Chapter Text
He drives up alone, or as alone as they permit him, which means only two security vehicles tailing his own - a luxury these days, to be sure, especially since he's convinced his numerous aides to forgo sending a single photographer or journalist with him. They all remember how that ended the last time.
He instructs the chauffeur to take his time, as this is his first escape from his duties in quite a while, and he means to enjoy it - he surveys the changing landscape outside, as the car exits the cramped city streets and begins climbing higher, past pastures and fields of late-summer gold, over rolling green hills, and finally into the soothing darkness of the forest, where all signs of civilization recede, not even the elegant wings of the wind turbines high up in the mountains visible anymore.
Secretly, he is glad that no one has yet braved starting any sort of larger scale construction up here - many have considered it, but the costs of battling the resilient nature here for what little ground it might yield have been proving too high so far. Thus, the forest has been allowed to stay the same for decades, save perhaps for the repaired driveways that no longer threaten to send a lesser skilled driver tripping over a hole and into this or that ravine.
The road up to the house, that, too, greets him seemingly unchanged, the slope still at an almost impossible angle, gravel crunching under the wheels of the car a pleasantly familiar sound. The first person he happens upon is the gardener, tending to the rose bushes threatening to swallow the entire front wall of the mansion now. As refreshingly ignorant of protocol as ever, the man greets him with a lazy tip of his straw hat, not even bothering to put down his electric scissors.
"Afternoon, Your Majesty. It's good of you to come visit us. His Lordship will be thrilled to see you."
That is immediately followed by an unmistakable voice shouting some no doubt scathing insult from inside, and the King quirks his eyebrow, a single motion of his hand calming his ever-alert bodyguards, already prepared to follow the commotion - the gardener merely sighs.
"Like I said. Good luck."
With a knowing smile, the King and his entourage head inside, only to encounter the caretaker in the foyer, her arms full, and a truly harried expression on her face, which doesn't diminish in the least when she notices them.
"Your Majesty," she huffs, "thank god you're here. Maybe you could convince him he should be sitting down, instead of skipping around the kitchen."
"I'll do my best," he chuckles, "why don't you take a break, Matilda."
"I was going to escape to do the laundry, anyway," she shrugs, always endearing in her honesty, "I'll tell the girls to make you some tea, shall I?"
"That would be wonderful, thank you."
With that, all that's left to do is follow the distant muttering - he does take a moment to linger in the hall, looking up the staircase to the large window, the glow of the afternoon sun enveloping the entirety of the foyer in a golden haze, to remain so for a precious few more moments, until dusk comes. Decades have passed here, etched into the wood, settled along the dust into the carpet running down the length of the stairs, and yet the sight never fails to fill him with happiness, and a sense of security.
"There is no need to treat me like a complete cripple! I can still walk, you see!"
"Oh, my," the King chuckles to himself, and hurries after the voice, inevitably ending up in the kitchen, only to happen upon the conclusion of some sort of an etude between the young cooks and their His Grumpy Lordship, who has apparently decided it's his turn to occupy the space.
"Afternoon, Bilbo!" the King announces himself, appropriately loudly, "you've decided to bake, have you?"
One nod towards the staff is enough to send them retreating in relief, and the King himself is subject to the unyielding glare of a man whose home has been invaded out of nowhere, until, of course, he is recognized.
"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise! Now that you're here, maybe you can order these people to get out of my way."
"Maybe. Although I was rather hoping to simply sit with you for a while," Fili smiles, evading effortlessly as the old man hobbles across the expanse of the kitchen, electric kettle in his shaking hand, singularly determined to finish his task, while the maids observe from a safe distance.
"My dear boy, I spend entire days sitting around. I sincerely hope you've come here with something a little more interesting in mind than sitting down."
"Perhaps," Fili laughs, "it's a lovely day. How about a walk in the garden? And tea afterward, if you don't mind."
Bilbo surveys him suspiciously, as if he's trying to determine if Fili only came here to rob him of his treasured calm, but then he seems to arrive at some sort of a decision, a realization perhaps, and relaxes, sighing heavily.
"Of course. Of course, it's been a while," he says, much more tamely, "let's take a walk. I could do with the fresh air-" one pointed glare toward his caretaker briefly appearing in their field of vision in the hallway outside, only to hurry away again, "or so I'm told."
"It will be good for the both of us," Fili agrees diplomatically, offering his arm to Bilbo, and, predictably, ending up being scoffed at, the man opting for his cane instead.
