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The halls of Durin fell quiet with a sudden hush as Mahal and his wife entered the great expanse side by side. The change was immediate and profound. Conversations died mid-sentence, hammers ceased their ringing against anvils, and even the ever-present songs of the dead faded to whispers. It was not fear that silenced them, but reverence, and perhaps a touch of curiosity.
Mahal often wandered among them, his presence as familiar as the stone itself. He would speak and sing with those whom he had formed from the very bones of the earth, his voice joining theirs in the ancient songs of making and unmaking. His children delighted in his company, and he in theirs. But Yavanna—Yavanna was different. Fairer than any jewel ever pulled from the deep places, more radiant than the finest quarried stone, she came seldom to these halls beneath the world.
At her entrance, many a dwarf rose and bowed low as she passed, their movements rippling through the great hall like wind through grain. Her smile was soft and gentle, alighting on the upturned faces like the first warm sunlight after a long winter against cool stone. She spoke softly to those she passed, her voice like the whisper of growing things, pausing now and then to offer more than passing greetings to those who stood before her.
"My lady," old Náin said, his weathered face creasing with joy as she stopped beside him. "You honor us with your presence."
"The honor is mine, dear one," she replied, her hand briefly touching his shoulder. "Your halls ring with such beautiful music. It brings joy to my heart to hear it."
Though Yavanna had taken no part in the making of the dwarves—that was Mahal's work alone—still her love for them swept out like a gentle breeze through spring meadows. None who saw her could be unmoved or untouched by the care she felt for them. Where Mahal was their maker, she had become their guardian, their protector of growing things, their bridge between the deep places and the world above.
As she moved through the hall, her eyes searched the gathered faces until they found what they sought. At last, both Yavanna and Mahal came to stand beside a clustered company of dwarves who sat a little apart at a roaring fire. These thirteen had kept together through all their years in the halls, as they had kept together in life. They were sharing ale and stories, their laughter echoing off the stone walls, when the shadow of the Valar fell across them.
The dwarves all rose as one and bowed low to her, their movements synchronized by long companionship. Murmuring greetings and praise for her coming filled the air around them.
"Lady Yavanna," Dwalin's deep voice rumbled with respect. "What brings you to our small corner of paradise?"
Her laughter fell among them like soft rain on parched earth, tinkling down with music that could pierce both heart and stone. The sound seemed to awaken something in the very walls around them. A resonance that sang of deep roots and growing things, of life persisting even in the deepest places.
"It always brings me delight to visit these halls," she said, her gaze moving warmly across each face. "How fare you, Kili?"
Kili flushed and bowed low again. “I am well, Lady, and my love also. Though she walks now with her kin among the green fields.”
The green lady’s smile was gentle as she laid her hand upon Kili’s shoulder. “I came not to seek Tauriel. I know well where she wanders. Her heart is full of field and sky, yet even now she thinks of you.”
“If you came not to find my niece, Lady,” Thorin said softly, “what else should we praise that has brought you here to us?”
Her bright eyes turned on him, and if possible, her smile grew brighter.
“Well met, Thorin Oakenshield,” she said gently, “for it is you and your company that I have come seeking this day. There is a gift that I would give, but only if you would consent to accompany me?”
“I would be honored, Lady,” Thorin replied earnestly, though surprise flickered in his chest at her words. “Indeed, Lady, I would follow wherever you asked for nothing more than to see you and honor you.”
Yavanna laughed again, and this time, Mahal’s booming voice joined in the chorus.
“Come then, dear one,” she said, offering her hand to Thorin. “I would ask that you and your company follow me so I might give my gift in full.”
The company followed on in silence, though many shared confused looks among themselves. The soft sound of waves could be heard like an echo before them—a sighing whisper carried to them on the wind that spoke of shores beyond mortal reach.
Thorin's mind raced as they walked. What gift could Yavanna possibly have for him in the Undying Lands? He had asked for nothing and wanted for nothing in the halls of his fathers. The ache he carried was so familiar now, so much a part of him, that he barely noticed it anymore. His longing was like an old wound that only twinged in certain weather. But now, with each step toward that distant shore, something stirred in his chest. A hope he dared not name.
"You are trembling," Balin observed quietly, falling into step beside him.
"The wind carries a chill," Thorin replied, though they both knew it was not cold that made his hands shake.
Suddenly Kili's laughter split the soft quiet around them, bright and knowing.
"Mahal, Tauriel is right, I am slow," Kili said, shaking his head and grinning. He stopped walking then, and the others stopped beside him. All of them, particularly Thorin, stared. "You are a wonder as ever, Lady, and I would say nothing against you… But I think it best that we all wait back here while the gift is given. We will have joy enough at a distance, and we might join in later, but this we need not be at their side for."
"Kili, what in Durin's name do you…" Fili began, but his brother elbowed him hard and pointed toward the cresting hill.
"Unless I am much mistaken," Kili said pointedly, "the recipient of the gift is coming now."
All eyes turned to follow his direction.
Four figures had emerged at the top of the hill. One was pale, lithe, and radiated light even in the full brightness of morning. Her hair was as golden as sand, and she smiled as her eyes fell upon them. One was tall and clothed no longer in grey but in the purest of white. He was less bent now by the cares he had carried than when they had first known him, and he too was smiling down on them. The other two were half the height of their companions. Barefoot and dressed in silks of green. One of these had dark curls, and he smiled as brightly as the others, but the other, whose hair was golden brown, had halted suddenly, his face oddly blank and expressionless as he looked down upon the company gathered there.
