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Bilbo Baggins makes it to the docks of the Undying Land the first time; steps foot on the gangway and feels something push at his very soul with a force that makes him slump back onto the deck with a thump. The sheer force leaves spots in his vision, but clears enough to see the stunned and perplexed expressions on the faces of the elves around him. He tries once more, despite Gandalf’s confounded face, carefully stumbling to his feet as his nephew takes his shaken arm with wide frightened eyes, and finds himself reaching out only to feel an invisible barrier that knocks him back a few paces.
He is trapped, and the undying Lands will not yield entry for him.
Frodo reaches out hesitantly, as if he too is frightened, with his four-fingered hand and looks confused as his hand passes through clear air without any trace of resistance.
Bilbo’s heart sinks, and then soars.
The elves gather around the ship from all corners of Aman; glancing at him like he is a cursed object from lore. They make their home amongst the piles of books they bring with them and Gandalf’s ‘instruments of wizardry’. Frodo stays with him for weeks and weeks out of loyalty and fear until Bilbo shoos him and his pestering youth away, to explore the new elven home outside the ship. Still, the dark haired lad comes back every day still singing praises of the trees of Eldamar, until the time between his visits becomes longer and his tales of sights become grander. Frodo speaks of the city of Alqualondë with its halls and mansions made of pearls, and its beaches strewn with gems. He speaks of the great Pelóri Mountains, the endless mists of Oiomúrë and his planned journey to the gardens of Lorien with a softness to his eyes that speaks of healing. Bilbo does not begrudge him this, not when his eyes become less a graveyard and more a garden filled with fruits and flowers.
The invisible barrier does not falter, and he wonders if this is to be his fate; to forever be left to die on a boat by the very shore of the land he longed to see. Forever to be denied from going forwards or back, left to stagnate on a wooden boat away from any sort of world, to be a burden on his hosts for the rest of his days.
The eldest of the Eldar seem to find him to be a marvelous mystery. In an unchanging world of immortality, he can understand the novelty of a Hobbit banned from entry, but his patience is being eroded by every gentle wave of the sea, every crack in his old bones and every sidelong glance from elves who still have not explained why he cannot go forwards.
“This land has felt the corrupting influence of Melkor once before,” One of the Eldar finally tells him, “When the Númenóreans violated the ban of the Valar; they sailed here with an army tainted with Melkor's foul spirit. Though now we are protected from such evils, the very land still rejects Melkor’s influence like the body rejects a foul fever.”
“I was a Ring bearer,” Bilbo replies thoughtlessly, watching the waves hit the sand he’ll never feel between his toes, “For a very very long time.”
“It is to your credit that your spirit fought fiercely and has survived so many wounds, when so many grand souls have fallen to lesser temptation,” The Eldar tells him with an apologetic face, “However, old magic lives in these shores; born from kinslaying, spilled blood and greed. Magic that has been woven by the Valar, and magic woven through elven fear and natural defenses alike. Magic that even we cannot remove, just as we cannot remove the way you are now forever tied to the song of Melkor.”
Gandalf frowned but spoke not a single word, content to smoke his pipe and watch his old friend with a baffled quirk of his eyebrows, like he was personally offended that the Undying lands could possibly ever find Bilbo Baggins anything less than worthy.
“Frodo?” His voice creaks from old age and weariness, despite the fact that his heart whispers the truth already. That Frodo bore the burden with a knowing heart and spirit that fought every spark of malice while he willingly wore a ring to sneak through Goblin Caves, Elven Dungeons and Dwarven Mountains.
“We will remain to search for that which could assist you; our libraries are far-reaching and widely-sourced and already we have sent missives to Valmar to ask for greater help than we can give.” The ancient elf gave him a look of great compassion that cut deeper than any pity, “Until that day, however, Bilbo Baggins, we can do no more than make you comfortable.”
The weeks drag on after this, weeks and weeks and Bilbo takes to prodding the invisible barrier just to make sure that it hasn’t vanished overnight like an elven prank of old. Every time he makes contact, the pressure feels just a little more insistent that he desist until a simple prod tosses him halfway across the ship, steals the air from his lungs and sends his bones rattling around into vastly different positions.
“Good Gracious, Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf startled, looking down at the surly hobbit, “You are growing strange and restless in your old age.”
“I fear this boat is driving me mad,” Bilbo muttered darkly, rising to his feet with no small measure of luck as he glowered at the shore with such a building rage, “Now see here, elvenland! You cannot throw me to and fro as if you were a small fauntling throwing a tantrum, I simply will not stand for this! You must decide this instant whether I am to go forward, or to go back, that is to say that I will not accept this maltreatment any longer!”
“Bilbo, calm yourself!”
“I certainly will not Gandalf!” He snaps back, “I have had quite enough of this nonsense, thank you very much. I have not been off this confounded boat in far far too long for any hobbit, let alone one as old as I. The Undying Land will simply have to decide right this instant on whether I may enter, or whether it will allow me to leave, so we can all get on with our lives, whatever that may possibly be.”
With that last admonishment, Bilbo lunged forward, striking the barrier at the same moment as Gandalf’s hand jerked forward to catch the scruff of the hobbits coat before he was thrown violently again. At the same time Gandalf’s fingers catch the very ends of Bilbo’s hair, he catches the wizard’s eyes with dread and horror as the violent jerk pulled him side-ways with a strength stronger than any previous reaction, until he could feel his very soul being pulled from his body.
Bilbo’s heart soars and then sinks.
-
For the second time, he awakens in Bag End. For one cruel second Bilbo Baggins wonders what exactly he ate last night to produce such detailed and heart-breaking dreams, before he scowls and remembers that nothing is so clear when elven magic and blasted wizards are involved. For one foul moment he wonders if the elvenland had finally decided to rid itself of its unwanted guest in much the same way that he had previously ejected unwanted Sackville-Baggins with slippery fingers, but his hands look too smooth, too unscarred to be his own. He checks himself over- to decide if indeed himself is still himself, before blearily turning his attention to the familiar space he has found himself in with building confusion.
