Crystal Coffin
I normally don't write fics because writing just does not come easy to me. This idea however took hold so hard and fast and I don't remember much of what happened till this ended. Enjoy
_____________________________
They found him. Barely in time to say goodbye; too late to save him
It was Fili and Kili who spotted him first. They were laughing, holding on to one another to stay upright. They stumbled toward the entrance of Erebor; it was a long way off but neither minded. Kili’s right arm was in a crude sling and Fili had a horrible limp, both were covered in scrapes and cuts caked with blood and grime. When the battle had started it had been just after the noon hour and now the sun was setting on the horizon, basking the battlefield in an orange glow. Black and red blood gleamed off of rocks in the low light, but that didn’t deter the brothers’ high spirits. They had each other, and had seen their uncle take on the pale orc--and win. Kili stopped his giggling when his keen archer eyes scouted a familiar mop of curls in the corner of his eyes.
“Fili, Bilbo is over there. Let’s go thank him!” the youngest urged. Fili nodded, slightly frowning, Bilbo wasn’t moving any, even at their calls to him. Despite their Uncle’s last ill words to the hobbit, Fili was glad the halfling had survived and stuck around to fight. He and Kili viewed the gentlehobbit as one of their own now. In battle, Bilbo had appeared out of nowhere and gutted an orc about to smash in Kili’s head. Fili had never seen such anger gleaming in the usually kind, innocent eyes. He had helped Kili up, making sure he was safe before bounding down the rocks, a new glint in his eyes.
They met up again not even an hour later, this time, to Fili’s aid. His swords had been knocked out of his hands, and he himself flung against a boulder. The blonde heir had been sure those were his last moments. This time Fili saw Bilbo coming from behind the orc. Now without his blue jacket, his clothes were tattered without any armour to protect them or his skin. Bilbo launched himself from a boulder top and onto the back of the giant; Sting easily pushing thought the thick muscle cords of the orc’s neck with a squelching sound. Momentum carried them forward and the beast, with Bilbo up top his back, fell to Fili’s feet. He remembers thinking, ‘this is a completely different creature than the hobbit we started with’. is heart ached to know such a peaceful creature had come to kill like this. But when Bilbo approached him, and knelt by him, there was their old hobbit, worried and caring, a calm presence in the chaos. He helped Fili retrieve his swords and fought by him until they got separated by a new wave of wargs and orcs. He had not seen Bilbo since.
The closer they approached the more Fili felt a tendril of dread crawl up his spine. “Mr. Baggins!!” Kili called out, undeterred by the lack of response. They hobbled down a small ramp and turned the corner of a boulder into full view of Bilbo. Both boys yelped in shock.
“Bilbo!” they chorused, each scrambling to either side of the Hobbit. The hobbit’s battered and bloodied state was appalling. Scrapes and dirt covered his exposed skin for the no-longer-white tunic was shredded from the elbows down in pathetic tatters. Eyes closed, and a trail of blood running down the side of his mouth, he was slumped against a boulder and his head tilted back and off to the side, facing the sun. What was most concerning, though, was the ever-growing massive red stain seeping through the tunic over Bilbo’s abdomen. Bilbo cracked an eye open, to which the heirs relaxed at a little bit but the blossom of red on Bilbo’s shirt was still distressing.
“H-hey boys,” croaked Bilbo. He gave them a wry smile. “We won.” He tried to laughed but ended up coughing blood on the dwarves. “Sorry,” Bilbo mumbled, eyes fluttering.
“What happened? Bilbo? Bilbo!” Fili cursed as the hobbit’s eyes closed.
“Bilbo, stay with us!” shouted Kili. With a grunt, Fili stood and screamed.
“Healer!!! Uncle! Someone! We need help!” he turned to Kili. “Keep pressure on his wounds!”
Kili already had his hands to the wound and used his head to gesture up past his older brother. “There is Uncle, call again.”
