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Bilbo looked out over the Rivendell valley. The sun was high in the sky and the waterfall sprayed flecks of white and gold into the air. There was not a single cloud in a sky as blue and deep as the ocean. Bilbo closed his eyes and felt warmth seep into his body like hot butter. He smiled to himself. Bag-End had become so terribly cold, likely from those awful draughts he never had the time or inclination to fix.
Frodo and his friends had arrived safely in Rivendell. His nephew had a nasty cut on his shoulder that turned Bilbo’s stomach, but the elves had worked their talents and all finally seemed to be well. Elrond was organising some big meeting of sorts, and new faces were arriving in Rivendell by the day. Bilbo didn’t appreciate the endless introductions and reintroductions, so he often retreated to his own favourite balcony to sit and write his book.
Admittedly this afternoon had been more sitting than writing. Bilbo picked at his teeth, trying to dislodge a biscuit crumb. He had written about the trek to Erebor and his journey deep into the mountain. After that he couldn’t place the order of events. He was certain that the dwarves had gotten into Erebor before Smaug attacked Laketown, but he couldn’t place the details. He used to recite this story to Frodo and Sam on long winter nights, but now his memory felt clouded and uncertain.
“Gods above, is that Bilbo Baggins?” a low voice whispered.
Bilbo looked up. An elderly dwarf stood at the end of the balcony. His beard was dirty white, with faded ginger strips hanging on around the centre, tired into two loose braids beneath his chin. He clutched a small walking stick in his hand, and Bilbo’s eyes were immediately drawn to the enormous silver ring on his right index finger. The ring had a faded crest, but even at this distance Bilbo knew the insignia of the king under the mountain.
“Glóin!” Bilbo felt a lightness come across his face, as he stood to embrace his friend.
Glóin stood still for a moment. His mouth hung slightly ajar, and he looked as if he was either going to burst into tears or throw his walking stick across the room. Bilbo noticed that Glóin’s hand was trembling, causing his walking stick to wobble on the smooth elven floors.
“Come and sit with me,” Bilbo scampered to the dwarf and guided him to a seat, “we’ve got chess, snacks, tea, or I’m certain I can get the elves to bring us something a bit stronger if you fancy.”
“He was right,” Glóin muttered to himself, letting Bilbo guide him into one of the reclined seats, “you haven’t aged a day.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Bilbo knew he babbled when he was embarrassed, “I’m beginning to get the worst grey hairs, would you look at that? On my eyebrows too. Who would’ve thought! Got some terrible foot pains in the past few days as well. You probably know what I mean! Not that I think you’re old. You look terrific!”
Glóin turned to Bilbo. His eyes were shining with tears. He leaned across the seat and scooped Bilbo into a deep hug. “Foolish hobbit,” the dwarf’s voice cracked, “I’ve missed you so much.”
Bilbo stiffened, and slowly patted Glóin’s back. He knew that Elrond had invited dwarves. Somehow he hadn’t considered one of the thirteen being there. He felt a pain at the back of his mind and the unmistakeable desire to disappear. Bilbo gently prized himself free of Glóin’s embrace and attempted his best sheepish grin.
They sat for a moment, neither one certain what to say to the other. Bilbo could count on one hand the times he and Glóin had been alone together. He wondered what normal people did in situations like this.
“I forgot how warm Rivendell was,” Bilbo stammered, desperate to fill the silence, “can hardly sleep in it.”
Glóin nodded, tapping his finger along his walking cane. The dwarf gazed out over the balcony, his breath long and slow.
Bilbo bit his lip. This might be harder than he thought. “Did Elrond invite you?” he asked, hopeful.
“Mm. Yes,” Glóin said, combing a hand through his beard, “my son Gimli as well.”
“Oh wonderful!” Bilbo said, a wave of relief rushing over him at some shared ground, “my nephew is here too. Frodo. Lovely lad, you must meet him. Had a bit of a scare on the way here, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. I wonder what Elrond has in store. Do you think it could be another adventure?”
Glóin turned to look at Bilbo with a strange expression. Bilbo felt the immediate regret of having misspoken. The moment passed in an instant, and a smile opened over Glóin’s face. “I never knew what that elf was thinking,” Glóin’s eyes crinkled like worn parchment, “I listened to Thorin. Thorin told me to go, so I went.”
“Yes, well, Thorin was something else,” Bilbo felt his heart beat a little quicker as he thought of his king.
“He never showed his hand,” a familiar spark had entered Glóin’s eye, “but we knew he was keen on his burglar.”
“Oh goodness. Glóin. Stop that,” Bilbo made a disapproving face at the dwarf, “that’s ancient history anyway. I’m a respectable citizen now. People look up to me.”
Glóin raised his eyebrows in a knowing manner. Bilbo smirked and reclined in his seat. He remembered sitting around the fire with his friends, weaving stories from embers and starlight. Bilbo would sit next to Thorin and watch him speak. There was no-one who told stories like Thorin. Bilbo wished that Frodo had been given the chance to meet him.
Glóin watched the hobbit for a moment. It was like watching a sculpture built on alabaster, beautiful and ready to fall apart. Glóin wondered if Bilbo knew his body was changing. Gandalf had warned him, but there was something uncanny in seeing it.
“Gandalf told me that you’ve been working on a book,” Glóin asked, sitting forward in his chair.
“Oh, let me show you!” Bilbo leapt to his feet. A sudden flash of white hot pain lanced up his spine. Bilbo gasped and tried to steady himself. The table was lower than he realised, and he felt himself begin to fall. A pair of strong hands caught him by the shoulders. Glóin guided Bilbo back to his seat.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Bilbo felt stupid and small, “that’s never happened to me before.”
A sad smile passed across Glóin’s face. He looked at his friend, still a young hobbit heart, who had found himself in a body too old for his mind. He could see the loosening skin around Bilbo’s cheeks, the veins in his hands. Whatever had kept Bilbo young was long gone, and Glóin knew there would be no graceful ageing for this hobbit. The years would fall on him like an avalanche, each day a new betrayal from a body he used to know.
“Let me help,” Glóin leaned on his walking stick and rose to his feet. He offered his arm to Bilbo, who took it and slowly crept to standing.
“You know what, Glóin,” Bilbo sighed, “I don’t think I’ll be going on this adventure."
Glóin put his arm around Bilbo’s back and they walked into the cool halls of Rivendell. “It’s a young person’s world now,” Glóin said, “and it’s time for us to step aside.”
“Quite. I’ve got an awful amount of writing left anyway,” Bilbo said, “speaking of which, perhaps you can help me. When we got to Erebor, did you and Thorin get into the mountain before or after Smaug left?”
Glóin laughed and began to tell his story. The two wandered the halls and vistas of Rivendell sharing memories, arguing over details, and remembering friends long gone. It was on a late afternoon stroll that Samwise Gamgee spotted them stood on a bridge, pointing at fish leaping in the river.
“Frodo, who’s that with Master Bilbo?” Sam asked, squeezing Frodo’s hand and pointing.
Frodo turned to look. “I can’t tell from here,” he said, “they look like friends though.”