Chapter Text
“I think I’m quite ready for another adventure,” Bilbo had said as he boarded the ship to the West, but in his own mind he laughed ruefully to himself. Almost one hundred years later, and he was really still trying to go on the first one all over again.
Hobbits thought little of the afterlife, assuming that-- lacking any special knowledge-- they were destined for the same unknown as were Men. Elves and Dwarves were so certain, feeling their destinies in their souls, knowing the identities of their Makers. The souls of Elves would fly across the seas to rejoin their people in a never-ending cycle, while the Dwarves went to the Halls of their Fathers. It was only natural to assume those halls also resided across the sea, alongside the divine beings that lived there.
Bilbo misses his dwarves, and one dwarf in particular. They’d had so very little time together, often he wonders if he had imagined it. Had he really loved Thorin Oakenshield, only to lose him after less than a year together? Had he really spent a lifetime trying to move on, never quite managing, from a love that was only known in silence, those quiet looks exchanged between them, words hanging in the air while drying blood painted Thorin’s lips, the light faded from his eyes and Bilbo’s life?
When the ship arrives, the shores of Valinor gleam gem-like on the horizon and Bilbo is at a loss. A spring returns to his step, the aches of his body no longer pain him. But there are no Dwarves there, only lithesome Elves who laugh and embrace one another as they disembark. Galadriel is engulfed by a hoard of her people, her Noldor kin long lost to her. A woman with silver hair flies down the beach to throw her arms around Elrond’s shoulders, kissing every inch of his face.
But there is no one there for him.
No matter, perhaps those halls are merely hidden. Perhaps the dwarves are like statues within them, waiting for the day when horns will sound and call them back to rebuild the world.
Bilbo wanders, taking long walks over the beaches, across golden fields, to the very foot of Taniquetil, where he learns creatures called the Valar abide, like the Lady Elbereth celebrated in Elven poetry. He does not wish to presume to speak to one of those legendary beings, and yet no elf seems to understand why he would question after the dwarves.
A year passes. Frodo recovers, a light shining in his face that is like the grace of the beautiful land itself, as if he has finally come home. Yet Bilbo is restless, has always been restless since that day he ran out his door. He feels as if he has been running ever since, chasing a dark-haired figure that is ever just out of reach.
He is sitting on the shores that day, near the beached ships with their prows of carven swans, when he feels a heavy hand settle upon his shoulder. He turns, and his heart leaps for there is a dwarf standing there, and Bilbo wonders at the tears that prick the corner of his eyes at so lovely a sight. He leaps to his feet, clasping his hands around the stranger’s.
“Good morning! So lovely to meet you, my good fellow, so lovely! I had feared there were none of you here at all. My goodness, are you a sight for sore eyes!” he says before he realizes he is gushing, his heart filled to overflowing with relief he did not know it was possible to feel.
Yet the dwarf across from him is solemn, silent, only a brief smile flickering over his face at the exuberant greeting. “You are Bilbo Baggins?”
“Indeed, I am, sir, I am! And you are?” Bilbo says eagerly.
“A relation to some… acquaintances of yours. One might say a father to them,” the dwarf says. His hair is a violent shade of red, his skin darkened by sun and ruddy from the forge. His hands are cracked and dry around Bilbo’s. Strong, dwarven hands, a sight that fills Bilbo with a pang of longing. Truly, he loves the grace and beauty of the Elves, but sometimes in a garden of flowers there is no sight as beautiful as hearty, reliable stone. “I have come to ask your intentions towards one of my beloved sons.”
“Intentions?” Bilbo says, taken aback. A question begins prickling at the back of his mind, formless yet nagging. “Pardon my ignorance, but I’m not entirely sure which son we are talking about?”
The dwarf’s lips thin to a line. “Thorin.”
Bilbo’s jaw drops. “Thorin? Good gracious, are you… are you Thráin? I have heard so much about you, but forgive me if I did not recognize you at first. I suppose I expected more family…resemblance…” The dwarf remains silent, and Bilbo is suddenly aware of how small he is compared to the looming presence, even if the size difference is not so much as with elves. Perhaps his joy at the meeting had simply been that of seeing another besides Frodo who was near his own height. He coughs, clearing his throat. “Well, that is, I have missed Thorin very much. Is he here somewhere? I had hoped to see him again.”
“And yet you came to these shores,” the dwarf says gravely. “There are no dwarves here, Master Hobbit, and there will not be until the ending of the world. As it is, I was left with the assumption that you cared nothing for my son, that you would make the journey here of all places. You must understand how that has pained me. He has been waiting a very long time for you, and I am loathe to disappoint him if this is the fate you have chosen for yourself instead.”
“No dwarves here, but what about…?” Bilbo says, trailing off as he looks the dwarf up and down. There is something wrong here. It is not Thorin’s features he sees in this being’s face, but rather a hint of all the dwarves, from Bombur’s hair color to Bofur’s laughter lines, the curling luxuriousness of Gloin’s beard, and Thorin’s proud bearing. “You’re not Thráin, are you?”
The dwarf shakes his head, and even so small a gesture has power behind it, like the world itself shifting in its bones. “My children call me Mahal, and you, Master Baggins, have come very close to shattering the hopes of one of my children. I would know why.”
Bilbo freezes, a vast, formless terror building in his heart, until the dwarf sighs. “I do not say this to terrify you, Ring-Bearer. Speak, and be honest, for no harm will come to you. It is I who will have to be the bearer of bad news.”
“I… that is… To be quite honest, my lord, I have been searching for Thorin since I arrived. Do—do you know where I might find him? Only I heard the halls of the dwarves were here, that is why I sailed, and yet I cannot… find them…” Bilbo trailed off, for in the middle of his words the the dwarf, Mahal, had begun to smile, eyebrows rising in incredulity and by the end he was laughing, and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. Bilbo shudders under the impact.
“Truly? You came to the Blessed Lands hoping to find dwarves? You are many thousands of years too early, my son. This is but a way-station for my children, a very brief one before they begin their next life. My dwarves will one day return here at the End of Days, but until that time I encourage them to live. Hundreds of lives, thousands! After each dwarf dies, he is soon born back into the world to start anew.”
“Thorin is gone?” Bilbo feels his heart drop somewhere to the vicinity of his furry feet, and feels a strange, choking feeling welling in his throat.
“He would be, he should be, but my son is stubborn and claims he is waiting for a certain child of the kindly West,” Mahal says, looking owlishly at Bilbo in a way that reminds him uncannily of Oin. “Had you died in Middle Earth we might have skipped this step entirely, and you would have met him directly in my halls. I might have set you both on the road of your next life immediately. As it is, this Blessed Land will extend your lifespan, and cut you from the natural cycle.”
“Natural cycle? But I am a hobbit, not a dwarf!” Bilbo says, but Mahal waves him off.
“A technicality. The Valar have not abided by such strict rules since Beren and Luthien. Now, will you come?”
Bilbo hesitated. “May I make some goodbyes first? Only, I would hate to leave Frodo without letting the poor boy know where I’ve gone off to.”
“Master Hobbit,” Mahal said, inclining his head, “Thorin has waited and watched over you for nearly a century, I’m sure he will not mind waiting a little longer, knowing you will be there with him at the end.”