Archive of Our Own ^beta

"You are a very fine person, Master Baggins, and I am very fond of you; but you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all."

When the ship neared the veil, quietly sailing on calm waters, he stared with wide eyes as he was bathed in a glow he could never have imagined. It was so beautiful, that light – more beautiful than anything Bilbo had ever seen. More glorious than the whole of Rivendell, warmer than any cozy room in his smial, and more golden than the halls of Erebor.

And those were to be his final thoughts in Middle-earth: Erebor. The dwarves. His friends.

Thorin.

The Undying Lands were not an afterlife. They were not death. He would not find his creator there, nor the many friends and family he had lost along the way.

But Bilbo, well… he had long outlasted the years most hobbits were given, walking well beyond the twilight of an ordinary life. And now… he was worn in a way that had little to do with time.

What had he told Gandalf all those years ago? Ah yes, he felt thin. Stretched.

As the ship sailed ever westward and that soft light grew near, a bone-deep weariness settled over him – heavier than any he had known before. He began to wonder if he would even reach the shore.

For a fleeting moment, he hoped that when death finally came, he might wander the meadows of Yavanna. That even if he could not cross into the halls of Aulë, perhaps he might glimpse inside – might hear the voice that had echoed in his dreams for so many years.

A quiet whisper filled his ears then, one that felt at once familiar yet foreign. It was warm, like that of his mother as she sang lullabies when he couldn’t sleep. She asked if he would wish to see them once more, to see Thorin, and to know what could have been. 

It was such a strange question – what could have been.

If he was being honest, he had spent eighty years wondering what could have been. If he’d been faster – if he’d seen Bolg coming – if he’d reached Thorin sooner, even a few moments earlier, could he have changed the course of the world?

Could he have saved Fíli or Kíli? Could he have saved Thorin ?

Those questions had haunted him for many years – decades of his life. It wasn’t until Primula and Drogo had passed, when his quiet life was upended once more, that it finally stopped. When he’d taken in the young boy with dark hair and blue eyes, who looked…

Once, he’d told Frodo he didn’t know why he’d taken him in, could never explain it, but that was a lie.

He’d known. He’d always known.

Perhaps the questions hadn’t gone away, not exactly. Perhaps they had simply shifted. Would Thorin have welcomed another hobbit into Erebor? What would it have been like for young Frodo to grow up surrounded by dwarves and mines instead of hobbits and fields?

Though, looking at Frodo now, Bilbo understood there was no way he could have raised a more courageous or clever hobbit. Who else could have crossed the whole of Middle-earth, suffered beyond anything Bilbo could fathom, and saved the world?

Bilbo liked to think that even a touch of that bravery had come from him. He had given Frodo everything he wished he’d had when he went out with thirteen dwarves and a wizard.

And yet, there were moments – rare and quiet – when he dared to believe that some higher hand had guided it all. That Thorin’s gift, born of dragon’s gold and madness, had been shaped by Eru’s will. The mithril shirt had gone with Frodo into the darkness, and it had saved him – just as it once saved Bilbo.

Bilbo liked to think that Thorin knew. That he had watched Frodo’s long road with proud eyes from the halls of his fathers, that his spirit had walked beside him when the burden grew too heavy. Of course, it had been Frodo’s courage that carried the Ring to the fire, but still... still Bilbo imagined a dwarven king at his side, fierce and steadfast, guarding him all the way to Mordor.

It was a comforting thought – that Thorin had helped to save the world, even if he’d never known it.

And if Thorin had known what that gift would become – if he had known it would save Frodo so many times – Bilbo liked to think he would have smiled.

Not with pride, but with peace.

In a small way, both Bilbo and Thorin had protected the lad.

He had done for Frodo what he could not do for himself – or his friends.

If he could have, he would have changed things. He would have saved them. He would have been faster or more clever, more aware. 

Less of a grocer and more of a burglar.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity and the mere blink of an eye, he answered her question. “Yes,” he said, “I should very much like… to see him again.”

The light grew brighter and he shut his eyes, wondering what awaited him on the other side. Would he be allowed to seek out the dwarven halls? To see his friends once more, and share stories? They would all look as they did in his memories, he was sure, but… would they recognize him now?

