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Eight years later Dain appointed him ambassador to Ered Luin. "We need to strengthen our hold there," said the king. "We have too long been out of touch with our kinsmen there since the days of Smaug. There are still some good dwarves working the iron forges in the west, and their needs should not be forgotten."
So he set out, with Nali and Floi by his side, on a day in late summer. Gandalf accompanied them once more. The roads had been safe for some years now; they passed uneventfully through the Grey Mountains, past the land of the Beornings, and over the moors encircling Rivendell. Within a month and a half they came onto the borders of the Shire.
On his wagon he saw the Blue Mountains glimmering in the distance, under a clear sky, lit by an autumn sun. Friendly and familiar they seemed: a harbor of safety, the only place that offered them shelter in the days when Smaug had lain in the halls of Erebor. But he was saddened to remember those who had once dwelt here with him.
Slowly, with a dull ache, he recollected the years they had lived together: when Thorin had brought them here to escape winter in the wild, enlarging these ancient halls of iron, hewing shelters out of these rocks. The long seasons during which their prince had been a blacksmith for woodsmen on the borders, earning enough to keep his nephews fed, bartering firewood and meat for every dwarf family. The days when they had so little, but took comfort in every meal they could have.
Here Fili and Kili had grown up, from infants into young dwarrows, skilled warriors and metalworkers. Thorin had fathered them, cared for them, trained them to fight, forged their swords and axes until they had grown old enough to make their own. And Balin himself had helped teach them in the secret language of their people.
Across a chasm of time Fili and Kili smiled at him, their faces eternally youthful, their time stopped at eight years ago. Thorin emerged from the innermost shadows of his memory, somber and sad, quiet and pale, no longer full of the fire he knew.
Here they had lived, princes of Erebor and Ered Luin, for thirty years that had not been entirely bitter or joyless. They had called Ered Luin home, for a while. This place still bore the mark of their labors and their love. Balin had come back, but Thorin and his boys would never return.
Eventually he shook himself and returned to the present, unable to speak his thoughts. The wizard must have guessed them however, for he addressed himself to Nali instead, leaving Balin to mourn in privacy.
They halted before the gates of Hobbiton. Most of the train went around and ahead for preparations; only he and Gandalf crossed the bridge. Slowly they walked up the green hills, in companionable silence. The grass had not yet withered, tall and lush green, up to his waist beyond the trimmed hedges of hobbit gardens. The washing things of hobbits flew on every lawn.
In his mind he compared them to banners of victory flying over battlefields. The homeland of hobbits was as peaceful and prosperous as ever. But all prosperity had a price. All peace had to be purchased by the valor of heroes, who must lay down their blood and their lives so that other folk may live. No victory came without loss; no wealth was earned without death. Even this fortunate green land and its inhabitants must know this one day.
Bilbo's garden was even more colourful with flowers than he remembered. In the autumn breeze they bloomed, scarlet and golden yellow and fiery orange and ivory white; almost as bright as gemstones lit by the light of lava. Hobbit children were digging in the front yard; they looked up at the dwarf and wizard with curiosity, clutching baby carrots in their grubby fingers.
Gandalf knocked on the door. Bilbo appeared, and for a moment, Balin forgot about the dead, caught in the embrace of a long-missed friend.
*
That evening they sat in the garden together, all three of them, blowing smoke-rings into the night. Bilbo's nephew - Frodo was his name, Balin learnt - came and leaned against him, looking up shyly at Balin. He fished out of his pocket a golden coin and a dragonfly made of emeralds, toys from Erebor, that he had meant to give to his young relatives at Ered Luin, but there were plenty more in the wagons that went ahead.
"Did you tell your aunt you would be staying the night?" said Bilbo. The child nodded, transfixed by the wings of translucent jewel. "I asked Merry, he'll tell Aunt Esme for me."
"That’s all right then, but stay inside the house now, or wear my coat; it's on the chair," Bilbo said. "The night is getting chilly." Frodo nodded and ran off.
