Chapter Text
Bilbo planted his acorn in Dale in midst of battle, as sign of hope amidst the death and destruction, a wish that life would spring from the ashes.
Later, when everything was said and down and Thorin, Fíli and Kíli had been laid in stone and Dain Ironfoot had been crowned the King Under the Mountain, Bilbo went back to that spot he'd dug out in the showy dirt of Dale. It was easy enough to find – the earth there was mostly undisturbed, except for the patch he'd dug out to plant his acorn.
"Plant your trees," Bilbo mouthed silently to it, as he knelt in the cold ground, just staring at the little mound of fresh dirt. "Watch them grow."
He'd wanted to plant the tree in Shire, on the hill atop Bagend. It would've looked very fine, he'd thought, especially if it grew out as big as the trees around Beorn's hut – a great old oak atop of Bagend was just the thing, he thought, to crown the Hobbiton Hill. He'd already looked forward to late evenings spent smoking in it's shadows, remembering the strife and struggle of past years and being glad that it was all over. But now…
He'd planted it in Dale, in fairly nondescript corner of the ruined city, on the edge of one of it's many small squares almost entirely out of sight and out of mind except for those who'd seen him plant it. Bard was settling the northern end of the city now, they were planning on restoring a number of buildings there, the ones best preserved, for the winter. Chances were no one would come to this part except by accident or wanderlust in months, maybe not in years. And this was where Bilbo had planted his oak.
If it grew and if it grew as big as Beorn's oaks, then it would eventually stand over the square and what might one day, few years down the line, be a busy street – it led from the southern part to the inner city, and to what had been heart of Dale, the great halls and Lord Girion's house and many others. One day his oak may watch over those making their way there, and those people might know what the oak stood for… but most likely they would not.
Leaning forward, Bilbo pressed his hands gently over the fresh mound of dirt. "Watch them grow," he whispered without a sound and bowed his head.
He could hardly speak anymore – everything got stuck in his throat nowadays and it hurt to breathe. Something had lodged there – Thorin's last breath maybe – and Bilbo could not swallow it or cough it out, and it was quietly, slowly choking him. Perhaps it would be better if he left, perhaps once he reached the warm hills of Hobbiton he could inhale properly again, fill his lungs with warm, sweet air and maybe even make a proper sound again… but he thought not.
No, he'd be choking back the bottomless grief forever, he thought. It would hollow it out – he could already feel it somewhere between his shoulder blades and inside his chest, between his lungs, where every breath hurt anew. It would only get worse with time.
He'd planted his oak before Thorin's death, to give hope to Bard, now Lord of Dale. To ensure himself that there was hope because at that moment – what else he could do? What could one small hobbit do? Whether it had actually done anything or changed anything then didn't matter anymore, though Bilbo hoped it had at least given poor Bard a breather amidst the horror. Trees were good at that. Oaks especially. Good, sturdy trees, oaks.
Choking silently, Bilbo rested his forehead against the dirt, and tried to breathe.
Gandalf left couple of weeks later, after the restoration of Dale had begun and the restoration of Erebor followed. Bilbo stayed, shaking his head silently at the mournful look Gandalf gave him. There was nothing to it anymore, and he did not feel up to another grand adventure.
"I'll come for you when spring comes," Gandalf said, overly hopeful, and Bilbo just smiled and said nothing.
That winter was long and harsh and lovely all at once – and not at all like the winters in Shire. It was both colder and warmer than in Shire – the Lake Esgaroth froze around the edges and it rained water that froze on whatever surface it hit, but there was very little snow, nothing like the thick soft piles Shire got some winters. Here snow was either wet or it was crisp and hard. Overall, it was quite miserable.
But it was at every turn softened by the sheer hope that was kindling in the heart of Dale. With the forces of hundreds of determined dwarves and desperate men, buildings were being rebuild at neck breaking speed. Some of the buildings that were worse off were dismantled for materials, and in the heart of Dale houses grew, their roots tiled with slate, their walls thick and strong. Inside, hearths blazed warm with Erebor's coal. And in Erebor, the rebuilding was faster still. The front gates were repaired and grander than before.
They build Thorin's likeness to guard the gates, a strong and sturdy guardian that watched over all who dared to cross with stone oak shield at his arm and Bilbo could not bear to look at it.
