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It's not the way Bilbo imagined it, death.
Then again, it's not generally in a Hobbit's nature to ponder death. Too many big questions, too many unknowns, and always a story or two from someone's-uncle's-cousin that contradicts what one already feels one knows about the thing.
Still, if pressed, Bilbo might have admitted that when he thought, in a vague way, about the details of death – of the dying, and of whatever might happen after – it included some image of blue sky and white light, and perhaps parties of the grandest nature, full of song and merriment and, most of all, food.
It's not like that at all.
Perhaps it has to do with his accidental stint as Ringbearer. There's the Last Ship, for starters, though he'd rather assumed it to be metaphorical and not a literal ship in harbour. He's heard mention of inhabitants of the Land of Men slipping away, being drawn upwards into a path of white light, leaving empty, cold bodies behind while their soul or essence or some other such thing goes on to something else. Indeed, he's heard rumours of such a thing for other Hobbits – not that Hobbits, as a general rule, speak of these things, for it's quite impolite, and doesn't get you invited back to tea, and instead gets you funny looks when you're out for your morning walk.
Still, there's something about this that makes Bilbo feel it's something special, something unique past uniqueness, for Hobbits and maybe even for others. And while the Baggins side of him – which comes and goes, but never completely disappears – wants to cringe and hide and maybe get along with this business of dying in the proper manner, the Took part of him sits up a little straighter, curiosity getting the better of him, wanting to see what's going on all around him.
What he notices at first, standing at the bow as they scull over waves like silver glass, is the dimness of things. It's not just the quality of light, or the sense of a delicate, translucent veil being drawn over his eyes. It's every sense, dulled just a little. Images lose their clarity, and words melt and slide together, becoming only vaguely familiar sounds that register ever-so-slightly more than other sounds. He no longer really feels the weight of his years, or the smooth deck beneath his feet, and even the smell of the sharp sea air does not seem as pronounced. Things blunt, a little at a time, until everything is dim and distant, though not in an unpleasant way.
And then things start to change.
There does appear a light, off in the distance, and it does, in fact, begin to grow brighter. But it's not the white light Bilbo's heard spoken of, pure and hard and colourless. It's altogether different. It's – it's almost familiar, in fact. There's a sense of coming back to himself, sensations from his body being registered by his conscious mind, and what he notices first is the light across his face, pleasant and warm. It's more than just a feeling on his face, however – it's something that steadily suffuses his entire being, and the more it does, the more Bilbo feels the familiarity of it.
It's hard to see, even now, as the movement stops and he leaves the ship for solid ground. The warmth is more than just a temperature; it's light and energy. And it's – it's golden. It's as if all the gold there has ever been in Middle-earth is radiating its essence, as if all precious metals and even gemstones are singing with light for him to bask in, flooding his being.
And in this golden light, as things start to solidify around him and his eyes open a little more, even against the brightness, taking in shapes that begin to have meaning, he hears something: voices. Not the voices of those who might have been sitting beside his bed in Bag End in another version of death, but voices he knows just the same – two of them, long since departed the world he's lived in for so many years, but strong and true here; voices he'd know anywhere, though he never thought he'd hear them again, let alone so sincere, so amused, so pleased:
"Fili and Kili, at your service."
It seems the time for another adventure.