It is a clear mockery of the past.
Everything from his mother’s pottery to his father’s spare buttons are exactly where they should be, but details are wrong.
The lack of Frodo’s strewn belongings that the lad never seemed to manage to tidy away, or indeed that seemed to creep into his smial during the night without Frodo’s attention. Bag End’s original plumbing still in the walls, the suspicious lack of a book on the shelf in his study and another missing trunk of souvenirs he could never quite bear to take with him away from the world. Even the large scratches in the wood of his smial where his various young nieces and nephews had left their marks over 60 years of stories and spontaneous reenactments of dragon-slaying and the small scratches in his mother’s glory box from the stones caught in Kíli’s shoes were gone from their proper places.
He holds his breath for a second and dashes towards his door, to see a rune carved deep into the wood of his front door. It certainly settles that matter and roots him just as solidly as an oak tree in a place and time, although not the one that had grown around him.
“Wednesday,” He both curses and decides, and heads straight to his pantry with a frown and a mind full of recipes. He knows too well that you can’t bring back the dead with a hearty meal, but if the elvenland was going to upend his life, he could at least feast with dear friends before worrying too deeply on what this meant, or the point of the charade. He bakes and he broils and marinates and slices and stews, until the heat of his oven fills the room and rivals even the hottest of forges, and his pantry is emptied as the day turns from light to darkness. The gentle movements of the butterflies in his garden give way to the hum of the glow flies settling around the lanterns outside his door, and he buzzes around finding blankets and pillows and pushing aside furniture to fit so many friends into his house.
The table is set with as much food as he can cram onto the surface; and still more awaits in the kitchen to be brought out once food has been devoured. It is no surprise after all, what foreknowledge can do to a host, least of all proper chairs and extra for kegs of ale, caskets of wine and dishcloths.
The idea that he is going to see his friends, even ones that have long since perished, is as terrifying as it is overwhelming. The mischievous brothers who died defending their uncle, the King who lost his heart in the arkenstone and bid him farewell back to his good cheer and good food, the scribe who wrote his final words in an ancient book, alongside a fool healer in the tomb of the short-lived Lord of Moria.
The knock at his door feels like a final call, and the walk to his door like a death walk. Three of this party will not survive this very journey, more death lies in the future, and no amount of sweetcakes and ale can stand in the way of death.
“Dwalin, at your service.”
“Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” He smiles at the dwarf with genuine affection as he hangs up the travelling cloak on the hook, but an edge of uncertainty creeps in – had Dwalin always looked so thin? “Dinner is prepared and ready; come, eat and rest.”
The dwarf settles on him, and seems to come to a less than desirable conclusion, for his eyes hardened and he dropped only the largest most conspicuous of his weapons. Hadn’t there been more last time? Or had he just been so terrified of the idea of war weaponry in his house he’d been mistaken?
They’d barely made it into the dining room when the Dwarf paused momentarily; his eyes catching on the spread of food and inhaling quick enough that he understood at once.
“Eat as much as you wish; there’s plenty more in the kitchen still,” He smiled as gently as he could, as Dwalin’s expression grew more and more suspicious and pained. In the end, clear hunger takes over and Dwalin ate as if he expects for the food to be poisoned, if not taken away. He escapes at the second knock at his door and welcomes Balin who reacts much the same at the spread before him before settling on his brother with a laugh of incredulousness and delight that speaks of much time apart with little word between them and head-butts his brother more lovingly than a head-butt should be.
As if on schedule, another knock saves him from intruding on a family moment, and sends his heart into waves of aches at the idea of seeing the youngest casualties of Erebor. Though the raw pain of their death had faded long ago, his old weary heart broke at the realization of just how fundamentally young they were. Barely children being taken to face down a beast who had surely gorged on flesh older than their years.
“Fíli”
“-And Kíli”
“At your service.”
“You must be Mr. Baggins?” Kíli politely asks, and Bilbo’s heart breaks.
Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
Gone are the vibrant mischievous smiles of impertinent, naïve youth and in its place are strained smiles and exhausted eyes. Their clothing is more threadbare than before, and their armor more simplistic and heavily crafted of cheap leather. They mutter pleasantries and hang their cloaks while Bilbo tries to save his heart from slowly dying at their thin faces. Too many pieces are fitting together and it is clear that something is so terribly wrong that has resulted in both princes entering his smial half-starved and as ragged as any peddler.
Kíli does not wipe his feet on his mother’s glory box.
Fíli does not drop his weapons into Bilbo’s arms.
Something is so very, very wrong.
“Come,” He smiles kindly and fights the urge to gather them into his arms and cry at their stolen vibrancy, “Dinner has been prepared and you are not the first to arrive.”
The order is much the same; Dori, Nori, Ori, Oín, Gloín, Bifur, Bofur, Bombour. Gandalf.
All arrive in a flurry of thin raggedy travelling cloaks and thin, tired faces. All physically stop and look floored by the food he’s prepared and even more overwhelmed when he brings out more and more dishes and ensures that everyone eats more than enough. He ignores the way that Nori slips food away into pockets, the way the ‘Urs eat more slowly and savor every bite and have taken the blunt of whatever poor fortune has befallen them more than the others. He ignores the gathering tears at the edges of Ori’s eyes and the conversation around the table that is abandoned in favor of eating, and ignores the fluttered reaction when he gives out instructions and invitations towards the bathroom and laundry.
Instead he does what any good Hobbit would do, and nudges pastries and sweet honey cakes and puddings onto plates and replaces mugs of ale with mugs of creamy fatty whole honey-milk and ignores the way Oín carefully looks at him, like the old healer knows what he’s up to. He ignores the sudden nod of acknowledgement in favor of loading Bofur up on cheesy-egg muffins, shoving thick cuts of beef onto Bifur’s plate and slabs of pork belly into Ori’s bowl even as the dwarf looked up with sharp surprised eyes. He manages to get thick beef stew and an entire loaf of bread in front of Gloín before the dwarf muttered Gimli’s name, and two links of sausages towards Bombour before Nori relaxes enough to open his plate up to stacks of bacon.
