Chapter Text
"Noooo!” Bilbo’s heart wrenching scream echoed through the icy hills as Azog’s blade embedded into the dwarven king’s torso. The hobbit flinched at the squelching sound of Orchrist slicing into Azog’s torso in return. The orc and dwarf stared each other down until the orc fell to the side and off the cliff. “Thorin!” Bilbo screamed and ran forward. He choked on a sob, kneeling next to the would-be king. “Oh… oh…” his hand hovered over the wound in Thorin’s chest. “Just… just stay still. Òin! ÒIN!” Bilbo screamed despite knowing he would not be heard.
“Bilbo-” Thorin murmured breathlessly. His bloody fingers reached up to Bilbo’s face. “I… owe you an apology.”
“No… no no no. Don’t-Thorin-” Bilbo cut himself off as tears streamed down his dirty face. “You’re going to be fine.”
“No, Bilbo. You don’t… understand.” Thorin coughed up blood as he spoke. “You-you were my One.”
One? What did that mean? “Wha-Thorin? I don’t-I don’t understand.” Bilbo put his hand over the wound, trying to put pressure on it to stop the bleeding like he’d seen Òin do countless times on their journey. “Don’t speak. You-”
“I would have… courted you properly.” Thorin wheezed, his fingers touching Bilbo’s wet cheek.
Courted-oh. “Oh, Thorin.” Bilbo breathed out. It made his heart wrench and ache even more. He looked around them, pleading, begging for anyone to come help. The tears fell faster.
He’d felt the pull. That invisible string tethering them to each other since he opened his door in Bag End and saw the majestic dwarf standing on his doorstep. He’d thought he’d seen the dwarf flinch when their eyes met that night, and every time since. Every time their eyes met, whether it be over the fire while they ate, on the Carrock when Thorin had admitted how wrong he was about Bilbo. Now, Thorin didn’t flinch as they stared into each other’s eyes. Bilbo could see the light fading.
“Bilbo.” Thorin spoke his name one last time. His arm fell to his chest, eyes gazing at nothing.
“No! No no no! Thorin! Don’t-” Bilbo gripped Thorin’s chest plate, leaning down to press their lips together as if he could breathe life back into him. When nothing happened, he sobbed, leaning back on his heels and turning to plop down against the rock Thorin had fallen against. He screamed out in anguish. Then, nothing.
“Bilbo.”
Bilbo gasped, eyes snapping open. Above him was a bright blue sky with white clouds. Below him was soft, green grass, wild flowers dotted around him, a bee buzzing about. He sat up and looked down at his body. He was in the mithril shirt and his trousers.
“Bilbo.”
The melodic voice spoke again and he turned to see a tall, elven woman with long blonde hair and a white dress. She smiled at him gently.
“Oh. Hello.” Bilbo said and stood up to face her.
She smiled more in amusement at his politeness. “Hello, Bilbo.”
“Ah… do I… know you? I apologize, my memory is failing me.” Bilbo said sheepishly.
“I am Galadriel.” The she elf said softly. “What do you remember?”
“Ah… let me see…” Bilbo mused, wishing he had his pipe so he could puff on it. “I remember Gandalf. I remember…” he made a face as he tried to sort his thoughts “dwarves! Yes, I remember dwarves! And a journey to take back their mountain and-” he froze. “Oh. Thorin.” His face crumbled. “My-my One.” He fell to his hands and knees before the she elf.
Galadriel stared down at him woefully. “Bilbo. You have a chance to have him back, but you must alter the course of history.”
Bilbo looked up at her, tears streaming down his face. “What?”
She knelt down, putting her hand on his small head. “I can send you back to your birth, but you must make some changes to save the dwarven king and his nephews.”
Bilbo sat up on his knees. “You… have that kind of power?”
“No, but the Valar can, and will if you ask it of them.” Galadriel said gently.
