Bilbo in Rivendell

by Daughter of Kings

Bilbo woke suddenly in the dark of the night. Rising, he pulled on a warm robe and padded out onto the balcony. The night was clear and crisp, and bright with starlight. Low in the southern sky, Menelvagor made his nightly journey into the west. Southward Bilbo turned his eyes. Southward, where dear Frodo had gone, with Aragorn and the others. Southward, where the Ring had gone. Southward, where his own heart and mind sometimes wished to go, although his body would not allow it. Did the Ring call to him still? Or was it the lure of a new adventure, the opportunity to tread new paths, to see sights unseen before? Was he jealous that Frodo now bore the Ring, or that the lad now traveled roads on which his own feet would never take him? What was it that wrenched at his heart, that had him standing out here each night since the Fellowship had departed?

A cool breeze drifted down from the Misty Mountains, and the ache in his heart slowly gave way to the chill in his bones. Of what matter was it, what drew him to stand out here? None at all, he told himself, for what held him back was more powerful. Inside, a warm fire and cozy bed waited for him. Inside were his book and his songs, the stories he had heard and those he had told, his memories of what had been, and the Elves with whom he shared them. Inside were warmth, and laughter, and friends. One last wistful glance beyond the bounds of Rivendell, and then he turned and went back inside.