I seem to be infatuated with time travel stories. Not that I think I'm alone in that regard. I think I'll put the disclaimer for the entire story here, and not repeat myself several times. The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, and any other books I might draw upon, are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. The movies belong to Peter Jackson. I'll be taken bits and pieces of both and making changes, of course.

Rating might go up to M. Not sure on that yet.

This is just a prologue. The rest of the chapters will be longer.

Bilbo Baggins allowed his head to fall to rest on the shoulder of his nephew. The horse pulled cart plodded along, and every bump in the road jostled weary bones and decades old aches.

It had been many a quiet years since he had left behind the rolling green hills of the Shire for the Last Homely House East of the Sea. The valley of Imladris and the city of the Elves were just as magnificent as Bilbo remembered, though he had not been there in sixty years. He happily spent his years there compiling a three volume history of the Elder Days, study the Elvish language Sindarin, and composing two poems; All that is Gold Does not Glitter was for Aragorn, and the second poem was about Eärendil, Lord Elrond's father.

Age had caught up with him quickly in Rivendell, ever since he had given up his ring. His once light brown hair lost all color, and he lost quite a bit of hair too. Of course, with old age came white hair and wrinkled and sagging skin. Bilbo was currently the longest lived Hobbit, at one hundred and thirty-one, in the history of Hobbits, so far as they knew anyway. Being the peaceful creatures they were, full of love for good food, company, and the warmth of home, they did not care much for their history, and as such could not even tell where they came from or who their creator was.

Bilbo had theories of course. He had done plenty of research in Rivendell's library, and while he learned that Eru had the final say regarding the creation of all four races (those nasty Orcs not included), he was only directly responsible for Elves and Men. The Dwarves called the Vala Aulë their creator, though he was known by Mahal in their language.

But Bilbo could only offer an educated guess as to which of the Valar had pushed for the creation of Hobbits. He suspected the Vala Yavanna was behind the decision to make the race of Hobbits. Queen of the Earth and Giver of Fruits she was also called, but it was clear Yavanna loved growing things and the earth, both of which Hobbits enjoyed as well, seeing as how they picked the Shire to settle and grew all their own food.

Not to mention she was the wife of Aulë and Hobbits and Dwarf were of a similar stature. Although Hobbit feet were much sturdier.

But that period did not last long. Ever since he had given up his ring to Frodo, he had felt old and thin inside, so it was only a matter of time before he came to look as he felt. By the end of his stay in Rivendell, Bilbo was spending more time in bed than out of it.

"Tell me again lad . . . where are we going?"

"To the harbor, Bilbo," was Frodo's soft answer. "The Elves have accorded you a special honor; a place on the last ship to leave Middle Earth."

Yes, he remembered that now. He was allowed journey to the Undying Lands because he had been a Ring-Bearer. "Frodo . . . any chance of seeing that old ring again? Hmm? The one I gave to you?"

"I'm sorry, uncle . . . I'm afraid I lost it."

Bilbo sagged against his nephew. "Oh . . . pity." The ring reminded him of his adventure. He had used it once, before his extravagant birthday party, to evade Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. She had been so mad when Bilbo came back from his adventure alive for she couldn't get her grubby hands on Bag End. Biblo still had to demand that she turn out her pockets. He would never understand that woman's fascination with his silver spoons. "Should like to have held it one last time."

Indeed, his unexpected journey to aid thirteen Dwarves in the taking back of their homeland from the dragon Smaug would be a period of his life that Bilbo would never forget. Not just because of all the excitement and what he had done; fighting Orcs, stealing from dragons, and escaping Elvish prisons. No. Bilbo would always think back on that year, fondness dulling the ever present grief, and count himself lucky for the friends he had made and the lessons that he learned.

Bilbo must have fallen asleep, for next he knew Frodo was calling his name, wakening him with a light shake to the shoulder. He was helped down from the carriage and made a beeline for Gandalf.

"Good morning, old friend. And I'll have none of your riddles. I am much too old for them."

The white wizard smiled amusedly down at him. "Good morning, indeed, Bilbo Baggins."

The ancient Hobbit hugged the wizard's legs, for he had shrunken in his old age, pleased that he would be taking this final adventure with a familiar face, and then turned to face the ship.

It was nothing like the barge Bard had sailed, yet Bilbo found himself thinking about his terrifying escape from Mirkwood in barrels of all things, with him desperately clinging to the outside of one like a drowned kitten.

Everything seemed to draw his thoughts back to his greatest adventure. He couldn't look at Thorin's map without tears clouding his vision. Bilbo wasn't even sure why he hung it, considering all that one reminded him of was tragic end of Durin's line.

Memories bombarded him. Of Thorin, impaled and bleeding on the ground, and of his nephews, both slain by the white orc.

