Work Text:
Bilbo stands at the prow of the Elven ship, his face weathered from age, overlooking an approaching white shore. Far in the distance, where the coast meets a green countryside, Thorin Oakenshield stands, waiting with Fíli and Kíli at his side.
The Hobbit sees him as the ship docks. Leaping off, Bilbo once again becomes the young burglar who ventured to the Lonely Mountain with thirteen dwarves and a wizard eighty years ago. Bilbo stops just short of Thorin, who smiles softly as he bows.
“At your service, Master Baggins.”
Bilbo has not heard that rich baritone since apologies hastily given on a battlefield littered with broken shields and shattered souls. When Thorin raises his head, Bilbo sees a face younger than the one he used to know, bereft of the lines and grey that came of a long wandering king. Yet Thorin’s eyes are the same piercing blue, bearing the weight of his past, but also a new peacefulness that came from stone halls eternal.
Bilbo smiles and closes the distance, embracing his friend.
“At last, I am home.”