He manages to slip off after Gandalf and stares down the wizard with blistering eyes, “What exactly happened to them?”
“Pardon?”
“Half-starved, Exhausted, Filthy and tell me, how long have they been wearing those clothes? They look like they’re about to fall apart around them,” Bilbo hissed, “Gandalf!”
Gandalf leveled a long look, “That is not my story to tell. I will say this Bilbo Baggins; The Dwarves of Erebor have suffered much in these past years. The daily life of a homeless nation is by no means prosperous.”
“Don’t they have kin-“
“Bilbo Baggins; the world is a much crueler place outside your shire,” The wizard huffed, “In any case, these Dwarves have had to learn to survive on their own, without anyone to guide them.”
A sharp retort settles on his tongue when Ori- sweet, thin, ragged Ori walks up clutching the plate to him gently, as if worried he’d drop it.
“Excuse me, Mr. Baggins,” He starts timidly, as Nori peers around a corner protectively, “What should I do with my plate?”
He waits a beat for Fíli to chime in, for the start of that ridiculous little song to chime in to return some of that life back into what is feeling as somber as a funeral, but it doesn’t come.
“If you could carefully stack them on the bench in the kitchen, please?” He requests with a smile that destroys the rest of his heart.
“Of course Mr. Baggins, Thank you.”
Still he follows the young Dwarrow back into the dining room and watches the company pack away plates and bowls and knives and forks carefully, with none of their ridiculous tricks and song and cheek. Still he is an old man at heart, and he has to try to find a smile in the younglings.
“Careful, you’ll blunt them.” He tries with a teasing smile towards Kíli, only to cause the dark haired Prince to shrink in upon himself and return a weak uneasy smile.
“Of course, sorry Mr. Baggins.”
His heart breaks.
He relaxes into a chair and finds that two plates have been left; still piled with food with two huge tankards of ale beside and it occurs to him that they ensured that there would be plenty left for himself and for Thorin. It causes something cruel in his chest to twist sharply, and for an abstract fondness to curl in his toes. The washing of the plates and pots and pans is completed by the time the knock on the door comes, and Bilbo finds himself relieved to see the King Under the Mountain once more, to have a chance to find out what exactly has gone so horribly wrong.
“She is here.”
Queen under the Mountain Dís with bright blue eyes, greying hair at her temples and a beard cut short around her face walks into the room looking so regal and majestic in her sorrow and frayed clothing and Bilbo’s stomach drops.
He doesn’t need to listen to the contract, to the quest, to know what has happened. Not when he sees the way that her sons curl around her protectively; the way Dwalin lets out a knot of tension in his shoulder; the way Balin sighs. He sees the evidence in the way that Dís immediately tries to feed her sons more food, and in the way they try to get her to eat her share until all three of them look on the verge of tears.
He doesn’t need to know whether it was the Dragon or the Pale Orc that finally killed Thorin Oakenshield, when he knows Thorin well enough to imagine him missing meals to feed his nephews more, to imagine him going cold to ensure the two dwarflings are warm through winter. It’s just as easy to imagine him dying at Azanulbizar. Just as easy to imagine him dying at Erebor.
Just as easy to delude himself into thinking that he is simply late.
He signs the contract without even reading it, and spends the night running baths, and leaving warm pastries on pillows, mending cloaks, buttons, patching pants, shirts and packs, lining blankets with his warmest furs and stitching excess trim around coats; stuffing pouches of dried sweet-meats into the sides and knitting throughout the night to meet expressions that are still awaiting the catch to his kindness.
He lasts long enough to hear of one uncle slain in battle and another who sacrificed himself so his sister and her sons may live. He lasts long enough to see Bombour eaten by a troll, Gloín cleaved by a warg’s jaws, Balin and Ori spun alive into tight webbing and slowly digested by spiders and Bifur roasted alive by a dragon.
He lasts long enough see Queen Regent Dís crowed beside her one-armed son and the painful cries of an elven guard as a Dwarven Prince dies firing arrow through the throat of a Pale Orc.
He is almost glad when he doesn’t survive much longer in this cruel world.
-
He awakens next in his smial with an unsigned contract in his study; covered in a faint sheen of dust. Erebor is not retaken, but months later refugees come flooding into the shire from across middle earth with orcs on their trail and a Ranger-who-would-be-King falling alongside the last elven Queen and a dwarfling bearing the name Thorin Stonehelm, as they protect as many as they can reach.
Three Kingly lines die that day, and Smaug flies high above.
The Shire burns.
-
The fourth time, he opens the front of his door to find two dwarflings with smiles more roguish and foreboding than anyone should willingly let into their smials.
“Thorin”
“And Frérin-
“At your service.”
“By Aüle.” He manages, before the world grows dizzy and he drops to a dead faint on his carpet.
-
The fifth time, he blinks his eyes open to the harsh sunlight and struggles to draw breath down his impossibly dry throat. He makes a short cough and feels the grit and sand stuck in his lungs that are impossible to remove, and wonders why the still air sounds like howling wind to his ears.
“Bilbo?” Ori peers over him with a tremble in his voice, “Bilbo, please-“
“Ori?” He manages, grimacing at his own dry throat and coughing again, “Water?”
It suddenly occurs that the howling wind is the blood pounding away his head; thick dry blood oozing through his head and down his face. His fingers come away sticky with foul smelling blood. Ori looks away and trembles.
“We don’t have anymore, remember?” Ori looked alarmed, “Bilbo?”
“Where are we?” Bilbo inhaled and glanced around at the lifeless wreck of sharp rocks under his bloodied and scabbed feet, “What happened?”
“You fell,” Ori swallowed painfully, “We all fell. We’re in Mordor, Bilbo. Can’t you remember? Please remember. I can’t do this alone.”
