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Chapter Text

“Please be at ease,” said the dwarf with a smile, an arm stretched out towards the smaller figure. “May I come closer?”

Tucked behind a doorway, Frodo remained at a safe distance and scrutinised the offered hand. It was broad and scarred, the fingers adorned with heavy rings and jewels that reminded him of the faraway kingdoms his parents would spin tales about before he went to sleep as a babe. Looking up, Frodo spotted similar trinkets in the dwarf’s braids: beautifully carved beads, scattering the sunlight into golden speckles upon the ceiling of his uncle’s living room. But that was where the opulence stopped. The stranger, with his vambraces, chainmail and sword, was evidently a warrior.

The dwarf followed Frodo’s gaze to his hip and stepped back. “Forgive me, I forgot to leave Orcrist at the entrance. This is quite rude.”

“How strange for a sword to have a name,” said Frodo, his curiosity piqued.

“It is common for my people to name their blades for the great deeds they did in battle, or simply as an expression of affection. Though it so happens that my own is elven in origin. It bears the Sindarin title ‘Goblin Cleaver’,” replied the stranger with reverence as he settled the fabled sword on a coat rack. “It has slayed hundreds of Orcs in its time, from as far as the Goblin Wars during the First Age, to the retaking of Erebor in recent past.”

While the dwarf had his back turned, Frodo left his hiding place. Keeping close to the walls, he slowly padded towards the entrance, eyes locked and searching for any sign of hostility. If he focused just right, he could see through the dwarf’s faintly translucent body and into the outdoors, beyond the door ajar. The sky was luminous and endlessly orange, bereft of a single shadow or bird.

It has been long since Frodo stepped out into the open world. However, now was not the time for such a venture, and so he brought his attention back to the stranger.

Frodo gave him a last once-over before he declared, “You were one of Bilbo’s peculiar friends, weren’t you? Spiriting him away to the other side of the world, searching for treasure, monsters and all sorts of peril.”

The dwarf’s eyebrows rose. “Was that all they said in the Shire about our quest?”

“Essentially, yes”, Frodo turned his face away. “Uncle was never in the mood to talk about his adventures, so people drew assumptions. They spread gossip. Everyone used to avoid coming to our smial in fear of crossing ‘Mad Baggins’. For a friend, I’m surprised you didn’t visit once.”

“I couldn’t,” the other replied. They exchanged a look of understanding. “Did he really not mention his travels to you? His deeds and his sway on dwarrow history?”

“Was I not clear? Uncle didn’t talk about his past. Not even to me.”

No, even he never succeeded breaking down his uncle’s defensive walls despite years of gentle prying. He never got to hear first-hand about the immortal Elves and their mystical realms, nor the mighty Men and their glittering castles. He never got to find a fellow soul in Hobbiton that aspired for more than rolling hills and familiar faces.

And now, there wasn’t anything to aspire for.

Gently, a palm settled on his shoulder. “Your uncle is the bravest, kindest, most noble person I’ve ever met. Yet even he cannot stay unchanged through loss… It is my belief he tried to protect you by keeping his grief to himself. Know this: Bilbo cherished your presence deeply, and that love is worth more than all the stories and adventures in Arda.”

The dwarf then took a moment to closely watch Frodo’s features – features they both shared. Wavy locks of ebony hair, slender faces, clear blue eyes. One could only wonder if they were the first to see the similarities.

“Say my lad, what is your name?”

“Frodo. Frodo Baggins,” to which the dawrf grinned. “Pleased to meet you, Frodo. I’m Thorin.”

And for the first time since an eternity, Frodo felt his whole being unwind. He wasn’t alone anymore.

꧁꧂

Thorin dragged his boot along a dusty rug, feeling its frayed fringes with a pang of sadness. Bag End was a mere shadow of what it once had been. Gone were the flower vases, the framed paintings, the crocheted quilts, and the leather-bound tomes lining the ceiling.

The fireplace had long seen its last blaze, but he did manage to recover one of Bilbo’s old smoking pipes, hidden in the leftover ash. A single crack ran along the stem; Thorin traced it with excessive care before stashing the object in his pack.

“What is the outdoor like?” the teenager asked from a room over.

“Warm. Very dry.” Roots and vines had found their way inside through broken windows, like they were trying to escape the heat themselves. Sheltered from the sun, some still bore green leaves. Thorin reached for them, relishing the rare sensation of life between his fingers. “Flatlands are barren and deserted. Any living things that remain take refuge in forests, mountains or caves.”

“What kind of living things?”

He peeked around the corner to find Frodo lying on the kitchen table, swinging his feet at the edge. “Mainly spiders, the giant ones that is. I have seen some small animals now and then. Rodents, lizards, bats… Have you ever left this place since what happened?”

“I haven’t. What about unliving things?”

“Even scarcer.”

“I know you hoped for someone different here. I’m sorry.”

Leaning on a rusty sink, the old king looked out the window and scoured the hills with his eyes. As always, everything was static and deceptively bright.

“Frodo,” Thorin murmured, “There are whispers of a lone survivor. A hobbit, both spared and condemned by the World’s Bane. Please tell me… What happened to your uncle? Could I find him?”

Frodo’s voice sounded distant as he recounted his side of the End. “Orcs came to steal Bilbo’s ring. Night had fallen. I was sleeping in my bedroom when I heard them ransacking the smial. Soon after my uncle started shouting, and it terrified me, but how could I stand idle while he was in danger? I already lost my parents, I couldn’t lose him too… So I went out there in my nightclothes with my slingshot,” he said with an airy laugh.

Thorin collapsed on a chair, rubbing a hand over his eyes. And Frodo carried on, “When I… came back to myself, the place was as it is now. I was alone. What happened to Uncle Bilbo, or any other hobbit in the Shire for that matter, I couldn’t tell you.”

