Winter

Warmth returned to the Shire. It was fleeting, and carried the briskness of autumn, but the hobbits took it as a sign—a good omen. They unburied their crops from the freezing clutches of ice and shared what food and comfort they could with each other as winter crept once more upon the land.

The season was quiet, and thankfully uneventful. No more wolves attacked. The black rot disappeared. Families lit their hearths and waited together for the weather to grow warm again.

Every once in a while, someone would glance up towards the hill, where the windows of Bag End had remained dark, its curtains drawn shut. They had remained that way for months, as silent as the time Bilbo Baggins had run off two summers ago.

But for most, it was a fleeting thought. Time passed as it ever did, winter thawed into spring, and the people of the Shire moved on from the tragedies that had occurred.

Spring

Bilbo did not.

Dust gathered on the study desk. The food in the pantry dwindled, the existence of its contents only lengthened by its owner's loss of appetite. The bedsheets remained in a constant state of disarray, rumpled by nightmares and long hours of lying awake.

Even as the sunlight streaming in through dusty curtains turned from chilly gray to a warmer yellow, the interior of Bag End remained cold and silent.

And just as it had been months before, the silence was shattered by several loud knocks to the front door.

At first, Bilbo did not even look up. He was sitting on the couch, hands tucked between his knees, staring at the firewood rack, which had been empty for weeks.

"Mister Bilbo? I know you're in there." A pause. "At least, I'm hopin' you are."

With stiff muscles, Bilbo moved. He withdrew his hands and buried his face in his palms. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to someone. A large part of him recoiled every time he pictured Hamfast's concern, or Lobelia's biting comments, or Hanna's blunt remarks. Keeping his distance was safe in a way he didn't fully understand.

Hamfast kept talking. "I know your injuries have healed by now. And I get the feeling somethin' else is botherin' you, though I haven't the slightest clue as to what that might be. But, well, I've been thinkin' on what you said earlier. We all made it through the winter because we stuck together. And now we're through. But it doesn't have to just be the hard times."

Silence dropped over the house, and for a moment Bilbo thought Hamfast had left. The ache that came with that thought scared him.

"I'm here for you, Mister Bilbo, if you'll be wanting company." A light, nervous chuckle followed. "Though I'd feel quite silly if I was just talkin' to this door with no one behind it. But I suppose there's nothin' to be done for it." Another pause, as though Hamfast was waiting for him to respond. "Tea is at four, if you'd like to come."

After that, Bilbo knew Hamfast had gone. He sat there for a while, breathing with far more effort than it should have taken and swimming through the tempest of thoughts in his mind.

Losing Thorin had left him completely alone. The long winter months had sunk him further into that mire, dragging up the old weight of grief and leaving him sick and exhausted. An invitation to spend time with another should have made him...well, perhaps happy was too tall an order at the moment, but it would have at least provided a break in the emptiness that had swallowed up his days.

Yet Bilbo couldn't help but wonder how on earth he was supposed to act like a normal hobbit. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken or smiled. On the rare occasion that the fog of numbness dissipated, tears would often threaten to rise. Sometimes he didn't have the strength to stop them.

The first time, Gandalf had been with him, and they had been traveling through the wilderness. The alertness and exertion required for their travels had kept him from sinking too deep into grief, and the wizard's company had helped him keep his mind off of it, for the most part.

Now? Bilbo had nothing to keep him afloat.

And he wasn't sure he wanted to be.

A strange, sharp noise made him wake with a start. Bilbo winced and pulled the covers close to his ears, wondering if a window had sprung open and was creaking in the wind, or if he was simply hearing things.

The noise faded and his shoulders sank as the tension left his body. It was daytime, certainly, but the exact time escaped him. The days had blurred together since the tree. But they had also stretched out immensely, and it seemed as though winter had taken half a year to finally pass.

