were not hunched in on themselves with grief and the invisible weight of a magic Ring. This Bilbo's face was not yet set in a perpetual frown, lacking the barest hint of the heavy lines that had graced his mouth and forehead for so long that he had forgotten what he looked like without them. His skin was smooth and unblemished, young and supple.
The only thing that Bilbo knew to be his own were his eyes. They showed him for who he was. A coward, who would rather run from his problems than face them head on.
With a shuddering breath Bilbo turned away from the mirror, his stomach now clenching. He made his way to his sitting room, in a trance, and lowered himself to the ground in front of his empty hearth and stared at the ash. He was young again. His home, the empty spaces and cleanliness, was how it had been before he had gone to the Misty Mountain. Gandalf the Grey, young Lobelia...
Gandalf. His hands shook. Gandalf had said he would inform the company. Did he mean- No, Bilbo, he told himself sternly. You are dead. Wherever you are, they are not here. That is not possible and you know it. No matter how much you hope, no matter what impossible situations you dream up, they are not coming.
But his conversation with Gandalf had seemed remarkably similar to the one that the two had shared what felt like a lifetime ago. There was no denying it. There was no explaining it away. What if the company was coming, even if it was just to torment him? You silly old fool, you know what happens when you get your hopes up.
And Bilbo did know. He used to be brimming with hope. It was how he had survived years alone in his deceased parent's house, haunted by their ghosts, and it was how he had survived a perilous, and seemingly endless journey across Middle Earth. Hope was what drove him to so many extremes, what made him capable of saving his friends with a courage he hadn't known he had possessed.
But with the ghosts of his mistakes that had haunted him his whole life, Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, and the ruination that he had brought to the Shire with the Ring, Bilbo now had much better sense than to hope, for where had that gotten him? For all intents and purposes, Bilbo had been alone for most of his life. A lost hobbit in an empty home.
There were nights long past, spent sleeping under the sky where Bilbo had dreamed of a new home. He had even hoped that Erebor might be that place. But then everything had gone to ruin, and Bilbo had not been able to see a home in the broken remains of a kingdom, led by one who was not his king. He would not see Dáin on the throne, when it should have been another.
Fool, Bilbo thought sourly. He tried desperately to rid his mind of such thoughts. He knew better than to think about the past, and what might have been.
He went about his day as usual, for a usual day it was. He very pointedly did not look to see if he still had his map of an ancient mountain topped with an inky red dragon, one that he had gotten at the end of the quest to reclaim Erebor. He did not set about immediately cleaning, and preparing food, as he would if he were truly expecting guests.
When he stayed in his day clothes well later than he usually did, he explained it away as simply being too occupied to change just yet. He removed his favourite tablecloth from the guest table because it was due for a wash, not because there was any danger of it getting soiled by flying food and spilled ale.
And the reason he could not eat, the pit in his stomach was simply an ordinary illness, or perhaps he had gotten too much sun. It was certainly not anxiety, fear, and a lifetime of repressed memories.
When the doorbell's musical chime caught his ears for the first time that night, Bilbo simply could not ignore the thrum of his heart speeding up, or pretend that his breath hadn't left him. He could not ignore the hope and the fear that nestled in his throat, blocking his airways and making his head throb.
He opened the door.
"Dwalin, at your service." Bilbo stared for far longer than Dwalin seemed to think appropriate.
There was absolutely no way to explain this to himself. He could not pretend that the burly dwarf was anything other than solid, alive, and standing in front of him with an affronted scowl.
"B-Bilbo Baggins, at yours," he said hurriedly, at the dwarf's odd look.
Bilbo found himself once again speechless. He had not spoken to Dwalin since the funeral. He hadn't been able to face him.
For all his intimidating stares, and his frighteningly muscular arms, Dwalin had been the only one who would look Bilbo in the eyes after the battle, knowing and sad. Bilbo had seen grief there, yes, but also a pity that turned his mouth sour.
"Right. Do come in. You can leave your - uh, equipment - um, right over here," he scanned his hallways, and finally, with a grimace, gestured to his mother's glory box.
Dwalin eyed him impassively, but did as he was told, leaving his axes on top of the wooden box. "
I have some - ah - food prepared," Bilbo said, speaking slowly, distractedly, not sure where to look, or what to do with himself. He fell into the position of host, finding it much easier to flutter around and worry about dishes and seating arrangements than to deal with whatever was happening to him, impossible and confusing as it was. He led Dawlin to his own untouched supper.