It had been so very long. Would they even know him now?

The light faded a bit, not entirely but enough that he could open his eyes once more. Blinking, he frowned and sat up straight, letting the pipe fall from his lips. This… couldn’t be right. He turned his head, wide eyes taking in the world around him. But, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be !

He looked behind him and felt suddenly dizzy. It was… his home. He was sitting on his bench outside of Bag End, holding his pipe in hands much younger than those he’d known for many years.

“What –”

Before he could finish speaking, he heard heavy footsteps on the road. Leaning forward, he found something he could never have expected. The wizard walked along, using his staff as a walking stick, moving easily despite his heavy-looking gray robes.

And that was when Bilbo realized what was happening. Blinking over and over, trying to convince himself he was dreaming, that this was merely another one of his memories manifesting because of the magic of the Undying Lands.

He was simply given one more day, one more chance to see his friends. Looking down at himself, he couldn’t help but smile.

Yes, that must be it! That golden voiced woman had sent him back to see his friends again. To see Thorin again!

What a kind deed , he thought. It wouldn’t be long enough to truly say goodbye, to tell Thorin everything that was in his heart, but… that wasn’t what she had offered. She had merely asked if he would like to see them again, and that was all he was given.

It would be enough.

The wizard finally stopped in front of his gate, looking down at him with that mischievous smile he wore so often.

“Good morning,” Bilbo said.

Gandalf leaned on his staff. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you wish me a good morning or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning? Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”

Bilbo simply answered, “All of them at once, I suppose.”

“Hmmm…”

Sitting up, Bilbo asked, “Can I help you?”

Gandalf hesitated for a moment. “That remains to be seen.” He looked Bilbo over before adding, “I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.”

Oh , Bilbo thought, I should very much like that.

“I see,” he answered. “Would this adventure be starting soon?”

There was the faintest flicker of surprise – no more than a curious pause – before Gandalf answered. “As soon as this evening, I should think.”

“Hm,” Bilbo nodded, standing from his seat, “well, I should get to work.”

“With what?”

“Preparing food. How many should I expect?”

Gandalf’s tone was almost suspicious when he said, “Fourteen, I’d say.”

“Right, well,” Bilbo nodded his head, “I’ll have dinner ready.” He turned to walk up the steps but paused and added, “You might want to make a mark of some kind.” He pointed at the green door. “That way they don’t get lost.” With that, he made his way toward the door with nought but a “Good morning” to leave behind.

The whole of Bag End was exactly as he remembered it – every teacup, every shelf, every well-worn corner set in its place. It let him move through the hours of preparation as though in a dream.

It wasn’t a feast, not quite, but certainly better than what the company would eat on the road for many months.

He even packed away a bit extra for the journey, knowing how often dwarves underestimated their appetites.

Night had fallen when he heard the heavy knock at the door. He paused, letting the silence stretch just a moment longer, then took a deep, steadying breath and made his way to the door.

“Dwalin,” the dwarf said, bowing. “At your service.”

Bilbo smiled faintly. “Ah, yes. Bilbo Baggins. At yours.”

“Where is it –”

“Through there,” Bilbo said, cutting Dwalin off before he could finish. “Gandalf said there’s to be quite a few of you. You might need to move the table into the hall.”

Dwalin grunted his agreement and made his way toward the kitchen.

Bilbo lingered in the doorway, listening to the creak of boots on floorboards, the rustle of a cloak being shed. He knew it wouldn’t be long now. Balin would arrive next, then the rest – crashing into his quiet life like a long-forgotten dream.

He’d been given one more day. One more chance.

Afterward, he would pass on – wherever hobbits went after death – but he would carry these memories with him. That would be enough. It had to be.

Sure enough, a knock came just moments later.

“Am I late?” Balin asked.

Bilbo’s smile came more easily this time. “Second to arrive,” he said, opening the door. “Right on time.”

Balin joined his brother in the pantry, pouring ale and assessing the meal Bilbo had cooked. When Balin thanked him for his hospitality, Dwalin grunted his agreement.

The next knock came quicker than Bilbo expected – two sharp raps and a scuffle, like someone had elbowed someone else in the ribs.

