Chapter 9

It had continued to snow for the rest of the night and well into the morning. Bilbo glanced at the drifting white flakes outside his kitchen window, gripping a steaming mug of tea in one hand and his aching head in the other. He winced, the bright white light sending another spike of pain through his temples, and pressed the heels of both hands to his eyes.

The previous night, he and Thorin had watched the snow through the window for a few minutes, unease filling the room. Bilbo had reasoned that the cold spell would pass, and that while snow this early in the season was certainly out of the ordinary, it didn't really mean anything. He'd fallen asleep shortly afterwards and forgotten all about it.

But now, sitting here with a relatively clear (if pounding) head, Bilbo couldn't ignore the anxiety that had settled on his shoulders. No one had been prepared for the unexpected snow. If it persisted—and Bilbo had an awful feeling that it would—it could prove disastrous for the crops.

He also suspected that this was somehow related to the other mysterious occurrences. Although snow was hardly as sinister as black rot or sudden deaths, it had the potential to do much more damage.

Bilbo pushed himself to his feet, hissing through his teeth as his head gave a nasty twinge. He needed something to do with his hands, and he'd just remembered the mess he'd made in the dining room the night before.

The cloth used to clean up the spill went into the laundry basket, and he stood for a moment, considering the brimming glass of wine still standing on the table. After a moment's consideration, he dumped the whole thing out. A prickling sensation rose on his skin, and Bilbo frowned. His father would have blanched at the idea of wasting good food or drink.

Nausea rolled through his stomach, and he collapsed into the nearest chair, taking a couple of shaky breaths. All at once, from some hidden corner in his mind, a flood of guilt tumbled down like a sack of apples ripped open from the bottom.

His father would have been so disappointed to see him like this—arguing with his cousin, shutting himself away, talking to ghosts. He never would have approved his running off on an adventure at all.

Didn't that still mean something to him?

Bilbo found himself walking, not knowing where he was going until he ended up in his study. The room suddenly felt incredibly small, crowded with books and maps and the fanciful tale he'd half-written about his journey to a faraway mountain.

He took a step back, bumping into the doorframe. The sudden urge rose within him to close the door and lock it, to seal everything away beyond memory. He wanted to get far away from it all, but there was nowhere to go. The farthest he could ever go from the idea of adventures and the unexpected was his own house.

Just as confused, desperate panic was beginning to build in his chest, Bilbo felt a sudden shift in the air. He turned to see the bedroom door swing open, and a moment later Thorin stepped out, his hair still slightly mussed from sleep.

"Oh, you're awake," he said, doing his utmost to eliminate any shakiness from his voice. "I just thought I'd let you sleep in." He stepped closer, taking in Thorin's familiar features and searching for a sign, anything that might ground him and help him make sense of the battle that was raging within.

Thorin turned to him, and his smile faded as he caught sight of Bilbo's face. Concern furrowed his brow. "Are you all right?"

Bilbo opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn't come. As much as he had made a habit of telling Thorin what was going through his mind—his troubles, his worries, his hopes—a terrible fear had locked his thoughts in place. He was afraid saying it out loud would only confirm the fact that he didn't truly belong anywhere, and that he never would.

"I'm a bit hungover from last night," he said, forcing a smile.

"Ah." Some of the worry disappeared from Thorin's face, though he still watched him closely as Bilbo walked past him and into the sitting room. "Anything I can do?" he asked, taking a seat on the couch beside him.

He shook his head, then immediately regretted it as his headache flared up again. "No. I'll just have to wait it out."

"All right." Thorin clasped his hands in his lap and let out a sigh through his nose. "If you are...agreeable to it, I would like to continue our discussion from last night."

From what Bilbo remembered, they hadn't been discussing much of anything. "What were we talking about, again?"

Thorin settled back against the cushions. "Have you given much thought to your future?"

If someone had asked him that two years ago, he would have said that things would stay the same. He had never really considered getting married or having children. For the most part, he had lived his life day-to-day, and nothing unexpected had ever come of it—until, of course, it had.

