Epilogue

Bilbo sat by the side of Frodo's bed, the Red Book of Westmarch open on his lap and a smile playing about the corners of his lips. The sun was rising on the morning of October the 24th, Shire Year 1418, but it was long since either had been in the Shire. The wound Frodo had taken in his adventure with Bilbo's Ring was almost healed; the lad would soon be waking. It was fitting, Bilbo thought, that they should meet again here in Rivendell, in the House of Elrond. Here Bilbo had rested during his long journey, and here he now lived. It seemed right that Frodo too should find respite in this place.

Since leaving the Shire for the final time, now many years before, Bilbo had taken himself for one last adventure. He had wandered the western lands, slowly but surely making his way to Rivendell. Here he had halted briefly then, whilst strength remained, he had ventured as far east as Dale. Within sight of the Lonely Mountain he had turned back, forgoing the sight of the splendour of Dain's kingdom. This had not been an easy decision, nor one that he could now change.

Bilbo had not travelled entirely alone. Upon hearing of his coming Bifur and Bofur, Dori and Nori had set out to meet the hobbit. They told of how Bombur had become too fat now to walk, and lamented that Ori was no longer living in Erabor. Upon questioning Bilbo discovered that he, with Oin and many others, had followed Balin to Moria in an attempt to retake the ancient dwarf realm there. The goblins of the Misty Mountains had been almost defeated in the Battle of the Five Armies, and they had judged the time right. This was somewhat of a disappointment to Bilbo, who had wished to see all of his old companions. He did not lament the absence of Gloin and Dwalin quite as much, but was surprised to find that he would have liked to meet with them once again.

The wanderings of Bilbo with the dwarves had ended when at last the hobbit turned westwards once more. His feet took him along many new paths, and some that he knew well, until one summers day he cooled his toes in the chill river at the bottom of the hidden valley. He had no longer the strength or the desire to journey from Rivendell to the Shire, and had known this upon setting out. He wished now for little more now than to finish his book.

Bilbo was not now the hobbit who had fainted in front of his fireplace, nor the one who had hurried out of his front door without a handkerchief. He was not the hobbit who had stolen a purse from a troll, and had swum naked in the moonlight under the stars of Imladris. He had groping blindly in the dark discovered a ring with unknown powers, had fought giant spiders and goblins, had wandered in the wilds both accompanied and alone. He had come to accept parts of himself that he'd not known existed and in doing so had experienced great pleasure and unmeasurable sorrow.

Now, sitting at Frodo's bedside and waiting for his nephew to wake, Bilbo passed the time by thinking of his companions. He missed the comfort of Balin's advice, the manner in which Dori fussed over Ori and Nori's exploits whilst his brothers were thus occupied. He missed the reassurance of Dwalin's presence in dangerous places, Bifur's dwarvish curses and Bombur's ability to eat an entire table of food. He missed Bofur's singing, Oin's gentle smile as he opened his bag of herbs and medications, and Gloin's scowls.

This last thought brought Bilbo back to the present. Gloin too was in Rivendell, with his son Gimli. Legolas also was there, an emissary of his father Thranduil. What news they had of Erabor and of the Woodland Realm they would not say, yet the hobbit was reassured by the presence of Gandalf. The wizard sat near to Bilbo, smoking his pipe, the tall point of his hat slightly askew. He too refused to talk about anything important, but Bilbo did not mind this much; all would be revealed the following day at a great Council.

From here Bilbo found his mind wandering again. It was with fondness now that he remembered Kili's kiss in the flickering light of the camp fire; the sorrow was somewhat muted by the passage of time. The hobbit remembered too Fili's ready smile, and how the teasing from the two brothers had been a sign of affection and acceptance. The pair had bonded the Company together, including all in their jests save (for the most part) one.

To the dwarves he had been Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror. He was the King under the Mountain, their exiled lord and rightful ruler of the kingdom of Erabor. To Bilbo he was simply Thorin, companion, lover and friend. There had never been another like him, and nor would there be.

With this thought Bilbo closed the Red Book and stood. He selected a quill from the collection on a small table and left the room in search of a place to write. Thorin's tale was over, his own drawing to an end, but the story of Frodo and the Ring was just beginning.