Bilbo’s eyes widened and he glanced around the lifeless wasteland, noting for the first time that all the hair on his body stood to attention in fear. The thick layer of grime on his skin feels worse than any binds, but when he tries to rub it off his hand catches the edges of warm scars and healing scratches.
“Remember what?” Bilbo blinks back with eyes that feel too dry, too hollow to keep open. They fall shut.
“Bilbo!” Ori kicks him awake violently, “Please don’t leave me alone. Please.”
Bilbo opens his eyes, but his body is so exhausted he pitches to the side and has to jerk his body back from the edge of the rocks; eyes fixed to the cliff below and lets out a strangled gasp.
Bifur and Dwalin lay crushed below by rock fall, but their battered bodies spoke of fatal injuries which would have claimed their lives even if the rocks hadn’t fallen. The world stops for a second and a thousand years, the gooey insides of Bifur’s head still leaking into the sand.
“Ori?” He whispers, with his voice cracking and pitching in equal measure, “What happened?”
Ori looked back with old eyes, filled with sorrow and trembled again. For one long moment, Bilbo watches as Ori glances back over the edge and wonders if the Dwarf means to let himself fall.
“They slipped,” Ori opened his mouth, teeth shattered into sharp edges, “It was raining last night- can’t you remember? - and they fell, Oh Bilbo! They screamed and cried and we couldn’t get them free, and we couldn’t end their suffering, Oh they screamed!”
“Oh Ori,” His heart leapt into his throat and he found his arms encircling the other, who clutched the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, “Why are we here? Why did we come to this awful place?”
“You stole the arkenstone, Bilbo,” Ori softly whispered, trembling, “Thorin saw Erebor and grew mad; impossibly mad, stricken sick with gold. You stole it, and he hung you over the edge of the gates like a doll. And then he saw an even greater prize. He saw it.”
“Saw it?”
“We didn’t understand!” Ori drew in short puffs of air, “Kíli and Fíli were dead and Thorin did not weep, but yell for the Arkenstone to be returned! Hid away in his gilded halls with his new prize and grow more and more enraged, more and more suspicious. We stole it away from his very hands and he screamed for the army outside the gates, screamed that we were traitors; they took down Balin, Oín and Gloín before we could escape to the hills. The last of the Orc army took Bombour, and Dori. Nori and Bofur’s battle wounds were infected and we didn’t have anything to heal or clean them; they were walking and then they fell down dead! And Dwalin and Bifur-“
“Why Mordor?” Bilbo gently pried, as Ori stopped to choke back the tears he couldn’t afford to lose, “Why did we come to this evil place?”
“The Ring,” Ori breathed, “Gandalf said that the cursed ring forged by the great enemy in the fires of Mordor could only be destroyed by its fires. It was only a miracle that Thorin didn’t drop you; kill you to claim his prize. I did not know that wizards could be destroyed and then Thorin fed him to the balrog of Moria.”
Bilbo stilled.
“We’re so close Bilbo,” Ori whispered, eyes glued upwards, “So very close, and we must not fail. We must destroy this ring. For Nori and Dori. For Oín and Gloín. For Bombour and Bifur and Bofur. For Balin and Dwalin and Kíli and Fíli and even Thorin, though mad he is. For us.”
They never make it.
-
“I’m off to find some Dwarves,” He tells his mother one day on the eve of his fourteenth birthday, as she is weeding the garden free of bindweed and brambles, “I need to find Thorin of Durin’s Folk.”
A Hobbit who is not Belladonna Took laughs merrily as she slices soil and eradicates roots.
“Don’t be silly Bilbo dearest, Eru killed Aulë’s monstrosities before they could awaken,” The woman laughed again, “Don’t tell me that your father has been reading you scary stories again!”
-
He has a silvery mark on his wrist in his next life; the same colour and texture of a long-faded childhood scar that depicts a familiar crown below seven stars, and above a hammer and anvil bearing a name in the dwarven script. He’s seen this symbol once before; on burnt tapestries deep in the caverns of Erebor. Those tapestries; the colour of Ereborean slate and blueberries, of lapis and indigo, of cobalt and periwinkle, and sapphire and plums, with the most delicate of threads smoldered by enraged dragonfire detailing the most notable Kings of the Line of Durin. He may be unable to read the script of the dwarves, for all their secrecy but given the shape of the handwriting he’d bet good money on the name being the unspoken true name of Thorin.
“Well,” He speaks, entirely to himself, before heading straight into his study to find any book that would explain exactly WHY the symbol of the line of Durin was evidently seared into his skin. The books are old and heavy but the books of History are kind enough to reveal that Hobbits were not branded like cattle and sold as slaves (and at that, he let out a horrifyingly slow exhale of utter relief) but rather that images on ones wrist was a typical occurrence on the wrists of all free peoples of Middle Earth. The gift of Vairë the Weaver and Mandos the Doors man, in the form of a skin-mark showing a thread that guided a being to find the path to their destiny, whether it be a lover, quest or grave at the end of that thread.
He frowns, peering at the mark on his skin and wondering which end his mark will lead him to, but as the legend of the kindly Vairë and Mandos decree, no answers will be forthcoming until he seeks them for himself.
“Well then,” He repeats again to himself, wondering just for a moment if Thorin would have a very Baggins-ish symbol on his wrist, alongside his name in Old Hobbitish as his mother’s Tookish traditions had decreed, before accepting that no Hobbit’s wrist was capable of revealing all the answers, “Well, well, well…”
-
He awakens next in the Shire during the Fell Winter, and peers out his boarded windows to find that his Dwarves never made it to his front door alive.
-
The thirteenth time he lives, he awakes to a smial full of excited children and his heart stops. He climbs out of bed and makes it to the door before Belladonna Baggins in all her glory appears and frowns at him, “Good Gracious Bilbo, would you mind entertaining your sisters and brothers until I return? Bryony has gone off adventuring to Rivendell again, without even a well-stocked pack and no daughter of mine will leave the shire without even a proper travelling cloak!”
