this chapter was a pain to write.
Bilbo is quite purposely avoiding thoughts of Thorin Oakenshield, thank you.
He'd had 60-some years to dull that particular blade, and quite nearly managed to eradicate the pain entirely.
Sure, he'd never remarried, but that was only because he preferred being a bachelor. And it wasn't even like it was a real marriage; Thorin was gone not even an hour after their vows. Bilbo vividly remembers Thorin's hand going limp in his, Gandalf's lowered eyes as he shuffled forward to check one last time, the screams that bottled up in his throat and echoed in his empty body.
Yes, definitely not a real marriage.
And Bilbo had adopted Frodo purely out of love for his deceased cousins, his disdain for another cousin, and because of the spirit he could see shining out of the boy's eyes. It had nothing to do with the shade of Frodo's eyes (a sharp, stunning blue), and the way they contrasted with that thick, black hair. Indeed, nothing to do with the fact the Frodo looked like he could be Thorin's son.
Bilbo wanders down a sunlit hall of Bag End, hand tracing along the wall much like the first morning he'd woken.
The Gamgees are visiting in a few hours, and Bilbo should be in the kitchen working on that pie he's planning, but he continually finds himself distracted.
Denial is such an overwhelming thing. All of his mind is trained on keeping the deception in place, and he dares not let go in fear of the realizations swarming forth at some inconvenient time.
There are a lot of things to deny.
And no time to deny them.
Bilbo sighs as he walks past the calendar Falco had kindly gifted him on Falco's coming of age (homely little thing it is, but had been made specifically for Bilbo and so was displayed proudly in a back hallway of the smial).
He has a week.
A week to accept that he is going to have 13 dwarves on his doorstep, the only 13 beings (until Frodo is born, at least) in all of Middle-Earth he'd sacrifice anything for.
13 dwarves that would know nothing about him beyond what Gandalf told them (a lie) and what they see in his home.
13 dwarves he'd have to prove himself to all over again.
Three dwarves he's seen dead. He doesn't dwell on that (more than he already has).
Three dwarves he was spared the sight, but still knows the fate of. He mourned them not even two years past.
Ten dwarves that never bothered to visit him. He had to get news of them all from Gloin's son, 60 years later.
Tears sting his eyes. Had they ever valued him like he them?
Maybe he should just kick them right out.
Bilbo laughs aloud at that.
He finds himself back in the kitchen, and picks up working on the pie.
Making a pie is simple for him, made so by hundreds of days spent so. The actions are empty for him, and leave his mind open to continue his line of thought.
At first, he stays along that depressive thread, mourning his losses and doubting where he had been confident before. But suddenly, and he couldn't say where or how or why, Bilbo stumbles upon a new thought.
"Bugger!" He hisses as he rolls over his little finger with the rolling pin.
He examines the finger as it turns pink and starts throbbing in time with his heart. His thoughts race, run in circles.
Things have already changed, he can change things, things can change, things will change, maybe he can make the dwarves visit him afterwards, maybe he can make them care, maybe he can get rid their reservations much faster, oh great Mahal, maybe he can take care of the Ring before Frodo has to, maybe he can tell Gandalf about it, no, he can tell Gandalf, he will tell Gandalf, everything can change, the end can change-
Thorin can live.
Thorin can live.
Thorin will live.
Bilbo lets out a string of curses as the rolling pin lands directly on his foot.