Chapter 31. Epilogue

It was a beautiful autumn day, of the sort to rival the beauty even of Imladris, the Watcher thought. Imladris was Always, of course, smiling and soothing the spirit, a place to drink deep and be refreshed. The Shire, however, was beautiful in her own way with her moods and changes. He’d come to know her seasons in his turns at Watching. Winter stillness, when the trees rose stark and black in soft-falling snow; Quickening, with myriad greens and burgeoning life; Summer’s sky of brightest blue with ever-changing clouds or velvet black sprinkled with star-jewels — each had its own place in his heart. But the falling-time, ah, when it seemed the land put on her gayest gown for a last wild dance before snow-sleep, the riotous colours, the smell of leaf-smoke in the crisp morning air, the achingly-blue sky above, ah-h-h-h; there was nothing quite like it anywhere else in Middle-earth. He smiled and wondered what the others would say, should he voice this thought in Imladris or Lorien.

Perhaps it was because he was deep in such thoughts that he did not remark the young Halfling sleeping in the late-afternoon sunshine on the grass atop the Hill. Thankfully the small one was asleep! ...for the Watchers were to be unseen in their duty. There was something about this Halfling, however, something in the tilt of the chin, perhaps? He really ought to have stepped immediately into the cover of the trees once more, but the nagging familiarity caught at him just long enough for the Halfling’s eyes to open, blink, stare in astonished wonder... and then the Watcher remembered.

 ‘Pick?’ he said involuntarily, then ‘Thorn?’ but of course it could not be. Still, the resemblance was remarkable.

The Halfling scrambled to his feet, hastily brushing leaves from his clothes, snatching the knitted hat from his head to reveal bronze curls—not golden, as he remembered, of course it was not the hobbit he remembered, how could it be?—and bowed, managing to keep an eye on the apparition lest it evaporate into thin air.

‘Bilbo Baggins at your service,’ he said breathlessly to the Elf, for Elf it must be, though he’d never seen one in his life, only heard about them in the Old Took’s stories. He’d only half-believed his grandfather, nay, less than half-believed, but now...

 ‘And at your family's,’ the Elf replied with a delighted smile and bow of his own. His arm swept out to encompass the view from the top of the Hill and he added, ‘The Shire is particularly lovely this day.’

Unthinking, Bilbo followed the gesture, and when he looked back to where the Elf had stood the Fair One was gone.

 ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘O please!’ There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so much he wanted to know...

 ‘Bil-bo! Bil-bo! Bil-bo Baggins!’ came the faint sing-song from Bag End partway down the Hill. Scarcely breathing, the young hobbit stood rooted to the spot and looked all about him. Surely the Elf was not far. He’d find him, he had to! He had always come obediently to his mother’s call before, but... First things first!

 ‘Bil-bo!’ came his mother’s sweet voice again.

The young hobbit hesitated, his eyes still searching for something that was already fading in his memory, something wondrous, that took his breath away and filled his heart with unknown longing. An Elf, wasn’t it? He grasped desperately at the thought.

‘Supper’s on!’ rang on the breeze, and his tummy gave an answering rumble. The Elf was gone; somehow he knew this beyond doubt, but someday... someday he’d follow a path to where the Elves lived... he would!

 ‘Sup-per!’

He turned back towards Bag End, raising his young voice to cry an answer. ‘Coming, Mother!’ First things first, after all...