#but i wanted to pass along some mild feelios

[mithrilhearts]

Would you ever write sad endings (bittersweet counts)?? 🥺

I'm not going to say I'd never write a sad ending...because there may be some little plot bunnies in the works that may, or may not, have a sad ending.

I was a little inspired by the challenge, and while this maybe doesn’t sound like a “sad ending” (as in the final page of a fic), it definitely is sad to me. I had something like this written for Acorntober that I deemed too sad to put out there (and promptly scrapped), and I’m sure that one was better than the stuff I pulled out of my ass during a writing sprint :D

I didn’t want to spend a ton of time on a sad piece (as I’m writing cracky fics right now), but here’s a little something that could wrap up a very sad, and very canon-compliant timeline of The Hobbit - or at least Bilbo’s thoughts upon Ravenhill.

TW: Major Character Death (you know the one)

Bilbo had never been one to beg and plead too terribly hard in his life, but right now it felt as if there was nothing else he could do but beg.

The desperation was there, clear as day in those burning hazel eyes. But not just one single pang of hurt plagued him, but a repetitive beating against his heart that somehow smothered his desire to sob as he clutched Thorin’s hands, noticing how the dwarf’s grip was growing weaker and weaker. How Thorin dared to be patting at him like this as if Bilbo were the one laying across the cold icy ground and fading out of existence, the hobbit would never understand.

It wouldn’t do any good to have those sad thoughts of defeat floating about his mind, not when there was still life within Thorin’s eyes. Thorin would be fine, he was a strong and stubborn dwarf that could defeat this, even if the wound to his middle was severe…there was still a chance. They’d skirted by death more times than any individual should–namely Thorin–and if the King Under the Mountain could survive a warg attack, then surely he could handle this one.

Stupid dwarf that he was, letting himself get skewered like this. When Thorin was all nice and better, Bilbo was planning to give him a bop on the head for his idiocy. If only Gandalf were here…or Dwalin to help start carting Thorin down Ravenhill towards proper healers. Bilbo would give anything to have that grey wizard at his side, he had brought Thorin back from the brink, and he could do it again if it was determined that Thorin’s strong will just…wasn’t enough.

“Hold on, Thorin…the eagles are here, don’t you see?” What grip that was around Bilbo’s hand had gone completely lax, and yet somehow, Bilbo managed to hang onto hope as if it were the only thing he had left. Admitting defeat, admitting to a world without this stupid stone brain would be–

The sound that crawled up Bilbo’s throat as his eyes finally screwed shut was not proud. It was miserable and made him feel gutted on the inside. What life had been in Thorin’s eyes, a pretty shade of sky blue had dulled to something more muted and lost. That’s exactly what the dwarf was to him–lost.

And there was no way to find him again.

The reality of it all hit Bilbo like a punch to the gut, and that pitiful wheeze of a sound that moved past his lips echoed into sobs, hard enough to where his mind felt like it was going to explode right out of his skull. Had he been a bit faster, perhaps a bit wiser, and not gotten bonked on the head by the blunt side of a weapon, perhaps he could have done something to spare Thorin this…this unfair fate.

Not to mention himself.

Far too many years in a lonely smial only to have his quiet reality shattered by a wizard and thirteen dwarves, and now Bilbo would have to return to that quiet life, but with no ignorance to what beauty the world truly held. It was full of adventure and wonder, but also love and heartache.

Gandalf had been right all along–Bilbo would never be the same upon his return to the Shire.

The company arrived at some point, first, it was Dwalin who had followed the echoing sounds of Bilbo’s wails, and then the rest alongside Gandalf arrived to pay their respects.

Bilbo had lost his ability to speak, feeling exhausted and spent as he was pried away from a cooling corpse, faced with what dim and dull future awaited him. It wasn’t fair. Thorin and his nephews had dreamed to see Erebor retaken, to see it flourish like the days of old, and yet, in the end, no one truly won. The mood was as somber as Bilbo had ever seen as he sat to the side, Gandalf next to him as they exchanged nothing but a glance while the wizard prepped his pipe for puffing.

It wasn’t fair.

The words continued to echo in Bilbo’s mind as he sat, tapping his fingers anxiously against his knees until finally, the words flew out of his mouth in exhaustion.

“I think I’m quite done with adventures, Gandalf…”

The grey wizard remained silent in his thoughts, casting Bilbo another glance and leaving it at that, for which Bilbo was grateful. He didn’t want words of wisdom or sympathy, and Bilbo was certain that Gandalf seemed to understand. 

Staring down at his palms, glancing at the dirt and the red stains that remained, all Bilbo could think about was Thorin’s desperate, and yet comforting, grip against his own, knowing that he’d never get to feel something like that ever again. What he wouldn’t give to be able to go hand in hand to the market of the Shire, or one of the guilds in Erebor. Or to give that big paw of a hand a firm squeeze whenever Thorin felt that ever returning self-doubt of his. But now Bilbo would never know what that truly felt like.

All he was left of was a memory of a dying grip and the longing for a long life of simply being there to hold Thorin’s hand–for a life that was just out of reach of his own two hands.