Rivendell was as glorious as Bilbo remembered; it was as welcoming, as well, which was proving to be more impressive feature of the two, considering the effort the dwarves were putting towards making themselves terrible guests. The moment the hunting party had rode through the main gate with a party of thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and a wizard, Elrond had appeared in the main courtyard with an entourage of musicians, healers, and curious elves to welcome the motley crew.

Unfortunately, not was Thorin doing his best to live up to every elven stereotype about dwarves possible, Bilbo himself was beginning to feel rather unwelcome – perhaps half the elves were giving him quite intense stares with no effort made to conceal them, and three had turned so pale upon seeing him that they appeared on the verge of fainting.

Elrond, of course, gave no outward indications that his guests were any more bothersome or even unusual than the traveling elves and wandering Rangers that passed through nearly every day, responding to every rude inquiry and comment with a ridiculous amount of elegance and good humor.

Bilbo let his focus drift back to his surroundings. There was something soothing in the way that nature had intertwined itself so comfortably with the elf-made buildings, compounded by the gentle and ever-present rush of water in the background. The basic architecture hadn't changed in Ages, something Bilbo could readily confirm (it had finally been long enough that there was barely a bitter taste of ash in the back of his mouth when he thought about the ancient cities).

That relative inner peace lasted all through the various trials the dwarves put their hosts through, including dinner, despite the Company's obvious distaste at the food and the elves' only slightly better-hidden distaste of the Company. (Elrond, throughout the whole ordeal, maintained a calm demeanor. Having met his twin sons, Bilbo figured that dinner guests standing on the table and singing probably wasn't that out of the ordinary).

Then, while wandering about the gardens before bed, he rather thoughtlessly ran into Glorfindel.

Gulping, Bilbo tried to back out of the side-garden before the elf noticed, but he had already begun to turn around, signature golden hair drifting in the evening breeze.

"Don't let me frighten you off," Glorfindel began, then turned around fully and realized who was behind him.

There was a moment of silence in which the noise of the waterfalls became suddenly far too loud and overbearing.

"I'll just," Bilbo stammered, "be going, then, I guess?"

He was prepared to book it out of the garden and possibly out of Imladris as fast as his short legs could take him when Glorfindel spoke again.

"No, stay." With a great sigh, the former Lord of the House of the Golden Flower sat down on an ornate bench next to where he had been watching Arien set, his hair swinging in heavy curtains about his face. "It would be impolite of me to chase a guest out of the garden with the best view of Arien's journey in all of Rivendell."

Bilbo stood frozen for a second, and then quietly made his way to the bench opposite the elf lord, awkwardly twisting his hands in his lap. There was another moment of silence, and then,

"I hold you no ill will, you know."

Bilbo's head jerked up, his shoulders nearly reaching his ears as he attempted to compress himself into the back of the bench.

Seeing this, Glorfindel managed a little laugh. "No, no, don't be afraid." He smiled bitterly. "I really don't; I've been made aware by many different reputable parties that the actions you committed were not by your own choice, and had you condoned them, you would not have been granted your second chance. I know full well how the powers of the dark can twist minds."

He breathed in, then out, a great gusting sigh. "If it is not impolite to council you, then I must say: while Elrond may do his best to ensure the safety of everyone under his care, it would still be prudent to be wary, little hobbit, while you are here. Not every elf that lived through the fall of Gondolin has been as enlightened as I have. Nor," he added, "Are they as forgiving."

And before Bilbo could so much as get a word in edgewise, Glorfindel had hastily stood up and brushed right past the hobbit, leaving him gaping, and wordless.

That night, when Bilbo lay down in his bed, it took him until Tilion was nearly in the middle of the sky before he managed to fall asleep, the heavy breathing of a third of the company lulling him finally into the gentle darkness.

Bilbo dreamed of fire and burning ash and rock crumbling beneath his hands and a stream of elves running from the destruction of their home and at last, a sharp whistle piercing through the air and an arrow lodging itself between the joint of his wing and his shoulder and pain, sharp and piercing –

His shout roused Thorin, sleeping in the closest bed, who lifted his head up and said muzzily, "What is it? It's too early to get up, Kili."

When Bilbo didn't respond right away, he said, suddenly much more alert, "Bilbo, why are you up at this hour?"

Bilbo turned his head away from the window to face the dwarf.

"Just a dream. Nothing to worry about."

And with that, he turned over and pulled the soft sheets that caught on the gardening calluses on his fingertips up over his shoulder, willing the images of a burning city out of his head, relaxing his fingers from the claws they had curled into.

In a matter of moments, Thorin's breathing evened out again, and Bilbo's eyes began to feel heavy.

In the last seconds before he slipped off, he thought he saw a flash of gold swing past his vision, holding a sword in one hand and an oddly familiar short dagger in the other.

He resolved to ponder it in the morning, and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.