Small Beginnings
Author's Notes: This is about ten years or so after the previous story. I've checked a bunch of different resources and the exact date for The Battle of Five Armies, as well as Thorin's death date, are a bit hazy. The general consensus seems to be sometime from mid October to late November, so I've taken the liberty of picking a specific date for the purposes of this story. If it looks like I fudged a bit with Frodo's age here, I have-but I've kept it consistent with the AU of 'Kindred Horizons' where he's just a one year old at the time of that fic and also the canon character timeline when Frodo loses his parents at age twelve…so in a way, I know in the general timeline of things ages are pushed backward a bit but I hope the consistency makes up for my fudging. Also, considering how hobbits age pretty gracefully, I may or may not be taking a bit more liberty here, in picturing Frodo at twelve looking a bit younger, more like a 6-7 year old considering how the age of majority for a hobbit is around 30 or so. Ten years have passed for Bilbo, but (as stated in the books) he didn't really start to physically age until about 90-something due to the influence of the ring. I hope that clears up any possible confusion and that my little liberties can be forgiven.
In a separate note, big and special thanks to Suthern-bell85 for her insight on this story and constant literary support ;)
Warnings: Not much. Mostly about the angst involved, memories of the battle, death, and a curse word or two here and there.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I make no profit from this. All are sole property of the Tolkien estate, the original creator J.R.R. Tolkien, and Christopher Tolkien. Also, movie stuff to Peter Jackson, if anything can be inferred as movie stuff. I own nothing! XP
October 27th…
The room was empty. Not a soul to occupy the chairs, nor shadows to fill the empty walls. No hearty fire in the fireplace. No clouds of pipe smoke too thick to see the other side of the room. No songs of mountains, gold, and regret reverberating through the halls. No collective longing in the night except for the present lone yearning of one little hobbit as he stared into the room that once held thirteen dwarves and a wizard. The heaviness in his heart told him it was no dream, that it had truly happened, that he had an adventure of a lifetime, and that prices had been paid for it. He had foolishly thought adventures came without a price and at their own will. At their own will, yes. But without a price? Had he known how high it would have been he should have refused the journey outright and barred his gates against any unwanted visitors ever again.
But there was still a part of Bilbo Baggins that couldn't regret running out of his house to catch them up in the morning, no matter how much pain the memories brought year after year. How much emptier would he feel now had he never followed Gandalf's advice? He certainly wouldn't have guessed how much space his heart really had, and if he had stayed home he'd be blissfully ignorant as to how much it could possibly contain. The very problem was it felt too full, too full for a hobbit, uncomfortably full with the things that were not in a hobbit's nature to hold onto. Bilbo was no normal hobbit, but he was a hobbit nonetheless. Hobbits thrived on comfort. Hobbits lived by routine. And hobbits lived off of happiness, contentment, and peace.
Peace?
What had he known of peace? Not for the first time, Bilbo found himself wondering how thirteen dwarves had all fit into that small room. In the silence, in the peace he had tried and failed to reacquaint himself with, he longed for the noise. He longed for the feeling of being imposed upon. He wanted to be whisked off onto another adventure that made no promises about safety. He wanted to be in the presence of friends. True friends. Real friends who risked their lives for you without a second's thought or hesitation about what they might suffer in return. That was no judgment on the hobbits Bilbo knew, for he knew plenty of hobbits of admirable character, but there was something different he'd found in a company of dwarves.
There was a fierceness and unyielding passion for life and all its glory that Bilbo had learned before the end of his adventure. And though that end was bitter indeed, he couldn't rightfully say he went back home a lesser hobbit. But perhaps wishing for a different ending was asking too much and he had come home the same complacent hobbit he was before, wanting for nothing but comfort. Truthfully, and if it were possible, he felt too grown up for the comforts he used to know and live by. Even something as small as a handkerchief to dry his tears seemed too much.
He'd known this day would come.
It came every year like clockwork.
Relentless, as time usually is when it passes by.
When it forces you to remember the importance of certain days.
Certain people.
People you once dared to call friends.
People you fought to defend.
People you tried to protect.
And people who failed to understand.
A sharp twist in his heart forced Bilbo to grasp at the weight in his waistcoat pocket. He didn't dip his fingers inside. The feeling of it being there was enough. It was his proof. The treasure meant nothing because of what it had done, what it had caused, and what it spilled along the way to peace. His ring, however, was the only treasure he truly valued. His sword and his chain mail perhaps too, but the ring was more. It was his comfort along the hard road. It was his protector. It was his weapon. It was his secret. It was a companion in the darkness, when no one else was there to hold his hand…
He could still feel it, the slick texture.
He could still smell it, acrid and everywhere.
He could still see it, in dreams and while he was awake.
To see a King, to see a friend, a dear friend, so battered and worn and broken apart when all that defined him was the hard lasting stone of resilience and endurance, honor and bravery, nobility and memory. It seemed so concrete in Bilbo's mind that Thorin's death was nothing short of tragedy, harsh and unfair in a world that gave him so much promise of righting the wrongs of his fathers and claiming what should have been rightfully his. Bilbo had scoffed at the idea of being a burglar once, a little insulted by what the connotations of being a burglar brought too. For a little while he had deigned to replace the meaning entirely, and he thought he had. He thought he had come up with his own meaning for the easy term. But in the end all he had truly achieved was twisting words.