Thorin was walking among the quieted battlefield looking for survivors. Namely, for one hobbit who had saved his life.
Once more Thorin had come face-to-face with the pale orc that haunted his memories. Again he was tossed to the ground like nothing more than a sack of flour. This time though, the Defiler would execute the King himself. Cursing his stupidity, Thorin was helpless to stop the incoming blow, pinned down in a gap of rocks. A shout and a moment more, Bilbo had tackled the Defiler to prevent the orc from gutting him. Oh how happy the dwarf King was to see Bilbo Baggins. Of course the hobbit hadn’t abandon them, always disobeying, and always saving their hides. Unwavering was loyalty to Thorin. Even now, Thorin mused in awe. Even after every harsh word uttered in equal scorn as the fires of Mordor were scorching, and promises of death in banishment, here was Bilbo, his savior. Scrambling to get up, he watched as the orc grabbed Bilbo by his jacket. Not hesitating the halfling spun out of it. He ran about and tapped the orc’s back. So furious was the pale orc, when the Defiler went to crush the being that had stopped his execution of Thorin for a second time he didn’t notice Thorin get up and grab Orcrist.
Bilbo ducked beneath the taller one’s legs and when Azog turned once more, his chest met the blade of none other than Thorin Oakenshield himself. Twisting the blade into the beast’s heart the orc gave a last guttural cry before he collapsed on the field, dead. Thorin turned with a smile and cheer on his lips to thank the hobbit, but Bilbo was already scurrying away across the rubble to aid another. With more determination Thorin plunged again into the fray.
A muffled screaming caught his ears, snapping him out of the memory; he looked down the rocks to see his oldest nephew waving frantically at him. His stomach dropped like lead in water as he saw the curls of a familiar face that Kili was leaning over. Fast as he could, Thorin slid down the rocks and nearly tumbled to the ground when he reached the group. Fili caught him and helped his Uncle down by Bilbo’s side.
“Bilbo,” he breathed, taking one look at the amount of blood that stained the Hobbit’s shirt; he knew this was very bad. “No, my halfling, you cannot abandon me now. Not when I have been a fool. How big is the wound?”
“Four inches, there another on his back, I think he was stuck through,” Kili said, shaking. Thorin tore his outer tunic into shreds. Quickly he and Fili quickly set up to wrap the wound as best they could. Bilbo whimpered and clutched onto Thorin’s fur coat.
“Hold him up a moment,” the King instructed. His nephews looked sick as they held up the hobbit in a sitting position while Thorin slid in behind him. He took off his fur cloak and laid it on his chest. Carefully he guided the hobbit to rest against him. “Where is a healer? We cannot move him.”
“Oi, you man,” Fili snapped to a passing survivor. “Run and fetch a healer. Quickly!” The man took one look at the hobbit and nodded hurriedly, jogging off. Bilbo shook his head, eyes opening.
“S’too late. Let the healers save,” he coughed up speckles of blood, “those who can be--” Bilbo whimpered. Thorin shook his head. Did the shireling’s selflessness ever cease?
“You’re every bit as important. You’re still alive, you can be saved.” He argued. Bilbo just smiled. Somewhere in all their hearts, they knew it was too late, but the stubbornness of the line of Durin would not give up so readily. Kili was trembling like a leaf, the hobbit blood on his hands making him nauseous. Fili was by his side and cleaning off the blood like a mother would clean her young son’s. Fili wiped Kili’s hands as clean as he could with what they had. Locking their fingers together, the brothers held desperately to the other. Bilbo’s breathing was a wet wheezing. He coughed up more blood every few breaths so it dribbled down the side of his mouth. Using his sleeve, Thorin wiped the blood gently off the burglar’s face.