He opened the door to find two young dwarves standing there, grinning as if they’d just pulled off some grand prank. For a moment, Bilbo couldn’t speak. The sight of them – alive, whole, laughing – struck him silent.

“Fíli,” the first said with that self-assured grin, and the second added, “And Kíli.” They both bowed with a flourish. “At yer service.”

When they stood up straight, Kíli smiled just as Bilbo remembered. “You must be Mr. Boggins!” he said brightly.

Bilbo let out a soft breath that trembled at the edges. Mr. Boggins. He hadn’t heard that in decades – not since…

He needed to say something, he knew, but it suddenly felt like his throat was closing. Finally, he forced the words out.

“It’s, uh, it’s Baggins , but – yes, well, do come in,” he said, voice a little too high, too quick. He turned sharply, gesturing them toward the sitting room. “Plenty of food. Coats off. Mind your boots, if you please. And no ,” he added, pointing to the glory box in the hall, “you may not wipe your boots on that.”

Fíli smirked at Kíli before pulling out multiple knives and swords, holding them out. “Careful with these, I –”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure they’re very sharp.” Bilbo stepped back and gestured to one of the chairs in the hall. “Leave them there,” he said, gesturing to his right, “and head into the next room. They’re setting up the table.”

With that, he turned and made his way to the kitchen. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. His eyes stung and his hands were beginning to shake. He busied them with dishes, pretending to rearrange things that didn’t need rearranging.

Behind him, Kíli laughed at something Fíli said, and Bilbo bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

They were alive. For now – they were alive. 

And it wasn’t long after that when a pile of dwarves fell through his front door, followed by an amused wizard.

The dining table groaned beneath the weight of food. Dwarves were everywhere – talking over each other, elbowing for space, shedding cloaks, thudding boots, and pulling out chairs with enough noise to wake all of Hobbiton.

Bilbo stood at the edge of it all, arms crossed, one eye twitching. He had just watched Bofur stack three mugs on top of one another and pass them across the room like a makeshift tray.

“No, no, no – not there! ” Bilbo cried, darting forward. “Bebother and confusticate you dwarves! That’s my mother’s best ladle – Ori, I swear on all the dwarves in the Iron Hills, if you drop that tureen – !”

There was a distinct crack.

Silence.

Bilbo turned, slowly. Nori had attempted to balance a stack of bowls on a footstool. The top one – delicately painted, quite irreplaceable – now lay in two elegant halves at his feet.

“Oops,” Nori said.

Bilbo was quite sure steam was coming out of his ears. “‘Oops’? Oops ? You –! You reckless, clattering – this is why I said no dwarves in the kitchen!”

Then, from somewhere behind him, a voice started to hum. Another picked up the rhythm while they scraped his silverware together. 

“No, no, no!” he shouted, remembering what was about to happen. “Don’t do that, you’ll blunt them!” 

“Oh?” Bofur smirked. “Did you hear that, lads? He says we’ll blunt the knives!”

And before Bilbo could say “Don’t you dare –” the room erupted:

“Blunt the knives and bend the forks!
Smash the bottles and burn the corks!”

“Chip the glasses and crack the plates!
That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

Bilbo groaned aloud. “No. Not this. Anything but this!”

The dwarves stomped and spun, laughing, tossing his mother’s dishes through the air as though they weren’t over 100 years old. Others were slapping counters and stomping their feet in time. 

“Cut the cloth, tread on the fat,
Leave the bones on the bedroom mat !”

“Pour the milk on the pantry floor,
Splash the wine on every door!”

Bifur deftly caught items that were thrown at his back while Bombur happily cleaned the plates as they passed him. Bofur played his flute while Dwalin had his viol out, playing with a level of skill Bilbo hadn’t appreciated before. 

Not that he really wanted to appreciate it right then. He tried to scowl. He did. He really did.

“Dump the crooks in a boiling bowl,
Pound them up with a thumping pole!”

“When you're finished, if they are whole,
Send them down the hall to roll!”

But the laughter was warm. The voices were familiar. And for a moment – just a moment – it was like nothing had ever gone wrong.

He found himself smiling. Just a little.

“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

But then, the moment that Bilbo would never – could never – be ready for came as three heavy knocks sounded at his door. “He’s here,” Gandalf said, and all of the revelry and carousing stopped immediately.

