December 21, T.A. 3018, just before midnight.
(***)
When Bilbo woke, he forgot, for a moment, where he was. With his face pressed into his soft pillow and his thick quilt covering him, he could imagine he was still in Bag End.
But the illusion lifted quickly. His sheets in Bag End had never been this silky. Dim, orange light from his fading hearth illuminated elegant carvings on his bed posts and all along the walls of his room. His room in Rivendell – deep within one of the buildings, for the elves had become concerned for his comfort.
Winter had blown into the mountains, cold and grey. It seemed only the colder and greyer since learning that Frodo and his company were to depart soon. When he'd walked away from the ring in the Shire, Bilbo felt an ache in his bones hit him with a vengeance. His back was always stiff now. His knees always hurt. The wind made him shiver.
Elrond had insisted that Bilbo be moved away from the open air. So many rooms in Rivendell had no windows at all, or they remained open in all but the most inclement weather. There were interior rooms, windowless but well-lit with hearths, candles and lamps on sconces on the walls. So there he had moved, and here he was now. Away from the chill, yes, but the room became stuffy with the door shut. The fire and his hours of breathing in and out filled their air with a fug that could not be avoided, no matter that the elves had hung bunches of dried lavender and lemon balm from his rafters.
But who was he to complain? In a few days Frodo would no longer have such comforts, out on the roads with Aragorn and the rest of the fellowship in the depths of December, heading for peril after peril. If Bilbo had not been so blind, then maybe Frodo would not have had to volunteer for such a journey. But he could not change the past, and his poor nephew would take this journey: he would be unprotected against the bitter winter all too soon. And it was all Bilbo's fault. The old hobbit shook his head, trying to prevent the regret that clawed at him from taking hold tonight.
Instead, he sat up and creakily swung his legs over the edge of the bed, where they dangled comically high off the ground. Given his increasing infirmity, Elrond had brought Bilbo a sort of stool he could use to step up and down from the bed. He gripped the nightstand and made the laborious effort of climbing to the floor, lit a candle so he wouldn't stumble in the dark, then shambled across the room to the door.
The old hobbit reached up to the doorknob, which he could all too easily hit his forehead on if he was not careful, and turned the knob with stiff fingers. He pulled the door open and breathed in the fresh air that blew in from the hallway. His worries and discomfort dimmed in his mind – he knew that smell. Bilbo's heart leapt. Without thinking, still in his nightshirt, he began to shuffle down the hallway.
(***)
Elrond sat in his study, trying to focus on the scroll Arwen had given to him as a yule gift, but his mind was troubled. What a quest he was sending that poor, young hobbit on! A fool's errand. A fool's hope. But he'd volunteered and it had felt like one of those moments in which the greatness of heart of one small fool might rise to defeat all the evils of the world. And with him the Istar, and Aragorn with his Anduril, the reforged sword. Elrond closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers. They could not fail. He could not leave until they succeeded. Their chances were so slim it hurt.
What elves were left in Imladris had dutifully lit lanterns, candles, and fires. They prepared to sing through the long night of the winter solstice as they had since the days of this world when there was a night and a day and the long cycles of the sun circling their Arda. As their Lord, Elrond had of course attended the feast, although the hall felt much too empty with so many already gone into the west. After a few hours, he'd felt too heartsick to stay, and he'd made his excuses to retire – ignoring the worried looks of his children from their places at his table.
What now? He thought. What was left to do but wait? Wait in the gathering dark.
His sharp ears caught a distant sound of feet padding down the hallway. Just Bilbo, poor old Bilbo, going to the lavatory again, no doubt. But then the sound kept going past the turn towards the lavatory and on, on past the door to Elrond's own study.
He rose, curious now, and looked out the door at the retreating back of the old hobbit, his white hair bobbing in the dark like he was already a ghost. Elrond's heart twinged.
"Master Baggins," he called out. "Where are you going, my friend?"
"It's the first snow!" Bilbo replied, excitement in his husky voice. "I can smell it in the air, can't you! Nothing like that smell, the first snow."
"It is the middle of the night, you need to rest. You are not as young as you once were," Elrond chided his guest gently. "You can see the snow in the morning."
"No guarantees when you're my age," Bilbo called back, not turning or stopping. "I never know anymore if I'll wake up in the morning. Could be my last first snow. Can't miss it."
A small, pained smile crossed Elrond's face as he watched his friend continue down the dark walkway.
"Besides," Bilbo said with a chuckle. "Who're you to call me old, eh?"
Elrond laughed and took a step, ready to follow. Then he had another thought, and he turned back into his room.
