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Chapter Text

Bilbo never expected his life to go the way it did.

He’d lost his parents young, confined himself away in confirmed bachelorhood early. Just when he’d convinced himself he was content to live that way, thirteen dwarrow and a meddling old wizard burst into his home and he was swept away on the most maddening, dangerous, perfect, devastating journey of his life. He’d found his Heartsong, and then lost him in one fell swoop.

When he’d returned to the Shire, to Hobbiton, he’d settled back into his old routine the way one put on a pair of ill-fitting trousers. He’d grown too big for the small life he’d barely been able to handle before. He took more walking trips to Bree or Frogmorton or Bywater, anywhere he could find an excuse to pop off to. Even just taking a day trip the town over was better than sitting in his too-empty hole, waiting for the family he’d never have.

Then Primula and Drogo…His favorite cousins, gone in a boating accident on the river. Suddenly, he was the only one willing to step up and care for poor Frodo, his nephew of sorts. Finally, he had a reason to grow roots and stay put. But Frodo grew up so fast; Bilbo blinked and suddenly Frodo was 33 and Bilbo was old, so very, very old, older than Hobbits should ever be, older than his grandfather who was previously the longest-lived hobbit. The better part of a century he’d spent without his Heartsong.

He’d left his precious ring behind for his boy, not thinking anything of it. He thought his attachment had to do with goldsickness, that the illness had come to him from his shared soul. He never imagined that it was the mythological One Ring to Rule Them All. After all, he was just a hobbit, he was nobody. Why would that Ring choose silly old Bilbo Baggins.

He’d given Sting to his boy, and the mithril mailshirt that Thorin had once given him. He prayed to the gods that it would be enough. As his boy left on his journey, Bilbo had rapidly become more and more frail, aging quicker than ever before. A side effect of the Ring, his friend Elrond explained. It had pushed back his aging for so long, kept him living, and suddenly Bilbo’s mind flickered back to Gollum, or whatever the creature’s name was (he’d never asked), and wondered how long it had lived, how long had the Ring artificially extended its life.

The elves began making preparations to leave for Valinor at the same time that his Frodo returned. Bilbo’s lucid moments came less and less, and for shorter and shorter periods, until one day, he found himself on a ship, in a bed, his boy sitting in a chair at his side, and knew his time was up.

“It’s time, dear Frodo,” Bilbo rasped, patting at his son’s hand. “It’s time for me to go be with my Heartsong.”

“Please, Uncle Bilbo, we’re nearly there,” Frodo whispered, throat tight as he grasped Bilbo’s hand firmly. “Another day, maybe, Lord Elrond says.”

“And what will be there for me without him? I cannot rest easy without my ’Song.” Bilbo smiled softly. “Do not grieve for me, my boy, for I go to him now. And I will rest and be happy. Know this, my child. Know that I love you, and I am so very sorry for the sins I have burdened you with. You are my son though I did not make you, and I have loved you since I first saw you. I hope for you t find everything you’ve dreamed of. And, my son…Remember, there’s always something to look at if you open your eyes. Please, be happy for me, knowing I am going to the afterlife I’ve longed for.”

Bilbo’s voice fell silent and his hand went limp in Frodo’s grasp, and Frodo sobbed over their joined handed. “Papa…Papa! Don’t go, don’t leave me!”

The sound of footsteps on wood heralded Elrond and Gandalf’s entry, but it was too late, and so Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End, Burglar of Thorin’s Company, Barrel-rider, Clue-finder, Elf-friend, Luckwearer, Ring Bearer, Lucky Number, Web-cutter, Child of the Kindly West, Father of Frodo, Son of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins, Eldest Hobbit passed peacefully into Yavanna’s Garden, surrounded by his living friends and family.

Bilbo Baggins awoke on a bed of clover under a massive Party Tree. He slowly pushed up on his elbows, noting the lack of aches and pains in his old body. He glanced down at himself, wearing his old red travelling coat and skinnier than he’d been since he took Frodo in.

“Carefully, carefully,” said a familiar voice. Bilbo blinked and looked at the two people crouched beside them as they helped him up. “There you go.”

“Mum? Da?” Bilbo’s eyes softened as he saw them, younger than when they died, only about forty or so years old.

