Chapter 1

"Who is this person you pledged your service to?"

Bilbo froze, halfway up the steps leading to his front door.

"Thorin...Oakenshield?"

A lump grew in his throat, and he fought to breathe against the sudden tightness in his chest. Even if he'd been able to speak, the words still wouldn't have come.

What could he say? What could he say to this group of hobbits, who'd never had to worry about anything worse than a stubbed toe or a leaky roof, about Thorin Oakenshield—the bravest, wisest, most determined dwarf he had ever met? They wouldn't be able to understand any of it, not the battles, the blood, the tears and betrayal and danger they had faced together. How could he possibly put into words what Thorin had done for his people, what he had done for Bilbo?

"He...He was my friend."

The words were unsteady, an oversimplification, crumbling even as he said them, and it was all he could do to push open the door to his house and disappear inside.

Bag End was empty. Most of his furniture was gone, auctioned off to the hobbits clamoring outside. Bits of paper and rubbish were scattered about the floor. Distantly, numbly, he noticed that most of his books had been left untouched.

Go back to your books and your armchair.

He wandered through the house, feeling as though it was the first time he had been here, as though he was moving through uncharted territory. The living room was cold, the fireplace unlit, most of the chairs gone, but as he passed by he thought he could hear the faint echo of a low, haunting song.

Bilbo forged on. He picked up his mother's portrait from where it had fallen and placed it next to his father's, then straightened them both. He swept away the scraps of cloth and paper covering his floor, stacked up his books, picked up the handkerchief he had forgotten to bring with him when he'd left.

The noise outside had quieted down, meaning the crowd had probably dispersed (though Bilbo supposed none of them had deigned to return their purchased goods).

It was deafening, the silence that was left behind. Bilbo stood in the middle of the sitting room, watching the sunlight paint the walls a buttery yellow, and let the silence echo. He let it fill him up, the emptiness of the room, because if he felt empty then he couldn't feel the grief that had been on the edge of his consciousness, threatening to swallow him whole since the battle had ended.

One hand went unconsciously to the pocket of his waistcoat, but when his fingers slid across a familiar smooth surface, his eyes widened. He pulled out the acorn he had taken from Beorn's house and stared down at it, the seed tiny in his palm.

Plant your trees...watch them grow.

Bilbo could still remember it, clear as day—the way Thorin had grinned at him when he had told him his silly little plan to plant the acorn. In that moment, he'd seen clarity, like a ray of sunlight, shine through, and a small, foolish part of him imagined that he'd seen something more as well.

He blinked as something hot splashed onto his palm. Bilbo stuffed the acorn back into his pocket and hastily wiped at his eyes. He hadn't cried since the day of the battle (nor had he smiled), and he preferred to keep it that way.

Desperately, he delved back into the emptiness of his house, and began clearing off the dust that had settled on the tables and windowsills.

They hadn't taken his bed, and Bilbo was grateful for that. It had been a long while since he'd slept in one, and even longer since he'd had a restful night. He pulled the thick covers over his body and the Baggins in him felt a small degree of comfort at the familiarity of it all. He would put everything back in order soon enough, once he'd gotten back his furniture and his silverware and cleaned everything up.

Then he could go back to quiet nights in his armchair and hot baths and going to the market on Mondays. With a little work, he could settle back in his routine.

Bilbo rolled over so he was facing the window and, unbidden, the memory of the last time he had lain facing that window came to mind. He remembered how strange the quiet had seemed, and how he had jumped up and searched his house for dwarves and finally come upon the contract lying on his sitting room table. He remembered packing in a hurry and sprinting through the Shire, contract flapping in the wind…

He shifted again, turning away from the window. The silence had ceased to be a distraction. It only left space in his head for more memories to come rushing in—Fili and Kili lifting him up onto a pony, the smell of summer air while sleeping outside, how much he missed the sound of snoring dwarves.

Even the warm, soft comfort of his own bed could not abate the restlessness that buzzed just under the surface of his skin.

Bilbo sighed and pushed the covers back. It seemed rest would elude him another night. He stood up and shrugged on his dressing gown.

The moon was a mere crescent in the sky, and barely lit the dark rolling hills of the Shire, but the night was warm, so Bilbo sat outside on his bench and smoked the last of the pipeweed Gandalf had given him during his journey back to the Shire.

The hour was late, and there was no sign of life in Hobbiton, save the chirping of crickets and the light rustle of wind on grass. His smoke rings hovered against the night sky, silver against black. The stars winked above like fireflies.

"Fireflies. It's one of the first things I remember."

