A.N. I'm at it again! Sadly I think that my other stories are on hiatus until I can get my mojo back and finish them. Unitl then, dear reader, let emotional one-shots suffice. Thank you so much for your time!

Few moments would ever rival this one, Bilbo knew, surrounded by pinpricks of light in an infinite darkness, the spring grass beneath his back holding him away from cool, hard soil. Laying here atop the swell of Bag End's roof, the only sound to be heard was the faintest strains of a far-off Elven song, Bilbo sighed in utter exaltation. For only a moment he was free of protest from his aching old bones and memories of things that stung like a swarm of bees and yet were honey- sweet with longing. Bilbo could lose himself in the tiny lights that supposedly contained the individual souls of all of his ancestors and loved ones. Thorin is up there somewhere, he mused. Fili and Kili, too. And Drogo, and Primula. Father and Mother. How I wish I knew which stars they rode on, I would say hello more personally.

He could have lain there for ages, if there were a night to last that long. The moon rose to her apex, hanging in the sky to watch over the watchers in the night as she had done since time immemorial, and Bilbo knew that he should try to sleep soon. But it evaded him. Bilbo lay atop the grassy roof of Bag End until the stars begun to fade away, and the indigo of midnight parted for golden streaks and scarlet edges. Bilbo rose, joints and muscles grumbling from disuse, slipping back into Bag End as the stars themselves had slipped away into the horizon. Settling into an armchair by the fire, sleep finally found Bilbo.

The next night found Bilbo laying on the same spot of grass, atop the Hobbit-Hole in which he had grown, staring at the same pinpricks of bright white, blue and occasionally red light framed in an expanse of ebony dark that hadn't appeared to change for centuries. He couldn't help but feel small in comparison.

"When have you not felt comparatively small, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo bolted to his feet as if electrified, not having heard that particular warm baritone in many a year. He whirled around, searching for the flinty blue eyes, the hair, though streaked with grey, dark as midnight. And there! Stretched leisurely, supported on one well-toned forearm, Thorin Oakenshield smiling as though he had not long-since been dead, buried, and grieved.

"Wha-! How? You-you've been-! It's just not-! HOW?"

Thorin chuckled, rising and gently placing his dinner-plate hands on Bilbo's shoulders, silencing his splutters and holding Bilbo's disbelieving gaze with his own, calm and assuring. For a moment they stood there silently, Bilbo trying desperately to drink in every minute wrinkle, each light freckle that spanned the bridge of this slightly crooked nose, and all of the steely flecks of silver that made his eyes shine and twinkle so brilliantly. In just the barest of seconds Bilbo cataloged the shades of white that mixed in with the raven-black of his beard and braids, knowing then that this was a bittersweet reality; no dream in the ether could have this much detail. Bilbo relaxed. Revelations were wonderfully grounding. He wriggled free of Thorin's palms to press himself tightly to the creamy muslin that covered his torso, one delicate ear rested against his chest, and beneath it echoed a comforting, well-known staccato called heartbeat.

Bilbo tightened his arms around Thorin's waist, the weight of heavy limbs over his shoulders and rough lips on the crown of his head resounding a joyous crescendo from the stars themselves.

"Ek bryn, Izril," Thorin spoke into his hair.{You are brilliant, my Jewel.}

"Bar ohr karaz, Khuhaj." Bilbo could only mutter darkly into Thorin's chest, how could the (apparently) ever-youthful King Under the Mountain see him as anything

but repulsive? { But I am old, my Warrior.}

"Mamarulmaen, Izril. Ohr amhuil." {Let yourself be loved, my Jewel. I did.}

Bilbo looked up at him incredulously, "And where did that get you, exactly?"

Thorin pressed another kiss to his forehead, chuckling, "The sunrise is coming."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Thorin looked to the horizon slightly worried, despite the earliness of the night, "It means that I'm going to fade."

"With the starlight?" So it had only been a dream, he had known.

"Yes."

"Can you come back to me tomorrow?"

Thorin looked down at Bilbo's wide, honey-colored eyes and smiled again, gently, "No. But you can come with me."

Beyond the stars? Could he really? Bilbo breathed deeply, uplifted by the thought of eternity beside his family and most beloved friends, forever young. There he could see his loved ones who had gone, and wait with them over tea for the ones that were yet to come. Bilbo had very little left for him in this world, all of his charges had grown and most had charges of their own. Bag End was sewn up rather neatly by Frodo years ago, and he felt he had more than overstayed his Elvish welcome. It would be best beyond the stars.

"I will."

Bushy black eyebrows receded into salted-pepper hair, "You'll come with me?"

Forever. Always. Completely. Unequivocally. "Yes."

Thorin stepped out of Bilbo's embrace, taking both of his hands. Slowly, youth crept back into Bilbo Baggins, his arms and legs tightened and tanned, hair curled about his head as it had when he was a mere sixty, framing his face in a golden halo backlit by moonlight. Lines etched into his face by the stresses of time receded, leaving only the memory of them. Invigorated and strong once again, Bilbo leapt up and captured Thorin's lips in a kiss, only separating when another long-forgotten, though achingly familiar pair cleared their throats.

Fili and Kili smiled broadly, and gestured up to the moon, hanging in her perfect moonlight position, "It's time!"

As they spoke the moonbeams solidified into a perfect crystal staircase leading beyond the stars. Eyes misty with tears Bilbo allowed himself to be lead up the first few steps, before breaking free of Thorin and sprinting the rest of the way. He stopped at the gigantic marble arches to wait for the Durinsons, but was enveloped in a cloud of warmth and comfort and memories of home and relatives, borne aloft past the arches and into a field of white.

Frodo surfaced from the pool, gasping.

Bilbo.

Pushing his Hobbit legs as hard as he could, he dashed through the halls and rooms of Rivendell, hardly daring to breath until he reached his uncle's room and stood beside his bed. There, in the finest silks, swaddled in white pillows and swan-down blankets, lay the legendary hero, Bilbo Baggins. Frodo reached out to touch the soft skin of his cheek, and found it cold beneath his fingertips. Bilbo Baggins, Burglar, Barrel-Rider, Ring-Bearer, Defeater of Dragons and Hero of Dale, had breathed his last.

Somewhere, in a distant hall, the first notes of The Song Of The Lonely Mountain played.