The dwarf sat still, lost in thought. The truth was he had long since mourned his own death. He would even go as far as to say that he had already mourned the end of his world. His people – his family, his friends and comrades – was waiting for him in the Timeless Halls, a nighttime away. Sometimes, he would catch the echoes of their joyous uproar in the stone grounds he encountered trekking across Middle-Earth, and would then spend hours listening to his sistersons’ laughter, sprawled on his back.

But, eventually, he would get back to his feet and resume his search for the one soul who deserved solace the most.

And perhaps, despite everything, he still yearned for more time in this plane. A little more time to find his peace while he treaded this earth. A little more time to find a home in the arms of his dearest one.

“Take me with you.”

Startled, Thorin lifted his head. The young hobbit was now sitting up on the table, driven with steel conviction.

“You want to go out there and find Uncle Bilbo, right? I’ll come with you,” Frodo exclaimed. “I know my way around the Shire and I have studied many of my uncle’s maps. I can help with your search. I even already made a bag – we could leave right away if you want!”

Thorin’s features softened. “You needn’t have to convince me. You are Bilbo’s kin. This journey, it is as much yours as it is mine.”

And so he learned that Frodo’s smile outshined the sun.

꧁꧂

Nights were the only time when the temperature allowed for a comfortable walk, or so Mr. Thorin said. Therefore they would head out at sunset. Until then, Frodo moved to and fro across the smial, and picked up objects as he went. His school satchel didn’t allow for much space. He would have to make hard choices.

Trailing behind him, the dwarf piped up, “Is the kettle necessary? We have no need for sustenance. It would weigh you down.”

“It is Bilbo’s favourite. Trust me, he will be ecstatic to have it back.” Mr. Thorin’s brows furrowed, like they often did if the lines on his face were anything to go by, but there was no further comment. “Don’t worry, I packed a blanket and a spare jacket. And of course my family’s picture book, my mother’s old compass and some gold coins.”

“Money also isn’t of use anymore. When did you pack your bag?”

“Many years ago,” Frodo admitted. “When I yet had hopes of going on a grand adventure with Uncle.”

He grimaced as he had a hard time fitting the teapot between the folds of fabric. Seeing his hassle Mr. Thorin stowed it in his own, larger bag. The teenager rewarded him with another smile and sure enough, it made the dwarf’s heart melt.

Dusk saw them standing at the entrance, caught in their memories as they looked at Bag End for the last time. If Frodo closed his eyes, he might be able to pretend Bilbo was the one by his side, wearing that kind and earnest smile, patiently waiting for him to reign in his emotions before they both set out into the unknown. So he didn’t. Shadows grew longer with every passing minute, and it was him that stepped out of the house first.

Although the stars were visible from his bedroom’s window, Frodo could’ve wept at how close they seemed now that he was under their light. They were more abundant than he remembered, and it made him wonder if other spirits such as Mr. Thorin and himself found shelter in the sky. Feeling unusually calm he walked down the wooden steps, past the broken gate and onto Bagshot Row. The stone pavement was still warm from the sun, but not unbearably so. Fences were torn on each side of the road, perhaps from his neighbours struggling to find the quickest escape when the world ended, and over them he saw vast expanses of gilded fields.

The flower gardens, the green meadow pastures, the food crops and orchards… It was all scorched.

Suddenly, rustles broke the silence. Frodo turned away from the view to find his travelling partner kneeling in the front yard of an adjacent smial.

“Mr. Thorin, those were the Gamgees’.”

“Well, bless them for their immaculate plants of Old Toby,” the dwarf mumbled. “The sun has dried the leaves to a perfect crisp…”

“Is pipe-weed considered necessary by your standards?”

“It is now. Now, be a patient lad and don’t wander in any house or field without me.”

If that didn’t set the tone for the rest of their journey, then Frodo didn’t know what did. After a moment of awkward shuffling, he crouched and observed the fine ash covering the road. “I knew one of their sons. His name was Sam.”

Mr. Thorin’s eyes surged up to convey sympathy. Before long, he had finished filling his pouch and left the garden, mindful to close the Gamgees’ gate behind him.

“You could tell me about him while we walk, if so you wish.” The dwarf then stated, “It is unlikely that we come back. You may never see your hometown again. Are you ready for it?”

“I am.” Frodo stared at the withered Oak on top of Bag End. Strangely, its form had stayed strong and tall through its demise. It brought him some comfort. “Everything is already so changed. My house, my town, myself… There is no going back. For anyone.”

Mr. Thorin ruffled his curls with a sad smile, and thus they began following the way downhill.

Leaving everything he knew behind was both surreal and deceptively simple, Frodo found. Each step led to the other. To every street he bade farewell, he would get to see a new horizon. It was only as they reached the village’s borders that he allowed himself a look back. Bilbo’s Oak was near indiscernible, yet he could make out the small mound of soil next to it. Frodo couldn’t do more than guess at how it worked that he was in two places at once.

Knowing part of him would always remain in Hobbiton, he was heartened to forever depart it.

꧁꧂

Thorin had come to the Shire through Bree-land. He had trudged along the Water’s old riverbeds, combed through the vacant towns of Frogmorton and Bywater before finally reaching Hobbiton. With that in mind, his young companion settled on taking a quick detour across the North Farthing, where the cooler climate could have drawn Biblo, before heading south to Tookland.

One accustomed to the elements like Thorin could afford travelling most of the day and night, only resting during the harsher hours around midday. But he wasn’t alone anymore. The moon was just beginning her descent when he noticed the fatigue in Frodo’s features. The hobbit had stopped his chattering, and was instead overtaken by a resigned muteness. He would sometimes grumble as he picked out gravel stuck in his soles. Other times, he would glare at his satchel for hitting his leg on every step. All in all, Thorin was dreading an imminent crisis.

“It is time for a break,” he declared. They had arrived in a short clearing bordered by old birches and maples, a lone small brick house in the centre. A bounder’s outpost, if the appearance was anything to go by. “Stay here. I will scout inside first.”

