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In one world Bilbo Baggins lived long enough to board a boat at the Grey Havens with the last of the Ring Bearers, along with his dear Frodo, to take the Straight Road to the West. But, as that grey rain-curtain drew back and all turned to silver glass, it was not a far green country under a swift sunrise that he saw when he opened his eyes.
Instead he stood before a tomb he had not seen in almost a century, a rough blue coat about his shoulders and a grief that he could barely contain trapped in his chest, burning bright like a star.
Bilbo went to one knee before that tomb, the tomb of Thorin, his – his King, his – his –
Memories – his own and not his own – settled over him. In one world Bilbo had stayed by Thorin's side as the eagles came, having seen his dear friends and companions perish before him. In this world Bilbo saw the death of his husband, the death of the boys he had claimed as Kin and somehow lived on. Bilbo had never thought of Thorin that way – except he had, he had loved them all but this – this – Bilbo pressed his palms against the chill floor and shook as the memories surged within him. He was and was not and –
“Be at ease, Bilbo Baggins,” a soft voice said as a cool hand was pressed to the back of his neck. Bilbo shuddered as the painful push of memories surged once and then settled. Tears dripped down onto his hands, a brief warmth before turning to little starbursts of ice on the ground.
Bilbo swallowed back the grief that wanted to consume him and looked up. An elf he did not know knelt in front of him, hair dark as ink and eyes to match. He was pale, paler than most elves Bilbo had met. His robe was simple and plain, but his belt...Bilbo couldn't look at the belt. It made his eyes hurt and his stomach twist in unpleasant ways.
“Who are you?” He managed to ask, sitting back on his heels and dashing the tears from his cheeks.
“Námo, called Mandos,” the elf – correction, the Vala – said. Bilbo froze, one hand pressed against his face. “You know my name.”
“I do,” Bilbo whispered.
The Vala nodded, expression grave as he stared at Bilbo. “It was I who brought you here, Bilbo Baggins. Do you know why?”
“The Ring,” Bilbo said. All the long years of his...life? Other life? All those memories were still bright and vivid in his mind.
“Yes,” Námo said, tilting his head. “And no.”
“You couldn't – you couldn't have brought me back sooner? Before this wretched Quest ever began? Before I lost one I –,” Bilbo squeezed his eyes shut, breath shuddering in his chest. “Why? Why now? Why here ?”
“There are fixed points in time that not even I or Vairë can change. Or so it seems,” something passed over the Vala's face too fast for Bilbo to make out. “I brought you here for two reasons.”
“What? What reasons?”
“One is the Ring you carry. In one world you treated it like a bauble. A plaything. Decades passed and Sauron's forces managed to build up in secret. Though your Frodo managed to destroy the Ring, with help, the damage was done. A Darkness was awoken that should not have existed, not anymore. But it still did.”
“I don't understand.”
“That Darkness spread, despite the destruction of Mordor. It took Ages but it ate and ate and ate until all that was Light was taken from the world. And when all the hope and love and light was gone from Arda's far shores, it spread to Aman, consuming as it went. In that world the Dark consumed everything. Until I chose to act.”
“What? What do you –”
“In this world you married Thorin Oakenshield and Dwalin, son of Fundin, braiding your hair together as you lay together in a bed in Laketown. But the Ring still exists, and Sauron with it, and all the evils this world still yet contains. Are you starting to understand?”
“No,” Bilbo whispered. “I do not.”
Námo looked like a statue, kneeling before Bilbo in the shadows of the tombs. “The Ring you must destroy, or else the Darkness will wake once more in this world as well. But beyond that, after you have done that, you will be charged with a desperate duty. You all will be.”
“What duty? What quest? I can't destroy the Ring! Frodo could barely do it and he had –”
“If you do not then all will be in vain,” Námo said. Bilbo shut his mouth with a click. “You will not be alone.”
“What...what duty? Say what you mean, clearly.”
Námo nodded, a slow, deliberate move. “You will destroy the Ring. Then comes my second reason. You will go back to your home and take the things I give you and you will hide them away. It will take more than your own power. It will change the course of this world in ways not even I can decipher yet. But do it you must, for the Darkness is already hunting for all that it can devour, now that all has been split Apart.”
“What – what Darkness? What is it?”
“Ungoliant,” Námo whispered. It felt like the shadows shuddered around them. “It is coming. It chases me even now. I must keep moving, else it finds me and all hope will be lost at last.”
“Ungoliant? It's here ? But –”
“Not here,” Námo held up a hand. “Not yet. I move and it follows. Every world I visit it consumes more and more.”
“Then why come here .”
“Because you must go forward, and you cannot do that, not yet.”
“I don't understand.”
Námo reached out, placing two fingers to Bilbo's brow. He shuddered at the icy touch, some strange sensation seeping into him. “Go there and back again, Bilbo Baggins. And, once you are back in your Bag End, we will meet again.” Then he was gone. It felt, for one terrible moment, like the very shadows about Thorin's tomb grew deeper, like long tendrils were creeping along the floor, twisting towards where he sat.
But then a spark ignited, high on Thorin's tomb. A spirit crystal, Balin had told Bilbo – this Bilbo, not the other, oh but his head ached – during the funeral. Dwarven made by craftsmen long lost to time, they were fitted to each royal tomb in an ever lessening number. Dwarrow myth said that the crystals would light when the soul of the deceased came to visit the living. None in living memory had ever seen the sight.
