Chapter Text
When Bilbo Baggins had retired on the eve of his eleventy-first birthday, he'd been content.
How could he not have been? He'd lived a good, long, full life. He'd seen life past the Shire -- a claim that many hobbits could not make -- and, in that greater world, he'd witnessed all manner of things. Creatures with magical rings, skin-changers, orcs, elves of multiple varieties. Trolls so large they could squash him with a simple stomp of their feet, spiders whose webs were full of unsuspecting travelers, wailing when they were skewered by Bilbo's own elven blade. Men who were fishers, bowmen, sniveling, fair-weather servants and luxury-fattened masters. Mountains and mountains of afflicted gold beneath one lonely peak, with a great, foul serpent sleeping beneath the weight of it. Dragons under gold, dragons under fire, dragons underwater. Dragons rotting away at the bottom of a desecrated lake, now blind and deaf to the punishment for past, present, and stolen future crimes.
He'd seen the greed of elves in the Mirkwood, the greed of men in Laketown, the greed of dwarves under their reclaimed mountain home and even the greed of hobbits upon his return to the Shire, as that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins attempted to make off with his good silverware. He'd seen the stubbornness in them all -- particularly in the dwarves, of course -- and he'd seen their petty, childish resentment of one another. Oh, reminiscing always gave him retroactive ammunition. The things he would have said to that Thranduil!
Through it all, however, he'd witnessed first hand the kindness of dwarves. For all their mulishness and covetous desire to keep their lore to themselves, and for all their rigid tradition and obstinate distrust of outsiders, and for all their harsh words and even harsher demeanors, they were so very kind. And, despite himself, Bilbo had come to truly regard that foolish group of thirteen dwarves; every last one of them. He kept in contact with those who had survived the battle of the five armies through Erebor's ravens and through his own occasional visits throughout the years, and he was still very close with them all. Though, he would think with some time-soothed amount of sadness, as many times as he traveled to Erebor and as many letters were exchanged over Middle Earth, there would always be something missing. His love was reserved for one, after all. His One, as Thorin had put it, as he'd braided Bilbo's grown hair one night with hands that were far defter than their heft would have you believe. Oh, how he missed the smooth Khuzdul off that foolish dwarf's tongue; Ghivashel. Amrâlimê. Âzyungel. Those wonderful terms of endearment. They were guttural but rolled so smoothly from Thorin's mouth that Bilbo could have fallen in love with the language itself. He had never found another so loyal, so steadfast, so strong, in all the rest of his life.
So, yes, he'd lived a good, long, and very, very full life. Enough for two spans, he'd imagine! Though he often wondered what could have been if he and Thorin had more time, he conceded that, of all the things he could hope for, more time was the least likely to come to fruition. Besides- he had his life and he was content. He was not lonely, either, despite his longing remembrance of his former King under the Mountain. He'd adopted Frodo when the boy was twenty-one and now, twelve years later, he felt nothing but care for the boy. The rest of the company loved him as well, and Frodo, too, was content as far as Bilbo was aware.
As he laid down to rest on that eve, the day before both his and his nephew's birthday -- and he always felt a swell of pride when he remembered that it was Frodo's thirty-third, his coming of age -- he knew that he wanted for nothing. He knew that he was content. He was old and his hair was white and he was packed to leave for Rivendell to start a new, calmer chapter of his life. Perhaps he would finish the book he'd been writing for so long. It was nearly finished, and he read over it frequently, if only to see the true-to-life illustration of his lost beloved on the inside of the front cover.
He was content, indeed. Which is why he fell asleep that night with very little on his mind other than the very next day. The future was accounted for. He was safe and happy.
And then he woke to the sound of dwarves.
"Very helpful, Fíli." Gandalf's voice, exasperated, rose from somewhere high beside him.
"I didn't say anything that wasn't true!" Fíli? Lord, he hadn't heard that boy's voice since... wait.
"Yes, you lack tact!"
He heard a sigh from somewhere in the room adjacent to where he laid flat on his back. He could smell the familiar smells of fresh-cooked food and the sharp and distinct briny odor of dwarf.
He opened his eyes, blinking the unconsciousness away, and sat up, putting his hand to his head with a groan. Thirteen heads turned to look at him and he scanned a confused gaze over each one of them. Dwarves didn't age as Hobbits did, but he distinctly remembered all of them being quite a bit older than they looked right then! Balin's beard was shorter than it had been not six months past, Ori's hair had none of the grey that had colored it when last they met. Not even to mention-
Oh. Oh. Bilbo could have cried. He would have, if the shock wasn't too much to bear. At the head of the table, looking at him with that all-too-familiar and yet long-since-faded scorn, was Thorin Oakenshield, who had once told him that he'd known Bilbo was his One, the other half of his soul, from the moment they met. He had not lived to see age and so he was just as beautiful as the day he died, though the exhaustion was somewhat gone from below his eyes and he seemed so very unyielding.
