How I Leave You

Beads and Braids

The strangest thing happens when I wake up in the morning.

It is not that I am feeling unwell. That much is to be expected, granted everything my body has gone through. I am not at all surprised to find that Thorin has left, either, for his kingly duties call, regardless of the hour of day. All that remains of him is a single note in cursive on the silk pillow by my side, telling me to find him if I need him, and otherwise, to rest.

Except that it is not all that is left of him here.

I did not feel it at first. Not until I sat up to read the note. Something heavy, pulling at both sides of my head. Letting my fingers move up to my scalp, they immediately catch on to a rope-like texture attached there.

No, not rope.

Braids.

Who has braided my hair?

I trace them down. There are two total, one on each side of my face, framing it at the length of my hair. But that is not the strangest part.

The strangest part is the round, heavy things at the end of each braid.

I pull them up in front of me, inspecting them more closely. What are they? Grey and round, with a hole through which my hair has been pulled and tied at the other end, I swear those little beads are the most intricate piece of handiwork I have laid eyes upon in a long time.

Beads, then. Is that what they are? Silver beads that almost blend into the color of my hair.

Though I do not understand their engravings, and let alone what they're doing in my braids, the beads still feel significant somehow. Maybe it's because of how heavy they are. Or how I'm all but certain that it was Thorin who put them there.

Right then, the door to my room opens. A large foot enters first, followed by the rest of its owner. In comes a hobbit, peeking like he was afraid to disturb a dragon's slumber.

"Oh," Bilbo says, carefully closing the door behind him. "You're awake. Good morning, Ilwien."

"Good morning, Bilbo." A smile is on my lips as I sit up straighter in the bed. "How is my favorite hobbit faring?"

"M-- me?" he says, pointing to himself, as if to distinguish him from all the other hobbits in the room. "Why, quite well, yes. Had breakfast already. Twice."

"Are you liking the food of the dwarves?"

He scrunches his nose as he clumsily makes his way to my bedside.

"Between me and you," he says, clearing his throat as he takes a seat, "I do not understand why mead must go with every meal. Mead and meat." He shakes his head. "There is more to life than those things, you know?"

"Yes," I say, absentmindedly caressing one of the beads. "I believe I do. Are you looking forward to returning to your hobbit hole, then?"

The words only leave me reluctantly. I do not really wish to ask the question, for I am afraid of its answer.

"I suppose I am." He looks to the ground, maybe missing the grass beneath his feet instead of the stone that is currently there. "All good things must come to an end."

"How I wish it wasn't so," I say, though I know it is. I, more than anyone. "So you really are leaving?"

The hobbit only smiles half a smile. It's not really a smile at all.

"Erebor might be your home, Ilwien, but it was never meant to be mine."

The meaning of his words hit me hard enough to cause a concussion.