His mother, still so young yet older than she had ever been; thick black curls and a thicker mid-section that spoke of comfort and ease. He’d almost forgotten what she looked like- truly looked like. Not just the half-memories of youth, but as a person with imperfect skin and a lopsided grin with a warm scent of honeyed seedcakes and mushrooms about her. He inhaled deeply and tried to keep that memory so very deep in his mind, so to never lose it.
“Of course,” He manages to say with a smile, eyes softening at his mother still alive and whole and healthy and safe, with a whole house of children beyond the door, “Too much Took in that one.”
He can hear them; laughter and giggling and mumbled complaints and life. See it in the way his mother’s mouth curls in mirth and happiness and peace in a way that she never did after his father had died. He can smell it in the scents of baking goods and soaps and warm linen and warmth of the smial around him.
“Hmm,” Belladonna replies, smirking and ruffling his hair, “Good lad. Juniper, Astero and Betony are in the kitchen making a batch of scones to take to Rosebay Boffin tomorrow for morning tea, Belvidero and Lindo are cleaning the dining room and after the mess they caused last night don’t you let those boys go just because they gave you cow-eyes, Oleando is still in his room until he apologizes for tugging Olive Brockhouse’s hair; make sure he doesn’t sneak out to cause mischief with Pimpernel Fairbairn and Senvo Chubb-Baggins because elsewise Farmer Brown will be knocking on my door dragging behind my miscreant of a son. Your father is out at Grandmother Baggins smial with Filberto and Harebell, but should be home by elevensies.”
“I can manage a few faunts,” He offered at her snort, “We’ll be fine. Go chase after Bryony and make sure she doesn’t run into any trolls or goblins or marauders.”
“I never thought I’d see the day when Bagginses were more trouble than Tooks,” Belladonna sighed, then winked with a grin, “When Bel and Lindo are finished, they can start on the laundry before they even think about inviting their Brandybuck friends over to pillage my biscuits and seedcakes. Especially since their mother has been despairing over their record-breaking ability to wear holes through the knees of their trousers.”
“We’ll be fine,” Bilbo insists with a smile, before leaning forwards to wrap his arms around his mother, “Come back safe and sound.”
“You are growing more Baggins-ish by the day,” His mother tutts in fondness, “Now I must be off, I’ll bring back souvenirs from my travels.”
She leaves and returns around the same time as Bungo Baggins- still looking every inch the kind respectable hobbit he had been, even in death. Older and with more lines about his face and inches on his waist and Bilbo can’t help but to pull his father into a hug that leaves his father’s eyebrows somewhere in his hairline.
He spends the rest of the day learning that he has four sisters and five brothers, and that they are all a mismatch of Tookness and Bagginsness and that their hair and their eyes range from raven haired Juniper to blonde Astero, from picky eater Filberto to opportunistic-eater Lindo, from quiet thoughtful Harebell to loud obnoxious Belvidero and a thousand combinations between. He’s younger than ever before, during the years when a Fell Winter should have been but not yet was, but he doesn’t worry because the Shire is warm even in Winter and Bag End is a dozen larger than his ever was, with more and more bedrooms and cavernous pantries that remind him of the depths of Erebor.
He eats all the proper Hobbit meals and watches the Tookish Bryony proclaim that she will never again wear skirts while the Bagginish Harebell purses her lips and returns to her quiet embroidery.
He also watches the Bagginsish Harebell carefully sew extra fur lining onto Bryony’s travel coat even while she shakes her head in disbelief over her sister’s strangeness, and watches the Tookish Bryony slipping new splendidly elven-dyed embroidery thread into her sister’s kit. He watches the way that Tookness and Bagginsness are interwoven into a harmonious mix in a way that he never experienced; duality as a glorious song or tapestry rather than a perpetual game of tug-of-war declaring that he can either be one or the other, but certainly not both. The way that could only come through time and pushed forward by more Baggins-Took faunts; all vastly different and yet so very similar.
This life is good and kind, and prosperity is in every blade of grass and every speck of dirt.
But the grand city of Erebor has suffered no dragon, and the visiting elves are quick to entertain faunts with the tales of Lord Elrond’s brother, who slew the great evil Sauron by throwing his magic ring deep into the fires. There is no Gondor, no Arnor but a flat-world filled with the majestic island of the Númenóreans, and the golden roof and silver floor of Moria. There is huge population booms in towns and cities larger than any he’d ever before seen and a Dwarven King called Dáin son of Náin, a Númenórean Queen named Tar-Fíriel and merchant ships leaving for the Undying Lands daily to trade the most common of cargo.
Yet this life is one without any familiar faces amongst the Dwarves or Men, and only the most ancient of elves are at all familiar. Somehow the world has been altered and stripped of Sauron and yet by some means the Shire continues to move through life with so little change that it leaves him feeling hollow, even in the plenty and joy.
The taste of a stagnant culture is sickly in his throat.
He dies unremarkably of old age, as an unremarkable hobbit in that life, and it hurts worse than anything else.
-
Bilbo Baggins awakens in the next life a foot shorter and a great deal more rounded.
“So this is the Halfling,” Thorin Oakenshield deadpans with his typical charisma, “She looks more like a wet-nurse than a burglar.”
“You look more like a disappointment than a King,” Bilbo replies, with no small amount of patience, “You may come inside once you’re ready to act your age and use your manners, your majesty.”
And promptly shuts the door in his face.
Gandalf chokes.
Fíli and Kíli roar.
(Bilbo Baggins becomes Barleria Baggins and quickly learns that running with 6 extra pounds on your breast is less fun than expected, but doesn’t stop until Erebor is once again home to artisans and engineers and prosperous investors and giant schools of trade and crafts and mining and life.)
((Also, that Lady Dís is a delightful flirt.))
-
The sun is bearing down on his face and his hands have the distinct characteristic of soft leather; like his hands had once been calloused but had been treated with watery vinegar and stone to remove them. His feet however, have never been harder; with a thick crust of callous beneath his toes that seem as strong as Dwarven armor. His skin is overly sunned; he wears more muscle than fat- especially in his legs and his clothing is a mismatch of styles and cuts and patches.