Summer is slowly giving way to autumn, but the warmth lingers, even now, very little sunlight left in the vast garden - the air smells of the forest, fresh and sharp, and Fili and Bilbo settle on the bench farthest away from the house, where neat flowerbeds change to greenhouses, to an apple orchard, nothing but the buzzing of bees keeping them company.
"How are you?" Fili begins broadly, "how's the leg treating you?"
"It's fine, fine," Bilbo waves his hand dismissively, "annoyed me last week, with the storm, you remember?"
Fili remembers it from the year before last, but he doesn't mention that.
"Yes. The offer still stands, if you-"
"If I what? Want to become half robot?" the old man scoffs, "no thank you! I'll keep my own limbs, if it's all the same to you."
"Of course," Fili grins, interlacing his fingers behind his head, leaning back, stretching his shoulders. Bilbo watches him like a hawk, clearly mulling over something, the words never quite forming, and Fili has long since learned to leave him to it.
"And how's the Palace treating you?"
"Oh, you know. Same old. Kind of exhausting, now."
"Thinking about retiring, are you?" Bilbo sniggers, as if the idea is particularly amusing.
"Dis would make a fine Queen," Fili shrugs.
"That she would. That she would, that daughter of yours. How is she? How are the kids?"
"Loud," Fili supplies earnestly, and Bilbo's face lights up in laughter. "Very bright. Dis is doing a wonderful job of raising them, I'm quite proud of her."
"Hmm," Bilbo nods, "tell them to come visit sometime. It gets quiet around here."
They listen to it, for a moment at least - the birds slowly deciding on their lullabies, the wind playing in the treetops, the garden, buzzing even now with a thousand lives - and Fili doesn't presume to know where Bilbo's mind wanders these days, but his own tends to travel further back the older he gets, reminiscing, recounting what once was.
At some point, he muses, surely the world changed at a less alarming pace, but he hardly remembers it. No, it seems to him that ever since he met Bilbo, decades, ages ago, his life has been a turbulent dash forth - and yet, whenever they find the time to simply sit together these days, all slows down, especially here. This place has been his family's retreat from the hectic life in the city for generations, and Fili is often humbled by it - Fili's own mother used to play in this garden as a child, accompanied by his grandfather, perhaps in almost the very same spot that Fili now often entertains his own grandchildren... It's a sobering thought, as well as a reassuring one.
"The celebration is coming up," he braves swerving the conversation into the intended lane, "Dis thought it might be nice for you to visit."
"The celebration?" Bilbo scowls, "which celebration?"
"You know," Fili reminds him gently, "the liberation. The end of the summer revolution."
"Oh, that," Bilbo waves his hand like he's swatting a fly, "do we really have to celebrate that every year? It gets annoying after a while, don't you think? I say let's celebrate it every ten years or something. Needless pomp."
"Well, that's the thing," Fili says somewhat warily, "it's one of the big ones. It's been fifty years now."
"Fifty years?!" Bilbo exclaims, "that's ridiculous! Feels like it was yesterday!"
"I know, I feel the same way," Fili smiles fondly, "but you understand that the people want to celebrate. The kids would love to see you. Nothing too overexuberant, I promise. Just a nice sit down under the tree-"
"Under the tree!" Bilbo is loud for a brief moment, almost angry, a cough stealing his next words away from him - he grows silent afterward, frail, veined hands closing around the handle of his cane, eyes unfocusing, lips forming words without actually saying them again. Fili shoots a look back to the house, where Bilbo's caretaker is hovering anxiously - he comforts her with a small gesture, it's fine.
"The tree," Bilbo repeats, quieter, "now that I might want to see again."
"I thought you might. It's a pretty impressive sight these days."
"Hmm, yes, yes," Bilbo muses, "fifty years. Feels like yesterday. I could have sworn it was yesterday..."
"Fifty years," Fili nods, "I can scarcely believe it myself. What do you say? Would you like to spend some time with the family, then? If you say no, I'm afraid Dis will take over the negotiations, and you know how she can get."
"Dear me, yes," Bilbo laughs somewhat dryly, then, completely out of nowhere, as it tends to happen these days, his mood reverts back to peeved at some unknowable annoyance, and he declares: "Well, I don't know how that will go over with Thorin. You know how he is these days, honestly, I tell him there's nothing to be done, that he must rest, but do you think he listens to me? No-o, it will be a cold day in hell before His Majesty does anything he's told..."
Fili lets him trail off into unintelligible muttering, looking from him at his own hands, clasped tight now in his lap. One would figure it's been long enough now, but he supposes there's no forcing a mind as scattered as Bilbo's back into order.