Bilbo’s thoughts were racing. He could bring back Thorin? And Kili and Fili? He could have his One. What would he have to do? She said she would send him back to his birth. So, would he live another life? Would he remember what happened in this life? “Did I-did I die?”
Galadriel gave him a sad smile. “Yes. You died of old age, but a very unfulfilled life. A life without your One.”
“Will I remember that life in my new life?” Bilbo asked, almost scared of the answer.
“I do not know.” Galadriel said honestly. “The will of the Valar remains to be seen.” She took Bilbo’s hands and they stood together. She held his hands, smiling. “You can pass on and rest in peace with the Valar. Or, I can send you back and you can fight for your One. What say you?”
Bilbo pursed his lips, staring down at their joined hands. He had learned to be brave when journeying with Thorin and the Company. There had been hard times, terrifying times. He had nearly died on countless occasions. Could he go through that again? Why was he hesitating? He looked up at her, putting on a brave face. “Send me back.”
Galadriel smiled and pulled him into a hug. “Good choice, brave hobbit.” She released him with a pat on his head and turned, waving her arm so a stone archway appeared behind her. “Walk under the archway and rejoin with your One.”
Bilbo swallowed thickly and walked forward. “Wait… what happened with that ring?” He asked, turning back to her. He blinked when he saw no one there behind him. “Ah… oh… hello?” He whispered, looking around at the wide open space. “Very well.” He turned back to the portal, and walked through it.
It was like seeing his life flash before his eyes. He saw himself being born, his parents dying, living in Bag End, tending his garden and eating alone. Then, he saw Gandalf, the journey with the dwarves, fighting for his life and theirs. Then, like a punch to the gut, the orc blade piercing Thorin’s chest.
“Noooo!” Suddenly, he was sitting up in bed in a lavish, elvish style bedroom. It was dark, with only the stars and twinkling lights to light up the room. He panted and wheezed, eyes wide and looking around wildly. A door opened and a blonde, elven man walked in.
“Cŷrhên,” the man spoke and walked over gracefully. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on his head. “Another nightmare?” He asked in Quenya elvish, but Bilbo could understand him.
“Adar,” Bilbo sobbed. Ah, he remembered now. This man was his adopted father, Legolas, son of Thranduil. Thranduil, king of Greenwood, was his grandfather.
“Meleth nin,” Legolas cooed softly and gathered the tiny hobbit child in his arms. “It is alright.” He stood, cradling the tiny child in his arms and began to hum softly.
Legolas had saved him as a tiny six month old child when his parents were killed in an orc attack. Bilbo, elvish name Cŷrhên, had been having nightmares for sometime now of a past life, a tragic life. He’d lost his parents, his One, and died an unfulfilled life without his One. He clung to his father’s tunic, slowly drifting back to sleep.
Legolas held him a bit longer before laying him back down and covering him with the blanket. He checked the room for anything nefarious before exiting the room, leaving the door ajar. He sighed and returned to his father’s study. “His dreams are getting worse, Adar.” Legolas said softly.
“He is five, Legolas.” Thranduil said, waving a hand in dismissal. “Children have nightmares. You had plenty when you were his age.”
“I fear these are no mere dreams. I hear him talking in his sleep sometimes, whimpering, begging.” Legolas poured himself a drink and sipped it as he gazed out to the balcony of his father’s study. “He yearns for something, someone.”
“What does he say?” Thranduil asked, mildly interested.
“He calls for Thorin.” Legolas said.
That gave the elven king pause. “Thorin?” Thranduil asked, now very interested. He turned to his son and stared holes into his back, waiting.
“Yes.” Legolas turned to him. “Does the name ring a bell?”
Thranduil gazed at his son, his ancient mind putting pieces together. “No.” He said curtly and turned back to his scrolls.
Legolas stared at the back of his father’s head. It wouldn’t be the first time the elder elf had hidden something from him, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. He took a deep breath and faced the balcony again, sipping at his wine. He remembered the day he found his little son almost five years ago. He and his guards had been tracking an orc pack on the outskirts of their lands for several hours when they came upon them attacking a convoy of hobbits and men. They’d been too late to save anyone. A fatally wounded hobbit woman had begged Legolas to take her child and save him. Legolas took one look at the little six month old baby’s face and felt a tug. Tauriel didn’t question him when he took the babe into his arms as the hobbit died.