Frodo protested tiredly. “Why? Giant spiders don’t fit in that small of a space. Do you think me afraid of bats and rats?”

“Just–” Thorin made a frustrated sound– “Stay here. Mind you, I encountered spiders in the past. You have not. For all you know, they could very well fit in that building.”

Rolling his eyes at Frodo’s scoff, Thorin set his pack on the ground and retrieved his lamp: a bright, fluorescent fragment of sodalite that he left soaking under the sun every day. He threw a last warning glance at the hobbit before making the short walk to the house. His hand went automatically against the stone bricks, rubbing and appreciating their grain as he skirted corners to find a door. An undisturbed peace reigned in the premises. It was only habit that made Thorin grab his sword’s pommel before he entered inside.

His initial guess seemed to have been correct. Rusty gear, empty wine bottles and wrinkled parchments laid in piles on a desk, forgotten to time. Parts of a chair were scattered on the floor, and Thorin wondered if someone sawed the legs to create makeshift weapons. Up on a shelf, a particularly ominous stuffed badger watched over the room. And that was about it. Feeling curious, he approached the parchments; it was all meaningless paperwork, long pre-dating the cataclysm. Thorin turned around, about to call for his protegee when something barged loudly through the door.

“Frodo!” Thorin shouted. “What in Eru’s name do you think–”

“You were taking your sweet time! Listen, I know you don’t want me stumbling upon a dead body. But these situations are bound to happen! I’ll have to get used to it. Can I rest now?”

“No,” Thorin felt his voice choke as he spoke, “I don’t want you to get used to it. Why would you choose to familiarise yourself with that pain?”

His anguish seemed to surprise Frodo. Nonetheless the hobbit stayed true to his name and pressed on stubbornly. “Mr. Thorin, you may not talk much about your past, but you were obviously part of an army. Weren’t there dwarves as young as myself by your side when you walked the battlefield?”

Thorin’s fists tightened, for there was. He himself fought the Battle of Azanulbizar at the tender age of fifty-three, when he was still decades away from adulthood. However– “I do not wish it for anyone, Frodo. Not anymore.”

“You cannot make these decisions for me!”

“I can. You became my responsibility the moment you stepped out of Bag End.”

Their eyes locked in a fierce and silent exchange.

Frodo deflated after a minute. “I might not have a choice,” he sighed. “I have to prepare myself for what’s out there. You cannot promise you’ll always be there to protect me.”

Faces flashed in Thorin’s mind.

Young Frerin, bleeding out in his arms in front of Moria’s gates. Thrór, decapitated at his feet. His sistersons, whose mangled bodies were buried next to his own in Erebor. And ultimately all the rest of his kin who outlived him, only to succumb under Fate’s devious blade. 

“I might not always be there,” he admitted sourly. Stepping forward, he put his hand on Frodo’s neck. “But let it be known that I will always try to be. I will… allow you more space to find your bearings in this world, but you must tell me if you feel any distress. And listen to me when I tell you to fall back in the presence of a threat. Understood?”

Sagging in relief, Frodo gave a smile brimming with gratitude.

“That smile won’t grant that which you desire every time.”

“Learn to differentiate ruse and honesty, then,” Frodo scoffed. “I was being very sincere just now.” In a twirl he escaped Thorin’s grasp and started meandering about with a new sense of freedom, leaving his bag on the floor as he marvelled at the equipment and cooed at the badger.

Exhaustion did eventually coax Frodo into rest. The hobbit dozed in his blanket, shifting now and then when the hard floor became too unpleasant. Meanwhile, Thorin sat against the doorframe and struck a match to light Bilbo’s pipe, having mended the crack with a smidgeon of clay. An earthy smell permeated the air. He let the smoke ease the tension in his limbs, and the familiarity stir old memories – memories of a different journey, with a different Baggins and a different Thorin. Looking over the Shire’s wastelands he breathed out. Smoking hadn’t crossed his mind thus far. Perhaps, deep down, holding onto the habits of the Living had felt wrong. He couldn’t bother passing up on it now.

His contemplations were interrupted by giggles. “You aren’t as subtle as you think,” whispered Frodo. “You like having undirect kisses with my uncle, don’t you?”

Thorin distanced the pipe from his lips and deadpanned, “I sure do. Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“My legs needed a break from walking. I can talk and listen just fine.”

Thorin wasn’t in the particular mood for prattle – not that he ever was. He started humming a mining song, one he had learned from fellow dwarrow during their exile. Considering his royal upbringing, he had rarely shared spaces with the lower class in Erebor, and only came to know them after disaster equalized their fates. The current times fortified his appreciation for his kin’s heritage.

“Would you,” Frodo spoke hesitantly, “tell me about your and Uncle Bilbo’s adventure?”

“Well…” Chuckling, the dwarf released fumes from his nostrils. “Only if you promise not to faint when I get to the part with the dragon. But someone as fearless as you shouldn’t have any trouble, hm?”

“Dragon? Stop messing with me, old dwarf! I want the truth. No fables, no jokes!”

Thorin’s arms went up in surrender. “Now, now! Hear my story before judging my choices; I had good reasons taking on that wyrm. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me provide some much-needed context. It all started in Erebor, the greatest kingdom in Arda…”

꧁꧂

Far away, as the last stars twinkled out of the sky, a weary hobbit retreated to his bedroom. Said bedroom was a cramped space comprising a straw bed, linen covers and four log walls. It was modest, but he only had himself to blame for not learning more from his father – a carpenter. Anyhow, he wasn’t picky after spending the better part of the night harvesting mushrooms in the woods, and paying the price for it with back pain and an itchy nose.

He collapsed on the mattress, reached for the curtains. Just then, a brown cat dashed through the door and to the centre of the room.

“Hello you,” Bilbo crooned. “How was your night?”

He startled when the cat spat a rabbit foot on the floor.