There are too few children in the group of Hobbits he travels with, and even they look harder and older than any faunt should be. They keep a keen eye out, sending discrete signals to each other when men or dwarves come near. His stomach grows empty and cavernous at both hunger, and the knowledge that this is another life spent far away from the peace and joy of the Shire.
The stone is worn beneath his heels; stone he knows for he has walked this path long ago. The shining fortress gates of Erebor far in the distance, and the road left still to walk are much more maintained than the last time he made this journey. There are more travelers and merchants on the roads towards the magnificent gates, this time, and the skeletal Dragon mid-attack that curls around a spire inspires a rush of something in his chest.
Yet while more feet travels beside the group he finds himself in, only a single man child glances at them- filled with pity and curiosity. They carry wares with them; blankets knitted from soft wool and quilts sewn from hardy cloth, fine crockery with careful brushstrokes and a variety of mathoms polished for sale.
The muscle in his legs, the callous under his heel and the wares they bring are enough to send a chill down his spine. The old stories in his Father’s study of the Wandering Years, the endless slow march towards starvation, aimless direction guided by the graves of Hobbits, the unflinching knowledge that endless suffering was the future each Hobbit faced.
They do not head to Erebor.
The group of ragged Hobbits makes their way to the edge of Dale, huddling together as the eyes of suspicious Men scan them, and start chains of vicious rumors. Already he can hear them; how Hobbits could not be trusted because they were sneaky and sly, light-fingered and light-footed, how Hobbits could turn invisible when they snuck into Homes in search of coin and food, how Hobbits were treacherous cheats despite their small statue.
The small faunts, Caldor, Alwyn and Bria, named in the tradition of Man, muttered low quiet words to each other from behind well-patched skirts and cloaks. Through persistent coughs Caldor spoke lowly of his missing brother who had vanished months ago in the middle of the night, while scratching at red-sores Alwyn spoke of the most delicious applecake his mother had once been able to make for his birthday while Bria watches warily as other younglings- the children of men and dwarves- walked by.
“Half-breeds,” He hears Men and Dwarves alike spit lowly in foul voices, while little Bria shivers from under a thin shawl.
They do not sell any wares that day, and they fall asleep to the unspoken knowledge that far too soon, someone would misplace a trinket, and turn their violent anger on the nearest Hobbit.
Bilbo falls asleep wondering why exactly these Hobbits cast such frightful eyes on the lonely mountain.
-
He comes into a slow consciousness in the next; a fleeting thought unable to pinpoint when this life began. There is just the cold, the dark, a horrible swallowing noise in his throat and a most precious glint of gold.
-
“Father!” A cry of absolute frustration cuts through him when he awakens once more, “Papa! This is an outrage!”
“Hmm?” Bilbo hums in confusion as he wakes up deep under thick layers of furs that seemed far too warm to ever abandon. He wiggles his toes and forgets for a second, content to snuggle deeper into the blissful warmth and fall back into the comfortable embrace of sleep. A child’s sniffle cuts through this, despite his unwillingness to move, and he turns in his bed to face the petulant voice only to find a second lump in the bed, obstructing his view.
“FATHER! PAPA!” The distinctly child-like voice yelled again, with all the airs of a deeply offended child, “This is so unfair!”
“Finn,” A weary voice beside him called, “Little dwarfling, why are you awake in our room when I remember telling you sleep-stories only a few hours ago?”
In his bed, Thorin Oakenshield draws the blankets down and half-sits, with a soft indulgent expression that invites the small dwarfling to draw closer and grip onto the furs tightly in his small hands.
“Vit and Lit are awake and their candle light is really bright,” the thick furs were pulled slightly as Finn pulled himself up onto the bed, “I’m trying to sleep Father, promise!”
Finn sniffled, his wide blue eyes looking so very honest as he relaxed across Thorin’s lap, preening as Thorin’s fingers carded through his thick hair until he eyes were closed. The gentle expression on Thorin’s face and the soothing motions of his hands were enough to lull Bilbo back down into relaxation.
“I am curious however,” Thorin started, in a light tone, “Very curious about this miracle Mahal has bestowed upon us on this otherwise uneventful night.”
“Miracle?” Finn’s eyes peeked open, wrinkling at the corners from his bewildered gaze.
“Indeed, madtithbirzul ,” Thorin’s face was soft but his lips curled betraying his smile, “There is two feet of stone between your bedroom, and Vit and Lit’s room. The gift Mahal must have given you, to change your eyes to see through stone, is a boon we must celebrate with great feasts and speeches, long speeches and perhaps a tribute to Mahal’s glory and skill at his craft?”
“Oh,” Finn paused and looked up with guilt clear on his bare face, “Um, well, maybe I asked Vit and Lit to keep me company because they went to Dale with Fíli and Kíli and Lady Tauriel today and they promised to tell me about it, but then I had lessons with Master Ori and then they didn’t have a chance to tell what happened and I just really really wanted to know, and they told me and now they won’t leave.”
“You lied to me, little one?” Thorin scolded gently, pausing his soft hands, “And blamed your Doleknadad for your restlessness?”
“I’m sorry!” Finn snuggled closer, “But Lit and Vit are keeping me awake! I wanted you to go and tell them off and then catch them-“
“Ah,” Thorin exclaimed sagely, “An ambush.”
“Master Dwalin sometimes says that an ambush is an effective way to deal with troublemakers,” Finn nodded firmly, eyes wide and innocent, “And Master Dwalin calls Vit and Lit troublemakers all the time.”
Thorin snorted.
“May I ask what Vit and Lit are doing in your room?” Bilbo asked, feeling far to intruding in this peaceful, intimate moment.
He is, at least for now, a character from a book thrust into another entirely different work – only the faintest of memories curl at the edges of his mind. He can remember his first, the inconceivable strangeness of the elvenland and the could-have-been’s that he awakens in, with memories of lives he could have lived. But this world is different, and memories of this could-have-been faintly tap in his mind like a shirt since striped of coloured dye.
