Chapter Text
It took them a few songs, but the Dwarves eventually relaxed enough to enjoy the Hall of Fire. The sight of it, some of Bilbo’s dearest friends sharing music with others of Bilbo’s dearest friends, warmed him even better than the fire did, though he would have given much to see Thorin and Balin amongst the crowd as well. He suspected that Thorin’s presence would somewhat put a damper on the others’ mood, though, which was unfortunate to think about. For so long, Bilbo had not been disposed to think ill of his fallen friend, but now that he was not-so-fallen, he had to face the reality of who Thorin really was, instead of who he’d remembered him to be, and that reality was that Thorin could be very unpleasant when he was not disposed to please.
“You seem gloomy,” remarked Fili, sitting down in the seat next to Bilbo. “I thought you liked this sort of thing.”
“I choose to believe that you’re talking about the singing, and not about my so-called Elf-madness.”
Fili grinned, though half his attention was on his brother, who was trying to make his audience laugh with a punny tale. “Don’t worry, I’m not one to judge. Will you sing something tonight?”
Lindir had been kind enough to give Bilbo a notebook, in which he had intended to take notes about the adventure; so far, all he had written down were verses which he half-remembered, and a few which were clearer in his mind and which he didn’t want to lose. If he died, at least, there would be a trace of his work left. That being said, looking down at his tiny handwriting, he was reluctant to present his poems. It felt like cheating, somehow, to pretend that he’d come up with his work on the spot, that he hadn’t worked hard on them in his first life.
“Not tonight,” he told Fili. “What about you? Are you going to delight us with the tale of how you rescued your cousin from the ghost of the blue mountains, except it was really Kili wearing a sheet with two holes for the eyes?”
“No, but I might tell the tale of how I sent an assassin after whoever told you that story,” Fili replied cheerfully. “Let me guess. Was it Gloin?”
It was indeed, though Gloin may be confused at the accusation, since Bilbo would not hear that story for about fifteen years. Bilbo mimed zipping his mouth shut and, eager to end the conversation, claimed that his throat was dry and that he needed some tea.
He wandered out of the hall, tempted to actually go fetch himself a hot beverage, when he caught sight of a lonely figure on the porch, standing ramrod straight at the edge and looking out into the distance.
“Good night,” Bilbo said, joining him at the guard rail. Erestor inclined his head.
“Master Baggins, good night. I hope you are enjoying the Hall of Fire?”
“Very much, but I needed to get some fresh air. I do love the music.”
“I tend to prefer poetry,” Erestor said. “But a little music is fine.”
They stood side by side for some time in silence. Erestor, Bilbo knew, enjoyed his silence. He was very thoughtful; Glorfindel had often teased his statue-like manners.
Speaking of which. “I think Glorfindel is not at home?”
“He is with the Rangers this night, as he has been since you came. He and the other son of Elrond are chasing the Orcs which were after you.”
“I thought so.” Though he had expected it, for he would have seen Glorfindel if he had been there, it still stung to have missed him. “I so wanted to see him. To meet him, I mean. My mother was fond of him.”
Erestor gave him a sharp glance. “Belladonna Took,” he said. Bilbo perked up. “I might have known. It has long been my thought that there is one family of Hobbits who dares to venture out of the Shire. Of course, you are related to them.”
This may have been true once, but Bilbo had seen a non-Took Baggins, a Brandybuck and a Gamgee in Rivendell, and all three of them had gone farther than Bilbo or Belladonna ever had. “I am a Baggins, technically,” he told Erestor. “But yes, I take your point.”
“I was informed by Gandalf that she had passed. Glorfindel was sorry for it, and so was I, though I knew her less than he did.”
“Thank you. I wanted to write, for I knew she had friends here, but I did not know how, or I did not dare.”
“The news came anyway.” Erestor graced him with a rare smile. “For the record, Master Baggins, either Elrond or I open the mail in Rivendell, and neither of us would resent getting your letters.”
“You’re very kind. And not very careful, I might add. You do not know what we Hobbits consider news, and I am long-winded even by our standards.”
“It would be an entertaining distraction from harvest yields and the like.”