Bilbo nearly jumped at the sound of Thorin's voice. It was nighttime, and he'd been sitting on the steps outside Beorn's house, watching the lazy orange lights drift across the field. He hadn't expected anyone to join him.

Thorin sat down next to Bilbo, his pipe clasped loosely in one hand, his gaze still focused out on the field. "I remember watching them as a child, flitting about on the ceiling. In Erebor. I must have been very young, but the memory is strikingly clear."

He tilted his head at that, and Bilbo watched, transfixed, at the smooth movement of Thorin's hair sliding against his shoulder, the streaks of silver against black. His profile was striking against the light of the moon, the pearly light shining just so on the sharp line of his nose, his cheekbones.

Bilbo realized he was staring and cleared his throat, turning back to the field. "I used to chase them around, as a child. Used to pretend I was on an adventure, running around through the trees." He let out a soft laugh. "And look at me now."

Thorin turned to him, and Bilbo felt heat creep up onto his neck. He kept his gaze on the amber glints in front of him, though he could so clearly picture the intensity of the dwarf's stare, the azure color of his eyes.

He could still picture it. Bilbo closed his eyes, and he was back at Beorn's house, breathing in the aroma of pipe-weed smoke and listening to the smooth, deep sound of Thorin's voice.

A warm breeze drifted across the hill, carrying with it the freshness of summer grass and the sweet scent of marigolds. Bilbo opened his eyes and turned his head, half-expecting to see the dwarf sitting beside him, his own pipe in hand, but of course there was no one.

You're being a fool, Bilbo. He frowned to himself and tapped the ash out of his pipe, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. He slipped the pipe back into the pocket of his dressing gown, and paused as it knocked against something else.

The acorn. Bilbo withdrew the object from his pocket and stared at the little thing. How had it gotten into his dressing gown? The seed sat there innocently, its shiny brown surface reflecting a sliver of moonlight.

One day it'll grow. And everytime I look at it, I'll remember…

He would remember all of it—the good, the bad, the snoring dwarves and the giant spiders. There was no use in denying that. Bilbo stood up, brushed a stray bit of ash off his dressing gown, and marched back inside.

A moment later, he returned with the acorn and a trowel he'd dug up from one of the back rooms. He climbed the hill, wielding the two objects like he was marching into battle with Sting.

The earth was rich and dark as he broke it, digging a small, round hole at the peak of the hill. Gently, he laid the acorn on its side in the center, and scooped dirt back over it. He stared at the spot of dirt for a while, as though hoping to see a tiny shoot sprout from the soil.

It would take years to grow. And perhaps, with each one, the act of remembering would grow a little easier.

Bilbo brushed the dirt off of his hands and went back inside.

He didn't sleep well.

For once, his nightmares were not of Ravenhill, or the wall, or even of Mirkwood. In his dream, Bilbo stood in the middle of Hobbiton and watched everything wither. The grass shriveled and turned brown, the crops rotted and fell apart, and the stream dried up. He ran up the hill towards his acorn, slipping on dead grass, desperate to see if the tiny seed could still be saved.

Before he could reach the top, a gust of biting wind knocked him over, and Bilbo felt snow on his fingertips as a wall of winter swept across the hill, drowning everything in white and cold and death.

It had been terrifying at the time, but the dream seemed like more of a distant memory as he stood in his kitchen with a cup of tea. The brew, made from leaves he'd found stashed in the back of his nearly empty pantry, was hot and comforting and immediately banished any thoughts of winter and wither from his mind.

Of course, that didn't change the fact that he was standing in his kitchen, all of the furniture having been taken, and he was having nothing but tea for breakfast, which obviously wouldn't do. So after another mug, he dressed himself and went down to the market to get started on the process of restocking his pantry.

The trip to the market was uneventful, notwithstanding the curious and sometimes cautious glances he received from his neighbors. That was all to be expected, what with his being presumed dead and such. He had the money to pay for what he needed, and that was enough to get him through.

The matter of his furniture would have to wait for now. After all, there was hardly any point in getting his kitchen table back if he had nothing to put on it. Feeling a bit more sure-footed and steady, Bilbo made his way back to Bag End, a full basket of food on one arm.

"Mister Bilbo, sir! Wait up!"

He turned to see Hamfast Gamgee, his (former) gardner, jogging up the path to catch up with him. "Hello, Hamfast. It's been...a while." He hadn't seen him at the auction the previous day, though of course he hadn't been there for the whole thing, nor had he been paying attention to the individual hobbits as he'd passed through.

"It's good to have you back, sir. Seein' as everyone thought you were dead and all." Hamfast cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Anyway, I was just wonderin' if you'd still be needin' any work on your garden."

