the world is sleeping (my world is you)

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A/N: crossposting from ao3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/30431379

„You’ve changed, Bilbo,” Gandalf muses, leaning on his staff and surveying the god in front of him.

He remembers Bilbo, when he was but a young sprite trailing after his mother, making up new kinds of flowers and wishing the trees to be a bit greener. Gandalf used to entertain him with his fireworks. He also remembers Bilbo, taller than Belladonna and more handsome than most gods, capturing the eyes of so many, but turning down every offer of courtship and instead helping his mother and learning the craft of nature.

But now Belladonna isn’t anywhere to be found, and her essence has faded from the immortal world. Instead there’s Bilbo, still handsome – but in a different way. He wears a cloak whose colors shift, as if it was made from all kinds of old leaves, from the coat of the trees that are all around them. In his hair is a crown of flowers, always blooming. He smiles, an honest, soft expression.

“Good afternoon to you too,” he says. “You’ve been away for a long time. Even gods change.” He doesn’t ask Gandalf where he’s been, because they both know he won’t get an answer. “Would you like some tea?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

Bilbo stands up from the ground in a flurry of red and yellow leaves. He walks lightly, barefooted and soft – But Gandalf notices a few peculiarities. “Flowers no longer bloom at your feet,” he says, conversationally. He used to pride himself on knowing things before anyone else, and now he’s missed something rather large in the eternal life of his friend.

“They will again, in the spring.”

“Spring?”

Bilbo laughs. “Goodness, you’ve really been away for a long time.”

“It seems I was, yes.”

They don’t say anything for the rest of their walk. Bilbo’s home is, just like the rest of the mortal realm, covered in colorful leaves and dead branches. It’s a little more than a hammock and a table with chairs under a roof because Bilbo spends all his time outside anyway. Gandalf remembers the last time he was here; there was a second hammock, where Belladonna sometimes rested. It’s not there anymore, but instead, his eyes are captured by a beautiful ornament hanging from one of the tree branches – a flower, made of the finest metal.

The wheels in Gandalf’s mind are spinning at an astronomical speed, which is saying something, given that he’s a god.

Bilbo seems unperturbed by Gandalf’s inquisitive looks, and simply lifts an amused eyebrow when he pours him tea. Then he sits in the hammock, bundling himself up in his cloak – as if he is cold, or tired.

“So?” Gandalf asks, because he already has about seven different suspicions. He doesn’t want to interrogate Bilbo, but he will if needed – after all, one must always know what is going on, especially if he is a messenger god.

“Well, I suppose it’s only respectable to tell the truth, and there’s no use lying to you anyway.” Bilbo takes a sip of his own tea, then tilts his head as if he is a more mature god than he ought to be. “My mother renounced her godhood for the love of a mortal, and I got married.”

Were Gandalf a lesser, younger being, he would gape {Belladonna? Who above all loved her powers and her son, whom she grew out of an acorn- And Bilbo, the elusive bachelor, who turned down even Thranduil himself?}, But he has seen a good deal of strangeness in his long life, so he just slowly nods. “I offer my condolences for your mother’s passing, and congratulations for your wedding.”

Bilbo smiles again. “I knew she was happy with him, in the short time they had together. And besides, I still meet her. She visits the gardens of my husband from time to time.”