I'm a huge Bilbo fan, and the scene of him returning to Bag End, seeing it in a state of disrepair, utterly breaks me. I am also interested in the idea of a home as a reflection of one's self, and thus this fic was born. Enjoy.
It was these empty halls, drat them. Perhaps if Bilbo had returned to Bag End to his home as it should be, he could sink into old comforts — sink into his favorite armchair by the fire and forget the whole thing never happened. The entire rotten business would swirl away in the steam from his tea, or else go up in the smoke from the fire he kindled from the letters that had piled up in his fourteen-month absence.
Except it was a ravaged Bag End that greeted him when he opened that front door, stripped of its furniture and drooping with shreds of old paper, stray handkerchiefs, single utensils that had once been part of a set now long gone with the looting.
When he closed the door, the click of the latch rang amplified through the halls, echoing emptiness.
Still, even with so much room for echoes, everything was far too quiet. His ears buzzed with the silence, the sensation that he was underwater and slowly being crushed by the pressure. He was accustomed to rustling leaves, the wind, the dynamism of the world beyond. This was a still painting, without life or oxygen. Empty, ransacked of all material and meaning.
Was this what he had traveled so far to return to? The homely comforts, the feeling of safety he'd boasted about to the Dwarves, to Th—
No, he couldn't think about him. Not yet. He'd done his crying after the battle, at the funeral. Thankfully, Gandalf had filled their journey home with talk of happier things. Bilbo hadn't had to think about him at all, except for the occasions when he woke up in a sweat from a particularly bad nightmare. On those nights, he would generally sit up silently beside Gandalf, who never seemed to sleep, until he dozed off again against the Wizard's shoulder.
He tried to recall what it had felt like to step foot in Erebor for the first time after evicting Smaug. It had felt so empty to him, even though the halls were flooded with gold. All of the rubble, discarded armor, bones — the gold only made all of that feel emptier. And wasn't that the point, in the end? His own reward, the moderate chest of jewels, made his stomach churn where it sat in the middle of the floor by the doorway, the only thing that seemed intact in this house.
Had the Dwarves felt that way as well, returning home? Had they felt themselves changed so much that home no longer felt that way, or did they only see the future they could build, not the overturned mess they'd stepped into?
No, there had been joy on their faces. But perhaps that was because it was the home they'd lost, and now they'd found it again. The thing Bilbo had lost was far behind him, miles and miles away, and there was no reclaiming it. His very soul had been ransacked, and he was a fool to believe that home would look the same upon his return. There was no easy armchair to hide in, no books long enough to sweep him away from everything his mind kept calling back.
Thank you so much for reading! I would really appreciate a comment below if you liked this little fic.
Stay safe and much love,
Penn