Chapter Text
Bilbo watched as the Grey Havens dwindled into a hazy outline. The great boat rocked under him, his old bones feeling every shift and sway. He was so very tired these days; the shadowy nightmares that had plagued his dreams for the last decade had grown worse, to the point where he had sometimes feared to sleep at night. Time was, long ago, his dreams had been full of dwarves – of a dwarf, in particular, and full of all the might-haves and maybes they never got to share – but the darkness that had lingered in his mind had taken all that away from him. It wasn’t until Bilbo had let go of the ring – the Ring, as it turned out and wasn’t that a surprise? – that the lighter dreams of a lifetime ago had started to come back to him.
“Uncle?”
Though his dreams had grown dark in later years, there had always been Frodo to consider and care for. Such a joy to an old bachelor in a large, empty smial. Once upon a time, Bilbo had dreamed of voices filling Bag End – but it wasn’t Bag End he’d dreamed of, now was it? No, it was always some grand hall full of stone and carvings and oh – but all Bilbo had been left with were memories, at least until a certain young lad came stumbling into his home and heart.
“Uncle.”
Bilbo blinked as Frodo’s concerned expression filled his field of vision. “Frodo, my dear lad,” he reached out and patted the boy’s cheek with a trembling hand. Lord Elrond hadn’t been able to do anything about the tremors, much to Bilbo’s despair. He could barely scratch out a legible sentence anymore. Erestor had done Bilbo a kind service in being Bilbo’s hands when he wanted to work on his unfinished tales. The ageless Noldo had been a steady friend for all the time Bilbo had resided in Lord Elrond’s house.
“Uncle, you are not well.”
“I am old, Frodo. That is all,” Bilbo tutted and reached out to tug at a long lock of Frodo’s hair. “Do not fret, there’s a lad. I’m in need of a nap, that’s all.”
Frodo was kind enough not to give voice to the thoughts that were obviously passing through his mind – that is, if Bilbo was reading the boy’s expressions rightly. Frodo reminded him so much of Fíli and Kíli –
“Uncle!”
Bilbo tried to wave off Frodo’s concern, but the younger hobbit’s shout had brought Lord Elrond over. It was all rather bothersome. It had just been a short, swift pain in the chest. There and gone again, nothing the matter, no. He was simply thinking too much on the past. That was all.
“I’m fine, fine. Do quit hovering,” Bilbo did his best to hurry Lord Elrond back into the company of his mother-in-law. Bilbo wasn’t about to dim his friend’s delight in reuniting with Celebrían. He was just so tired. If only he could have a nap!
“Stay with us a while longer, my old friend,” Gandalf took his trembling hand. Bilbo sighed, but tried his best to keep awake, thanking a rather solemn Erestor for the cup of tea the elf had managed to procure from some place.
“This will be just the ticket,” Bilbo promised the concerned expressions. Really, to be so worried over a little nap! He’d been taking the wretched things since he was a fauntling.
“Some brandy, Master Hobbit?” A shining fall of hair obscured Bilbo’s view for a moment. He looked up at Glorfindel’s grin and tapped the elf on the nose.
“Just a splash, there’s a lad.”
Glorfindel’s laugh drew stares from the rest of the ship – and a pointed glare from Erestor – as the ancient elf drew back. As promised, a silver flask delivered more than a splash of potent elven spirits into his waiting cup.
“Such a look, Erestor,” Glorfindel’s tone turned playful as he threw himself onto the seat next to the dark-haired Noldo. “You were the one who left room for it!”
“That was for cream, you imbecile,” Erestor hissed. Bilbo chuckled at their antics, wincing a bit at the bite in his tea. He’d been watching the pair’s strange dance around each other ever since the first year he’d set foot in Rivendell. The one – and only – time he’d queried Lord Elrond about the matter, the most respected Lord of Imladris had sprayed a mouthful of wine across the table.
“You –”
“Children,” Bilbo cut in. Erestor’s nose wrinkled a bit, even as he shut his mouth. For all that Bilbo knew their respective ages put his to great shame, there were often times that Bilbo felt as old as the Misty Mountains when Erestor and Glorfindel got into one of the more volatile spats.
“You need to rest,” Erestor muttered, looking away. Bilbo caught Glorfindel’s wince out of the corner of his eye and the crestfallen look that skittered across the elf’s face.
“And rest I shall,” Bilbo promised his friend before more could be said to continue the argument. He and Erestor had been joint librarians in Imladris until the very end. Erestor had even collaborated with him on a few novels they’d written during the long winter months when Bilbo’s joints grew too sore and swollen to move much beyond the Hall of Fire. Bilbo took another bracing gulp of tea and hid the wince as the brandy burned the back of his throat. “Ah, now there’s enough room for my splash of cream. Erestor, if you please?”
More cups were passed around, Erestor avoiding Glorfindel’s reaching hand, even as Frodo took pity on the poor elf and handed him one. Bilbo hid a smile behind the rim of his cup as Glorfindel poured a splash of brandy into Erestor’s tea when the other was turned away.
The urge to nap was growing harder to ignore as the world around their ship went quite grey with a damp mist. Bilbo shivered under the blanket Gandalf had been kind enough to fetch. Even poor Frodo looked under the weather; the elves, however, seemed to be unaffected by the sudden change.
“Just a little longer, my dear fellows,” Gandalf had somehow taken both Bilbo and Frodo’s hands at some point. Bilbo blinked a bit at the development. When had that happened?
“Bilbo,” a hand curled around his shoulder. That was Erestor. Why did his friend sound so worried – and when had his eyes shut, for that matter? Bilbo struggled to open them, feeling so very tired all of a sudden.
“We are almost there.” Bilbo squinted at the young man between Frodo and himself. Wasn’t that Gandalf, just a minute ago? But even as he struggled to form the question, his attention was swept away by the great mists surrounding the boats parting as if in a great wave and a far green shore appearing in front of them.
“Bless my soul,” Bilbo managed. He struggled to stand, ready to fight the pain of swollen and rickety joints – only to find himself on his feet with the swiftness of youth long decades had taken away.
“Uncle!”
Bilbo stared down at his smooth, steady hands and drew in a sharp breath. “I – this – oh,” he looked up at the young man who had risen with him; the young man wearing white wizard’s robes and wore a crimson stone on his hand…
And then Bilbo promptly fainted dead away.