Thorin's breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to tilt beneath his feet, and for a moment he wondered if the stone halls had crumbled around him, if this was some fevered dream born of too much longing. But no—the grass was solid beneath his boots, the wind real against his face, and that beloved figure on the hill was—
"Bilbo," he whispered, the name falling from his lips like a prayer.
His companions stopped around the frozen hobbit, and then Gandalf bent, speaking soft words in Bilbo's ear and gesturing down at the waiting group. Yet Bilbo remained still as carved stone. He stood staring down at them with wide eyes, as if he were seeing ghosts. Shock and other nameless emotions were blazoned across his pale face for a moment. He stepped forward, wavered, and then stood still once more.
The distance between them felt like an ocean. Thorin could see the exact moment recognition fully dawned in Bilbo's eyes. It was evident in the way his eyes widened, the way his mouth fell open slightly, and the way his whole body seemed to sway as if struck by a physical blow.
"He doesn't believe it," Thorin said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. "He thinks—"
"Go to him," Yavanna whispered, squeezing Thorin's shoulder gently. "Show him it is real."
Without conscious thought, Thorin's feet carried him forward. Each step felt like walking through deep water; the world around him was blurred and distant. There was only Bilbo. Bilbo, who was whole, unharmed, and alive. Bilbo was here, where Thorin had never thought to see him. Bilbo, who was staring down at him with those beloved eyes that had haunted Thorin’s dreams in the halls of stone.
He had closed half the distance between them before Bilbo moved again. The hobbit stumbled forward as if his legs had remembered how to work, then seemed to realize what he was doing and broke into a desperate run down the hillside.
They collided with enough force to send them both staggering. Thorin's arms came up instinctively, catching Bilbo against his chest, and for a moment they simply held each other upright, breathing hard.
"You're here," Bilbo whispered into Thorin's chest, his voice muffled by fabric and emotion. "I thought… I thought I had gone mad when I saw you from the hill. But you're here. You're solid. You're…"
"Real," Thorin finished, his voice rough with unshed tears. His hands were shaking as they moved to frame Bilbo's face, tilting it up so he could see those familiar green eyes. "As real as you are, my heart. As real as this moment."
Bilbo's eyes were bright with tears, searching Thorin's face as if memorizing every line, every change. "You look, Valar, but you look as you did. Before the battle. Before everything—" His voice broke.
"Before I died," Thorin said gently, thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to fall down Bilbo's cheeks. "Yes. Death has a way of healing old wounds, it seems."
"I watched you die," Bilbo said, his voice barely audible. "I held your hand and watched the light leave your eyes, and I—I never got to tell you."
"Tell me now," Thorin whispered, leaning down until their foreheads touched. "We have all the time in the world now, beloved. Tell me now."
"I love you," Bilbo said in a rush, the words tumbling out as if he'd been holding them back for an age. "I have loved you since Bag End, I think. Since you ate my pantry bare and made me feel alive for the first time in decades. I loved you when you were proud and pigheaded and impossible. I loved you when you were kind and thoughtful and brave. I loved you when the gold sickness took you and I could barely recognize you anymore. I loved you as you lay dying in my arms. I have loved you every day since, and I will love you until the world ends and is remade."
Thorin's breath shuddered out of him. "Bilbo—"
"I know you couldn't feel the same," Bilbo continued, his words rushing together. "I know I was just a burglar you hired, just…"
Thorin silenced him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting of tears and years of longing. When they broke apart, both were trembling.
"Foolish hobbit," Thorin murmured against his lips. "I have been waiting for you. Do you understand? I have been waiting in the halls of my fathers for you to come to me, because I could not bear the thought of eternity without you by my side."
"You have?" Bilbo's voice was small, wondering.
"I have. Through all the years of your life, through all the ages you walked Middle-earth without me, I have been waiting. And now you are here, and I—" His voice caught. "I never have to let you go again."
Bilbo made a sound that was half laugh, half sob, and threw his arms around Thorin's neck, holding him fiercely. "I missed you," he whispered into Thorin's ear. "I missed you so much I thought it would kill me. There were days I hoped it would."
"Never again," Thorin promised, his arms tightening around the hobbit's small frame. "Never again will we be parted, my heart. This I swear to you."
They stood there in the grass between the halls of the dead and the shores of the Undying Lands, holding each other as if the world might end around them. And perhaps it would, someday, but they would face that ending together, as they should have faced everything else.
"How?" Bilbo asked eventually, pulling back just enough to look at Thorin's face. "How is this possible?"
"Yavanna," Thorin said, glancing back toward where the Vala stood with his company, all of them watching with joy-bright faces. "She said she had a gift to give. I thought, I never imagined that it would be you."
"She came to me in the gardens," Bilbo said, his hands fisting in Thorin's robes as if afraid he might disappear. "She said there was someone who had been waiting for me, someone who needed me. I thought… Well, I had hoped, but I didn't dare—"
"Hope," Thorin said firmly. "Always hope, beloved. We have learned that love is stronger than death, stronger than time itself. We have learned that some bonds cannot be broken, even by the ending of the world."
Bilbo smiled then, the first true smile Thorin had seen from him, and it was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "Then let us not waste any more time apart," he said. "I have about a hundred years' worth of conversations to catch up on."
Thorin laughed, the sound rich and joyful. "Then we had better get started," he said, and kissed him again, there in the grass with the whole company of his friends watching and the Valar smiling down upon them.
Behind them, he could hear Kili's delighted laughter, Fili's whooping cheer, and Balin's gentle tears of joy. But there was only Bilbo in his arms, solid and warm and real, and the promise of forever stretching out before them like an endless golden road.