This world is also different because Thorin, alive whole and healthy, with a small dwarfling curled in his lap in a world which has seen so little death, is smiling like his life is full of overwhelming joy.
“Bilbo?” Thorin questions face drawing blank and eyes lighting up.
“They’re knitting,” Finn’s voice explodes from his mouth in thick enthusiasm, “Knitting you a new cardigan for winter!”
“Finn,” Thorin lowly said, “Will you give us a minute?”
“I’ll get Vit and Lit!” Finn’s eyes sparkled as he dove from the bed to the door in a single bound, before Thorin had time to speak the admonishment clear on his tongue.
“Bilbo?” Thorin softly called, moving forward towards him before stopping short in obvious restraint, “Do you remember who I am?”
“Thorin Oakenshield,” He promptly replied, “King Under the Mountain, I’d imagine.”
“Do you know where we are?”
“Erebor?” Bilbo suggested, watching Thorin’s face grow blank and his eyes filling with hope, “In your quarters?”
“Ours,” Thorin corrected quickly, pausing again to collect his thoughts, “How do you feel?”
“Warm,” Bilbo promptly answered, eying Thorin curiously, “I’m quite fond of these furs, I must say.”
A huge smile broke out across Thorin’s face, “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed me?” Bilbo replied curiously, wracking his brain for the memories which shrunk from his grasp, “Where on earth have I been?”
“Here and yet not,” Thorin somberly replied, “Do you remember the battle for Erebor?”
“Yes?” Bilbo paused, “That was a long time ago, Thorin.”
Thorin’s smile grew wider, somehow causing his heart to constrict painfully under his ribs. It was a smile with too much history and too many emotions to be simple joy, a smile with too many mathoms to be idle.
“Indeed it was, my love,” Thorin softly replied, reaching forward attentively with his hand to nudge Bilbo’s own into a gentle embrace, “Many years ago. Can you remember the frozen river, where Azog and I fought? Can you remember taking the blow intended for me?”
“I-“ Bilbo paused to let the faint recollection of blood deep within his lungs stir, reaching his free hand up to feel the thick ropey scars decorating the side of his face, “No. I don’t-“
His ear, under his hand, was almost entirely gone, and he traced the scar from the side of his head through his cheek where a blade had taken off the corner of his nose. Now that he was more awake, the weary eyed blurs he had attributed to sleep were much more serious; simultaneously he longed for, and dreaded the prospect of, a mirror.
“Worry not, amrâlimê,” Thorin soothed gently, tracing circles on Bilbo’s hand with his thumb, “I am happy that you have returned to me once more; Azog took pieces of you but none as unforgivable as the head wound given by the bones of his fist. Oín told us long ago that there would be times that you were unable to remember, and fewer times where you were able to return to us. I am glad, if even only for a moment, that you are here now.”
“Oh,” Bilbo’s free hand nursed the side of his face, while the other gripped Thorin’s hand as though it had done so many times before, “I’m sorry.”
“Never be,” Thorin breathed, clearly torn between increasing the physicality of his affection, and watching Bilbo carefully as if he might break at any moment, “I owe you my life, ghivashel. And I, and all of Erebor, owe you for returning us to our home. You are not a burden to be apologized for, you are a kind and noble soul, my most beloved husband and I will always care for you.”
“Oh,” Bilbo stopped, unsure what possible combination of words he could ever use in response to the level of devotion and delight emanating from the dwarf. Thorin, whose hair was streaked with far more grey than before. Thorin, who had gained weight and muscle in equal amounts, making him seem so much healthier and stronger than ever. Thorin, who he had apparently wed in this world, where he had lived and his sister-sons too.
“Thank you,” Bilbo finally decided on, squeezing Thorin’s hand as comfortingly as he could despite his bewilderment, “Thank you.”
Thorin’s face grew blurrier and blurrier, and Bilbo shut his eyes as he settled back into the firm pillows and warm furs, with the soft sound of a trio of small feet padding into the room.
-
He wakes for the final time on a ship rocked by slight waves, feels the grainy texture of the wood and inhales the salty air deeply before he stands and realizes he has passed through the barrier he had once encountered. A wide grin of relief and happiness spreads across his face before he realizes Gandalf is nowhere in sight.
Neither, apparently, are any elves.
It takes Bilbo Baggins a moment to consider the unnaturally quiet airs whistling through the trees. It takes a moment for him to consider the mental weight on his too-young body, the warm sun high in the sky and the rustle of the grasses before he decides that there is no gain in waiting around for nothing, when adventure always brought answers.
It takes less than the space of a heartbeat to remember the stories Frodo had told him, and of the Gardens of Lorien where he had planned to visit.
The green trees and soft grasses soon gave way to lane of deep banks and great overhanging hedges. Beyond these, great tall trees whispered amongst the glow-worms. The lane, both winding and direct seemed to usher him along with great urgency, with the same great strangeness that the elvenland seemed to possess. The whisper in the trees, perpetual in nature, seemed to unnerve him, as if watching him as he walked, until the end of the lane was heralded by a high gate of lattice-work that shone the colour of brilliant gold in the dusk.
As soon as he was through this gate, winding paths leading into the fairest of all the gardens, the Gardens of Lorien lay before his feet. A small white cottage, in the midst of the Gardens beckoned him closer, even as his mind warned him away. This place that should have taken him much longer to reach, yet the immediate change from high-sun to dusk spoke of either lost Time or ill-intent.
“Frodo?” He called tentatively at first, before swallowing his unease and calling again, louder, “FRODO, MY BOY.”
“Unfortunately your nephew is not here,” A voice both quiet and loud answered, “Perhaps more fortunately than you could imagine, though.”
“I beg your pardon,” He snapped back in surprise, whirling towards the source of the voice, “If you may know of my nephew, I suppose you may also know where I may find him, if not in this garden.”
The voice appeared elven, at least in odd-tallness and sharply pointed ears, but the man’s body, and Bilbo supposed the figure was a man, was silver and white and churning like a spirit caught in the approximate shape of an elf.