Thranduil had fought him on his decision to adopt the child. He implored Legolas to hand off the babe to a handmaiden to rear him. Legolas refused. He couldn’t bear to let the hobbit child out of his sight. He would name him, raise him as his own, train him in the ways of a warrior. Thranduil could see in Legolas’s eyes there was no changing his mind. He conceded, then Legolas smirked at him and held out the child.
“Hold him.”
“I refuse.” Thranduil scowled. Then, the babe made a sound and squirmed. The elven king looked down at him. Those eyes, a bright verdant green, locked onto his own. He felt a tug at his heart. One he has not felt since Legolas was a baby. He took the babe into his arms and scowled at his son’s smug smirk. When Legolas tried to take the baby back, Thranduil turned away. “Go. Find a room to turn into a nursery.”
“Yes, Adar.” Legolas snorted and walked away.
Thranduil stared down at the hobbit in his arms. He felt something was special about this child. He had been touched by the Valar. “Who are you, child?” He mused as he rocked his arms.
Bilbo waited until the door was shut. His eyes opened and he climbed out of bed, stumbling in his suddenly tiny body on tiny legs. He would have to get used to this child's body. He snuck to the balcony and opened the door, stepping out. He looked up at the stars.
“This is where you put me?” He asked the Valar, almost furious. “An orphaned hobbit being raised by elven royalty? What am I supposed to do? Thranduil and Thorin hate each other.” He hissed. “How am I supposed to get to Thorin and save his life? How am I to save Kili and Fili?” No answer would come, only the silence of the Greenwood night around him.
He sighed and lowered his face into his hands. Perhaps being royalty would give him an advantage. If his history was right, Thror had not yet gone back on his word to Thranduil. Maybe he hadn’t yet suffered from gold sickness. If he could get a message to Erebor, maybe he could warn them. Bilbo scowled. Of course, why would ancient dwarves believe the word of a five year old orphaned hobbit? Again, he glared up at the stars. What was he to do?
Defeated, he turned and stumbled back into his room and crawled into his bed. Perhaps, he wasn’t meant to save the entire Durin line. Perhaps, he was only meant to save Thorin, Fili, and Kili. He wanted to save Thorin from his heart ache, from his suffering. Huffing and glaring over his shoulder at the balcony, he curled up, he forced himself to sleep.
At five years old, Cŷrhên was already the star pupil of his various tutors. He got only the best teachers Thranduil could hire for him. He could often be found in the library reading, even outside of his classes. He wanted to learn everything he could to have the best advantage to save Thorin and his sister-sons. Legolas taught him archery and swordplay.
At six, he knew most languages by heart, reading and writing included. He didn’t play with other children his age, but that was fine by him. He wasn’t a child at heart. He was a hobbit in love with the rightful king of Erebor. He threw himself into his studies, learning strategies, history of elves, man, and dwarf alike. He was obsessed.
At seven, Legolas worried. His son barely played. He watched from the balcony above the training yard as Cŷrhên trained with Tauriel in swordplay. “I’m worried, Adar.” He said softly, hands behind his back. “Cŷrhên doesn’t play. He studies and trains. He’s seven. He should be off playing with the other children of Greenwood.”
Thranduil laughed softly. “Legolas, you worry too much. He enjoys studying and swordplay. I wish you had been more like him when you were his age. You were off getting into fights and causing mischief through the kingdom.” He said as he waved a dismissive hand.
“He still has nightmares. I know he does. He doesn’t cry for me anymore at night, but I see it in his eyes. They’re haunted, burdened.” Legolas sighed. He turned away from the training yard and stepped into his father’s study. “He’s not like normal children.”
