Hey there, been a while since I've uploaded a new story, I was feeling festive so I decided to write a melancholic little piece about love and despair, and whatever may come of it!

Hope you enjoy and HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

WINTER OF 1342, a Yule story

CHAPTER I, Beyond Grief and Sorrow

Bilbo was sitting comfortably on his armchair, leaning deeper into the soft pillowy cushions. It was the first Yule after the Quest and he held a warm cup of tea in his hands. Bilbo smiled as he could feel warmth spreading through him, from his fingertips through the muscles of his arms and into his heart and from there through his veins into the very furthest bits of his hairy feet. It was a cup of his best green tea, a cup of liquid love.

Outside it was snowing heavily, flakes were racing against each other, fast, hard in the cold wind. A lonely figure was fighting to stay standing in the harsh weather, slowly but surely moving through the banks of snow that no one had cleaned in days. Embarrassment for sure to many a folk in the Shire, however to hobbits such as Bilbo Baggins, things like a clean pathway to his house mattered little to none anymore, not after Erebor.

The weather was getting worse and worse, the little flurry from the morning was turning into a blizzard. Soon there would not even be a path up. Just a steep hill of snow. Lots and lots of snow. Bilbo only hoped that he wouldn't completely be burrowed inside because while it kept unwanted quest outside, he— he was hoping that perhaps some more wanted company would come by—- which was unlikely of course,

he knew better than that.

All year he had been waiting for someone to drop by, well ever since May anyway. Or more so after July—- it had taken a while, a long while to get everything back. All of his things, his mother's things, things that had been in the family for years had been spread all around Shire. It had taken a lot of knocking on doors and spreading rumours of terrifying dwarves and dragons who'd come and take what's his back from anyone owning any piece of Bag End, but not everything had been regained. Bilbo supposed that he'd never see his favourite dining chair or the wine his great great great grandfather Buffon Boffin had bottled hundreds of years ago. It was fine red wine as well, a special recipe that had been lost during the Great Winter of S.R. 1158. Legend had it that a Boffin had used it as a kindling for a fire, and thanks to the very piece of paramagnet that Boffin and their family had survived the fowl weather and made it through the years of cold.

The Shire had after all seen much through the ages but none of the living residents had seen as much with their own eyes as Bilbo had. These were the years of peace, and for the rest of the Shire it was as if there never had been any trouble inside their borders (other than which outsiders had caused.) Bilbo of course knew better, he was well read. Flying through books of history and adventures, maps, anything at all. In the past he had had many arguments over who's relatives had done what in what event of whatever party and which Bolger had gone off and married which Took and so on. Whatever was the topic of the night at the Green Dragon, he's favourite drinking hole in whole of Shire (Mostly because it was the closest one.)

Not anymore. Bilbo had seen the world. Seen the wast wilderness and the long darkness of caves unlike any the Shire folk could imagine and even if he had tried to explain to them the halls of the Goblin King or the undeniable beauty of the Woodland Realm, they would have said that nothing beat their home, that their grandfather of whatever family was the greatest digger of them all. Or they would have said something like, "Have you seen my garden Mr. Baggins. I'll bet the hairs off my feet that if you saw my petunias, you'd not think twice of the lands outside our borders."

Likely though, they'd think him strange. That's what had mostly happened to him. Ever since he had returned—- he was a stranger. Almost as bad as an outsider. There were theories — he had heard— that he wasn't Bilbo at all, he was a duplicate. That the "real" Bilbo had been taken, or killed and some dwarf had shaved their beard and taken his place, living in Bag End in his place, and that wasn't even the strangest tale he had heard.

Hobbiton didn't feel much like home anymore anyway. The once beautiful green hills had lost their colour to him, the perfectly round bright coloured doors didn't excite him in their sheer perfection of woodwork either. In his mind he was still in the great halls of Erebor. Gazing upon the great stone halls that at first had seemed cold, lonely, even distant, but now seemed the most beautiful thing in the world. He could almost see the great throne room where perspective was lost and where everything was so big it seemed to have no measure at all. Beyond grief— beyond sorrow.

Thorin.