Thorin wanted to say something meaningful to the dying one in his arms but words were scarce and many thoughts were jumbled in the typhoon raging about his mind. Every struggle to breathe, body wrecking cough, and drop of blood added to the rising gales of guilt whipping so furiously, tears came to Thorin eyes. Bilbo’s eyes flickered from the brothers to Thorin. The King didn’t bother to hide his tears for they left unmistakable trails down his cheeks. How low had he fallen to toss away a dear friend to the gutters, all for a lifeless shining rock.
“D-don’t cry. I’m just,” Bilbo wheezed again, “a hobbit.” A cough. “Nothing more.”
Now anger rose within Thorin and he found his voice. “Don’t say that. Bilbo Baggins, you’re more than just a hobbit,” Thorin scolded, grasping one of his hands.
“You saved Uncle!” piped up Kili.
“You saved us all--” added Fili.
“Numerous times--”
“Faced the dragon!” Fili’s voice cracked.
“You’re the one who brought us home,” finished Thorin.
“I l-love you all.” His body was quivering with effort, his breaths shorter and shorter. He fought to talk, coughing up more crimson.
“Where is a healer?!” growled Thorin. He glared at the red peeking through the bandages.
“It’s okay, T-thorin.” A small wheeze. “You dwarves w-were the family I never had.” Bilbo smiled despite the color quickly fading from him. “The brothers I never had and--” he coughed up another handful of blood. Fili and Kili were crying. Ever the gentle hobbit, Bilbo slide his hand over the rocky ground and unfurled his hand to comfort the brothers, they instantly scooped up his hand, their hands swallowing his up. He looked at them, “The nephews I never had.” Never had Thorin seen a sadder sight. The fall of Erebor couldn’t compare to the anguish of his closest kith. Hiccupping through short breaths they begged and begged for Bilbo to live. To hang on. Bilbo could only give them a sad smile.
“Uncle Bilbo,” shuddered out the brunette dwarf.
“Uncle Bilbo,” the older echoed, just as broken. “Please don’t go.”
“Please.” Kili whispered. Thorin let his own tears fall freely.
“It’ll be a-alright, boys.” He sucked in another breath, his eyes struggling to stay open. “Thorin?” He tilted his head up.
“Yes, Bilbo?”
“Mm’orry.”
Thorin just shook his head, half a laugh escaping his lips. Even in the end the hobbit was apologizing to him. What a noble creature he held in his arms. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my dear Hobbit. Nothing at all. It’s me who should be asking for your forgiveness. You deserve so much more than this, then me. I casted you aside so quickly and harshly after all that you’ve overcome and proven to us, it was not fair. I’m orry, for everything.”
nbsp; Without a beat missed, “I forgive you.” Thorin stared down into the Hobbit’s eyes. It was genuine forgiveness. Eyelids blinked rapidly. “P-promise me--”
“Anything.”
“Promise you w-won’t let the gold g-get to you.”
“I see clearly now, Bilbo Baggins, thanks to you. I would trade my crown and its riches, even Erebor herself, for you to survive. Your life, loyalty, and friendship, are the greatest gifts I have gained on this journey.”
A smile twitched on the burglar’s lips. “I’m glad…” Bilbo’s vision was blurring, his eyes fluttering.
“Rest now,” Thorin rubbed his thumb on the Hobbit’s cheek. “You have earned your peace.”
Bilbo smiled at him once more. “Be happy, my King.” Hazel eyes flickered close, breathing ceased, his hands fell limp, and his body sagged completely against the King. A peaceful look adorned his face now, for there was no more pain. Bilbo Baggins was dead. Not even death could wipe the faintest of smiles from the gentle hobbit’s face. Thorin brought his temple to rest against the clammy one of Bilbo’s. Raw emotions surged up and broke through the last barricade he had and he mourned with his nephews. The line of Durin huddled close to their dead Burglar.
That’s how Bard found them soon after. He smiled upon seeing the dwarves alive, but taking one look at their face, and a glance at what they surrounded, he stopped in his tracks.
