Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins had grown accustomed to letters from the Mountain during the little more than four years he had returned in Hobbiton. The letters arrived two or three times a year, brought most often by travelling dwarves on their route to Ered Luin. They were always written in the steady hand of Balin, son of Fundin, and they told the news of Erebor’s slow and steady return to life along with news of the Company. Bilbo read them all faithfully, and always felt he should have written longer replies than he did - just that there wasn’t really that much to write when it came to life in the Shire, although he tried his best not to sound dull. But he kept all the letters, neatly folded and stored in the drawer of his desk.
From these letters Bilbo became aware that Gloin’s family arrived safely in Erebor, and how Ori had almost completed his apprenticeship - something Balin was very proud of. Bilbo and Bombur had developed the habit of exchanging food recipes (with the expectation of each reporting back on the result after trying them out), and how Dwalin had his hands full with the new guard recruits. There was the topic of the King, though, which he rarely covered in their writings, save the same formal lines at the end of each letter; how Thorin sends his regards and wishes Bilbo all the best.
But it was in Balin’s newest letter where he brought up the topic of the upcoming Durin's Day celebration; five years since the freeing of the Mountain, and it would be the largest celebration so far to take place in Erebor since the Mountain was reclaimed. He had kindly asked if Bilbo would join them then, to see how the rebuilding had gone and how it would indeed be very nice to see all of the Company together again on a joyous occasion. Bilbo had told himself, when the letter arrived, that he would decline politely and be done with it. And for Balin’s letter, that’s what he did, wishing them all a wonderful Durin’s day when the time of the celebration would come.
Then another letter came, barely two weeks later - this time one written in a hand unknown to Bilbo. Not paper, but parchment, carrying the seal of the kingdom of Erebor. It wasn't hard to tell who had sent it, not even before opening, but nonetheless it was hard to believe and the thought of it made Bilbo’s palms sweaty. The first letter Thorin had ever sent him, in all these years.
Bilbo resisted the urge of opening the letter right there at his gate, but after he had closed his front door and found his letter knife he hesitated, just for the time to take a deep breath before sliding the knife under the seal.
Thorin’s handwriting was angular, not so polished and smooth as Balin’s, but there was a certain gracefulness in it. The written lines were not entirely straight; by the end of the letter they slanted slightly downward.
To Master Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, Hobbiton,
I trust that this letter finds you in health and comfort, and that the Shire continues to treat you kindly.
Erebor stands in better order than when you last saw it. Much has been rebuilt, and more is yet to be done, though the work progresses steadily. The halls are once again filled with the sound of hammer and voice, and trade flows freely with Dale and the Iron Hills.
In a few months’ time we will hold a great celebration for Durin’s Day, the first in many years that may be observed in the Mountain as it was meant to be. Many of our kin will gather here for the occasion.
If it would please you, you would be welcome among them.
Your presence would be received with honor by the House of Durin, and by myself in particular.
Balin has written that the road to the Shire is not easily forgotten, and I have found the same to be true of those who walked it beside me. Erebor would not stand as it does now without the courage and counsel you gave us in darker days.
Should you choose to come, a place will be prepared for you here.
If you do not, know that you remain remembered in this hall with respect and friendship.
May the road treat you well, wherever it leads.
Thorin, son of Thráin,
King Under the Mountain
Bilbo read the letter. Then he read it again, more slowly.
He imagined Thorin writing it, his eyebrows knit together in deep concentration. There were signs in the parchment he had been considering his words carefully; in places the surface was scraped and written over again. The choice of words were formal - and Thorin, above anyone he knew, had the skill of sounding very kingly when he so wished, but... He began to wonder if it all was as it seemed?
Confusticate and bebother these dwarves, and their king was the worst of them all, making an art of expressing things by not saying them out loud! Sometimes, back in the day, he had been fairly sure he had once or twice caught up on what Thorin had meant, but now… Bilbo wasn’t sure at all. It was a perfectly polite letter and fine by itself, but Bilbo was quite certain Thorin wasn’t being direct. Or perhaps he had just been reading too much into it. Something… Well, yes. Something he had wished but never voiced out loud. He sighed.
If it would please you, you would be welcome among them.
Bilbo huffed softly, took the letter in his hand and sat down in the nearest chair.
“Would please me,” he muttered.
He smoothed the edge of the parchment with his finger.
He read the final lines again.
If you do not, know that you remain remembered in this hall with respect and friendship.
Exactly what Thorin would write when he wasn't going to explain it any further.
Bilbo folded the letter again. He set it on the kitchen table.
He stood up and put the tea kettle to the fire.
He walked to the window and looked out over the garden, which was in full summer lush - although now a bit dry the way that was common for the warm weeks after midsummer.
“Well,” he said to no one in particular, more like a sigh.
The road to Erebor would be terribly long indeed, even without the long stays in Rivendell and Woodland realm they had the last time.
And since Durin’s day would be late in autumn, travelling back in what would be the middle of winter would be very inconvenient, downright awful - he definitely wouldn’t do that again if he could avoid it. If he’d go, he would probably have to stretch the hospitality of his companions and stay over the winter. And it would mean he would have to be absent from the Shire for quite a long time indeed, and start preparing for the trip almost immediately. Oh dear. It would be so much trouble.