Bilbo felt his stomach drop and, despite pleading with his feet not to, he found himself hurrying to the entryway. Gandalf crossed in front of him, leaned down, and turned the handle.

Bilbo’s lungs stopped working, his heart froze, and he thought he would faint far sooner than he had the first time as Thorin stepped inside.

“I thought you said this place would be easy to find,” he said, his voice deep and rich and so much sweeter than in Bilbo’s memories. “I lost my way twice,” he went on as he removed his cloak, “I would not have found it at all if not for that mark on the door.”

“Well, yes, I put it there…” Something glinted in Gandalf’s eye as he looked over at Bilbo, his voice taking on a strange lilt, “... myself.” 

Bilbo couldn’t have cared a whit about anything in that moment even if he tried. Let the wizard have his suspicions, ask his questions if he must – it wasn’t as though he had been fully honest with Bilbo last time.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf began, gesturing toward Thorin, “allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin looked at Bilbo then, really looked at him, and his moment of hesitation felt as though it lasted so much longer than in Bilbo’s memories. Too long.

It felt like a lifetime passed, like Bilbo was watching it all unfold again, but there was still nothing he could do.

He was only given one day. There was no way he could convince Thorin to stay away from Erebor and its gold, to forget Smaug – that Azog was still alive, hunting him down, intending to murder his nephews in front of him.

But… maybe it wasn’t just Bilbo’s imagination – because something flickered in Thorin’s eyes, something sharp and uncertain, like a thought half-formed and chased away before it could take root.

He tilted his head, just slightly. As if trying to place a memory he didn’t have.

Then it was gone.

“So,” Thorin finally said, “this is the hobbit.” As if the moment had never happened, the dwarf began pacing around Bilbo, looking him up and down. “Tell me, Master Baggins, have you done much fighting?”

Bilbo forced himself to mutter, “I beg your pardon?”

“Axe or sword?” Thorin continued as he met Bilbo’s gaze once more. “What is your weapon of choice?”

Bilbo cleared his throat and forced himself to look away, to stop staring before he did something stupid. Like reach out. Like touch the dwarf – just once. To feel his heartbeat, his warmth. To prove to himself that Thorin was alive.

“Well,” he finally forced out, “I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know.”

Something flashed in Thorin’s eyes, but not the amusement Bilbo remembered, not even the hint of irritation for Gandalf’s mere suggestion that some halfling from the kindly west could serve any purpose to him.

“Thought as much,” he said, glancing back at his Company. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to snap back in the way he would have all those years ago, the way he did so many times in so many different ways. Thorin saw it and for half a breath, he waited, as if he thought Bilbo might actually argue with him.

And that was nearly Bilbo’s undoing. But he pressed his lips together and waited – waited for Thorin to smirk and walk away, for the others to laugh at him, for Thorin to take his seat at the head of Bilbo’s table like it had always been his.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Thorin’s eyes narrowed slightly and he said, “You’ve the look of one who’s traveled farther than most.”

Bilbo looked away again, jaw clenched, trying to breathe through the ache in his chest. “I suppose I have,” he said, voice too quiet to be proud. “But some roads don’t end. Even when you make it home.”

Thorin looked at him for a moment longer before turning away with a simple, “ Hmm.”

Bilbo stood still in the entryway, his chest rising too fast, hands trembling like he’d just outrun a warg. He gripped the edge of the doorframe to stay upright, swallowing hard, blinking back tears that had no right to be there – not now, not yet.

He swallowed hard and went to grab a candle, knowing what was coming. Behind him, he could hear them talking about Dáin and the other dwarven kingdoms, could hear the frustration as they realized no one would be coming to help them.

Using a match, he lit the wick and turned around, making his way back toward the table, his feet slowing the nearer he came. 

He didn’t want to see the map. He didn’t want to hear about the key and Thorin’s father. He didn’t want to hear the word “Smaug” like it was still just a name and not the beginning of decades of grief.

He didn’t want to watch as his world fell apart once more. 

But that didn’t matter to Valar. He was not given this time to hide in his old room and weep in his old bed until sleep took him away from here, away from Thorin – away from the ghosts. Because he knew that when he went back, he would not be with Frodo on the ship anymore.

