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The Healer did not argue with the strange, short fellow who was determined to leave his house before the parade started. His wife was already hanging the banners from their top rooms; and he himself wanted a good vantage point to see the glittering lords make their way in triumph to the reopened kingdom.

Bilbo Baggins made his way to the top of what used to be known as Chestnut Hill.  Before the firedrake had scorched the earth, a peaceful copse of chestnuts had bloomed here.  Now, the dark, burnt timbers covered in dew creaked in the morning breeze.  He lay upon the damp grass, struggling to breathe, his injuries, he believed, were worse than he let on to the Men he stayed with.  For Bilbo Baggins was no fool, he knew that he would not be returning to the Shire.  The return trip was long, and too treacherous for a hobbit travelling alone, had he the strength to attempt it.  His previous traveling companions, he mused, would not escort him home.

He had travelled with them, through the cypress-hung forests of Mirkwood, and the moss and rue strewn mountain ranges, in good cheer and dreaming of restoring a kingdom to friends.  A dream cut to pieces by the new King Under the Mountain.  After the battle, as he smelled the burning of goblin corpses through dusty windows -the medicinal smells of willow bark and mint fighting their way through - he woke daily in hopes of a messenger, recalling him to the halls of Erebor.  He had fitful dreams of the king regretting harsh words between them, welcoming him back to rejoice and rebuild with his comrades.  As silent days turned to a week, then news of a celebratory parade and festival, Bilbo sadly reminded himself that dwarves and hobbits differed in many ways – and while his whole heart forgave Thorin Oakenshield and the rest any wrong or slight – the company did not feel the same.  To them, his contract was up and he had served his purpose.  The smiles and laughter, danger, terror, and relief that they once shared did not equal kinship or bonds of friendship for those who came from stone.

So, the night before the festival, Bilbo stole from his sickbed, finding his way to the town gardens, Gandalf helping him walk as he spoke of reconciliation.  Gandalf seemed to think if Bilbo would only present himself to the court, he would find welcome.  Bilbo knew better.  The look in Thorin’s eyes had been more than gold-sickness.  It spoke of decades of wandering, of loss, of broken hopes, of suspicions confirmed a thousand times over.  The King’s mind was as the forge he hammered in for so long in the cold Blue Mountains.  It was sharp, strong, and unbending like the weapons made between hammer and anvil.  Words of forgiveness could be spoken – but Thorin’s heart was mithril, and Bilbo the enemy spear come too close to home. Bilbo knew that their separation was merely evidence of one more thing the Oakenshield could conquer.

So Gandalf sat in the quiet garden under moonlight, breathing in the scents of jasmine and magnolia, watching as Bilbo crafted wreaths of honor.  Laurel and bay for each head, then the scholar’s work could truly begin. Buttercups and mayflowers for Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur, wound with cowslips and sweetpeas.  Dori, Nori, and Ori strewn with honeysuckle and violets. Celandine, elderflower battled with unruly daisies for Gloin and Oin. Dwalin and Balin received circles of scarlet lilies, protea, and ivy.  Bilbo let out a soft, fond laugh as he braided hollyhock and gorse, thistle and the dainty wormwood flowers for the Heirs of Durin.  Birds finally began their morning song as the hobbit worked on the final laurel. Tiny blooms of rainflowers mixed with oak leaves and narcissus. Lavender sprigs gave way to buttons of marigold – echoing the gleam of brass buttons on a cave floor.  Then the fountain of daffodils and heliotrope crowning a yellow rose in full bloom.

Bilbo stood, his small pile of wreaths in Gandalf’s lap.  The wizard looked at the fragrant circlets below, silently contemplating how much bravery and love a soft petal could contain.

“We leave in two days time, a wain to take you back to Hobbiton,” the wizard spoke sadly. 

Bilbo forced a smile to his lips, “Ready to leave, I think. I am ready to say my goodbyes to this place.”

Gandalf stood, the laurel wreaths in hand as he walked Bilbo back to the House of Healing, before continuing on towards the Lonely Mountain.

So now, Bilbo sat under the shadows of dead trees, watching the parade from Chestnut Hill.  The banners snapped merrily in the breeze, and the music of lutes and drums reached his ears.  He closed his eyes to the bright colors and gleams of gold and silver that caught the sun.  Then only listened to the cheerful tunes, thinking he could hear china plates on wood, of ale casks emptied, and tapping of large boots on a kitchen floor.  He fell asleep there, under the burned trees, and slept as crocuses opened themselves to the morning, and asphodel grew in clumps near his bandaged hand. 

As the parade streamed by, the King Under the Mountain glanced up to the hollow trees, golden crown laden with blooms, and saw a form in repose. For a moment, his eyes softened at the remembrance of unruly curls and easy smiles.  Then the weight of gold on his head reminded him of all that transpired. He hardened his heart, and lead his company past.