Chapter Text
He had seen neither hide nor hair of Bilbo Baggins since the hobbit had ran off to Ravenhill against his wishes.
As much as he had wanted to chase after him, Gandalf could not abandon the battle well under way. Chaos spilled from the valley and into the ruins of Dale, a gaping hole all that was left of the eastern wall. Loathe as he was to admit, the Maiar had responsibilities beyond his own interests. Afterall, what was the life of a hobbit compared to several hundred others? he thought bitterly.
With a great deal of reluctance he returned his focus to the battle, silently praying to all above for Bilbo's safety.
*
With no small amount of luck, and a great price paid with blood, those who would see the line of Durin truly broken and Erebor a garrison for a more nefarious purpose lay dead, their bodies piled high for burning. A great sea of tents filled the valley now, all brimming with refugees, the sick and the injured. All able-bodied dwarves and men were set to work disposing of the refuse left in the wake of the battle or clearing out livable spaces within Erebor. The ruins of Dale were obliterated, unfit for living through the winter. While the dwarves and men took care of the cleaning, elves skilled enough with healing – which happened to be a very large number of Thranduil's forces – were set to look after those who could not care for themselves, and the rest were set to hunt and gather to strengthen the temporary food store.
From what the Wizard could gather conversing with Balin, the old dwarf was infinitely glad that Bilbo, despite going behind their backs, had secured some semblance of an alliance for Erebor. Dwarves and elves had always been at odds; whether because dwarves were second-born, or elves thought themselves simply above the problems of mortals, Gandalf did not know. But he, too, was glad the age-old feud had been pushed aside - at least temporarily
All their problems seemed well on their way to resolving themselves, except for one outstanding issue.
Bilbo Baggins was still missing.
Bolg's forces had come down from the north, flooding Ravenhill in a surprise ambush. Dwalin was one among very few who had been up there as the second force of orcs, compounded with large groups of goblins and bats, bore down on the unguarded flank. As misfortune would have it, the warrior dwarf hadn't seen the slippery hobbit either, which by now had the Wizard really worried. Thorin and his nephews had also been up on Ravenhill, but their health still remained in a precarious state; all three of them had received grievous, life-threatening wounds which left them unfit for any sort of discussion.
He had questioned all those still cleaning up the field, and probed them again later as they ate their supper. Gandalf had also ordered those standing guard throughout the tent village to keep a keen eye out for a hobbit, but none of the hourly reports turned up anything.
His mind always seemed to return back to the odd little gold ring. He had caught Bilbo pocketing it back on the cliff side of the Misty Mountains after the hobbit had materialized – quite literally. The dwarves had not paid a mind to the miracle, but Gandalf knew it for what it was. Magic rings were not to be meddled with! And if Bilbo had used it to get to Ravenhill undetected there was no telling where the hobbit could be now. But the fact remained, if Bilbo used the ring and managed to survive the battle he would be here.
“Bilbo Baggins, where did you go?” Gandalf muttered to himself.
*
Three days later Bilbo was found.
Gandalf managed to convince the elf Tauriel to do one final sweep of Ravenhill and all pathways leading up to it.
The elf finished her fruitless search only to nearly trip over the foot of a dead orc as she made to leave. A small hand with a glimmering golden circle around a little index finger caught her attention. Rolling away the stinking corpse revealed the fate of the lost hobbit.
After three long days of searching a knot had tangled itself within the pit of the Wizard's stomach. As the knot tightened painfully within him, his face crumpled and his eyes turned glassy, watching as the former guard captain brought back a bundle covered with a cloak.
It had been a very long time since he shed a single tear.
*
Gandalf was known to give answers that said both yes and no, contribute advice that seemed meaningless until the last minute, and offer compliments that also paid insult – but for once in his very long life, he was at a loss for words. He had once told Bilbo that he couldn't promise that the hobbit would return, and agreed with Thorin Oakenshield that he too could not be responsible for his safety nor his fate.
It was never his intention to let Bilbo die, and yet here he laid, covered with a dirty white sheet.
Upon Óin's examination of Bilbo's body it was discovered that the hobbit had taken a lethal blow to the back of the head. The force of the blow had been enough to kill him instantly.
The shirt of silver steel was made useless against such a devastating attack.
Hobbits were not made for war, and no one had thought to put a helmet upon Bilbo's curly head.
