Heartspin: So yeah, I am starting yet another story . I was so close to finishing Wishing for Sunny Skies, and told myself i would wait to start another tale until that was finished, but I couldn't help myself. I started this out as a 1shot first, taking a scene from later on in the story to try and quell my desire to write it from the beginning, but it just couldn't work as a oneshot. So here it is. Sorry.

I have been wanting to write some ThilBo fanfics for a while now, and I am going to at least put this one out now-though I have 1 other floating around in me head that is an xover I will refrian from writing that.

Now addressing this, story; I have fallen in love with all sorts of Bagginsheild stories-I have read depressing ones and cherry ones, ones where Bilbo goes back in time, and ones where thorin or someone else does. I have read xovers, and alternate universes of all kinds.

Now I wish to spin my own story, and decided I first would tell a Bilbo goes back in time to fix-it story.

I will make no promises for this story but I will tell you one thing. I DO NOT wish to hear complaints that -this has been done before, its not original, thats so unbelievable etc etc. It ruffles my feathers when I could be a chapter or 2 into a story that is planned to be 50 chapters long and people believe they see the whole outcome-and even if they were right no one story is the same as the rest unless you are stealing someone else writing-which I would NEVER do as someone who loves to write.

Well without further delay here is the story! ENJOY!=)

Chapter One

Bilbo had in lived quite an amazing life for a hobbit if he did so say himself. It having been a somewhat normal and peaceful life in the Shire until a wondering wizard, who wondered off far too much if Bilbo recalled fondly with a tinge of annoyance, had gently-rather forcefully- invited a group of royal dwarves-royally a headache at the best of times more like-which had then in turn set him on a quest to face a fire breathing dragon to take back a mountain for said royal headaches.

It had been until later in life, much too late and after the heartache turned in to a dull throb with only the occasional sharp pain of loss reminding him of what he never would have.

His dwarves. His wonderful, stupid, loud and rowdy dwarves.

But then that ring, oh that cursed ring had ended up taking even more from him than he ever could imagine.

After living so many years, another sixty-far older than any other hobbit should mind you- he finally parted from the vile gold circlet, from its whispers and poisonous friendship. It had taken every bit of innocence he held, every bit of good, and tried its best to grab hold and twist it and break him. To force its will upon him. It wished him to leave Frodo, to not take up his duty as his guardian, to walk out and go-where he did no know. But he always refused it.

But then he had left the blasted thing for his nephew, not knowing the dangers it truly held! And about another 30 years later, his beloved Frodo had begun his quest to destroy the cursed thing.

Even after so long, it called to him-longed for him to take it back and never allow anyone else to touch it again. What right did that whelp have to take what was his after-all?

And Bilbo hated himself. Hated his moments of weakness. Old age was a poor excuse, as was holding on to the ring for so very long. It was the reason people gave him, but he refused to accept it.

It was his fault. He was weak.

It was his fault that yearly his nephews shoulder would begin to hurt more and more with the faint memory of the Narzguel blade burning into his shoulder.

It was his, Bilbo's, fault that those bright blue eyes-that had been so bright and curious and so very innocent- hollow and haunted.

Bilbo had been so relieved to see his nephew follow him onto the gray ships, to set sale to an undying land where all pain would wash away.

He himself had been happy for this adventure, though he accepted this as his last, and only looked back when they had set sail knowing that if he did before he would have wished to dart off the boat, onto a pony, and demand to be taken to the mountains. He squinted his aged eyes trying his best to spot Erabore in the hazy distance. But it was impossible.

And so Bilbo died.

He died unable to see the mountains that felt like home, and housed what had grown to be his family ever again. He died unable to apologize to Thorin and the boys.

Now Bilbo wasn't sure exactly how long it had been since his death. Death was a funny thing like that. There really seemed to be no time of day, no agenda. No passing. It just-was.

He stayed in a Smial, much like bag end, and did much as any hobbit was supposed to do. He would wake, go about gardening or eating, reading or taking small walks about the town of other dead hobbits-the town oddly enough resembled the shire- would converse, this was done lightly as for even most of his ancestors had little in common with him besides Bulroar Took(who perhaps played golf a bit too much for Bilbos tastes) and just go about doing mundane hobbitish like things.

It wasn't as if Bilbo wasn't thankful to what the good green lady had given them as a resting spot in death. The fields were always green, the crops always good, endless drink and dance and merry; never a bad day. It was the perfect afterlife.

Too perfect for Bilbo it seemed.

He at first had been elated to meet with his parents once again; to feel their warm embrace and to listen to their voices once again. It had been so welcoming to see those who had passed before himself, all the hobbits who had led up to his point in time.

It had been so nice, in the beginning of death, to feel the peace of bag-end once again, no dark ring hanging over him or echoes of dwarven song.

Even when he thought of his dwarves, it was as if his heart was unable to feel any sort of pain or remorse. The lonely Mountie only brought feelings of awe no loss or homesickness associated.

It sickened him. It was as if the feelings were fake. Forced into his heart as if it were mimicking happiness much like he acted when he sat down for tea at his great aunt Roses.

So he walked.

He walked and walked, among hay fields, corn fields, rolling hills and bubbling brooks and tiny forests. It was all so much like the Shire, all so much like the place that had been his place of birth and much of his life.

But it wasn't the Shire. It was like a poor attempt to mimic it.

And no matter how much Bilbo walked, no matter which way he went, he would always find his way back to BagEnd. It was as if there were no true path out of his new home, there were no dwarves or elves or even humans to go see. There were no uncharted lands, no mountains no forests no oceans. Just the shire.