“Bilbo!” cried Elrohir, emerging from the Hall of Fire and looking about for him, holding Estel by the hand. At the sight of Erestor, he straightened up and gave a polite bow. In a more formal tone, he said, “Master Baggins, I tire of the performances. We, Estel and I, had the idea of giving you a tour of the house.”
“Isn’t it past Estel’s bedtime?” Erestor cut in. As if on cue, Estel yawned, though he valiantly attempted to hide it. “If you wish, I can take him to his bedroom, so that you can entertain our guest.”
Estel said, “I am not tired yet.” The sentiment was somewhat ruined by another yawn, and the fact that he could barely keep his eyes open.
“That would be lovely,” said Elrohir, lifting Estel by the armpits as if he weighed nothing and handing him to Erestor, who received him with a gracious, albeit slightly forced, smile. “Come, Master Baggins,” Elrohir went on, ushering Bilbo away speedily. He whispered, “I apologise for rushing you, but I think that your dwarven prince is planning on propositioning Lindir in the next few minutes, and I would rather be out of range when he discovers that the idea came from me.”
Bilbo laughed. “Well, Elrohir. Where is your courage?”
“Present me with an orc army, and I will fight to my last drop of blood,” Elrohir declared. “But Lindir gets shrill when he is angry and my father has very sharp ears. Let us move, quickly.”
They ended the visit with one of Bilbo’s favourite parts of the house. Of course, Bilbo knew the layout already, but it was amusing to see Elrohir take his role as a guide so seriously.
“And finally, this is the Hall of History,” Elrohir announced, spreading his arms grandly as they climbed the stairs and crossed the corridor into the hall.
The hall was on the first floor of a circular building, the centre of which was roofless and filled with vegetation. Most prominently, a pale tree climbed up towards the sky, its leaves glowing a soft silver under the beams of the moon. Directly in front of them was a staircase which descended into that garden, its posts attached on both sides to a balustrade which bordered the edge of the floor, some sort of blue-coloured ivy creeping over the rail. The wall opposite that balustrade had no windows, but there were doors on both sides of the entrance which suggested that there were rooms surrounding this hall.
“Throughout the century, nay, the millenia, my father has collected some artefacts of more or less importance, and some of them we are exposing here, for anyone who is willing to see,” recited Elrohir. He gestured at the doors on either side of them. “These lead to the library, in which he keeps books and manuscripts or engravings in special conditions to preserve them. I don’t have the keys, unfortunately, but if you have the chance, I recommend taking a look later. It is also where my father’s private collection is, where he hides what he pilfered from his childhood home.”
“Pilfered!” exclaimed Bilbo. “I am shocked and appalled. What would your father say to hear you blacken his name thus?”
“I believe he would tell Erestor to stop telling us that he pilfered his childhood home,” mused Elrohir. “Come on.”
Elrohir started them on the path, remarking on some of the memorabilia they passed. “If you wish, I can have one of our loremasters give you a more detailed visit,” he said when he noticed the stars in Bilbo’s eyes. “I must admit, my craft lay in this.” He directed Bilbo to the tapestry on the far side of the room, where a large tapestry was displayed on the wall.
Bilbo was familiar with that piece, but he was glad when he still felt the awe that came when he contemplated something especially old, though he knew that parts of it were recent additions.
“This is my family tree. Arwen and I started it when we were young,” Elrohir said, pointing at his father’s name, then his mother’s, and at his and his siblings below; then, he indicated the gilded threads which linked them to another branch of the tree. “Estel was not the first child my father fostered, though it is said he may be the last. The first was Valandil.” He smiled wistfully as his eyes found the name. “He was an old man when my brother and I were born, but he held us and pretended to steal our noses. He is the only older brother I’ve had. He taught me all I know about being one myself.”
“You were lucky to have so many siblings,” Bilbo said, scarcely thinking about his words. His cheeks warmed when Elrohir looked back at him with an arched eyebrow. “That is, I’m an only child. I can’t imagine what it’s like, to have so many.” To lose so many. Maybe lucky wasn’t the right word.
But Elrohir gave him a small smile. “So I was,” he agreed. “Very lucky. And one day, I will add Estel’s name to the tapestry.”