“Bilbo, my son,” Bungo said, wrapping him up in a hug before Belladonna shoved him out of the way to give one twice the strength.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you both dearly!”

When the hugging and tears and copious ruffling of Bilbo’s curls had subsided, Bella and Bungo took their son home to Bag-End. Over afternoon tea, Bilbo told them of his life, of the journey he took to reclaim his Heartsong’s people’s home, and what had came after. Dinner was sitting cold on the table by the time he’d finished, his parents’ eyes grieving for the troublesome life he’d lived. But Bilbo felt light, a burden gone from his shoulders, and with a young and able form to boot.

“Why do you look so sad? Everything’s got to end sometime. Otherwise, nothing would ever get started, and I plan to start by finding my Heartsong.” Bilbo smiled. He was in the afterlife, and so was his love. He was so close, he could feel it.

“Oh, my flower,” Bella said gently. “There’s only Hobbits here. No Men, no Elves, and no Dwarves.”

“It’s ‘dwarrow’, not ‘dwarves’, for the plural, Mum. And what do you mean, only Hobbits?” Bilbo sat straighter in his seat, holding his goblet tightly.

“I mean that ever since we’d been here, and I have traveled miles past the far outskirts of the inhabited After-Shire, I have never seen anyone but Hobbits and Our Lady.” His mum folded her hands in her lap, hidden by her skirt.
“Well, then I’ll just have to speak with Our Lady tomorrow,” Bilbo decided, nodding sharply. “After all, her husband is my Heartsong’s Maker. She’ll know how I can find him.”

That night, Bilbo slept better than he had in years, his old room recreated where it always had been, comforted in the knowledge he would soon reunite with Thorin Oakenshield.

The morning light slowly lightened the shadowed corners of Bilbo’s bedroom, joined with the light of a single bare candle-flame on the nightstand beside the bed which was made. Bilbo had woken just before the sun had broken oven the horizon, laying out a rucksack and his travelling things. His parents had explained how the afterlife worked – they didn’t necessarily need food or water, but they still got dirty, or tired, they could still get scrapes or cuts just not fatal wounds or scars. Bilbo wasn’t sure what the outcome of his talk with Lady Yavanna would bring, but he was preparing for any eventualities.

He heard his Mum start on breakfast in the kitchen nearby and methodically folded everything away into his bag, laying it, his travelling cloak, and his walking staff just next to his bedroom door before heading out to the kitchen to help. Together, he and his Mum made breakfast while his father joined and watched them contentedly, sitting with tea and a book in his armchair by the window. Together, they sat in the breakfast nook near the hearth and quietly ate, soaking in a morning together again. Then Bilbo and his father washed the dishes and put them away in the cabinets just like he’d done as a tween.

Finally, Bilbo could put it off no longer. He went back to his room and donned his travelling cloak. He hoisted up his pack and brought it and his walking stick to the big, round front door of Bag-End, then found his parents in his father’s study.

“Mum, Da, it’s time for me to set off. I’ve spent nearly my entire life without my Heartsong and I won’t be able to sit around any longer counting the minutes without him.” Bella smiled at her son knowingly. She had lived for a few years after Bungo had passed and she knew the feeling. “Where do I go to find Our Lady?”

So Bella told him of Yavanna’s special Garden on the edges of the After-Shire, of how to find it, and how it was maybe a week or so away. Bilbo had taken the map Bungo had passed him, written in his Da’s familiar smooth scrawl. While Bilbo found the best and most direct route to get to Lady Yavanna’s Garden, Bella rushed to the larder to pack travel-ready foods, things that would keep or cook easy under on the road.

Bilbo tucked the food away in his pack and lifted it onto his back, hugged both of his parents goodbye with tears shimmering on his cheeks, and left without looking back as the sun rose over the hills beyond their little swath of Shire.

Chapter Text

Bilbo walked and walked, for as long as he could, well into the night and back into the day, only catching a couple hours rest on the side of the road every other day as he determinedly trekked across hill and dale, certain he was nearly to the heart of Yavanna’s domain. Eventually, five days into his travels, the towns thinned out and all he could see were open fields and plains, and a small cottage with an orchard cupping it in the distance. This, Bilbo surmised, must be Lady Yavanna’s home. Bilbo made sure he was presentable as he could be after nearly a week on the road, then trudged onward, ready to take the next step to finding Thorin.

