Chapter Text
AN EXPERT BURGLAR
PART ONE
DEATH, BILBO DECIDED, WAS NOT QUITE all it been made out to be.
In one moment, he was lying miserably in bed, struggling in vain to catch his breath and listening to the soft weeping of the two his heart loved best -- in the next, he opened his eyes to find himself sitting nude in the garden of Bag End, propped against the old oak tree.
For an instant he sat, blinking against the sunlight, until he was able to focus upon the pale glare of his flesh. He held out his hands before him, astonished to see strong, straight fingers and smooth skin. How strange, to find his own hands unrecognizable! A hasty examination confirmed it: his body was young and unlined again, pink and glowing with health; his spots and wrinkles were gone, and his toes were covered once more with a respectable thatch of red-gold curls. He hastily reached up to pat his head.
Sweet begonias, he had hair again.
He laughed aloud, a little wildly. A shadow fell across his feet, and he looked up to the sight of a beautiful face surrounded by ink-dark braids that bloomed with flowers, leaves, and curling vines. Two pale green eyes watched him intently. Bilbo did not need to ask her name. He knew her, down to his bones, down as deep as roots in the earth, and he scrambled to his feet. The Green Lady took a step forward and held out one hand, her diaphanous sheath of verdant silk fluttering with the movement.
“Ettiugi Yavanno dilu, Bilba Labingi.” It had been so long since Bilbo had heard the musical lilt of ceremonial Hobbitish that for a moment he almost did not understand. He took her hand, trembling, and bowed over it with as much aplomb as he could muster. Her skin was unnaturally cool to the touch.
“Have I died, then?” he asked.
“You have.”
“Is this the afterlife?”
“It is.”
“Somehow I expected more clothing to be involved,” said Bilbo. “Do you have trousers here, my lady?”
Yavanna smiled. In a trice, Bilbo was outfitted in breeches, a linen shirt, and a natty sunflower-yellow waistcoat. He was pleased to find a silk handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket, and he patted it gratefully. “Thank you.”
“What a curious hobbit you are,” she said. “Very like your mother. I have watched over you both with interest all these years. Now come. Your kin wait for you.”
For a moment, Bilbo almost followed her. The grass was sun-baked beneath his feet. He could hear strains of music from over the hill, carried on the air with a babbling chorus of happy voices. He thought, for just an instant, that he heard his mother’s laugh.
He planted his feet firmly, digging his toes into the loose dirt. “I wish to go to the halls of the dwarves,” he said.
There was no astonishment in the Lady’s face. “Would you reject the gift of my sacred gardens?”
Bilbo took a measured breath -- sparing an instant to note, involuntarily, what a pleasure it was to no longer struggle to fill his lungs -- and rocked up onto his toes. “May I tell you a tale, my lady? I have gained something of a reputation as a storyteller, and I do not think it would bore you.”
She inclined her head.
“This is a story I found inscribed on very ancient scrolls in the Great Library of Valmar, in High Sindarin. I had heard it told before, in my travels in Middle-earth, but this version I believe is most likely the oldest, and it is described quite beautifully.” He cleared his throat, leaned back on his heels, and began:
“In Ages past lived a gardener. She loved all things green and growing, and twined her spirit into the vines and the flowers. She coaxed tender buds from the grass and leaves from the trees and marked with pleasure rich harvests of golden grain. Above all things she loved the shining sun, warm on her face, for it meant life and growth.
“The gardener loved a blacksmith, the other twinned half of her soul. When she walked with him in her gardens, the trees were greener, and the flowers bright as sunset. The smith dearly loved her, but fear had seeded in his heart, for he dwelt in the depths of mountain and tunnel, and there he belonged. What would he do, should she discover her need for the sun and grass greater than her need for him? He was afraid that he could not bring her happiness, when her nature was so different from his own. His heart could not bear the thought of her withering away to nothing in the darkness.
