— XXVIII —
I rise in the early purple light of dawn, before the Elves of Imladris begin to stir. However, I am not alone as I traverse the halls. Tilda finds me shortly after I leave my chambers, tailing me like a shadow as I gather things for our departure from this safe haven. My departure, but not hers.
She will thrive here, just as I had as a young girl. I expect her to flourish under Elrond's careful eye in my absence. Otherwise, I would never leave my ward.
The girl's arms go around my torso before I leave familiarity behind. I return the embrace, pulling her close.
"I want you to cause chaos," I whisper into her ear. "Don't let them get too comfortable with the fact you are a human. Elladan's weakness is his humor. Get him laughing and he will be open for you to strike." Tilda is grinning as she draws back, giggling slightly as she slyly sneaks a glance at my tall Elven brothers. I hold her at an arm's length for a serious moment before smiling slightly. "I will see you at the midsummer moon, Pîn Hëulo."
"Travel well, friend," she responds in Elvish. Surprised pleasure warms my chest. I pat her shoulder fondly as I turn us both to the waiting party.
"You learn fast, winimo. Very good, though you might become Elrond's favorite over me."
"I'm not sure that's possible," Elladan inputs, shaking his head. "Ada is completely set in his affections of you, nethel."
"Perhaps there is room in his heart for another such pupil?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow in his direction far below. I know he can hear us, but he pretends not to as he fixes his gaze on the rising sun over the peaks of the valley's rising hills. I exchange a quick laugh with Tilda, for she has already picked up on his elusiveness as much as I have.
I step to my brothers next, Elladan standing tall besides Elrohir. The latter falls back and allows me to approach his twin. I appreciate his gesture, for with all my love for either Elf, my fondness for Elladan has only grown over these last years. He has been a cornerstone in the very foundations of my being.
"Do not grow soft during your time with the Shire-folk," he murmurs in Elvish as he presses his brow to mine and his forearm lifting to cross across his chest. I mirror the expression as I answer.
"My future is with hard Dwarves, brother. I think I can afford a few months of feasting and relaxing in peace, don't you?"
"I still expect you to spar with me all the same when you return."
"Prepare to lose, then."
"I would like to see that," Elrohir shakes his head. I step to him, basking in the warmth in his deep, soulful eyes. Ever the dreamer where his twin was the fighter. He could probably read every expression that flickers across my face in a way I wouldn't be able to unravel my very own thoughts. We do not embrace, but his arm lifts to press against his chest. He dips his head once. "Travel well, sister."
"Thank you. Will you be here when I return?"
"These lands still need cleansing. My time is better spent in the far hills."
"With Orc blood on your blade, or studying the stars?"
"I can do both, you know."
"Very well. Safe travels to you, too, then." I hoist my pack, the last of my things that will join the pack pony that awaits me in the courtyard below. The rest of my party waits there, along with Elrond. I turn for the staircase, away from my family. Away from Imladris.
I don't turn back. Even though I am returning, I understand that every time I leave, this place will become less and less like home. My childhood disappearing like fog at the first rays of morning sunshine.
My chin is high as I approach Elrond. He does not shift his gaze from the sun. From the East, I realize with a heavy pang. East, and home. East, and Thorin.
"I look to your return fondly. Mithrandir will be a good counsel along your journey, should you seek it."
"Thank you." I don't have many words for the elegant Elf. Most of what I had wished to say had been spoken in the privateness of his quarters in the days prior. I gesture instead at the items he has blessed our journey with, the two pack ponies standing idly with the parcels towering high. Not just food, but fineries of Imladris as well. Books, wrapped in heavy tarp to prevent the elements from weathering their delicate pages, for both Bilbo and I. Khuzdul scrolls for me to learn the heavy runes and scrawling Elvish pamphlets for Bilbo. There are endless other trinkets acquired by Bilbo on this journey, piled much more precariously on the backs of the ponies.