“No.” Mortified, Bard could not believe what he saw. The Hobbit. The Halfling who had risked everything, gave him the means to barter for his homelands, saved his life on the battlefield, lay dead.
It had been early in the battle and he had been so foolishly arrogant. His horse had reared up in the fight and bucked him off. Disoriented, he couldn’t see properly the warg snarling and snapping close to his feet. The putrid yellow eyes screamed for his death. It pawed the ground readying for a fatal pounce. Bard scrambled for his sword and when he had looked up, the creature was already in mid-air. Out of nowhere, the Halfling appeared in front of him and the warg fell prey to the elven blade in Bilbo’s hands. Bard could hear the thick crunch of bone; the creature had dived onto the blade, ending its life and ultimately saving his. “Thank you.” He had managed to stutter out. Bilbo had just nodded, his curls already sticking to his head in sweat and blood, giving him a quick smile. When Bard stood, the blade had been dislodged from the cranium of the warg. The hobbit told him to stay alive and well before rushing back into the bloodbath.
Now all he could manage out was a hopeless, “How?”
A light voice came from behind, startling him. “An orc blade, most likely.” Bard turned and saw Thranduil looking upon the scene with something akin to sadness in his eyes. “The gravity of the wound could not have been healed, not even by myself.” The elf paused, looking down. “He saved my son’s life, and for that I owe him a great debt.”
Another new wave of wargs and orcs had appeared at the hill they were defending; everything was looking bleak. His people were getting overrun and he couldn’t see Legolas anywhere. orcs flanked his sides, but he was skilled in combat and managed to stay just on the cusp of the upper hand. A familiar voice cried out to his left. Thranduil managed to see through the battle haze, his son, Legolas was now in the clutches of an orc. The bow was ripped from the young Prince’s hand. Legolas went to reach out for it when another orc caught his arm. A distinct snap could be heard, followed by a stifled scream. The orcs cooed mockingly. The Elvenking could hear their talk of snapping every bone in the blonde’s body. An unfamiliar feeling of panic welled up in Thranduil. He couldn’t reach his son, not in time.
One of the orcs cried out in a squeal of pain. There by their legs, it was undoubtedly the hobbit. He had cut the calf of the orc who had broken Legolas’ arm, forcing him down to his knees. Where, with no mercy, the Hobbit plunged his small sword into the orc’s back, straight to the heart. The other one, holding his son, was caught off guard when his partner fell and stumbled back a few paces. Once the fallen orc was dead, the Hobbit advanced on the other one.
Such bravery, for one so small. A hard look could be seen from the hobbit. It was one of fierce determination and protection. The small one was covered in scratches from the lack of armour, only wearing his tunic and breeches. Thranduil had to turn away to face his own foes. When he turned to the scene again, the orc was dead and Bilbo was attempting to drag a barely conscious Legolas away. Thranduil rushed over and Bilbo smiled at him. The hobbit reassured him Legolas would be okay, it was only a broken arm that had befallen the Prince. Thranduil scooped up his son, close to his chest. He heard the Hobbit wish him luck and before he could say a thing. He looked up to see the Hobbit bounding off, cutting the ankles of foes as he went. Little did he know that would be the last he would see of the living hobbit.
Thranduil had taken Legolas to the healers and he was resting peacefully under a sleeping draught. Though he seemed indifferent at times, the King very much cared for his family and people.
Bard was surprised when the Elvenking bowed low to the Hobbit.
Bard looked to the brave Halfling and bowed his head as well. “A debt, I too owe him, can never be repaid.”
“Thorin!” A shout came drawing their attention to Balin who was followed by the dwarven company. They were all scratched and covered in earth, muck, and blood, but otherwise all alive. “We’ve all survived!”
“Hail the King of Erebor!” A few shouted. Their cries of victory quieted as they came closer and saw the lifeless hobbit in the arms of their King.
Little Ori shook his head furiously, “No, it can’t be. Bilbo.”
