what if one morning, decades after the battle of the five armies, bilbo baggins awoke in his hobbit hole, got up, put on the kettle and started making his breakfast, looked out the window to his oak tree and realised he could no longer remember the sound of thorin’s voice

nor the way he laughed, the booming guffaw he made watching fili and kili mess around or dwalin and nori jape

nor the quiet smile he reserved just for bilbo

what if he couldn’t remember the way thorin’s eyes lit up when he was happy or amused, the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, nor the weight of his gaze when he looked at bilbo, the feel of his hand in his

what if bilbo started forgetting and that scared him more than anything else, more than any troll, dungeon or dragon ever could