His real name, presumably. “You know, if you ever want to take on another project, we in the Shire have enormous family trees.”
“I will think about it,” laughed Elrohir. He lifted his head suddenly, his ears twitching. “Ah, I think my father’s business with your friends is done for the night. What is that about, by the way?”
“Gandalf asked me to help Master Oakenshield with his research. We are attempting to decipher a map that his father left him. It’s very academic for me, of course, I’m only doing this for scholarly purposes.”
“Of course.” Elrohir did not seem to buy his fib, which, given the lack of effort Bilbo had put into selling it, wasn’t surprising. Then again, the Elf did not seem overly interested in the subject. “Shall we go back? I wish to bid my father a good night, and warn him that Lindir may be having a fit.”
“Go ahead,” said Bilbo. “I’ll find my own way back. I want to look at this a little more.”
Elrohir inclined his head and walked away, letting Bilbo circle back to the entrance at his own pace. But instead of getting out, he descended the dozen steps into the round garden. At the foot of the stairs was a path which headed to the centre, until it met the tree, where it divided in two and met on the other side to form a circle. Bilbo followed the path there, and sat against the tree, looking up through the hole in the ceiling. Through the branches, he could just make out the moon, whose beam gave his surroundings an eerie glow. And, of course, he saw Gil-Estel, and whispered his usual greeting.
“There you are.”
Bilbo almost had a heart attack; luckily, Hobbits had strong constitutions. Above him was Thorin, leaning against the balustrade. Bilbo must have been more tired than he’d thought, because he had the inane thought that looking down on people suited Thorin perfectly. It gave him a regal air. Very fetching.
Bilbo blinked up at him. “I—Sorry, I had no idea you’d be looking for me.”
Thorin looked disgruntled, though he couldn’t very much deny that he had, in fact, been looking for him. “I am returning from the meeting. Gandalf tried to convince me to show my grandfather’s map to the Elf.”
“Master Elrond,” corrected Bilbo.
“It seems that he has now changed tactics, and instead of appealing to my reason, he now wants me to double-cross the Elf.” At Bilbo’s grave look, he amended, “Master Elrond.”
“Fancy that. Gandalf? I wonder that he thought of that.”
Thorin did not seem very impressed with him. “He didn’t. You did, didn’t you?”
“How do you figure?”
“It seems like something you would have cooked up.”
“Is that what you think of me? That I’m a schemer?”
“I don’t know what to think of you, Master Baggins. What I’ve observed is that you have been one step ahead of us all throughout this venture.”
“Only one step?” drawled Bilbo. “Dear me.”
“You have your reasons for being here, which you will not share.”
“Is it not enough that you asked me and I said yes?”
“I asked a lot of folks, and few of them ever said yes. In fact, you have met them all.”
“I’m very sorry for it, but it is not my fault. Nor is it Master Elrond’s.”
“I can’t trust an Elf,” Thorin gritted out.
Bilbo opened his mouth to say he didn’t have to trust him, only to work with him, but what came out was, “Why not?” He rolled his eyes. “No, no, I know. History, precedence, betrayal, all of that. But Master Elrond isn’t like that. He might even help us. Has it occurred to you that he might have some advice regarding dragon slaying?”
“Why would it?”
“Because his father slew Ancalagon, the largest dragon that ever existed?” Bilbo offered. Honestly, why did they teach in dwarven schools?
Undeterred, Thorin said, “It seems that it is his father that we ought to speak to, then.”
Bilbo chuckled. “Well. We can definitely try, but I should warn you, I’ve been talking to him every night for quite a few years now, and so far, he hasn’t replied once.”
“Pardon?”
Bilbo pointed up towards Gil-Estel. “Eärendil. The evening star? That’s Elrond’s father.”
Thorin rolled his eyes and stalked away, muttering “Elf nonsense” under his breath.
“What?” asked Bilbo, getting up at last to follow him. “It’s true!”
The afternoon before the Midsummer moon, Elrond found him on the porch, contemplating the view. “You don’t see many Hobbits so far out of the Shire,” he remarked.
“Thank goodness,” Bilbo replied easily. “I like being the exception. Makes me feel special.”