“Lad,” whispered Balin. Quickly with shouts of surprise and grief, the company surrounded the hobbit. Bofur removed his hat and fell to his knees closest to the brothers. He and Bilbo had become good friends. Talking over toys and woodwork late around the campfires. Bifur’s heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder in support but that didn’t stop Bofur from burying his face into his hands in utter defeat.
All bowed their heads toward the smaller creature. Low rumbly prayers of Kuzudul were murmured around the group. The normally boisterous group fell into silence, many crying, others shedding a few tears, mostly anger boiling under their skins at those who had harmed the Hobbit.
Then came the Grey Wizard. Gandalf saw the company stooped low and huddled around a figure. A pit of dread swallowed up Gandalf as he rushed over, pushing many out of the way till he came to kneel beside Bilbo. Thorin looked up and let the old man take Bilbo into the folds of his arms. Silent tears streamed down the wizards face. Bilbo: a happy, young, bright lad he had been. Born of the Shire’s lush hills and fruitful forests. Echoes of laughter, ideas of adventure, bright curious eyes, and questions that would never cease from the young lad cloaked Gandalf’s mind. Now, he held that little boy, that bright illuminating life, extinguished. “Oh my dear child. What have I condemned you to?” he whispered.
“We have all condemned him,” rumbled Thorin, watching the wizard rock the hobbit as if he were a babe. “He was always there for us when we needed him and now, in his hour of need,” his voice cracked. “We’ve failed him.”
None could argue with that.
Whispers of what had befallen the Company’s fourteenth member quickly spread across the armies and a hush fell. In the hollowed silence, not even the winds dared move.
It was awhile before anyone moved or spoke. With determination in his eyes, Fili raised his head and looked his uncle in the eye. “We’ll honor his remains.”
“Yes, we will.” Thorin agreed nodding. “He’ll get a proper burial. One worthy of King.” Many murmured in agreement. Kili just shook his head, eyes welling up in tears.
“No, I can’t bear the thought of him being sealed away in a dark and cold tomb.” He shook his head furiously and tucked his face into his brother’s shoulder.
“Aye, the lad is right. It wouldn’t feel right putting our warm and bright hobbit in the dark.” Agreed Balin.
“He is a child of the light.” Gandalf said, his wrinkles set deeper around his eyes than before. “If you wish to honor him properly, in the Shire, when a hobbit dies, people rejoice for the life and happiness that they had. Flower laurels are worn, the most vibrant in color.” Gandalf adopted a faraway look, “Music is played to the rhythm of the rustling winds deep into the night. Favorite foods of the deceased are served.” Gandalf weakly chuckled and scoffed ‘hobbits’ under his breathe. “Do not despair over his death.” His eyes regained focus, looking at the company. “For he is no longer suffering, and he would not wish for any of you to suffer here because of him.” The company fell silent, many looking onto the peaceful face of their Burglar.
Bard stood forward. “What about a glass coffin? I can pay for a shrine to be made for him. He won’t ever have to be in the dark.” All were surprised, even Thranduil who still stood nearby.
“No,” Thorin said after a moment’s pause, looking at Bard, “Keep the gold the Halfling gave to you. Rebuild Dale. We will make his shrine, but we’ll use crystal instead. Stronger. We’ll all make it.” He said looking at his friends and family, who had been through so much with him this last year, who suffered through every obstacle and plight together. Really, it was a miracle they all made it to Erebor. Together, once more, they all nodded.
“At least let me have his burial clothes made by our hands. It’s the least we men can do.”
Thranduil stepped to Bard’s side. “I wish to give the hobbit something as well. He saved Legolas’s life.”
Thorin nodded to them both and turned to Gandalf who was anticipating the dwarf’s request. “I can cast a spell preserving his body, he shall never rot or fade in the ages.”
Thorin tipped his head in acknowledgement. He tucked a crusty, sweat-dried curl behind the hobbit’s ear and sighed.