A burglar indeed he had become, and the worst kind.
Suddenly, a familiar shrill sound touched his ears. It made his heart skip a few beats, the same uneven rhythm as his feet running along the carpeted hallway. When he skidded to a stop outside the study, an unexpected sight greeted his eyes and sent his heart racing. There was his beloved nephew, gazing in wonder at the naked blade of Sting.
"Frodo," Bilbo exclaimed, rushing to the boy's side. "Put that away this instant-this is not for little hobbits."
The boy jumped at being caught, but thankfully didn't injure himself since Bilbo had never crossed a room so fast in his life. "But," the boy protested, brown curls bouncing as he turned and tilted his head. "Uncle Hildibrand lets Merry and Pippin and me play with the swords his father made for him and his brothers when they were young."
"Yes, but there's a big difference between wooden swords and real ones isn't there? Put it back, please."
"Alright," Frodo complained.
With Bilbo's hands on Frodo's, the hobbit made sure the boy sheathed it without injury and then promptly took it to a closet in the hall and stowed the sword behind a box, beneath blankets, and shoving other things in front of it to keep the weapon away from prying eyes, on the highest shelf there was possible, in a hobbit hole. "Maybe one day," Bilbo said, climbing back down and locking the closet behind him by the high latch. "When you're a little older. I promise."
The little boy, not even to the height of the middle of Bilbo's chest, leaned against the doorway with downcast eyes. "Yes, Uncle."
Bilbo kneeled down in Frodo's line of vision, tapping him on the bottom of his chin. "Now, don't look so glum. What say we put on another pot of tea and I can tell you some more about those eagles?"
A knock echoed down the long hallway to their current position. Both hobbits froze and turned in the direction of the sound. Then Frodo turned back to him with wide eyes and a contagious smile, fidgeting in place and waiting for approval.
"Well, that sounds like someone's at the front door," Bilbo asked with a knowing smile. "I wonder who-"
"He's here!" Frodo sped down the hallway without any further say and jumped up to peer through the small window next to it. "Uncle Bilbo, someone's with him!"
"Someone else," Bilbo asked, perplexed but a little delighted at someone unexpected. He shooed Frodo away from the door handle and opened it himself, the little hobbit grabbing onto his pant leg and peering around to see their visitors himself. Bilbo would have given them a proper greeting, but he was too shocked to see a familiar face that it took Frodo tugging at his clothes to get him to speak.
"You said tea was at four," Balin said, stepping forward with a longer beard and more age lines on his face. "But I seem to remember you saying we were welcome at any time, Master Baggins."*
"One would think you're not happy to see us, my friend," Gandalf said, leaning down on his wooden staff.
Bilbo jumped and ushered them both inside, mindful of Frodo at his heels. "Oh no-no-no-no no! I'm-I'm sorry, I just hadn't expected-but I'm very happy to see you both! Do come in and forgive me. I don't know where my manners went," Bilbo laughed.
Balin bowed to him, but embraced Bilbo once the hobbit opened his arms. "It has been too long, old friend," Balin said.
"Too long, indeed," Bilbo agreed.
Bilbo greeted Gandalf and was about to usher them all into the kitchen before Balin reminded him of one little important matter he wanted to kick himself for forgetting.
"Ah," Balin exclaimed. "And who's this little fellow?"
"This is Frodo," Bilbo introduced, pulling the boy out in front of him and placing both hands on Frodo's shoulders in silent reassurance. "My nephew. Frodo, this is Balin."
Balin looked to Bilbo with a knowing look, then bowed to the little hobbit, greeting him in his fashion. Frodo was quite taken aback at a dwarf bowing at him and hesitated in doing the same. Gandalf chuckled with mirth and knelt down to the little hobbit's level. "Balin is an old friend of your Uncle Bilbo, back when he used to have his adventures. His friend is no hobbit, as you can plainly see. He is a dwarf!"
"But Gandalf, I've never met a dwarf before," Frodo exclaimed in wonder, low as a whisper.
"Oh not to worry. Balin's folk especially are quite kind-natured when it comes to hobbits," Gandalf said, winking up at Balin and Bilbo both. "Give him a proper greeting and you shall see."
Frodo pursed his lips in thought, dared a glance upward at Balin, then over to Gandalf for reassurance. Then he stuck his hand out, puffed up his chest a bit and spoke a little louder, trying to imitate the earlier confidence of his uncle. "It's very nice to meet you, sir-er, Frodo Baggins, at your service!"
All three adults laughed as Balin took Frodo's little hand. "Well met, little hobbit! Well met indeed."
"You see, my lad," Gandalf asked, patting the boy on the shoulder. "Not frightening at all."
Frodo shook his head and ducked it again in shyness as they all followed Bilbo into the kitchen. It was a bit late for tea, but nonetheless they had it with seedcakes, berries, cheese, and wine alike. Talk of their journey to the Shire, odd folk along the way, and the present state of Balin's new colony in Moria spilled well over into a hearty dinner of roasted chicken, cooked potatoes, and steamed vegetables-to which Frodo gave little objection even when he saw Balin partake of some. Over the little boy's head Bilbo gave the dwarf a thankful glance when Balin commented on the practicality of healthy food.
