A second chapter.
Bilbo sat in his study.
The window was left opened and the cold winter breeze flushed in, sending shivers through the frail form of the room's sole occupant. Yet, the hobbit made no effort to render a change.
It was a reminder of those cold days atop the mountains where there were no roofs to sleep under, where his limbs froze from the ice, and yet his heart had never been so warm.
For it was amongst his... companions, that he sat, huddled.
Bilbo had long come to admit that he would never again find peace in this peaceful land. As of late, he had been spending hours and hours poring over old maps; he knew Frodo thought him peculiar - odd, his nephew would say, and he lived up proudly to it.
Almost sixty years had gone by, and there had never been a night when he did not retire to bed without clutching an old piece of parchment against his chest. Bilbo had tried to lull himself to sleep without it, but the action only proved to be the most ineffective, for he would toss and turn in his bed with sweat pouring all over him; he was overtaken by nightmares which haunted him in his wake. Only when the yellowed piece of parchment was retrieved, pressed tight against his heart, would he let out a sigh of relieve, of contentment, and sleep would at last overcome him.
It was a sketch of himself.
A quill hovered above an empty page of a red leather-bound book. Bilbo paused for a moment to steady his shaky hand, pinned his quill down, and began to write.
"Far over the Misty Mountains cold,
To a mountain steep, and the golden halls.
The mines restored, the throne reclaimed,
Yet naught was crowned, in Durin's name.
~
The winds were howling, through empty rooms,
The fire ceased burning, where death once loomed.
Yet silence crept, the songs no more,
No harps nor fiddles, not in Erebor.
~
Sleep well, my friends, the night had passed.
You all deserve your rest at last.
Long battles fought, a war is won.
Heed not the cries, the night's long gone.
~
The quest mere memories, the journey a dream.
We made our peace, all faults redeemed.
Last battle fought, last words declared.
Goodbye dear friends, it's time I fare."
It seemed like only yesterday, that this same tune echoed through these rooms. The words were full of hope and yearning that they brought a spark to his heart, and ignited the flames that were in him. It was this song, with the lyrics of the dwarves, which opened his eyes, woken his imaginations, and brought him to life.
The company had paid him a visit once, exactly a year after their journey began; only those who were on time, of course. They played and sang a few merry songs, but nobody spoke of The Misty Mountains. Bilbo did not ask, he knew why; the song would not begin unless the first thrum of the golden harp was heard, and there was no harp. He was late, as always, and the music would not sound nice without the two fiddles to accompany it anyway.
"What's this?"
Bilbo's hand was immediately at his belt as the sound of the voice woke him from his reverie. By Aulë! Thorin will surely scold him for not being on guard again!
A second later, however, the old hobbit realized that it was only Frodo bending over his shoulder who had spoken, and that it had been over half a century that he had any real need to keep Sting by his side.
And Thorin...
"That is private." He snapped, and snatched the precious piece of sketch back as his heart fell. "Keep your sticky paws off. It's not ready yet."
"Humph!" Frodo pretended to be crossed, but smiled nevertheless. "Not ready for what?"
The old hobbit's hand ghosted over the cover of the red leather bound book which he had just closed. His gaze tore through the empty space in front of him. Bilbo sighed.
"Reading."