“It’s time to get to work.”
The day came to lay Bilbo Baggins to rest. They would start the procession in the grasslands on the foot of the Lonely Mountain and end in the Great Hall of Warriors within Erebor. The edges of the crystal chamber looked sharp and angular against the soft grasses. Even with the multi-metal branches and vines creeping up and down the edges in beautiful weaves. The company of thirteen had worked together to make the coffin. Its panels were of the clearest and strongest crystal they could find.
Gandalf stepped forward, holding the shireling in his arms one last time. He had taken it upon himself to prepare the hobbit for his final rest. Aided with magic the hobbit’s skin no longer looked quite so pale, and smaller wounds were but mere scars now. His body was free of dirt and death, hair washed and brushed, right so for a proper hobbit. It really just looked like Bilbo was sleeping now, small like a babe in the wizard’s arms. That’s what he’d be to the wizard, always. The burden of dragging the hobbit into this battle that was obviously not his would also always stick with Gandalf.
Thanks to the men, the bloodied shreds of clothing had been replaced with the best-tailored clothing the men could make. Chocolate corduroy breeches came down to mid-calf, a white silken tunic tucked in, and replicated from the remains of its former counterpart, a dark blue jacket made of the finest velvet, edged in gold and upon the insistence of the dwarves embroidered with jewels. The buttons upon the jacket were made of brass, was the only detail upon the clothes not made or added by man. Fili and Kili had personally made sure the buttons were just like the ones he had lost in their travels.
Stooping down low, Gandalf lowered Bilbo Baggins. Carefully so, the brave little Hobbit was laid to rest upon the plush and silky cloths laid in the bottom of the crystalline chamber. They were as green as the rolling grasses of the Shire that raised him. Supporting his neck all the way down, till the hobbit’s head rested on a white silken pillow, filled to perfection with the softest down feathers. Finally, Gandalf clasped the once kind and gentle hands of the hobbit together, and there was no more he could do.
Taking a moment for himself, Gandalf looked upon the lad who had grown up into a fine Hobbit. Despite all odds being against one so small, he stood up when no one dared, spoke with the voice of innocence and reason. Sharp as a tack his mind had been, craving for knowledge and a Tookish desire for adventure. Gandalf chuckled weakly. “Bilbo Baggins, you’ve done this world a great many things, the biggest has been keeping true to your heart. Thank you, my boy, for this was a wonderful adventure. Perhaps we can share another, in a time yet to come.” Gandalf the Grey bowed his head, and let a tear fall. He was handed his staff, a good thing too, because it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Thranduil was the next to approach and rested a crown on top of Bilbo’s clean, curly, honey golden hair. It was made of woven branches from cherry and maple saplings, held together with mithril swirling through the branches. Cherry wood for Bilbo’s heart, his unyielding compassion for others. Maple, the tree of offering, for he gave everything so that they may obtain everything. When the Elvenking stepped back, Prince Legolas, who still had an arm in a sling, came forward with an armful of vibrant wildflowers. With dexterous fingers and a deft hand he wove the flowers into the crown and curls. He whispered a ‘thank you’ into a pointed ear before he too stood back and joined his father’s side.
The dwarves all came and murmured their goodbyes. Nori was the first dwarf to come say his farewells. Thief to a thief, he understood Bilbo’s better intentions better than anyone else when the lad had taken the Arkenstone. No one wanted to be a thief, but for the better of those you care about, it was a risk worth taking.
Dori and Ori came up to join their brother. Dori gave his soft thanks and patted Ori’s shoulder comfortingly. With shaking hands, Ori tucked a folded piece of paper into the sleeve of Bilbo’s jacket. It was a little poem about a hobbit who lived in a hole. He managed out a goodbye before each older brother placed a hand on the youngest and guided him away.