"Help yourself," Bilbo said, already having to suppress his anxiety over not having enough food, not wanting a repeat of Last Time, or reality, or whatever he wanted to call it. "I am just going to -" he trailed off, making a dash for the cellar, eyes scanning for anything he could prepare, but he knew it was futile.
He had food, that much was certain, but not enough prepared to feed thirteen hungry dwarves and a wizard. He started pulling out eggs and tea, cheese and ham… He filled his arms as best he could and went the long way around to the kitchen, avoiding the dwarf who was currently scarfing down Bilbo's dinner.
He set some water out to boil, nearly spilling it down his front, cursing his shaking hands. For the rest, they would have to raid his stock and make do. They had done so before. He heard the second chime and rushed to the door. At the very last second, he grabbed the rug that had adorned his hallway since his father had built Bag End for his mother, and wrestled it into the nearest room.
He swung the door open to the sight of Balin. The dwarf hadn't changed in all the years that Bilbo had known him. His shock of white hair, and hooked nose gave him the appearance of a rather bedraggled dove. His dark eyes were kind but calculating. Bilbo knew all too well the scrutiny he was under. No doubt, Balin was sent in to assess the final member of their party.
"Balin, at your service," he said with a bow, opening his arms wide in greeting.
"Good evening," Bilbo replied, entirely gobsmacked, forgetting his manners. He had not seen Balin since the dwarf had led an expedition to reclaim the mines of Moria. He had heard of his demise from Frodo, and had tried to think of it very little, for it pained him greatly. This Balin was very much alive, seeming to bounce on the balls of his feet in poorly concealed anticipation.
"So it is, though I think it might rain later," Balin said conversationally.
Bilbo did not need to tell the older dwarf to leave his weapons, he left them willingly next to his brother's. Dwalin had appeared, lurking in the doorway, roll in hand, and the two embraced, smashing their foreheads together aggressively.
Bilbo watched them, heart racing, searching for anything to tell him that this was not real, but the scene was so familiar to him, so close and tangible, that he could not explain it away. The brothers made their way back into the kitchen, chatting amicably, their voices bouncing off the curved walls. Bilbo followed them at an awkward distance.
"Plates and cutlery are through that hallway, three doors to the left. Big dining room. Can't miss it. The pantry is just across the way," Bilbo said, pointing the dwarves down the hall. "I'm afraid I really wasn't expecting guests, so I am rather ill prepared." Balin frowned at that, and Bilbo came to the amusing conclusion that they had expected Gandalf to forewarn him. They clearly did not know the wizard well. "I have some food on the go that I must check on, but please do help yourselves. " With that Bilbo scurried away, breathing heavily. In any other situation, he would be in a fright over his poor host skills, running away like that, but given the circumstances, he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath in privacy, finding solace in the repetitive motion of stirring and preparing food, even in his rush.
He could no longer remember in what order the dwarves were to arrive on his doorstep, and it did no good to worry over it. He knew that he would soon be coming face to face with the material that had plagued his very darkest nightmares for longer than he cared to admit.
The doorbell rang again. Bilbo walked towards the door gingerly, almost hoping that if he took long enough, there would be no one standing on the steps. He reached for the handle and braced himself, prepared for anything.
He was not, however, prepared for anything. When he pushed the door open, Fíli and Kíli stood there, unaware that their very presence robbed Bilbo of any air in his lungs. Fíli wore a smug grin, whereas Kíli looked stricken. Bilbo wondered vaguely what mischief the two had been getting into before he opened the door, recognizing their behaviour instantly. Kíli was practically vibrating and Bilbo knew it was taking all his self restraint to not turn to his brother to finish whatever argument or other Fíli had started before the door opened.
"Fíli."
"And Kíli."
"At your service," the boys said together with a bow.
Bilbo's throat sealed up faster than he thought possible, and he was able to feel his slow, throbbing heartbeat resonate throughout his numb body. They looked so young.
Fíli stood tall. Bilbo had seen him do this often when he was trying to make a good impression. His thick blond hair and beard were immaculately braided. Bilbo could see the prince that he should have been in the way he held himself, the confident jut of his chin, the way he puffed out his chest. He still saw the mischievous glint in his eye, seeming to be fighting off a grin. Fíli had a troublesome streak to him, easily brought out by his brother, who was the more rebellious of the two.