Bilbo stared up at that glowing crystal, the illumination the same shade as Thorin's eyes, and clapped both hands over his mouth to swallow down the cry of grief that wanted to leave him. The Dark receded. Slowly the noise from the levels above began to filter in once more. Laughter. Cheering. A King had been crowned, but not Bilbo's. His King was given back to the stone, to be left in the halls of mourning until the dwarrow were called to return back from the stone that they were made.
“Bilbo?” Warm hands on his shoulders drew him back. Bilbo closed his eyes against the rush of his-not-his memories that wanted to swamp him. Dwalin's arms curled tight around him. “I couldn't find you.”
“I'm sorry,” Bilbo said. There were so many reasons why. He pressed his palms over the back of Dwalin's hands. The love that burned inside him grew with every beat of his heart. This was Dwalin. His Dwalin. Their Dwalin. The his-not-his memories shifted and Bilbo let out a breath. They were and are. He Was. He knew, without asking, that there could be no going back. “I'm so sorry.”
“There was nothing you could have done,” Dwalin buried his face in the crook of Bilbo's neck and shoulder. “Don't punish yourself with what might have beens.”
Bilbo blinked away his tears. “I have to go.”
Those arms went tight about him. “What.”
“There...is something that must be done. I have to go.”
“Then I'll go with you.”
But even as Dwalin spoke, Bilbo knew that could not be. “You have to stay,” he whispered. He felt Dwalin shudder behind him. “I need you to guard them,” Bilbo gripped Dwalin's hands tight. “I need you to keep them safe.”
“Safe? But they're –”
“You will see me again,” Bilbo said. He knew that in his bones. “I promise you. We will meet again.”
It was a promise he meant to keep, even as he kissed Dwalin goodbye. It was a promise he meant to keep as he headed back to the Shire, to make sure his affairs were in order. It was a promise he meant to keep when he ended up with his dear Frodo once more, far too soon in a world that still felt one step to the left every now and then.
It was a promise he meant to keep when he met with Elrond once more. It was a promise he meant to keep, every wretched step to Mordor. It was a promise that kept him going when it felt like all the light in the world went out. It was a promise that guarded his heart against the Ring, even as it hissed and whispered and pleaded with him. It was a promise that let him tip that pretty little thing right into the fires of Orodruin and turn his back on it without hesitation.
It was a promise he meant to keep, right until Námo appeared in his sitting room, haggard and dripping blood all over Bilbo's best chair.
“ What –”
“There is no time,” Námo curled a hand around Bilbo's arm. Blood streaked down one side of his face. “Are you ready, Bilbo Baggins?”
“Ready? Ready for what?”
“You've been there and back again,” Námo sounded dazed. “Now you must go forward. There will be no going back. Not for you.”
“I don't – what do you mean – I...”
“Take these,” Námo pushed a bag into his hands. Bilbo could not look away from those ink-dark eyes. “Hide them well. Then, when it is time, you will know what to do.”
Then the Vala was gone and his sitting room, half packed for his move to Erebor, was silent and still around him. His letters lay in a pile on the table. A wagon was scheduled. Frodo was saying his goodbyes. There was much to do.
But, when Bilbo looked down at the soft bag in his hands, he knew there would be no going. Not now. For, as he spilled the Silmarils out into the palm of his hand, he realized that the Light in them was brighter than anything he had ever seen before. He realized, even as the shadows around his hearth started to grow, as if reaching for them, that his promise to Dwalin would not be kept so easily.
Bilbo hid those gems back into the bag once more and it felt like the world around him tilted back into place. For a moment it felt like he could hear something skittering in his walls. For a moment his home was empty and bare, stripped of its furnishings, of its plaster, of its cozy walls. For a moment the world was empty and cold and all he could hear was the distant murmur of voices, as if through a thick wall. For a moment he thought he heard a knocking on his front door.
Bilbo drew in a shaking breath. There was much to do. There was only one way a hobbit could hide something so large as the treasure in his pocket. He had to speak to the Thain. To the Mayor. There was so very much to do.
And, when he penned his letter and placed it next to his mithril shirt and the braid he had to slice from his hair, he still meant to keep his promise. All the Shire hummed with the power of his people. Even the most quarrelsome of his kind had gone silent at the sight of the Silmarils.
Bilbo drew in a shuddering breath. He would be the first to go. It would be the signal to the others. The few families chosen to be their anchors were already gone, out past the Westmarch, as close to the sea as they could get. Frodo, his dearest Frodo, had gone with them, Bilbo's Red Book of Westmarch in his possession. Bilbo had no idea how much forward they would have to go. Námo had not appeared to him in the time it had taken to put his desperate plan into place. All Bilbo could do was trust, now. It was time.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Bilbo was gone. All of the contents of Bag End went with him. The sandy floors were solid and whole, bearing no trace of the work hastily done from teams from the Blue Mountains. The light in the windows went out. One by one the homes in the Shire went as well. The sound of hobbit-folk died as the sun set, a great ripple of change that went far beyond their borders.
The stars moved. The sun rose and set. The moon waxed and waned and waxed again. And, as the years turned and the Ages passed, one night a pair of shadows stepped out of a car in the parking lot of Hobbiton National Park. A flashlight came on. They made their way up the hill. Then there came a voice, as familiar as it was Ages before.
“Do you hear footsteps?”