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Coming back to the Shire wasn't anything like coming home.
Bilbo had not really expected it to be, and in a way it was a relief that most of his things had acquired legs during his absence because tracking them down was busy work for both body and mind, and kept him occupied. At least during the daytime.
At night - when he was without purpose, he was troubled by dreams. Waking or sleeping, it did not seem to matter much.
In some dreams he could see Thorin fall; mortally wounded. A fate he had been spared from in real life by being knocked unconscious by a falling rock.
In other dreams it was Fíli and Kíli who died, over and over again, and just as in reality, Bilbo never got to say goodbye.
Those dreams of events that had actually happened then mixed together with dreams of the rest of the Company dying.
It was little comfort to know Bofur and Bombur was well and happy in Erebor when Bilbo woke with a racing heart and the images of the brothers torn apart by Orcs painted on the inside of his eyelids. Then the next time it was Dwalin pierced by a spear. Balin felled by an arrow.
One by one and over and over they all died in Bilbo’s dreams and not matter how many times he told himself that they were fine upon waking it did not seem to help.
But the worst, oh the most awful dreams, were the ones where Thorin lived, and where Fíli and Kíli did as well. Dreams where Bilbo stayed in Erebor, dreams where Thorin forgave him without being on his deathbed. And this time time they did not make peace with just words, or even an embrace. This time they settled their differences with a kiss.
Those dreams were the worst because when Bilbo woke - pillow wet with tears, he wanted fantasy to never stop just as much as he wanted to never dream ever again. Because what use was it to wish for impossible things.
During his farewell to king of Dwarfs, he who had become the king of Bilbo's very heart, the Hobbit had pretended to be at peace as to not burden Thorin further on what would be his last journey.
To be able to speak at all he had pushed down the feelings that made him want to scream and chain himself to the Dwarfs side so that they never would be parted. He had forced himself not to say a word of emotions he had kept hidden for so long that he wasn't even sure anymore when they had started.
Already when taking the Arkenstone Bilbo had carefully buried his hopes of something more than a friendship between him and Thorin, as he had known that every sliver of companionship between him and the Dwarf would likely be broken when his actions were revealed, and they would have to be. So really, to have Thorin call him friend once more was more than a simple Hobbit could hope for.
Nevertheless, it was still far, far less than what Bilbo would have wish for if he had considered himself worthy of a wish of that magnitude.
When Thorin finally passed Bilbo had cried for days and he was glad his king had been spared that sight.
He was invited to remain in Erebor by the newly crowned Dáin, but he quickly discovered that he couldn’t bear to live in a place where every stone reminded him of nothing but pain and loss.
The journey home had been made in a daze, and afterwards Bilbo couldn’t remember much of it at all. But home he had arrived, such as it was, such as it could be when the Hobbit felt that his true home now dwelled in a vault deep inside Erebor’s halls.
For a very long time Bilbo lived with shades and memories for his only companions. Only leaving his Hobbit Hole when it was absolutely needed.
The dreams eventually came less and less often, though they didn't stop completely. At least once a year Bilbo would wake with tears streaming down his face and a feel the slivers of his broken heart cut sharply inside his chest.
Eventually though, he grew quite sick with himself. Because did every day he threw away his life not shame the memory of those he still held dear?
He could imagine the look on Thorin’s face should the Dwarf learn of days and nights accomplishing nothing more than the slow turn of the seasons.
Little by little Bilbo went back to the motions of everyday life and for another few years he lost himself to routine and the mundane. He had to patience for social matters, but at least he began to smile and nod when he was greeted by his neighbours.
Then his life changed once more when Bilbo learnt that his young relative Frodo had been living alone in Brandy Hall ever since the death of his parents.
He had met the lad only twice, but he could clearly remember the spark that had shone in clear blue eyes, and he remembered thinking fondly of the boy.