“But the gardener would not be swayed. She was determined to win his love and banish his fears. With her deft hands she grew a flower that needed neither sun nor rain, a flower that would flourish in the dark. With the seeds of that flower she created a garden unlike any ever cultivated before, for it was a garden that grew out of stone, nourished by love and longing. When the smith saw what she had done, he went away to his forge and laboured for many days and nights.
“When his labours were finished, he brought to his love an exquisite mithril rose with petals of rubies red and leaves of glittering emerald. She bore it away from the halls of stone and planted it in the open air, where it sparkled in the sunlight, untarnished by wind and rain.
“They dwelled each in their lands, but they knew joy together. The gardener left her home to sit with her love in the blooming underground garden, and the smith left his to walk with her in the sun, the mithril rose casting beams of light around them. And when they were apart, they needed only gaze upon each other’s gifts to remember that their love endured.”
Yavanna was silent. Try as he might, Bilbo could not read displeasure in her lovely face, but she did not smile either.
“Come,” said she.
They went away from the hill, down into a low valley. A thin stream trickled through it, the water clear and shimmering, and its banks were lush with tall grass and daffodils. In the center of one spray, something glittered in the light. As they drew closer, Bilbo could see that it was a rose. Never had he seen anything so beautifully crafted. The likeness was almost beyond belief -- though of metal and gems it was clearly made, it looked so alive that Bilbo expected its delicate petals to bend against the wind.
“Thorin Oakenshield is not in his forefathers' halls,” Yavanna said.
Bilbo swallowed against the low, familiar tug of guilt in the pit of his belly. He had conceded too quickly, bent to Thorin’s hard-headed will too easily. Valmar was no place for a dwarf, and they had both known it. But Thorin had been so sure, and Bilbo had wanted him so desperately to stay that he had let sentiment trump his good sense. “I know.” He folded his hands behind his back. “I have heard tell of the character of Lord Aulë. It is said that he, like his children, is fierce and proud and unbending. I have heard too that he can be moved to pity.”
“You are a burglar, Bilbo Baggins, and an erstwhile thief. I had not thought you a gambler as well.”
Bilbo wetted his dry lips and tried not to wince. “I have something of a reputation for luck.”
Her long fingers drifted along one gleaming emerald leaf -- a soft, reverent touch. “It is true that my lord husband is proud, and that his heart is easily wounded by suffering. I should be astonished if he does not intend to return Thorin to his Halls once his temper has cooled.”
Bilbo closed his eyes, nearly dizzy with relief.
Thoughtfully, Yavanna drew a large violet from her hair and stroked its petals gently before settling it in the grass. Even as Bilbo watched, it shot long roots that sank into the earth, and its stalk unfurled with three tender new buds.
“The world is full of sorrows,” said she, watching the leaves stretch up thirstily toward the sun. “The flower that blooms must wither and fade, and a new one rises to take its place. Even Brother Manwë, with the breadth of his compassion, cannot stop the grape from shrivelling on the vine or the sparrow from falling in the storm. No longer do we seek to intercede in the affairs of the mortal world, even if we wish it. It is not our place, for you must be allowed to determine your own path, but neither do we delight in your suffering." A shadow crept over her face. “I do not have my sister’s merciful heart. My memory is an ancient oak, unbent by time. I do not forget.
“Mairon was my lord husband’s most cherished attendant. For Ages he served him well and faithfully, and he was trusted without condition. Melkor corrupted his heart too easily, warped his cleverness into malice, wrought him into Sauron the Black-Heart. Sauron cast away the love of my lord husband and betrayed his trust.” Her eyes burned too bright, and the beauty of her face was made terrifying -- if he could have moved, Bilbo would have fled. “Long they fought, and Sauron dealt him wicked blows that my lord husband, with his soft heart, could not bear to return with his full strength.” Fierce satisfaction flickered through her eyes. “I cast the wretch down, and cursed him, and would have buried him in the darkest depths of the earth if Brother Manwë had not bid me cease.” She turned her face away, and Bilbo shivered.
