The Journey

Going Home

     Slowly, the days passed. Bilbo helped wherever he could—bandaging wounds, carrying food, giving advice, following Gandalf, cleaning out the ruined buildings of Dale and accompanying the dwarves on their various tasks. The work kept his mind off of his grief, and it was nice to be active, to lay down exhausted at the end of the day, too tired for dreams, but little by little, Bilbo found his mind wandering more and more back to Thorin, and with a sickening twist in his stomach he remembered the touch of his hand or the color of his eyes and the fact that he would never see him again, and he would quickly turn and find something else to do, firmly pushing Thorin from his thoughts.
     One day, when Bilbo stood idly to the side in the dark mountain halls of Erebor, watching the dwarves bustling about their work, Balin approached him.
     "Master Baggins," he said kindly, bowing slightly.
     "Balin," Bilbo acknowledged, smiling rather tiredly, "what can I do for you?"
     The older dwarf sobered slightly. "I know that this may be hard on you, laddie, but Thorin's things are still in his room, and we know how much you loved him." He paused, searching the hobbit's face for a reaction, but Bilbo was silent. "If you could gather them and set them aside, it would be a great help to all of us. You may take anything you like—and if you don't want to, I understand."
     "No, no, it's fine," Bilbo said quickly, flashing a smile, "I'll do it."
     Balin sighed in relief. "We thought you might want to, as a way to, you know, say goodbye one final time." Their thoughts wandered back to Thorin's funeral—many tears had been shed that day, many of the dwarves breaking down, Bilbo standing quietly and faithfully at Thorin's shoulder to the very last.
     The hobbit shook himself. "Of course. I'll get right to it." He nodded, smiling, then started to turn away. "I willl let you know when I finish."
     "Thank you, laddie," Balin called gratefully after him.
     Bilbo wandered down the halls, his mind strangely quiet as he tread the familiar paths through the stone chambers, his steps carrying him to the doorway of Thorin's room, the stone doors firmly shut. Hesitating only for a moment, Bilbo pushed them open, the light falling in a bright column onto the floor of the darkened room.
     Little things were scattered about, the map of the floor, a pair of boots, a tunic here, a few coins there. Thorin's packs lay mostly empty against the wall, and with a twinge of his heart, he saw his own bags, carefully packed and placed against them. Even after he banished Bilbo from Erebor, Thorin had taken the care to pack his belongings. Bilbo smiled lovingly and turned towards the bed, the thick blankets falling unmade across the mattress and onto the floor in rich folds. Thinking he would strip the blankets for them to be washed, he stepped closer, reaching a hand out, when he froze suddenly.
     Thorin's scent washed over him, so familiar and real, musty and sweet, bringing sharp memories back into focus. Bilbo shut his eyes and squeezed his hand into a fist, desperately fighting against the tide of memories, but his own scent was here, too, mingled with Thorin's. Oh, those nights—those days—
     He slowly sank down to the floor, pressing his face into the blankets and breathing deeply, his head swirling with thought—Thorin's eyes, his laugh, the softness of his touch—"would you have stayed?"—the firm press of his lips, the comforting warmth against his shoulder—"I love you"—his breathing slowed—
     "Remembering much, love?" Thorin's gentle voice said from behind him. Bilbo turned, looking up at his figure, handsome and clean, above him.
     "Too much," he breathed, his eyes searching the dwarf lord disbelievingly. "You are dead," he whispered finally."
     "Yes," Thorin said quietly, his face twisted in sadness, "I am. I—" he buried his face in his hands, Bilbo still frozen on the ground, hardly breathing. Slowly, he knelt to the floor, his rich robe spreading around him, his black hair falling across his shoulder. "I—"
     "Oh, Thorin!" Bilbo finally gasped, and lunged forwards, burying his face in Thorin's neck, clinging to his coat desperately, shaking as Thorin embraced him tightly. "Thorin—this is too hard for me. I can't do this."
     "Yes, you can," Thorin said comfortingly, but his voice was flecked with uncertainty. "You can. You have to let me go."
     "But you said never to forget!" Bilbo said, sitting up in Thorin's lap, "you said never to forget you!"
     "Let me go," Thorin said, his eyes filling with sadness, "Do not forget me—just let me go. It will be better for the both of us."
     "What would be better about that?" Bilbo said, his voice rising, fingers tightening in the fur lining Thorin's coat, "You make me better! I can't be better without you!"
     Thorin's dark eyes softened and searched Bilbo's face, his brows turning upwards in pain. "I love you so much," he breathed, "but please. I will not see you again in this life—live happily and move on in this one. Go home. I must leave you."
     Bilbo opened his mouth to say something, but he hesitated, losing himself in Thorin's intense gaze, and they tilted forwards, lips meeting softly, gently, breathing through the kiss.
     "Oh, I love you so much," Thorin murmured against his mouth, his voice twisted with pain. He relaxed into the kiss for another moment, then pulled back, beginning to stand. "I'm sorry."
     "I need you!" Bilbo said pleadingly, grasping at him, "please!"
     "I'm sorry," Thorin repeated, bending down to press his forehead against Bilbo's, his hands cradling the hobbit's head.
     "Thorin!" Bilbo gasped, staring at him with wide eyes, tears beginning to leak out, "please!"
     "I'm sorry," Thorin said again, his touch fading, his voice breaking, "I'm so sorry."
