Work Text:
Bilbo writing night is now falling as he makes camp with Gandalf on the hills between Mirkwood and the ruins of Laketown. the road is now calling scratched on a sheaf of parchment a gift from Ori as they re-pack their bags.
In the beginning all he can remember is the battle. Last words hitched with pain, nearly lost on the wind. Snowflakes dusting eyelashes that will never open again. Sometimes he still feels like he is sitting on that rock. unable to do anything but stare. blankly into the distance. numb. fading. like the sunset behind him…
Later he remembers. Remembers everything: the good, the bad many places, many sorrows. and how can he regret the best thing that ever happened to him? he can’t. and i won’t forget.
At first, he’s leaving just to leave. i must away. because you’re not here to make me stay. home is the destination, but after that he cannot tell. how can he go back to his old life after coming all this way? he can’t.
but the road is still calling. and as he travels backward along the paths of mirkwood, over misty mountains, to rivendell he remembers all who took the road with him. he shares his stories with gandalf and the elves in the hall of fire. but other memories he holds to himself.
gandalf and bilbo rest under a tree in the trollshaws. they reach the shire. ahead lies bag end. and bilbo recalls his armchair and his books before finally heading overhill. with a broken heart with your blessing i will go.
…
Bilbo finishes it. The words are something he has been working on since he left Erebor. He had always meant to take it there himself. To place it on Thorin’s tomb. But now he knows his old legs cannot take him where his young heart never would.
Gloin approaches, his once fiery beard white like Balin’s forked one. Bilbo’s writing will never make it to the dead. no words could ease the pain of his passing. But maybe they can comfort the living.
I say this last goodbye
I bid you all a very fond farewell.