There was silence. Yavanna lifted her hand to her temples, and when she opened her eyes again, they no longer smouldered with fire. “It troubles me yet,” she said, with some wryness. “I watched Sauron’s armies wreak destruction in my lost brother’s name. I watched him burn the fields and split the elder trees and force the waters away from their banks. How easily good falls before evil!
“But you, Bilbo Baggins . . . . I watched your mother grow, full of candour and courage, and you sprouted in her likeness. You took up his Ring, and you did not succumb to its call. You stood fast against the traitor and never lost your soul. Middle-earth is rid of his stain and ruin.”
Bilbo managed a half-smile. “You are most kind, my lady, but I think the credit goes to Frodo. Or rather, if we are being entirely honest, to Samwise.”
Yavanna’s face softened. “Samwise and his dear Frodo,” she said lightly. “One could not have endured without the other. They shall have an honoured place here. That is my promise to you.”
Bilbo nodded, his throat tight, and for once had no pretty words of gratitude for her.
“There is a place for you as well,” she said, “and I owe you a debt.”
“My lady ---”
“I told you I do not forget." There was a note of soft warning in her voice. “I am rather fond of you, brave Ringbearer, and of your valiant dwarf. Is it what you truly desire, to spend your days away from my Pastures, parted forever from your kin and your friends?”
Bilbo's heart seized with a deep swell of sorrow. He thought of Frodo, left in solitude by the Sea. For months he had turned the thought of leaving over and over in his mind, unable to reconcile his disinterest in staying in the Pastures with his duty to his nephew and his love for his parents. In the end, it had been a terrible choice, but Bilbo had never pretended, even to himself, that he was selfless.
At the very least, he was secure in the knowledge that Frodo would not always be alone. Elrond had promised that Frodo should want for nothing, and Gandalf, bless his mad, meddling old soul, would keep him safe. In a while (a very long while, one hoped) he would have Primula and Drogo to look after him again, and Samwise no doubt would be delighted to stay fast at his side for eternity. Frodo would recover and find new happiness within himself. He was a resilient hobbit. He always had been.
“I will miss the lad at every moment. And my parents ---” He broke off hoarsely, unable to put words to that anguish. The longing to go on, to hear his father’s voice and hold his mother once more, was almost too much. No doubt they had been waiting anxiously for him, and the agony of never seeing them again . . . . But no. No, he must be firm. He had resolved, even before he had begun to feel his body dim and fail, that he would find his way to the dwarf halls by any means necessary. He had weighed the gains and losses time and time again, and he now felt no doubt. He had chosen Thorin, as Thorin had chosen him.
“My place is not here,” he said at last. “The days I spent with a troupe of coarse, ill-mannered, ill-tempered dwarves were the happiest of my life. To spend eternity with Thorin, with my friends, would be the greatest reward I could hope to receive. I don’t know how else to make you understand.”
“My husband’s children are hewn in his image. I understand well enough,” Yavanna said, with more warmth. “You are resolved?”
“I am.”
“Then I will grant you one more boon: you may travel with me into the valley to offer your farewells to your mother and father.”
A sharp pain lanced into Bilbo’s breast. For a fraught instant he faltered, but an instinct honed by many long years bid him stop. “No,” he said heavily. “If I see them, I won’t be able to leave.”
“So be it.” The Green Lady began to walk down the slope and away from the hill. Bilbo followed at her heels, listening with an aching heart as the sounds of merriment over the rise grew fainter and fainter. He told himself sternly not to look back.
Together they travelled past Bag End, past the oak tree, and into a tangle of lush green woods. Bilbo let his fingers glance against a knotted willow trunk as he passed, and he allowed his fretting mind to be soothed with a measure of awe. This was an ancient place, with a vast, silent history.