"Yes, well, why don't you both think about it, then, at the very least," he offers gently, which seems to stop Bilbo in his tracks somewhat, and he's looking at something Fili can't see again, something that isn't even really there, save for a picture Bilbo's unreliable memory has decided to conjure up.
"Yes, we... might as well," he concedes, and Fili can see it in his face, clear enough to hurt him, the journey from blissful ignorance to recalling the less than pleasant reality, all in a fraction of a moment, nothing but a pained scowl.
"Come on, then," Bilbo stands up laboriously, "walk me back to the house, before I burn my muffins."
As there are, in fact, no muffins in the oven - something Bilbo merrily forgets before they even make it into the kitchen - they settle in the sitting room with their tea, and after some more idle chatter and a bout of bickering with his caretaker forcing his evening medication on him, Bilbo dozes off. The sight of him, barely larger than a child and entirely too quiet, prompts Fili to get up and cover him with the nearest blanket, all the way up to his chin, before he allows himself a weak moment, slumping back into his armchair, and watching.
He feels his own age slowly beginning to ache in his bones, but Bilbo's is written into the very lines of his face, like an account of everything he's been through, almost a hundred years of what might very well be the most extraordinary life Fili has ever had the pleasure of being a part of. His hair is completely white now, his shoulders weak, posture sunken, but his eyes, when awake, remain alert as ever, sharp, sharper perhaps than his memory, and all in all, there is a determination about him, always has been - he was always short, and the ordeals of old age have bent his spine even closer to the ground, but there he is, a stalwart of their family, despite everything.
Despite holding down the fort, so to speak, alone now.
When it becomes obvious that there will be no rousing Bilbo any time soon, Fili wanders - the house breathes, a slow, even rhythm of wood settling, very few people in a very vast space, and the stairs creak under his step, which makes him smile. He recalls coming here shortly after the fire, what feels like centuries ago, on the brink of adulthood, can almost see himself looking up the stairs, anxious, worried that the next intake of breath will taste of smoke still - but then he took the very first step up, and it creaked, so familiar, so recognizable, and the relief was immediate and almost overwhelming. Everything was going to be alright.
The door to his Uncle's study is open, always open, and he almost raises his hand, almost knocks. Walking in is a bit of a challenge, but he does so nevertheless - Thorin's ancient, comfortable leather chair greets him empty, as does the vast desk, and Fili only stands at the door for a moment, breathing in, the scent always the same. Books, hundreds of books, lining the walls, and a faint reminder of dust, stale air - in a sudden desire to change that, Fili moves to open the large window.
He deliberates on the decision for quite a while, but he does end up sitting in the chair, hands feeling the texture of the desk somewhat aimlessly. There are a dozen framed pictures lining the edge of it, old and newer, some ancient, even, and Fili picks up the one that strikes him the most - years and years ago, his daughter so much younger and somewhat disheveled, sitting on the kitchen floor and eating ice cream directly from a tub, the defiant pout on her face already cracking at the edges with laughter.
No doubt, this was the time she decided to briefly throw the entirety of the Palace into hysterics by disappearing out of the blue, and ended up hiding away with Thorin and Bilbo right here, for over two weeks. He smiles fondly, strokes the photograph with his thumb - how careless, how rebellious Dis looks here, freedom the only thing on her mind. He snaps a quick photograph of it, to show her later, and sets it back.
“Fifty years,” he announces, “imagine that.”
Bilbo’s own private study is very close to Thorin’s; indeed, Fili remembers them conversing via open doors with their voices only slightly raised back in the day, but he’s a bit more reserved about wandering in there - it’s much messier than Thorin’s, bookshelves straining and overflowing, the books that don’t fit in lined in somewhat unsteady columns on the floor... The desk is almost invisible under the layers of paper, Bilbo’s laptop lying forgotten in the midst of it, probably rarely, if ever, used.
No, Bilbo has always preferred hands-on work, more fiercely the older he gets, really, using pen and paper for his notes even after all this time. Fili dares not touch anything, but one thing does spike his curiosity, as he lingers by the desk, fingers trailing over the landscape of straining document folders and pages covered with everything from scribbles to newspaper clippings, from small doodles to intricate notes he can’t hope to make sense of.
A thick volume with no title seems to have been granted the rare prize of lying unburdened by other stuff covering it, almost as if it’s something Bilbo is actively working on even now. Fili feels like he’s thirteen years old again, shooting a look back over his shoulder - no one but his bodyguards, with their backs turned to him, is waiting to scold him, and so he gently opens the book, only to find more of Bilbo’s handwriting, meticulous as always, even though age has turned even that somewhat shaky.
