Chapter Text
Death was a peculiar thing. For the most part, Bilbo thought the act of death was painful. There was nothing peaceful about death, not for the people witnessing it and certainly not for the people experiencing it. Death was cruel and it took and took and took until there was nothing left but empty rooms and unclaimed seats at the dinner table. First had been his parents and then there had been some cousins and great aunts.
And then there was the death he would never forget.
In his book, the story that he had read to Frodo and the other faunts whenever they had claimed they couldn’t sleep, he said he had been knocked out. He claimed that the falling stones had rendered him unconscious and that he spoke to him in the tents. Bilbo had woven a wonderful tale of forgiveness and kingly regret. He had whispered in the night about being sent home with grand accolades and well wishes.
(In writing his book, Bilbo had discovered why no one wrote of the aftermath of war.)
But Bilbo had been a burglar, a trickster and dragon riddler. Twisting the truth and soothing the fears of a few faunts had taken little to no effort at all. He hadn’t been unconscious in the field. He had been up there on the hill, Sting forgotten at his side as he had tried to sooth a dying man with the thought that help was coming and forgiveness was not needed. In truth, Bilbo didn’t know the exact moment he had died. It could have been a few moments after he had tried to push Bilbo towards the west, to his books and armchair. It could have been in the moment Bilbo had leaned back and shouted that the eagles were flying overhead. It could have even been the moment Dwalin dropped his axes onto the ice and screamed.
In the end, Bilbo supposed it didn’t matter. He had died and Bilbo couldn’t stay.
In all his long years, Bilbo had never managed to forgive Death. Not since the ice and the realization the body beneath him was cold, or since a young faunt had sat in his study while Bilbo accepted two waterlogged cloaks on his behalf. Death was cruel and Bilbo had lived long enough to see almost everyone important to him die.
When Bilbo had retired to Rivendell, his body failing him long before he could attempt one last trip over the mountains, Elrond had been kind enough to host him. He had spent many an afternoon with the lord and a few more in the library. But he did not mind the conversations he had with the elf, even when the conversations had eventually led to talks with the Dundain.
Those days were foggy in his memory, although there were a few bright spots of poetry and laughter. His wit had been failing him then, turning him into a shell of himself. (Was it better that he hadn’t realized? Was it better that he coasted from moment to moment, health failing and mind escaping him to dance up among the clouds? Was it kinder? Or was it cruel to the elven people who watched his decline?)
He did remember talking about ‘end of life’ and mortality. He remembered it clearly, if only because so many of the elven people who took shelter in Rivendell did not understand his blaise attitude towards it all. Oh, he had been mad. He had been frustrated and enraged when he realized he could go no further towards the mountain he so desperately sought. But there had been acceptance too. He had never forgiven death, but he did not fear it.
Death came for everyone and Bilbo could do little to stand against it. (He could, however, listen to a ring. He could listen to a little voice that begged and pleaded and sang of worship and the end of all endings. )
(But that voice was gone.)
(And his child had paid a terrible price.)
Some people said that Bilbo would probably meet Death as an old friend when his time came.
Those people had never known Bilbo past acquaintanceship.
To be quite frank, Bilbo had been saying since his early fifties that he'd like to meet Death with a frying pan. He'd also like to meet Death while holding Sting , but Bilbo wasn't too picky and Frodo had needed the sword more than he did in the end. Either way, both items could cause damage and only one of them had the added benefit of being inconspicuous.
Bilbo didn’t want to kill death- that was rather counter productive, in an ironic sort of way- but he did want to take out a few kneecaps. (Frodo’s parents had gone too soon. His own mother had wasted away after his father’s death. Bilbo had watched a good dwarf die and then helped find the bodies of two boys curled around each other on the battlefield.) Death had never been a friend of his, only an acquaintance Bilbo had no choice but to invite to the midsummer social and hoped that the invite would get lost in the mail.
Bilbo wasn't so puffed up and full of himself to think that his death would garner the attention of Lord Mandos himself, but on the other hand, Bilbo had made friends in some very high places. High enough places that he was sailing to the Pure Lands and not to the Gardens of his forefathers.