“Now listen well," said Yavanna, as they pressed further into the cool darkness. “There are laws that govern Valinor’s lands, old laws from Ages past. Men and dwarrows and hobbits -- and elves who have perished -- are not free to roam the realms of Aman, for they have passed beyond mortal life. When my lord husband allowed your dwarrows to leave his Halls, it was with one provision: they could stay only seven days in each realm. These were his terms to hurry them along home, and your dwarrows were bound by it. If I wished, I could not return Thorin to his Halls, for he is not under my protection, and he is not bound by my word. I can do nothing for him.
“But you are under my protection and bound by my word.” She glanced at him, and her lips twitched with an echo of mischief. “Even if he wished to, my lord husband could not send you anywhere that I had not allowed you to go, nor send you away. If I were to say to you, ‘Bilbo Baggins, Ringbearer, you may go where you like in Aman, but if you linger in any realm for seven days, there you shall stay until the world is remade, never to re-enter my Pastures,’ that would be my binding word. In binding you with this vow, I would be trusting you to hold fast to the terms. If you were to choose not to return, it should come as a great surprise to me. I should be particularly surprised if you chose to conceal yourself for seven days in the Halls of the Dwarrows, for I would never interfere in my lord husband’s dealings with his own children.”
“Of course."
“On rare occasions, I am able to pry him from his halls of stone, that he might spend a short time with me in my Pastures. I intend to ask him today to come away with me.”
“My lady, if I may, you wish me to steal inside and hide there, in a keep full of dwarves, until seven days pass and Lord Aulë is forced to allow me to stay?”
She smiled.
Bilbo huffed out a short breath. “Well, at least there isn’t a dragon.” He smoothed down his waistcoat and then paused. “There isn’t a dragon, is there?”
“There is not,” Yavanna said, with a small laugh.
They came to the edge of the wood. Beyond it stretched a series of rolling hills, cloaked in grassy fields and cut with a simple stone path. “Follow the road and you will reach the Halls by nightfall,” she said. “Do not stray from it.”
“I don’t suppose there is a watchman who will let me in if I knock.”
“There are but two keys to the doors: one is Bekhaz, the hammer that crafted the dwarrows. The other is my lord husband’s axe of war. You will not be able to use either of them, for they answer only to him.”
Bilbo frowned. “A window with a rusty lock is probably too much to hope for.”
“Are you not a burglar? If you are wise and keen-eyed, you shall gain entrance.” She inclined her proud head. “I will leave you now.”
Overwhelmed with regret for what he was leaving and burgeoning hope for what lay ahead, Bilbo bowed silently and turned away. He took a bracing lungful of air and stepped out from the shelter of the trees.
“One moment, Bilbo Baggins."
Bilbo stopped. Upon Yavanna’s fingers a thin circlet shone. It looked to be made of silver, perhaps, and he recognized the broad taper of oak leaves twined with lily petals. The round, milky pearls set along the vines gleamed.
“This was forged by Thorin Oakenshield,” she said, giving it over into his hands. He took it on instinct, and the lifeless metal warmed against his palms. “He gifted it to me, but I believe it was made for you. I would return it to its rightful owner.”
Bilbo blinked away a sudden film of tears and bowed again, deeply. “Thank you.”
“Go,” the Green Lady said, and Bilbo did.
***
Walking along an unfamiliar road with no company but his own was no hardship. So much of Bilbo’s life after his Adventure had been spent on lonely paths, atop a pony or on foot, in fair weather and foul, that falling into its rhythm once more was second nature. He had never been beyond Valmar, and his curiosity was piqued. A few times he had to sternly redirect himself from an intriguing footpath off the main road. He had enough tales from Frodo and Gandalf to know that wandering aimlessly in Valinor was not wise.
What a pleasure it was too to move about freely, to feel the firm muscle that propelled him forward. His back was no longer crooked, and his hips did not creak with every step. On sheer impulse he galloped down the slope of one hill, laughing as his legs flew, his heels springing nimbly over the road. Oh, to be young again! He spared a moment to do an impromptu jig (goodness, he had not danced in ages!) and then went on his way with a merrier heart.
