#hello heart

Bilbo may be back in the Shire, but he was far from feeling at home. He would NEVER interact with dwarves again. What did this adventure get him anyways? Back pain that continued to flare up, a tighter belt, an unfortunate wariness of the outside world, and a heartache that seemed to cut deeper and bruise wider than when his own parents died. Because Bilbo would overlook everything, the complaints, the harsh elements, the danger, if the sons of Durin had lived. But they hadn’t. Bilbo would have to go forward in this world knowing that every timeless rescue mattered to nothing in the end. Thorin does not get to walk the mountain halls he fought to reclaim as king. Fili and Kili do not get to carry their unbridled enthusiasm into future adventures of their own. It wasn’t fair. Yet, somehow life went on.

Resuming his life in the Shire didn’t happen overnight. To start with, Bilbo had to hunt down, barter, bribe, and in some cases, threaten to get all of his possessions returned to Bag End. It was nearly a month before everything was back in its place from before the adventure. And he made sure of that. He couldn’t take a single reminder of that awful battle. He squirreled away the chest, the shield, the chainmail, the coat, his sword, all into his mother’s glory box. Only his ring which sat snugly in his waistcoat pocket was allowed to remain in his life.

Yet, the memories still flooded him. Haunted his dreams, oozed out of his dining room table, his front door, his fireplace. Sleepless nights became a dear friend, and nightmares his well-acquainted nemesis. Gandalf said he wouldn’t be the same when he came back, but he had hoped for...something more. He was starting to become unsociable, and quite frankly, he didn’t care. The nearly hostile indifference of missing parties and tea invitations was probably what his fellow hobbits were most put-out about. That and the fact that he disappeared so suddenly and was still unmarried.

No, it was another three months before Bilbo could find solstice in gardening again. He sobbed the entire time he planted that damn acorn, and it was another week before he felt brave enough to tend to it. His books and his armchair, on the other hand, he threw himself into with great abandon. Let him be carried off to places where the heroes didn’t die. Where the adventure led to love and happiness. It soothed his mind, but it wrecked his heart. 

Bilbo’s birthday came and passed without any fanfare much to his neighbors’ and relatives’ ruffled feathers. Weeks later, he got his first letter from Bofur in congratulations. Bilbo became immediately familiar with his father’s vintage. He didn’t dare write back.

Durin’s Day, a dwarvish date he will now never forget, came about a month later along with more letters from Balin and Ori. He nearly broke then, but a reminder of what happens when you let dwarves into your life convinced him to leave that chapter of his life closed. 

Bilbo could not remember a more miserable Yule, but at least Bombur’s children and Gimli seemed to enjoy it if the letters he received were any indicator.

It took a year. An entire year of existing in Bag End watching the little sapling out front grow for Bilbo to finally return correspondence. Dori made it relatively easy for him asking about the tea blends he had noticed when they pilfered his pantry. After that, easing back into his friends’ lives just seemed to be the next logical step. Especially when unwritten ground rules were firmly established: no mentions of the quest, no mentions of Dain’s rule over Erebor, no mentions of who they lost. Yet, he needed some form of closure. Something to allow him to move on. So after returning letters to the remaining ten members of Thorin Oakenshield’s Company (and wasn’t that a surprise to receive Dwalin’s letter), he decided he needed to write three more. Three letters that would never reach their intended audience. 

Fili and Kili’s letters were...relatively smooth. It was like playing a game of pretend. Asking after their adventures, wondering how they were taking to court life, asking Kili about that elf guard. Yes, it hurt. It hurt terribly, but it was also somehow therapeutic to his soul. Then, he pulled over that third parchment and his hand shook leaving a rather large drop of ink on the page. There was a gasping, wounded animal somewhere outside distracting him, and it took far longer than he was proud of to release it was coming from him. He let the quill clatter on the desk as he put his head in his hands. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t pretend that Thorin was alive and well in Erebor, and he wasn’t there with him!

A shaky, rather hystic laugh bubbled out. He never admitted that to himself before. Bag End was always the endgame, but somewhere along the way, it had changed to Thorin. Perhaps that’s why he still struggled with the concept of home. His was gone forever. It was with that unpleasant thought that Bilbo retired to bed, twelve complete letters and one not started. Perhaps never to be written. 