"Even adventurers like your uncle and I have to keep up our health," the dwarf said. "And besides wild game, when we could catch it, there was naught much else but foraged greens to eat along the way."
"No potatoes," Frodo asked. "Or berries?"
"Oh no, no time for digging up potatoes when you're on an adventure. And very little patches of berries to be found in the mountains too. Shame that was."
"No bread either?"
"No time to make any but tasteless little wheat cakes."
"Not even a little bit of cheese?"
Balin mournfully shook his head. "Not an ounce."
Frodo pouted with a serious thinking face on for a child as he stabbed his carrots with his fork. "I don't think I'd like adventures much."
"That is the beauty of it," Gandalf mused. "On an adventure, you will never know what surprises await you, even in the form of new foods."
Bilbo nudged Frodo. "You remember those coney dumplings we had last night? Dwarven recipe I picked up before I left Erebor to come back home."
Frodo smiled up at Bilbo. "I liked that, even though I ate too much."
"Oh yes, you did eat too much too," Bilbo replied, poking the boy good-naturedly in the side. The boy predictably squirmed and pulled a face that didn't quite lose the brightness of his earlier smile.
Balin laughed. "If food isn't hearty, it's food not worth eating!"
Once dinner was finished, Bilbo set Frodo up on a stool to dry the smaller dishes and utensils with a towel while he washed them. Balin and Gandalf both took out their pipes, smoked contentedly, and chatted quietly about business. When Bilbo was helping Frodo dry one of the larger plates Balin leaned forward, the chair creaking only a little under the weight shift.
"Age has been kind to you, Bilbo."
"Has it," he asked, giving one eye to Balin and the other to Frodo who protested quietly, wanting to do the work alone and prove himself a good host. "I haven't really noticed. Not trying to keep up with this little one at any rate."
"Time yet passes, even when you try to slow it down," Gandalf said, busying himself with blowing smoke rings out the window to chirping crickets in the garden.
"It's been a long time," Balin began. "And, I hope you'll forgive me but, it's also been too a long time to bring you our most humble gratitude."
Gandalf cast a wary glance at Balin but stayed silent.
Bilbo furrowed his brows in confusion and a little wariness himself. "Gratitude?"
"I've kept in contact with my brothers and our company. And in extending our thanks we also wish to offer you an apology, both of which have waited far too long to reach you. If you Bilbo Baggins had not done what you had, we would have lost more than we were ever prepared to part with ten years ago when we reclaimed The Lonely Mountain. Thorin would have been lost to the dragon-sickness as his fathers had been."
Bilbo flinched at the name and felt a keen drop in his stomach that nearly made him nauseous. He hadn't heard that name out loud in so long. It almost sounded foreign, like something he had never heard of before. But to renege on the meaning and the memories seemed a worse insult than what he had done to the dwarf king in life. The company wanted to thank him for what he did? He could barely wrap his mind around the thought or Balin's words. Before Bilbo could even try to respond, Frodo perked up and dropped the dishtowel.
"A dragon," Frodo asked, in wonder and fright. "You don't mean a real one?"
"Aye, laddie," Balin replied with a soft smile. "And your uncle was the very first who dared enter his lair to help us take back Erebor."
Frodo wheeled on Bilbo with a stunned expression. "You fought a dragon?!"
Bilbo frowned and felt himself color a bit at the sheer awe of his nephew. "Well-"
"When it came to it, our burglar had more courage in him than the lot of us put together. And when the beast was forced out of his horde-"
Bilbo cleared his throat. "I'm not so sure slaying dragons are for little ears such as this one just yet."
Frodo turned pleading eyes to Bilbo. "But I want to hear more!"
"I imagine you do, but we wouldn't want to cheat you out of the real story now and lose the wonder of the full tale when you're older, do we?"
Frodo, though disappointed, looked up with a glimmer of hope and made one last attempt. "…just a little bit?"
Bilbo shook his head. "Sorry, I'm afraid my foot's down on the matter."
"Well," Balin said with a questioning glance to Bilbo. "Have you ah heard tales of the treasure horde itself, little one?"
Frodo shook his head, every ounce of his attention fixed on Balin and his account of all they had claimed that day. Bilbo gave a faint affirming nod for Balin to continue as he pushed his nephew to sit back down at the table while he finished cleaning up. Once he was done, he retook his own seat and eyed the bottle of wine sitting in the middle of the table. Bilbo had never been one for wine, not very much that is to say. Once every few years he would bring out an old vintage from the cellar and share it with some relatives if they came calling. More recently, he developed the habit of bringing one out every year. Every October the twenty-seventh. He shared it with no one, preferring to keep to himself and hum along to the memories he had of dwarves singing by the glow of a dying fire. He regretted the wine the next morning and went on about his business once the headaches granted him a little mercy.