“A memoir, huh?” Fili chuckles, “you always were good at telling stories.”
The functional, kingly part of him is already worrying about preserving something as fleeting as written word, especially considering Bilbo’s profound hatred of anything digital in his old age, but then he shakes his head, dismissing his own thoughts - it’s going to be alright. After all, Bilbo’s is a story not so easily forgotten.
Ever so gently, he turns the first page, just the first page, he tells himself, just to see...
In a tiny, cramped apartment in the less savory suburbs of London, there lived a miserable bachelor. That’s how the stories tend to begin, isn’t it?
The year was 2014, and I was perfectly convinced that I was going to spend the rest of my life exactly where I was. I had a comfortable, if unmemorable, teaching job, which paid for my very cramped apartment in the more boring part of Peckham, and my prospects included looking forward to weekends, complaining about the quality of cafeteria food with my colleagues, and perhaps spicing things up every now and then with the occasional minor property dispute with the rest of my family up north.
I was fooling myself, even then, believing that I would be content to live like that. It was complacency, more than anything, with a side of bitter disillusionment, that colored my demeanor those days, but I had no way of convincing myself otherwise, reawakening my more adventurous side. No, for that to happen, I needed someone else to, very literally, come shake me out of my stupor.
I remember it as if it were yesterday - seated at my desk in my office at school, after hours, I was nursing within me the vague hope that at least one or two of the young souls at the institution were different from the disinterested mass of the student body, that some of them might still come to ask me insightful questions about the upcoming essays and thus brighten my day...
The distraction came, but not in the form of a child eager for more education, no - the receptionist was requesting my presence at the front desk, as I apparently had a visitor waiting for me. This seemed odd to me, to say the least, as I wasn’t expecting anyone, but off I went, if only for the chance to revisit the good coffeemaker in the teachers’ kitchen.
My history with Gandalf Grey had already been far too intricate by the time he reappeared in my life out of the blue, and I do believe I will find the room to describe it in more detail later, but suffice to say, his visit came as a great surprise to me. I had not seen or heard from him in many years before that, but he acted perfectly blase about the entire thing, as if we had been planning that little impromptu tête-à-tête for ages.
Imagine me, roused from my excruciatingly dull mid-week slouch, faced with this man, wearing a sleek coat, an elegant shawl, and a somewhat quirky hat, and all in all appearing as if he had just stepped off an airplane after the voyage of a lifetime (as I reveal more about Doctor Grey, I’m sure you will eventually agree with my hypothesis that that had indeed been the case)... It was odd to say the least, and that was before the man offered me a job.
Little old me, packing up and shipping off to some unknown country, to become some sort of a nanny to a royal family! Unheard of. I laughed in Doctor Grey’s face then, and invited him to a polite dinner, where we discussed nothing of the mysterious job, and instead attempted to catch each other up on the events of our years apart. Needless to say, I didn’t sufficiently remind myself in that time of my old colleague’s cunning, as I found myself saying goodbye to him that evening, only to discover that he had conveniently forgotten a very informative binder on the job and the country in question...
Even after all these years, I can’t quite say what compelled me to read it - curiosity played a role, certainly. Perhaps I knew, deep within, that it was exactly what I needed at the time, searching for something, anything, that might make me feel a little more alive. Adventure.
If you have ever tried to pack all your belongings overnight, surely you can imagine the horrors I inflicted upon myself when I made the blind, reckless, wonderful decision to leave. I knew not what I was getting myself into, I knew not when I would be coming back, I didn’t even know how much I’d be paid. I knew nothing, except for the one small constant that kept me going, a lingering thought that simply would not let me go - this might be the chance of a lifetime, to turn things around , my heart said, and it might be the only one.
Which is how I found myself cussing out a sinfully early alarm on one very rainy Friday morning, and stuffing my overflowing luggage into the trunk of a taxi that would take me to the airport - I think it was Luton, although I fail to see the importance of confirming that too thoroughly - where I would leave my country, my boring but comfortable job, indeed everything I’d ever known, behind.
I think it was there and then, having nervously strapped myself into my window seat, watching the world outside rush by as the plane rolled down the runway, that my story truly began. Yes, that’s as good a starting point as any, I suppose. Let’s see then - it goes like this...