Perhaps it was the wish to not live in a world where yet another pair of blue eyes lost their spirit. Perhaps it was simply not wanting to be alone anymore. But as he would many years later tell Frodo, while he didn't know exactly why he had adopted him, it hadn’t been for any reasons even resembling charity, instead it had probably been rather closer to selfishness. Because to his surprise Bilbo had found that with Frodo around he actually felt like he was slowly beginning to live again, after so long spent merely existing.
Frodo was a bright and clever boy, remarkably resilient despite the loss of his parents at such a young age, and he divided his youth equally between asking Bilbo endless questions of Elves and adventures, and getting into boundless trouble with his cousins Merry and Pippin.
Curiously, Frodo’s questions didn’t hurt beyond the dull ache ever present inside Bilbo’s chest. At times he even found pleasure in telling his stories to his young nephew - cousin was a dreary word to use for one Bilbo would have called son, but didn’t out of deference for Frodo's actual father.
Years passed as they were bound to do, and though he would always be considered quite a queer Hobbit, Bilbo eventually regained some of the standing he had left behind when following his destiny that Spring day.
He did it not for himself, because he could not care less of what the likes of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins thought about him, but he did it for Frodo, so that the boy would grow up with people and life around him and not just his hermit of an uncle.
Despite the many turns of the seasons, Bilbo did not seem to age, at least not outwards, at least not as much as would be expected.
He saw Frodo grow, turn into an adult, but when he gazed at himself in the mirror he seemed all too much like the same Hobbit that had scrambled down the hill one morning, chasing thirteen Dwarfs and a Wizard.
On the inside Bilbo felt his age creep up on him, stretching him thin like a cloud slowly being erased by the wind.
Leaving Hobbiton was a decision coming in part from not wanting to be a burden for Frodo when his age finally decided to make itself known, nor did he want the boy to see him die.
But it was also part from wishing just one more adventure for himself.
Rivendell held no ill memories, only bittersweet ones, and he knew he would be welcome in the halls of Lord Elrond.
It even was fitting in a way, for him to end his life amongst the Elves he had spent so much of his youth searching for. So it was with a heart lighter than in many years Bilbo made his plans. That lightness also, finally, allowed for him to start working on the story of his adventure.
Frodo had often said that his stories would make a fine book, and while Bilbo privately agreed, it had seemed it was a book not quite ready to be written before then.
With the decision made to leave Bilbo could admit another thing to himself.
For many years he had been telling himself that his fondness for the Ring simply was due to the memories it held, for the help it had provided during his journey. But, as had sadly become his custom, it may not have been a lie but it wasn't the whole truth either.
He didn’t know when it had begun, but little by little the Ring had gotten heavier. Despite that, leaving it behind with Gandalf, leaving it for Frodo, had been one of the hardest things he had ever done. It couldn’t be mere memories holding him tied to the little circlet of gold, and he hoped Gandalf knew what he was doing when he insisted that it would be left in Frodo’s keep.
Even so, it was with a lighter heart still Bilbo started his journey for Rivendell. He knew Frodo would be just fine on his own, and it was not just his chest that felt lighter at the loss of the Ring. His entire being felt oddly weightless and his journey to the Elves passed with remarkable ease.
While in Rivendell the years finally managed to chase him down and he could see the changes they had wrought him when he finally was put face to face with his nephew again.
Such a bittersweet reunion that had been.
In the years gone by since his departure from the Shire Bilbo had found a peace of sorts, but it was once more torn to shreds when he realised what he had condemned Frodo to by giving him the ring.
Not wanting to trouble the boy further Bilbo found the façade of normality, of peace, he hadn’t needed in so many years and wore it once more.
It is with a smile that he gives Frodo his old sword and the shirt of Mithril Thorin had given him before they so harshly parted that penultimate time. Bilbo wanted to apologize to Frodo, but while it would have eased his own mind a little, it would only have troubled Frodo’s who still seemed to be of the opinion that his uncle could do no wrong.
But once more Bilbo’s plans did not work quite as intended and suddenly he found himself in the middle of attacking his beloved nephew, scrambling madly for the Ring hanging around his neck.
