He feels strung up tight. Every muscle in his body is pulled taut across bone, no matter how hard he tries to relax them. His body aches from the constant strain, but only dully. He can hardly feel it, too busy to truly sense it. That's his fault though, he supposes. If he truly wanted, he could let the tension fade, he could pause for a moment, let the muscles in his shoulders unbunch. He could put on some tea and put his feet up.

No, he couldn't do that. It might, for the briefest of moments, allow him release, but with it followed an onslaught of emotion that proved a worse feeling than being strung up tight.

On the return journey to the Shire, Bilbo had been surprisingly calm, a fact that had caused no small amount of worry to Bofur and had prompted Bifur to watch over him like a hawk. In those days they had walked and walked and walked some more. He had chatted easily with Bofur, about his life in the Shire, things that made a hobbit respectable, and of the comforts of home. If either of his companions noticed that he avoided the subject of their adventure, they didn't comment.

He had felt their concern, nearly palpable every night at camp. After their typical light dinners, he would promptly roll over and fall asleep to their eyes on his back. Some mornings he woke, pillowed between the two dwarves, achingly warm.

"Ye were shivering something fierce." Bofur had said the first night, giving him a pitying look. "And ye were calling out in yer sleep."

Bilbo hadn't needed to ask whose name it was he'd called for.

Only once, on that long trip, did Bilbo cry. Their path back over the Misty Mountains was slightly different than their original trip, but they still passed within sight of the Carrock, the place where Bilbo's heart had begun to belong to another. Without realizing it, tears had begun to run hot down his cheeks. Bofur had pressed a travel worn handkerchief against his cheeks, a comforting hand rubbing carefully against his back. Bifur had grunted nonsensical Khuzdul, comforting in its own way, though it sounded as if he might have been threatening the distant rock formation.

After a time, Bilbo had regained himself, nearly begging in a low and broken voice for the small party to keep moving.

"I don't think I can stand it," he said. "I just need it to be out of sight."

It had been the only time Bilbo had broken, acknowledged the hurt and the pain. The dwarves had complied and shuffled onward. Neither seemed quite content to let Bilbo stew as he had been, but they seemed unsure of how to help him.

Once or twice at night, he had heard them whispering in hushed tones about him.

"In shock" and "unhealthy grieving" were two things murmured. He also thought he heard the term "walking dead" applied to him.

Finally, almost a year to the day after he had departed, Bilbo returned to Bag End. It might have been a happier reunion had he not arrived halfway through a public auction of his belongings. As it turned out, the good people of Hobbiton had declared him dead in his absence and had commenced an estate sale.

Luckily, two unhappy dwarves and a frantically upset Hobbit proved enough to clear out the unwelcome sales by mid afternoon, though Bilbo was more than a little dismayed to find near half of his belongings already sold off.

It did him some good though, chasing people from his home. The frenzied defense distracted him for a time, allowed him to focus on his task.

Both dwarves seemed to take it as a sign that his heart might perhaps be on the mend. However, it was nearly another two weeks before he managed to convince his friends to leave.

"Go, your home is in Erebor," Bilbo reminded them. "We chased a dragon out to return it to you." Unspoken among them was just how much they had lost in the events that followed. Smaug seemed a distant memory now in comparison.

"Yer our friend Mr. Baggins, we just want to make sure yer okay before we go." Bofur chided gently.

"I am fine, Bofur. I'm home, I've got my books and my maps and as soon as you're gone, I'll have another adventure to embark upon."

At that Bofur looked at him quizzically.

"I'll have to attempt to retrieve my things from my fellow hobbits, but worst of all, I'll have to steal back my silver from those thrice-damned Sackville Baggins!"

They both laughed at that, and though Bifur seemed to not completely understand the joke, he joined in.

So Bifur and Bofur gathered their supplies and left. They went, wet-eyed from farewells, after they both had bruised nearly all of Bilbo's ribs in bone crushing hugs. Bifur had even taken the opportunity to snatch a flower from the garden and press it firmly into the hobbit's hands, chattering solemnly in Khuzdul. They walked away, waving and shouting back at that big green door until they disappeared around the hill.

Bilbo Baggins shut the door to Bag End. With a stab of utter emptiness, he sank carefully down on the mat and sobbed; great heaving cries that wracked his body and echoed through his comfy, empty house. He cried until his lungs were sore and his cheeks were red and swollen, his eyes eventually dried only because no more tears would come. Emotionally strained and entirely exhausted, he curled up where he sat and fell asleep, hiccupping quietly until the darkness took him.

When he woke up the next morning, he was sore all over and horrible thirsty with a pounding headache to boot. His halls were achingly quiet. No shuffling of boots or clinking of buckles on clothes. All he heard were his own soft snuffles.

Bilbo felt torn, not as if between choices, but well and truly torn. Not so long ago, he had been content in his life, living day by day as a true Hobbit of the Shire. He'd entertained guests, chatted with neighbors, ate and smoked his way through much of the day, and dabbled in his vegetable garden. A regular bachelor, alone in his daily life except when company called and that was how he had liked it. Then, in come a company of thirteen dwarves to whisk him off on an adventure and suddenly all he had enjoyed seemed silly and far too civil to be fun. No longer did second breakfast seem so important, nor being polite and respectable in his neighbor's eyes. No longer was he a bachelor either. He could hardly call himself such a thing, his fiancé dying before his eyes. Truly, a widower seemed a more appropriate title.

The former burglar slid his hand into his waistcoat pocket, his fingers touching cold metal and he felt no better. The bulky silver and blue ring, never resized for his much smaller fingers, had been more a burden than a comfort to him since leaving Erebor. He could no longer bring himself to wear it, afraid of losing it on his travels. Now he refused to put it on, withdrawing his hand. The band seemed ever frigid now, even so close to his own heat. It posed a horrible reminder, icy as death.

