Chapter Text
Long after the Mountain’s shadow had faded, Bilbo Baggins still woke from dreams of dragonfire and stone halls.
Though he was nestled once more in the comfort of the Shire’s hills, the memories of those final dreadful days burned in his mind as hot as a forge. Grief haunted the caverns of his heart like a ghost, and though he tried to keep himself from thinking of him, Thorin’s face—bloodstained, eyes closed—rose unbidden, bringing with it a deep and restless ache.
It was thoughts of Thorin that Bilbo gently pushed away as he sat upon the rolling green, tucking them into a quiet corner of his mind as carefully as he placed his teacup beside him on the grass.
The afternoon was warm, the sun high, casting soft shadows from the tree against which Bilbo leaned. He hadn’t been able to bear the silence of Bag End that morning, and so he had packed a small basket of bread and jam, and a fluffy little cake, to carry with him into the breeze.
The Shire was peaceful, but the birdsong and distant laughter of cheerful hobbits only reminded him of what was missing—how he missed the brash voices of dwarves, the clatter of iron and stone, the rough-edged joy of companions lost to him.
With a sigh, deep and almost weary, Bilbo reached for his teacup and took a sip of elderflower gone cold. Its sweetness lingered faintly on his tongue, like a distant memory of longing. His gaze drifted down to the letter resting unopened in his lap, its wax seal broken but the envelope still untouched.
Something stirred in his chest—something restless, something hungry.
A desire for adventure once more.
“Oh, just open the blasted thing,” he muttered to himself, setting the teacup aside with an exasperated huff. “No sense sitting here like some wistful child.”
Picking up the envelope with hands he didn’t realize were trembling, Bilbo felt a nervous flutter in his chest. For a brief, ridiculous moment, he imagined that the letter held rejection—that he was not welcome anywhere but the suffocating confines of Bag End. He shook his head, as if chasing the thoughts away, and slid the parchment out to gently unfold it.
The parchment was the color of sweet cream, with gilded edges that glittered faintly in the sunlight, and felt smooth beneath Bilbo’s fingertips. The words written in gold were scrawled elegantly across it, the beauty of it matching Elrond’s sculpted face, and Bilbo smiled fondly.
Dear Bilbo Baggins, elf-friend,
We welcome you to Imladris, as we ever have and ever will, to join us in friendship and company. It is a joyous thing to have one with a golden heart like yours request to learn all there is to know about our home and our ways. As such, it is with joy that we extend an invitation to you, Perian. Your respect and kindness toward our people is held deeply within our hearts and we share with you our respect and kindness in full.
We will patiently await your arrival and wish you safe travels on the road ahead. I am pleased to hear of your upcoming memoirs and look forward to reading your book once finished, Mellon nín.
Ever yours,
Lord Elrond of Imladris
He read the letter carefully, then read it once more and imagined Elrond’s voice speaking the words aloud. His heart swelled with a quiet pride at the familiarity with which they were written. The Lord of Rivendell had been warm to Bilbo when he had passed through on his way back home, treating him with a gentleness that didn’t make him feel weak, but rather like a well-loved friend.
They hadn’t spoken much about Thorin’s death, save for Elrond taking Bilbo’s hand and saying softly, “Mellon nín, I feel your ache and wish that I could carry it for you.”
Bilbo had wiped a tear from his eye with unsteady fingers and offered a fragile, gentle smile, but as the weight in his chest grew heavier and more tears threatened to fall, the elf-lord had wordlessly drawn him close, steady arms gentle around his shaking frame.
Bilbo had tried not to think about how undignified he must’ve looked—his nose running, sobs muffled against embroidered robes—but Elrond held him without judgment, without hurry, as if grief should be cradled with no shame.
He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the trunk of the tree—an oak, tall and strong—and inhaled deeply, the warm summer air filling his lungs with the scent of blooming wildflowers and fresh-cut grass. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves overhead and brushed the golden curls away from his brow, carrying hints of honeyed clover and the faint, sweet tang of ripe berries.
‘I did miss this,’ he thought to himself, ‘my heart will always feel safe here in the quietness of the Shire.’ He lifted a hand and placed it against his breastbone, feeling the soft thudding of his heartbeat with his palm.
‘But there’s an ache. Something wishful and bittersweet. A longing for things I dare not speak of. Am I still home here? Or do I feel home in places far-off? In those who walk beside me?’
Bilbo opened his eyes and gazed up at the bright green leaves above him, and something about the moment—the way the light peeked through and cast shadow-shapes on the hill, the familiar fragrance of summer’s nearing end, the breeze like Yavanna’s breath tickling his skin—felt like another goodbye.