Kíli, on the other hand, had a sort of easy grace about him. He lacked the formality that his brother was currently radiating, but he still commanded attention in his own way. His hair, not yet long enough for any intricate braids, fell loosely around his face. His chin was covered in a short stubble and Bilbo was reminded of all the times Kíli had lamented his lack of beard. His large, dark eyes were squinting with effort. Bilbo knew that he was trying not to elbow his elder brother, a common occurrence with the two youngest Durins.
Had they always been this young? Unwanted images that he had barred from his mind for years began to swim before his eyes and he felt dizzy. Yes, the boys had always been young. Despite all they had been through, they had indeed been these very same boys. That is, until the gold sickness took them. Until Kíli watched Fíli's life fade from his eyes as he was impaled, dropped from a cliff like a rag doll. Until Kíli died all by himself, the death of his brother clouding his soft eyes. Bilbo gave his head a vigorous shake, as if he could rid himself of these thoughts by force.
"You must be Mister Boggins," Kíli said with a large, somewhat impish smile, hands clasped behind his back.
"I- " Bilbo spluttered for several moments, eyes wide. He kept his gaze down, refusing to meet their eyes.
"Is there something wrong with our burglar?" Kíli asked quietly, turning to his brother, who shrugged, then strutted into Bag End with a bounce to his step. He looked around and nodded in approval. Kíli followed, mimicking his brother.
"Nice place, this," he said. "Did you do it yourself?"
"N-no, my-"
"See, I told you it wouldn't be a dark, filthy hole," Fíli said smugly.
"Wha- no you did not," Kíli replied, outraged. Fíli said nothing, but gave his brother a pointed look that caused the younger to wither with a childish pout.
"Be careful with these," Fíli said, brushing past his brother and handing Bilbo a bundle of weapons. "Only just had them sharpened." Bilbo took them gingerly and placed them alongside the other assortment of weapons, mind blank.
Balin and Dwalin chose this moment to round the corner, arms laden with food. Relief flooded Bilbo as the boys were instantly occupied, and the two sets of brothers walked back to the dining room, leaving him rooted to the spot.
The halls of Bag End were filled with loud, full laughter. A sound he hadn't heard in too long. He tried to stop the warm swell of his heart unsuccessfully. Fool of a hobbit. This can't be real. He shut his eyes firmly and shook his head, expecting everything to fall silent, something he was much more accustomed to.
And it was, for a brief moment, and Bilbo was suddenly very aware of the pounding of his own heart. Mere moments later, he heard Dwalin's rough bark of laughter and the sound of Kíli protesting loudly.
If this was real, what was Bilbo to do? How was he meant to face this?
If Bilbo had felt bombarded by the first arrivals, it was nothing compared to how he felt an hour later when he found an entire host of dwarves sitting around the big table in his dining room that he only ever put to use when he had guests. His cellars and pantries had been raided to the point of emptiness.
He tried his best to not think. Thinking was dangerous, and Bilbo grew more and more flustered at his attempts to shut himself out of his own mind.
Once everyone was sitting, and he had served Gandalf (who had arrived with the last group of dwarves) some wine, he finally slowed down. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his brow, standing in the door to his dining room and looking out over the dwarves.
There was no more denying it. They were all here, in his home, making an absolute mess, just as they had before. He let his eyes wander. Much of this scene was familiar.
Bifur was sneakily helping himself to one of Bombur's sausages as Bofur practiced his aim by throwing whole eggs into Bombur's mouth, to the uproarious cheers of the Company. Gandalf and Balin were having a hushed conversation near the end of the table, expressions serious, and Kíli was watching them with a predatory smile. He nudged Ori to his right and hurled a chunk of bread at Balin's head. Balin turned to the young dwarves, expression thunderous and Kíli, managing to school his expression into one of disapproval, pointed at Ori, who blushed and stuttered until Balin looked away. The older dwarf was not through, however, and just as Ori turned to Kíli, looking ready to smack him, a tomato hit Kíli right in the face courtesy of Balin.
The ensuing food fight would have near given Bilbo an aneurysm Last Time, but this time, Bilbo found that he did not quite care, he just wanted to be anywhere but there.
Bilbo drained his glass of wine and went to pour himself another, needing to turn away from his old friends. The drink did nothing to soothe his tremors. It seemed to be his very bones that vibrated with such a plethora of raw emotion. By the time the dwarves had finished eating, Bilbo had downed altogether too many glasses of wine and tipsily tried to collect their plates.