“And he never will be.” Thranduil nodded. “He is special. He has been touched by the Valar.”
Legolas paused his pacing and faced his father. “What do you mean?”
“I knew from the second I held him, he was chosen.” Thranduil stood from his desk and stepped out onto the balcony to look down at his beloved grandchild.
Legolas followed him, alarmed. “Chosen? For what? What have you kept from me about my child?”
“I do not yet see his purpose. But he has a destiny forged by the Valar.” Thranduil said proudly. “I believe Galadriel may know something. Perhaps we should ask her.”
Legolas, still quite worried about this new knowledge, nodded. “Yes. Write to her. Right away.”
“Patience, Legolas.” Thranduil faced his son to assure him. “He has plenty of time to grow and learn. You and Tauriel are the best warriors we have to train him in the ways of swordplay and archery. We are giving him the best chance at life.”
“Best chance at life? He’s seven! He shouldn’t be thinking about fighting and his destiny! He should be off playing with other children! He should be coming home with bruises and skinned knees from playing, not training! Instead, he’s having nightmares and learning how to fight!” Legolas’s voice got louder the angrier he got.
Bilbo’s hobbit ears picked up on the yelling coming from above. He and Tauriel both paused and looked up at the balcony.
“Legolas.” Thranduil’s voice became stern. “You should be honored to be raising such a good warrior.”
“Oh? Like you were honored raising me? You said I am one of the best, but some days you can barely stand to look at me! I will not raise that child to go to slaughter! He is a hobbit! Hobbits don’t belong on the battlefield! They belong in cozy homes surrounded by comfort and good food!” Legolas couldn’t stand the thought of his son on the battlefield.
Thranduil took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to keep his composure. “If it is the will of the Valar, we must train him to complete his destiny-”
“We don’t even know what his destiny might be!” Legolas turned away from his father in frustration. “Or if he even has one!”
“He does! I am certain of it!” Thranduil’s voice raised just the barest amount. “You are thinking like a parent when you need to be thinking like-”
“Like a warrior? A prince? I may be those things, but I am also his father! And I will not repeat myself again! If you try to overstep me, I will take him away from here.” Legolas could see the fear in his father’s eyes at the thought of losing his grandchild. With the final word said, Legolas swiftly left the room.
Thranduil turned slowly to look down at the training grounds. Tauriel and Cŷrhên were both looking up at him until Legolas appeared and took the wooden sword from his son.
“No! Adar!” Cŷrhên tried to argue, reaching for the sword that Legolas gave to Tauriel, but he was picked up and taken away. “Adar! I need to train!”
Tauriel swiftly followed the prince. “Highness, what was all the yelling?” She asked worriedly. It wasn’t unusual for Legolas to be heard arguing with his father, but rarely had it been about Cŷrhên. They had nearly been a united front when it came to raising the little hobbit.
“The king has it in his head that my son has some great destiny and needs to be raised a fighter.” Legolas scowled as he sat the child on a table and began removing his practice bracers.
“Adar!” Bilbo was panicking. He reached for the bracers to put them back on, but they were handed off to Tauriel. “I do! I do have a grand destiny!”
Legolas stopped to raise an eyebrow at his son. “What has Adar been saying to you?” He asked curiously, almost furiously. If his father has been putting ideas into his son’s head-
“It wasn’t adar en adar! It was-” Bilbo stopped himself. Should he be telling his father about Thorin and his ‘destiny’, as Thranduil had taken to calling it?
“Who?” Legolas asked, coaxing his son. “Who have you been talking to, Cŷrhên?”
The child swallowed thickly. “Galadriel.” He whispered, staring at his father’s chest almost ashamedly.
Legolas and Tauriel both looked confused. “Galadriel? But you’ve never met her.” The prince said with his brows furrowed.
“I have, Adar.” Bilbo lifted his head confidently. “In-” should he say the afterlife? Probably not. Legolas was already wound up. “In my dreams.” He said instead.