Elrond’s lips twitched. “In fact, I haven’t seen one in Rivendell since Gandalf brought your mother here. Or, I should say, since she demanded he bring her.”
Bilbo grinned. “I do not think she had to insist very much. Gandalf likes his Hobbits.”
“That he does.” He regarded Bilbo strangely, though not unkindly. “You love this house.”
Bilbo smiled up at him. “I do.”
“You love it in a way I’ve rarely seen in people who have only been here once.”
Well. “I love it as if I could stay here forever,” said Bilbo. He could not stand to lie to Elrond, he realised with some surprise. He could lie to Gandalf, and didn’t really mind it, even though Gandalf was his oldest friend. But there was something distasteful about lying to Elrond. Perhaps it was because he had welcomed him as a matter of course, or because they had both lost a lot, and yet Elrond was still so kind, and Bilbo aspired to be like him.
“You are welcome to do so, if that is your wish,” Elrond told him.
Bilbo swallowed thickly. “I may take you up on that, one day. But I have…” He sighed deeply. “Things to accomplish before I can do so.” Besides, if he succeeded, it was possible that he may want to stay in Erebor. It was equally possible that he would die, or that he would live, but Elrond would board the ship to Valinor eighty years too soon.
And Bilbo might go with him. There were many things to consider, and he didn’t like to do it yet.
Elrond put a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder, chasing these thoughts away. “Do not despair, Master Baggins. I see darkness on your path, but I see light also.”
Bilbo took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. “Thank you. It’s very generous of you to have invited me, when you have no reason to want me around.”
Elrond’s eyes pierced him gently. “A Hobbit who travels with thirteen Dwarves and Mithrandir as their contracted burglar, who speaks Sindarin and writes songs about our legends, who is so quick to befriend my friends and sons? I think I have reasons to want you around.”
“Who doesn’t love an enigma?” Bilbo joked. “Admit it, you want someone to babysit Estel while you take some time off.”
“Are you offering?”
“Certainly! I could provide some references, but I left my address book at home.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
They fell quiet; Bilbo struggled with his next words. “May I ask you something?”
“You do not require my permission.”
Elves. “Would you mind telling me about the Valar Irmo and Estë?”
If Elrond was surprised, it only manifested in a raised eyebrow. “I would not mind,” he said. “Irmo, or Lorien, which is the name under which he is commonly known, is the Master of dreams and illusions.”
Bilbo’s spirits sank. Was it a dream after all? Was he really in Valinor, stuck in a vision?
“Estë the Gentle, his wife, is the Mistress of healing and rest.”
He blinked up at Elrond. “Healing?” he echoed. That would explain it. It was the whole point of going to Valinor in the first place. To heal.
Was this what this was? Why he’d been sent back? To heal?
“Their dwelling is a place in Aman where the hurt is sent,” explained Elrond. “It is where I shall find my wife Celebrian when the time comes to journey West.”
That was probably the place where he would need to stay when Celebrian found out that he’d let two out of his three children remain in Middle-Earth forever, Bilbo thought. As far as he knew, Arwen would not announce her choice for some years, but he wasn’t sure if Elrond knew about Elladan, even with his prescience. That promised to be an awkward conversation. He did not envy either of them.
“Thank you for telling me,” said Bilbo.
“Knowledge is to be shared, not hoarded. If you have more questions, never hesitate to ask.” He watched Bilbo for a moment. “Will you come to the reading of the map tonight?”
Bilbo shook his head. “I don’t think so. After all, you do need a babysitter.”
Bilbo had not spent that much time with children other than Frodo, except to tell them stories so that their parents could shake their heads at him. He had assumed that his nephew’s talent to bat his eyes and pout his lips when making a request was specific to him, but he was coming to realise that it may just be something all children did.
“Please, please, Master Baggins, tell me another story,” insisted Estel.
Bilbo wondered if it was something he had subjected his own mother to. He didn’t think so; Belladonna would never have withheld stories long enough for him to beg.
“Alright, alright,” he relented, putting on a big show of sighing, as if he were granting a great favour. “Fine, you win, I will tell you one more. But after that, you’ll have to go to sleep, or I’ll get a scolding from Master Elrond.”
