The End
TA 3019
If there is one thing Billa Baggins isn't, it is a hero.
She's been hailed as one a few times, along with a myriad of other titles; respectable Baggins, spinster, adventurer, burglahobbit, riddler, little bunny, barrel rider, elf friend, dwarf kin. Later, it was Mad Mistress Baggins of Bag End, and then Aunt Billa. Then just Billa again.
Billa Baggins has earned but a few of these titles, some self-proclaimed, some not. But when she thinks back on the journey that led to procuring many of them, she can say with certainty that she has never been a hero.
A hero doesn't cry over the man they loved after failing to save them. Doesn't bury kin when their lives could have been saved. Doesn't disappear back into the Shire in a self-imposed exile to leave what's left of that kin to die alone locked inside a mine they built.
Billa Baggins has many regrets, the latter of which is one she feels deeply; but her biggest regret is letting Frodo run off with that blasted ring.
The sun shines bright in the healing halls of Rivendell. Billa inhales deeply, the fresh air lingering on her tongue, lighter than it has tasted in decades. Frodo has banished the darkness from Middle Earth, and Billa can feel the Great Yavanna weeping with joy. The light of day shines brighter, with nary a cloud in sight, the lush greens of Rivendell turn their faces towards the bright rays, the trees grow taller. Billa has never seen such beauty.
But it has come at a cost.
Her nephew, Frodo Baggins, lies before her, still and pale as marble. His breathing is shallow, sleep occasionally haunted. Gone is the wide-eyed fauntling she'd reared and breathed curiosity into, in his place is a gaunt, painfully thin Hobbit whose sleep is plagued with dark memories. She can count his ribs beneath his shirt, can see the mottled bruises peering out underneath his sleeves, the once sun-kissed skin stained with splotchy blues, purples and faded yellows. She's not left his side since he arrived. For the first time in decades, Billa weeps and prays; she laments everything she has lost, everything that Frodo paid, to do the one thing she could not.
Now here is a true hero–and as Billa knows, all heroes have to pay a price.
Frodo will live, but the rest of his life will be haunted by this small portion of it. He will never be the same hobbit again.
Billa Baggins has many regrets, but not destroying the One Ring is perhaps the biggest of them all.
She sighs and heaves her old bones up to stand, wincing as they creak in protest.
'You know,' she says quietly. 'I don't think I ever really told you the full story of my adventure to Erebor.'
She shuffles away from her nephew's bed and towards the open balcony, feeling the warmth on her skin as she steps into the sunlight. Leaning against the wall, she takes in the views of the Last Homely House.
The air is cold and fresh and nips in her old lungs. The balcony overlooks a courtyard, overspilling with twisting greenery and bright blooms in every colour. In the distance, the sun hangs high in the sky and a small stream below captures its reflection in hundreds of mirror-like shards.
'The first time I saw this place, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I would ever see. I thought nothing could ever compare to it. Ha!' Billa guffaws. 'I was so wrong, so naive.'
Even in its desolate state, Erebor's halls were far grander to her. The Lonely Mountain's nooks and crannies held so much more wealth to a Hobbit than Rivendell's; tiny wee green sprouts that pushed up through decades of dragon muck and dust, the odd weed flowering through a crack in the wall, a snail peeking out behind crumbling brick as it munched on some stolen leaves.
She remembers thinking, during her first time here, that the dwarves' boasts were nothing more than empty words. Billa shakes her head fondly at the thought, lingering on the memory of the ease that came after weeks on the road, how the company teased her when she was presented clean and dirt free, the grime scrubbed clean from her face.
'They'd tried to warn me,' she says. 'Told me, "the road's no place for a wee lad like ye". Well, I showed em, Frodo.'
She turns back to glance at her nephew over her shoulder. He says nothing.
'I showed em.'
Billa shuffles back towards his bedside, crossing the few feet at an agonisingly slow pace. She scowls as she lowers herself back into the seat.
She feels frail. Gandalf says it is to be expected, the Ring prolonged her life.
Billa does not agree. Her bones know what her head and her heart has already accepted, that it is long past time to shuck this old skin and move on now that her final task is complete. Leaning forward, she pats Frodo's hand gently.
'I have a gift for you, Frodo.' From the bedside table, she pulls out an old book. The pages are yellowed, creased in a few places, but the cover is stiff and strong. She places the book on the bed beside his arm, 'I hope it brings you some peace in the following years.'
She leans back in her chair, crossing her hands in her lap.
The sun caresses her face and Billa allows herself a small smile. She thinks about a young Frodo, smiling at her with a large gap in his teeth; how proud Prim and Drogo would be of their son; she thinks of Gandalf and the day he showed up to her door with the promise of an adventure; the dwarves she raced after without so much as a handkerchief packed.
Lastly, after many many decades, she allows herself to think of Thorin. She thinks of the small smiles she caught on his face, his passion and conviction for reclaiming his home, his love for his sister-sons and for the company, how she would have followed that dwarf anywhere and called him her King. She thinks of the great oak tree that stands in her garden, watching over everything that grows there, and how she could see it from her favourite reading chair.
And so, the evening before the morning in which Frodo Baggins awakens to a finally peaceful Middle Earth, Billa Baggins passes on in her sleep, hoping to be reunited with her dwarven kin in their halls and the dwarf her heart has spent nearly a century longing for.
Except that is not quite what happens.