“Galadriel has been visiting you in your dreams.” Legolas said more than asked. Why? What could a powerful sorceress want with a hobbit, much less a hobbit child? Once again, his thoughts turned to his father’s nefarious ways. “Cŷrhên, I don’t want you to listen to anything she says to you.” He said sternly.
“Adar,” the hobbit whined, reaching to grip the prince’s shirt in his tiny fists. “She’s helping me!” He wanted to cry. Legolas was taking away his chance to become a warrior that could save his friends and One.
“With what?” Legolas asked urgently. “You’re a child, Cŷrhên. You don’t need to do all this training.” He placed his hands on his child’s cheeks, catching tears while his own tears were sliding down his cheeks. “You should be playing, meleth nin.”
“I have to save my One!” Cŷrhên sobbed. “I have to!” He banged his tiny fists on Legolas’s chest. “I can’t lose him again!”
The words struck Legolas’s heart. Why was his child talking about his One? He looked at Tauriel, who looked as equally confused and sad as he felt. He looked back at his child. “Who is your One, meleth nin?” He asked gently.
“I-I cannot say.” Bilbo hiccuped.
“Why?” Tauriel urged him, curious and concerned. “We could help you. If we know who it is, we can send guards.”
“He’s not here.” The child whimpered. “He’s far away.”
“Is he in the Shire?” Legolas asked. “They are under our protection. There shouldn’t be any danger to him.”
Bilbo shook his head. “I cannot say. Adar en adar will be mad.”
Now Legolas was truly confused. Why would his father be mad about who Cŷrhên’s One is? Unless-
“Thorin?” The pieces clicked. “Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. He is your One?” Legolas whispered. Oh. This made things much, much more difficult. The dwarves had lost Erebor a very long time ago. Now they were nomads, always searching for work, never staying in one place longer than a few months. Thorin was a very hard dwarf to find. Not to mention Thranduil had turned his back on the dwarves as Smaug destroyed their legacy.
The hobbit took a deep breath and nodded. He couldn’t help it if his father was so intelligent. “So, you see why I must learn to fight, Adar? I have to save my One. He has a tragic future that I must change.”
Legolas’s shoulders lowered as he petted his son’s wet cheeks. “Meleth nin,” he whispered. “You can still be a child. You can learn to fight when you’re older-”
“No! I have to become strong!” Bilbo shook his head vehemently. “You said it yourself!” He looked up tearfully into Legolas’s eyes. “I’m a hobbit! Hobbits don’t belong on the battlefield, much less wedded to dwarves! Dwarves are warriors! I must become a warrior that is fit to stand beside Thorin! I am his One!"
Legolas sighed, defeated. Tauriel put her hand on his shoulder. “His mind is made up, Highness.” She said gently. “He is no normal child. He is wise beyond his years. I know you only want what’s best for him, but he seems to know what’s best for himself already.”
Legolas stared into his child’s eyes. He had seen it for himself. He knew deep down.
“I am still your son.” Bilbo said gently. “I had a father already, but you are my Adar.” He put his tiny hands on Legolas’s cheeks. “You are raising me into my best self. You are giving me my only chance of saving my One. I still need you.”
Legolas’s tears streamed down his cheeks and he gripped the hobbit to his chest, sobbing into his curly blonde hair. That was what he needed to hear. His son needed him. His son was his son. “Alright.” He sniffled and breathed deeply, putting the child back on the table and petting his hair. “I’ll teach you everything I know. However-ah-let’s keep your One a secret from Adar, yes?” He chuckled wetly.
Bilbo giggled with a relieved nod.
At ten, Cŷrhên was the smartest child of his age. He awed diplomats that came to visit his adar en adar with his manners, politeness, and intellect. He went on hunting trips with Tauriel and his father, bringing back wild game and foraged fruits and herbs. He still learned gardening. He tended the gardens around the palace in his downtime. It was relaxing for him when everything else became just that little bit too much for him. He cooked in the kitchens, giving the royal cooks a break every now and then. Thranduil thought that was beneath him, but when he saw how proud Cŷrhên was of what he’d made for them, he couldn’t bring himself to question it.