     "Thorin!" Bilbo repeated, tears streaming down his cheeks, but the dwarf lord was gone, his voice just a sigh, his touch just a memory.
    Bilbo jolted awake, breathing hard. For a moment, he sat there, leaning against the bed, anchoring himself in his surroundings, and then his dream came flooding back to him.
Thorin was here! He had stood next to him, and kissed him, held him again, and left, and now he was gone...gone, gone for good, gone forever. Bilbo started shaking uncontrollably, his eyes wide, curling up against the bed as he wrapped his hands in the sheets, shuddering with breaths, holding back tears. A tall shadow fell across him as someone stood in the doorway, footsteps quiet as they approached.
"I can't do it, Gandalf," Bilbo whispered, his voice barely audible, "I can't do it."
"Dear Bilbo," Gandalf murmured softly, then leaned his staff against the bed and sat down on the floor beside the trembling hobbit, reaching gently over to pull him against himself, Bilbo pressing shakily into his side, curled tightly with his knees to his chest.
"I can't go on without him," Bilbo whispered. "He was everything to me. Only now do I realize that." He buried his face into Gandalf's robes, quivering with suppressed emotion. "After he's dead. After he's gone."
Gandalf was quiet for a moment, a gentle arm around Bilbo's back. "Thorin loved you, Bilbo, he—"
"He told me to move on, in a dream just now," came Bilbo's muffled voice, "to let him go." Finally breaking, his voice cracked, the shaking turning to rough sobs. "I can't go on without him, Gandalf, I just can't—"
"Bilbo," Gandalf said suddenly, sitting upright and gently pulling Bilbo to face him. He stared keenly into Bilbo's watery eyes, tears tracing paths down the hobbit's cheeks as he cried, grasping his shoulders and bending to look him in the eyes.
"Bilbo, Thorin loved you. He loved you, and do not ever think otherwise. But to think that you cannot go on without him gives you too little credit. You have been strong on your own before this, and I have no doubt that that was the hobbit that Thorin fell in love with. If anything, do not stay strong to forget Thorin, stay strong to remember him."
At that, Bilbo cried harder, the first real emotion he had let show since Thorin's death, releasing the minutes and hours and days of pent-up emotion, tears gushing forth as he rocked forwards into the wizard, Gandalf still speaking quietly to him.
"He fought valiantly in battle to save you from death, and he wanted you to live your life as happily and fully as you could. He will be alongside you every step of the way, and you do not have to let him go. In truth, I should think that it is impossible to completely let him go; he is here now, and though Thorin Oakenshield is dead, he lives on in our memories...and in your heart," he finished quietly, Bilbo shuddering with sobs in his arms.
Gandalf waited patiently for Bilbo's weeping to cease, the sounds of his grief echoing soberly around the darkened room, the one column of light illuminating the pair of them as they knelt beside the bed. Gradually, Bilbo grew quieter, and finally sat upright, sniffing greatly and swiping a wet sleeve across his eyes.
"Thank you, Gandalf, for being here," Bilbo said through a shuddering breath, running a hand through his hair. He smiled ruefully. "I feel rather selfish becoming a mess like this. I'm sure it's hard for you, as well."
"I have dealt with grief many times in my life," Gandalf said, his eyes filling with sadness, "I have my own ways of coming to terms with the world. But I appreciate the thought, and it is never selfish to weep over a loved one. You have been busy lately, and you cannot run from your grief."
Bilbo returned the smile, but it was still tinged with sadness. He shook himself and stood up, sniffing again as he offered Gandalf an arm to help him off the floor.
"I can finish from here," he said, trying to force some sense of normalcy into his voice, "there's not much left to do."
"Are you sure you will be all right?" Gandalf asked shrewdly, "I can stay here, if you need me to."
Bilbo shook his head. "No, I will be fine. And, Gandalf," he said suddenly as the wizard stepped towards the door, turning to look back at the small hobbit standing alone in the middle of the floor. "Thank you," Bilbo said, his brows creasing with sincerity.
"You are welcome," Gandalf replied, smiling, then placed both hands on his staff and looked pensively back at him. "I think it is time we make plans to get you home."
Home.
Bilbo nodded, his breathing easing. "I agree." He smiled for real this time and turned back to the bed. "I will see you later."
Gandalf left silently, still worrying after the hobbit. Yes, the wizard had his own grief, but it was for Bilbo that his own heart ached. The hobbit had been through quite a lot, to say the least, and had gotten far more than he bargained for. It would take time for him, and for them all, to recover.
     Soon, Thorin's things were tucked gently and neatly into his packs, the blankets folded by the door, the floor clean and the bed bare. Bilbo tucked the map into his own bag, then, pausing slightly, pulled one of Thorin's tunics from his pack. Lovingly, he fingered the thick woven material, the rich, dark blue reminding him of the night they had first touched hands. Suddenly, he buried his face into its rough folds, Thorin's scent filling his nose, the press of the fabric comforting. He rubbed it along his cheek, then let out a shuddering sigh, quickly shook it out, and refolded it, carefully placing it in his own belongings. Shouldering his pack, he took one last look around the room, breathing in the little of Thorin's scent that remained, then turned towards the door, every step having its own finality. His fingers lingered for a moment on the doorframe, but he quickly gathered his strength and padded back down the hallway, his footsteps echoing through the empty room as he stepped out of the corridor for the last time.