Waiting for the water to heat up left him pacing in his kitchen until the kettle boiled. In all honesty, it was probably too warm for a cup now, but tea helped with many things; confusion, uncertainty and unwelcome thoughts about distant mountains and kings who wrote unexpectedly polite letters.
Except it didn’t.
Thorin’s letter rested beside the teacup. He found himself reading the signature again.
King Under the Mountain.
A title that had once seemed impossibly grand for the stubborn, weary dwarf who had stood at his door... Until he spoke, demanding a burglar.
He tapped the edge of the parchment with one finger.
“Just a visit,” he said thoughtfully.
Durin’s Day came but once a year, and this year’s celebrations were obviously very important to his friends at the Mountain. And he couldn't deny he was a bit curious about what they had done with the place, or see for himself how they all fared. And, well, that included the king, too.
Bilbo took a sip of tea, now slightly cooled. Then he looked out of the kitchen window again.
“Yes,” he said aloud, this time with more certainty in his voice.
And not long after, Bilbo found himself writing “I’d be glad to.”
~~~~~~~~
First, Bilbo had to inform his neighbours of his absence - lest it come to a similar ending as the last time (he still had not seen a trace of his silver spoons). It stung a bit, to leave his garden after all that tending just before the best harvest time - especially since his tomatoes looked very promising. But the Gamgees had four children that grew like weeds, and the look on Hobson’s face when Bilbo declared he could well use the harvest of the Bag End garden if they’d just keep an eye on the smial and not letting anyone declare him dead this time, and save Bilbo a few jars of pickles and other preserves since it would likely be well into spring when he returned anyway, was well worth it.
Then there was packing.
He was, admittedly, wiser than he was the last time, but there were circumstances he had to take into account - participating in festivities wearing his travel clothes would be something he absolutely would not even consider. And if he was going to stay for several months, he’d need at least a few spare sets of clothing. And perhaps he should pack some tea for himself as well, for the road at least, that was something he missed so badly last time. And his notebook - he wouldn’t leave without it! There was packing, unpacking and several increasingly creative ways of trying to fit everything he deemed necessary into his pack.
Finding a caravan of dwarves from the Blue Mountains who wanted to reach Erebor by Durin's day was quite easy - comparatively speaking, at least, though it involved sending messages to Bree and waiting for answers -, and mentioning Thorin Oakenshield's company seemed to work like a very strong recommendation. Still he offered to work for his place on the caravan - obviously not as a guard, the dwarves had laughed (Bilbo had almost begun a scolding speech starting with “I’d have you know that I once..” but held his tongue at the last moment). Eventually he had convinced them that he was quite skilled in cooking, and it was something they all were willing to accept.
The caravan consisted of some thirty dwarves, whole families along with their old, many of whom had been born in Erebor, and their young children (some of whom were somewhat sad to leave behind all they had ever known), and dwarves and dams in their prime who had decided the Blue Mountains had nothing to offer for them. They shared the optimism of those certain they were heading for a brighter future, and Bilbo had to admit it was rubbing off on him. It was perhaps not a wonder that there were several dwarves who had known the members of the Company well - Sífra had mined alongside Bofur in the Blue Mountains and Nidi did not care to elaborate on how he knew Nori, which was telling enough.
They did not stop at Rivendell. Bilbo felt slightly sad about it, he would have loved to see Elrond and Lindir again, but considering how their last visit had gone (and there had been only thirteen dwarves then!) it was possibly for the better. Perhaps he’d drop by on his way back to the Shire, Bilbo thought to himself.
Until the Long Lake the scenery more or less remained unchanged, like nothing had even happened at all. That all turned upside down when they arrived at the shores of the Long Lake. The caravan grew quiet as they passed, and Bilbo saw the charred remains of Laketown in the distance - like the skeleton of a burned creature and it was really only then when the reality of them being actually very close to Erebor already hit him, and it made him slightly uneasy. His travelling companions were anxious too, but for a different reason; there were some complaints that they should’ve pressed on and cover the remaining distance as swiftly as possible, but eventually when Ráni, a mithril-bearded matron with bad knees, declared she would not walk another step that day the complaints stopped and they stayed at the lakeshore for that night.
That evening a raven flew to their camp, and balanced himself on a cart shaft.
“Well, I didn’t ever expect to be so delighted to see a bird”, Ráni laughed. “Yes, tell them we’re coming home.”
The bird cocked his head and turned towards Bilbo, expecting an answer.
“Yes, well, I’m here too, I’m… I’m coming.”
The raven let out a croak and flew away.
The fields outside Dale almost left him in tears - not because they were particularly impressive in their late autumn state, harvested and mud-grey as they were, but simply for being there; so mundane, so homely, an undeniable confirmation of life starting over. The outskirts of the town were still much just rubble, but in the inner parts of the town there were Men running about their daily errands, new roofs on houses, scaffoldings, brightly painted window shutters …and kitchen gardens.
And when they exited the town through its western gate, there was an unblocked view to the gates of Erebor. Free from rubble, all tidied up, bright banners flying in the wind, the road leading to it newly cobbled. Bilbo stopped in his tracks so that Nidi bumped into him, and clapped Bilbo’s shoulder.
“Isn’t that a sight?” he said with a wide grin.
“Yes.. yes, I suppose it is.”, Bilbo answered quietly, not looking at Nidi.