"Oh." He hadn't bothered to check on it since coming back. After a year without maintenance, he was sure it was all a mess, if there was anything left at all. But it would be nice to see things growing there again. Bilbo thought back to his buried acorn and nodded. "I'd appreciate that." He began walking again and motioned for Hamfast to follow. "Why don't we go take a look at it now?"

"Sure thing, Mister Bilbo." Hamfast fell into stride next to him. "Glad to be back home?"

"Yes, I am," Bilbo replied, then inwardly frowned. He hadn't really felt glad about anything in months. Enjoying good weather, a hot cup of tea, fresh food from the market—that was all well and good, but it didn't bring him joy. The superficiality of it all struck him, sending a chill down the back of his spine.

He shook it away. He'd been spending too much time with dwarves, who had neither the time nor the patience for half-truths or artificial courtesies.

"And if you'd be needin' anyone to help with you gettin' settled, I'll be around," Hamfast said, drawing Bilbo out of his thoughts. "If you need help moving furniture, or the like."

A half-smile tugged at his lips. Hamfast had always been kind, willing to take that extra step to help those around him. He reminded Bilbo of a certain bargeman. "Thank you. I will certainly take you up on that…" He paused and frowned as an unfamiliar shadow fell across his vision.

Bilbo stopped dead and stared at the hulking shape standing on top of Bag End.

A tree. An oak tree, fully grown, with strong branches and healthy green leaves, was standing where, less than twenty four hours ago, there had been a tiny acorn under a couple inches of dirt.

"Something wrong, Mister Bilbo?" Hamfast stopped as well, looking at him apprehensively.

"That tree…" Bilbo trailed off, unsure what he wanted to ask.

Hamfast looked at the tree, then turned back to him and blinked, as though trying to work out in his head what the cause of his confusion was.

"H-Has that always been there?"

"Well, of course, Mister Bilbo. Been there even before you left." He gave a nervous chuckle, glancing at the tree, then back at Bilbo.

"Right." He took a deep breath to steady himself. Whatever was happening here, he was sure Hamfast had no part in it, so there was no point in worrying him. "Sorry. I suppose I'm still trying to...adjust. To everything. Being back home."

"Well, that's to be expected." Hamfast straightened, apparently satisfied with Bilbo's excuse. "Though not much has changed here since you've been gone. You'll have an easy time of it. Adjusting, I mean."

Bilbo glanced back at the village as they resumed walking up the hill. It looked the same as it always had—he was the one who had changed.

You will not be the same, Gandalf had said the night of the party. And he had been right, though Bilbo never could have anticipated the way in which he had changed.

He left his basket inside the house and went with Hamfast to the garden. It was overgrown with weeds, which had choked up any of the plants that had meant to grow there. The whole thing would have to be dug up and replanted.

Hamfast said he would get started on it the next day, and Bilbo promised to pay him a little extra for his hard work. He waited until the gardner had left and was halfway down the hill before extricating himself from the tangle of weeds and sprinting up the side of the hill, towards the tree.

As he climbed, he saw a faint wisp of smoke drift lazily through the lower boughs of the tree. His thoughts immediately turned to a certain meddling wizard, and Bilbo scowled. He'd had quite enough of Gandalf's interfering with his life and his home.

Bilbo reached the top of the hill and tilted his head back to study the halo of leaves. It certainly looked real—nothing like the hazy illusions he had experienced in Mirkwood.

His gaze drifted downwards to the trunk, and he was surprised to see someone sitting at the base. The figure was shrouded in shadow, but given the lack of a pointy hat, he had to rule out Gandalf's presence.

"Hello?" Bilbo inched closer to the tree. He caught a whiff of pipe-weed smoke and blinked. He recognized the scent—it was the leaf the dwarves from the Blue Mountains smoked. He'd been in a near-constant haze of it during the quest.

The figure turned at the sound of his voice, then stood up.

Bilbo glanced back at the tree. He'd never known dwarves to be talented with plants, certainly not enough to make a whole tree grow overnight. "W-Was this your doing? This tree—oh."

The rest of his sentence was lost in a gasp as he turned back to the figure, who had stepped out of the shadows and into the sunlight.

And all Bilbo could do was stare, breath caught in his throat, as he took in the familiar face of Thorin Oakenshield.

You're going to have to pry this acorn trope from my cold, dead hands. I also got to write the fireflies scene that Richard Armitage mentioned in an interview, which is also one of my favorite tropes for this ship.

So I managed to write about two lines of this fic before I started crying. I have been living in post-BoFA denial for years now, so when I finally decided to write something with the canon ending, I got a little fucked up in the process...

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave a comment if you would like me to continue this fic. Until next time!