All through the day he walked, never tiring, and his eagerness grew with each crested hill that brought him closer. He could not find it within himself to be afraid. If Frodo could plunge headlong into the fiery depths of Mordor, he could surely weasel his way into a keep.
As the sun began to set, Bilbo mounted the last hillock to find a great marble citadel nestled down in the hollow of the next valley. His heart pounding, he walked on calmly toward the Halls -- for what else could it be, with those bold, symmetrical arches? In an instant, it seemed, he was standing before imposing stone doors.
He could not have said precisely how long he stood there studying the walls. Fortunately the moon was full and bright, for that was the only light he had. Nearly every inch of the facade was decorated with petroglyphs, though there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to them. In all the long years of their friendship, Bilbo had managed to wrest only a few words of Khuzdul from Balin, and he recognized a rune here and there, but they were largely nonsense to him. Spells for protection, perhaps?
Bilbo could be patient, for Bagginses were a persistent folk, in their own staid fashion. He went methodically from slab to slab, studying each scratch and mark. Most of it he had not a hope of comprehending, but he did not fall into despair, even as the sky darkened. In his experience, solutions tended to present themselves when they were least expected.
So absorbing were the bold lines of Khuzdul script that it took him quite some time to realize that there were other languages on display. He found more than a few elvish phrases: blessings and prayers, all in an old form of Sindarin. How curious! And how amusing, for a dwarvish stronghold to bear the work of elves upon its face! He traced his fingers over a tiny, lifelike engraving of an eagle, and his eye fell upon several tight rows of carved script below it.
First was an inscription in Khuzdul, then something that looked much like Quenya, and then one in the same High Sindarin. Several other lines followed, but those were entirely unknown to Bilbo. Fixing his attention on the Sindarin rendering, Bilbo set himself to the business of translation.
It took longer than he would have liked, and the meter did not quite scan, but after a time he had puzzled out the poem:
In the Maker's Halls of carven stone,
Dwell ancient Kings on silver throne,
Durin Deathless, tomb unlatched,
Daughters of Ûm with wits unmatched.
In the Maker's Halls of torches bright,
The shadow of Doom flees from the light.
Each soul delivered by the Maker most high,
King and delver alike, for all must die.
Yet splendid crown on high-held head
Labours in forges with flame burning red .
Be you miner of gold or firstborn austere,
Make your mark bold, and be welcome here.
“Really now?” said Bilbo aloud, wishing suddenly for his pipe and some good, strong leaf. “Riddles again?”
He rose and paced, paused to let his fingers drift over the cool rock. There were dark veins in the marble, hewing the white stone into two. The lines looked a little too precise to be an accident of nature.
“You dwarves and your hidden doors,” Bilbo murmured. “Now, I suppose you’d like me to tell you how I made my mark?” He pushed in on the stone lightly, testing, but couldn’t feel any motion in response.
“Not to speak too highly of myself, of course,” he continued, “but I am Mad Baggins. I battled goblins and trolls and spoke to a dragon and befriended a batty old Maia. I’ve travelled over most of Middle-earth. I found the One Ring, for mercy’s sake -- although now that I think of it, I’m not sure whether that counts for or against me. But at the very least I’d like to think that I made my mark.”
The door didn’t budge.
Bilbo hummed to himself, taking a few steps back. “Very well,” he said. “Be contrary if you must. If it would please you better, I suppose I could take an axe to you and make my mark that ---”
Oh. Oh, of course. Bilbo rubbed at his nose with a rueful laugh. Dwarves -- such literal creatures!
A few moments of picking through the dirt provided him with a hard, sharp-edged stone. He turned it against the wall, and carefully, firmly scraped his name into the rock. Almost as soon as he shaped the final flourishing s, the etching began to glow with a warm blue light, melting back instantly into smooth stone. The panel swung back, revealing a small, square hole in the wall.