So when Bilbo passed in the night, hardly more than a day from shore, he could honestly say he wasn't expecting….this.
“Bingo Boggens?” The figure said, skeletal hands holding a parchment a mere breath away from a waxy and pointed face as if it could not read the chicken scratch without squinting and cursing.
Bilbo could do little but stare at the figure. For the first time in nearly forty years, Bilbo could move his hands without strain. He could stand tall and his lungs did not rattle in his chest. He could see without squinting and hear clearly enough to catch the soft ‘swish-skith’ of the figure’s cloak.
Most miraculously of all (the most damning of all) was that for the first time in decades Bilbo's mind was clear. When was the last time Bilbo had not heard the voice? When was the last time he had not had hands absently fumble to his pockets and thoughts that did not circle obsessively over a trinket that mattered little when compared to the health and happiness of his nephew?
(When was the last time Bilbo had been anything more than a shade of himself?)
So Bilbo stood there, lax and pain-free, and he stared up at the waxen figure that could be nothing else but a servant of Lord Mandos. He stared and he thought, and he wondered.
In his early years, Bilbo had thought he would ‘wake up’ beside his body. He thought a reaper would appear and would usher him to the great Party Tree, past those gnarled roots to the edge of the Lady's Garden. He had thought he would be greeted and escorted.
In later years, when his nephew had gone off with wee Gimli, Golin's boy, and stood against the darkness and Mordor, Bilbo had thought he would be shunned. He had thought he would be turned away from the Garden by poor Prim and Drogo. Bilbo had been the one to pick up the ring. Bilbo had been the one who dragged eyes towards the Shrine. Bilbo had been the one who was too swallowed by grief to wonder about a ‘funny little trickent’.
Bilbo did not deserve to rest in the Garden and perhaps that was why he had agreed to go to the Pure Lands of the elves. He could rest there, heal there, and he would not have to face his people. Part of Bilbo thought this was cowardness. The other part of him, the one that was tired and had rewritten a story so that the worst bits were softened, knew that there was nothing the residents of the Garden could say to him that Bilbo had not already thought to himself.
That was the worst bit of travelling with a dwarf that suffered self-flagnation; you learned to recognize it in yourself.
“Bingo Boggens,” the figure repeated again as it stashed the paper into a hidden pocket in its long cloak. “What a peculiar name.”
Bilbo had gone by many names in his life. Mad Baggins, Master Burglar, Dragon-Riddler, thief. He was used to them, had long grown used to looking up whenever a name was shouted in the market. His father had a saying, ‘I don’t care what you call me, as long as you do not call me late for dinner.’ And Bilbo had taken that saying close to his heart and lived by it in his later years.
Bilbo had gone by many names, but there were only two people who were allowed to call him ‘Boggins’. This reaper had come close enough that it made Bilbo’s hackles rise. There were two people allowed to call him Boggins, and they were long dead. This reaper was not one of them.
“Still, I suppose ‘Boggens’ is better than a Took. Damn things keep trying to scurry off on an unending adventure just because they ‘can’t die twice’. Fools.” The reaper scoffed, skeleton hands waving in wide gestures of annoyance.
Well, as Frodo’s merry band of misfits would say, those were fighten’ words. But Bilbo had never been one for physical fistcuffs. No, in that way he was very much a Baggins. Why harm, when you could bewilder?
Still, a never-ending adventure. Now there was an idea!
The figure sighed. “Best get on with it then, come along Mr. Boggens. We don’t have all day.”
And oh, the things Bilbo could say. The chaos he could cause! The reaper was practically begging for it. Bingo Boggens, as if any respectable hobbit would have such a name! Bilbo hadn't been respectable in decades.
Part of him wanted to point out that this was a mistake. That there had been an error. Bilbo was meant to be getting up for breakfast and sharing tea with his nephew. He was meant to be murmuring something gentle, some poem or another, as Frodo silently relearned how to handle his cutlery. He was meant to be back there on the ship, bearing witness to the pain he had inflicted on his child.
He was meant to stand in the Pure Lands and see the poison of the shadow drain from his boy. He was meant to bear witness.
He was meant to Attone.
