AN – I am thouroughly convinced that PJ read this fic and tossed in that acorn bit just to KILL me. Even though I felt like this story was complete, I think that bit of BotFA demands an extra chapter. So…here it is…one more heaping spoonful of angst involving trees and grieving.

I still own nothing. Enjoy!

Warnings: Canonical character deaths, angst. BATTLE OF THE FIVE ARMIES FEELS AHEAD. Unbetaed writing (as always).

Trees
Chapter 3: Oak
By Displaced Hobbit

The journey home was nothing like the journey there.

The journey there was full of excitement, of thirteen uproarious dwarves with wild senses of humor that infuriated him as often as they made him laugh. It was full of danger, and adventure, but the camaraderie he shared with his companions was all of the protection that he'd needed. Toward the end, it was full of uncertainty and doubt and fear, before everything was blanketed in overwhelming, suffocating sadness.

The journey home was quiet and lonely and sad. He and Gandalf encountered no trouble of the long road back, and they spoke little. He knew that the wizard was just as fraught about…that as Bilbo had been. And slowly, the mountains faded into the forest, the forest bled into the plains, and the plains curved into the rolling, gentle hills of the Shire.

It is home, but it feels somehow foreign now.

Gandalf was right; he is not the same. Gone is the Bilbo Baggins of old, who poured over his maps and books and imagined what the world outside the shire was like. Now he knew...and he was not quite sure if he was glad for the experience or not. Not yet, at least.

The halls of Bag End are empty, and the very sound of his feet pattering along the floor echo off the walls. It reminds him or Erebor, and he thinks he can hear the echoed whispers of Thorin's madness, the quiet pleading of his loved ones for him to return to himself. He shakes his head, as if to clear the voices away, and retreats instead to his garden.

Before he does, he takes the acorn from his pocket and sets it on the mantle. It hurts more to think on than he would like, so for now he resolves to leave it be.

He spends a great deal of his days outside, tending to his plants that had been left neglected for so long. Some of the beds were completely overgrown, and he busies himself with returning the garden to its former glory. Most nights he sleeps under the stars, so long as the weather allows, and imagines the twinkling stars as fireflies instead.

Slowly, the people of Hobbiton return his belongings to him (save for Lobelia, but he expected no less from her anyway). The interior of Bag End returns to its former glory and everything finds its place once more. It takes a year or so, but by the end of it, he almost feels as though he is home.

But then his eyes catch on the acorn, still sitting innocently on the mantle, and his thoughts drift to Thorin, and Fíli and Kíli, who fought so hard for their home but did not live long enough to enjoy it. He weeps that night, well and truly weeps in a way that he hasn't since Ravenhill, and falls asleep curled in his armchair.

He dreams of Fíli and Kíli and their infectious smiles, and of Thorin's eventual, yet unwavering, friendship.

The next day he finds himself back in his garden, sifting through his pots and planters until he finds a suitable one. Fittingly, it is blue (Durin blue). He fills it with the best soil from his garden, fertilizes it with the compost he'd collected over the last year, before bringing it inside the house and setting it in front of the large window in the parlor. Finally, he retrieves the acorn, soaking it in a bowl of water for a while, before burying it into the soil.

A few days later, when it sprouts, he feels the weight on his heart lessen.

He keeps it in the pot for several years, letting the tree grow into a strong sapling, before he takes it outside. He finds the perfect place for it, just to the left of his home, where there is plenty of sunlight for the tree to grow and flourish. The day he transplants the tree, he is a nervous wreck. He worries about squirrels or rodents snacking on the tree's fledgling limbs, or that the roots won't take, or that a swift, strong storm will uproot the tree and blow it away.

He won't admit it to himself, but he fears the losing the tree will feel like losing Thorin all over again.

But his worries turn out to be unfounded. The tree takes, and years later it is well on its way to becoming strong, sturdy oak, one that already braches out over his home like a protective curtain. He takes to spending his days under the growing tree, his back propped against its trunk, reading his books and writing his own about his adventures.

Some days, he talks to the tree, and it almost feels like he is speaking with Thorin again. He wonders if the dwarf can hear him from the undying lands, and the pain in his heart fades to a dull ache, still present but no longer overbearing.

He is sitting under the oak tree one afternoon, writing descriptions of the members of Thorin's company for his book, when he has an unexpected but most welcome visitor stops by. Dwalin spies him under the tree, and the smile the warrior gives him is warm and understanding.

"I planted trees for the lads in their mum's garden," he says, joining Bilbo under the oak's branches. "I had not thought that Thorin," his voice catches slightly on the name, as though he had not uttered it in a long while, "would appreciate such a gesture, but this," he murmurs, reaching out to run a hand along the rough bark. "This would suit him."

Bilbo smiles gratefully, glad that Thorin's oldest friend seems to approve of his gesture. "He told me to plant my trees," he muses quietly.

Dwalin laughs. "And you were always so good at doing just as he said."

He cannot help but laugh as well.

One by one, other dwarves visit as well. Bombur comes with his entire family, and the laughter of little dwarflings fills his home for days. Dori, Nori, and Ori come to stay for a spell, and it warms his heart to see how the brothers have come into their own (though Dori is still a bit over-motherly). Balin visits several times as he travels to visit his brother, who has taken up Thorin's old position in the Blue Mountains. Bofur visits and charms the pants off of every child in the shire, including his baby nephew Frodo, with his riveting, comical stories and handcrafted toys.

Bifur does not come to visit, nor do Oin and Gloin, but he does not blame them. He hadn't grown particularly close to them, though Oin does occasionally write to him to keep him updated on what was going on in Erebor. Sometimes, Bilbo dreams of traveling to the Lonely Mountain once more, but he never follows through.

It is a cold winter morning when a distant relation shows up on his doorstep with a young Frodo and tells him of the passing of the lad's parents, and it is without a second thought that Bilbo adopts him and takes the lad in as his own (perhaps because he'd seen how much love could be shared between an uncle and the nephews he'd raised). He always liked Frodo the most of his kin – he had a spirit of adventure, and was one of the only ones who found Bilbo's stories fascinating instead of preposterous.

In time, he knows he will tell the lad the story of the oak tree, of Thorin Oakenshield and the quest to reclaim Erebor, of Fíli and Kíli, the fine and noble princes, of Dwalin the warrior, and Bofur the toymaker, and all of the other souls he had come to know on his journey. For now, Bilbo simply takes joy in the fact that the lad enjoys spending time under its branches as much as he does.

And in the end, when he leaves the Shire and Frodo sets off on an adventure all his own, he hopes that he will one day be reunited with his thirteen friends.