When he is himself once more the apologies could not be stopped and for the first time since Frodo was made a part of his life Bilbo cried. Cried for the madness that overcame him, cried for not being able to give Frodo the life of peace he deserves, cried for everything lost, and everything that could be lost still.
Frodo comforted him. Forgave him, for everything. And Bilbo desperately wished to be young once more so that he could have been the one to shoulder the weight of the Ring. But perhaps, it still could not have been him, as his actions all to clearly showed that he could not be trusted around the accursed piece of metal.
Old, years older than just the day before, Bilbo watched as his nephew left for Mordor.
In the months that followed Bilbo felt himself age further and welcomed it as it meant the Ring's hold of him was easing.
Worry for Frodo made his sleep uneasy, then the lack of sleep turned into nothing but days and nights full of it, and Bilbo felt his mind starting to blur around the edges, not clearing until he was on a ship in the Grey Havens, soon to leave Middle-Earth forever.
He is told that even in the Undying Lands death still came for mortals, and that's fine. Death will be his final adventure, one he has put off for far too long. But before that final moment, perhaps this was his chance to finaly find peace.
It is natural enough to have regrets at the end of a long life he supposes. Perhaps that is why elves are immortal, to be given time - enough time, to amend all regrets. Though Bilbo harbours no envy as he has seen the pain in Lady Arwen’s face - twined together with love, when she looks at Aragorn, the son of Arathorn.
Regardless, more keenly than he wishes for his own peace he wishes the same for his nephew.
The wind filling the sails gives Frodo’s cheeks the first colour Bilbo has seen touch Frodo’s skin since their reunion. Having no more apologies left he merely put his old wrinkled hand over Frodo’s much too young one, and gives it a careful squeeze. Once more he is forgiven as Frodo turns his hand to grasp Bilbo’s and directs a small smile his way.
When he dies, Bilbo hopes to be able to do so with a recent memory of his nephew’s laughter in his ears. He hopes they will both have found peace.
To no surprise it turns out that the Undying Lands are indeed filled with peace, and eventually Bilbo finds his own. He has regrets, anything else would be absurd after the life he has lived, but he doesn’t allow them to burden him. He accepts that he can’t change what has happened, and that no one has ever had that ability to begin with.
Frodo’s recovery also helps settle Bilbo’s mind to a great extent. The boy is still much too pale and much too slender but beneath the blessed light of Valinor he no longer looks as if light merely shines through him instead of on him.
Still so very young Frodo’s pale blue eyes are nonetheless clouded with memories heavier than many lifetimes. But eventually even that burden eases, and Bilbo gets his wish of once more hearing his nephew’s laughter.
After an indeterminable period of time, days all blurring into each other, Bilbo is forced to mostly remain bed-bound. The legs which carried him across the world now too weak to bear their burden across his garden.
Then, one especially beautiful morning, Bilbo wakes with the knowledge that a short walk isn't beyond his reach this day.
Not bothering to get changed he enters his garden dressed only in his nightshirt. For a minute he stands and gazes contemplative along the path leading into the golden forest bordering his house. Frodo would probably worry if he found his uncle missing, but it is very early yet and Bilbo will not be gone for long.
Besides, adventures are all in the past.
Carefully Bilbo follows the leaf-covered path beneath the trees. His little house is still within sight when Bilbo’s legs tells him that a rest is needed and slowly, knees complaining all the while, Bilbo finds himself sinking down to find a seat against the trunk of a tree.
Closing his eyes to better listen to the call of the birds Bilbo smiles up into the sunshine.
Later, though not by much as he still feels the sun on his face, he is awakened by a careful touch on his arm.
Opening his eyes Bilbo starts on an apology for worrying Frodo enough that the lad came looking for him, but the words all turn to smoke in his mouth.
Before him is not the form of his nephew, yet the person standing in front of Bilbo is no less beloved.