He would be going to wherever it was that hobbits went when they died, and the most he could wish for was to be near Aulë’s halls. Until then, though, he would stand near Thorin and continue to wish things were different, that he had been able to save them.

As he approached, he saw the soup before Thorin and the map – that cruel, vile map – laid in front of Gandalf. Thorin’s hand hovered above the mountain, fingers tracing the air just shy of the ink. He didn’t touch it. Not yet. As if the act of placing his hand there might conjure the gold itself.

“Far to the East,” Gandalf said, “over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak.”

Bilbo set the candle down a bit too hard, but no one seemed to notice. “The Lonely Mountain,” he read, though he wasn’t truly looking at the map. He was watching the flickering candle make the shadows move across the walls, making Thorin’s figure shimmer faintly – like memory refusing to settle.

He knew this moment. He had stood in this very place, once, younger and full of doubt. He had watched that same map, heard the same words – words that had sounded brave and noble and full of purpose then.

Now they sounded like the first breath before a scream.

Bilbo swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He wasn’t meant to stop it, he knew. He wasn’t meant to change the course of history. He was only here to see them, talk to them, be near them once more.

But oh, how could he watch this unfold again?

“Aye,” Gloin said, speaking over the others, “Óin has read the portents, and the portents say: it is time!”

“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold.” Óin looked around the table. “When the birds of the old return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.”

Bilbo considered asking the question like he did the first time, but there was no reason to. He knew.

Regardless, Ori jumped up from his seat and shouted, “I’m not afraid, I’m up for it. I’ll give him a taste of the dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!”

Balin interjected, “The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us, but we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor brightest.”

One of them shouted, “Hey! Who are you calling dim?”

Fíli argued, “We may be few in number. But we’re fighters, all of us! To the last dwarf!”

Bilbo clenched his jaw to keep from screaming, to call them fools, to tell them everything they were truly facing. He hated every single moment of this and he couldn’t help but question why Yavanna had chosen to give him this night. She could have sent him anywhere – to the trolls, the goblins, even Gollum , but she chose this night.

“And you forget we have a wizard in our company,” Kíli argued, interrupting Bilbo’s quiet anger. “Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!”

Gandalf held up a hand. “Oh, well. No, uh, I…I wouldn’t say…”

The dwarves began shouting at one another, standing from their seats, some with fists raised as if they meant to fight. Bilbo stepped forward, hands up. “Now, please, everyone, let’s just –” 

When they paid no mind to Bilbo’s weak protests, Thorin jumped from his seat. “Enough!” he shouted, voice somehow louder than every other in the room. “If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?” he demanded. “Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look East to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?”

Bilbo hated every word that Thorin said, but he was still captivated by him. He had seen so many small moments when the truth of Thorin’s kingship was made plain to any who looked for them. Bilbo hadn’t seen them before – not really. But now he knew, he knew , and it burned like molten iron in his chest.

Thorin would have been a good king… a just and fair king.

If only he’d had the chance.

“You forget,” Balin snapped, drawing Bilbo from his thoughts, “the Front Gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain.”

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true,” Gandalf said, pulling a large, metal key from his robe.”

Eyes wide, Thorin breathed, “How came you by this?”

Handing it over, Gandalf explained, “It was given to me by your father. By Thrain. For safekeeping.” Thorin took it from his hands and gripped it tight. “It is yours now,” Gandalf said, then pointed toward the map once more. “These runes speak of a hidden passage to the Lower Halls.”

Kíli grinned. “There's another way in.”

“Well, if we can find it, but Dwarf doors are invisible when closed.” Gandalf shook his head and gestured toward the table. “The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map...and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle-earth who can.” He looked around the table. “The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage. But if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done.”

Ori sat up straight, eyes wide. “That's why we need a burglar!”

Tugging at his suspenders, Bilbo said, “A good one, too.” The words were the same, but there was nothing in his tone that sounded as it had the first time. “An expert, I’d imagine.”

“And are you ?” Gloin asked, eyebrow raised.

Bilbo turned toward him then, the pain swelling in his chest, the ache pressing hard against his heart. He couldn’t help it – his eyes drifted back to Thorin again, and to his surprise, the king was watching him too. There was something in his expression, something Bilbo couldn’t define, and it made him nod.

