For ThreeHundredStarsAbove.
. . .
When Bilbo comes back to his cosy smial, at first he feels overwhelming relief. Relief at being back home, away from adventures and safe from dragons and wargs and goblins, from cold rivers and cold rains, from narrow dark caves and vast open spaces, and from all the matters too big and grand for a simple hobbit.
But days and weeks and months pass, and though he enjoys the comforts of his cosy home, and the warm meals and warm bath and his warm bed, he grows restless. One can never take the Shire out of a hobbit, but it turns out it is possible to take a hobbit out of the Shire, and the way back is long and when the hobbit gets back, he finds, to his utter frustration and disbelief and unexpected sadness settling in the depths of his heart he had never thought he has, but then learned otherwise – the poor hobbit finds that he no longer suits the Shire, that he does no longer suit the place he left empty when he went for an adventure.
And when he feels like that – too much Tookish blood, he thinks in disdain but also with a touch of pride – he walks out and puts on his ring and disappears, and wanders. Across the meadows and fields and river banks and forest edges, across the Shire and its perfect little roads and gardens and smials, part of it all but not quite, part of it all but not really there, or maybe the other way round, there with his feet on the Shire earth but not fully part of it all ever again. Bilbo is a simple hobbit, and does not like to thinks of alwayses and nevers and ever agains, so when those thoughts catch up with him, he returns home to do what all hobbits do to relax: smokes a pipe.
He opens the windows to feel the soft evening wind, lights the fire in the fireplace, pours himself a small ale and sits in his favourite armchair, close to the fire which keeps his feet pleasantly warm. He puts a plaid across his knees, because it is autumn and the nights are getting cold – a dwarven plaid, a gift sent by Balin from Erebor, a keepsake, a memory of the adventure which Bilbo wishes he never had and which he would never, never trade for anything. And then he reaches out over to the small table, where there are books of elven poetry and a book in nice red covers which he uses to write down his tale, and some loose pages of scribbles and half-finished poems and songs he only sometimes hums to himself, and takes his pipe.
It is a new pipe, sent by the kind king of Dale in recognition of Bilbo's help back at Erebor. It is wooden and simple but it is also shaped like a dragon and intricately ornamented, and when smoked it looks like a dragon breathing fire. A little wooden dragon, a thing to laugh at, not a terrifying beast made of scales and flames and evil, a reminder of things and times so dark Bilbo is thankful he does not have the capacity to truly understand it.
Instead he feeds the wooden dragon pipe-weed and lights the pipe and smokes, and looks at the fire dancing in the fireplace and at the night outside, and thinks. He thinks of elven waterfalls and elven music, he thinks of the dwarven kingdom, overwhelming even in its lost glory, and of dwarven songs, he thinks of fights and the battle and fear, and of his little trusted sword and of his little hobbit courage, and of friends simple and prosperous and of those baffling and wandering, and at last of friends dead and of the lives they could have lived if they had settled for a simpler life, like the one he leads now, like the one he used to lead. Ah, Bilbo, old fool, he chides himself, expecting others to be content with life you were not content with. On nights like this, with the fire and autumn wind and the cold night outside, remembering the last light of Durin's Day, he feels nostalgic, melancholic.
But he is a Baggins and so he would never admit that even to himself, so he puffs out a neat ring of smoke and lets the thoughts go with it, because they are complicated and do not suit his simple life. He takes a hearty gulp of ale, and stuffs his pipe again, and smiles, amused.
Wooden dragons are quite funny, and Bilbo laughs more than once as he watches his new pipe devour the pipe-weed and puff out smoke. Wooden dragons are safe and not real dragons and almost fit into the patchwork of the Shire. Almost. But not quite. Like the poor little hobbit that left for an adventure and found his way back, but never quite returned.