Last year was the first that Bilbo had begun sharing the wine with someone. And this year he shared it with the same person, the same old wizard who had in recent years taken to giving him more than the occasional kind glance, comforting hand, and unexpected visit. Bilbo never spoke about the matter, and he was thankful that Gandalf never asked. There wasn't really any need to. Having a wizard as a friend, Bilbo had learned, wasn't so bad a thing after all, unexpected adventures aside of course. Silently, Bilbo poured himself some of the red wine after refilling Balin's goblet and Gandalf's. The dryness of it lingered in his mouth and went straight to his head, bringing with it a warm fuzzy feeling that helped ease some of the tension out of his shoulders that came once they started talking about treasure.
Sometime into the cataloguing of jeweled helms and shields of old, Frodo leaned against Bilbo's shoulder and started to doze. When he was having trouble staying awake, Balin grew silent and took a long drink from his wine. Bilbo gently shook Frodo awake and helped the boy sit up. "Why don't you go get ready for bed?"
Frodo nodded, sleep already making his movements much slower and less coordinated. But Bilbo forced himself to stay seated and let the little hobbit find his way on his own. All the boy had spoken about lately was being a grown-up and doing things for himself. Never mind the fact that the proper age of majority for a hobbit was thirty-three, and that Frodo still had quite a bit of growing left to do before that day came, but Bilbo had placated the boy and with proper supervision let him do some things for himself that normally any overprotective mother and doting father would have done themselves. To parents, especially hobbit parents, childhood was the one thing in life that was revered above everything else. And between Primula and Drogo, Frodo's mother and father, Bilbo hadn't known of them adopting anything different regarding their son.
But when boys put their mind to something, like growing up, they could be quite stubborn about things.
"Forgive me for speaking so freely earlier," Balin said. "I meant no harm in it."
"I know that," Bilbo replied.
"You also know that none of our company has ever blamed you for what happened that day?"
Bilbo smiled without mirth. "You can't tell me you didn't blame me a little bit when I first took the Arkenstone."
Balin sighed. "Perhaps we did, but out of ignorance and blindness for treasure, ourselves."
"Pain rarely comes in another form, Bilbo," Gandalf said.
Bilbo turned to the wizard, feeling the beginnings of old grievances surface. "And you would question it in me?"
"For your own sake," Balin interjected. "I would. And so would the rest of our company."
"Thorin, himself, would object to-"
"Gandalf," Bilbo warned, at the feeling of traitorous tears in the back of his eyes.
"It is time you speak his name-"
"And whether I want to or not is my business, not yours," Bilbo said. "If…if I'd never taken that damned stone he might still be alive-No, let me speak because you said you wanted me to, so here I am! I was wrong to do what I did, whether if it was for good intentions or no, I don't know why I did it but the fact of the matter is it's done and it got a lot of people killed-the very thing I was trying to avoid-"
"Enough of this madness," Gandalf exclaimed, cracking his staff loudly on the floor. His face was thunderous, but Bilbo felt no fear as he gazed back at the wizard with a strange resolve that didn't quite feel like his own. "It is not in a hobbit's nature to harbor unnecessary and misplaced guilt-"
"Yes, and according to you, it was not in my nature to sit back and let adventure pass me by when it came calling of your own accord, was it?" The anger rose up in Bilbo so quick that he scarcely had time to hear his own words as he spoke them. And when he did hear them immediate regret filled the empty space that anger left behind. A dull throbbing erupted in his head and Bilbo went to rub his temple, ducking his eyes in shame at the thick silence between the three of them.
"I'm sorry," Bilbo whispered. "I didn't mean that."
"Perhaps you didn't," Gandalf answered, softer than before, and almost sad himself. "But that makes it no less true. And I cannot fault you for any less."
Bilbo never heard the chair move back against the floorboards. He watched as the wizard rose from the table with hunched shoulders, turned his back, and went to the front door. The wizard's name stuck in his mouth and though Bilbo desperately wanted to call him back, there was a small part of him that didn't want to and kept the rest of him silent. Once the door closed, with only a soft click of the latch, Bilbo buried his face in his hands and sighed, muttering to himself. "Stupid, stupid Baggins. Look what you've gone and done now."
"He'll be back, laddie," Balin assured him.
Bilbo shook his head as he leaned back in his chair, defeated. "No. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. I don't blame him. I truly don't."
"The temperament of wizards is not so easily known. He may yet surprise you, as is his nature."
"It was my choice, Balin. I put pen to paper and signed that contract myself. No one made me run out that door in the morning. It was my choice."
Balin leaned forward, propped his elbows on the table, and put his pipe down. "And it was Thorin's choice to wage a war. He likely knew what his end would be when he made that decision. And of all the people he could have called to his bedside for comfort in his last hours, he made another choice that was by his mind alone. He chose you, Bilbo."
The hobbit heard the dwarf's words, but the only thing that stayed in his mind was the same image that came to him every year. He remembered every single word they exchanged, every breath in the face of imminent death. And he also remembered what had not been said. "There wasn't enough time," Bilbo whispered. "To ask forgiveness for myself, for what I did. He was fading too fast and…I knew I didn't deserve it so I said nothing."
It dawned on Bilbo that it was the first time he had ever spoken those words aloud, let alone to another living soul. In the wake of that realization and the words themselves, which now had a much harsher meaning, he couldn't help but feel the pain reopen with a vengeance. It stole his breath and weighted his eyelids down until they obediently shut. But shutting them brought worse things, things that robbed his body of its strength, things that stole his sight and replaced home with the battlefield, with a tent that couldn't be mistaken for anyone else's but a King's-
Balin reached across the table and grasped Bilbo's hand, firm and begging for an ear. "Because there was nothing to forgive."