In retrospect, Bilbo had picked up the worst of that dwarf's habits, hadn’t he? Self-flagnation, guilt, remorse...He had learned from the best. So, perhaps he could have said something. He could have pointed out the sins he had to stand for. But he was nothing without his guilt, and Prim surely would heap more onto his shoulders.
He could have said something, but in the end, he did not. Instead, he followed along behind the reaper. Sure, there were adventures to be had and things that could be done, but Bilbo was old and he was tired. If this reaper wanted to bring him to the Garden, then that is what would happen.
And then the figure had the gall to stop and make Bilbo run face first into the reaper’s hip.
“Oh!” Exclaimed the reaper, bones rattling as it shuddered in a way that would haunt Bilbo’s nightmares. “Oh, a Took just passed!”
The reaper cast a look towards Bilbo and Bilbo did his best to appear perfectly innocent. (That look hadn’t worked on anyone that knew him since just before the Battle of the Five Armies. But the reaper didn’t know him and Bilbo was not above petty actions.)
(Petty actions and spiteful thoughts were the only reason to get up some mornings.)
“I’d best get on that. Tooks require two reapers per person, you know. And there have been rumours that the Ring Bearer, the first one, would be passing soon. Can’t miss that!” The reaper patted Bilbo condescendingly on the head and gestured towards a path that seemed to cut straight through the darkness. “You seem like a fine fellow, and you normal hobbits are just darling. Head straight down if you would, the Garden will make itself known.”
Between one blink and the next, the reaper was gone. For a moment, Bilbo could do little but stare at the empty space the reaper had been standing in. Beneath his feet was a worn path, cutting straight through a barren field of rocks and shadows. But Bilbo barely took in his surroundings.
The reaper had left him. Alone. On a path that was presumably between the various afterlifes and domains of the gods. Better yet, Bilbo had been left alone so that the reaper could go pick up Bilbo.
The irony was not lost on him.
“Do I just stay here then?” Bilbo asked the empty air, head turning to the left and then the right, as if someone was just going to pop up and explain what was going on. (In his defence, the last thing he remembered was his bed on the ship. The grit beneath his feet certainly proved he was no longer there.)
“Or should I just…” Bilbo trailed off, thumb hooked in the direction the Garden was supposed to lay.
After a moment he hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and rocked back on his heels. He was dead, he realized almost absently. His state of being (or, rather not-state-of-being) wasn't that much of a surprise. He did feel a bit bad for poor Frodo, the boy would not take his death well.
As far as he could tell, there were a few different options he could pursue. (None of which were to ‘stick around and wait for someone to figure out that there was a mistake’. No, that had flown out the window the moment the reaper had called him ‘Boggens’.)
First, he could continue on to the Garden and grovel at Prim and Drogo's feet.
Second, he could try to suss out the direction of the ocean and follow the shoreline to the Pure Lands. Once Frodo was settled in and his affairs were in order he would of course head to the Garden and enact option one.
Third, he could wander the apparent wastelands between realms as a self-inflicted punishment. He would never make it to the Gardens, never see his boy, never gain the peace Elrond and the others had always been going on about.
Fourth…
Well…
Bilbo rocked on his heels again and cast a look down the path towards the Garden. The fourth option was not something he had seriously considered. He hadn't thought of it all those years ago when Bilbo had realized he was dead. He hadn't thought of it when Frodo had gone off or Elrond had gently told him there had been smoke in Mordor and flames in the Shire. No, Bilbo hadn't thought of the fourth option until he had sat with Elrond that first night on the ship.
The Peredhel line was given the gift of choice.
Elrond would never see his daughter again.
And somewhere, deep down where even the voice hadn't been able to reach, Bilbo had realized he would never be able to see him again. He would never see him or the boys. He would never see Ori or Balin, never be able to ask them about the tunnels and their final stand.
His friends were barred from him.
Everybody knows that everybody dies. And everybody knows that only your patron god or goddess would accept you into the afterlife of your kin.
The fourth option Bilbo faced had never been more than an idle thought. A ‘what-if’, he had toyed with while he sat silently beside a grieving father and helped the elf prepare to explain the situation to his long awaited wife. What if Bilbo simply… left? What if he walked off the path and went looking for the Green Lady's husband?