Yet, fate seemed it was not quite through with Bilbo. Looking back, Bilbo deemed it a rather ironic twist. Upon the next day, Bilbo received a knock on his door and opened it to reveal three unfamiliar dwarves.

“Good morning.” He greeted with narrowed eyes.

The three exchanged glances and turned towards the blue sky before nodding in agreement.

“So it is.” The larger one on the left huffed. “Are you, by chance, Mr. Bilbo Baggins? The one who helped reclaim Erebor?”

Bilbo almost wanted to laugh. Almost. Instead, he balled his hands at his hips as he raised himself as tall as his three foot ten frame would allow.

“No. My answer is no.”

“Master Baggins?” The dwarf in the middle gasped. “I don’t think we…”

“You are here to invite me on some whirlwind adventure. That’s all any dwarves that appear at my door want, and I’ll not have it! I had my adventure, and it’s left me none the better. I dare not imagine what another would do to me, so go and bother some other hobbit!”

Bilbo moved to slam his door shut when the last dwarf stopped it with his foot. The hobbit glared at his audacity. Yet, the red-haired dwarf pushed his luck.

“Please Master Baggins. We’ve traveled far, and the King of Erebor told us you’re the only one who can help us.”

“Dain sent you?” Bilbo scoffed.

“No, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo felt his limbs go limp and the air disappeared from the room. Everything seemed to fall away except for the fast pace his heart set in his chest. 

“That’s impossible.” He finally croaked, his voice sounding dead and flat to his own ears. “Thorin Oakenshield is dead. I saw him die with my own eyes.”

“No, Master Baggins.” The first dwarf stepped in at this point. “He lives...though he couldn’t return to Erebor. We can take you to him...if you agree to help with our plight.”

“THORIN OAKENSHIELD IS DEAD!” Bilbo wailed. 

He was certain all of Hobbiton could hear him at this point, but impropriety was the furthest thing from his mind. Tears spilled from his eyes blurring the faces of the unknown dwarves. Three faces he was already learning to hate. How dare they say something so cruel. How dare they deliver news that, if true, belonged to his Company to divulge. How dare they allow hope to root in his battered heart. He squeezed his eyes shut pleading that when they opened these awful dwarves would be gone.

“Master Baggins,” the middle one sighed. “We know our words will not reach past your grief, no matter how true they are. So we bring this. Thorin told us it would convince you.”

Something small, round, and smooth was pressed into his hand. He knew the texture immediately and nearly fell over from the shock that rocked him to his core. When he looked back up at the dwarves, they were watching him with knowing smug looks.

“We’ve made camp at the bridge just east of town. If you decide to hear us out, you can find us there.”

Finally, finally, the dwarves took their leave like the thieves they were. They robbed Bilbo of his morning, nicked at his sanity, and now they’ve stolen the truth with them. For in his sweating palm was the one object that would sway Bilbo to the idea Thorin may still live, and left him with more questions than ever. Slowly, he dared to look down at the acorn in his palm.

“It’s a poor prize to take back to the Shire.”

“Plant your trees and watch them grow.”

Thorin was the only one who had seen his acorn, and both conversations had been private between the two of them. It could be a trick. A supremely lucky guess. After all, he was “Oakenshield”. However, if Thorin actually did live, was it not plausible he would use such a sign? Bilbo clenched his fist and shook his head. He couldn’t allow such thoughts to fester. Thorin was dead. Thorin was dead. Thorin was dead...but what if he wasn’t?

Bilbo paced back and forth with his pipe for the next three hours, but ultimately, he knew he had to speak to those dwarves again if he wanted answers. He took the mail and his sword because he didn’t trust them completely. He stuffed a pack because there was the possibility of not making it back to Bag End before dark, and he may have to make camp. If he overpacked like he was going on a journey, it was simply to be overly prepared. Before he stepped out his round door once more though, he had one last piece of business to take care of. He returned to his writing desk where his unfinished letter sat blank and ink stained. He dipped his quill in the well and wrote three simple sentences.