The battle ended. The goblins were defeated, scattered to the winds. The dwarves, elves, and men mourned their dead and divided the treasure. Bungo received his share—a small chest of gold and silver, and the Arkenstone, which he kept as a memory of Thorin.
He travelled home slowly, taking the long road through lands he now knew. He thought about everything that had happened—the trolls, the goblins, the elves, the dragon, the battle. He thought about Thorin, and Balin, and all the dwarves who had become his friends. He thought about Gandalf, and the words the wizard had spoken in his kitchen so long ago.
When he finally reached Oakenshaw, he found his hole being auctioned. The neighbours had declared him dead and were selling his belongings. He arrived just in time to save his silver spoons.
He settled back into his old life, but he was never quite the same. He wrote his memoirs, entertained young hobbits with his tales, and grew to be a figure of local legend. He tended his garden, ate his six meals a day, and sat by his fire in the evenings.
But sometimes, on quiet nights, he would take out the Arkenstone and look at it. He would remember the dragon, and the battle, and the friend he had lost. And he would think about the road, and how it goes ever on and on, and how a hobbit who has seen the wide world can never quite forget it.
The end.