He approached the front Garden respectfully, called out, “Lady Yavanna? Are you here?”

A hobbitish voice called back, “Coming, my child!” and a curly head of hair popped out from the rows of tomato vines. Bilbo waited patiently as the Lady came out of the Garden, a gentle smile on her weary but glowing face, her bronzed ringlets attempting to escape from the scarf they were tied up in to keep from her face. Her blue eyes shined happily as she saw him. “Bilbo Baggins! I thought I heard that you’d arrived!”

“My Lady!” Bilbo blustered, bowing courteously.

“None of that, my child. Come, come. I’ll get us a nice, cool pitcher of lemonade and you can tell me what brings you here so soon into your afterlife.” Lady Yavanna had them sitting on the porch with refreshments fairly swiftly, and with little prompting, Bilbo told her the same tale he’d told Bungo and Belladonna.

“If I hadn’t looked in on you a few times, I would have thought it was just a story,” Lady Yavanna commented in wonder when he come to the end of his life.

“Well, we’re all just stories, in the end. But we made it a damn good one, eh?” Bilbo looked out at Yavanna’s creations with joy. He really did have a good life in the end, even if it was missing something.

“Yes, yes, I suppose we are. And you sound like you’ve had the most fantastic life a Hobbit could have, haven’t you? So, what have you come for?” Yavanna asked, clasping her hands together. “If I can grant it, I will.”

“My Heartsong, Thorin… How do I find him again?” Bilbo turned to look at his goddess.

Yavanna’s eyes grew dim for a moment. “I’m sorry. Hobbits come here and Dwarrow go to my husband’s Halls. And never again the twain shall meet.”

“No, I refuse to believe that, my Lady,” Bilbo said, shaking his head in frustration. “How do you go to your husband’s domain, then?”

“Eru blocked the way years ago, as punishment for what we did to you and to your Heartsong, by joining your souls. I’m so sorry, my child. This is our fault.” Yavanna’s hands trembled in her lap, eyes wet with soon flowing tears.

Bilbo was silent a moment, pondering. “Well, how did he block it?”

“There were stairs around the back that led down to Mahal’s domain, but Eru covered them in stone so I could never walk down them again. My husband couldn’t come up them; the walls were too narrow and the ceilings too low.” She sighed as she looked off into her lands; memories of her time with her husband were painful and closely cherished.

“Then we’ll just have to break through on our end,” Bilbo stated decisively, standing and dusting off his trousers. “Well, better get to work.”

It took a month of hard labor, but Bilbo got through the stone. He’d had to commission the local hobbit smith for pickaxes and chisels and hammers, and broke almost all of them before he’d finally removed all the stone encasing Yavanna’s entrance to her husband’s domain. Bilbo finally stood, filtering out his filthy, sweaty appearance as he called out, “Yavanna, come quick!”

Over the month it had taken, Bilbo found Yavanna a casual, friendly sort. Like most hobbits, she cared about plants, food, and simple comforts. She was so unlike what one would expect of a god or goddess, right down to her asking for Bilbo to call her simply Yavanna, or the fact that her flowing white dress was stained reddish-brown with dirt at the hem and cuffs from the daily work she did amongst her plants. “Are you through?” Yavanna asked with desperate impatience.

“We are! We’re through!” Yavanna grasped Bilbo’s hands and the two twirled around in a circle, shrieking gayly at the long awaited chance. “We must go quickly, though, before The One finds out.”

“What are we waiting for then, Bilbo? Let’s go!” With one hand still in her grasp, she led her child down the steps to the Halls of Mahal. After a minute or two, Yavanna slowed to the sound of stone being chipped away. “Wait a moment, we’re not even halfway down? What’s that sound?”

The two continued more cautiously, watching as light began filtering up from below, a flickering flame-born light unlike the blazing sun only dozens of steps above them. Then the two began to hear humming, deep and resonating within the roughly hewn rock around them. Yavanna gasped.

“Mahal, my love!” she called out to the voice below. “Husband, is that you?”

The chiseling and humming stopped. “Yavanna? Am I hallucinating once more?”