At sixteen, Cŷrhên had grown into a fine young man, joining his father and Tauriel on tracking down orc packs and saving nearby villages. He got his first battle wound from a stray arrow. It embedded right into his shoulder above his collarbone. Legolas had been terrified when he saw his son struggling against the pain of pulling the arrow out. He very nearly forbade Cŷrhên from joining them on any more excursions. One pleading look from his son’s green eyes and he caved in. Cŷrhên was right back on his pony a week later joining them on another excursion chasing orcs.
At twenty, Bilbo was leading his very own group of elven archers and swordsmen. He was respected among the elves. He became Prince Cŷrhên, and Cŷrhên the Orc Slayer. No one knew why he had such a hatred of orcs. They assumed it was because his parents were killed by a pack of orcs. And while that may be part of the reason, the true reason was he was searching for Azog. Every orc he captured, he tortured them, demanding to know where Azog the Defiler was. Every orc laughed and spit in his face, calling him tiny hobbit, and baby prince. It frustrated him. Bilbo became obsessed with finding the white orc. Every lead he got from his scouts led to nowhere.
“Cŷrhên,” Legolas called his name gently, warmly like a father would to his child. He stepped into the destroyed library, looking around at torn up maps and defiled books strewn across the floor. “Meleth nin,” he tried again when he received no answer from his son.
Bilbo was hunched under one of the tables, clutching his hair. “Adar, I can’t do it.” He sobbed.
Legolas knelt next to the table. “Meleth nin, what made you so obsessed with this orc? What is it that you cannot do?”
Bilbo sniffled and released his hair from the white knuckled grip he had it in. He looked at the elf who had not aged a day since he was five. “Azog,” he spit out the name. “He killed my One.”
Legolas’s eyes widened. “What? When?” Had they failed him? When had Cŷrhên reached word of such tragic news?
Bilbo shook his head. “No, in my past life.” He whispered.
Legolas was confused for a moment. His son had spoken of his past life before, but he never connected the dots. “You are reborn.” He said softly in understanding.
Bilbo chuckled softly. “You gave me a fitting name.” He teased his father gently.
Legolas smiled. He settled on the floor amongst the books, crossed legged. “Tell me more about your past life and this white orc.” he said and held out his arms for his son.
Bilbo sniffled. “Adar, I’m twenty two years old.” He whispered.
“And I’m six hundred. Talk to me more about age when you get to be a hundred.” Legolas smirked. “A child is never too old to be held by their Adar.”
Bilbo sniffled again and crawled out from under the table and into his father’s lap, clinging to him. “It started one morning in the Shire. Gandalf the Grey came to my smial.” And so he told Legolas everything. From the fourteen dwarves showing up at Bag End, meeting his One for the first time, signing a contract that felt like selling his soul to the Valar, and watching his One die under the blade of Azog the Defiler. He told Legolas about stepping in to save the dwarf king from Azog amongst a burning forest while the rest of their company hung precariously from a toppled over tree, and then the eagles came to save them, and his One hugged him. He even told him about the ring.
Legolas listened to every single word intently, asking excited questions, and laughing when his son laughed, and crying when his son cried. He had never heard such an amazing tale before. “So, what happened to the ring?”
Bilbo shook his head. “I do not know. I have my suspicions about that ring. When I find it again-” he trailed off.
“Cŷrhên, what is it?” Legolas asked worriedly, caressing his fingers through his son’s curly hair.
Bilbo took a deep breath. “I suspect that ring was the One Ring.” He said so softly, glancing around warily.
Legolas tensed. “Sauron’s ring?” He asked just as softly.
Bilbo nodded. “I’ve been reading up on Sauron's history, and how Isildur never dropped the ring into Mount Doom. I do not know how Gollum came across it, but it must be destroyed. I believe… that is my other purpose.”
“To destroy the One Ring. There have been rumors.” Legolas mused.