"None of that now, Mister Baggins," said Bofur with a laugh, taking Bilbo's plate from him.
"You've been ever so gracious, do let us handle the dishes," said Nori, voice barely containing his mockery, a rather frightful glint in his eyes. He swooped up a stack of plates and balanced them on one hand. Bilbo let out a worried squeak, much to the amusement of the dwarves. Feeling much at his wits end, Bilbo covered his eyes with his hands as the dwarves began to sing.
Blunt the knives, bend the forks
Smash the bottles and burn the corks
Chip the glasses and crack the plates.
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!
Cut the cloth and tread on the fat.
Leave the bones on the bedroom-mat,
Pour the milk on the pantry-floor
Splash the wine on every door!
Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl
Pound them up with a thumping pole.
When you've finished, if they are whole
Send them down the hall to roll!
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!
The dwarves erupted into laughter and poor Bilbo, who had really had quite a trying day (he had died, after all), was humiliated to feel his eyes burning. He stood stock still, entirely unable to move as his eyes met Fíli's. The laughter died from the young dwarf's face. Kíli, mirroring his brother, looked at Bilbo with concern.
"Mister Boggins?"
Bilbo's vision began to blur.
Bilbo stumbled along, unfeeling, desperate to escape Thorin with his unseeing eyes and his last smile still fading from his face.
Toes blistered and blue from the cold, Bilbo staggered away, balance askew. He had to leave.
Bilbo's vision seemed slanted and he tried to remember how to get down from this blasted hill. That's when he saw Fíli, broken and splayed out underneath an outcropping of rock, his body having been dropped carelessly from the top, left to bleed out alone. His chest was wet and dark with blood, his glassy eyes staring brokenly off at some point in the distance. Fíli's face was torn into a grief so severe that even in death, he could not escape it.
Bilbo shuddered and he kept walking, fleeing the scene as fast as he could. Something in Bilbo stirred, and he knew, before he rounded a jagged rocky corner, that he was about to see another horrific sight. It was a gut feeling that proved to be correct.
Kíli's eyes had been closed after his death, by whom Bilbo did not know. He looked almost peaceful in his grotesque slumber. His hands were together, cradling a small stone. A token from a mother who would never see her sons again.
Bilbo let out a gasping, ragged breath and turned, running blindly out his front door.
In his haste, he caught his foot on a step, and he fell in a violent heap at the bottom of his garden stairs. That's where he finally allowed the tears to fall.
At least I'm finally alone, he thought bitterly. He made no move to stand, he just laid face down in the dirt, unable to feel anything.
His poor old heart just about stopped from shock when he heard the rustling of furs and a set of footfalls that were altogether too familiar. Looking up from the ground, Bilbo's eyes met the deep blue that had haunted him for nearly a century. Thorin.
Thorin towered over the hobbit, making no move to help him up. After a moment of silence, Bilbo slowly got to his feet, neglecting to brush the dirt off his clothing.
What a sight he must be, covered in dirt and tears, like some helpless faunt.
Thorin let out a depraising snort.
"You must be the halfling," he drawled importantly, eyes raking over Bilbo with disdain. He was a regal sight, but Bilbo was stricken by how different this Thorin looked to the most recent memories Bilbo held.
This Thorin was well fed and well groomed, with clothes that were not yet soiled from weather and wear. Last Time, he hadn't realized how Thorin had been affected by their months on the road, but it was quite obvious now, even in the dark evening sky.
"Thorin," Bilbo breathed, very aware of his own heartbeat thumping wildly against his throat.
"So you have heard of me," Thorin said, still sizing him up. "Good. Tell me, halfling, do you have much experience fighting? Or burglaring, for that matter?" Bilbo gaped up at him for another moment, then brushed himself off hurriedly, standing as straight and proud as he could.
"Actually I do," he said with a huff. Thorin's disapproving tone had cut Bilbo deeper than he thought possible. "And I'm not half of anything, so I would appreciate it if you didn't name me as such." Thorin raised an eyebrow at him, but remained impassive.
"Axe or sword. Which is your weapon of choice?"
"Sword, if you really must know," Bilbo said, nose twitching, crossing his arms over his dusty chest.
"Right," Thorin said with a disbelieving snort. "I don't know who you hope to fool. You look more like a grocer than a burglar."
Bilbo felt like he'd been slapped in the face. He had heard these words from the king before, but it was different this time. These were biting, faithless. There was nothing of the soft teasing that Bilbo had grown accustomed to towards the end of their short friendship. Anger and pain clouded his mind, fists clenching.