In the midmorning sun that crept into his windows, Bilbo tucked his knees against his chest and felt fresh tears prick at his eyes. He clamped his bottom lip between his teeth and bit back his sobs.

It was several hours before Bilbo felt steady enough to stand and leave the door, a headache buzzing painfully behind his eyes. That day, he drank only water and ate little more than a piece of toast. He spent much time curled up, staring out of his windows listlessly, feeling lost within himself.

On the second day, Bilbo woke famished and with his head pounding still. Feeling rather opposed to moving, but forcing himself anyway, he shuffled tiredly to the cupboard only to discover how little food he actually had. It was with much weariness that the hobbit managed to dress himself and saunter awkwardly to the market to keep himself from starving.

It was on this trip that Bilbo learned the trick to surviving his memories and regrets.

At the market, the son of Belladonna Took found himself bombarded on all sides by the residents of Hobbiton. Where had he gone, was he staying for good this time, do you plan on running off on anymore adventures, oh you really should come by for tea sometime, so terribly sorry about the auction my boy, and so on and so forth. Every single lad, lass, and hobbitling vied for his attention and he found, that for a time, he could forget. With so much going on, he hardly had time to just sit back and remember...

Thus, Bilbo began to find every single excuse to fill his days. For a time, he would spend hours a day, catching up with neighbors and family, chatting for hours upon hours about mindless subjects he cared little for, but paid rapt attention to regardless. When that became dull, and it did rather quickly, he switched to attending legal matters. Chasing down and attempting to reclaim his sold, or stolen, as he preferred to call it, property proved to be a rather extreme consumer of his time. He relished it all the more, and chased his belongings with a ferocity that put even the Sackville-Baggins on edge.

On his more calm days, Bilbo found solace in his more agreeable relatives. He hugely favored visits to his cousin Primula and her family. They were kind and far less inclined to make nasty comments about how his adventure had tainted family respectability. He also found a young friend in their son, Frodo. The boy, though young and well mannered, had the curiosity and spark of an adventurer. Bilbo found himself visiting the family on many a day simply to tell the boy stories. Of course, as much as Bilbo tried to steer away from them, the hobbitling always begged for more heroic tales from his adventure. He told him of arguing trolls, majestic eagles bigger than houses, a man that could become a great bear, and a dragon sleeping atop a kingdom's long forgotten gold. But for all the stories he told, the ending remained unspoken. If ever the boy asked how the story ended, Bilbo would merely sigh sadly, pat his head, and promise to tell him someday.

For nearly two months, Bilbo Baggins attended to task after task after task. He was relentless, he was social, he was a busy body. During the day, he was nearly never alone and rarely was he still for long. Each passing day strung his body tighter, the constant movement and constant strain of all that he held back built up until he felt near ready to snap. Honestly, he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this pattern up before his body gave in.

When the sun sank below the horizon each night, things were drastically different. Each night, Bilbo returned home, tired, with no more business to attend to until morning. He'd lock the front door, hang up his coat, and sink back into the miserable depths of his mind. Many nights he cried himself to sleep, a ghostly baritone clouding the depths of his mind. Other nights he merely sat in contemplative silence, regret and sorrow locking his eyes onto some point on the wall he wasn't truly seeing. Sometimes he slept, sometimes he didn't, but always the loneliness in his heart and the emptiness of his home threatened to suffocate him.

Tonight, Bilbo found himself settled in his kitchen, feeling like a small, sad stranger in his own home. Before him lay the remains of his supper, barely touched and forgotten even hours later. A single candle flickered on the surface before him, illuminating the room in a dim light that fit his mood. There was a seat opposite of him, empty, as it should be, seeing as he had no late night visitors this evening. Bilbo's eyes bore into the empty air around it.

"...We can have dinner in the kitchen every night, just the two of us."

"My cooking skills are rather lacking..."He cracks a smile, the tear in his lip pulling taut.

I smile sadly. "Then I'll cook and you can clean up. Fair?"

He chuckles, though the sound is pained and watery. He flinches despite himself. "Fair."

The memory sends a few drops down Bilbo's cheeks. He thinks often of those last moments with him, his King. They had spent his final moments together, the dwarf's chest a web of gashes, weaving tales of a simple life together they would never be able to share.

With a shudder, Bilbo manages to turn his eyes away, pressing the heels of his hands against his face. His lungs hitch and he struggles not to sob.

Thump.

The hobbit looks up, for a moment unsure if he had even heard anything. After a few moments of silence, he is convinced he had imagined it.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

This time, the sound is loud and sure, as if whoever was knocking on his door had reaffirmed their resolve.

For a brief moment, Bilbo almost panicked. No one should be at his door so late and he shouldn't be expected to actually answer it. If he was quiet, and he always was, he could simply sneak off to his room and his unexpected visitor would eventually get bored and leave.

No, this one isn't going to just leave, he thought then. The hair at the nape of his neck was standing on end and a strange feeling settled in the pit of his gut. This visitor was different than the norm, he was sure. It drove him to put down his anxiety.

So Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, did what he always did in situations like these. He brushed the tears from his eyes, tied his robe around him, and went to answer the door.

While uncertain of what it was he would find when that big green door swung open, he had not been expecting the bright blue eyes of a ghost to be staring back at him.

"Mr. Baggins... I am forever at your service."

Okay, well this chapter is quite a bit longer than what I am used to writing, sorry it took me so long!

I can't say how long the next bit will take, it might be a busy week for me, but I'll do my best.

Also, thank you for the lovely reviews I have gotten. I very much enjoy them!