“Sleeping,” The spirit-elf replied, “Trying to reach these very Gardens, Bilbo Baggins.”
“Well,” Bilbo responded shortly, “I hear that you have knowledge of me, or at least know who I am, may I ask who it is that knows my nephew’s sleeping arrangements so intimately?”
“Lórien,” The Vala responded, with a curl to his lips, “And you are perhaps the most wayward of travelers on the Olórë Mallë.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo responded, before freezing, “Lord Lorien.”
“You are in a place beyond the mortal realm which connects Middle-earth and Valinor. Mortals such as yourself may only bear to see the beauty of Valinor and of the Gardens of Lorien when they sleep and their spirits travel the Olórë Mallë,” Lorien continued, “You are the first of your kind to make such a journey, and your spirit is much more and less inclined to wander than I expected.”
Bilbo regarded the Vala with a nervous feeling of awe beneath his bones; like he should be on his knees before such a creature, but hindered by growing anxiousness at why he had been called.
“I was not asleep when I woke up in these illusions, Lord Lorien,” He questioned hesitantly, “Forgive me for not quite understanding how I came to be in a path of dreams. Although I hope you are here speaking to me, due to the kindness of my elven hosts who have sent a missive to your kin, in hope for any knowledge as to why the elvenland had appeared to take great offence to my humble self, as a guest.”
“The elvenland did not reject you Bilbo Baggins, the illusion of a barrier was quite in my territory, being the Master of Dreams, Illusions and Visions,” Lorien began with an elusive smiles Bilbo had seen far far too many times on the face of a certain wizard, “Once you stepped foot on Valinor, you could no longer travel the Olórë Mallë, and I had hoped your spirit would follow my path when you next slept.”
Bilbo’s brow furrowed, “I would remember visiting such a splendid Garden; Is there something wrong with my spirit?”
“Your time as a ring bearer had hardened you against outside influences,” Lorien’s smile grew, “My lady-wife, Estë has been granting your spirit the usage of her affinity of healing and rest while you travel, you may choose to continue with your elven companions and your dear nephew when you awaken, if you so choose.”
“I was not sleeping,” Bilbo repeated more slowly, “Unless-“
“My barrier was quite insistent that you rest,” Lorien continued, as Bilbo wondered whether he would awaken to a bruised and sore head, “That however, was not the reason why I drew your spirit near. I am also the Master of Desire, and something stirs within your heart which called to me, even as your spirit shunned all touch. Something your spirit kept clinging to, through desperation and sorrow. Something it desperately desired, though desperately resisted as being unattainable.”
“Thorin,” The word drew from his lips before he could swallow them back, before he could stop Lorien from inhaling the word with another of those kindly smiles.
“Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King of Durin’s Folk, Under the Mountain,” Lorien tasted each word, “Yes, that is the desire that stirs within your heart. But does your heart desire to return to him, or embark onwards to the eventual resting place of Hobbits?”
“I have a choice?”
“Thingol and Melian, Lúthien and Beren, Mithrellas and Imrazor, and Idril and Tuor were given these same words; for I validated the desire in their hearts as honest and real,” Lorien spoke as he stepped ever slowly, closer, closer, “Some chose to follow their heart’s desire, while some chose to go ever onwards with their kin. The choice is yours Bilbo Baggins, to decide how Vairë’s woven story may end. Yet be warned, for this choice is binding and woven strands cannot be untied once set.”
“How much time do I have to make this choice?” Bilbo paused, “Thorin and I may have potentially been, but we were not though I will never deny holding him in great affection and esteem in my heart. But I have lived for many decades in the shire with my kin, my many nieces and nephews. I have not seen my beloved Mother and Father since I was very small indeed and I simply cannot be forced to choose without proper thought and consideration. How long do I have to choose?”
Lorien considered his words.
“Should you choose to make your choice, seek me in your slumber and deliver your final call. Yet be warned, the day you take a single willing step into Aman I can no longer offer you passage to Great Dwarven Halls. Now awaken, and seek counsel with your kin, companions and friends.”
-
Bilbo Baggins awakens in a warm bed to Gandalf’s stricken expression and concerned eyebrow slant only to groan and cradle his head in his hands with the words of the ghostly Vala ringing through the nooks of his mind.
He is still trapped, but now the undying Lands will yield entry for him, at a high cost.
“Confounded Foolish Hobbits!” Gandalf exclaims, scowling as soon as Bilbo stirred, “Of course I shouldn’t expect Bilbo Baggins to leave well enough alone, and to not charge a magical remnant like a particularly hungry warg.”
“I met the Vala Lorien,” He tells Gandalf, just to see the dratted wizard’s face contort into shock and confusion.
“Uncle!” He hears Frodo call, as his nephew flew into the cabin with wide worried eyes, “You were unconscious for days! We were all so very worried, how are you feeling?”
“Frodo, my boy!” He exclaims, joyously to Gandalf’s continued bemusement, “It is very good to see you, you look well. I hope your travels have been kind to you.”
“I’m fine Uncle, more importantly, how are you?” Frodo fusses, straightening his blankets, “Can I fetch you anything?”
“Only your dearself, Frodo,” Bilbo patted the sheets near his bed, “Please sit, we have much to talk of, and so very little time and we mustn’t keep the Valar waiting.”
Bilbo Baggins makes it to the docks of the Undying Land the second time; eyes the gangway just outside his door, sinks against the pillow on his bed and feels something push at his very soul with a force that makes him wonder if a life that could have been measures up to a life that has been lived.
Frodo curls against him, but Frodo is grown and no longer needs an old weary Hobbit to watch over him, when one day he will be reunited with his own departed parents. The memory of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins is dear in his mind, but so are Thorin and his troublesome nephews. Neither is worth more or less, because all hold great cavernous places in his heart, and decisions on what is and what could be do not come lightly and in the end a binding decision is forever.
Bilbo’s heart sinks and soars, and soars and sinks, and then sings.