In his dreams, Bilbo wasn’t alone.
He was sitting at a table, face to face with… someone. Or something; he couldn’t see, or couldn’t seem to look, like some force turned his eyes to the side.
“I can give you revenge,” a voice sang to him, all soft, poisonous tones wrapped over ragged edges, like honey dribbling down sharp glass.
“You were hurt, I’m on your side, I can make you hurt never again.”
“I would like a seed cake better,” Bilbo said, his tongue barely turning in his mouth. “There is nothing that a good seed cake can’t, if not make better, then at least put into a perspective.
” And the voice was quiet.
Bilbo didn’t remember his dream when he woke up; he never did.
One of the universal truths was that things do not remain the same.
Nothing remains in the state in which it is begun and that change is one of the few constant things, the things that remain the same, is irony appreciated by far too few.
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