Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins of the Shire knew this day would come. He was only a hobbit. A hobbit, not a dwarf. No, he was not one of the stout folk, who dwelled in these cavernous halls. He was not important or grand in any way. He was in fact plain and past his prime. He was not handsome or suave. He was actually quite awkward with a love of things that did not coincide with dwarven standards.
Why had he done this to himself? Why had he agreed to stay in Erebor?
Even as he asked himself these questions in despair he knew the answer.
Love had made him do this. Love had made him remain with the family of his heart and with the dwarf he loved above all else. Love had kept him in these halls.
The wedding was a joyous occasion. Weddings almost always were. A commoner marrying the king! Who would have thought of that? Not most of the population of Erebor it seems, as almost everyone not within Thorin’s Company exists in various states of shock. Not the bad sort of shock, the good kind. The kind that seems to mark a new era for the kingdom.
He cheers when it’s appropriate, toasts when it is appropriate, and loses himself once more to the automatic functions of his body. Thank the Valar his manners are ingrained in him. That he can smile and laugh as hobbits only can, even when their heart is breaking.
Bilbo never had a chance. Not with either one. A dwarf marrying or loving outside their race was unheard of. There was a greater chance of an elf and a human finding a match than there was with a dwarf and anything not dwarf. It simply wasn’t done.
So he is grateful when he is rescued by the most unlikely of people.
“I have forgotten the way to my rooms. Show me.”
Thranduil’s hand on his upper arm is like a vice. The party is getting rowdier and rowdier and Bilbo was drowning because he could not escape without drawing attention to himself. Nothing in him wants to refuse Thranduil’s order. Bilbo is, of course, Erebor’s Ambassador with the fair folk. It makes sense for him to help Thranduil out.
And if he is half dragged out of the party by the elven king instead of leading him out, no one seems to notice or care. He is led out of the Great Hall and down winding corridors until he is unceremoniously dragged out onto a balcony.
The air is cold and crisp, almost biting against Bilbo’s flushed skin. It’s comforting, to be outside, even if it is an unholy hour of the night.
Thranduil maneuvers Bilbo onto a bench, sitting him down before staring at him with ancient eyes. The elven king’s mouth is drawn into a thin line of displeasure.
“You are going to Fade.”
The words are not spoken gently. They are in fact delivered in an almost flat tone. Almost, because Bilbo can hear a single note of grief in that cold tone. There were many things dwarves did not know about hobbits, and likely never were going to. That they were cousins of the elves, had elvish blood in their veins. That hobbits had a language all their own, as secret and guarded as the dwarves. A language of life and green things, a language given to them by Yavanna. A language that was ever growing, ever changing, as varied as it was the same. The elves knew of it, and some had learned it by virtue of being family. Even Gandalf did not know the living language of the hobbits. The language Bilbo spoke to the plants and earth to wake it from its slumber.
That hobbits wilted when they could not get to the sun or water. That they were so intrinsically connected to the earth, that one of the cruelest punishments one could dole out was to hide them in shadow. To take away the bright sunshine, to hide them from the dark warm soil and to lock them in stone.
It had never been a problem, really, for Bilbo to get the sun he needed in Erebor. Always going to Dale or walking the paths along the mountainside, helping to breathe life into a place so soaked in death.
But there was a final piece that the dwarves were never going to learn. The Fading.
The inevitable death of heartbreak that elvenkind and hobbits suffered. Sometimes it took years. Other times it took weeks.
“I know.” Bilbo didn’t stop the sigh that escaped him. Thranduil offered him no comfort, no hug, nor warm kind words. “I’ve got no one to blame but myself. Falling in love with dwarves. I doubt you’ve heard of things more foolish than that.” A self-deprecating smile with a good dose of humor at himself. Bilbo had been the butt of jokes and pranks too many times in his life to imagine much else.
Yet Bilbo found his heart settled, just a little, as the king sat beside him.
“Will you sing your Fading song tonight?”
Looking up at the stars Bilbo looked within himself. Taking the time to carefully examine his broken heart.
“No.” Bilbo finally answered. It would not be tonight, but it would be soon. He knew it.
“Good. Then you will have time to pack your things.”
“’Pack my things’?”
Thranduil turned his gaze back to the hobbit beside him. The cold and distant elf was frowning down at him imperiously, as if he was unused to being questioned. Bilbo found that it was the way of kings, usually, to take umbrage over most questions given to them.
“Did you think I’d let you stay here? We are kin, no matter how distantly related. Hobbits are blood bound to the wood elves and as such you fall under my protection. You are to pack your things and in the morning you will leave with my kin and I to Mirkwood. There you will have rest and peace until your Fading is complete. Distance will not stop the Fading or even slow its progress. What it will do is make it less painful for you.”
There was a moment where Bilbo blinked in confusion at the King. Then there was gratefulness. A warm spring of gratitude that welled up towards the cold king of the woodland elves. This elf was not the sort to be kind for the sake of it. This elf only cared about his people, and while Bilbo still had issues with how the elvenking had treated the dwarves after the fall of Erebor, it was something to be told that he was under the icy king’s protection.
“Thank you.” Bilbo’s voice was soft but filled with gratitude.
“Do not thank me for something all kin would do.”
Silence fell between them then. It wasn’t the bad sort of silence, there was no hint of awkwardness with it. It was almost peaceful if the tiny cloud of grief and knowledge of what was to come could be ignored. They stay outside, together, for hours. Until Thranduil finally bid Bilbo to go pack what he needed.
When dawn came Bilbo had what he needed. Sting, his Mithril coat, his ring, and a few sentimental trinkets and baubles he had accumulated in the five years since he’d settled permanently in Erebor.
There was no grand farewell given to him as he walked out the front gates with his pack, keeping pace with Tranduil. In fact few dwarves noticed their resident hobbit’s departure, most still sleeping off the effects of the party. He had left a letter, speaking of an emergency he needed to attend to and that he had to resign his position. He had willed his things to be given divided amongst the Company as they saw fit.
It was as such, like the burglar he was still often called, that Bilbo Baggins departed Erebor to Thranduil’s gilded halls.