"I truly wish I could believe that," Bilbo replied, squeezing Balin's hand in return and then releasing it.
Frodo woke with a soft gasp and tears in his eyes. He bit his lip to keep from crying too loudly and turned his head into his pillow to muffle his sobs. No one was there to see or listen to him, but crying was something he didn't do in Brandy Hall, not around his relatives, not around his cousins, not even in the privacy of the wash room or in bed at night when everyone else was asleep. He missed his parents. He wanted them back. He wanted to go back home and see that it was all some terrible joke, but every day he passed by the little smial that was his home and saw it dark and in disuse it reminded him that his parents were somewhere else, under an apple blossom tree on the top of a hill overlooking the river.
The river that took them away.
The river his cousins no longer pestered him about for afternoon swims.
The river that Frodo hated.
When he was a sniffling mess he reluctantly crawled out of bed, washed his face clean, and blew his nose as quietly as he could. The night was cool and the little hobbit shivered at the lost warmth of his bed covers, bed covers that were now damp because he allowed himself to give in to those childish notions of crying. And the more time he spent out of bed the more chance he had at getting caught. The last thing he needed was his Uncle Bilbo catching on to the same nightly ritual his cousins had already caught him in.
Feeling morose with thoughts of the dream still plaguing him, Frodo resolved to go back to sleep, but he stopped on the bedside stool when his ears picked up a strange sound. He crept to the doorway and inched it open as silently as he could. The sound got louder in the hallway, but was still quiet enough that he had to strain his ears to pick it up. His feet followed his Tookish inclinations against the judgment of his head telling him to go back to bed. And in his nightclothes, without a housecoat, he inched down the hallway to the nearest sitting room where there was a fire blazing bright, bathing the room in a warm inviting glow.
His uncle was sitting by the fire with his feet propped up and his smoking pipe between his lips. He was humming something sad and low, almost hard for Frodo to hear himself as he stood peering around the side of the doorway. His uncle's eyes were closed like he was asleep, but Frodo didn't think he was truly asleep because he had never heard of people singing in their sleep before. Frodo wondered how late it was and couldn't make out the time, but thought it must have been quite late if the owls stopped hooting and if the light from the moon was a little dimmer.
He also wondered why his uncle had another visitor at so late an hour.
Frodo couldn't be sure, but from the similar stature to Balin, he would have known no better than to say the stranger was a dwarf himself. The little hobbit knew he shouldn't be eavesdropping, but he also didn't want to intrude or get caught being out of bed. Indecision weighed his feet to the floor and he couldn't stop staring, feeling some sort of tug or pull into the room, a feeling that wasn't all together unpleasant but wasn't comforting either. Something told him this stranger wasn't supposed to be here, and he didn't know why.
And then, as he had silently feared, the stranger opened his eyes and turned them on him.
Frodo gasped under the intensity of the gaze.
His eyes were sharp.
And cold.
Blue.
Blue like the ice from mountains-
"Frodo," Bilbo exclaimed, softly. "What are you doing up?"
His uncle sat forward in his chair, beckoning him over to the warmth of the fire. Frodo shivered and looked back to the spot behind his uncle's chair, finding that the stranger was gone. The matter was on the tip of his tongue, but he ultimately decided against saying anything. His aunt and uncle from Bywater already thought he was crazy. The last thing he wanted was for his Uncle Bilbo to think the same. He trudged over to the plush chair his uncle was sitting in, only dragging his feet a little bit on the carpet.
"I couldn't sleep," he mumbled.
Bilbo put his pipe aside on the table and tried to get Frodo to look him in the eyes. "Any reason why you couldn't?"
It was the question Frodo expected, and one he didn't really want to answer. Unbidden, the tears from earlier tried to resurface. The answer as to why he couldn't sleep was painfully obvious, and perhaps his uncle could see right through him, right through his attempts to simply shrug it off and divert his own attention to other parts of the room that didn't involve an adult waiting for an answer to his question. But when his uncle laid his hands on his arms, rubbed them with his thumbs, and softly called his name, he couldn't lie.
"My parents," the boy whispered, turning his head down.
"Come here, my boy," the older hobbit whispered in return.
To Frodo's surprise, the older hobbit picked him up, settled him in his lap, and hugged him close. On instinct, Frodo curled into the offered comfort he never got at Brandy Hall and allowed himself to bask in it for just a little while. He wrapped his arms around his uncle's neck and grabbed fistfuls of shirt. Frodo could feel the sobs building up again, and his uncle rubbing circles on his back and shushing him barely above a whisper, but loud enough to not be ignored, wasn't helping him. When the first tear fell, he dropped his head to wipe it dry on the shoulder of his shirt, determined to ignore it.
"It's all right. You can let yourself cry, you know."
