"The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that."
Fairies are one of the oldest race of beings in Arda -once they called Numenór home- but Arethusa watched as the sea claimed the island from the helm of a ship as the survivors fled to...
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THE round door was a sight she had not looked upon in many years. It looked as if a fresh coat of the green paint had recently been applied. He had once said not to bother knocking, but she knocked anyway and listened to the patter of large feet on the wood and tile floor. "No thank you! We don't want any more visitors, well-wishers, or distant relations!" He called. She only chuckled, leaning closer to the door.
"What about old friends, Master Baggins?" The door to the hobbit hole opened wide in greeting. His hair was whiter, his face older, and his stomach larger than the last time she had seen him. She opened her arms to him and old friends were reunited for the first time in half a century.
"My dear, Arethusa!" He pulled away from the small woman, hands resting on her shoulders while he was lost in thought for a moment. Remembering his courtesies, the hobbit stepped aside, ushering Arethusa into his home once more. "Come on, come in. Welcome, welcome." She looked around his home curious, recalling that in one of the letters she had received in the mountain stated that his home had been ransacked as the Shire-folk believed him to be dead.
She remembered watching him change over their adventure, like most hobbits, Bilbo was fond of the comforts of home and hearth. He loved good, simple food in abundance, and he loved his pipe and hobbit-hole. But she knew the others in Hobbiton thought him to be odd, it was the Took in him, that part longed for adventure. Adventures were nasty things in the eyes of most Hobbits, anything that made them late for supper was to be avoided.
Everything was in place, even to the last pinecone that sat near the kitchen hearth as kindling. The pantry was full, the kettle of tea had already been brewing. Her friend scuttled around his home in a frenzy, muttering to himself and at times speaking to her. Arethusa followed him into the sitting room and kitchen, after the years she still could hear their voices singing in the night. Far over the Misty Mountains cold...
She passed into the oak hall, noting the chest that had been buried in the troll hoard, overflowing with gold coins. The sight that ensnared her at the moment was within the drawing-room, the image preserved within the wooden frame made her heart twist, as did the runes inscribed on the right.
The lonely mountain, Erebor, the greatest of all dwarf kingdoms. When she held the frame and map all else faded, even Bilbo. She could picture the broken ramparts, the mounds of gold coin, even the scent of a dragon tickled her nose at the memory. She grew silent, and the hobbit began to worry. "Arethusa?" Bilbo saw what she was holding, saw the tears that came to her eyes, he even saw that she wore the key to the mountain on a leather strip around her neck and that there was a single silver bead hanging from a braid of silver hair.
"It's been sixty years." Her voice was meek, small, it fit her petite frame but not her age. She looked up at Bilbo as he came and gently took the map from her shaking hands. He may have aged but despite that, his eyes were still bright, longing to see the world once more.