Well. That was rather gratifying.
Bilbo scarcely had to crane over to slip through the entrance and into a handy alcove. The rock creaked loudly, and he barely managed to pull his tailcoats out of harm’s way before it slammed back into place and sealed. He straightened up, staying close to the shadows of the wall, and had a wondering look around.
A vast hall stretched before him, the ceiling as high and vaulted as Erebor’s treasure room, and Bilbo could see stone platforms stretching up to its peak -- it looked as though there were at least five levels, intersecting like the bridges over Valmar’s lake. Though yellow torches blazed on nearly every supporting column, it was lit more dimly than he was accustomed to, and he had to squint a bit to see the higher levels. The architecture was strikingly familiar, and for a moment Bilbo felt a little chilled, remembering the cold grandeur of the Lonely Mountain’s throne room. But despite the likenesses of its design, this hall was as dissimilar to that desolate, abandoned keep as it was possible to be.
It was loud, for one thing, and busier than a bee-hive. Voices rang from every corner, calling out and laughing and singing, blending together in a rumbling, muted hum of sound. He heard hammers pounding, and wheels scraping against the stone floors, and the low roar of kilns and crackling hearths. The thick tang of oil and ash mingled oddly in the air with the scent of spices and roasting meat. Dwarves of all shapes and sizes crossed from level to level in chattering queues with baskets and sacks and long bars of raw metals. A few smaller bodies, laughing in high, childish voices, darted playfully along the thoroughfare, ducking under the jewel-coloured silk banners that seemed to hang over every rail.
For a moment, Bilbo simply watched from his little nook, torn between amazement and a proud sort of sorrow. So this was what Thorin thought of when he spoke with such longing of the Erebor of his childhood. This was the great dwarf home of his memory, its people prosperous and plentiful.
And it was the last of its kind. In many respects, Erebor had recovered under Dáin’s wise rule, but by all accounts it had never again managed to match the golden days of the Longbeards. Through the many years of his life, Bilbo had watched the lay of Middle-earth change -- the prosperity of the dwarves was challenged by the rising influence of the tribes of Men and the rapid diminishment of their own numbers. Too many were dying, with not enough younglings to replace them. As the elves sailed in their silver ships to Valinor, so too were the dwarves beginning to fade from Middle-earth. It was plain enough to see, if one looked closely enough, that their Age was drawing to an end.
And Thorin had given this up -- this last great kingdom, this fulfillment of his life-long desire for home -- to live out Bilbo’s final years with him among strangers.
You stubborn old fool, he thought fondly. So afraid of happiness that you give it up willingly at every turn. We shall have to work on that, you and I.
A rather lovely dwarf, her beard decked in ropes of ornate gold chain, passed by Bilbo’s alcove then, giving him a startle. He pressed back against the wall hastily, heart thumping like a rabbit’s. She went on her way without seeming to have noticed him. Taking a steadying breath, he shook his head at his own carelessness. What a fine burglar he made, standing here a few steps from plain sight and gawping like a fauntling.
It was time to find better shelter. His friends were here, somewhere in this lively honeycomb. He could seek out Bofur and stay safely out of sight in his chambers. Or Balin, perhaps -- Balin had always been discreet, and good with a falsehood in a pinch. It took only a few seconds of thought, however, to recollect why this was not wise. As much as Bilbo loved them all, his dwarves had never been any good at all at deception. The fewer who knew about his presence in the Halls, the less likely being discovered became.
After all, he could do without nicely-appointed rooms; his body was young and sturdy enough now to endure a night or two in a rough nest. An unused chamber or a pantry would do the trick, or even a cupboard if nothing else were available. In any matter, it would be no worse than skulking about an elvish prison.
Sinking back into the shadows, Bilbo slipped away to look for a proper hiding place.