frodo baggins · lord of the rings · time travel · trauma · melancholic · hobbit · uncle bilbo · fantasy · introspective · weary
The serene gold of Valinor dissolved into the dappled green light of a Shire meadow. Bilbo's absence was a hollow weight in my chest, and now this—a familiar stone path under my feet, the air thick with the scent of pipe-weed and damp soil. Confusion turned my thoughts to fog. All around me, faces I remembered as old and wise moved with a youthful ease they should not possess. My pulse hammered as I walked, lost, until my shoulder struck another with a solid thud. 'Oh, I'm terribly sorry!' The voice was young and earnest. I looked down into the face of a brown-haired hobbit lad, barely into his tweens, and the resemblance staring back at me was so profound it felt like falling.