Another nightmare this week.
Bilbo was getting fatigued from all the memories from the past year, and the neighbors noticed. But instead of worrying about his reputation as a Baggins of Bag End, he was only haunted by memories. But instead of remembering the joyous times he had with the 13 Dwarves and the Wandering Wizard, or the glorious kingdoms he came upon-whether it be Elvish or Dwarf-or even the thrill of battles, he remembered only the horrors: The spiders the size of cattle, the Pale Orc breathing down their necks, Smaug the Terrible, the way the Ring he lied to Gandalf about whispered murderously tempting things in his mind. A reason why he rarely ever wore it, but kept it hidden. Kept it safe. But the worst...
The worst was when Bilbo remembered...When he remembered him.
The proud, stubborn, Elven-prejudiced King under the Mountain. The one who doubted Gandalf about his choice of a burglar to retrieve the thing the Dwarf craved most than his life-the Arkenstone. The King's Jewel.
Why...why couldn't he do anything...Or why couldn't the Eagles do anything?! They flew right above the two at Ravenhill-they could've picked him up, brought the pair to Gandalf, or any healer! Anything! They could've-should've done something! Just like they had done before-
But they didn't. Bilbo often pondered that maybe they knew if Thorin wouldn't make the trip anyway. That maybe it was best that they let the King die making peace with Bilbo before he succumbed to his injuries. To die in battle. That would've been Thorin's wish.
But why did that make it so hard? Bilbo was there for his friend, was there for his redemption, his end...Why was it harder then to leave what was left of the company? With Thorin's nephews, Fili and Kili dead, Dain had been crowned instead, and what was promised to the people of Laketown was given. There was finally peace for Erebor, Dale, and even Murkwood-which returned to it's former name of Greenwood.
But even as Bilbo came back to The Shire, and slowly returned to the routine deep in his subconscious he knew he couldn't just return to. It wouldn't be the same ever again. Bilbo couldn't act as though he had never held a sword in his hand, or as if he didn't stall a dragon from swallowing where he stood. Bilbo couldn't just go back. Gandalf was right. He truly was a changed Hobbit.
He wanted the nightmares to end. He planted the acorn from Beorn's home in his garden, but as the plant grew, so did Bilbo's guilt. Maybe I could've done something...
Over time, the nightmares grew less and less. Over time, Bilbo eventually started getting a decent night's sleep, and tried to carry on. It wasn't only until years later, when the middle-aged Hobbit became older than most sensible thinking Hobbits would believe was possible, that he decided that he was to complete a task he should've done years ago.
What better way to keep the legends of Durin's folk alive, than to write it down? Perhaps then, he could remember his friends, and the pain won't be as strong as he grew to live with. It was sometime before it was Bilbo's 111th birthday, when he began his tale for his nephew Frodo.
"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit..."
I really hope that I did this justice...But please review! :)