"Thorin," Bilbo breathes and reaches out a hand, not knowing if spirits can be touched but desperate for it to be so. Then, to his joy, Bilbo’s hand is met, and grasped firmly in Thorin’s bigger one.
The Dwarf easily pulls Bilbo to his feet and smiles, a light in his eyes Bilbo can’t remember seeing before.
“I don’t understand,” Bilbo says haltingly. “The Undying Lands holds no ghosts.”
“Do I feel like a ghost to you then, my friend?” Thorin ask and for the second time since knowing him Bilbo is enfolded in Thorin’s strong, warm arms.
“I don’t understand,” Bilbo murmurs again against the fur of Thorin’s cloak. “How can this be?”
They part, but Thorin does not release his grip on Bilbo, merely settling his hands to rest on Bilbo’s shoulders.
"You are no longer in the Undying Lands.” Thorin’s dark blue eyes are serious, and Bilbo has to tear himself away from their depths when he in confusion looks towards his house, still standing at the edge of the forest.
The direction of Bilbo’s gaze causes another smile to cross Thorin’s lips.
"You have indeed crossed to the land from where there is no return. But now you have gone further still, and your journey was not made by ship and sail."
The beginnings of a thought makes Bilbo start to turn around, meaning to look at the ground where he had rested. Before he can do so Thorin stops him by raising one hand to cup Bilbo’s cheek, the other moving to twine their fingers together.
For a moment Bilbo is embarrassed as Thorin looks just as he did before while Bilbo has wrinkles covered in wrinkles.
Smiling again Thorin shakes his head and bends to press their foreheads together.
"What is, is," he murmurs and slowly brings their entwined fingers up before Bilbos eyes. "But what was, will be once more."
Bilbo draws back to stare in amazement at the hand held inside Thorin’s. It is no longer the hand of Hobbit burdened with time. It is no longer wrinkled and spotty.
And beyond that, the cloth covering his wrist and arm is no longer the white of his nightshirt but the dark red of his long discarded coat, last worn on a quest to vanquish a dragon.
"What is yet to come, that is for us to seek," Thorin says softly and lifts Bilbo hands up to press a kiss against his knuckles, no longer swollen and stiff with age.
“I didn’t know death made a person a poet,” Bilbo says without knowing he intends to. He is much to old to be embarrassed by his own thoughts, though if he would have dared to imagine meeting Thorin again he would not have believed he would have started their reunion with insults.
Thorin merely laughs, a deep happy rumble in his chest and looking into his eyes Bilbo understands what the light in his king’s eyes is. It is happiness. Completion. Not merely contention and pleasure.
“I've had time to choose my words,” Thorin explains with yet another smile adorning his face.
Though at his words Bilbo can feel his own face fall.
It had been a long time, made unnaturally so by his possession of the Ring and then his journey to the Undying Lands. Before his thoughts can go further Thorin cups his face with two big hands.
“No, no sorrow,” he scolds lightly. “It has been long, but at the same time only the stretch between two heartbeats. You will come to know this while we wait for your Frodo.”
Bilbo tried to turn his head, to look in the direction of Frodo’s house, just beyond his own, but Thorin’s grip turning just a little firmer stopped him.
"What is, is," the Dwarf reminded. "And he is fine."
Bilbo looked into Thorin’s eyes, gaze searching. Then he smiled and murmed an agreement.
For that was the truth after all. Frodo would be just fine, was just fine, even without his uncle around to reproach him for not eating enough. He would not be alone, and if Thorin spoke true – and Bilbo did not doubt him, they would meet soon enough again.
"Will you join me for one more adventure?" Thorin whispered against Bilbo’s lips, finishing his request with the barest of presses of his mouth to Bilbo’s.
"Just one more?" Bilbo questioned, feeling his long forgotten thirst for adventure waken again together with his youth.
"I guess we will find out when it ends," Thorin said and laughed as Bilbo threw his arms around the Dwarf's neck to pull him down for a kiss.