2: Life… Again
Time lost all meaning for Bilbo for a long while. Long periods of being semi- aware, semi-awake, instinctual feelings of stretching limbs, kicking, and turning over in a warm place only just large enough for him.
The first instance Bilbo was aware of being "awake", was startling in its intensity.
Loud noises, strong touch, bright lights, vivid smells. It was almost like he had been born again, he pondered.
Then Bilbo opened his eyes and took in the world around him….
Correction… He HAD been born again, on the road somewhere.
Large hands were holding him aloft as the summer breeze blew past.
Loud voices singing in joy for his mother settled in the air about him as the healer wiped him clean. The motion of the cloth on his still sensitive new skin drawing a whimper from him in discomfort.
"Sh, sh, little one." Rumbled the healer absentmindedly
"Almost done, then ya get ta see ya Ma."
Time seemed to blur from there as he was placed in his mother's arms. All his weak eyes could perceive of her was a shock of honey yellow, most likely her hair.
"Hello there my pebble," She crooned down to him
" I'm ya new Ma and I will always love you."
A settled silence hushed over the group then. The babe knew then that what came next would shape their entire new life.
"Welcome to the world, Áin son of Áki" The world echoed strangely out into the crowd, rippling and growing, as his new name was whispered and shared throughout the travelling group.
As this happened around them, his mother leaned in close to him, her smell overwhelming his new senses.
She smelled of raw wool, wood oil, and mushrooms. A strange combination, but it instantly meant home to little Áin formerly Bilbo.
For even as young as he was, not even a full hour, Áin knew he was no longer a hobbit. The voices around him were deeper, even the females, the arms that held him were sturdier, surer than a hobbit lass fresh from birthing, and their atmosphere were more somber , not as jovial and carefree as a party of hobbits would be.
His introspection complete, he focused back on his mother just as she whispered something to him. The words roared into his ear and down, down, down into the center of him. It lit a spark inside that he hadn't realised was still dark, it highlighted pieces of him that would define his future self, aspects that had been molded into his very soul. The sensation was as if one thousand voices sang in unison in a hall that never ended, the sound bouncing from edifice to edifice unending.
It was in that moment that Áin knew himself completely. The feeling continued for a breathless moment in time before fading back into the center of himself, keeping the spark alight. He would never forget the words whispered to him from his mother, even if she would.
The world slowly opened up to Áin following that moment, piece by piece, day by day, and year by year.
He learnt their songs, their culture, and, most glaringly, of their struggles. Growing up Áin was able to place the timing of his birth from the knowledge of his previous life.
It just so happened to be a decade after the Desolation. Where the Dwarrow were still searching for a safe haven, this stretch of time marked the beginning of the slurs, distrust, and disgust for the Dwarrow as a race.
A race that he now called his own.
He was Áin Ákiul, a dwarf hailing from Erebor, from the clan of Longbeards.
His father was a strong and sturdy dwarrow of common miner's stock – dark of hair and fair of skin. His preferred weapon was the Hammer passed down through his line, embossed on one side was the head of a fearsome feline creature, mouth opened in a challenging roar.
His father, Áki, was of mild temperament who preferred sound over silence. It was often that the dwarfling could pick his father from the crowd merely by following his humming. He was often at the center of any impromptu merry making.
Áin's mother, Ulla, was a loud dwarrowdam, whose charming personality made her easy friends. His mother hailed from a long line of Crafters: weavers, carvers, and the like.
Ulla herself was a Spinner, a craft that required wool and other such fibers to be dyed and spun into useable width and durability. Having chosen such a craft, his mother's fingertips had a unique texture of toughened skin where she spun her materials that were then sold on the Weavers.
Another unique feature was her hair, Áin's mother was one of the few dwarrow blessed flaxen gold hair, it shone and tossed light like a dance under the sun, her beard expertly braided to look like a rolling wave of wheat in the sun.
These were Áin's parents in this life, and he loved them dearly.
In fact, it was because of the dedicated love and protection that it took fifteen years for Áin to experience first hand the hatred and bigotry other races held for the Dwarrow.