The hobbit nodded. “I know. I’ve heard them myself. I’ve been seeing spiders in our forest. Not a lot. But enough.”
“When the time comes, come home and we will get you an escort to Mount Doom.” Legolas spoke sternly. “I will not send you on your own.”
Bilbo looked up at his father and smiled, nodding “Thank you, Adar.” He rested his head on his father’s chest and closed his eyes, resting for the first time in what felt like years.
At thirty, Bilbo has mastered nearly everything he could learn. Swordplay, archery, hand to hand combat, horse riding, strategizing, politics. He even forged a few weapons for himself. A set of daggers and his newly christened sword. He had yet to name it.
And a set of wedding beads to go in Thorin’s hair.
There weren't a lot of books on dwarven tradition. Dwarves kept their history and culture close to their chests, but Bilbo had learned everything he could. He knew touching hair was nearly sacred to dwarves, and that included braids. Beads in the braid often had different meanings, especially if the beads were specially forged by one or both members of the marriage. He’d been in a somber mood when he’d forged these beads.
Mithril was also special to dwarves. When Bilbo had read up on the tiny paragraph on dwarven courting, that mithril armor was often given as a courtship gift, his heart had shattered. Even in his gold sickness, Thorin’s love for him had shined through. The mithril shirt he’d presented to Bilbo had been his first courtship gift. Bilbo could do nothing but cry the rest of the day.
At forty, Thranduil presented him with a courtship offer. Legolas had been his liaison so far, denying every courtship scroll from diplomats, but Thraduil had cornered him as he’d come back from a hunting trip. Bilbo internally sighed.
“Adar en adar,” Cŷrhên whined and sighed wearily, not taking the scroll from the king. “No.”
“Just look at it, my child.” Thranduil urged him, holding the scroll out. “She is not an elf, but a hobbit. Your name has reached lands beyond our borders. She is a noble hobbit. You’re in your prime. You should be married with heirs by now.”
“Why do I need heirs? You have Adar.” the hobbit argued.
“Legolas is not my heir. You are.”
“Ah-what now?” It felt like everything had come to a halt. “Apologies, I think I might have gone deaf for a moment. What?”
“Legolas may be the prince, but he is hardly fit to rule Greenwood. You are far more worthy.” Thranduil smiled, taking Bilbo’s hand and placing the scroll in his stunned palm. “Look at it. Give me a decision by noon.” He urged him again and walked away.
All Bilbo could do was stare at the king’s back. He heard movement behind him and saw his father. “Adar-” well, this was awkward.
Legolas smiled and shook his head. “It’s alright, Cŷrhên. I never wanted the throne. As he said, I’m not fit to rule.” The elf prince shrugged. “I belong out in the wild. We both do.” He slipped his arm into Bilbo’s and they walked arm in arm to the kitchen. “Make me some of the scones you said your One loves.” He took the scroll from Bilbo’s hand and opened it. “Let’s see, hobbit not dwarf, female not male, no beard, and certainly not a king. Nope, she’s not for you.” He said definitively and tossed the scroll into the wood burning stove.
Bilbo laughed as he pulled on his apron. “Adar, you’re ridiculous.”
At forty nine, he bought Bag End. With his parents dead and their son ‘missing’, the Thain had put Bag End up for sale. No one bought it due to its supposed curse. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had spread rumors that Bag End would bring death upon the family that lived there. Why she did that, Bilbo would never know. And he didn’t care. He was grateful to be honest. He left Greenwood, much to Thranduil’s chagrin and Legolas’s knowing wink, and moved to Bag End. Stepping into the empty house was like stepping into a dream. Everything was dusty, so he cleaned it. The Thain had auctioned off everything, so Bilbo would need to buy furniture.
And at fifty, he sat in front of his smial, smoking his pipe, enjoying the warm spring morning, when a tall figure darkened his doorstep. He smiled and looked up at Gandalf. “Good morning.” He said around his pipe.