(***)
When Bilbo reached the terrace, the railings and the tops of the swan-like arches from which the lanterns hung were already dusted with snow. Bright flakes fell swiftly, streaking the darkness and the pooling, golden light of the solstice fires with flashes of white. All through the valley, windows and doorways shone with orange lights that dotted the heavy blue air. The lights gleamed on the trees and mountainsides, on the sprays of water from the falls, and on the little piles of white snow that gathered on lintels and branches.
"Magic," whispered Bilbo. He ignored the chill that began to seep into his body and stepped out from under the covered walkway so he could touch the snow and taste it. He held up his candle, adding its small light to the warm yellow glow that flowed over the balcony in pools edged by sharp, blue shadows. He held out his hand to receive the snowflakes, which landed as softly as kisses on his outstretched palm. It was so beautiful he felt tears prick at his eyes.
He felt a quiet presence behind him but he knew, somehow, who it was. He felt Elrond's large hands settle a thick, velvet blanket around his shoulders.
"You did not even think to wear your dressing gown," the elf lord murmured. "You must take better care of yourself."
"Oh, hush and look," Bilbo said fondly. "With all due respect of course," he added as he thought better of being so casual with such a great person, whether they were friends or not.
[Image description: watercolor painting of the previous scene, with Bilbo holding his hand out to touch snow beneath lanterns in Rivendell]
(***)
So Elrond looked. It was snow, like so many snows that had come before and would come after. It was a wet snow, he thought. Either it would melt by morning, or it would freeze into hard ice, coating the statues of Imladris with silver armor. Each flake streaked from the sky, blue, then yellow in the light, then blue again as it fell into the valley.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Bilbo said.
"Yes," Elrond agreed. "In its way."
"It's the long night tonight," Bilbo said.
"Yes, so it is. A day of darkness," Elrond agreed.
Bilbo turned and shook his head at the elf. "So tomorrow it will begin to get lighter again, day by day," the hobbit concluded. "Tomorrow we'll be closer to spring than autumn."
Elrond chuckled. "I always knew you were an optimist, my friend," he said fondly.
"These dark days cannot last," Bilbo said, turning again and lifting his face up to let the snowflakes settle on his white hair and eyelashes. "Everything changes. Nothing stays the same. You should know that better than anyone."
Elrond looked out over this hidden valley that he'd made his home with his beloved Celebrían, where his sons and his daughter had been born. He remembered when it was nothing but forest. He remembered the scaffolding and years of effort to build these halls that had provided a safe haven to himself and his people for all these centuries. He remembered the days of plenty, when Arwen was small and had to be chased through the kitchen gardens until he could catch her, throw her in the air, and drag her back to the library to learn her letters.
Then he looked into the swirling eddies of the future, twisting and turning at every fork on every path of every person who ever lived. He saw this valley empty and dark. He saw the trees and vines reclaim the elves' homes until they had faded into nothing. He saw sun shine on it, and snow fall on it. And he saw this balcony, before it crumbled into dust, on which one Bilbo Baggins of Bag End would never again stand. He closed his eyes against the grief that broke against his soul like a great wave.
And then. And then he saw something else. He saw that far shore in the West, coming closer and closer from the prow of a ship shaped like a great swan's head. As the docks of that elven city where he had never stepped foot approached, he saw in the distance a familiar sight: he could not yet make out her face, but the form of his wife, her silver hair glinting under the bright sun, was so familiar he recognized her immediately. His heart leapt, and then fell again, remembering he would have to tell her that their daughter would not be joining them. He landed somewhere in the middle, aching for them both.
He felt a tiny hand pat his own and looked down in surprise. There, on the deck of the ship sailing to Valinor, stood the old hobbit, more wizened even than Mithrandir, who stood behind him.
"It'll be alright," Bilbo murmured in his deep, aged voice. "We'll be there soon enough." Elrond's heart squeezed; he felt hot tears threaten his eyes.
"Lord Elrond - Elrond!" Bilbo called out, his voice beginning to sharpen with annoyance. "Did you even hear what I said?"
"I am sorry," Elrond told Bilbo gently. "I drifted off into another world. Tell me again, will you?"
This time he listened and listened well. And he watched the small wonder standing before him, who he knew now would not vanish into the dark night of Middle Earth. One day, they would travel to the Blessed Realm – together.
(***)
Note: This was inspired by an art prompt I was given in an art trade with a friend. The art came first and I'm quite happy with it. Please feel welcome to check it out on DeviantArt, Tumblr, or Ao3. It's titled "First Snow" or is embedded in the story, depending. I have the same username everywhere.