Chapter Text
The gentle waves brewed in the night lap at the boat, creating a kind of discord that Bilbo finds soothing. The gentle rocking of the deck, the whip-waving of the sails, the creak of old and magicked wood, and the smell of sea salt and brine and fish seem to clamour for his attention, but in a good way.
He stands at the ship’s bow, invisible. His hair, wild and untamed in the briney air, seems to move of its own accord, should there be one who can see it.
“Turning yourself invisible does not hide you from seers, Thorne,” a voice behind him says.
“Oh, I know, but it stops most people from talking to me,”
“We’re almost there.”
“Unfortunately.”
“I would not worry, if I were you. They can smell fear,” Bilbo laughs.
“I’m not scared. Just angry.” just venomous. Just dangerous. Just a von Thorne.
Just like his father.
“Well, we’ll be there by the morning,” Orchid departs, leaving Bilbo to brood. Briefly, he wonders about Cinder- whether or not his old enemy of a brother would embrace him to kill or to welcome.
It doesn’t matter; he is the most infamous of the black sheep to make it off the Lavender Isles. He needs no such thing as an embrace. Just now, his head is quite suddenly filled to the brim with a very white, very painful light.
Hello, Mercy .
The white light does not immediately do what it was meant to do. No, instead the seer who has attacked him must wrestle with the memories and the madness of Bilbo’s mind, and for a moment, she herself is sucked into one.
…
The procession is silent, and among the ranks of the mourners, Bilbo Baggins is taking intentionally slow breaths, trying to keep it together long enough to get through the funerals.
One by one, the three caskets are lowered into the ground, and dwarves speak in Khuzdul of their great king and his great heirs. Bilbo wonders how long they would drag out the hate they’d have for him if they knew what he’d done.
When all is done, and when only the Company remains, Bilbo silently falls to his knees, hands shoved into his hair, face growing hot with the restraint he’s exerting on himself right now. It’s a powerful thing, his grief, accumulating and rolling through and around him.
Though he tries to hold it back- a Reaper must be strong, because no one else can be for him or her- he cannot quite manage it, so he pours all his pain and his anger and his power into a single, fat tear. It tracks up the bridge of his nose, potent and meaningful, until it falls from his face and hits the floor.
His mouth, open and twisted into a snarl, does not emit a sound, even as the room seems ripple with the emotion in him.
Never again, he thinks. Even though Thorin will one day return to him (a foolish choice on Bilbo’s part, really) and even though the pull will be strong, he will not ever approach him while the both of them are living. Not even if he’s crumbling inside.
It will merely end like this again, in a place with a body or three and a big, empty hole in his chest. Breath seems to return to him, then, because his chest suddenly begins to work double time, slowly calming. When he can manage it, he rises, wipes the excess water from nose, and shakes his head, resettling his hair and smoothing his expression over.
“Goodbye everyone,” he says, addressing the remaining members of the company.
“Will we see you again?” Bilbo turns his face and gives Ori a long look. He’d like to say yes, he’d be back some day, but this right here is why Reapers do no such thing as keep friends.
“I don’t think so,” he says. Then he disappears.
…
With a powerful burst, she regains control, and quickly sucks the fighting mind in her metaphorical hands toward what she wants; toward what she was told to want.