"If Thorin were alive - "began Balin, and then paused, at a loss. He meant to say: he would have liked to see you today, after all these years. But the words were transfixed in his throat.
Bilbo rummaged in his pouch for more tabacco, and filled up his pipe. "Frodo would have liked to known him," he said softly, when his bowl was lit with a yellow glow again. "He was a great dwarf. A proper hero, of a time gone by, the sort that belong in old songs."
Wisps of clouds blew gently across the moon, rising in the east. "I am writing a memoir," Bilbo continued. "Of my journey to the Mountain with your dwarves. For Frodo to read, when he's grown a bit. He will like it."
"I have not a doubt Frodo will like it, Bilbo," said Gandalf. "He is very like you. If the chance arises and thirteen dwarves appear on his doorstep, he would too run off into the blue and fashion his own adventures."
"Heaven forbid!" laughed Bilbo. "No, I should hope that Frodo would stay safe in this hobbit hole, grow old and have peace to the end of his days, when the time comes. But for myself, I would choose to have an adventure all over again, with Thorin and his company, if I could ever go back in time."
"That was what Thorin would say,” Balin offered. “He was always kind to children, in his way. He wanted Fili and Kili to stay in Ered Luin, but they followed him. They would not be left out of the adventure."
“The young cannot be stopped,” said Gandalf. “It was not a foolish thing that they did. They did not cast away their lives in vain. At the end they gave themselves to protect us and the lives of others, in Erebor.”
"They were decent dwarves," Bilbo said, puffing on his pipe. "Brave ones, and honorable. Thorin too, under all that armor and stubbornness."
Silence reigned until the full moon arose over the treetops, washing the land in silver, pure in her radiance. Wind rustled in hedges; an owl hooted gently in the copse. Tears came into Balin's eyes, but he did not let them fall.
"May the race of dwarves reign and prosper in Erebor for many ages to come," said Gandalf. "That was what Thorin hoped for, and it proves true today. At a time like this, I could wish for it with no foreboding. Smaug is dead; let there be peace now in the hearts of every son of Durin."
"There is still Moria to retake," said Balin.
Gandalf looked at him. "My dear Balin, what could possibly make you say that?"
"Our enemies are not all vanquished," he replied. "Evil is always afoot, Gandalf my friend, and none knows that better than you, I should think! It would be wrong for us to sit back and wallow in the riches that had been reclaimed with the blood of our fathers, to forget at convenience that our homelands lie in filth and ruin, overrun by orcs, and worse vermin. No Durin’s son should relax in vigilance, nor forsake our vows for justice.”
“That chance for reclaiming Moria will not come for many years, I fear,” said the wizard. “Erebor is not yet rebuilt completely.”
“We must not forget, all the same,” he said. “A dwarf like Thorin would never let himself forget. The time for heroes is not yet passed. We shall have need of them again: people like Thorin, and Fili, and Kili, who would lay down their lives so that others may live for the better. To stand against our enemies and fight for everything that is good in this world.”
“That is true enough,” remarked Gandalf.
“Ah, but let us speak of simpler things tonight,” cried Bilbo. “I would hear more about old Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Ori, Nori, Dori, and everyone else in the company. Tell me again about Gloin’s family, Balin. His son sounds like a cheerful lad. Is he as good a fire-maker as his father?”
They talked of new times, reminisced about old times, laughed, and drew deeply at their pipes. Until at length the stars emerged, remote and burning white in the sky, and Frodo came out wrapped in a blanket blearily rubbing his eyes, asking if Bilbo would be going to bed.
And Balin said to Bilbo, “I will head off to Ered Luin tomorrow. Will you come for a few days? Come see the forges of our people, the gardens we carve out of stone. It was the home of Thorin Oakenshield for many years. Come and see the halls he built with his hands.”
“I will come,” said Bilbo. “Gladly.”