“Goodness! Well, I can’t complain that you hunt your own food. Though I have to ask, keep dismembered body parts out of the bedroom, will you?”

The cat, Madha as he had called her, chirped back. She jumped on the bed and made herself comfortable on Bilbo’s mithril shirt, which he kept laid out knowing that the cool material soothed her. Bilbo himself dressed down to a thin blouse before closing the blinds and slipping under the cover.

Surrounded by darkness, he tried not to let his mind wander too much, lest terrible images came bubbling back to the surface. Like they did far too often.

No, he couldn’t linger on the horrifying, wretched look in his nephew’s eyes as an orcish blade fell upon the boy. Or the searing constant pain Bilbo had where he once had a finger. Or the taste of ash on his tongue as he watched his world end in bloodshed and smog.

Bilbo sat up and angrily wiped his tears. It would be one of these days. So, he grabbed his walking stick, left his lodge and started hiking the nearest mountain side. Exertion didn’t take long to override his thoughts. Sweating under the heat, he reached a small cave in time for the sunrise: near the horizon, a fiery glow emerged and suffused the heavy clouds surrounding Mount Doom. Then, bit by bit, the rest of the firmament ignited.

A new dawn broke over the ruins of Middle-Earth.

Though dread was the first emotion to surge, Bilbo was also entranced by the beauty of it and sat against the stone with a relieved sigh. Eyes watering from exhaustion and sunlight, he succumbed to slumber shortly after.

꧁꧂

“Are you sleeping already?”

“I’m not. Your face happened to be directly over the sun and looking at you hurt my eyes. Hence, I am resting them.”

Beorn’s garden was everything Bilbo had hoped for after the Misty Mountains. To lie amongst flowers, far from all sources of peril and trial, with fingers combing through his curls and his head laid on another’s lap… It was his idea of a blissful respite. He hummed in appreciation when a hand settled over his eyelids, granting him full darkness.

“This affront deserves retribution,” said the King with mirth. “Alas I am pledged to my maker. Therefore I must treat Mahal’s creations with great respect. Even the sun.”

Bilbo snorted. “You brute! Always searching for a fight. Would you challenge the other Valar if I demanded it of you?”

“I just might,” Thorin mumbled to his mouth.

Yes, absolutely wonderful, Bilbo thought while his lips moved against Thorin’s. Somewhere in the near distance, the Company sparred and cackled at each other, clanking their weapons in a way that undoubtedly stretched the landowner’s patience. Quiet was not a given in their journey. Bilbo couldn’t bother getting worked up over it. In fact, he had come to cherish their boisterous shouting; it meant that his friends were close and safe.

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Tell me of your devotion,” Thorin whispered. “How… How far would you go for me?”

Frowning, Bilbo opened his eyes, and almost recoiled at the apprehension written in Thorin’s features. “This is intense. I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

The dwarf snorted in turn. “I still wonder why everyone considers my people stoic and ruthless! We are passionate about every aspect of our lives. Smithing, combat, community… partners.”

Bilbo breathed out as the hand returned on his eyelids, tenderly stroking them. After a moment of thought, he said, “I am here, aren’t I? I left my homeland, crossed mountain ranges and killed for you. A dragon awaits me at the gates of Erebor. I might as well follow you to the world’s end.”

“Amrâlimê…” Thorin’s voice trembled. “Erebor is hardly the edge of the world.”

“But I would,” Bilbo smiled. “Follow you to Arda’s borders and beyond. Now that this is settled, why don’t you lie down next to me? You still need to recover from your wounds. Don’t worry, the Company will be fine. I asked Balin to watch over them this afternoon, make sure your lovely nephews don’t drive Beorn into a frenzy…”

As luck would have it, Bilbo and Thorin slumbered in peace until sunset.

Chapter Text

As always, the moves came instinctively to Thorin. He started from a guarding stance, visualized an opponent a short distance away and shifted from one foot to the other, arms taunt. In a flash, he dived forward. Orcrist sliced through the air, and he let the blade follow its natural course while he stepped to his left, dodging an imaginary blow. He whirled around, then rushed back with a horizontal slash. The sequence ended with a parry and a return to his initial position.

A light breeze blew over the land, cooling his skin as he went drill after drill. It was a rare sensation, one he had missed as someone accustomed to mountain climate, but more importantly it was a sign they were nearing the ocean.

The Shire had proven to be vacant. Each smial told a different story – stories about gardeners, farmers, merchants, teachers and shoemakers – but they all ended the same. And for each of his kinfolk, young Frodo would stand on their doorstep and attempt to remember their names, all the while Thorin stood nearby, head bowed and occasionally scrubbing dirt off his hands. Feeling the barest amount of relief for having concealed the remains in time.

Thorin gritted his teeth and added more power to his strikes. Were he able to feel a strain in his body, he would welcome it.

At a fair distance from him, Frodo cleared his throat. “Is everything all right? You seem tense.”

They had decided to continue the travel westwards. In the last weeks, they had ploughed their way through wide bushlands, over panoramic hilltops and down gravelly slopes until the ground had fallen away to reveal a canyon – the channel in which the Lhûn once flowed. Following it would lead them to the Grey Havens, former elvish port and primary departure point to the Undying Lands. Thorin could not care to comment on their destination.

“Well then! Keep your secrets.”

“There are no secrets,” the dwarf turned to Frodo while lowering his sword. Seated on top of a boulder, the hobbit sent him a wry look before going back to his reading. “I told you not to take anything from the houses. Your bag is full.”

“It’s just a small book.” Frodo shrugged, turning another page. “I also need to entertain myself somehow.”

Thorin tilted his head back and exhaled. The sky had significantly darkened since his last assessment. “We have entertained ourselves long enough. It’s getting late, we ought to go.”

