Chapter Text
Bilbo stared at the fading shore of the continent, distance and fog slowly beginning to cover it up. To cover up the road that lead home. A large hand landed on his shoulder and he turned his aching neck to look at the owner of said hand.
“Gandalf…” He trailed off, not knowing what to say. What was there to say? That he regretted so much? That he wishes that things had ended up differently?
The wizard already knew that.
The hobbit and maia stared at each other for a moment, taking comfort in each other’s presence before Bilbo turned back toward where home lay.
He could no longer see it, but his eyes oved in the direction of the mountain he had dreamed of calling home. Decades old grief flooded his heart once again as he thought of who lied deep in the stone of said mountain.
“Uncle?”
The voice broke Bilbo out of his thoughts and he once again turned his neck, wincing as the ache in it multiplied. His nephew stood near the middle of the boat, Gandalf now out of sight. The ache in his heart multiplied and grief filled his eyes at the haunted look in his boys eyes.
Oh, how he wishes he could take the pain away from him. Frodo had never been meant to leave the Shire, not any further than Bree at the least. His boys heart was made for the Shire through and through, made for the simple life full of comforts, not for orcs and battle.
It is perhaps one of Bilbo’s biggest regrets, giving the ring to his nephew. He would take it back in an instant if he could. He would shoulder the weight of the world for Frodo if he could.
“My boy, what is it?”
Frodo was fidgeting with his fingers, stumbling when he reached his ring finger on his right hand, or rather the lack of it.
The younger hobbit continued to fidget with is fingers while not meeting his Uncle’s gaze for a moment before looking up, eyes full of concern.
“Are you sure about this? Do you regret coming?”
Despite his grief, the questions made a gentle smile spread across Bilbo’s face, love filling his heart. Oh, how he loved his nephew. Made to love and love hard, just as his mother Primula had.
A shake of the head was the answer his nephew first received and then finally words.
“No, my boy. I do not regret coming. In fact, I believe this was the best decision I could have made,” he cut himself off with a yawn, exhaustion filling his body all of a sudden, “I do quite believe that I am quite ready for another adventure, Frodo.”
Hazel eyes fluttered as sleep attempted to claim Bilbo, which Frodo noticed. The dark haired hobbit walked over to his Uncle, grabbing a blanket from the bench next to him and covering Bilbo’s lap with it.
“Rest, Uncle. I will wake you when it is time for elevensies.”
Frodo was such a good lad, Bilbo thought, so caring even after all the Ring-Bearer had gone through. He hadn’t deserved the pain he had suffered through. The elderly hobbit smiled at his nephew and closed his eyes, finally succumbing to the sleep that called for him.
—
Bilbo woke to the gentle singing of birds and the scent of freshly tilled dirt, lavender, and petrichor filling the air. That was…odd. Bilbo hadn’t known there were birds out this far into the sea. Or lavender, as a matter of fact, seeing as neither he nor Frodo wore it.
His face scrunched up and he rolled over in the warm bed he lied in. A gentle breeze blew around him causing one of his curls to tickle his nose. He brushed it away and tried to fall back asleep, only for the curl to return a moment later and tickle him once again.
He swatted it away again only for it to happen again and again, finally causing him to snap his eyes open and glare at wardrobe across from the bed.
How annoying, he thought. He had just wanted to sleep longer, but his hair had other ideas.
Honestly, it had been years since his hair had been such an issue! The glare aimed at the wardrobe intensified for a moment before his breath froze in his lungs, his eyes widening as his thoughts and everything around him finally registered.
The hobbit quickly sat up, head becoming dizzy for a moment because of the sudden movement.
This was not the ship. He vividly remembered falling asleep to the gentle rocking of a boat as it rocked against the waves. He recalled Frodo covering him in a blanket, and promising to wake him for elevensies. And yet, he was no longer on a boat.
In fact, after taking a moment to look around, he was in a smial. His smial. Bag End.
Blankets were thrown off of his legs as he stumbled to his feet, whirling around in a circle. He spun three times before becoming slightly dizzy and registering that his body did not hurt from the movement.
A quiet, carefree giggle left his mouth. He was moving so…so easily. He hadn’t been able to do that for ages!
Hazel eyes locked onto the standing mirror that sat in the corner by one of the many bookshelves filling the room and his heart stopped for a second at the sight.
Instead of wrinkled skin and a hunched figure with white hair, the sight of a young, golden brown-haired hobbit staring back at him.
His feet clumsily rushed for the mirror, only stopping when he was a foot away from it. Smooth hands came up to push at his face and tug at the curls on his head, part of him expecting it to melt away and be replaced with the elderly hobbit he had become so accustomed to seeing.
It did not. The only thing that happened was that his scalp began to ache from all the tugging.
Bilbo stumbled backward and fell to the ground, knees pulled to his chest and hands in his hair.
How had this happened? What was going on? He had just been on the boat to the Undying Lands with his nephew and Gandalf. How was he back in his smial? Why was he young-
His head shot up, curls bouncing at the motion. He was young, nothing hurt, and - he checked his hands - he had no scars from the quest. The ex-burglar distinctly remembered having a large scar crossing his left palm from when a rather sharp rock sliced his palm open in the Misty Mountains as he and the Company attempted to cross them.
There was no scar, which meant that the quest had not happened. Or at least, he hoped that was the case. Feelings that he could not even try to describe rushed through him as he rushed to stand up and race to his office.
The door to the room slammed open, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care about any damage he might have done in his excitement. He ran to his desk, pushing books out of the way to peer at the calendar he knew he kept there.
Bilbo was meticulous with his scheduling, never forgetting to mark a day off on his calendar, which was something he had never been so glad for until now.
The sight of 25 days crossed out met his eyes as he scanned the page. A flick of his eyes to the top told him it was Astron. It was the 26th of Astron and, another flick of his eyes to the top right corner, year 1340 according to Shire Reckoning, which was 2940 according to the King’s reckoning.
A breath that he hadn’t known he was holding escaped him as the information registered. If his calendar was correct…then that meant that it was currently exactly a year before the quest for Erebor began.
Or at least, it was if this was real. Bilbo prayed to Yavanna that it was because he did not know if he could handle this all being a dream. If this did turn out to be a dream, he hopes it never ends, because now…now maybe he could at least pretend to right his past mistakes.
A shake of his head brought him out of his mind. A year. He had a year before the quest to prepare, and by the Green Lady was he going to be prepared. He would only bring the essentials this time, nothing that would weigh him down needlessly. And no vests, for crying out loud. The fact that he had brought his vests, his party vests for that matter, on a quest across Arda had greatly annoyed him in his later years.
With that in mind, the hobbit sat down at his desk, still in his sleep clothes, and began to write out a list of what he needed to do between now and the day of the quest. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he had to at least try.