"Bilbo, come. Stand." Bilbo did no such thing, staring wide-eyed at the dead that haunted his home in such a fashion as to emulate the night they met. "What's wrong, my dear boy? You look as though you've seen a ghost! Surely the information of your impending travels didn't scare you that severely, and-"
"Thorin," he breathed, unable to help himself. "A-And Fíli, Kíli, I- what- how?"
The king's lips pulled up in distaste. "You regard me as a companion already despite your adamance against joining our company; your boldness almost makes me believe you ready for this quest."
"Adamance against joining your-" Bilbo spluttered. "You- Surely this is some joke! How is this-"
He cut himself off indignantly and looked around. His smial looked much the same as it had when he had gone to bed that night, but... it was so much cleaner. Everything had a place where it was firmly positioned and though it was obviously ransacked and tossed around by the dwarves that were, somehow, currently in his house, it was proper. It had not looked proper in this smial in many a year. He swallowed with some difficulty and blinked rapidly, trying to wake himself up if this was by some chance a dream. He looked again at Thorin and realized then that he did not care if it was a dream as long as he could look upon his One's face again.
Gandalf, above him, did not speak. Bilbo only kept Thorin's stare and could not tear himself away from it, those blue eyes always able to hold his no matter what. Oh, how he longed to reach out to Thorin, to kiss that sternness off of his face, to bring him to a smile like he had so very long ago. The king exhaled sharply, dismissive, and turned back to the map before him. The rest of the company still stared at Bilbo with confusion. Blinking out of the staring match, Bilbo looked up to Gandalf, gaping like a fish.
The wizard looked down at him with suspicion, wrinkled eyes squinting only slightly as he analyzed the hobbit. Bilbo swallowed hard again and, slowly, made to stand. He overshot it and stumbled slightly, expecting more resistance from old bones that were no longer restricting him, but steadied himself. He blinked- his eyes were clearer, too. They had clouded over the years and though he was still able to see, he was sure that it would not be for much longer. He looked at his hands -- a young hobbit's hands! -- and huffed in shock, taking a step back.
No, no, he must be hallucinating. He simply smoked too much Old Toby and his dreams were wild. He ignored the fact that Old Toby had never done such a thing to him and he could feel the warmth of the forge that was dwarven body heat and could smell them, the food, everything about that fateful night the same.
Looking back and forth, he rushed to his mother's glory box -- where the scars in the wood from Kíli's boots were fresh -- and opened it, rummaging around for Sting. When he found it missing, he looked next for Mithril, something inside him breaking when it, too, was absent. He inhaled sharply and exhaled, trying to get a hold of himself, standing back up and approaching Gandalf once more. The dwarves watched him still
From the kitchen he heard movement, and out of it popped Ori -- oh, how young he was! -- with a bashful smile and a teapot in his hands. Yes, he remembered now- Ori had been the one to make him tea after he'd fainted that first time. He'd been quiet and meek then, always quick to gentle kindness when he was able to afford it.
Shaking himself from his shock, Bilbo rushed to take it from the boy, noting the hot temperature (though he knew the dwarrow had resistance to such things) and giving him a smile. "Ah, there was no need for that, but thank you, Ori."
At that, Gandalf made a confused noise. Yes, he was notoriously bad with names, but after so many years with all of these dwarrow it was difficult to avoid memorizing them all. He set the teapot onto the table, telling the dwarves that they were welcome to pour themselves a cup before turning on his heel and stalking out of the room and into his own room, where Gandalf followed. He needed to process this. He needed to figure out what was going on. Gandalf ducked under the doorframe and closed the door behind him, giving Bilbo an expectant stare.
"You know their names."
"I do."
"You know them by name."
"I do."
"Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf approached where the hobbit had fallen onto his sitting chair with a huff, "you will tell me what you know."
Bilbo looked up with all the weariness of a one-hundred and eleven year old man and it seemed to take Gandalf aback. The hobbit sighed, looking at where his feet were propped onto a footrest, seeing how the bones didn't jut from them, how the fur on their tops was a mousy brown and not white, how the freckles and wrinkles from old age hadn't set to them yet. He looked at his hands, too, and marveled at how young they were. At how much energy he had in body, though his spirit still felt so old.
