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The moon hung low over the valley of Imladris, casting a silver sheen across the waterfalls and the intricate stonework of the Elven refuge. For most of the Company, Rivendell was a place of suspicious luxury, too much green, too many harps, and far too many vegetables. But for Bilbo Baggins, the beauty of the Last Homely House was almost painful. It was too beautiful, too quiet, and it left him far too much time to think.
Bilbo wandered the terraced gardens, his bare feet silent on the cold marble. He brushed his hand against a cluster of night-blooming jasmine, the scent triggering a sharp, sudden ache in his chest. It smelled like the arbor behind Bag End on a midsummer night.
He found a secluded stone bench overlooking the chasm where the Bruinen roared below. He sat, his small shoulders hunched, staring out at the starlight.
"It is a heavy thing, isn't it? The weight of a place you cannot reach."
Bilbo jumped, his hand flying to his waistcoat. He turned to find Balin standing a few paces away. The elder Dwarf looked weary, his white beard shimmering in the moonlight, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves.
"Oh, Balin," Bilbo exhaled, his heart slowing. "You startled me. I thought everyone was asleep, or at least still arguing about the wine."
"The others are occupied with grumbling about the lack of red meat," Balin said with a faint, knowing smile. He gestured to the bench. "May I join you, Master Baggins? My knees are informing me that I’ve walked quite enough for one evening."
"Of course, please," Bilbo said, scooting over to make room.
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For a long moment, the two sat in silence, listening to the water.
"You have the look of a man who is miles away," Balin observed softly. "Back in the Shire, I expect? By a warm hearth with a pipe in hand?"
Bilbo let out a shaky breath. "Is it that obvious? I was just thinking about my pantry. Not the food, strangely enough, though a seed cake wouldn't be amiss, but the smell of the wood. My father, Bungo, built Bag End, you know. He hand-picked the cedar for the shelves. Every time I open a cupboard, I can still smell him. And my mother’s lavender sachets... they’re tucked into every linen drawer."
He looked down at his hands, which were stained with travel dirt and calloused from his walking stick.
"I miss the predictability of it, Balin. I miss knowing exactly which floorboard is going to creak when I get up for a midnight snack. I miss the way the light hits the grandfather clock at exactly four in the afternoon. It feels like I’ve left a piece of myself behind, and I’m terrified that when I go back…..if I go back, I won't fit into the spaces I left."
Balin nodded slowly, his expression solemn. "Home isn't just a roof and four walls, Bilbo. It’s the skin we wear. When we are stripped of it, we feel the wind a bit more keenly."
"Do you miss it?" Bilbo asked, looking up at the Dwarf. "I know you’re going back to the Mountain, but... it’s been so long. Is it still home if it’s filled with shadows?"
Balin sighed, a sound that seemed to come from his very boots. "I dream of the Great Hall, Master Baggins. I dream of the light hitting the pillars, the sound of a thousand hammers ringing in harmony, the music of a living city. I remember the smell of the forges, the heat that stayed in the stone even in the deepest winter."
He paused, his eyes glazing over as he looked toward the East.
"But I also miss the Blue Mountains. It was a poor home compared to Erebor, cramped, cold, and a long way from the glory of our ancestors, but I grew old there. I spent sixty years looking out over the sea, watching the sun set and wondering if I would ever see the sun rise over the Lonely Mountain again. We Dwarves are a stubborn lot; we carry our homes in our songs because we’ve had to flee them so often."
"It must be exhausting," Bilbo whispered. "To always be looking back."
"It is a burden Thorin carries most heavily," Balin said, his voice dropping. "He doesn't just miss the halls; he misses the people we were before the fire came. He thinks that by reclaiming the gold, he can reclaim the peace. I fear he may find that the gold is the only thing that hasn't changed."
Bilbo leaned back, looking up at the Elven stars. "My mother, Belladonna... she was a Took. She would have loved this. She used to tell me stories about the ‘Hidden Valley’ when I was a faunt. She had a bit of the wanderlust, you see. My father spent his whole life trying to keep her feet on the ground, and she spent her whole life trying to get his head into the clouds."
He smiled sadly. "I used to think I was all Baggins. I liked my books and my garden and my tea. But out here... in the dark, or when we were running from those Trolls... I felt her. I felt that 'stupid' Tookish streak. But then I look at my hands and I see my father’s hands, and I just want to go home and apologize to him for leaving the front door unlocked."
Balin let out a short, dry chuckle. "He would understand, Bilbo. A father always understands the need to protect the things we love, even if it means leaving them for a time."
"And what about you, Balin?" Bilbo asked. "Who do you see when you look in the mirror?"
"I see a boy who stood in the shadow of a dragon and survived," Balin replied. "I see a brother who wants to see his kin settled and safe. I see a Dwarf who is very, very tired of being a wanderer."
The two sat together, a Hobbit from the rolling hills and a Dwarf from the deep stone, bound by the same hollow ache in their centers. In that moment, the differences in their height, their race, and their destinies felt insignificant. They were simply two travelers who were far from the places that knew their names.
"You’re a good lad, Bilbo Baggins," Balin said, turning to him. "The others... they see a burglar, or a nuisance, or a guest. But I see a friend. You’ve brought a bit of the Shire’s heart into this dusty old Company, and I think we needed it more than we cared to admit."
Bilbo felt a lump form in his throat. "I’m not sure I’m much of a friend, Balin. I spend half my time wishing I were anywhere else."
"That is the truest sign of loyalty," Balin countered. "To wish you were home, and yet to stay because you gave your word. That is worth more than all the gold in Smaug’s hoard."
Bilbo wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, trying to maintain some semblance of Hobbitish dignity. "Thank you, Balin. That... that means a great deal."
"Come now," Balin said, standing up with a groan of his joints. "The night air is turning damp, and if Oin sees us out here, he’ll try to force-feed us herbal poultices for 'lung-rot.'"
Bilbo stood as well, smoothing out his rumpled waistcoat. He looked at the elder Dwarf, the man who had been the most patient, the most kind, and the most steady presence on this terrifying journey.
Without a second thought, Bilbo stepped forward. He was much shorter than Balin, but he reached out and wrapped his arms around the Dwarf’s sturdy, fur-lined middle, burying his face in Balin’s white beard.
Balin froze for a split second, surprised by the sudden Hobbitish display of affection. But then, his expression softened into something profoundly tender. He reached down and wrapped his large, calloused hands around Bilbo’s shoulders, pulling the Hobbit into a firm, grounding hug.
It wasn't a kingly embrace or a warrior’s clasp. It was a hug between two people who were tired of being brave.
"We’ll get you home, Bilbo," Balin whispered into the Hobbit’s curls. "I give you my word. We’ll get us both home."
They held the embrace for a long moment, the silver light of Rivendell washing over them. When they finally pulled apart, Bilbo felt a little less hollow, and Balin’s eyes seemed a little brighter.
"Right then," Bilbo said, sniffing and straightening his posture. "I suppose I should go check if I left any tobacco in my pack. It’s a long way to the Misty Mountains, after all."
"A long way indeed," Balin agreed, falling into step beside him as they walked back toward the lights of the Elven halls. "But the road is always shorter when you have someone to walk it with."