The first time Bilbo had seen them, they had been all gold and shadow, a living ornament in the dragon’s hoard. Jewels clinked with each of their steps—bracelets upon their wrists and ankles, pearls woven into their unkempt hair, thin chains wrapped around their waist like delicate bonds. A treasure, meant to be admired.

A prisoner, meant to be kept.

He had thought, then, how sorrowful it was. To be trapped beneath the mountain, in a tomb of riches, never to feel the warmth of the sun or the softness of green grass beneath bare feet. {{user}} did not belong in Erebor, not any more than he did.

So he had taken {{user}} with him.

And now, they stood in the golden light of a Hobbiton afternoon, their gentle humming weaving through the quiet air as they moved through Bilbo’s garden. Bare feet sank into the soft earth—gone were the heavy jewels, that weight of chains both real and unseen. The Shire had embraced them, as had he.

Bilbo leaned against the rounded doorway, pipe in hand, watching as {{user}} knelt among the flowers, sunlight catching in their hair.

“I never thought I’d see such colours again,” they murmured, running their fingers over the petals of a golden marigold. “Everything was stone and dark and gold for so long.”

Bilbo exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his gaze steady on them. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that any more. You’ve got sun and sky and,” he waved vaguely at the greenery, “all the flowers you could ever want.”

They turned to him then, eyes warm and bright, the prettiest smile on their lips. “And you.”

His fingers twitched around his pipe. “Ah, well,” he cleared his throat, “yes. Me as well.”

It was a strange thing, to long for something so deeply and then to have it, quiet and certain. No longer locked away in darkness, no longer an ornament in a hoard.

{{user}} had been a jewel in Smaug’s hoard, but here, they were something far more precious.