Work Text:
The smell of dew was clear in the air of the Shire.
Bilbo slowly ascended the hill overlooking his sleepy hometown, watching his fellow friends begin to awaken and gather everything they would need for the day in the market. Bilbo took a deep breath in, smelling the scents of honey and freshly-cut grass and blooming cherry trees and home.
He muttered hello only when spoken to, keeping his head cast down to the ground as he made his way through the town center back to the gleaming green door set into the hill. When he finally made it, he brushed his hand across the door, noticing how the green paint was all but unchanged since the time he’d left all those years ago. He turned the shiny golden handle and the door swung open without a squeak, the rising sun peering into the dusty contents of Bag End. Everything had been seemingly untouched, a thin layer of dust coating everything, which quickly diminished as the hobbit made his way around the hole, placing his things in their proper place.
Then, all too suddenly, Bilbo was standing in his entry hall, and it was quiet.
No shouting dwarves singing drunken songs, no wizards hitting their heads on the chandelier above him, no clattering of dishes and knives and forks, no guzzling of beer in his small dining room that Bilbo never quite understood had the capability to hold thirteen dwarves…
Nothing.
And slowly, as if the thick silence had something to do with it, Bilbo felt tears begin to course down his weathered cheeks, because there wouldn’t be any more drunken songs and the loud clatter of dishes and silverware inside of Bag End. There wouldn’t be any more hearty dinners with food and people aplenty. There wouldn’t be any more confounded dwarf kings and companies coming and ruining his simple supper. There certainly wouldn’t be any more talk of quests and dragons and gold.
Bilbo just stood, crying silently, reminiscing everyone he had lost along the journey and the friends he’d made. Dear Fíli, who would never feel the love of another woman; Kíli, who would never have a true family; Tauriel and Legolas and the Mirkwood elves, who had presumably retreated back into their kingdom and from all contact with the outside world, save for Erebor and Dale; Bard, who would never see the Shire nor taste a home cooked hobbit meal; and even Gandalf, who had disappeared after the battle had ceased, proclaiming that he had to meet with Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond in Rivendell.
And then Thorin.
Thorin. Goddamn. Oakenshield.
Thorin would never see the Shire. He would never know how it felt to have the sun warm his face through the small window in the wall of his room. He would never attend a true hobbit feast. He would never see the marketplace at its busiest, hobbits shouting prices for jewels and sewn clothes and other trademark hobbit goods. He would never play conkers with Bilbo.
Bilbo furiously wiped the tears away from his face and stomached his longing for that Lonely Mountain, looking for one last time out to the skyline, seeing the smallest tip of that ghastly place that had taken so many lives, and turned to his kitchen.
Supper was soon.
And as Bilbo chopped carrots for his meal, he could have sworn he heard a creak not unlike the noise of footsteps in the entrance hall in the house. Bilbo paused for a moment, and after hearing nothing, went back to his fervent carrot chopping.
Must be the wind.
…
Quite a while passed, with Bilbo going about his everyday business within his home. He became less involved with the community, and people began to recognize just how much his “adventure” had changed him. He would spread stories about dragons and spiders and orcs and elves, but when someone questioned him about the dwarves on his journey, Bilbo would lean back and sigh, and saying that he chose not to speak about them, to make sure that their memory was preserved in his head. Those were his dwarves, and he did not want their memories to be turned into tall tales and legends and stories.
He knew that they were alive, in a way. They were not legends. They were reclaiming what was theirs, or so they had believed. They had done what they believed was right, which is not legendary. It’s doing what is right and just. And besides, they weren't dead, either. They'd just...moved on, in another way.
No, Bilbo would write his book. A book about how he remembered them. His shining warriors clad in silver and gold armor, looking on the bright side of every dark situation, never facing away from the conflict at hand, and never giving up, no matter how much they wanted to.
And for some reason, items kept getting moved around his home. Odd.
…
It was one dark night when Bilbo, within his study writing his story, heard a small knock on the door.
He leaped up, racing to the door and wrenching it open, holding on to a small ray of hope that maybe it was one of the dwarves of Erebor, come to bring Bilbo something precious such as a gem or jewels, or just to ask how he was holding up.
It wasn’t. It was a small hobbit child, remarkably familiar, clutching a small cloth in his hand.
Bilbo squatted down and brushed the dark curls from the child’s face, connecting with a pair of brilliant blue eyes. “Frodo,” Bilbo whispered, remembering how he had played with his quite young cousin years prior to Gandalf’s surprise appearance on his doorstep.
“Frodo, my boy, what in the name of sanity are you doing here?” Bilbo asked, leading the child inside and closing the door behind him. Frodo sniffled, pulling the cloth tighter to his chest. “I-I…Momma and Poppa…a man came and said they were…dead,” Frodo said softly, tears brimming the corners of his eyes. Bilbo picked up his smaller cousin, rubbing his back as the child cried into his shoulder, out of exhaustion and grief.
