Chapter Text
It had been some months since Bilbo Baggins had made his return to the Shire, and a few weeks since he finally managed to get everything back from when it was sold off during his absence. Despite being back in Bag End, where simple comforts were assured, like a well-stocked pantry, a warm bath, a soft bed, and nights in front of a fire in his good chair and an even better book; he wasn’t happy. Part of it was because he missed the company and, despite the constant dangers and hardships on the road, the company of his dwarrow friends was something he desired now that he was alone in his hobbit hole. Of course, he desired company of one in particular, but it would never happen, and that filled him with horrible grief.
For Thorin Oakenshield, the one man he ever loved, was long since entombed alongside his two too-young nephews. He would never see any of them again.
He felt such grief, yes, but one thing he felt more of was regret. Regret that he was too much of a coward to admit his feelings to the king. That one of their last moments was seeing his twisted face and hearing his angered, hurt words demanding that he leave and never return. How he apologized for his cruel words, but had died moments afterwards.
He did his best to push these feelings and thoughts aside as he went about with his daily life. Walking along the roads, tending to his garden, shopping at the market. It was in vain, however, as his heart still ached.
He felt that ache now as he trudged up the hill back to his home, only to pause and frown. He was sure he hadn’t left the fire going in the kitchen, nor in the fireplace. For it was too hot for such things in the Shire these days.
So why was smoke coming from the chimney?
Cold panic shot through him as he ran the rest of the way up to his home, ready to smash the door in to try and stop the fire…
Only for the door to be opened and to be greeted by two ghosts.
“Welcome home, Mister Boggins!” The ghost of Kili cheered, arms flung wide as his brother held the door open.
“Don’t worry, we didn’t tread any dirt in!” The older brother said happily. “Didn’t even touch your mother’s glory box!”
Bilbo stared with wide eyes at the two spirits in the entryway. It seemed that the ghosts of young Durins had come back to Bag End to haunt him. What had he done to deserve such a punishment? For ghosts only came to those who had wronged them in the past. Surely he didn’t wrong them so greatly! Did he? If anyone was to haunt him, it would be-.
“Is that our burglar? About time he came back. I was wondering if he would ever show!”
As if the fates had read his mind, Thorin Oakenshield appeared behind his nephews, wiping his hands off with a dishtowel (even ghosts seem to realize that doilies aren’t rags) with a smirk gracing his handsome features.
Bilbo felt his world spinning. Ghosts, three ghosts, were now haunting his home. He really must’ve angered someone.
“Bilbo?” Thorin enquired, brow furrowing as he tossed the rag onto his shoulder and approached him. “Are you alright? You look ill.”
And then the ghost put his hands on his arms, grasping firmly. Bilbo then felt it. He felt these spirits touching him, and he felt warmth. As if they were not spirits but the actual dwarf king and his nephews that somehow broke into his home and made themselves comfortable.
Perhaps they weren’t dead after all.
Perhaps they were alive and well.
Perhaps they were alive.
They were alive.
With that final thought circling in his head, Bilbo did what any gentlehobbit would do: He fainted.