Breaking camp was a fast affair. Frodo hopped down from his perch and by the time he finished meticulously tying his blanket into a roll, Thorin stood patiently near the canyon, having redone the loosened braids on each side of his face and taken down their small tent. He studied a map of Eriador, pouring over the lines with great familiarity – it was his third continental crossing after all. For a creature of stone, Thorin knew plenty about living away from it. He was a gem-digger made land-drifter. Both leader and outsider to his kind.

It was all meant to be, a voice in the back of his mind hissed. The Lonely Mountain was never meant for the likes of you, and you were bound to join fate with tree-shaggers and fishermen.

Irritated, the dwarf dragged a hand over his face.

“Should I not get a weapon too?” Frodo wondered as he joined him. “If we encounter spiders, I want to be able to defend myself. You could teach me how to fight.”

“I thought about it. You were right – you must be prepared for every eventuality. Should we chance upon a suitable blade, one that is light and short enough, it is yours. I have mentored in the past. I don’t mind doing it again.”

“Do your refer to your nephews or to my uncle?”

“Both, I suppose.”

They resumed their itinerary with the evening sun on their faces. Adjusted to the wild, Frodo maintained Thorin’s gradual pace, keeping his shoulders relaxed and his chin up, a grey shawl draped over his head while daylight still shone.

A plain of churned up soil stretched ahead, crumbling under their feet as the land started to slant up. Life seemed to seep back into it the further they went: insects appeared from under rocks and scurried away from their path; short blades of grass sprouted from the earth’s depth. Eventually the air turned damp. The breeze cooled down. The Blue Mountains emerged on each end of the horizon, far to the North and to the South, and the sight instilled a longing inside of Thorin. There was no doubt as for the current state of his halls, yet he yearned for their arches, their solid walls of granite and their dimly lit corridors.

It surprised him. Those feelings were once restrained to other places.

“The Ered Luin should be our next stop,” said Frodo.

But then, thoughts of homes would soon be brushed aside. They climbed on; the mountain chains widened at their base to form the steep cliffs and ridges that framed the Lhûn Bay. Finally, they saw an endless expanse of reflective water.

A breath caught in Thorin’s chest. Next to him, Frodo broke into a run. He would have followed if it were not for a shawl being swept away by a strong wind. He muttered a curse and fell back a couple steps to catch the cloth before joining his companion. The latter paced on the hill’s crest and laughed freely, taking in the scenery as the last rays of the day burned.

“The Beleager Sea!” Frodo cried out in the wind, arms splayed out. “By Yavanna, I would’ve never believed myself that I was to meet the ocean one day! Look how the water sparkles under the sun, it’s like you told me about Erebor – gold stretching as far as the eye can see!”

“This is nothing like Erebor. This view… It is beyond price.”

“I want to feel the waves and the foam and the sand, I want to see the stars reflected in the water, and the night sky merge with the sea, just like Gandalf did during his travels!” The hobbit then pointed down. “We should reach the Grey Havens in no time.”

“So indeed…”

The Grey Havens lay at the bottom of the valley, shining like the ocean lapping its foundations. Nature, in its wild and undisturbed form, had entwined itself with the elegant architecture: vines crawled along the walls of silvery towers and monuments; dense overgrown shrubs spilled from balconies and dangled their fruits over run down bridges. It was an unsettling blend of beauty and decay.

Later, the city’s gate stood tall over their heads, guarded by statues of victors and poets from bygone eras, their frozen features made sharp by the moonlight. Keeping to high grounds, the two travellers strolled in the empty streets and looked in wonder at the colourful fishes swimming in the lower, flooded parts of the Havens. Many buildings had collapsed, allowing glimpses into marble hallways, lavish chambers and libraries, which arcane knowledge would soon be lost to oblivion.

It felt very different to Rivendell’s ruins, Thorin thought. Without its waterfalls and trees, he had found the Last Homely House to be a mere shell. A cautioning tale shrouded in old legends and dust. But here an aura of glamour still clung to the air, as if sustained by the sparse life that persevered through the End.

“Well,” Thorin whispered to Frodo, “you walk in the footsteps of millennia of elven history. Are your expectations fulfilled?”

“This is like a dream… It is all so beautiful. Big. Sophisticated. I… I feel like I was not meant to see this. Like my kind was never meant for this level of greatness.”

Thorin stopped in his tracks. “You would be mistaken to believe so,” he replied in a stern tone. “Do not let the Tall Folks convince you that you are of lesser significance, Frodo. Your people is known for greater things than pretty facades.”

“I am quite aware of your esteem for my people,” Frodo huffed. “Don’t hold me to your standards.”

Thorin furrowed his brows in confusion.

“What about you then? How do you fare being on elven grounds? Truth be told, it’s going better than I expected,” commented Frodo, a challenging edge to his voice.

The pause hung heavy in the air. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I am from Hobbiton, born and raised. I can sense bad blood from leagues afar. You dislike Elves and I don’t quite get why. The stories you told me… That king from the Mirkwood… Elves did more than just holding you back during your quest, did they not?”

“How does it matter?” Thorin exclaimed. “It’s in the past! I told you what there is to know, and that is the end of it. There is certainly no sense in having grudges now.”

Frodo faltered, and they resumed walking in silence.

On the pavement, tiny emerald scales twinkled as lizards scurried in and out of crevices. They led Thorin to a raised slab under which a well was hidden. While he refilled his waterskin, he studied his reflection in the ripples: he brought his fingers to the discoloured scar in his right eyebrow, and then to his beard, dark and full, closely sheared to his jaw since Erebor’s fall and now forever bound to be so. Hair did not grow longer on the dead. His face would always display his mark of guilt to the world.

“I am not the same dwarf as I was in life,” Thorin spoke in a low voice. “I have changed. How could I not, knowing my pride brought downfall upon myself and my own?”

Frodo’s voice sounded conflicted, “But surely you had good reasons for distrusting the Elves! I only want to understand. And let me tell you; had I been there during your journey, I would have given that king hell myself for locking you and your Company up.”