There is a large Dwarven shield, a gift from Balin. Tucked beneath the shield are fine Elven clothes, specially tailored to his size, from both the Woodland Realm and Imladris. The more precious items, gifts from Thorin's treasury, are hidden much more proficiently in the packs. He wears his chainmail shirt of mithril and his fine little sword, much like I wear my leathers and Angolain. Prepared, ready for the toils of the long road.
The pale horse I have ridden thus far is pawing in anticipation as I rise into the saddle. He's so far from his home, just as I am. Yet he seems ready for these new adventures. Antsy to move out. At my side, Gandalf is on a similar horse. Bilbo and Bofur, however, have exchanged their horses for ponies. Bofur in particular seems much more comfortable on the squat, round pony compared to the long-legged and hot-headed horses of the Woodland Realm. The ponies are shaggy, hardy little things that trot alongside the horses with quick strides.
We start from Imladris at a good, brisk pace. While we allow the ponies to set the pace, they move fast. Quicker than I'd anticipated. We make decent time across the rolling hills, especially when the ground becomes soft with moss and grass. It has been many years since I traveled in this direction from the Hidden Valley, much less with my intentions set on the Shire. The last time I had visited the lands of the Halflings, the merry little folk of the rolling green hills had intrigued me. Perhaps more than I would ever admit. They were quiet and simple in their ways. Like Elrond had said, they valued the most important thing in life. They valued peace.
And if there was anything I needed lately, it was most certainly that.
"So tell me, Master Baggins," I speak forward to the Halfling on his stout little steed. He tilts back towards me, an expectant grin on his face at my playful tone. "What's your favorite thing about the Shire? What's the very first thing you will show your esteemed guests?"
"I love how green it is," he answers me sincerely, a pensive look crossing his face. "Though I suppose there won't be much of that now."
"Spring is almost here, Master Baggins," Bofur motions at the soft glow of color that is starting to blossom across the hills and the trees that our path takes us through. "I reckon it will be green enough when we arrive."
"Then...that will make it a year since I left Bag End," Bilbo muses.
"And what a year it has been," Gandalf answers, taking a great, long puff from his pipe. "You are not the same Hobbit that left the Shire."
"I don't think I'm the same Dwarf that entered the Shire," Bofur agrees cheerfully. As if the year has been an easy one. Far from it. I'm lost in thoughts of the East and a mountain I ache for. The idea makes my chest tug painfully.
"Will we be resting in Bree?" I ask Gandalf. He glances back at me slowly. In question, as if he expects me to answer my own inquiry. I have been speaking to him as if he was still the leader of this company. Was he ever? Through it all, from the moment we left Erebor, it had been me leading them. Making the decisions. Guiding the way. Whether I had known it or not. The Elves and Gandalf could have easily stepped in at points, made the nights go easier for us. But they hadn't.
All along, they had been preparing me. Allowing me to learn, to fail and succeed. Such a small example, and yet they were setting me up for a long road. An entire lifetime ahead of me. My chest swells slightly with gratitude.
"Yes, Dunedán. We will," he finally answers softly, for he reads the pleading flash in my eyes. I want to take these final days to relax, just as Elrond had suggested. I wished to simply feel the peace of the Shire and release the worries of my heart for many long and warm months.
We reach the Shire in the third week of spring. Even this early in the season, I can tell it's going to be a brilliantly warm summer. The grass is already a deep, lush green across the rolling hills. Flowers greet us as we follow the weaving paths of the Hobbit settlements. Through Frogmorton and Bywater, then finally Hobbiton.
Gandalf and I slide from our horses at the first signs of the Halflings, leading the pale animals on foot. It's a good thing we do, for the increasing amount of Hobbits and houses we come across are dwarfed in comparison to the Mereas.
As we approach the smattering of houses Bilbo pointed out from several hilltops away, his face falls into a troubled frown. I see what has caught his attention. Gathered in front of a hill, shadowed by the branches of a large and elegant oak, are a dozen or so Hobbits. They're clamoring amongst themselves, not one noticing our approach. They fall silent as the kick of hoofbeats grows louder and the shadows of the tall horses fall across them.