Frodo shook his head into his Uncle's shoulder. "Uncle Otho says I'm too old for this…"
He hadn't known why he said it, but the words just slipped out of his mouth. Maybe it was the feeling of being in someone's arms that made him feel so at ease, or maybe it was because he trusted his uncle Bilbo more than anyone else, but the fact remained that Frodo said something he shouldn't have. He could tell when he felt his uncle tense beneath him after he had said it, and he wished he could have taken it back because even his own parents had taught him never to speak ill of family. So, the little hobbit knew to expect a rebuke for his tone, and waited to be shuffled off to bed like the child he was-
"Well, your uncle is a miserable sod," Bilbo said.
Frodo sat stunned, both at the tone his uncle used and the language he'd seen his uncles at Brandy Hall get smacked over the heads for by his aunts.
"…probably best if you don't repeat that to him, but you tell him to come to me if he has any more bones to pick with you, and I mean that. You're never too old for comfort and don't let anybody tell you otherwise, do you hear me?"
"But if they're family?"
"Especially if they're family."
"Yes, uncle," he whispered, not wanting to stoke the fire of his uncle's anger any further.
His uncle sighed. "I'm not mad at you, Frodo. Just because your Uncle Otho lives a sorry life doesn't give him any right to take it out on you. Ever. People who make others suffer to make themselves feel better are nothing but cowards. Remember that."
Even if they're family? Frodo thought over what his uncle had just told him. And then he thought on what his parents had taught him. Between the two, Frodo knew there was an answer that would make sense, that should make sense, but he couldn't find it. So instead he listened to the little voice in his head telling him to relax, that he was safe, that his uncle Bilbo speaking ill of his uncle Otho meant something. After a little while, Frodo felt himself relax and his little fist unclench a bit at the soft cotton of his uncle's shirt. "I don't like him, or Aunt Lobelia," the little hobbit confessed.
"Then you are a very smart hobbit," the older one said with praise, and a gentle pat on the back. "Do they come to visit often?"
Frodo nodded. "Aunt Amaranth says they impose too much, but she never says anything to Uncle Rorimac."
"And how to you like it with your other aunts and uncles?"
"…I miss home."
His uncle hummed in response. "Do you want to know what's special about homes? They can be anywhere you want them to be."
"It's not the same."
"No, no it's not, but home is what you make of it. And if you find one's not working, you can start another. Homes can be places, homes can be holes like they are for us hobbits, or they can even be people."
Frodo frowned. "People?"
"Yes, even people."
"Can friends be home?"
"I daresay they can be."
Frodo pulled away to face his uncle when he asked his next question. "Is that why you're sad?"
His uncle opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he closed it and seemed to draw into himself a little more, and spoke just as softly as before. "What makes you think I'm sad?"
"You were singing just now. And it wasn't happy. And earlier, after dinner, what Master Balin said about…about the person you saved from the dragon."
"Dragon-sickness," his uncle corrected.
"Was he very sick with it?"
"My friend? Yes, a fair bit."
"But you saved him, didn't you, uncle?"
His uncle frowned. "Oh, I'm afraid I mucked things up pretty badly, Frodo."
"Uncle Otho said I did that," Frodo mumbled.
"What?"
Frodo didn't answer him and squirmed to burrow further into his uncle's chest, but Bilbo had none of it. He pulled the little hobbit out and sat him squarely in his lap.
"Frodo, what did you just say?"
"He said it's true," the boy exclaimed, tears filling his eyes and betraying him by falling down his face and blurring his vision. "And it is! My parents were fighting. I asked them if I could go looking for wood elves with my cousins and they said no but I begged them to say yes and then they started shouting at each other about things and I didn't want them to shout at each other so I shouted at them to stop but they didn't and sent me up to my room and I should have said sorry but I didn't and when I came down to say sorry they left and I waited for them but they never came back and uncle Otho said it was because I mucked things up-"
By the end of the long-winded explanation, Frodo's voice had cracked and pitched horribly. And the sobs took over his body, making him gasp for breath between each one. He'd given up trying to wipe the tears away because they just kept coming and they didn't feel like they would stop. Frodo didn't even know if he could stop crying. He certainly kept trying to, to preserve some kind of dignity in front of his uncle Bilbo, but he couldn't think past the fact that his eyes were stinging and that they hurt and that he shouldn't he using his shirt sleeve to wipe at his face or his nose-
His uncle gently took Frodo's chin in hand and made him look up. The older hobbit's eyes were glassy too. "And what did I tell you about your uncle?"
"That he's-that he's a-a miserable sod?"
"That's absolutely right," the older hobbit said. "What happened to your parents was an accident, it was nothing you did or caused-"
"But I-"
"No buts! Would your parents blame you for what happened to them? Would they blame you?"
"…no."
His uncle smiled, but didn't look happy to. "And there's the truth," his uncle said, wiping Frodo's face dry with his own fingers. "It doesn't change what happened, but the absolute truth, Frodo, is it happened through no fault of your own. You didn't make your parents go out that day, they chose to. They chose to go out on that lake, on that day, at that time. They didn't know what would happen and neither did you. When accidents happen, there is no blame to place even if some like to think there is. You need to understand something very important, my boy. Those people who try to blame someone for an accident are wrong. Losing someone we love hurts. It hurts very much at first and it might feel right to blame someone, to pass that pain along so it doesn't hurt nearly as bad, but it's not right and it's certainly not fair to anyone else."