Thorin smiled faintly at the water. “Your uncle shared that sentiment. Though I suspect he said so because I wouldn’t have heard otherwise then.”

He heard Frodo step closer, and a new reflection joined his own. Hope was apparent in the teenager’s eyes. Hope for connection. For a mutual trust. It made Thorin concede, “I like to think I have grown from my past, but grievances are difficult to overcome. Even in death. One day I shall tell you the whole story. In the meantime, perhaps you could help me see truth when I fold to my old ways.”

“I already count on you.” There was hesitance in Frodo’s words. “You can count on me.”

Thorin felt heartened all the same.

Waterskin stowed in his pack, the dwarf threw a look upwards. What they needed was an overview on the different parts of the city. And so they scrambled over roots and crumbling walls to reach the rooftops. Thorin moved slowly across the tiles, slippery under his metallic soles, and took his time inspecting the iridescent ruins. No light could be seen flickering through the windows. No voice could be heard whispering in the breeze. However, there were hollow sounds that resonated from afar, and it drew them closer to the shore. In the old harbour they found crowds of ships drifting in the currents, sails shredded and begrimed with soot. Wooden hulls riddled with holes, knocking against each other as black waves crashed against their sides.

It was a type of destruction Thorin would know anywhere. The Grey Havens had fallen under orcish warfare.

In the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Frodo shiver. “We have covered much ground. For now, we find shelter. We’ll have a roof over our head for once.”

Stepping closer to the edge, he noticed a wide balcony not far down. He took Frodo’s hand and lowered him carefully to the furthest extent, trying not to flinch when the hobbit fell the remaining distance. It was not long before he had his own legs hanging over the void. In a twist, Thorin jumped to the lower platform.

And startled when he landed in front of an elf.

꧁꧂

“This is unusual.” The elf stepped out of the shadows. “What brings two mortal souls to the Grey Havens?”

Pressed against the railing, Frodo winced as he watched Thorin reach automatically for his sword. But the dwarf came to his senses on his own, and his hand hovered in the air for a brief moment before falling back down. Frodo relaxed. All the while, the elf observed them with his head tilted to the side, dark hair pooling over the tan skin of a bare shoulder, looking thoroughly unalarmed.

“We apologize for trespassing in your home,” Thorin said in a cautious tone. “My fellow traveller and I are only searching for a place to rest ourselves. We shall leave you be.”

The elf’s eyes were a deep turquoise, a colour that contrasted with the insubstantial quality of his body. “Company is scarce in these times. I do not mind your presence, but I would hear of your purpose here. Come and take your leisure inside.” He finished with a nod, “My name is Loegnir.”

Adjacent to the balcony was a sitting room, ornated with brocade furniture and finely chiselled side tables. Thorin’s stiff stance had Frodo grabbing his cloak to steer them both to a settee. There, Frodo released the dwarf and unceremoniously dropped his traveling load to the floor before copping a feel of the fabric. Where the old sofa in Bag End had felt lumpy and time-worn, this one was firm yet impossibly smooth. Frodo lay down, and the world seemed to blur around him as he closed his eyes.

He could imagine a musical ensemble in the room’s corner, plucking their harps and lutes with deft precision. Melancholic melodies would swell in the air while the rest of the household broke their fast. What type of bread did Elves eat with their wine? What topics would they broach as they enjoyed each other’s immortal company? Did they take a moment every morning to breathe in the scent of the sea, or would thousands of years mellow one’s fondness for their home?

“…From the Shire… Seeking a hobbit…”

It really was a nice scent, Frodo thought. Not musty like he remembered the Brandywine to be during his childhood summers. It was fresh and tangy, like a tickly blanket warping around his skin. It filled his nose, his mouth, and his lungs, and suddenly he felt unable to ignore the ashy smell hidden within it.

“…A living one – one that goes by the name of Bilbo Baggins,” Frodo heard as he tuned back in. From his position, he could see the dwarf upside down, settled on the edge of the settee and huddled over his hands. Loegnir stood next to the balcony, observing the city.

“I have not heard of a living soul left in Middle-Earth,” the elf said. “Let alone a hobbit.”

“I feared you would say so,” Thorin sighed. “Do you know of someone in these parts who can help us? Any hint of information would be a boon.”

“You shan’t find anyone else here for I am the last that remains in the Gulf of Lhûn.” Loegnir turned to them and clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me… Why is the spirit of Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Durin, Lord of the Ered Luin, King Under the Mountain, after a hobbit? One that, by all means, should be long gone from our world with the rest of his people?”

“The rest of his people?” repeated Frodo.

Thorin threw a warning look at Loegnir and settled a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. He shrugged it off. “You have a strange way of talking about death, sir. Are we all not gone after all?”

“Not yet,” Loegnir murmured. “Thorin and I, we are shackled to Arda and to her fate. Our souls belong in the Halls of Mandos. But not yours. You have so much more to come, my child. You have a whole new existence ahead of you, and lingering in this plane keeps you away from that truth. Your path was never meant to cross with ours.”

Frodo’s heart dropped. He felt like he was back in his empty bedroom. In his uncle’s empty home, in a cruel, empty Shire. Betrayed, he wiped his tears, stumbled to his feet and stomped past Thorin, dismissing him.

“Let me tell you why the Oakenshield is after a hobbit,” he cried out. “Bilbo is my uncle. He is the only family I have had since a long time, and the only best friend I have ever made. He is out there, and I won’t leave until I find him and speak with him! Do you understand?”

To his increasing distress, the elf’s expression became pitiful.

“You are subjecting yourself to heartbreak. Do not hold onto such earthly and fragile ties as life. Embrace the Gift that has been given to you by Ilúvatar! Your people is not in Middle-Earth anymore – it is beyond the stars!”

