Short Stories and Drabbles

When Darkness Falls

Note: Alternate Universe that takes place in a literal alternate universe. This is one I wrote before realizing that my true love was FemBilbo Romance and, since this is literally an alternate universe, if I wrote it'd out I'd probably genderswap Bilbo and put her in a romance with a Durin (probably Fili!).

Bilbo watched quietly as the dirt was shoveled over Drogo's grave.

A stiff, cold breeze drifted past him. Overhead heavy, black clouds moved slowly across the sky. Drogo had always spoken of stories his mother told him, about a sky that was blue instead of black and a giant, yellow orb that gave off light and heat instead of the constant, bitter cold.

The sun, Bilbo recalled, that was its name. Drogo had dreamed of being able to see it someday.

The last few shovels of dirt were spread over the ground.

Adalgrim and Falco straightened, wiping sweat off their brows, put there from the effort of breaking through the rocky ground.

Bilbo nodded his thanks and the two left.

Bilbo clasped his hands in front of him listening to the wind rattle the dead limbs of the tree that dominated the small field. After a second he bowed his head and closed his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly.

A sound came from the remnants of the lake, slurps and squelches as something enormous moved within the mud.

The voice of their guest rumbled across the field.

"What are you doing?" The voice asked lazily, the sound vibrating through Bilbo's bones with its depth.

He opened his eyes.

"The same thing I always do," Bilbo answered. "Praying to the Valar for aid."

"Do they ever answer?"

Bilbo didn't respond.

"Are you surprised that one died? He seemed rather committed to the task as I recall."

"He was," Bilbo agreed. "He was never the same after Primula died." He studied the dirt in front of him, his mind struggling to connect it with the Hobbit he had known. "I wonder what they would have been if they'd lived?"

"Does it matter?" The voice asked.

"I suppose not," Bilbo conceded.

"In the end," the voice said quietly, or at least as quiet as one so large could be, "death will be the fate of us all, some simply sooner rather than later. Tell me, Halfling, who do you suppose is the more blessed, you or him?"

Bilbo stayed still a long time. So long his guest gave up on him answering and returned to the mud, drifting back into sleep as his injuries healed, far, far to slowly.

"I wonder," Bilbo said finally, his voice a whisper. "If the place they are now is any better than this one?"

He lifted his eyes for the first time and studied the graves on either side of Drogo's. Over the head of his grave stretched another row and Bilbo knew more rows stretched out behind him. Drogo had always been fascinated with history and had gleefully informed Bilbo once that the field he currently stood in was originally used for parties and celebrations and that the entire area would overflow with the laughter and joy of a great host of Hobbits.

The only great host overflowing the field now were the dead. In Bilbo's mind he could see them, arrayed over their respective burial mounds, their eyes and faces blank as they stared at him.

Another breeze, this one much heavier than the first, whipped through and Bilbo imagined it tearing through the ghosts, destroying them one by one until it was just him, alone.