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It was unfair, really.
“Take him, if you wish him to live; and no friendship of mine goes with him.”
“Uncle!”
“Yes, Frodo?”
“The tomatoes are green!”
Bright blue eyes on the young hobbit’s face were filled with glee. Around Frodo’s large pointed ears, dark hair fell in curls that struck at his heartstrings in a painful tune. It was almost too much to bear.
“Let go of him, he is gone now.”
“Uncle! Do you see my tomatoes!”
“Yes, Frodo. I see them, they’re coming along nicely.”
“Gandalf says he’ll bring more seeds from the Shire!”
Gandalf hands over a letter. Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck had drowned in a river and so their orphaned son was sent to the next of kin, who was rumored to be residing in Erebor. Gandalf hands over a bundle that held a small hobbit, no older than ten Summers. Balin looks away from both of them almost in shame and Gandalf only offers a sad smile.
“Take care of him.”
It’s difficult at first. Frodo is shy and he hides behind corners, his, all too bright, blue eyes peering back in curiousity. Frodo looks too much like him.
The battlefield is quiet, bodies lay strewn across the blood painted ground. His eyes raked across each fallen soldier and enemy but when his eyes landed on his still face, he felt his heart crawl up his throat. With a strangled cry torn from his throat, he called out to him. He cared not who heard the echo of broken grief on the desolate battlefield.
Balin liked to point out his likeness. Perhaps to stress something to him, or maybe to sate his own guilt and sadness, he does not know. But he can feel his heart break a little more each time Balin mentions it.
“He really does bear an uncanny resemblance to him, doesn’t he, laddie?”
“I know, Balin. He really does.”
“Uncle?”
“Yes, Frodo?”
“What happened to him after that?”
“What?”
“The burglar, Uncle! What happened to the burglar?”
“...the burglar…”
He realized he had lost himself in the moment and forgot he was telling Young Frodo a bedtime story. The small hobbit peered back at him in anticipation in the wake of his silence.
What had happened to the burglar, indeed.
“Well, Frodo, my lad, he pulled out an acorn and presented it to the king, and the Great King Under the Mountain looked back at the burglar with a clarity he hadn’t had since he entered the cursed room of treasure.”
“Was he finally cured?! Did the burglar cure the King of his gold sickness?”
He always wondered what would have happened if he had told Frodo the truth that night. Would he have cried for the burglar’s vain efforts. Would he have hated the King for throwing everything the burglar had given him back at his face? Would he hate the King for ruining what could’ve been the something so much more than vague inclinations of affection and a loyalty that couldn’t be broken, not even by a gold-maddened king’s betrayal?
“Yes, Frodo. The King was cured and they defeated the Orc army once and for all.”
“...Where’s the burglar now, Uncle? Didn’t he and the King live happily ever after?”
He swallowed the bitter bile at the back of his throat and blinked back the prickling sensation behind his eyelids.
“N-no, stay with me. Don’t go. Please, ghivashel. Wake up, don’t leave me here. I’m sorry. Forgive me. Just wake up for me. Stay with me one last time. Pl-please- the eagles, t-the eagles- the ea-”
The red stained the royal Durin’s blue and the sight of Bilbo Baggin’s still face burned in the back of his eyelids. The golden curls around his pointed ears that shone brightly under the sun were matted and caked with dried blood. The vibrant grey eyes that would never look back at him in unadulterated adoration were closed shut and a small trail of blood trickled from the mouth that would never smile again.
Thorin cradled the hobbit’s body close to him, letting sobs wrack his frame. He buried his face into Bilbo’s shoulder, heaving as his own wounds began to take its toll. But, it mattered not. Thorin did not let go of Bilbo, not even when the grey wizard told him Bilbo was gone already. Not even when the Elven King watched silently from afar. Not even when the rest of the company knelt before the burglar.
“Bilbo- Ghivashel, please. Wake up,” he whispered,” th- the Eagles, Bilbo-...”
“Uncle Thorin?”
“No, Frodo, the Burglar and the King did not live happily ever after.”