“I… yes.” He cleared his throat, regretting every word as he spoke it. “Yes, uh, I… I am. An expert. Yes.” Without another word, he made his way down and sat at the other end of the table, far from the map. 

Far from Thorin. 

He folded his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. He didn’t look at the mountain. He looked at Thorin.

And for some reason, Thorin was looking back at him.

They sang their song – a dirge of despair and regret, of gold and dragon fire, of tragedy and loss. But beneath it all, there was hope.

Hope that would be paid in blood – dwarven blood. Durin’s blood.

Before – the first time – Bilbo had slipped away to his room and spent the night wrestling with fear and foolishness, torn between Tookish dreams and Baggins caution. This time, though, he stayed in his chair, listened, and watched – silent and still as one by one, each dwarf rose to their feet. They all looked to their king, each as horribly unaware of what was to come as Bilbo had been.

The way they acted… so calm, even optimistic… it was wrenching something open inside Bilbo’s chest, something that had never healed. Something that never would heal. 

He could feel it building – the panic. The song still rang in his ears, each note a weight against his chest, each voice a memory echoing down a corridor of grief. Kíli’s laughter. Fíli’s defiance. Thorin’s vow to take back Erebor.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit there and watch them move like actors in a play he already knew the ending to.

His breath caught. Shallow. Too fast.

He stood – too quickly – and left the room without a word. He rushed through the house to the back door, shoved through it, and nearly collapsed right outside. The cool air of the garden struck him like water. He leaned against the low stone wall, gripping it with both hands, trying to breathe. 

In. Out. 

One more breath. 

One more minute.

The night smelled of soil and apples, but Balin had been right – it looked like it would rain. But until then, the stars blinked gently above him, constellations he had learned during their quest. Hobbits had no use for the stars – they could not grow anything by them, nor were they necessary for planting or harvesting. No, the stars were for travelers, for those who needed a guide no matter how dark the night had grown.

But that hadn’t mattered. None of it mattered – because they would die. And he would remember. And nothing he did could stop it.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

“Gandalf, I’m fine,” Bilbo said quickly, voice strained. “I just – I needed air, that’s all.”

“I am not the wizard.”

Bilbo froze.

That voice. Deep. Rich. The same as it had been eighty years ago. The same as it had been in every dream since.

Slowly, he turned.

Thorin stood in the doorway, face barely lit by starlight, frowning – not in disdain or irritation, but with something almost like worry.

“Are you unwell, Master Baggins?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo stared at him. He wanted to speak, but all the words caught in his throat. He could barely breathe through the ache. 

Thorin looked away for a moment, as if uncertain what to say next. Then, quieter: “You looked… afraid.”

Bilbo swallowed hard. “I – no. Just… too much… revelry, perhaps.” He tried to force a laugh. “I… you wouldn’t know this but… well, I’m a bit of a shut-in. Uh. I don’t often have… well, uh, anyway.” Waving a hand, he said, “You should go back inside. Don’t – don’t worry about me.”

Thorin looked at him again. Longer this time. Searching. “There is something about you,” he said softly. “I do not know what it is. But… it pulls at me.”

Bilbo felt his knees go weak. “Y-you don’t even know me,” he whispered.

“Perhaps not,” Thorin replied, taking a step closer. “But it feels like I should.”

Bilbo didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Thorin was standing too close now – close enough that Bilbo could see the line between his brows, the faint scar on his temple, the slight tilt of his head when he was trying to understand something that didn’t quite make sense.

“You should go back inside,” Bilbo murmured. “Enjoy the night. There won’t be many more like this.”

Thorin frowned. “Why do you say that?”

Bilbo’s breath hitched. He hadn’t meant to say it. With a shake of his head, he tried, “I… only meant that there won’t be much, uh, carousing during the quest. I’m sure.”

Thorin studied him now, gaze sharper, almost suspicious. “You speak like you know what is coming.”

Bilbo looked down. His hands were shaking. “N-no, I –”

“You look at us like we’re ghosts,” Thorin said, but his voice was soft, too soft for Bilbo to handle.

That did it. He closed his eyes, hard. He wanted to lie, to laugh it off, to brush it away like dust on an old book. But the words came out before he could stop them.