Frodo could feel the tears stopping as he listened, and was relieved when he could breathe without his chest feeling like it was burning either. "Like Uncle Otho saying I mucked things up?"
"Yes, that's exactly right. Your uncle was very, very wrong to say that to you. Sometimes we lose the people we love without being ready for it. It hurts terrible at first, but time does make it hurt less. I promise."
"I didn't want them to die…"
"Of course not," his uncle said, pulling him into a tight embrace. Frodo continued to cry himself out as he thought of his parents and all he hadn't gotten the chance to tell them, most important of which was that he was sorry and that he loved them and that he missed them. But a bad weight seemed to settle on him, telling him he would never get that chance. And that thought just made him cry harder. Throughout it all, his uncle kept holding him and rubbing his back and whispering comforting things to him.
"You know if I knew how," the older hobbit whispered, tightly. "That I'd bring them back to you, don't you?"
To Frodo, all the care and affection he was receiving was all he wanted the past several months, and to have it all now overwhelmed him. All he could do in reply was nod. The two Baggins stayed like that for what seemed like hours. Frodo didn't sleep and neither did Bilbo, but the younger of the two did quiet down, and tears grew merciful for them both.
"We make quite the pair, don't we," Bilbo asked. "You're right you know. I am a bit sad."
Frodo looked up from his uncle's shoulder with red-rimmed eyes. "Why?"
His uncle took a deep breath before answering. "A good friend of mine died a long time ago. And I wish every day it hadn't happened. There's nothing I can do about it now but go on and…I know it's terrible, but sometimes I just don't want to."
Frodo stared up at his uncle and finally saw proof to his suspicions. His uncle had lost someone too, and Frodo knew what that felt like. It felt horrible. And for all his uncle had done for him, Frodo didn't want his uncle Bilbo to feel that way. So the little hobbit wrapped his arms around his uncle's neck and said, "I don't think he would want you to be sad either, uncle."
"No," Bilbo said slowly. "I suppose not."
The reply made Frodo smile a little, and when he felt his embrace returned he suddenly felt sleep strongly tug at his eyes and his body. Worn out, he just curled up against his uncle and closed his eyes since the warmth of the fire and his uncle kept the night chill away. He felt his uncle shift, but only to grab a blanket beside the chair and cover them both. Then he put his feet up himself and leaned back. Perhaps it was childish to sleep here with his uncle, but Frodo found he didn't care about being childish a little bit. Sleep was quite persistent about things too.
Sometime towards morning, when the light from dawn was barely distinguishable from the darkness of night, Frodo woke, still thinking he was half-dreaming. The fire had died down low and his uncle was softly snoring under him and with his arm still protectively snug around Frodo under a blanket. The little hobbit peered up and saw the stranger with the blue eyes again. This time those eyes were much softer as they gazed down at him. They didn't strike him with fear as they did hours before. They looked a little sad and seemed to try and pull him from the slippery clutches of sleep, but the boy was simply too tired to stay awake for long.
The stranger seemed to understand this and reached out to Frodo, laying his hand on the hobbit's head, telling him to sleep. He could never remember feeling that hand in the morning, and was left wondering if he had dreamed it after all. But the words stuck in his mind, and the other words the stranger said right before he fell asleep again too. They came from a deep voice, clear as a bell, but fleeting like sounds carried on the wind outside. It was something important.
Something about forgiveness.
Bilbo and Balin had parted on good terms the next day with good wishes and a promise for company next year on October the twenty-seventh. Bilbo couldn't say he didn't welcome it, since he wondered whether he'd have anyone to share it with at all after what he had said in anger-and regretted saying wholeheartedly. Balin was understanding of Bilbo's sensibilities, but still gave the hobbit one more piece of his own mind, a stronger piece than what he had given the hobbit last night about guilt and forgiveness. Ever the gracious host, and grateful friend, Bilbo accepted the words with little in return but wishes for a safe journey. As the hobbit watched the dwarf set off, he couldn't help but think he got off easy, and that next year wouldn't be as simple as pretending to listen.
But to say that this October the twenty-seventh was yet another he would rather forget wouldn't be the whole truth.
A few days later found Bilbo and Frodo on the road back to Brandy Hall at the end of their short holiday-as Bilbo liked to refer to it. It was quickly becoming a habit for the two, and one that Bilbo fully-intended to continue in light of recent understandings of what kind of people were allowed to visit his nephew there. What he had said to…Thorin ten years ago in the middle of the night still rang true. He would do anything for Frodo, and even more for a guarantee of the boy's happiness. He knew he wasn't likely to get the latter at the drop of a hat, but Bilbo could see the promise of a clear path ahead for the both of them…if Frodo wanted it. Once they reached the short walk that led down to Brandy Hall, Bilbo grabbed hold of Frodo's shoulder and stopped them both on the corner, out of the way, under the shade of a low lying tree, and away from prying eyes.
"Just a moment more," Bilbo asked, kneeling down to Frodo's level.
Frodo nodded and waited, expecting his uncle to speak.