It goes like this: on the border between Switzerland and Austria, there lies a small country by the name of Erebor, a tiny speck in a vast mountain range, hidden in a ridge between its peaks, protected and secluded, but far from hostile - in fact, green fields spread on the sides of mountains, turning into meadows rich with herbs, which eventually disappear into thick forests, all of that surrounding the jewel that is the capital.
Above the river cutting the city in half like a brilliant ribbon, above the picturesque roofs of red, and narrow alleys as well as squares swimming in greenery, sits the Hurmulkezer, the Royal Palace of Erebor, a timeless sculpture of snow-white marble, the very heart of the country itself, and home to the royal family.
Now, you may know them from pictures and from books, and these days, seeing their faces on the news usually elicits some reaction, but only a handful of people outside the actual country remember, or even really care, what it was like when they were everywhere, when everyone knew what they looked like, and suffered for speculating and never really knowing what was happening with them.
There was a time when stories were circulated, half true half utter nonsense, about this or that member of the family, old tragedies dug up to see the light of day again, ancient speculations given a fresh coat of sensationalism, gossip spreading like wildfire... There was a time of war, and of desperation, and of life-altering change, but right now, there is a time of peace, and in the end, isn’t that all that matters? Any member of the royal family would certainly attest to that - Erebor is a peaceful country, now, after everything, and if anyone would ever be to dispute that, or even threaten it, history has only proven that even with its miniscule size, the monarchy is capable of weathering any and all adversity it might ever be pummeled with.
But none of that really matters to the little girl who is now running very fast, not because she means to get away from something - well, her teacher and numerous guardians might, after all, count for something, but she sees no trouble in that - but because there is something she means to run toward.
The grass below her feet is nothing but a bright green blur, not a care in the world for her shoes getting soaked with dew, or for the worried men and women chasing after her. She runs and runs, and then she sees it, and finds that one last bit of strength she didn’t even know she had to run even faster.
The distance between her and the tree seemingly nonexistent, it feels like a flash before she stands face to face with it, pressing her hand against its trunk almost reverently, and looking up, up high where the branches form a canopy of budding green with speckles of white, the blooms.
“Hello,” she waves, “how are you today?”
The tree only responds with a soft murmur, the wind ruffling its leaves, and if she closes her eyes, she can pretend it’s people whispering.
“There you are. I hear you’ve caused quite the stir.”
“Adad!” she exclaims, and giggles as he scoops her up in his arms.
Over his shoulder, she sticks out her tongue at the people who had been chasing her up until this very moment, and who now stand still some distance away, straightening out their perfect suits, attempting not to look in the least alarmed or out of breath. She doesn’t know this yet, but her father being the Crown Prince and all, she will always be allowed to run free where others would expect her to walk.
“Hello, little sun. Were you in a particular mood to spend your time with trees today?”
“It was blooming,” she explains, a perfectly valid reason in her world, “I wanted to come see up close. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Yes,” he sighs, “very pretty.”
Curiously she cards her little fingers through his hair and beard - perhaps one day, she will no longer be amazed with the color of it, bright copper and gold, like her own, like the sun itself, but today, her father remains the most radiant being she’s ever laid her eyes on - him, and the tree, of course.
“How old is it?” she asks, not for the first time, and probably not for the last.
“You know, I don’t rightly remember myself. Why don’t we find out? It’s all written there on that plaque. Will you read it to me?”
He sets her down gently, and she hurries to the golden tablet on a delicate stand near the trunk, squinting at the letters.
“Bilbo’s Oak,” she reads slowly, carefully, “planted in... I can’t, Adad.”
“2018,” he supplies helpfully, “over twenty years ago. Can you read the rest?”
“Weather... no. Sorry, Adad,” she pouts.
“That’s alright, they are difficult words,” he smiles, coming to stand by her side once again. “It reads ‘For weathering adversity’. Do you know what that means?”
She shakes her head absentmindedly, more interested in trying to pluck at the rough bark with her fingernails, and he looks up as well, at the dashes of sunlight dancing between the leaves, at the sprawling branches, and inhales the fresh air.
“It means that your Grandfather and Bilbo went through a lot to be able to plant this tree right here. And every year they watch it grow stronger, means one more year of peace.”
“Oh,” she comments.
“Bilbo would probably tell the story better,” Fili laughs, and ruffles her hair, which elicits a half surprised, half indignant gasp.
“Can we go see him, then?” she looks at him, huge eyes gleaming with hope.
“Of course,” he smiles, “I’m sure he would be thrilled to see you.”