"And you look more like a burglar than a king," he snapped back. Thorin's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, then he shot the hobbit a glare that should have sent him crawling away in fear. Bilbo crumpled slightly. "Tho- Master Oakenshield, I-"
Thorin brushed past him, expression stony, and lumbered into Bilbo's house without invitation. Now you've done it, you old fool, Bilbo told himself, trailing after Thorin mournfully.
The dwarves sat once again around Bilbo's dining table, but the mood had changed. He could see hope, apprehension, fear, and trust in all of their faces. He looked at Thorin, whose expression was carefully guarded. Last time, Bilbo would not have known what it meant, but he knew better now. This was the expression Thorin wore when facing his own failure. It had clouded his face when he died.
"And what came of the meeting at Gabilgathol?" Balin asked. "Did they all come?"
"Aye. All the envoys came," Thorin replied.
"And what did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dáin with us?" Dwalin asked, searching Thorin's face unashamedly.
Balin, unlike his brother, seemed to see what Bilbo did in Thorin's eyes and his face fell almost imperceptibly. The tension in the room rose suddenly, and Bilbo, knowing what the answer was, scowled.
"They will not come," Thorin said, not meeting anyone's eye. "They say this is our quest, and ours alone." The other dwarves made noises of disappointment and Thorin bowed his head.
"It is no matter," said Gandalf. "This mission requires stealth and cunning above brute strength."
"Which is why we're bringing Mister Baggins," said Ori thoughtfully.
"Indeed," Gandalf said with a pleased smile. He came closer to the table, pulling a map out from his robes. "Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak."
Gandalf placed the map on the table and pointed to a solitary mountain, an inky red dragon curled protectively over its peak.
Bilbo did not need to get any closer to see the map. He had spent hours and hours pouring over it. It was practically committed to memory.
"The Lonely Mountain," Fíli said breathlessly, eyes wide.
"Aye, Óin has read the portents, and the portents say: it is time," said Glóin, giving his brother a rough pat on the back.
"Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold. When the birds of old return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end," Óin added.
Fíli's eyes shone with excitement and determination and he nodded at Óin, who smiled back.
"And that would be in reference to Smaug the terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely fond of precious metals," Bofur said, with exaggerated flippancy, grinning lazily at Bilbo.
"Oh, very helpful, Bofur," Gandalf muttered sarcastically, eyeing the hobbit for signs of fear.
"Yes, I know what a dragon is," Bilbo said, standing his ground. Gandalf gave him an appraising look.
"I'm not afraid. I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksy!" Ori said, standing up gracelessly, much to the embarrassment of Dori, who shook his head at his brother.
Bilbo felt a laugh bubble up his throat at the young dwarf's words. It was drowned out by cheers from the rest of the company, and he felt a swell of pride at their unshakable determination.
On either side of the young dwarf, Nori laughed appreciatively, while Dori scowled at his younger brother's lack of refinement.
"Sit down," Dori said, pulling Ori's sleeve.
Bilbo caught Fíli and Kíli shooting Ori proud looks from across the table.
"The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us, but we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor brightest," Balin said diplomatically.
"Hey! Who are you calling dim?" Nori cried, drowned out by another surge of loud voices talking over one another.
"We may be few in number. But we're fighters, all of us! To the last dwarf!" Fíli said loudly, slamming his fists on the table, commanding the attention and silence of all.
"And you forget we have a wizard in our company, Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time," Kíli added with an enthusiastic grin, looking at Gandalf with admiration.
"Oh, well. No, uh, I…I wouldn't say…" Gandalf mumbled, taking a step back from the table.
"How many then?" Dori said, leaning forward in his seat.
"What?" Gandalf replied, though he very well knew what.
"Well, how many dragons have you killed? Go on, give us a number!" Dori said, growing impatient.
Gandalf kept his mouth shut, and the room was once again swallowed by a roar of sound. Dwarves stood up, and were having yelled conversations at each other, while others were trying to goad Gandalf into giving them an answer.
"Come now, that's quite enough yelling," Bilbo said, emphasizing each word by slamming his palms down on the table. The only person who heard him was Thorin, who seemed entirely underwhelmed by the hobbit's attempt to keep the peace.
"Enough!" Thorin bellowed, standing tall and looking out over the company. When everyone settled down, he spoke again.
"If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look East to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?"