Bilbo stretched out his arm, eyes running over the jagged scar on his forearm. The wolf had torn up his skin so badly it no longer resembled a bite mark—just a random pattern of marred flesh, still red but no longer painful. It was as though the chaos in his mind had been etched onto his skin.

He wondered, not for the first time, what would have happened if he had never woken up from that injury, if he had entered Thorin's world instead of the other way around. He would no longer have had to stand upon a threshold. There was a small amount of comfort in that thought, of having the pain of choice taken away.

But it wouldn't have been right. Thorin would never have wanted that, and Bilbo knew in his heart that he did not want to die yet. He still had a good amount of life to live, even if he didn't know how to live it.

The sharp noise sounded again, followed by a fluttering sound, and Bilbo grimaced. He'd grown used to the silence of his home, and after Hamfast had visited, he had buried himself in it. The quiet oblivion was painful, but it was a familiar pain, one that had taken root within.

It was this thought that finally had him throwing back the covers and padding out of the bedroom. He followed the strange sounds, which had begun to pick up like the speeding of a drumbeat, to his sitting room.

A bird (a thrush, he recognized distantly) was flying around the ceiling, settling briefly on his armchair before hopping to the windowsill, then making another panicked circle around the room.

Its jerky movements nearly made him recoil. To have something move so quickly after the gray, slow weeks before shocked him.

After a moment, Bilbo recovered and walked into the center of the room. The bird did not halt its movements—if anything, his presence caused its wings to flutter even faster, and it let out another high-pitched chirp. He reached up hesitantly, as though to calm it, but the thrush stayed well out of his reach.

Bilbo sighed and moved towards the front door. He unlocked it and pulled it open, staring pointedly at the thrush as though it was an unwelcome guest who hadn't quite taken the hint yet. Such tactics wouldn't have worked during his last home invasion, but perhaps this bird was more well-versed in its manners.

A quiet breeze drifted through the door, caressing his cheek, and Bilbo turned his head in shock.

It was all there, beyond his door—pale yellow sunlight, green grass, and fields already dotted with flowers.

Of course, he'd known for some time that spring had already arrived. But the smell of fresh grass and warm air made something in his chest unfurl a little. By just the tiniest fraction, it became easier to breathe.

Something shot past his face, making him start. He looked up and saw the thrush dart out into the air, settling on his fence for a moment before taking off once more.

Bilbo watched the bird as it fluttered away, becoming a brown blur, then just a smudge against the blue sky. Something like a smile edged onto his face, and he turned and went back inside.

It was nearly a week later that Bilbo ventured outside again. He dressed himself in clean clothes and washed his face. He stepped outside, took a deep breath, and realized the feeling he'd experienced a week before had not been an illusion after all.

Then he set off down the path towards Hamfast's house.

When the bright yellow door swung open, it was a while before any greetings were exchanged. Hamfast's expression shifted from friendly to shocked to nervous, and when he finally smiled, it was slightly frozen on his face.

Bilbo had looked in the mirror before he'd left the house, and had no trouble guessing the reason for his gardner's reactions. He just wasn't sure if it was the dark circles under his eyes or the weight he'd lost or the pallor of his skin that surprised Hamfast the most.

Whatever he'd been about to say caught in his throat, and Bilbo half-considered turning away from the door. It was hardly proper for him to act on an invitation a week later, after all. He felt exposed, standing in the middle of someone else's yard with no armor and no weapon and no idea how to navigate the situation.

"Mister Bilbo." Hamfast's voice was laden with forced cheer. "Good...Good to see you. Why don't you come on in?"

He only remembered at the last second to speak. "Thank you." His voice came out hoarse with disuse. As he stepped inside and Hamfast closed the door behind him, he felt prickles of discomfort crawl across his skin.

"So…" Hamfast flapped his arms against his sides, shuffling around as though he wasn't sure where to stand. "How, uh, how have you been?"

The question barreled towards him like an angry troll, and there was barely time to duck away from it. Bilbo struggled for something to say, something that would at least qualify as an answer, and finally settled on, "Well, my arm's healed. Some scarring, though, but it's...well. Still works and everything."

