Chapter Text
At last, Bilbo sighed. His lips twitched up into something he hadn’t done in half a year: a smile. Melancholy it may be, but it was a smile nonetheless. Before him lay the mid-autumn hills of the Shire, and more specifically, Hobbiton. In the distance nestled into the top of the tallest hill, lay Bag End. Home. It was such a hollow word now. His heart ached at the mention of it. He had longed for his cozy hobbit hole for over a year, and now--he was back. It had been worth traveling all night to see the sun rise once more upon his birthplace. Drinking in the sights of familiar roads and smials that dotted the hills, Bilbo slowly and silently walked through town. No one but the birds were up with him. Gardeners and farmers would soon rise, followed by the merchants and bakers. Slowly but surely the town would rise from its innocent stupor in the sweet dreamlands where peace reigned, good food was always ready, and a friend stood by your side.
Bilbo Baggins had none of those. Alone, he walked through the sleeping town, to an empty home, where no food would be ready, or a warm fire to greet him. This is where he had started.
Letting his pack fall to the ground, Bilbo took a moment to admire his green door. Even after being gone a year, the paint looked as bright as the day he ran out of his round door. The flowers hadn’t grown up or ratty--most likely due to the Old Gaffer. He would have to pay the man for taking care of his home in his abrupt absence. Home. There was that word again. Hesitantly, he reached for the brass doorknob, but stopped. Shaking his head he went and plopped down on his bench.
Why was he so afraid of going into Bag End? He had longed for this moment since the first day of his adventure—oh, there it was. The moment he stepped into Bag End, the adventure, would finally draw its conclusion.
A worn and shaggy hobbit had finally made it back to his beginnings because he was not wanted with the Company he had left with. He had departed a prim and proper hobbit with nothing more than a desire to see what lay beyond the borders of his lands. Many perils he had triumphed over, and many foes he had faced and slayed. Slowly—if painstakingly—the dwarves had wormed their way into his heart; they taught him new things, showed him the world and what she had to offer, and eventually became one of them. What a set they had been. Thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit. Off they had gone to slay the great dragon Smaug. They triumphed and called one another brother and kin for life. Mead they shared and stories they told, laughing and eating all the way. It had seemed the darkness had passed, as all things must eventually do.
It had not.
The Heart of the Mountain they had called it, more like the heart of all greed. The gold fever set in fast and quite furiously within Thorin’s mind. It had spread to the others almost as quickly but not nearly as obsessive. He had hidden the Arkenstone, fearful of what was overcoming his friends.
Betrayal had been bittersweet. His new kin had been in disbelief. Really, Thorin was being unreasonable. It was just a glowing rock and it had cost Bilbo everything. Banishment was his reward. Threat of death upon sight, an added bonus. Topping it all off was his lonely journey back to the Shire.
He had stuck around for the battle of course, scars littered his body and face as proof. It had been the least he could do in retribution. Sting, his elvish blade, resting always at his hip now, had struck the mortal blow to Azog in battle. The pale orc had his blade raised above his head to strike the King Under the Mountain down, when from behind Bilbo had been quicker, and shoved his own blade into the black-blooded heart of the Defiler, ending the long strife between the orc and Thorin. He didn’t know if Thorin knew it was by his hand the orc fell, but it didn’t matter much now.
It was all said and done. He wouldn’t take back anything he could. He had made sure the Company was alive before he left. Fili had caught him leaving and held him in a bone crushing hug, he begged Bilbo to come with him to see his Uncle, but the hobbit was having none of that.
“I am weary, Fili,” he had said. “My presence is no longer wanted and I yearn for a comfy bed and some Old Toby to smoke.”
“I’m sure Uncle will have forgiven–”
“No, Fili.” He rested a hand on the dwarf’s head as if he were a child. “Please don’t.” He shook his head, his curls hanging limply around his head and dried with sweat. “He is far too stubborn to give up a grudge that easily.”
“Then when I am King you can come, it is not fair—you’ve fought for this mountain just as hard as the rest of us.”
Bilbo gave the blonde heir a smile, the last one for a long time. “My life is already halfway over, Fili.” This must have shocked the Prince for a pained expression came over his visage.
“Already half over, but—”
“I wish to spend my little life back under a cozy hill. It’s where….” He belonged? No, that didn’t seem right, but it was his home after all. Wasn’t it? “I’m...sorry, Fili.”
“Bilbo.” The heir enveloped him in a hug once more. Shushing him, Bilbo murmured Fili must get back to Kili, for he had been injured. After a time the battered dwarf released him and gave a low bow. “Goodbye, Mister Baggins.”
“Mister Baggins?” A new voice questioned. Bilbo blinked out of his memories and came to see the Old Gaffer walking up the way. Not unexpectedly the older hobbit looked surprised and slightly off put.
“Hello, Mister Gamgee. Fine morning it is.”
“I’m glad to see that you’re back.” He settled his tools down by the gate’s entrance. “They were going to auction off the things in Bag End today. Many thought you were dead.”
“Yet you kept my garden nice.” They shared a smile.
“I knew yer mother very well, Mister Baggins. She’d go off for times longer than a year before she settled down. You’re her child through and through with the sense of your father. I knew you’d be coming back.” Leaning back a bit he spotted Bilbo’s rucksack. “Did you just get in to town then?”
“Yes, I came in as the sun was rising.” A beautiful sight it had been, a warm welcome from nature back into the folds of the rolling hills of the Shire. “It was nice.” Was that all he could say about it? The elder hobbit saw a deep and weary gaze that should never appear on the young and offered Bilbo a smoke, Old Toby, and nothing else would the Gaffer smoke. Fondly, Bilbo declined.
“I lost my pipe ages ago.”
“You have a few more inside, don’t you? You must have quite a tale to tell this old man.”
Bilbo looked to his green door once more. It was inevitable; eventually, he’d have to go inside and face the truth that was staring him down. Slowly rising, his heart gave a painful twinge with every step he took towards his door. He placed his hand on the cold brass knob, eyelids flickering down, shutting his eyes. Phantom echoes of laughter ran around him, and a song low and haunting still played in his ears as strongly as the first time he heard it. But that’s all they were now: ghosts of his past.
“Yeah, that’s all it is now I suppose, a tale.”