Oin and Gloin came up as a pair, gruffed out their many thanks. Gloin chuckled, with a tear in his eyes; his little Gimli would have loved Bilbo. His boy would be watching from the side of the road today, watching them go by. Oin apologized for not being around to assist the wounded hobbit. He reassured Bilbo he’d look out for the company in his place, well as best as an older dwarf like himself could. With a final low bow, they walked away.
Balin and Dwalin approached from either side. Smiling fondly Balin told Bilbo it had been nice to tell all his knowledge and stories of dwarfish culture to someone who actually appreciated and wanted to learn. He had hoped to teach Kuzudul to Bilbo when they had reclaimed their mountain. Dwalin’s large shadow sheltered the small body lying between him and his brother. Dwalin promised to tell stories of the Great Bilbo Baggins to all the little dwarflings in the mountain, so they’d know of his sacrifice. This battle was not his, but he had fought like it was. They paused for a moment of silence before backing off.
Next came Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. Bifur growled out many words under his breath. Cursing the stupid hobbit for getting himself killed. Thanking him for being his friend and saving their hides, but mostly for not treating the dwarf any different. Bilbo had taken Bifur’s condition in stride and could usually understand the dwarf’s gestures. They had spent several nights playing a game with stones, Bilbo idly chatting away about anything, the noise soothing. Bombur had bonded with the hobbit over meals. Sharing their recipes and secrets of spices with one another. Figuring out how to fill up the company while stretching their rations out.
Bofur, bless him, was the first to make friends with the hobbit. Being a toymaker, he wasn’t much of a warrior himself. In evenings, when they could, they’d sit and whittle away at larger chucks of wood, trading old stories and laughs. They had made a set of the company. Looking down, Bofur unfurled his hand and came to face the miniature Bilbo wielding Sting he had finished on their last leg of the journey. “I guess all the luck in the world wasn’t enough, eh?” he tried to joke, but it came out a miserable croak. Bofur’s breath hitched and he tucked the mini Bilbo in a jacket pocket. “So you won’t be lonely--” He had to stop speaking or he’d lose himself. Bifur pulled Bofur away.
The Princes were next. They stood there a moment, just watching the Hobbit. Hoping he’d simply wake. When he didn’t, their grips on the other’s hand tightened. “Mom would have loved to have met you.” Fili smiled. “She’d have fussed over you, kicked Uncle in the groin--” He and Kili laughed a little.
“Fili will probably become King. When mum hears what happened, she’ll murder Thorin. So you might see Uncle soon.” Kili blinked back his tears.
“Rest easy, we have our home and there are no words-”
“None.”
“To express our gratitude.” Fili and Kili kissed both soft cheeks of the Hobbit before going to stand by Bofur and Bifur.
Thorin was the last to say his goodbye. Like everyone else, he was wearing a customary laurel crown of flowers in his hair, for his own kingly crown was not needed today. Today he was not a proud King but a friend in mourning. He unsheathed Sting from his hip and simply said “Just in case.” Because there was nothing more he could say. He had whispered out all his goodbyes when he had held the bloodied Halfling close to his chest. With great gentle care, Thorin lifted the clasped hands of Bilbo from his stomach and carefully wrapped them around the hilt of the elven blade. Bilbo looked like a proper King, going to his rest. He is a King, thought Thorin. King of compassion, all that is right, just, and comfortable, and at that moment Thorin also realized, his heart. A tragedy it was to discover that now.
No one said anything as Thorin leant down and kissed his brow, not a word was even spoken when Thorin gave his first, last, and only kiss to the Hobbit’s lips. Stepping back Thorin nodded and Dwalin and Balin grunted as the pushed the top over Bilbo, sealing him in.
The cover was by far the most intricate piece of work. A symphony and blend of metals created the image of a tree on the front. Each leaf individually crafted, many with small etchings in them, other laden with small gems, all made with a happy memory from the maker about the hobbit. It was not a bare tree by any means.