"Good, good. That's good." Hamfast nodded with exaggerated effort.

"A-And what about you?" Bilbo asked, hoping to take the focus off of himself. "Your garden?"

"Oh." At this, Hamfast seemed to brighten, some of the tension falling from his shoulders. "Just planted the first seeds there, actually. Had to borrow some fresh soil from Will, if you can believe it." He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Now, there's somethin' I never thought I'd have to do. Borrowin' dirt. Though I suppose it's been a strange few months."

"Indeed it has." Bilbo let out a shaky sigh as another wave of grief passed over him.

"Well, come on," Hamfast motioned for him to follow as he walked farther into the house. "I hope you don't mind, we've already got guests. Your cousin Drogo and his family."

"I don't mind at all," he said, then added, "The more the merrier," because it seemed like the right thing to say.

Bell, Drogo, and his wife Primula were gathered around the dining room table. Sitting on Primula's lap was a baby. They all looked up and greeted him when he entered, and Bilbo returned the gesture, already feeling rather exhausted and out of sorts.

"Have you met little Frodo, yet?" Primula asked, shifting her hold on the baby.

"He is just the sweetest thing," Bell said with a grin.

"Oh." Bilbo stepped forward to get a better look and his heart gave a nasty wrench as he took in the tuft of dark hair on the baby's forehead and the bright blue eyes looking inquisitively at each of their faces.

It wasn't the first time this had happened. It wasn't even the fiftieth time that some mundane object or thought had sent his thoughts hurtling back to his dwarf—his smiles, his stories, his memory. He could feel it welling up inside, replacing the air in his lungs and pressing against the back of his throat.

"Congratulations," someone said, and he belatedly realized it had been him.

"Thank you." Primula's smile was tinged with concern, and he realized his lapse hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Would you like some tea, Bilbo?" Bell asked, then stood up and said, "I'll go make some more," without waiting for him to respond.

With no small amount of effort, Bilbo made room for himself to breathe and stood up straight. "I wanted to thank the both of you," he said, nodding at Drogo and Hamfast. "For speaking up for me back at the Green Dragon. I know that was months ago, but, well…"

"Think nothing of it," Drogo shrugged. "I hear something I agree with, I say so."

"You said what we all needed to hear." Hamfast nodded, then smiled at Bilbo. "We all ought to stick together, in good times and bad."

"I'll drink to that," Drogo said, raising his teacup and making everyone laugh.

For the first time since...he couldn't remember, really, Bilbo felt a genuine smile lift the corners of his lips. He took a seat next to Hamfast and watched baby Frodo try to grasp a handful of his mother's hair.

Pain filled his chest again, but it was a different kind this time, like the discomfort that comes from working out a cramped muscle. When he managed to breathe out, another fraction of tension left his body.

Another dizzying feeling came on the heels of that sensation. It was a sudden shift in the air, as though the world had righted itself beneath his feet. He hadn't quite regained his footing yet, and the pain hadn't disappeared completely. Bilbo knew it wouldn't for a long time.

But perhaps, in time, his world would be able to balance itself out once more.

A bittersweet ending to this fic…hopefully not as depressing as the last chapter. (I'm sorry. If you've read my other fics you'll know I tend to write sad endings.) If you feel like listening to music after this, Oblivion by Bastille really fits for this fic and it's a nice song to cry to.

I should also mention that I'm fortunate to have never lost someone really close to me, so my description of Bilbo's grief is just from observation and reading. If anything here appears inaccurate, please let me know.

Anyways...this concludes Winter Tree! I think this is the fastest I've ever finished a fic, so I'm super proud of that. Thanks so much to everyone who supported and enjoyed this fic, and huge thanks to Anno1701 for just being a huge MVP and giving me a lot of positive feedback. It means the world to me.

If you liked this story, feel free to check out some of my other Bagginshield fics. I hope you'll join me on my other adventures!