Thorin's voice rose, and along with it, the mood of the entire room. He yelled something in Khuzdul and Bilbo felt a twinge of annoyance at his lack of understanding. He never had learnt more than a few swears, which was more than he should know of the secret language, but even still, he had never been fond of being the odd one out.
The dwarves stood up and cheered.
"You forget the front gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain," Balin said, looking guilty at spoiling the mood.
"That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true," Gandalf said, twirling a large metal key in his fingers. The room fell silent and Bilbo's eyes found Thorin, who looked awestruck.
"How came you by this?" Thorin's eyes pierced the wizard with a reverent glow.
"It was given to me by your father. By Thráin, for safekeeping. It is yours now," Gandalf said, handing the key to Thorin.
The Company looked on, sure they were witnessing something monumental. Bilbo, on the other hand, grimaced. He wished he could take the key, shove it somewhere that would never see the light again, and tell his friends that it was a lost cause, but they were, of course, welcome to stay in the Shire for as long as they wanted.
He knew it was an absolute fool's hope, so he clenched his fists and glared at the wall above Bombur's head.
"If there is a key, there must also be a door," Fíli said thoughtfully.
"Yes, yes, very good, Fíli," Gandalf said, sounding unimpressed at Fíli's rather basic logic. "These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls." Gandalf gestured to a small mark on the face of the mountain.
"There's another way in," Kíli said, brimming with excitement. He grasped Fíli's arm tightly and the brothers shared a loaded look.
"Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map, and I do not have the skill to find it, but there are others in Middle-Earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But if we're careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."
Bilbo, who had passed unseen for most of the meeting, suddenly felt the weight of fourteen pairs of eyes falling on him expectantly. Bilbo coughed and tried to shrink back.
"D'you think he's up to the task?" Glóin asked loudly, reminding Bilbo much of his son, Gimli, who Bilbo had met only once in Rivendell, but about whom Frodo had told plenty of tales. "He doesn't look like much."
"We would need an expert, I'd wager," said Bofur, to a rousing chorus of agreement.
"Look at him," Glóin cried. "He's all Shire. We need someone tough."
"I'm afraid I have to agree with Glóin. He's hardly burglar material," Balin said apologetically. Bilbo frowned.
"Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves," Dwalin growled.
"Excuse me," Bilbo said, stepping forward, fists clenched angrily. He had fought so hard for their approval Last Time, that going back to square one was unacceptable. "But don't pretend to know me based on how I've reacted to thirteen dwarves and a wizard barging into my house completely unexpected, and making a frightful mess of my home. If this is how you will conduct yourselves on the road, you won't need a burglar, because you will cause such a raucous that everyone for miles will find you. And furthermore, if you had just asked me instead of making assumptions, we could have skipped this whole sorry discussion."
The room fell silent, most of the dwarves having the good grace to look ashamed. Gandalf put a calming hand on Bilbo's shoulder.
"Yes, I daresay we have wasted quite enough time for one night," said Gandalf, whose patience was clearly wearing thin. "If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is! Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they so choose, and while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of a dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mister Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest. And he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including himself."
Thorin glared unabashedly at Bilbo, but Bilbo did not cower.
"You must trust me on this," Gandalf said, looking between the hobbit and the dwarf king. Thorin's eyes flicked to the wizard.
"Very well. We'll do it your way," he said with a sneer. "Give him the contract."
Balin unrolled a long scroll and set it in front of Bilbo, who made quite the show of reading it expressionlessly and then signing it with an aggressive flourish.
After signing the contract, Bilbo turned on his heel and stomped out of his dining room, leaving many confused dwarves and a wizard in his wake. He opened his door and sat on his front steps, breathing the cool spring breeze in deeply.
After a few minutes, he heard the unmistakable footfalls of the wizard, heavier than a hobbit, but much lighter and more careful than a dwarf. Gandalf sat down next to him and handed Bilbo his pipe.
"A fine night," Gandalf said with a pleased sigh. Bilbo hummed his agreement. The wizard turned and scrutinized the small man next to him quietly. "My dear Bilbo, are you quite alright?"
"I'll be fine, I just- just need to sit and think for a moment," Bilbo said, fiddling with his pipe, not looking at the wizard..
"You've been sitting quietly for far too long. I remember a young hobbit who was always running off in search of Elves, in the woods. He'd stay out late, come home, after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young hobbit who would've liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. There is more of him in you than you realize. You will not regret this," Gandalf said.
Bilbo let out a derisive snort. Won't regret it indeed.
