It was the second night on the road, and the fire had burned down to quiet orange embers. The grass around our camp shifted gently in the breeze, sighing now and then like an old soul catching its breath. Above us, the stars hung clear and sharp.
Bilbo had curled into his bedroll some time ago, but from the occasional grumble and shifting of blankets, I doubted he was truly asleep.
I sat on a fallen log, boots off, pipe resting beside me unlit for once. The horses—our rented companions, placid and patient—grazed quietly nearby. All things considered, the journey had gone smoothly. We'd passed a few traders on the road, seen a hawk circle overhead, crossed a stream with water so clean you could see the stones at the bottom.
It was a Peaceful journey.
Bilbo, for all his fussing before the trip, had taken to travel with more enthusiasm than I'd expected. The first day had been nothing short of energetic—he'd pointed out every tree he thought looked peculiar, asked questions about where we were on the map, and made up songs (bad ones) as we rode. Even today, he'd kept going with that quiet determination that only stubborn Hobbits could manage.
But now?
I glanced over. He was bundled up like a tightly packed parcel, one foot sticking out from the side of his bedroll.
He shifted again and muttered, "My everything hurts."
I stifled a laugh.
He hadn't truly considered what it meant to ride for days. The strain of the saddle, the constant sway of the horse beneath him, the way every muscle had to adjust to the rhythm of motion he didn't control it was all catching up to him.
He hadn't complained aloud much. Not in the Bilbo Baggins sort of way. But I'd noticed how he dismounted slower today, how often he stretched his legs when we stopped, how he sighed longer before climbing back into the saddle.
The spirit was still willing, but the body was beginning to register its protest.
I leaned back against a rock and folded my arms. He was trying, and frankly, he was doing better than I thought he would.
"Still alive over there?" I called softly, not expecting an answer.
A small, muffled voice came from the blanket bundle. "Barely."
I chuckled.
"You'll get used to it. Or you'll lose all feeling and won't care anymore."
"Comforting," he muttered.
The fire crackled, casting shadows across the low hill behind us. I gazed into the stars again, letting silence stretch.
In the morning, we'd ride again. If we kept our pace, we'd reach Bree by midday the day after tomorrow. Then we'd see how the High Hay looked up close.
But for now, the world was still.
I stared up at the sky in thought, arms folded behind my head, eyes tracing the scattered constellations. Would this adventure change anything? For Bilbo, I mean. Would it shape him somehow? Make him braver, bolder?
Honestly… I didn't know. That wasn't really the point, was it? This wasn't meant to be a grand, life-altering journey. Just some exploration. A bit of the world, seen with a friend.
Well, maybe I had nudged things more than he realized.
I smirked to myself, remembering how I'd arranged for two horses back in Hobbiton.
I hadn't told Bilbo that, of course. Just said I'd hired one for myself, and could do the same for him—if he wanted. He'd hesitated, fussed about the expense, and insisted he might just walk or sit with me.
But I knew better. He was always going to come.
So I'd already paid for two.
When the time came, he looked between me and the horse waiting for him, sighed dramatically, and got into the saddle like it was some dreadful fate. He never questioned how conveniently everything had been arranged. Too distracted by nerves and the thrill of the unknown.
Not exactly manipulative… just gently prepared.
I sat up briefly, glancing over the plains that stretched around our little camp. The grass rolled in silver waves under the moonlight, rippling like water in the breeze. The wind was still following me. Curious little thing. I'd been practicing with it more, playing with its temperament. It seemed to enjoy lingering near me lately.
I pulled a small, palm-sized disc from my coat—a protection plate etched with faint silver lines. Placing it down near the fire's remains, I whispered a quick activation phrase. A soft shimmer spread outward, barely visible. It would keep us hidden, untraceable till morning. The moonlight above would feed it just fine.
With that done, I lay back again and let my eyes drift closed.
I breathed in deeply, let my Qi flow out in gentle pulses, and reached for the wind. It came to me easily now, swirling playfully through my hair, tugging at the grass. I shaped little spirals of it, chasing stray leaves, letting it hum quietly around the edges of camp.
Eventually, sleep came.
Bree was… interesting.
A real town. Not a village, not a hamlet, but a proper, layered place with stone buildings and tiled rooftops. Hobbit-holes dotted the lower hill slopes, but there were tall houses too—human-sized and bustling. Folk of all kinds walked the streets: hobbits, men, and I was fairly certain I spotted a dwarf grumbling at a market stall. Maybe two.
The town was ringed by an actual wall—old but sturdy, with moss in its cracks and guards posted at the gates. It all felt like a world away from the Shire, despite being only a few days' ride.
But oddly enough, the thing I'd most wanted to see wasn't here.
The High Hay—that towering hedge that kept the Huorns from pressing into farmland—was in Buckland, east of the Shire. Not Bree.
I frowned slightly as we passed through the gates. Bit of a disappointment, that. I'd been looking forward to examining it. But there'd be time. It wasn't like it was going anywhere.
Still, Bree had its charms. The streets were lively, music played somewhere in the distance, and the air smelled like spiced cider and wet stone. I glanced at Bilbo, who was turning in a slow circle trying to take everything in at once, eyes wide with a mixture of wonder and fatigue.
"Think we should find a place to stay?" I asked.
"The Prancing Pony, obviously," he said without hesitation. "You have heard of it, haven't you?"
I smiled. "I have. Suppose I'd better experience it properly."
And then—maybe, if I was feeling particularly adventurous—I'd make a detour out toward the Barrow-downs. Dangerous, sure. But what kind of cultivator would I be if I didn't poke around a place filled with ancient, haunted tombs of the Dúnedain?
It wouldn't be for Bilbo. That part would be just for me.
But first: a drink, a warm bed, and maybe some stew.
---
Bilbo groaned.
His eyes fluttered open to the soft glow of morning seeping through the shutters. His head throbbed with the dull, rhythmic complaint of last night's revelry. He rolled onto his side, squinting at the beams overhead like they'd somehow betrayed him.
"Damn," he muttered, pressing a hand to his face. "Why'd I do that…"
His mouth was dry, his stomach not entirely settled, and his memory a haze of laughter, wooden mugs, something about a dwarven drinking song, and Thomas encouraging him with that crooked grin of his. Bilbo winced at a particular flash of memory—standing on a table and proclaiming something about "barrel-riding" being more dignified than it sounded.
"Oh no," he whispered, and rubbed his eyes again.
He sat up slowly, half-expecting the room to spin, but it was only mildly swaying. Two beds occupied the small space they'd rented—his, rumpled and lived-in, and the other… empty.
He frowned.
Thomas's bed was neatly made, his things tucked away save for a folded paper on the nightstand. Bilbo swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his dressing robe, and padded over with cautious curiosity.
The paper was weighted with a smooth stone, likely alchemically smoothed knowing Thomas. Bilbo picked it up, unfolded it.
Gone on a walk. Might be gone for a bit. Don't wait for me to explore Bree. —T.
Bilbo let out a soft sigh, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
"Of course you have."
He took a few moments to clean himself up—splashed some water on his face from the pitcher, brushed out his curls, adjusted his traveling coat. The soreness in his legs reminded him that riding a horse was, in fact, not natural for hobbits. Or at least, not for him.
Still, the bed had been soft, the drink warm, and the company… well, oddly comforting, in that chaotic Thomas way.
Bilbo folded the note again, tucked it into his pocket, and stepped toward the window. The streets of Bree bustled gently with morning life. Humans and hobbits mingled in the lanes, a cart clattered by, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
With a deep breath and one last look at the empty bed, Bilbo opened the door and stepped out into the world beyond the Shire once more.