The tree started at Bilbo’s stomach and wound all the way down, past a thick tree trunk with all the dwarves initials upon it’s metal bark, to the roots by his feet, where, melded to metal, in the tangles and snares of the roots lay the Arkenstone. Forever to rest with the one person not corrupted by its glow. On either side of the tree in the foreground, inlayed with brass to represent its warmth on the left was Bag End, its green door outlined with emeralds of the finest quality. To the far right of the tree, after following 15 sets of footsteps, was the Lonely Mountain, sapphires of the deepest blues were used to outline her majesty. They knew their hobbit would be aghast at the finery of it all, but they felt he deserved nothing less.
The top clicked when it came to a stop, locking in place. A few throaty words in Kuzudul were uttered and the seam separating the top and bottom pieces hissed and fused together.
Fili, Kili, Bofur, and Bifur were to bear the coffin in its procession. They stepped to the four corners of the platform under the casket. Fili and Bofur taking the front, while Kili and Bifur took their places behind their family. Without words and in synch, they grasped the metal poles of the platform and with heavy hearts lifted the casket off the flowery field and onto their shoulders. In time they took the first step forward, starting the procession up from the base of the Lonely Mountain up the winding road to the halls of Erebor.
All who were able to move or not tending to the injured came to line the roads. Their numbers grew greater the closer they marched to the entrance of Erebor. Men, Elves, and Dwarves all bowed their heads in respect for the deceased hobbit. Flowers were tossed on the road in front on the procession and a sweet smell drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of scones, breads, and warm hearty soups.
Thorin walked in the middle of Bard and Thranduil, the three Kings following right behind the coffin. Thranduil’s wooden crown had been replaced in a flurry of woven flowers in respect and upon Bard’s head he also bore a chain of wildflowers instead of metal. Behind them walked the rest of the company with a few elves and men all adorned with the customary hobbit flower crowns. Some had even braided the vibrant flowers into their beards. Even Gandalf’s head was bowed, hat gone and bestowed with a ring of flowers as he walked in the middle of the dwarves. The bright flowers looked foreign on the Grey Wizard. Eyes forward they put one foot in front of another.
They would soon reach Erebor, where a dedication shrine to those who had died in the battle of the five armies had been built. On the sides were the names of all those who gave their lives to protect the mountain. Each name carved in their native tongue be it man, dwarf, or elf. All earned their respect that day. On top of the shrine Bilbo would lay forever more. Where the pact of Kings would be signed. A promised treaty and alliance, a binding that has never been seen in any age. To peace and honor they pledged their three kingdoms too, from this day on.
The only noise came from nature, who seemed to be mourning herself, low now was the sun, glinting off the casket in warm and cools of the mixed metals. Clouds were rolling in, tall and looming black, highlighting the sunset. Rustling of leaves, the low shushing of the grasses followed them. Then there came a lone voice from the crowds; it was a low and haunting note. One all the dwarves knew well and joined in one by one. Cords and harmonies were struck in a rising ring, those who couldn’t sing, or didn’t know the words hummed along the best they could. Thorin blinked back his tears as his people readily sang the song that they sung to each other and their little ones in hope. It was about a kingdom long lost, far over the mountains.
“Far over,” Thorin started, his voice like the rumbling of an oncoming storm “the misty mountains cold,” taking in deep breaths his nephews joined in, “to dungeons deep,” the company quickly following suit, “And caverns old.” Thundering voices blending. It pulsed with the life of tales un-foretold. “We must away, ere break of day,” resonating through the trees, it carried across the land. “To find our long forgotten gold.” It echoed up to the Lonely Mountain’s peak. “The pines were roaring on the height,” the echo pierced the heavens, “the winds were moaning in the night,” so that all might hear, “the fire was red, it flaming spread,” the hearts of the dwarves, “the trees like torches, blazed with light,” and the new loss they felt for the little hobbit who had brought them home.