Yavanna dropped Bilbo’s hand and dashed down the stairs without another second of hesitation. Bilbo followed hurriedly, not wanting to be left too far behind. He heard the clattering of tools and the soft sobs of his Lady as she was caught by Mahal’s arms, having launched herself down the last few steps to meet him. Bilbo stayed a few steps up, looking around to see that Mahal had been carving his way through the stone, widening, heightening, perfecting the simple, rustic passage as he went. The lower portion that he’d completed looked like what Bilbo expected of dwarven craft, so unlike the original existing section they’d already come through.

Eventually, Yavanna calmed down, sniffling out, “I missed you dearly, my Heartsong.”

“And I, you, my One,” Mahal replied gently, and Bilbo could see something of Thorin in the corners of his eyes and smile and it pulled at his own Heart. He hissed shakily at the pain and Mahal’s face changed to one very much like Thorin’s when he was hiding his uncertainty. “And who is this?”

“Love, this is Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins. He’s the one who figured out how to break through the stone around the entrance to my Garden. Bilbo, come, my child.” Yavanna held a hand out, gesturing Bilbo down to the wider area.

“Come, hobbit, tell me. You truly did this for my wife?”

“Well, her and myself, I suppose,” Bilbo said, drawing himself up and planting himself firmly as he made eye contact with the dwarven god. “I came in search of my Heartsong. I heard that the hobbits above never have seen other races in the After-Shire and I refused to believe I must spend my afterlife without the dwarf I love, not when I had to spend my life without him.”

“I can understand that,” Mahal said, looking around at his tools and the buckets of debris he had piled the discarded rock into. “Come, I’ll bring you to the entrance to my Halls, and you can search for him.”

Bilbo squeaked, looking down at his horrendous state and hastily patted what dust and stone he could away. “Oh, dear me, I’m a mess.”

“Bilbo, dear heart, you spent a year mostly filthy, the both of you. I don’t think he’ll care that you look like you were just working with stone, which you were,” Yavanna giggled.

 Bilbo’s shoulders dropped and he pouted. “Still, it’s the principle of the thing. Besides, what if…what if I’m overstepping?”

“My stone-child will not care what you look like when you come before him, just that you have,” Mahal interjected. Bilbo assessed him for a moment then accepted the judgement.

“As you say, Lord Mahal,” he agreed genially. “Well, then, where do I go?”

Chapter Text

Mahal accompanied him as far as the door to the Erebor of Deep, as it was called in the afterlife, letting Bilbo know that he would find his One somewhere in the depths beyond the big, open golden gates. Steeling himself, Bilbo walked confidently through the gates. He only made it about a dozen feet before someone shouted “Halt!”

“Did I do something wrong, guardsman?” Bilbo asked, realizing there were two token guards posted at the gate.

“Well, no, but what are you? This is the afterlife for dwarrow of Erebor.”

“I know that,” Bilbo said impatiently. “Lord Mahal led me here himself. And I, good sir, am a Hobbit of the Shire. My Lady Yavanna, your Lord’s wife, assisted me in searching out Lord Mahal’s Halls.”

“My apologies, hobbit. Are you looking for someone? Can I direct you somewhere?”

“Great, thanks. I want to find a dwarf. Well, thirteen dwarrow. I mean, specific ones. I didn’t just wake up this morning with a craving. Thorin Oakenshield, and his Company. I’ve been trying to find them for over a month now. I have a bone to pick with himself. Seriously, who goes and dies right after he acknowledges his One, by the gods!” Bilbo threw his hands up, having worked himself into a tizzy from the anxiety stirring itself into a pit in his stomach.

“Did I hear our burglar?” came a friendly voice. Bilbo turned suddenly to see Bofur, standing there livelier than he’d seen in years. “Bilbo Baggins, as sharp as ever, and what a welcome sight, my friend!”

Bilbo ran and met Bofur in a bittersweet hug. “I’ve missed you, dear friend,” Bilbo said. “My goddess, I’ve missed you all.”

Bofur led Bilbo down wide passageways that were much cleaner than the ones he’d seen in the weeks between reclaiming Erebor and returning to the Shire. The whole time, Bofur told him about how the company had their own little section of the Halls to convene in, how Dis and Vili and Oin’s wife had joined them, among others. Finally they reached their destination, a large stone door with a placqard that read “The Company of Thorin Oakenshield” followed by a childishly carved smaller one that read “And Family” in handwriting that appeared to belong to Kili.