The Palace only has so many floors, but to her, visiting Bilbo’s apartment always feels like climbing the highest tower, the gardens and the park spread out before her when she looks out the large windows, like someone had built it all out of meticulously carved wooden blocks, like she might just reach down and pick up anything she pleases, that car there, the pretty fountain, the oak tree itself...
“There you are!”
She yelps in surprise as Bilbo appears next to her, but it quickly dissolves into happy giggling, and she hurries for a hug, which he reciprocates warmly, although with some difficulty.
“Well, this is a lovely surprise! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Princess?”
“Adad said I could come see you,” she explains, “I went to see the tree.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure it was thrilled to see you too. It’s quite lovely in bloom, isn’t it?”
“It is!” she agrees, “Adad says that every time it grows stronger, you and Grandpa... I don’t remember the story.”
“I told her about weathering adversities,” her father smiles, and she isn’t capable of noticing it today, but later on, she will note that Bilbo’s expression is always the same when it gets mentioned - a fond smile, and a wealth of memories hiding behind it.
“But he said that you tell the story better,” the Princess sees it fit to mention, “so I wanna hear.”
“And would it be alright with you if I left you with Bilbo for a while, little sun?” her father chimes in, turning to Bilbo with that telling look adults always seem to share: “Duty calls.”
“But of course!” Bilbo smiles, “go, go, the two of us will be just fine, won’t we?”
“Just fine!” she echoes.
“Well, alright then. Someone will come pick you up for dinner, yes?” her father is smiling as well, and it will take some years yet for her to recognize that particular look as well, but his mind is already turning to his work.
“Yes, Adad. Now I want to hear the story!”
It is not the first time she hears it, and certainly far from the last, but as far as she is concerned, it changes every time. She is allowed to sit in Bilbo’s rocking chair while he prepares them a cup of tea, and as it slowly moves, back and forth, back and forth, she looks out the large windows, the very top of the oak disappearing from her view every time she leans back into the chair to help its swing, only to reappear seconds later...
The story tells of a time long before hers, when there was no grey in Bilbo’s hair, when Grandfather didn’t need a cane yet, and when she closes her eyes, she can see them standing there, side by side on Durin’s square, and hear the chanting of the crowd, like a hymn rising so loud and so powerful, that it managed to drive the evil away.
Bilbo and the King are like the knights from the fairy tales her father reads to her before bedtime, the palace shining a brilliant white in the glow of the setting sun, the city roaring with celebrations, the sky painted with colorful fireworks, when it was finally over... She hears it, time and time again, because Bilbo really does tell it best, and it might take a couple years yet before she truly understands what adversities they really had to weather, but the fact remains that to her, it appears the bravest tale of them all.
She wakes up that afternoon, curled up in Bilbo’s rocking chair still, after having dreamt half the story instead of hearing it, and for the blink of an eye, she thinks she is in that dream still - the King stands before her, tall and broad, a crown of gold, the kindest smile on his face. But it only takes one more blink, and she realizes it’s the sun setting behind him, painting the entire room in warm hues of gold, lending the grey in his hair a richer tinge as well.
“Look who we have here,” he says, offering his hand, and she takes it, still a tad dazed, and lets him pull her to her feet.
“You fell asleep,” Bilbo is standing by his side now, just like in the paintings and the photographs, just like in the dream.
“You saved the world,” she exhales, the amazing impression of them never quite fading away.
They exchange yet another look she will only ever understand with more time, before laughing heartily, each grabbing one of her hands.
“Just a tiny part of it, in fact,” Bilbo explains softly, “now, I believe it is time for dinner.”
“And I, for one, am starving,” her Grandfather adds, “aren’t you, Dis?”
One day, she will also learn where her Grandfather’s mind wanders sometimes when he says her name, but for now, she really is starving, and so she lets them lead her away, casting one last look back over her shoulder, out of the window where the setting sun makes the oak tree look like it’s bearing a crown of its own.
For the royal family and its young Princess, this is what peace looks like.
And everything happens so fast in Erebor. He glares at the stack of documents on his desk, and he tries to recall the details of this morning's meeting. Digitalizing everything, right... How, again? By god, he isn't going to let this happen to his newspaper. Not The Arrow, not after everything. He's seen so many go the digital route and burn out, and he takes a lot of pride in keeping his papers afloat, and on actual paper . They already have a digital side, were among the first ones to do so way back when, but he will never not advocate for the joy of an actual physical copy of a paper.
It does come with a lot of headaches though, there's no denying that.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, picking up his tablet again - this is too troublesome for words. The future is now , his wife likes to remind him, not without the occasional snigger. He'd much prefer it if it actually made things easier for them, but then, he is a stubborn man, he can agree with his wife on that.
