Bilbo seated himself down on the hobbit-sized chair and sighed. Frodo, sitting opposite him, threw him a concerned glance – which he deflected with a smile, as usual.

“I’m tired,” he confessed, meaningfully. Frodo grew upset. His easy smile turned sad, and he looked intently at his honorary nephew. “It’s a gift, really, dear lad, as you will know when your time comes.”

Olórin, seated a little aside from them, bit his lips, his expression anxious and uneasy. He looked away with embarrassment when Bilbo caught his look and laughed gently. The elderly hobbit reached out a hand and grabbed his, but did not say anything. There was no reassurance to be given which would not seem hollow and untrue; and they all knew it.

But Bilbo knew how to divert the Maia’s attention, even for just a while… Or at least he thought he knew. “You weren’t afraid to face that Balrog, according to Frodo,” he teased, with a winsome grin.

“Uncle! We never made light of that,” Frodo protested. But Olórin shook his head, his countenance grave, and gave Bilbo a – surprisingly – shaky smile.

“I was scared out of my wits, you know,” he confided. “But I was a leader, and leaders mustn’t show any fear for the sake of their followings’ morale.”

 “Then what’s making you afraid or uncomfortable about the One’s gift on us? You know it well, since before the Beginning, if Elrond’s knowledge is correct,” Bilbo said, bemused.

“I knew it. We knew it. But we never understood it, and neither do we,” the Maia replied, without looking at any of them. He squeezed the hobbits’ hands when they did his, grateful for the small gesture of sympathy.

“But you’re friends with us, the Big and Little folks alike, for centuries,” Frodo pointed out uncertainly. “Surely you’ve seen people die?”

Olórin opened his mouth, but then closed it again. Shaking his head in confusion and frustration, he gave them a rueful look. After a moment of silence, he said, “It was… different. People died in battle or because of illness, or injuries. I was never present when someone died just because of old age, and was happy to leave the world, as if… as if returning to a beloved home at last.” He gave Bilbo an awed, fascinated look, and the hobbit blushed in self-consciousness.

“Well, I’m tired indeed and would like a long rest. This place is great and nice and all, and I don’t mean to be ungrateful, Sir,” Bilbo said, slightly flustered. “I just want to go, that’s it. It’s hard to explain. Ah. Confounded thing. How to say it?” He stared pleadingly at Frodo, but his nephew shrugged and shook his head.

“You said so yourself, Uncle,” the younger hobbit reminded him, but without reproach or resentment, “that I will know when it’s time.”

Before Bilbo could respond, Olórin piped in, “Perhaps it is what I am uneasy about: the unknown. Death is not a light business, too, for the Eruhini, and it just makes it more unnerving to me when one welcomes it so gladly – not only willingly.”

Bilbo chuckled and mirrored the Maia’s rueful, bewildered grin. “We’ll have no end on this matter,” he said decisively. “Let’s just think it as Men-kind’s last adventure and leave it at that.” He winked. “And speaking about last adventure…” His grin turned mischievous, then winning. “You, confounded Wizard, tricked me into accompanying the Dwarves. Now’s the payback: Help me go see the living heroes before my time here ends.”

“Uncle!” Frodo squeaked, horrified.

“Should I?” Olórin groaned, dismayed.

But Bilbo just smirked.