“Master Elrond doesn’t scold,” said Estel, settling into his bed and pulling the covers up to his nose.
“Perhaps you’ve never done something to earn a scolding,” said Bilbo. “Let us not begin now, yes? So, a story. A story, let us see.”
Out of nowhere, he felt something like a prickle in the back of his mind. He rubbed at his neck, but the sensation didn’t stop. Strange. Frowning, he met the curious gaze of the child who waited for him to begin his story. He softened as he began.
“In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit,” he said.
Bilbo had noticed that Estel’s preferred mode of storytelling was a more interactive sort than what Frodo preferred. “Was his name Bilbo Baggins?”
“No,” scoffed Bilbo. “Though he was a Baggins, his name was Frodo. He lost his parents at a young age, and so, he went to live with his uncle, who had a reputation for being a little mad.” He gave Estel a pointed look, and the child laughed.
“Was his name Bilbo?”
“Yes, very good. Now, our story begins when Frodo’s uncle decided to leave their home forever.”
“Why?"
“Because…” Bilbo looked down at his hands. “Because it was time. He was very old, and he wanted to retire.” Because he was beginning to feel ill-at-ease in his own skin, and he could not figure out what was wrong, and he thought that he might figure it out by doing the very thing which had given his life meaning: going East. Bilbo shook his head. “But that’s Bilbo’s story, and we’re talking about Frodo, who is altogether a much more interesting Hobbit, with a better story. His uncle had left him master of their house, but it was not the only thing he had left him. He also gave him a magic ring he’d found while travelling. One day…”
And he went on, and on, with Estel interjecting now and then to ask questions. Bilbo took care, of course, to change key details, most of them pertaining to Aragorn himself and his part in the story. There seemed little sense in burdening the child with the weight of knowing his own future; he would be burdened by his present soon enough.
But he told him of the Ring, and where it had come from, and where it had been found, and what needed to be done with it. He felt the familiar twinge of guilt as he spoke, since he was all but entrusting a child with the responsibilities of knowing.
If Bilbo failed, someone would know, even if that someone was a child; Estel would grow into Aragorn and remember these stories and do the right thing. If Bilbo didn’t fail, telling this story still would not be in vain; the world ought to know about Frodo, but if it couldn’t, at least one person would.
“And then what happened?” asked Estel.
Bilbo peered at him. He had come to the end of the story; the Ring was destroyed, a nameless king was crowned in Gondor, and the world was saved. Frodo lived. Frodo went home. He didn’t know how to tell this next part. How did one tell a child that the story he had followed eagerly did not end happily? He had never been good at that part. Frodo had cried the first time Bilbo had confessed that the King under the mountain had died in the last battle, and had begged Bilbo for days to take it back. Change the ending.
If only it were that easy.
“Frodo lived in the Shire for a little while,” Bilbo said, losing his storytelling voice to adopt a more conversational tone. “But then, he was invited to go to the Undying Lands with his uncle. They sailed West together to recover and heal.”
Estel sat up. “You went to the land of the Gods?” he cried.
Bilbo almost told him that it was just a story. But something in the boy’s grey eyes stopped him. He had the vivid memory of being plunged into his mother’s fantasy lands, of facing the monsters and exploring the landscapes she fabricated for him with her words, and the disappointment he felt when he realised that they had not left the patch of woods they were playing in, and that his sword was not the golden blade enchanted to always find its target, as she had told him. But the flower crowns she weaved had been real, and her excited eyes had been real, and the hand that held his had been real. He could not deny them.
He smiled at Estel, and said, “I did. But I don’t remember it, sadly, though I imagine that it was very beautiful, with all sorts of friendly people.”
“Why did you come back?” asked Estel. “Did Frodo come back too? Why is he not with you? Did he stay there? Is he back in the Shire with Sam?”
Bilbo dropped his eyes. “He stayed there. I was sent back alone.”
“Why?”
Bilbo had no idea. Something was niggling at him, as if it were searching his memory for an explanation and not coming up with one.
Odd. He hadn’t felt that way since Arwen had tried to teach him guided meditation, years ago, because, as she had informed him, “If you don’t stop thinking so loudly, there will be great strife in the house of Elrond.”
“Why?” repeated Estel, drawing Bilbo back to their conversation.