"Mister Ibindikhel, sir!" his assistant peers inside just as Bard is about to give up altogether and go back to his old notebook and fountain pen. "It's time. Car's waiting outside."
"Oh," Bard sighs, "oh, of course. Thank you, Ed."
That, he isn't getting used to any time, either. There was a time when he lived on one crown per word - what, like, five eurocents these days? - and was glad when he could afford warm soup in the evening, much less a new coat, or ink for the pen that's lasted him all these years. And now... Now he has cars waiting to take him places, and drivers, and this stupid tablet thing that asks for his fingerprint every time he needs to access his files, and rings with notifications more often than his phone.
He doesn't recognize the driver at first sight, which is a source of some shame - he used to know every single person on his staff. But, well, alright, The Arrow moving into a much larger, fancier building (not a couple of floors in an office block, an actual whole building ) downtown, and the corresponding promotion, have resulted in... this.
Saved from small talk, Bard at least watches the city as the car speeds through it, downhill, past the squares and historic buildings downtown, in between the dizzyingly swiftly growing business quarter across the river from the Palace...
He can scarcely believe how long it's been. He can still scarcely believe what he's about to do a report on. It all feels like yesterday.
The car slows down in the jam on Durin’s Square, and he stares at the freshly erected statue smack in the middle of the circular plateau.
"...Which is why I am declaring this right here, right now - we might be small, and they might think us insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but Erebor will not bow down to any kind of oppression, anything that would threaten to destroy what we've fought for. Our power lies in our tradition, and I couldn't be happier to see all of you here today, believing in the same things I believe in..."
Our power lies in our tradition.
Shouts, chants of approval, arms raised in the air, a drumming that might be thousands of heartbeats at once, or it might be the melody with which their world changes. Might be one and the same.
That, and gunshots soon after.
It's been years. Almost thirty of them, dear god, filled with safety, and prosperity, and progress, and they commended Erebor on handling things so swiftly - the second revolution didn't even last a year. The monarchy didn't fall. The city didn't burn, or at least not in daylight. People died, but people always die. All in all, looking from the outside in, it was short lived, contained, an exciting footnote in history books about a country that held its own on the precipice of burning out, bravery, ideals, justice, determination and whatnot eventually winning over the greed of much bigger states trying to claim what was never rightfully theirs.
It's made for a couple of good songs over the years, and there's even talk of a movie, or so Bard has heard.
But if you weren't there, really there, walking in the streets, standing with the crowds, grasping at straws to keep going every single day... If you weren't there at Durin’s Square that winter, or in front of the Palace in April, or anywhere in the country when the summer heat finally ushered in a victory, you didn't know. You couldn't know.
But that was then, and this is now.
Everybody always talks about knowing exactly where you were when the important things happened. Thirty years ago, and every single person you stop in the streets, who wasn't a toddler at the time, will tell you where they were when they learned about the shooting. Yeah, I was right there , tends to meet with disbelief, and these days, Bard doesn't have the patience to repeat time and time again, no, you don't understand, I was right there.
Had to throw out my shirt later, because the blood wouldn’t wash out.
But right now, as the car carries him out of the city, the scenery changing, tall buildings and neat sidewalks turning into scattered villages and fields of green, overshadowed by forests, it looks like they've really escaped unscathed, and it's good to know the country has changed accordingly, but still remembers.
The future is now. Now that they've fought to make sure of that, anyway.
He might doze off on the way, but then it has been a very long week, and an even longer month, and besides, the subject of this particular article doesn't require that much preparation. Bard already knows everything he needs to know. He was there, there for all of it.
He snorts awake when gravel starts crunching underneath the tires of the car, and clambers out somewhat laboriously, his mood instantly improved with the first inhale of fresh mountain air. After setting up a later time with the driver to come pick him up - there was a time he'd walk here like five miles from the train station in the village - he stretches his somewhat aged back, and sighs at the sight of the house, drowning in seasonal greenery.
It really does feel like coming home, if home had served as a makeshift revolutionary den, a bunker, a safe haven, and, yes, even a temporary office for his newspaper, during that one unforgettable summer.
But of course, the feeling of everyone else getting younger around them - and believing that, instead of admitting that they might be in fact getting older - is a new one.
The maids welcome him inside and tell him to wait, and so he does, breathing it in. The house is quiet, and majestic, and clean, as always, but it will be a cold day in hell before Bard eradicates the sound of shattering glass, and the smoke rolling like very slow waves down the broad staircase, and the shouts, from his memory...