He could not go through this again. These dwarves would be the death of him.
"I cannot go through this again, Gandalf," he reiterated. "I cannot."
He heard Gandalf step forward again. "Again?"
"Yes, Gandalf, again. I- just ten minutes ago I am sure I had fallen asleep in my bed! My eleventy-first birthday is tomorrow and Frodo is turning thirty-three! I was going to leave Bag End to him, of course, and away to Rivendell for a quite necessary, and quite permanent, holiday! And now I am back here, fifty-years-old once more, with a house full of dwarves!"
Gandalf did not answer immediately, thick brows furrowed over old eyes. He pursed his lips under his white beard and inhaled.
"So you're saying you're..."
"In a dream, surely! What a sick joke, to make me dream of you all on this night when the brothers and that foolish king are all buried under Erebor! And so vividly, too- Yavanna has a twisted sense of humor, indeed!"
As he spoke, Bilbo grew more and more agitated, tears of frustration and grief springing to his eyes but never falling through sheer willpower. Gandalf watched as he did this, as he stood and began to pace, as he threw his hands up and let them fall back at his sides, balled into fists. The hobbit turned to him, sniffed with that twist of the nose and wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeve.
"Bilbo, I am quite sure this is not a dream," Gandalf said, quietly, looking down at the hobbit with some amount of pity and understanding. "I... I do not know how you... but this has happened for a reason. You are all the more valuable to our company now."
Bilbo's lips thinned, feeling his throat grow thick. "Gandalf, I cannot sign this. I cannot. I cannot. Not again."
"Then help them live. You surely know their path. You know their plights!" Gandalf urged. "Who better than you to be their burglar? Now, more than ever?"
The hobbit was not unaware of how his body trembled, on the edge of bursting. As he remembered all of their trials, their tribulations, their -- his -- heartbreak and the aftermath of Thorin's death, how pale he had looked in the ground, the Arkenstone at his breast and Orcrist in his chilled hands. He remembered how Dis had arrived to Erebor two months after Thorin was buried and how Bilbo had received her and informed her of the death of her brother and her two sons. How her face had crumpled, still stern and stoic but breaking under the news. How Dain, King under the Mountain, had given him whatever he needed to get back to the Shire and how he returned with such bittersweet finality.
He couldn't do this again. He couldn't see his beloved die again, bleeding out into the snow and apologizing -- apologizing as he died, that damned, obstinate fool -- with the smallest of smiles as Bilbo tried to keep him awake. To stop him talking so he could save his energy. He'd pointed out the eagles as the light left Thorin's eyes, but those blue irises never left Bilbo, and sometimes that fact made him feel cold as he did that day. He felt such a chill now, even as he stood near the crackling fireplace.
He looked to Gandalf, eyes once again glassy with tears, and opened his mouth to answer, to tell Gandalf that he would not, he could not, before he was cut off by a familiar voice, a familiar song, and his breath hitched.
"Far over the misty mountains cold," Bilbo pushed past Gandalf and opened the door to his room, making good use of his quiet hobbit's steps to approach the sitting room, where the dwarrow had congregated as they had that very same night, sixty years past. "to dungeons deep and caverns old, we must away ere break of day to find our long forgotten gold."
Thorin's voice. Oh, that dwarf. He remembered their song like it was yesterday and yet Thorin seemed so very far away. He stood over the fireplace, staring into it like it was the same dragonfire that had burned Dale all those years ago, and the light of it flickered over his face, in his eyes, reflecting such a stormy determination. He sang, the rest of the company joined, and chills ran down Bilbo's spine as he saw them, these ghosts, the buried and forgotten heroes of Erebor. They were so young. Bilbo was so young.
He gripped the threshold tightly, his knuckles turning white with the force of it. As his eyes fell back to Thorin, whose face was stoic as always and pensive like it was so frequently at the beginning of their journey, Bilbo breathed deeply, trying to get a hold on himself. He heard Gandalf approach behind him, though the wizard stopped a good few feet from the room. As Bilbo turned to him, he noticed that he seemed to be listening, too, his expression grave. Gandalf met his eyes and they both knew what Bilbo was going to choose without having to even speak the words aloud.
As Bilbo begun to pack, he listened to the voice of his One in his sitting room, and hoped, prayed -- to Yavanna for himself, and her husband Mahal for his company, and all the rest of the Valar and even to Eru himself -- that he could save his friends and his love.
He prayed that he would never again need to bury Thorin Oakenshield.