About to shout back, Frodo was stopped by a loud noise behind him. The walls shuddered from Thorin’s boot slamming the ground. Vibrations travelled throughout the building, and in the distance, they heard them merge with the repetitive clashing of the boats. Wave after wave, Frodo felt himself grow tired and he walked back to the couch. This was not how he imagined his time in the mythical Grey Havens going.

“You–“ Loegnir looked at Thorin, “should know better than entertain false hopes.”

“Stop it,” Thorin snapped. Like biting back a growl, he shook his head and strode up to the elf, his regal cloak trailing behind him in a flurry of blue and silver. “Keep your poetry to yourself. Don’t you see you are hurting the boy?”

“You know I speak true.”

“No! Bilbo is more to us than a ‘earthly tie’, but you do not understand. You cannot understand. I will not take lessons on heartbreak from someone who has obviously never loved.”

The air charged with tension. Even the ocean seemed to quiet down to a muffled thrum. Frodo wanted to intervene and defuse the situation, but he didn’t know how. More than ever he felt lost. Loegnir’s face remained carefully blank, though a sharpness seeped into his tone.

“You guessed wrong, naugol… You think my people cold and distant like most mortals do. But it is from experience that I condole with your pain. We all lost in this war.”

Thorin held his gaze, defiant. Loegnir made a sad smile and stepped back.

“You currently stand in the chambers of my beloved. Her family was one of influence, ship makers and sea farers who shared company with the likes of Círdan and Ossë. They built the highest tower in the city to thank the constellations that guided generation after generation back to Valinor. They paved its outer walls with mirrors to create a beacon to all who were lost to the tide.

“Thus she was among the first to board the boats when the Black Foe came. And from this tower I watched her sink under the fire. In turn, the Tower watched as I joined my peers and perished from a wayward arrow of my own kind.”

Thorin’s clenched fists loosened. He moistened his lips, parted them, but no sound escaped.

Feeling terribly saddened, Frodo wrung his hands and asked in a small voice, “Is this your reason for being here? Because you never recovered from her death?”

“Frodo, I accepted her fate long ago. She awaits me in the Halls of Waiting, where we shall reunite at last. No, my reason for lingering here is a different kind of love. I will show you.”

Beckoning Frodo to the balcony, Loegnir went outside and set his hands on the railing. The ocean had calmed down as the moon started to set. Frodo took a deep breath in at the same time Loegnir did.

“These waters… I was born feeling their touch. They flow through my skin like they did through the earth as Ulmo carved the foundations of the city. From the blood spilled during the Great Battle, the Grey Havens emerged as a settlement for weary survivors. They flourished with each passing century, shaping themselves at the image of the sea, bright and full of life. They became the Jewel in the West, and then the Gate to the Blessed Realm. And I watched it all.”

“You must think me quite young.”

“You are!” the elf laughed. “And what a privilege to grow old! It is one I do not share. However, seeing the Havens change made me feel part of that experience. I loved each second of it. From the creation to the fall, witnessing it all was wonderful, grievous and truly remarkable.”

“I wish I could understand,” Frodo smiled while Thorin joined discreetly his side. “It sounds beautiful.”

After a moment spent searching the horizon, Loegnir concluded, “The Grey Havens shall live on to the Fourth Age – in a new form. Soon the Music of the Ainur will end, and so will everything in this world. But until then… there is time. My staying here is my farewell to this place.”

Quiet fell over the city as all three basked in the peace of the early hours. The boats knocked against each other, the sound never quite gone, though Frodo found it to be less harrowing now. It was a distant echo, a memory that washed up on the shore to be revisited before returning to its home in the saltwater. And for an instant, he could swear he heard a call telling him that it was his home too.

The sand. The blue depths. The endless space.

“It is beautiful,” Thorin admitted.

꧁꧂

Frodo tossed and turned on his sleeping mat, unable to fall back asleep. The sun had somehow figured out its way through the closed curtains, lighting up white stone and heating up the bedroom. It made it easier to see the empty spot next to him. He knew Thorin never slept, but the dwarf would still stay close during the day and keep his hands occupied with a wooden block and a knife, or his pipe. This was unusual.

An idea sprouting in his mind, Frodo left his cot and walked to Thorin’s pack. Nothing was missing. If anything, the blue cloak hanging on the door’s handle was a message as good as any that Thorin would soon return. Frodo traced its geometrical patterns, before pushing it aside and leaving the room.

A few days had passed since their arrival in the Havens. They had taken Loegnir’s words to heart, acknowledging Bilbo’s absence, and used the opportunity of a safe location to recover from their weeks spent crossing the arid Westmarch. Frodo had become acquainted with sand, learning that it is not scratchy, rather soft and flowing. After many requests Thorin had yielded and taught him how to swim. The taste of salt seemed long-lasting on Frodo’s tongue, and he cherished it, knowing they would soon leave.

Frodo peaked outside. No one in sight.

Holding his breath, he stepped onto the street. He slithered between the rubble, moving from shadow to shadow as he approached a dilapidated mansion. The front facade had been blasted clean. Soon, he found himself in the vestibule. The wind whistled through the cracks in the building. Dust swirled above the ground and brushed against his ankles.

“Good afternoon,” Frodo whispered.

There was no reply. Círdan, master of the house and master of the Grey Havens, had long left the premises. The mansion had been the first to collapse, but it was through broken walls and quick glances that Frodo understood that it was not all gone. Círdan had built the largest library west of Rivendell, and Frodo would explore its secrets before it was too late.

Thrills went through him while he ventured in the corridors, excitement and apprehension merging into one. The paintings, relics and tapestries were unlike anything he had seen before. It was everything he had hoped for. Crossing the library’s threshold, he let a beatific grin form on his lips. The bookshelves were as high as they were wide, stretching and twisting into archways, salons and reading nooks. Frodo’s fingers moved to every cover within reach, and leather would occasionally crumble under his touch, at which time he would skip to the next alcove.