Mahal had taken a risk when he created his children. Eru had not taken the transgression well, but the dwarrow had been allowed to flourish. The elven folk said that the halls of the dwarrow were hidden. That Mahal had tucked away his creations so that Eru could not see them. An ‘out of sight, out of mind’ approach to safety.
In all honesty, Bilbo had his own thoughts about that fact. Yavanna was married to Mahal. If the two were anything like his own parents, they would have domains near each other. If Mahal was anything like how he had been, the dwarrow were probably close at hand to their creator. (Raising Frodo had taught Bilbo many things, the first was that guilty little faunts kept their transgressions close at hand.)
(There had been more than one garden mouse or frog smuggled under Frodo's bed.)
Therefore, the likelihood of the tunnels of Mahal being near the Garden was high. The entrance was probably near a mountain, perhaps even built into the side of it like the secret door had been on the side of the Lonely Mountain. Alternatively, Bilbo could always wander close to the base of the slope, find a good patch of earth, and start to dig. He’d have to hit one of the tunnels eventually.
Hours ago, when he had laid himself down to sleep, this had not been an option he could even pursue. How could he fathom walking away from the Pure Lands or the Garden? How could he simply leave ?
But he had an eternity. He had forever and an age.
He was going on an Adventure.
He always had meant to make it back to the mountain. (Bilbo stepped off the path without looking back. There was a dwarf he had to go visit and several more he had to chastise for missing tea time.)
…***...
“Nihil.”
Nihil stopped, the impulse to immediately phase out of the receiving room almost overwhelming. “Yes, My lord?” They squeaked, mouth dry as they realized everyone was staring.
Lord Mandos loomed over the task distribution desk. It wasn't often the lord came down to the reaper's halls, instead preferring to keep a hands off approach to how his people handled their own affairs. That wasn't to say the lord wasn't involved in his domain, it was simply that he had implemented a system that organised retrieval teams for departed souls and he had little reason to interfere with an operation that was running smoothly.
“Nihil.” He repeated, eyes flashing darkly.
Nihil hadn't even been aware he knew their name. “Aye, sir?”
“You took a task this morning.” Lord Mandos boomed, nails clicking on the desk.
“Aye?” Nihil confirmed, hand scooping the soul appearance form out of their pocket.
“Read me the name on that form.” Lord Mandos demanded.
Confused, Nihil cast a glance around the room, half wondering if he was about to be demoted to wild game and insect soul retrieval for some unknown transgression. Unsurprisingly, in the face of their lord's anger, no one seemed willing to meet their eyes. Slowly, Nihil looked down at the form. The writing was still as spikey and scrunched as it had been when they took the form for the latest arrival. “Bingo Boggens?”
Lord Mandos held out a hand and Nihil quickly passed over the form. There was silence for a moment and Nihil resisted the urge to fidget. They didn’t know what had happened. There had been a hobbit and they had sent the hobbit on to the Garden and then the summons for a Took had rang out and Nihil had come running.
Lord Mandos appeared to chew on his words, his jaw clenching and popping as if he were served a dish most unappetizing.
“Bad handwriting.” Lord Mandos hissed, eyes narrowing as he looked off into the distance. “All this because of bad handwriting!”
There was an awkward silence in the hall that Nihil didn’t quite understand, although they were starting to realize this may be a problem that they had unwittingly put into motion.
“Well,” Lord Mandos said after a moment, “a Took has just been unleashed unsupervised into the lands of the Valinor. It is too much to hope that he will head towards the Garden as prompted, and to make matters worse, he is a long awaited arrival. Yavanna herself wished to greet him.”
Suddenly Nihil had a very bad feeling they knew exactly who they had left alone on a path.
“I want this Took found, and I want him found yesterday. Track him, stalk him, follow him, I don’t care how it is done. Just get the Ring Bearer to the Garden.” Lord Mandos ordered, barely paying attention to how the hall snapped into motion and reapers ran every which way. “As for you,” he looked down at Nihil, “you will come with me to explain this mess to the Green Lady.”