Now, things were a bit more complicated. Bilbo could not see himself living in the Shire for the rest of his life, but he had no idea where he would go otherwise. Like their time getting lost in Mirkwood, the path before his feet seemed to have disappeared entirely.

If he was being quite honest, Thorin's question scared him.

"I only ask because I am concerned for you. You've become reclusive and unhappy, and I fear it is because of me."

He turned to face Thorin, his eyes wide. A quiet uneasiness had taken over the dwarf's expression, and Bilbo could tell he was struggling to meet his gaze.

"I do not wish to take away your life, to take away the time you spend with your people."

It took a moment for Bilbo to find his voice. "No, Thorin, this has nothing to do with you. I-I mean, I love spending time with you. But it hasn't changed the way I...well." A brief, unsteady smile flashed onto his face. "I was hardly the most sociable of hobbits even before I went on the quest with you lot."

Thorin shook his head. "I do not belong here, and it is clear that has caused you a great deal of pain. My presence has forced you to choose between your home and the life you experienced outside of the Shire. It is a choice that you should not have to make."

Spots of cold tingled on his skin, as though the window has blown open and snow had swept into the room. Thorin was more observant than he'd thought, apparently, and had laid the problem out with disturbing accuracy. But what bothered him the most was the fact that he was placing the blame on himself.

"Look. I know things are hardly perfect the way they are. B-But we can make it work."

"Are you willing to live like this for the rest of your life?"

Once again, Thorin's question made him stop short. With each one, his lack of answers grew more and more apparent, and he felt despair well up within him.

When Bilbo didn't respond, Thorin continued, "Something needs to change. It pains me to see you struggle like this. And if I am the reason—"

"Stop. Just stop it." The words came out sharper than he'd intended, but they fully reflected the fear galloping along with his heartbeat. "You are the only thing that has ever made sense to me in this whole mess, Thorin. You have done the opposite of making things worse."

"Bilbo…"

The sadness and resignation in his voice reignited his urge to run, to escape this stifling house. He leapt to his feet. "No. We're not talking about this now. I won't hear any more of this nonsense."

He made his way to the front hall and threw on his cloak with trembling hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thorin follow him, and before he could speak Bilbo said, "I'm going out. On a walk. Alone."

"You cannot run from this."

The quiet pain in his voice made all the chaos within him twist up a little tighter, and without making eye contact, Bilbo said, "I am not the one running from anything. It is quite clear to me that you've got it all backwards, Thorin." He wrenched open the door with more force than necessary. "But if you are so keen on leaving, then I will not stop you."

The bitter white flakes did not let up as Bilbo forged his way through the thick blanket of snow covering the path. Their chaotic movements were a perfect mirror to the utterly confused thoughts howling in his mind.

For a moment, Bilbo found himself swallowed up in memories of the battle, of clashing steel and screaming and dust mixing with the snow, the cold of the stone floors of Ravenhill, how it had bit into his skin as he knelt and watched blood well up hopelessly between his fingers.

His recollection of that day always seemed to creep up when he least expected it. Bilbo found himself walking much faster than necessary as he descended the hill. This time, he wasn't sure whether he was running from something or towards someone he knew he would never reach in time.

Where are you going?

The question seemed to echo all around him, demanding and relentless.

Where are you going?

There was nowhere to go. It was like Mirkwood all over again—walking in circles through dreaded shadows and eerie noises until the whole Company had nearly gone mad.

"Say, where are you off to in such a hurry, Mister Baggins?"

"I don't know!"

Bilbo didn't realize he'd shouted the words until he turned and saw Farmer Cotton's face, eyes wide and mouth turned down into a small, shocked frown.

"Sorry." A small measure of coherence took over the turmoil boiling within. "I-I was just…" I can't say I'm lost, I'm ten minutes from my own house.

"No need to apologize," he mumbled, turning his back to continue hitching his pony to its cart.