All three of them dead or dying by the time he reached them, blood spilling forth and sinking into the rock crevices. Fíli, quieter and more serious than his brother, but he enjoyed a good laugh. The blond Dwarf was always withdrawing a hidden knife and then he and his brother would make a game of tossing it back and forth over Biblo's head. Kíli, who was carefree and somewhat reckless, but loyal to a fault. Simply talking with him was enough to make even the staunchest of Elves smile.

But Bilbo had never seen a pair of closer siblings. They had been brimming with excitement when he first met them on his doorstep, overjoyed to be included on the quest despite their young age. The duo had worked hard to prove their worth. Both were wildly protective of each other and of their uncle, who returned the sentiments tenfold.

Thorin Oakenshield was someone that Bilbo greatly admired. The exiled king had struggled many long years for his people, organizing the seemingly impossible quest in hopes of getting their home back despite the dangers he knew awaited. Thorin was many things. He wasn't one for words, though, so Biblo had gotten rather good at reading into his actions, facial expressions, and body and a little vain at times, but the dwarf was loyal to a fault. Brave, intelligent, and proud. They were all words that could be used to describe the King Under the Mountain

Only, Thorin had never gotten that chance. He, like his sister-sons, had been slain in battle. Bilbo believed they had taken to calling it the Battle of Five Armies. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield, small in numbers though they were, most certainly were their own army.

Thorin's deep baritone voice rumbled in the recesses of his mind. "Farewell, Master Burglar; go back to your books, your armchair, your fireplace. Plant your trees, watch them grow. If more of us valued home above gold, it would be a merrier world."

His parting words were the driving decision behind Bilbo returning home to his home in Bag End and continuing on with life, eventually adopting young Frodo as his heir when his parents drowned.

Bilbo did not know what happened to Erebor after that. He had stayed long enough for the funeral and then set off for the Shire with his two chests of gold and silver. He imagined, though, the title of king had gone to Thorin's cousin Dáin.

It truly was unfair that the dwarves struggled all those years after Erebor fell to dragon fire only to die mere days after reclaiming without the opportunity to rebuild it and see the kingdom in all its splendor or time to ever call it home. It was a cruel fate that had befallen Durin's line. And most of the company really. He heard from Gimli, who Glóin must have been very proud of despite his friendship with Legolas, Balin, Ori, and Óin had perished in Moria.

Bilbo was brought out of his musings by Elrond's arm around his shoulders, directing him up the plank to board the ship. "I think . . . I'm quite ready for another adventure."

This time he knew what awaited him. Bilbo only wished that his first adventure had turned out better. He would have gladly given his life to save Thorin, Fíli, or Kíli. Or any of his Dwarves, really. He had been prepared to do so the first time he had confronted Azog. If only he hadn't been knocked out during the battle. Or maybe he had had found them sooner.

"Hobbits are such interesting creatures. Perhaps the most surprising of all my children. Yavanna did well with you."

Bilbo tensed when an unknown voice spoke directly in his mind, absentmindedly taking note that it was indeed Yavanna who was his race's creator. His fingers jumped to his waist, instinctively searching for Sting's hilt, only to come up empty since he had gifted the blade to Frodo.

"Tell me, Bilbo Baggins," the voice continued, and Bilbo felt a chill race down his spine. He knew the Lady Galadriel was capable of speaking in one's mind, but the voice he was hearing was male. Every cadence spoken rang deep in his bones with age and power. The strength and authority behind them was enough to clear the fog of old age from his mind. "would you truly die to save the life of another?"

There was no hesitation from him. Bilbo was just a Hobbit. A race of beings so unimportant that most forgot they existed. In fact, Hobbits had been around for generations before they were discovered by Men. And after they had relocated over the Misty Mountains to the land they called the Shire, well, they never left. Hobbits were all but forgotten by the world of the Big Folk.

If not for Gandalf strolling in and convincing a Took and the occasional Brandybuck to accompany him beyond the Shire, Bilbo wagered that Hobbits would have been forgotten. It was no wonder he had been officially named a Disturber of the Peace.

They lead peaceful, simple lives, comfortable in their cozy smials, partaking in seven meals a day and relaxing to a pipe of Old Toby, uninvolved with and removed from the troubles of the rest of the world.

The Dwarves were different. They were stronger, braver. His companions had been warriors. Heroes. He didn't even learn how to fight on that journey, so it was a miracle that he had survived that battle for Erebor. Not once had any member of Thorin's Company considered turning back and running home, which was all Bilbo could think about until Goblin Town and the skirmish with Azog the Defiler afterwards.

How could he even begin to compare? His Dwarves were legends. They should have been celebrated for their accomplishment, not toasted to in remembrance.

"Then you shall have your chance, Bilbo Baggins."

Darkness took him, and Bilbo Baggins knew no more.