"Nothing good will come of it, Gandalf," Bilbo said, trying to keep the sheer defeat from his voice. "I am just a hobbit, what difference could I possibly make?" he asked, more to himself than anything. This was bound to end the very same way as before, with war, death, and loneliness.
"You are not just any hobbit, Bilbo. You are a Took. Did you know that your great, great, great, great uncle Bullroarer Took, was so large he could ride a real horse?"
"Of course I know it," Bilbo said. Gandalf was not discouraged.
"Yes, well he could! In the battle of Greenfields, he charged the goblin ranks and swung his club so hard, it knocked the goblin king's head clean off, and it sailed a hundred yards through the air, and went down a rabbit hole. And thus the battle was won, and the game of golf invented at the same time."
"I do believe you made that up," Bilbo said, a smile threatening to break across his face.
"Well, all good stories deserve embellishment. You'll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back."
"Stories indeed," Bilbo muttered, taking a puff of his pipe. "That is, if I come back."
Gandalf sighed. "Quite right," he said. "No, you might not come back. And if you do, you'll not be the same."
"I know," Bilbo said sadly, meeting Gandalf's eyes. Gandalf's brow furrowed, and Bilbo looked away, concealing his roiling emotions from Gandalf's perceptive eyes. Bilbo stood.
"I will do this, Gandalf," he said. "But I cannot promise that I will live up to your expectations of me."
"I understand," Gandalf said calmly. Bilbo nodded once, paused, unsure if he wanted to say anything else, then walked away.
After his conversation with Gandalf, Bilbo went straight to his room. He didn't know if he could face what he knew would come next. He barricaded himself in, and wrapped himself up in blankets. If supper had been unbearable, the dwarves' singing would be torture. The more time passed, the more he found himself listening for any sounds from his hallways.
Blast it, he thought. He let himself out of his room and rounded the corner just as they started.
The slow, mournful hum enveloped him, just as it had done Last Time. It seemed to vibrate and bounce off his very skeleton. The dwarves were standing around the hearth, Thorin slightly in front. When their leader started to sing, Bilbo felt something in him break. It was so loud, and so painful that he didn't feel the part of him that started to heal. He came to a rest next to Gandalf, who gave him a searching look. Bilbo could think of nothing else, eyes fixed on his king. Something in him was swelling, threatening to break out of his very ribs. His breathing was shallow and slow.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold.
To dungeons deep and caverns old.
We must away ere break of day.
To find our long forgotten gold.
The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night.
The fire was red, it flaming spread.
The trees like torches blazed with light.
As the dwarves finished their song, Thorin looked up at Bilbo, who was instantly broken out of his reverie. He was immensely embarrassed to find his eyes were threatening to spill over with tears, and he could feel his cheeks redden. Bilbo did not break eye contact however, and he felt Thorin's deep blue eyes bore into his own, expression unreadable. Thorin looked away first.
Bilbo wished Gandalf goodnight, startling the wizard with his abruptness, then once again, barricaded himself in his room.
He knew what they thought of him. What they must be saying of him now. He'd gone ahead and made an even worse first impression than the first time, and that was saying something.
An impressive feat indeed, Master Baggins, he thought miserably. Despite knowing how desperately he would need this last night's rest, Bilbo did not go to sleep. I'll sleep when I'm dead, he thought savagely.
Hang on, he thought, the beginnings of an idea forming. Bilbo was, for all intents and purposes, an anomaly. He had never even heard of children's tales of those given a second chance at life.
Because, he reasoned, this was not a second chance at life (or un-life, depending on how he looked at his current situation) for him, this was for Thorin and Fíli and Kíli. Bilbo had already lived a much longer life than a hobbit should, or would want to live. He had been ready to die, and he would continue to be ready when the time came. He was never destined to have a happy ending, but he could create one for those who were. It was something he had always been willing to do, only now he had the means and opportunity.
With this thought, Bilbo found a new hope. It was not a hope for himself, but a hope for others. A hope to trade his own rather sad ending for a happy ending for his loved ones, even if this was simply in his own dying fantasy, although he was starting to believe that this situation was very real.
This new hope was one he would allow himself to feel. With fierce determination, he knew what he needed to do. He took out some paper and a quill and began to write an unofficial will, hoping that it would be honoured, for he did not intend to return to Bag End. He grew weary at the prospect of packing, but made himself a thorough list of things he knew to be important.
