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The days after the Battle of Five Armies went by in a fever dream for Bilbo. After losing his pretty little ring to the dragon's fire during their madcap attempt at destroying the great winged rat, Bilbo had to rely on the old hobbit skills that had been passed down to him through the Took line. They had served him well, up until the great battle that nearly went tits up and right down the gullet of a band of orcs. Bilbo still wasn't sure how he'd managed to get to the young lads before death took them. The elf – Tauriel – had helped, he was sure. Together they had gotten the injured Fíli and Kíli back behind the allied lines in time to wade out and save Thorin, as well.
Not that any of the dwarrow saw Bilbo, that is. He had been far too focused on making sure none of their enemies paid attention to them to reassure any of the dwarrow that he was there. Not that he thought they'd care. Bilbo well remembered the mad gleam in Thorin's eyes when he'd been dangled over the wall. He did not want to see such rage and madness in such beloved eyes again.
(Not that he'd said any such flowery words to Thorin, before or after. Bilbo could well imagine how that would have turned out. No thank you. He liked his heart still beating in his chest, and even if it would have been ripped out metaphorically – hopefully – he still liked to live with a little bit of hope, no matter how delusional. Thank you and good morning.)
But now, camped out on the barren side of Erebor, watching the crews of dwarrow, man, and elf clean up the carnage of the battlefield, all Bilbo felt was...tired. Tired of his Adventure, tired of hope. Tired of seeing Thorin's rage in his dreams, and falling, each night, to his death on the gates of Erebor far below.
He thought about the warren of halls below his feet. He thought of the grand smithies and huge halls full of gold and gilt and precious stones. He thought about how late it was in the season. He felt a sudden sting of cold on his nose. He looked up.
He thought it was about to snow.
The Shire rarely got snow. Aside from the Fell Winter, a dusting of snow here and there was all they got. Precious to some, since it would turn the kale sweet, Bilbo had never liked it. He would bundle himself away in Bag End, closing the curtains against the chill, so he would not have to see such white fields spread out in front of him. The snow brought back too many bad memories. He would rather sit by his fire and read a good book, wrap himself in his mother's quilts and puff away on his pipe until it was time for bed. A late rising would mean he would miss most of the melt and if he cursed at the mud, ah. Most everyone did, now didn't they?
But out on the side of a mountain, with no tent and no fire, Bilbo watched the fat flakes come spiraling down, his mind going quiet and calm. He sat like the stone trolls, watching as the hill around him grew white, bit by bit. It spread out and down, covering the fields of the dead in fits and starts, heavier and heavier until nothing was left but a glittering field of white.
It looked as though the battle never was.
A sneeze exploded from him, breaking the heavy quiet. A second, then a third followed right after. Bilbo used the tattered edge of his sleeve to mop himself up. A quick glance to the sky told him that the snow was not going to stop, not for a while. He could stay there, out on the mountain, tempting his own death, or he could go down into the tents to find a quiet corner to hide and hope that no one found him.
He liked neither option.
Since the first would be a certain death, he chose the second option. He angled away from the dwarven camps, hoping no one saw him. He'd heard, after lurking near a clean up crew two days before, that some were still searching for a dead halfling among the orcs . He'd seen the eye rolls. He'd heard the muttered traitor that was spat into the dirt. He had no wish to be found by such people, but what's more, he did not want to be found by his once beloved Company, for surely that would rip the hope right out of him for a peaceful reunion. He could take the sneers from strangers. He could not stand to see such disgust (again) from the people he'd come to call Kin.
(A hobbit's declaration of Kin was a sacred thing. They did not speak of it to outsiders. Kin were people a hobbit would Adventure for. Kin were people a hobbit would kill for. Bilbo was rather certain that not even Gandalf understood what Kin meant, and of all the outsiders Bilbo had met, Gandalf knew their ways best.)
He found a tent full of barrels and boxes, most of them empty and most of them with the stamp from Lake-town. Some poking around netted Bilbo an armful of old sacks, a broken lamp, and enough space to make himself a little hole in the side of the hill. It was hobbit nature to scurry away into the earth when things hurt the worst. Bilbo dug a little deeper and padded the back of his little tunnel with some of the broken boards from the boxes in the tent. Some poking with the handle of what looked like a broken glaive earned him a little chimney. A quick sneak near the cook tents got him a half a round of old bread and some stew nicked right from under the cook's nose. Soon enough he was warm and snug in his little hole in the ground, ready to ride out the storm in style.
(Bilbo never did hear the stories of the ghost in the camp. Never heard the way his Company would perk up or demand answers from people who swore they saw a specter in the hills. Bilbo never saw the proclamation that named him a Friend of Erebor, for as long as he may live. Instead Bilbo curled up in his little hole in the ground in Erebor's fine hills, sleeping away as the snow hid the grit of death with the glitter of its fall.
He never woke.)