Bilbo set down his empty mug. He felt an ache. Every bone in his body hurt. Every muscle, every joint. To his very core he could feel pain, emptiness inside. Thorin. Just thinking of him felt like dying-

Thorin was lying on the ground passed out. Blood had long stopped staining his shirt and his breathing had evened. Slow but steady. Bilbo was trembling beside him, lying on the cold ground. Bilbo had gently placed his coat on Thorin and wrapped his scarf around his neck to keep the injured dwarf warm.

Bilbo looked at his hands which were bloodied. All around him he was aware of the battle still going on. They were winning he thought, or at least he was rather hoping they were. He didn't know much about war after all. Real battle was very much different from the glorified images and verses of his books.

In the distance, the eagles could be seen striking down the enemy up from the sky. Everything would be alright. Thorin would be fine. He had been wearing the Mithril shirt after all. The hobbit struggled to imagine if he had not convinced Thorin to take it in his stead.

Would he be looking at the dead body of his dear friend?

If Bilbo imagined very carefully, and reached towards the ends of his mind he could almost feel his fingers now, brushing through Thorin's hair, comforting him like in his memory. Taking away his grief, the heavy burden on his shoulders. The pain of his wound, pain of loss and the sickness still inside him.

Now it was Thorin comforting him for a while, filling the ache in his heart. The hole in his chest that was smothering him, eating him alive. The thought of Thorin was the very thing keeping him going in this moment. All alone in the long corridors of Bag End. With the echoes of the dwarves laughing, drinking, talking in his home. The guest room he hadn't had the heart to clean up, which had been by some miracle been saved from the nosy eyes and greedy fingers of the hobbits of Shire (probably because of the horrid state of it. Drunk dwarves were not clean dwarves.)

Everything else he had cleaned, rearranged. Cleaned. Then rearranged again and again during the many slow, never ending months- just to have something to do. To keep his mind out of—- everything.

Today was the first eve of Yule. Even through the snow and the terrible weather Bilbo could see the faraway lights of Bywater and Hobbiton, hear faint music carried by the wind that howled so terribly in his chimney.

Bilbo would not celebrate. Not alone, and wouldn't go anywhere, he wasn't wanted anywhere. He had given up trying to invite people over- they never came, or going to the pub- he was left alone there. He was very much that; alone, with everyone he cared about hundreds of miles away.

It was hard now, to believe he had ever wanted to leave Erebor. To go back to his books, his armchair. To plant his tree. For now it all seemed for naught. Even his acorn. It had not been planted. He had not the heart to do so. To bury it. Instead he kept it close to his heart; there it reminded him better of everything, of everyone. Better than any tree, which every inch would have reminded him of the passing time. Every branch that would have meant one more day away from his last moment in Erebor, the last time he had looked into those deep blue eyes—-

"You're pathetic Bilbo Baggins!" Bilbo said to himself, "There is no way around it. You are pathetic and you need to stop right—" there was a knock on the door "—now?"

Bilbo quickly turned around to walk to the window. To try to make out who was at his door at this time of the night— or evening—- rather an afternoon; but it was already dark outside, which was a very good excuse to go to sleep early and call 5 a'clock a new midnight.

With the icy window everything blurred together, and even though the snow had stopped falling (mostly at least) it was hard to see anything through the thick layer of ice and snow.

The knocking repeated, firmer, more demanding this time.

"Whoever they are, they can go away." Bilbo decided

"They must be cold though… Hungry…" he argued against himself

"Exactly! They've come to 'borrow sugar'. If I let them in they'll pillage the pantry." he decided

"What if they freeze to death?" Bilbo wondered

"What if they've come to rob me!" he said heatedly, wanting to go and get more tea instead

"They knocked! Nobody who is going to rob you will knock you first."

"Bilbo Baggins!" he shouted angrily and imitated Gandalf, (as most of the time he worked as the his voice of reason in his head anyway.)

"Very well, very well—- I'm coming!" the more Baggins side of him finally agreed.

Bilbo walked to the door hesitantly, Whoever was knocking seemed big— strong—- and very impolite.

Just open the door, he thought.

Bilbo put his hand on the handle carefully and twisted, the wind tore the door violently form his grip as he opened it and ripped it wide open, revealing a dark snowy figure right in front of him.

"Thorin."

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