When he nodded off for the fifth time, he knew enough was enough. He closed up his bag, now bursting with essentials, and dragged himself into bed, pulling his covers up as high as he could without exposing his toes. In his sleepy state, Bilbo thought he heard Thorin, once again humming his mournful tune from the best guest room next to Bilbo's own. Despite the pit in his stomach, he found sleep quite easily.
He was greeted by the jaws of death: Smaug himself. He had Bilbo in his claws, tail coiled around one of Erebor's massive pillars.
"Do you really expect to change their fate?" The dragon said, his roaring laughter burning hot on Bilbo's face. His breath smelled of fire and decay. "Do you really think this will be any better, halfling? You think your life is worth theirs? They never cared for you as you cared for them. Their leader would have seen you dead, and not one of them lifted a finger."
"N-no, you're wrong," Bilbo said shakily. Even as he spoke, he could feel Thorin's fingers hard against his throat. He could see the unforgiving, hateful glint in his stormy eyes that day on the rampart. Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "I will see them through this."
"Then you will see them all die." Smaug's laughter surrounded him as his jaws opened to a pillar of fire.
Bilbo's eyes swam with hundreds of unwanted images. Fíli and Kíli, eyes unseeing and haunted, Thorin pleading for forgiveness with his last dying breath.
This will not happen. I will change things. I must.
Bilbo was barraged with glimpses of hundreds of possible futures. Kíli's arms ripped limb from limb by hungry trolls, Fíli falling to his death off the knee of a battling rock giant, lost forever. Thorin clamped in the jaws of Azog's warg on the cliff outside the goblin kingdom.
He saw Bombur drowning in the river in Mirkwood, Bofur clawed to death by an orc, sweet Ori ravaged by a pack of wargs, Bifur's unseeing eyes peering out from his spider web prison.
He saw every possible mistake, haunted by the faces of his friends in death. Their listless eyes stared vacantly at him and he began to shake.
He watched as Smaug cornered them on the slopes of Erebor, burning every last one of them to nothing but charred bones. He could smell the acrid smell of burnt flesh, felt the smoke and dust from their demise squeezing his lungs, each breath heavy and rattling. He choked on the dust filling him up and wondered who he had breathed in. Whose remains were now rattling around inside of him.
Then he heard the Ring. It called to him, a force he thought he had abandoned when he left it with Frodo. It made him ache and sweat. He could feel it heavy in his pocket. He tried to run but it weighed him down and held him back.
His fingers itched and clung to the Ring, as if on their own accord, world fading to a blurry gray that made him nauseous and dizzy. The very air became thin and wispy, and every gasping, desperate breath caused stars to appear in the corners of Bilbo's eyes. He ripped the Ring from his finger and flung it as far as he could.
Then he was at Thorin's funeral. It was dead silent, save for his ragged gasps of air, bouncing off the high walls and echoing throughout the cavernous hall.
Bilbo leaned right over his friend's body, until they were face to face. Nose to 's expression was peaceful, but there was something dark emanating from his corpse. Thorin's eyes opened, and Bilbo was staring into the white blue of the Arkenstone, swirling in his sockets. His decaying hands reached for Bilbo's throat.
Bilbo's eyes flew open, coming into contact with the stormy blue of Thorin's, which were not yet tainted by the Heart of the Mountain. He let out a strangled scream and scrambled back as far as he could. Thorin's hands recoiled from Bilbo's arms, his face showing shock only momentarily, before becoming once again impassive. Bilbo's breath was coming hard and fast.
His hair was matted to his head with sweat, and his mouth full of blood, lips worn raw from his teeth. Thorin shot a furious look at Gandalf, who was towering over the two, expression grave. Then he turned his disdainful gaze back on Bilbo, whose face was still twisted in pain.
"You failed to mention that your halfling was broken, Gandalf," Thorin spat, keeping his eyes on the trembling hobbit. "What if this were to happen on the road? He would bring death upon us in mere moments."
"It won't happen again," Bilbo said in a panic, breath still coming in rattling gasps. He met Thorin's eyes and tried to mimic the king's own cold glare, narrowing his eyes and jutting out his chin.
"No, it won't," Thorin said. It was an order, and Bilbo knew it. Thorin stormed out and Bilbo ran his hands through his sweaty hair before looking up at Gandalf. The wizard was eyeing him shrewdly.
"What?" Bilbo snapped impatiently. Gandalf sighed.
"Whatever will we do with you, Bilbo Baggins?"