It was plain that interaction was already in shambles, so Bilbo swallowed down any half-formed explanations that had come to mind and continued along the road at a tamer pace.

No, Thorin had gotten it completely backwards. If anyone was to blame, it was Bilbo. He couldn't seem to keep anything straight, even though hobbits were known for living simple lives. In his confusion, he had lashed out at everyone who had just been trying to help.

First Hamfast, then Farmer Cotton, and even Thorin—

Bilbo froze in his tracks.

If you are so keen on leaving, then I will not stop you.

Snow flew into the air as he turned on his heel and raced back the way he had come, back towards Bag End. The stone was hard and unforgiving beneath his feet. He had Sting clutched in one hand, orc's blood still drying on his fingers. The cold, biting wind carried the cries of battle along with a spray of stinging snow.

Please, please, please don't let me be too late.

Little white clouds puffed out with every panting breath as Bilbo slipped and sprinted his way back up the hill. By the time he'd reached the top, he was nearly out of breath, and the rest of it was stolen by surprise as he caught sight of the figure standing in front of his front gate.

Like a tall plume of smoke, Gandalf stood on the path, his gray robe and hat stark against the swirling snow. Upon hearing his panting and footsteps, the wizard turned and fixed him with his usual inscrutable stare.

"Bilbo Baggins. I hope I have not caught you at an inconvenient time."

"I—What—" He hesitated, momentarily caught between It's good to see you again and What on earth are you doing here? Then the thought of Thorin crowded all of it out of his mind and he managed a quick, "One moment, please," before throwing open the gate and hurrying back inside.

Bilbo didn't dare call out his name, so he tossed his cloak at the peg by the door (and missed) and began checking the rooms one by one, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

He had nearly given up hope when he threw open the door to the study and found a familiar dark-haired figure standing near the desk. Relief had his whole body going limp, and he leaned against the doorframe to catch his breath for the second time in five minutes.

Thorin turned around and took a half-step towards him before stopping himself. "Bilbo?"

He launched himself across the room and wrapped his arms around the dwarf. He was immeasurably relieved to find that Thorin was still solid and real, a feeling he had not experienced in months.

After a moment of hesitation, Thorin returned the embrace, pulling Bilbo closer with one hand on the back of his head and the other around his waist.

"I want to clarify my words to you this morning," he said, leaning back so he could look Bilbo in the eye. "I fear there may have been a misunderstanding between us."

"Yes. That. I-I want to hear what you have to say." He took a deep breath, taking in the fact that Thorin was still here and allowing it to steady him. "But there's someone we need to see first." He had not abandoned his Baggins propriety so much that he would leave a guest out in the cold.

Straightening himself out and taking a deep breath, he returned to the front door and opened it, wincing at the gust of cold air that rushed in. "Sorry about that," he said to Gandalf, who opened the front gate and made his way to the front door. "Please, come in. Can I get you something to drink? Tea, perhaps?"

"That's quite all right," Gandalf said, shaking some snow from his hat and propping his staff against the wall near the door. "I won't be long at all, in fact. I'm here on a matter of business."

"I-Is that so?" Bilbo said with a nervous laugh, walking towards the sitting room and gesturing for Gandalf to follow. "Well, I must say, I think my questing days are over. I've had quite enough encounters with dragons for one lifetime."

"It is nothing of that sort," Gandalf said, taking a seat on the couch, which creaked under his weight.

Bilbo perched himself on an armchair, and Thorin stood by the fireplace, eyeing the wizard with cautious curiosity.

"I am here to speak with you about the oak tree that has grown above your home."

I should probably point out that I know absolutely nothing about agriculture, so apologies to my farmer readers if any of this is inaccurate.
This chapter was a little harder to write, what with all the conflicting thoughts and emotions Bilbo is having, so hopefully I did it all justice.

Thanks a bunch to Anno1701 for the nice comment. I hope you're all enjoying this fic, and thanks so much for reading this chapter. As always, please leave a comment letting me know what you think, it means a lot to me.

Next chapter is the big reveal, so stay tuned!