“Because it wasn’t fair,” said Bilbo. “It shouldn’t have been Frodo, taking the Ring to Mordor and sacrificing his happiness. He only did it because I gave it to him. So I’m having a do over, and this time, I’ll have to destroy the Ring myself.”
Estel made a thoughtful sound, playing with the hems of his sleeves idly. “I guess that makes sense,” he allowed.
Bilbo was relieved that he was still in that age where one did not question every single aspect of a miracle, but accepted it for what it was and took the next logical leap with ease.
Though, perhaps it was just Aragorn’s character to do so. He had never seemed particularly fazed by the strange ways of the world.
“So, you’re going to Mordor then?” asked Estel.
“If I can. I do have to slay a dragon and survive a battle first.” And a bunch of other things along the way.
“Can I go with you?”
“I’m not sure Elrond would appreciate me taking his child to Mordor,” Bilbo replied, recalling the worry that had lined his friend’s forehead when Pippin had been embarked into the Fellowship. The goal here was not to give Elrond a heart attack.
“He has been training me,” Estel assured him; sitting up. “Mother says I have to be prepared, and that I will grow to be the protector of Middle-Earth.”
“Well, if I don’t succeed in my mission, I at least have the comfort of knowing that Middle-Earth is in safe hands.” This seemed to mollify Estel enough to lie back on his bed. “Keep training and growing, and then we’ll see.”
“I’m already taller than you,” he remarked.
Bilbo pressed his lips together. “Impertinent boy.” Estel grinned. “This is the thanks I get for telling you a story no one else in the world knows. Next time, I will tell you the story of Elfin and the seven squirrels, that will put you right to sleep.”
“I already know that one.”
Bilbo smiled and patted Estel on the head. “Sleep well, my dear.”
He waited until Estel’s breathing evened to leave him, taking the lamp with him as he left Elrond’s rooms. Back in the main part of the building, he was surprised not to find Erestor or Elrohir. Not knowing who to report back to, he went back to his bedroom to make sure that he had not forgotten to pack anything, only to find that someone had opened his bedroom window.
Rivendell had often seemed to him to be ruled by a different climate than the rest of the world’s: summer was never sweltering, and winter never biting; yet, the air was chilled tonight, and what’s more, a strangeness carried him to the window as he went to close it. That same strangeness made him look out of it, and catch a glimpse of Elrohir, standing still as a statue and staring out to the east. A mist seemed to have risen from that direction. Bilbo couldn’t remember an attack on Rivendell from that night, though they had left in such a hurry, it was possible that he’d missed it. But Elrohir, as far as Bilbo could see, didn’t look tense or frightened, rather… Excited?
Suddenly, a figure emerged out of the mist, all clad in white and radiating brilliance, the likes of which Bilbo couldn’t avoid recognising instantly. Elrohir ran towards the light, exclaiming, “Grandmother!” The Lady of Lothlorien caught him in her arms when he reached her, her brilliance finally dimming enough for her attendants to finally show beside her. Erestor, whom Bilbo had not seen until then, joined the scene to invite everyone inside.
Galadriel murmured a few words to Elrohir, who beamed and half-ran away from her. Erestor led the rest up the stairs to the eastern porch, leaving Galadriel alone in the gardens, apparently admiring the view. A moment passed, and another, and between one blink and the next, Bilbo found her lifting her head and staring straight at him.
He felt the primal urge to duck beneath the window and hide from her poring eyes, but as soon as he said it, the same strangeness which had pulled him to the window before now grabbed him and kept him in place.
Right. Elves. She bowed her head slightly. He blinked once, and she had released him. He closed the window, and walked out of his room, out of the hall and down the stairs. She was so much taller than he remembered.
Bilbo had not thought about Lady Galadriel very much in his first life, and when he had, it had mostly been in relation to Frodo. He had trusted her because she had been kind to Frodo, and he and Gandalf had shared a good laugh when they had gotten on the boat to the Undying Lands and Frodo had nearly walked into a wall when he’d seen her smile.
She was very beautiful, Bilbo realised now that he was looking at her up close and with eyes that hadn’t been blinded by age. He wouldn’t start walking into walls just yet, but there was no denying that she had the power to soften a few hearts. Gimli hadn’t stood a chance.