“Because you are.”

Thorin didn’t move. The garden was utterly still.

“Not yet,” Bilbo whispered, turning his gaze back to the stars as a strange… numbness overtook him. “But soon.”

A firm hand grabbed his shoulder, turned him back around. “What do you know?” They were standing so close that Bilbo was nearly forced to wrench his head back to meet Thorin’s sharp gaze. “What has the wizard told you that he has not told us?”

Bilbo frowned. “What?”

“What do you know?” Thorin demanded, but then his voice softened as he went on. “And why… when I look at you, I feel…” The grip on Bilbo’s shoulders traveled up and two warm, calloused hands cupped his cheeks. “I cannot… describe it.”

Before he’d realized he’d done it, Bilbo had fisted both of his hands in Thorin’s shirt, his grip iron tight. As though he could stop what was coming if he just… held on.

Thorin leaned in.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t forceful.

It was slow – deliberate – following a feeling he didn’t understand but couldn’t deny. His hand still cupped Bilbo’s cheek, and his eyes searched his face, as if trying to remember something he'd never known.

Bilbo’s breath hitched. His eyes fluttered shut.

And then –

“Thorin? Alright?”

Bilbo went rigid, stiff as stone. Thorin didn’t move for a heartbeat. His forehead nearly touched Bilbo’s. His hands were still holding him like he might shatter if let go.

“Yes,” Thorin said, not turning around. His voice was low, steady. “Everything is fine.”

A pause.

“See that everyone is abed soon. We leave before dawn.”

“Aye,” Balin replied. Footsteps retreated.

Only then did Thorin pull back – slowly. His hands lingered a moment longer before falling away.

Bilbo couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The night felt heavier than it had before.

“Good night, Master Baggins,” Thorin said. Quietly.

Bilbo nodded, barely, but it didn’t matter as Thorin was already walking away. In a moment of weakness, Bilbo called out, “Thorin.” The dwarf stopped and inclined his head, indicating he was listening. “I… I don’t know what will… happen tomorrow. I don’t know if I’ll… well.” He cleared his throat. “I only want to say that… I will never abandon the quest.”

Thorin turned a bit more but never met Bilbo’s gaze.

“If you believe me lost…”

Bilbo swallowed hard.

“…know that I will find you. Always.”

Thorin didn’t respond. Instead, he simply walked back inside, leaving Bilbo to look back up at the stars. He wondered if he could see the stars wherever he was going next, or if there would be nothing. Tears pricked his eyes as he watched the clouds roll in, bringing the rain Balin predicted, obscuring the beautiful sky.

He waited until he felt the first drops hit his face before finally going back inside to his bed.

For a long moment, he imagined what Thorin would do if he went to find him, to seduce him, and carry those memories into his death. Would Thorin be a gentle lover, keeping Bilbo close and safe? Or would he hold Bilbo down and take him, doing everything he could to ensure Bilbo felt him for days? Would he smirk when Bilbo shifted uncomfortably on his horse only to do it again that night?

Bilbo shook his head, grinning at the thought and his own foolish... heart for even considering it.

He’d been given one day; he hadn’t been given it to play out all of his fantasies or to slake his decades’ worth of desires.

After rinsing his face, he lay down on his soft bed. He hadn’t bothered to change his clothes, there was no need. Instead, he watched the rain pouring down outside his window until the tears blurred his vision too much to see anything.

So that was it, then. One night. One last song. One almost-kiss.

It had been more than he’d expected. And less than he’d hoped.

A selfish part of him couldn’t help but wish he hadn’t been given this, that he had gone into his death with regret and loss, not with this sharp ache in his soul. He pressed his face into the pillow, smothering his sobs as he imagined this would be what his afterlife felt like.

But he no longer feared it.

Epilogue

He woke in darkness.

For a moment, he thought it had happened. That the light had taken him. That his body had given out in the night and all that remained was silence.

But he felt the weight of blankets. The ache in his hands. The dampness in the air from the rain still falling.

Then – a knock.

Not a memory. Not a dream.

“Bilbo.”

A voice he would know in any world. Deep. Warm. Alive.

“Dawn is not far off. We leave soon.”