Bofur pushed the door open slowly, revealing that it was supper time for the company, and they had gathered in the great hall that comprised the entrance to their halls. Nobody seemed to notice their entry until Bofur put a hand to his mouth and let out a loud, shrill whistle.

“Hey, everybody, look who I found at the gates?!” Bofur cried out. One by one, they turned to see Bilbo, peering out at them tearfully from behind Bofur.

“My friends, oh, my friends!” Bilbo sobbed as Fili, Kili and Ori mobbed him happily, the rest of the Company drawing close. Only, Bilbo noticed someone was missing. He pushed the thought away for the time being, basking in the embrace of the family of his Heart. After a few minutes, they began to peel themselves away.

“But how are you here, Master Boggins?” Kili asked in awe. “These are Mahal’s Halls, after all.”

So Bilbo told them all his story, or at least from when he left the living world. The faces he didn’t yet know my face alone were introduced and he found that he knew many of them from letters they’d sent back and forth, such as Dis, or from memories shared by other members of the company. Bilbo finally met Thorin and Dis’ brother Frerin, and Dis’ husband Vili. Then, as the Ris and the Urs split off, then Gloin and Oin’s families, leaving only the boys, their parents, Frerin, Dwalin and Balin, things quieted down.

“Where is Thorin, then?” Bilbo finally brought himself to ask. One by one, the others looked to Dis, unsure of what to tell their hobbit.

“My brother is…he’s secluded himself in his workshop and refuses to come out, nor anyone to enter. He doesn’t believe he deserves to be happy, not after what happened on the journey, nor at the Battle of the Five Armies,” Dis informed him in the blunt but kind way she’d written when they were alive.

“Point me in his direction. I’ll get him to come out,” said Bilbo without a sense of doubt.

He found himself standing alone, outside a simple steel door, only minutes later, no placard or other sign to let anyone know whose door this belonged to. From inside, he heard a scrape then a clatter, like metal swept off a table onto the floor. Cursing followed and the sound of metal being picked up, clinking against each other as it was gathered.

Knocking firmly, Bilbo called out to the dwarf inside. “Thorin?” The noises stopped but he heard no further movement, so Bilbo repeated his knocking, “Thorin? My Heart, are you in there?”

Heavy footsteps pounded against stone floors, then the door was wrenched open. “Amrâlimê? Is it really you? Has my Lord answered my prayers? Is it really you standing there, or is this just another dream? Is it really you, my love?”

“My ‘Song, it’s me, truly. Less than six weeks ago, I passed away with my nephew-son at my side, woke between my parents, and found out I might never see you again, even here in the afterlife. I traveled across the After-Shire, assisted my Lady in regaining access to her husband’s halls, and spoke with him. He led me to the gates of Erebor, where I found Bofur and was brought to your Company.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo as though he was a ghost, eyes heavy and sunken, deep, dark bags beneath them. His lips were in a permanent frown and his eyebrows drew heavy lines into his forehead. His hair was unbraided and unbound, unkempt and unwashed. Bilbo noted he looked far worse than even in the depths of his goldsickness or even on his deathbed. Bilbo reached out and Thorin flinched back before stopping himself. Bilbo didn’t give him a second chance to pull away and drew his Heartsong into his embrace. Thorin’s façade cracked and he fell apart, huge heaving cries buried into Bilbo’s shoulder as the hobbit held his dwarf.

“I’m here, my love. I have you; I’m not going anywhere. And any Valar who try to separate us will have to deal with the wrath of my frying pan, understand?” Bilbo carded his fingers through Thorin’s greasy locks, gently pulling apart snarls as he came across them. Thorin snort-laughed against Bilbo’s chest, pulling back to look down at him.

“That’s a valid threat, bunnanunê. Anyone who has seen you wield your frying pan would know it is your most fierce weapon besides your wit,” Thorin smiled softly, eyes gleaming. Then his face shuttered. “But, ‘ibinê, can you forgive me for my sins against you? Can you still love me?”

“I will fall in love with you, over and over again. I don’t care how, where, or when. No matter how long it’s been, you’re mine, and I’ve been waiting, ‘ukrad.”

Without further ado, Bilbo cupped Thorin’s face and for the first time in eight decades, Bilbo Baggins kissed his husband, his Heartsong, his One, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, and for once, he knew everything would be just fine, as it should always be.