"E-Excuse me! That's my dining chair!" Bilbo starts forward, confusion wrinkling his eyebrows as a Hobbit starts to pass him with a piece of furniture lifted.
"Hello, Mr. Bilbo!" A Halfling greets. As soon as he says it, he frowns suddenly. "You're not supposed to be here."
"What could you possibly mean?" Bilbo asks, starting to gesture at his house.
"On account of you bein' presumed dead, and all. We've just started the sale."
"Well, I'm not dead. Presumed or otherwise," he mutters darkly. Bilbo pushes through the now-silent crowd, marching with as much authority as I'd seen Thorin do on several occasions. Somehow, it's more threatening from the Halfling.
No more than a minute later and the Hobbits go scattering, hustling in wide berths around us and the horses. Bilbo turns, hands on his hips, taking in the piles upon piles of belongings scattered in front of his front door.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes with a huff, "This is most unexpected. Completely unsuitable for guests."
"Don't you worry yourself, Master Baggins. We'll set it right again in no time," Bilbo glances back at us.
"That we will," Gandalf agrees solemnly, stepping forward and passing his staff to his other hand. I take the reins from him, pulling the horses and ponies to the side.
"Is there a stable or paddock?" I ask the Hobbit.
"There should be a pen around the hill," he answers doubtfully, eyeing the leggy grey Elven horses.
It takes a few good days to put Bilbo's house back in order. I find myself spending hours seated on the floor next to the Hobbit, flipping through the countless memories of his long line of ancestors. Paintings, old map sketchings of the Shire, lace workings, books. All of it history in a way so different from that of the Elves. The memories of Hobbits span centuries, and yet they value the quietness of it.
The hills of Bilbo's homeland have rich histories beneath the lush grass. I swear I can feel the rich soil vibrating with energy if I press my hand to it. The Hobbits respect it, and the land here thrives. It never betrays them.
The spring quickly blossoms into warmth, quickly inching towards a brilliant summer. More and more flowers spring to life each day, lining the pathways and floating down from trees. The birds and insects sing in a constant cacophony of melody that I learn to love.
I spend the long days relaxing deep in the rolling green hills. Exploring, resting beneath the gentle trees. Reading in a sweet, blissful peace. Finding strawberries in the fields, making my way through the grass barefoot and savoring how soft the ground is against the padding of my feet. Learning quietness, to tune myself with the trickle of the creek and the whisper of the leaves in the wind. During the cooler nights, I sit in the welcome company of my friends. Enjoying meals and the hospitality of the Hobbit. Learning Khuzdul with Bofur as Gandalf helps Bilbo with his Elvish.
"It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life," Bilbo offers as we make our way into Hobbiton to visit some distant relation.
"How right you are, my friend," I sigh contentedly, ignoring the glances of the Hobbits we pass.
They don't seem to appreciate my presence in their quiet Shire, but I haven't faced any outward rudeness. No, rudeness seems frowned upon here, though blunt words aren't off the table. At least, not when it's just Bilbo and I passing through. Bofur and Gandalf's presence makes them considerably more uneasy.
My fingers haven't touched Angolain in weeks, nor has my body been put through the motions of sparring. I neglect my precision and my conditioning, allowing myself to relax into this easy life. My body is far weaker here, yet I have to come to accept that. There is comfort in rising late in the morning and basking in the sun for hours on end.
A moon passes before Gandalf readies himself to depart. I half expect him to leave without a word, as is the nature of wizards. When the day comes, I ride with him to the edge of the Shire. Our two horses are reluctant to part ways, calling to each other until the familiar pointed hat of Gandalf disappears. Two friends, raised in the dark woods of Mirkwood. Parting, perhaps forever. There's an odd aching in my heart, despite knowing I will undoubtedly see the wizard again.
Another splinter gone from my heart, another friend in the mist.