Bilbo set the young lad down at the table, giving him a freshly buttered biscuit and a small cup of water. “I suppose you’ll have to stay with me now, is that right?” he said, fixing his own glass of water and biscuit before sitting down across from Frodo.
The child grinned through his tears, hiccuping slightly. “I suppose,” Frodo answered, eating his biscuit quickly. He sipped his water and paused, looking behind Bilbo. “Who is that, Uncle?” he asked, pointing to the air behind Bilbo.
The older hobbit looked around,seeing nothing. “Who are you talking about, Frodo?” Bilbo inquired, but the boy shook his head and finished his water. “Nothing,” he said, slipping out of his seat and yawning.
Bilbo picked Frodo up and brought him into the bedroom, laying the child down beside where Bilbo slept. That night, out of fear or possibly superstition, Bilbo wore his mithril shirt underneath his tunic, just to be safe.
…
Months passed.
Items such as Bilbo’s dagger, his handkerchief, and even his pack were left sitting around and turned up in odd places throughout his house. Bilbo didn’t know what to think of it. He didn’t want Frodo finding anything dangerous he’d brought back from the quest, and he did his best to hide his things until the boy would be able to understand.
In fact, Bilbo had the guest room redone for Frodo, since it became too childish for the boy to continue sleeping in Bilbo’s bed.
Then, one night, when the moon was full and Bilbo could have sworn he’d heard Thorin’s voice humming his misty mountains song, he heard Frodo’s feet scuffing softly along the carpet until the boy’s silhouette was in the doorway.
"Frodo, my dear boy, whatever is the matter?" the old hobbit called. The young boy tiptoed over to Bilbo’s side of bed and peered up at his uncle with wide blue eyes. “Uncle, who is Thorin Oakenshield?”
Bilbo nearly fell out of his bed right then and there.
“Who? Why do you ask this of me?” he whimpered. Frodo sat down on the wooden chest that sat parallel to the bed, and clasped his small hands on his lap. “He talks to me all the time. He says he’s watching over you,” the boy said in a small voice, not breaking eye contact with the older hobbit.
Bilbo’s hands slowly covered his mouth as he felt tears spring from his eyes. Thorin Oakenshield, the king under the mountain, had followed him? And all at once, the memories came crashing down around Bilbo like shards of glass.
Thorin, softly smiling as he held Bilbo tightly to his chest after the fiery confrontation with Azog…
Thorin, his eyes sparkling as Bilbo vouched for him in front of the Master of Lake-town…
Thorin, handing him the mithril shirt and the acorn, widely smiling at him as he pocketed the acorn…
Of course.
Because Thorin loved him. Thorin gave up everything for his master burglar, and he did everything with the best intention for Bilbo, so he never really left because he wanted to watch over his curious little hobbit.
“Uncle?”
Bilbo wiped his eyes, blinking a few times before looking at Frodo. “What is it, my dear boy?” he asked, keeping his voice in check. “Who is he? Thorin Oakenshield?” Frodo asked. Bilbo gathered the young lad into his lap, smiling and looking far off into the distance.
“Frodo, he was a young warrior prince, from the dwarven house of Durin. He was kind, respectable, fearless, and above all, a good friend,” Bilbo said. The boy nodded to himself, looking up at Bilbo.
“Tell me more!” he squealed, scrambling out of Bilbo’s arms and sitting cross-legged in front of him. Bilbo chuckled, gathering the rambunctious child into his arms and carrying him back to his room. He laid the boy down on his bed, and was halfway out the door when Frodo called to him. “Will you tell me stories, Uncle? About Thorin?” he asked.
Bilbo chuckled. “I suppose, eventually. But always remember what I tell you about him. Never tarnish his memory by the ramblings of the other folk in this town,” Bilbo explained. Frodo nodded, yawning and turning onto his side. “Good night, Uncle,” he mumbled sleepily. “Good night, Frodo,” he whispered, blowing out the candle next to his door and walking back to his room.
Across the hall, near the door, a man clad in dark-colored furs and with long, dark hair braided with small silver tokens stood, leaning on the wall, watching Bilbo go into his bedroom and blow out the candle. “Oh, Master Burglar,” he rumbled, removing the pipe from his mouth and turning to look out the small window towards the east, where the faintest hint of a mountain peeked over the misty horizon.
“You’ll be alright,” the figure concluded to himself, and vanished, leaving behind only a low hum.
And that night, when the breeze carried through Bilbo’s room from the open window, it carried a voice, humming a familiar tune that Bilbo would have recognized immediately, had he been awake. But no, the old hobbit was curled up underneath his covers, dreaming of mountains, dragons, and his favorite dwarven king.