“History of Angerthas Daeron…Tengwar script… Moon-letters and other cryptography…” Frodo translated. “Thorin could have used this one.”

He opened the tome and earned a cloud of moths to his face. Batting them away, he leafed through the eaten pages to settle on an untouched one.

“The Ñoldor created Ithildin during the end of the First Age. By breaking down mithril to its purest form, they made an ink that, enchanted, only appeared in starlight. Further experience allowed users to reveal their writing on a specific phase of the moon. The first section will discuss methods in mithril processing and cutting–”

Frodo’s foot caught on the carpet. He righted himself with an embarrassed flush to his cheeks before going back to his reading.

“Despite its concealed nature, Ithildin scripture can be found everywhere in Middle-Earth. It is the knowledge Celebrimbor, the Great Smith, and the dwarf Narvi used to craft Moria’s West-Gate. Other applications include the Book of Eregion, the Celevon Blade… Oh.”

Unbeknownst to him, Frodo had walked to an empty area. The library’s centre. From a large gap in the ceiling poured in a beam of sunlight that highlighted a sinkhole in the ground. Moss and flowers grew on the edges, and a butterfly left its petal to drift towards Frodo. The insect perched on top of his head, making him chuckle.

“What a lovely garden you have, friend! I wish I could bring your flowers with me. Those are nightwells, I believe, and there we have eldgrass, and haniums,” but then the hobbit’s voice died out as he noticed a metallic glint among the plants.

It was a sword.

A silver sword, slender and elegant, glimmering like a gem. Almost the size of his legs and torso combined, but he did not care. It was perfect.

Elated, Frodo set his book on the ground and drew closer to his prize. Nearing the drop, the stone slabs quivered under his weight and so he fell on all four to reach for the sword’s hilt. It was heavy – much heavier than a rake or shovel. He pulled, moving it little by little, and eventually forewent his own safety and stood up to have a better grip. His mistake was to throw an absent-minded look inside the sinkhole.

He inhaled sharply and stumbled back, releasing the sword in his haste.

The weapon teetered on the edge before toppling over. Time slowed down as it fell. Finally, a discordant clang reverberated inside the hole. Frodo’s eyes moved from the sword to the body armour on which it landed, stained black, bleached bones trapped within the misshapen plates, and to the rest of the corpses floating face down in the murky water.

He ran.

The library blurred around him. Darkness closed in, more and more, until he was out and in the middle of the street. The sun was scalding, blinding, and still he ran away from Círdan’s tomb. His lungs did not burn from the exertion, nor did his legs. He wanted them to. Very desperately so.

“Frodo!” A tall figure intercepted his path and engulfed him in a hug. “What is the matter?”

He gripped Thorin’s tunic. Gradually, terror faded from the edges of his mind as he acknowledged the other presence. Frodo pressed his lips together, and then let go of the dwarf, pushing him away.

“Why did you leave?”

Thorin grabbed his wrist to steer them both in the shade. He fell to one knee and replied, “I was not far. I went to the old armoury and stayed but an hour before coming back. Now what troubled you so?”

“Nothing. No, I mean, there is something. Do not go near Círdan’s house. It’s a graveyard.”

The hold tightened around Frodo’s wrist. “It had its walls blown to naught and its roof caved in. Why would you take the risk?”

“It was a bad decision, I won’t make it again. I swear. Can we go?”

Thorin searched lengthily Frodo’s eyes. Then, he turned to the ruins around them and nodded. “Yes, I believe it is time we leave this place.”

꧁꧂

The cliff on which they stood provided a viewpoint over the whole bay. In the distance, the Tower rose above the Grey Havens and reflected a crimson light, watchful over its homeland and beyond. Frodo stepped towards it, as if spellbound. Thorin’s arm shoot out to stop him from risking the fall.

“Laddie, pay closer attention to your surroundings. You keep getting careless ever since we reached the city.”

Frodo looked up at him curiously. “Do you know what would happen if I fell?”

“I would have to go and fetch the clever hobbit from the bottom of the cliff, and then we would have to climb it all again. Please, do not make me.”

Confident that Frodo wouldn’t trip, Thorin withdrew his arm and settled his pack at his feet. The rest had been good to him. His mind felt clearer, sharper. He felt ready to tackle the Blue Mountains looming at the end of the rocky trail. Their southern peaks were like grey claws in the sky; it reminded him of something else.

“Here is a surprise for you,” Thorin said to Frodo as he handed an item wrapped in cloth. “We start lessons as soon as we have the space.”

“Oh, it can’t be…”

Frodo unveiled his new weapon and unsheathed it, watching his own incredulous expression in the flawless, curved blade. The size and carvings made it look like it was crafted for him. Grapevines and ivy ran delicately around the handle, and the point hovered easily in the air when he held it up.

“Loegnir said it was made by the Deep-Elves. It used to be a dagger, but I believe it will fit right in your hands. Be mindful of the edge! I sharpened it.”

Thorin ruffled Frodo’s ocean-dried curls while the latter reiterated thanks after thanks. He had not intended for the sword to be elvish at first; in another life, he would have forged it. However there was a pattern to uphold, one that connected the youngling to his uncle, and also to himself. They could find meaning in it.

Readjusting the straps on his shoulders, he gazed westwards. Was the continent of Aman spared from the desolation? If not, where had the Valar fled to? Those questions did not trouble him much longer. Thorin would learn the answers in time. For now, he helped Frodo buckle his sword around his hip and exchanged a proud smile with him. They left the bay in good spirits.

Some hours later, Frodo’s voice broke through the dead of the night. “Is what Loegnir said true? That hobbits are not in the Timeless Halls? That everyone I ever knew is well and truly gone?”

“You and Bilbo will join them one day,” Thorin replied after a pause. “The elf was right. It is a hopeful thought.”

“What of you?”

“What of me? I will be right where I belong. You haven’t seen the last of me. Wait and see.”