"Always so grim, my goodness."
Bard is shaken - or, gently coaxed, more like - out of his reverie, and he smiles at the man standing atop the stairs, receiving a fond reciprocation.
"Afternoon, Your Highness," he mocks, and Bilbo scowls.
"Oh, do shut up. Or should I say do shut up, Sire."
"We both hate the titles we weren't born into, touche," Bard sighs.
"Painfully true. Come on, we might as well wait with some tea and biscuits, as far as I'm concerned."
"He isn't here?" Bard asks, patently not noticing Bilbo descending the stairs with all the difficulty of a man whose acquired noble status didn't come without its fair share of... accidents along the way.
"Oh, please," Bilbo huffs with some indignation, "he just takes ages to convalesce from his afternoon naps these days."
"Charming."
"You're telling me."
The sitting room, also all the same, even though nothing has technically been the same since the fire... But it's in the air. Familiarity, and, even despite all the horrors this room has been through, a sense of security.
"How have you been?" Bilbo asks him, "how's the family?"
"Oh, swell," Bard sighs, sinking into an armchair himself, helping himself to the aforementioned tea and biscuits already waiting, "Fridda’s second term is coming up, so she’s questioning her decision to join politics once more. Sends her regards, of course, and promises to actually bake something next time, but you know how that usually works out. Let’s see... Sigrid is shipping out again in three weeks... Bain is graduating in two. Tilda is showing high school a more difficult time than it is showing her, really."
"Good, good," Bilbo smiles into his cuppa, "I'm glad to hear it. My regards to all of them."
"Thank you. How did Fili take the news?"
"I believe his exact words were took you long enough," Bilbo snorts, "in all honesty, he is more than ready enough. Has been for a long time."
"No argument there," Bard nods, "and the King?"
"Well," Bilbo mumbles, looking pensive for a moment, "it did take him long enough."
"How is he taking it?" Bard is fully aware he's already slipping into interview mode, but Bilbo doesn't seem to mind, and besides, there is no recorder rolling just yet.
"I don't think he can even fathom not being King, not really. But it was his idea..."
“That it was. Afternoon, Bard.”
“Your Majesty,” Bard hurries to stand up, grunting halfway there, to the amusement of everyone present, especially, it seems, the King himself.
“Please, dear lord, stay where you are,” Thorin half laughs, half orders, “I’d like to think that at least among friends, we don’t have to pretend like old age isn’t getting to us.”
To some, like Bard himself, more visibly than some others. Even with his hair gone grey, his story written in the intricate web of wrinkles on his face, the King remains a magnificent figure, features of marble and fire in his eyes. Even here, arranging himself in his armchair next to Bilbo with some difficulty as well, forgoing anything even resembling formal attire for a comfortable sweater instead, his hand twisted with the kind of ache that will never leave him now, as he searches for Bilbo’s and squeezes, short, reassuring...
Even here, even now, he is the man who stood up on Durin’s Square fifteen years ago, alone against the entire rest of the world, and fended off disaster after disaster, simply because he believed. They were enough then, Bilbo and him, to convince an entire nation of its worth and importance, of its strength and values, enough to turn the tide of the revolution in their favor, and for the first time in actual decades, Bard is reminded of the way he used to see them, before days, weeks, months, spent tense and worried and always scheming together, before they did indeed become friends.
Larger than life, easily.
I was right there. For a time, the two of you were everything that stood between us and total collapse, and somehow you managed to carry that weight on your shoulders all that time. And now, the future we fought so hard to make happen is finally here, and it’s difficult to believe that the time has come to step aside and let it play out.
“Hm?”
He realizes there might have been a question directed at him, and shakes his head to force himself back to the here and now. Thorin and Bilbo watch him with slight amusement, hand in hand still, and his head fills instead with the reassuring silence of the building around them, the distant chirping of birds coming in through an open window somewhere, the soft scent of tea.
“I said, are you feeling quite alright?” Bilbo inquires, that telltale quirk of his eyebrow, unchanged throughout all these years.
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine,” Bard sighs, fumbling somewhat to prepare his equipment, then finally concentrating on Thorin himself. “So, are you ready to go on record?”
The glance Thorin and Bilbo exchange doesn’t escape him, and certainly doesn’t surprise him - it’s always been there, and it’s always going to be there, Thorin seeking reassurance, and Bilbo offering it, be it with an almost imperceptible nod.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” the King smiles.