Bilbo began to wonder if this truly was a punishment. To continue eternally being trapped in the one place he swore, in life, he called home. Swore where he belonged. Never to seek true adventure again, to see those he would like to call friend. To call family.

He felt nothing at the echo of Thorin's parting words, and he he knew he wanted to feel disappointed in himself at not even being able to morn the loss of such a dear friend, but that was not even allowed to him.

And so he continued to walk.

He walked and walked, and every time the Shire came into view he would turn around and begin walking away once again only to return to it no matter what he did.

Bilbo was unsure how long he had been doing this, refusing to meet with his parents any longer, or any hobbit for that matter just to hear them say-he would be fine, it just took some time getting used to, how could one not enjoy this life?- until one day, one glorious day.

There was change.

Bilbo had decided to take a break from walking, and was sitting in a small wood after having just turned from where he spied the smoke rising from others smials.

He, in life, would have brought a book and some seed cakes with him to sit under a tree and enjoy the day, but in death there was no true hunger to fulfill nor any tale worth enjoying. So he just sat, looking endlessly to where he wished to see mountains on the horizon, not rolling hills and crops.

"Does it pain you so?"

He jumped slightly, though no feeling of fear or even surprise was allowed to him. Only a pleasant feeling of welcoming which was unwanted, and made him despise death all the more.

There, under the shade of a tree half hidden and cloaked, was a figure.

"What?" his voice was so odd to his ears-when had been the last he spoke? It was rare when he did.

The figure gestured about, the cloak not giving away any features, though a deep blue ring was visible on one of his large fingers,"Does this pain you?"

"I," he blinked and hesitated,unsure," I do not feel pain."

"But you wish to?"

Shaking his head Bilbo said," Why would I wish to feel pain."

"Because this isn' true happiness. Because even when you wish to feel sad you are happy, or when you wished to be frightened you are calm. What do you feel now, little hobbit?"

Bilbo was about to say happy, or perhaps content, when he paused.

This was not happiness. Happiness was being made fun of by a group of rowdy, obscene dwarves. Happiness was what followed after living through something impossible, terribly frightening, only to see smiles and hear song from those who had pulled through with you.

"I feel nothing," his voice was oddly flat. Had he spoken like this in life?

The figure nodded, and for some reason Bilbo found he could not take his eyes off the ring that sat, large and gaudy but fittingly, on the stumpy fingers of the other.

"Would you, if given the chance do it all over again?"

Bilbo blinked owlishly, tilting his head to the side just slightly,"What do you mean?"

"Would you," the figure growled now approaching but Bilbo, unable to feel fear, did not budge from his spot and just allowed the other to come slightly nearer," go back to the living? To do what you had done once-but this time do. IT. RIGHT. Would you take on full responsibility of that ring, instead of shirking your duties to a mere child?!"

Bilbo so wished to be able to cry, to feel bad over the loss of Frodos innocence. But he was unable to.

It was an easy answer to such a question for him. It was as if it had been what he had been searching for.

"Yes."

He saw the figures stance change, and there was something about the atmosphere, the very feeling of the world around him changed.

"Good. Bilbo Baggins," the other approached, his ring glowing as he settled his hand on the top of Bilbo's curls,"I will give you a gift to help you along in this lifetime."

He felt the worlds slipping away from him, the loss of any sort of physical body and the only thing he was aware of was the hand, with the large blue ring, keeping him from completely being lost to the darkness he was now bathed in. But Bilbo smiled.

For as he felt himself tugged through the void, pulled off to some unknown abyss of darkness, he felt fear. True, gut wrenching, heart hammering, mind numbing fear.

And for that he was truly happy.

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Bilbo woke sweating, gasping as he shot up in bed almost falling to the floor.

He looked around shivering at the chill of his dark room. The fire had gone out. He had forgotten to throw a log in before flopping onto his bed.

Sighing he leaned forward pushing sweaty bangs from his forehead to cradle it in his hands.

"What a dream," his voice shook on the word 'dream'. As if it was a mere insult to the images that played over and over again in his head. A whole lifetime of images.

He had seen his parents die, due to an early winter much like the one they were starting to experience now. He had seen himself grow old, and see dwarves-actual real dwarves!- and elves! and many other wonderful and terrible things. He had seen war, pain and suffering and had seen his own death.

He shivered, the cold seeming past his quilts to his very bones. The feeling of mortality setting heavily on his heart.

Throwing off the comforter he went to go grab some snack from the pantry to calm his nerves.

"It is just a dream Bilbo Baggins," he said in a quite quivering voice, reminding himself his parents were just in the next room and his mother was an awful light sleeper," there will be no 'fell winter' or 'great war' over some ring," he huffed trying to bring that heavy, oh so heavy feeling, from his heart that spoke of grief and suffering," now go get you some tea and cake and quit concerning yourself over some silly nightmare. Its just a result of all those books dad keeps telling you to get your nose out of. Obviously for good reason too!"

Nodding his head and wiggling into his nightgown he went to the kitchen to rid of his tremors.

After all. It was just a dream. This was the Shire and he was just a hobbit.

Nothing bad ever happened here.

Nothing.

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Heartspin:soooooooO...As my first Hobbit fanfic, and Thorin/Bilbo fic. . . What do you think?

Please review and give me some feedback! Reviews keep me going! They keep me sane! They make me UPDATE! 0-0

Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Hopefully I can spin a story that will be satisfactory for you all.