     It was only a week later that Bilbo and Gandalf were ready to leave. They had packed their belongings the night before, bags heavy with gifts of gold, silver, gems and jewelry (although Bilbo refused much of what he was given), well-rested and well-fed. Truth be told, Bilbo was quite ready to return home. He had been away far too long, and there was still not a day that went by without him thinking of his expansive pantries, or his books, or his warm bed, or his lovely gardens. Yes, it was time to go home. Gandalf already waited for him outside the gate.
     The remaining members of the company stood by him, ready to send him off. Bilbo walked up to them, doing his best to smile.
     "Well, I guess this is it, then?" he said, grinning good-naturedly, but his voice was tinged with sadness.
     "Yes, it is," Dwalin said finally, stepping forwards and giving him a firm handshake and a clap on the shoulder. "Farewell, Master Baggins."
     Bilbo nodded, not quite knowing what to say, receiving a handshake, a clap on the back, or a hug from all the rest—Dori, Ori, Nori, Balin, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, and lastly, Bombur.
     "I don't know how to thank you all," Bilbo said finally, his back to the road, a hand on the strap of his pack, "this has been the greatest adventure of my life and I would do it all again in a heartbeat."
     "We could not have done it without you," Ori piped up, grinning.
     "We could not have done it without our burglar," Dori said, winking at him. Bilbo laughed.
     "And you are welcome here anytime, remember that," Bofur said, giving him a skeptical look, "so in case you are passing through..."
     "Oh, don't worry, I would never pass you all by," Bilbo laughed, then grew more serious. "And you are all welcome at Bag End anytime. Tea time is at four." His mouth turned upwards in a sincere smile. "Don't bother knocking."
     Smiles crossed the dwarves' faces, and Bilbo took in this last image of them all standing together, smiling, happy, wishing heartily to impress this picture into his thoughts. "Well, goodbye, then," he said, clearing his throat and turning away to face the road and the rising sun.
     "Farewell, Master Baggins," Balin called after him, and he glanced back one final time, the mountain rising up behind the company, all that they had fought so hard for, and won, and which beneath rested Fili, and Kili...and Thorin. He smiled again, raising a hand in farewell, then turned once again forwards.
     A song escaped his lips, the light of dawn bright in the sky, Gandalf waiting up ahead. The simple tune hung in the morning air, the sun bright and clear, the words floating through the still misty air.

Roads go ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.

     And Bilbo Baggins, Master Burglar, turned his back to the Lonely Mountain and his face towards the Shire, Thorin Oakenshield's tunic wrapped and lovingly tucked in his pack, his love tucked more deeply in his heart. Longing for the Shire filled him—finally, he was leaving for home. And Thorin would go with him.