He remained in the more desolate part of Dale, staying close to his acorn under the ground. The Company had done what they could to make him comfortable – a small building which had probably been a guardsman's office of some sort, had been fixed for his use, equipped with a little stove to keep him warm, filled with warm furs and pillows and blankets. It was very cosy even on the coldest of nights, but Bilbo stayed there only rarely.
"You should join us in the mountain," Balin told him, once again, watching Bilbo sit silent vigil upon the acorn under the frozen ground. "We've come long way restoring the city – you should see it. The gold has been separated, we've even taken care of the golden floor. It's very fine now."
Bilbo shook his head and rested his hand on the cold earth.
Balin wasn't the only one who tried to cajole him into joining the mountain. Bofur and his kin came about often, Ori and Dwalin did too, as did the others, all of them in turn. Even Bard tried to coax him away, once, but he tried to offer him the shelter of the great halls they'd restored, rather than the Lonely Mountain itself. Bilbo refused them all with quiet shakes of his head and kind smiles and bows. He gave the same even to the King Under the Mountain himself when the dwarven lord came to see him.
"It ain't right, one of Thorin's Company being so alone," Dain said with a scowl. "We've space enough for you in the mountain, and fine quarters beside. It's what Thorin would've wanted for ye."
Thorin wanted me to plant my trees and watch them grow, Bilbo did not say, nor did he go to Erebor ever again.
He stayed in Dale through the winter, watching over the acorn. It did not grow – of course not, it was winter after all. They all survived it, from the oldest madam to the youngest babe, in parts due to the coal of Erebor and in parts to the Elvenking's kindness. Thranduil kept supplying Dale and Erebor both with food through the winter, perhaps in some convoluted guilt over the Durin's line. Whatever it was, Dale was grateful, and so was Bilbo who too could eat only thanks to kindness of elves.
Though he did not eat much, anymore.
And then the spring came and it was a beautiful one. Like sensing the dragon's absence, the fields of Erebor were blooming with greenery and then with flowers and in Dale the rebuilding was set aside for planting instead. They sowed fields, they planted trees, they started what one day would hopefully be orchards and great gardens. And perhaps one day they would even have the great forests of Erebor back. Who knew.
Bilbo stood vigil by his lone acorn, his face turned up to the sun, unfeeling of the warmth, and waited for it to sprout.
"Are you going to go, soon?" Bofur asked Bilbo, late one warm spring day while Bilbo picked at the weeds surrounding his acorn's hiding spot. "It's been a long winter, but it's not been too wet – by the time you get over Mirkwood, the passes of Misty Mountains should already be open and easy to traverse. See I've been thinking that I could go back to the Blue Mountains for a spell – some matters we left unsettled there, and there's Durin's folk too. They begin their travel back here this summer, you know, and they need all the able bodies they need to help…"
Bilbo set the weeds aside gently and then turned his attention to the acorn instead, resting his fingers gently over the mound in dirt. Then, very carefully, he shifted a bit of the dirt aside.
There, hiding amidst the dirt, there was a hint of a green sprout, still bent over and pale, but alive.
Bofur chattered on to fill the silence, as he always did, warm and careless and kind. Bilbo ran a finger tip along the sprout's thin little stem, smiling at it brokenly. Then, leaning back, Bilbo took a breath and released it slowly. Dale was starting to bloom and flower, too – there were weeds and grass everywhere, and flowers grew from the cracks in the stone and it was quite lovely to look at. One day they'd be cleared out, probably, one day there might be actual intentional flower arrangements in Dale, grown from those resilient little flowers. Maybe not.
He'd never see it, but it didn't matter. For now, it looked lovely. It looked hopeful. Erebor and Dale both had risen from their destruction and they were growing again – with more people and more vigour and more valour too, if luck was on their side. Eventually they would be great and grand again, and it was enough that Bilbo could imagine it.
He thought that Thorin might've imagined it too, and who knows, maybe they'd seem something alike.
"Yes," Bilbo said quietly. "I'll be going soon, I think."
But not back to Shire.
Bilbo never did manage to put into words what Thorin meant to him, what Thorin was to him – he always choked on the words, the knot of pain in his throat growing too big and too painful to surpass. Maybe the others knew, for there were always sad smiles and understanding in their eyes, and they never pressed for the explanation. Maybe they heard the words he couldn't speak, irregardless. And maybe that was just about enough.
The oak sprouted finally, on a quiet, warm morning in late that spring, and Bilbo sat vigil beside it until the thing lodged in his throat finally took his breath away.