He had meant to make it beyond The Last Homely House. He had taken the exact route out of The Shire as he (they) had the last (first) time, out of Bywater and along the Great East Road, over the Edge of the Wild and across the Ford of Bruinen. Down the cliffs, into the valley of Imladris, and once past some invisible threshold he had been almost immediately set upon by twin laughing faces and a chorus of greetings.
Elrond's twins; centuries old, but still the Half-Elven's sons, which meant they were at times most unlike their solemn, regal father. Their kinsmen were more serene in their receiving of him, and it had gladdened his heart to see familiar faces among the crowd of ethereal beings gathered in -
"My welcome?" He had asked, noting the feasting table and the gaggle of minstrels and Elrond's quiet smile. "All this for me?"
"You are Elf-friend," Elrond merely said, and that name made him recall another Fair Being, silver and stern against a backdrop of red tents and grey mud.
Elf-friend, he had been that day. And Dwarrow-friend too, perhaps, though he would gladly give the title back if it meant never having to hear that farewell pass from pale bloodied lips.
That night, he looked at himself in the mirror, and knew that he would not see the Mountain again.
He had meant to make it beyond Elrond's House, further east of Mirkwood, and into Dale and Laketown and finally, finally, to Erebor. But that is no longer his journey now.
He still wonders what had really stopped him, that day; the terror of what he would find, or the horror of what he had already found.
He writes, as he had always done, to pass the time. His fingers no longer grip the quill as well, and he now burns twice the number of candles (and almost sets his manuscript alight on three separate occasions) to aid his eyes, but his strokes are sure and true still - in Common or Elvish or Cirth Runes.
It takes him a little under five months to finish his book. Keeping mostly to himself in his quarters had given him the space to put in the finishing touches, as well as keeping his then unfinished writings from the prying eyes of that nosy Elf - Elladan, or Elrohir, he can never remember, nor tell them apart. At least their sister could be counted on to remain sensible in these matters.
The red leather is warm in the sunlight that streams in from high arched windows, as he reaches over to open it.
There and Back Again, he reads, silently, proudly. A Hobbit's Tale by Bilbo Baggins
He flips the pages absently - he needs no reminders, knows every page of this book intimately. Knows that as much as he had tried to fill it, that there were pages still left un-inked and empty of any memories or thoughts. Not that he is entirely surprised; he had left a long enough trail of crumpled sheafs before he finally had come to the understanding that some things were just not meant to be said, in written word or otherwise. That some things were just not meant to be remembered, were not meant for him to remember.
He runs a hand over the first blank page when at the moment, the idea that strikes him makes him smile.
A smile that is, as usual, most abruptly and rudely interrupted by the appearance of that confounded Grey Wizard. Followed shortly by an entire troop of Men, Elves and Hobbits, bearing with them the small limp figure of his nephew.