Neither did Bilbo. She raised her head, as if looking for something, and her eyes met his. “Good evening, Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire.” Her lips were not moving. Bilbo shuddered.
“Good evening,” he said aloud.
Her eyes seemed to pierce into his soul. He wondered what she saw there.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
Bile rose in Bilbo’s throat. He recoiled, beating down on the memory that had invited itself in his head.
“You carry a heavy burden,” Galadriel stated.
He swallowed, thinking of what waited for him in the Misty Mountains, and beyond. “Not yet.”
She gave him a soft smile, full of pity. The nice part about her speaking with her mind was that this smile did not fade when she said, “Come to see me in Caras Galadhon, before you go on your long journey. I will have gifts prepared for you.”
Bilbo’s Baggins instincts were to decline the gifts a first time; Bungo would be appalled at his son if he saw him nod gratefully and without protest. At least, he remembered to bow. “I will, my Lady. Thank you.”
Bilbo sat in the garden long after the lady left him. He knew, in theory, that he needed to check up on the others at some point, as it was getting fairly late and they would need to skedaddle, but his encounter with Galadriel had drained him, if not of energy, at least of his sense of urgency.
Did she know? Had she read everything in his mind? He had gone through the motions of the meeting almost without conscious thought, but now, he wondered if he needed to be worried. Would she tell Gandalf, or anyone else in the White Council?
The White Council. Bilbo jolted awake. Was Saruman there already? Bilbo could hardly risk finding out. He hurried up the stairs and made for his bedroom.
He found Dori, Nori and Ori loitering right outside his door. “There you are, Bilbo!” cried Dori as soon as he came into view. “We have been looking for you. Thorin is furious.”
“What?” gasped Bilbo. “You can’t be serious. Has someone alerted the Shire Gazette?” Nori snorted. “What is it this time?”
“He gave the map to your Elf…”
“Master Elrond, and he isn’t my…”
Nori waved that complaint off. “Sure. Anyway, it more or less came out that we want the map to break into Erebor, and the Elf…”
“Master Elrond,” Bilbo corrected tiredly. He would curb the Dwarves’ rudeness if it killed them all, which was, at this point, likely.
“That’s very nice, Baggins. Do you want to hear it or not?”
Ori cut in. “Master Elrond has taken Gandalf apart to prevent us from going forward.”
“Ah,” said Bilbo. The others seemed to expect him to say something else, so he added, “Bummer.”
“Bummer,” repeated Nori. “Quite.” Bilbo had a feeling that he was being mocked. Before he could come to a decision on that matter, the rest of the company emerged from a bend in the hallway and headed straight towards them, Thorin at their head.
From the look of it, Dori had not underestimated his mood. “Well?” he demanded. “Where were you?”
“I was putting the child Estel to sleep,” Bilbo replied. “Wh…?”
Thorin did not let him finish. “We’re going. Now.”
“I…”
“I’m not letting them put us away in their dungeons.”
“There are no dungeons in Rivendell,” said Bilbo.
“Not another word from you,” Thorin ordered with a venomous look. “That will teach me to listen to you. I did what you told me, I trusted the Elf, and now, we need to run.” Bilbo had barely intervened, in his opinion, but if it pleased Thorin to blame him, fine. “Well?” asked Thorin.
Bilbo almost reminded him that he’d forbidden Bilbo from speaking, but it would have been poor timing. “Are we waiting for something?”
“Yes, you. Go pack.”
“Oh.” That was easy. Bilbo cracked his bedroom door open, retrieved his pack, and closed the door. “All set.”
Somehow, even that seemed to provoke Thorin. He gritted his teeth, turned away and gestured at the Company to follow him out.
Nori gave him a light punch on the arm, which Bilbo took to mean “Good job” and departed. Bofur hung back to wait for Bilbo. “Friend, I don’t know if you’re a good burglar, but whatever you lack in talent, you make up for in sheer nerves.”
Bilbo didn’t reply. He let Bofur step out before he did, bidding a silent farewell to his second home, and wondering when he would return, and what state he would be in when he did.
If he did.