*
None aside from him, the elf Tauriel, and Óin knew about Bilbo's death.
The members of Thorin's company, especially Thorin himself, were still recuperating and healing a week after the battle had come to a close. Gandalf knew that he had to tell them; putting it off day after day would only make the wound that much deeper. For all they knew Bilbo was too busy with his own healing or helping out in other parts of the camp.
Part of him felt that it was better this way, that they didn't know; he silently cursed every one of them, cursed himself especially, night after night.
He had quite forgotten why it was that he thought Bilbo would be fit as the fourteenth member for Thorin's company in the first place. If it were not for him thrusting this adventure upon Bilbo... If he hadn't introduced the hobbit to these dwarves then Bilbo wouldn't have felt the need to run off to help Thorin.
Hobbits were such compassionate creatures, Bilbo especially so, and the pride he felt when Bilbo killed Thorin's apprehension with kindness after the goblin tunnels was barely a memory now.
And that was how Radagast found him, wallowing in the depths of his own bereavement.
The beast tender was silent, merely a solid presence as his side, grounding him to some semblance of sanity – not that Saruman would ever believe it. The both of them remained that way for several hours before Gandalf felt he had strength enough to inform Thorin and company of the death of their Burglar, their hobbit.
Gandalf heaved himself up off the slab of masonry, walking the short distance to hesitantly part the tent flaps to his figurative doom.
The tent itself was occupied by the company; Thorin sat up in his bed, his torso heavily bandaged and parchment scattered upon his lap while the rest sat on make-shift furniture in varying degrees of rehabilitation.
Whatever they had been doing before his entrance ceased, every one of them staring up at him expectantly. Thorin gave him a look – a horrifyingly soft look he'd taken to using since recovering from his gold sickness – which spurred Gandalf into his announcement.“I am afraid I have some bad news...”
The atmosphere instantly soured, and if he were to reach out, Gandalf would surely be able to touch the dread that now blanketed their little area. Not one dwarf dared to ask the question that lodged itself in their throats.
“I am sad to say that our dear Burglar did not survive the battle.”
The silence was as deafening as the calm before the tempest, and suddenly the storm was upon them, the floodgates unable to keep back the raging waters of despair that now threatened to drown everything. As the old Wizard gazed down at the face of the King Under the Mountain, heartbreak was so very evident upon his kingly features.
No amount of preparation could have braced him for the reactions he received from the company. The only one not surprised among them was Óin; the old medical dwarf let himself sink into his own little stool.
Over the growling, yelling and sobbing Gandalf almost missed Thorin's question of “How?” The King's voice was incredibly cold and quiet, not unlike a biting winter breeze.
The Wizard swallowed thickly, clinging desperately to his threadbare composure. “A blow to the head; Bilbo didn't suffer.”
Gandalf had lived for a very long time on Arda, he had been a witness to some of the worst atrocities this world has ever seen, beheld the most stalwart of kings being brought to their knees. Thorin was no different as he watched the dwarf king crumble into himself and cover his face with his hands. His shoulders shook as he was overcome with heart-wrenching sobs.
“I'll be leaving within the week to return Bilbo to the Shire, so that he may be properly buried and returned to the earth,” Gandalf murmured. His words had Thorin sobering enough to glare at him, as though he were offended by the idea.
“No,” Thorin growled. “He signed the contract, and so we shall see to his funeral arrangements. The matter will not be negotiated further.”
Gandalf wanted to argue the matter further; hobbits were meant to be buried in the lands of the Shire, not on the side of a mountain! But not for the reasons outsiders would care to mind. Hobbits did not have an afterlife like elves or dwarves; Gandalf was still not quite sure where men go after their passing, but he knew hobbits were simply returned to the earth.
“We will dedicate a monument to his invaluable assistance in reclaiming our home – he deserves nothing less.”
Once upon a time Gandalf would have never been cowed by a mortal, but it was easier to let the issue go than press a stubborn dwarf to change his mind. He simply nodded and turned to exit the tent.
What he saw not too far away had him going pale.
Bilbo Baggins was supposed to be laid out on a table, covered by a white sheet in a tent set aside just for him, yet there he was walking around aimlessly, passing through solid bodies. Gandalf knew that hobbits needed to be buried in the Shire, and now he knew exactly why that was.