Said uncle suddenly lost his words and tried not to fidget too much in getting them back. What was he worried about? Was he worried? Yes, he supposed so, but what in The Shire for? Well, if the boy refused the offer, sure, Bilbo might be a little disappointed, but it had to be Frodo's choice and no other's. And he, the adult of the two, couldn't very well wait for when his own courage decided to return. So, he wrangled up what Tookish parts of him were present at the moment and bolstered on as he had originally planned. "I want you to remember something for me, my boy" he said, putting both of his hands on the little one's shoulders. "I want you to remember the stories I told you. I want you to remember the kind of stories I promised to tell you."
"About your adventures," Frodo asked, with a smile beginning on the corners of his lips.
Bilbo nodded. "Yes, yes-"
"And your sword?"
"Yes, I want you to remember that promise too. And, more than all that, want you to remember that no matter what happens, you have a home. With me. If you want it. It doesn't matter when or by whatever circumstances. If you're not happy I want you to tell me. And if your Uncle Otho comes calling I want you to tell me about that too."
Frodo nodded, looking a little downcast.
"You know what I also want to hear about? Your adventures. Now, I know how rambunctious your cousins can get and I suspect you do too, so while you're busy being their minders just remember to have a bit of fun yourself. You're young, Frodo, and you deserve to be happy. No matter what anybody tells you, you deserve to be happy. And if you find you're not happy, then we'll fix it. Simple as that. All right?"
Frodo smiled, and in somewhat better spirits than when they left Bag End.
"Good," Bilbo whispered with a smile of his own.
And to Bilbo's surprise, Frodo jumped at him and hugged him tight around the neck. "Thank you, Uncle."
"You don't have to thank me. Now, go on over to your cousins. I'm sure they're bouncing by the door waiting for you."
He watched Frodo from the corner of the road until he saw the boy disappear into Brandy Hall, after being accosted by Merry and Pippin as foreseen. Bilbo waited a few seconds longer, turning his head up to soak up some more sunshine, then instead of heading west towards home he turned and went in the opposite direction, intent on taking care of a little business before tea-time. The trek wasn't very far and with Bilbo's sure steps it seemed even shorter. Before he knew it he was knocking on a door and being greeted in a very un-hobbit-like manner by his gaping cousin Otho, who quickly adopted an unpleasant face and a colder voice. "What are you doing here?"
"Well," Bilbo greeted, surprised despite the fact that he shouldn't have been. "Good afternoon to you too."
"What do you want?"
"A word and half a minute."
"You've said six, and your half minute's already started," Otho said with a scowl.
But Bilbo remained unfazed. "I want you to stay away from Frodo."
The most peculiar look crossed Otho's face, somewhere between confusion and derision. "I'm sorry?"
"You heard me," Bilbo continued, stepping under the doorway and leaning his walking stick against the wall. Otho shuffled a bit at having to admit the hobbit entry, else be the talk of the town for more shows of inhospitality, but he didn't make any move to shut the door, clearly uncomfortable for being intruded upon. Bilbo dropped his voice lower to at least offer them some kind of privacy, and also not wanting to attract Lobelia's attention for longer than necessary. "You leave that boy alone or there's going to be trouble, trouble the likes to which you and this Shire haven't seen in a century."
Otho gathered himself together and stepped forward, lowering his voice and speaking with warning. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise. That boy's just lost his parents and the last thing he needs are people like you who don't know an ounce of empathy when it's staring them straight in the face."
Otho smiled, mocking and condescending. "Oh, I understand. Charity. That's what he is to you-good old hobbit charity-case, isn't our little Frodo? Lucky boy to receive such attention from a cousin three-times removed who's suddenly acquired a horde with no heir to pass it on to."
"Don't mince words, he's my second-"
"And don't play me for the fool! Not in my own house-I absolutely will not stand for it, from a Baggins or no. You think you can just waltz through my door and tell me what to do with my relations?"
"Your relation? After what you said to him and what you've said about him and his parents?!"
"The entire Shire knows of the boy's sad story, and not of my own doing. But this new bit ought to go over very well indeed, all the way to the borders and back. I can see it in the evening papers now, orphan boy, raised by pauper parents, suddenly gets his wish to live as a pampered prince with his greedy distant cousin in a hole of supreme luxury known to no other hobbit in this county or the next ten!"
Bilbo was so furious that in that moment he realized what it truly meant to see red. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He could feel it across every stretch of skin on his body. How he wasn't shaking from it he never knew, but a deadly calm took him, made him reach for his waistcoat pocket and clutch it for restraint. Memories started to lap at the edges of his mind but he stubbornly pushed them back. How dare he. How dare this hobbit, this person he was forced to call family, accuse him of the one thing that had destroyed the best of people Bilbo had ever had the honor of knowing.
"Don't. Talk to me. About greed."
But the other hobbit was oblivious, continuing as if Bilbo hadn't spoken. "Not greedy are we? Well, that's perfectly fine. You go on and think of yourself as a great benefactor of us normal folk. While you were gone you seem to have forgotten where it was you were raised. If you don't think words can touch you here then I think you're the one who needs your head checked. Adventures become a nasty habit, and we all know what happens to hobbits who have one too many adventures. There are signs of hobbits who aren't right, even as children. Off talking with elves and queer folk like you were, it was no surprise to us when you went gallivanting off like some brainless upstart. And if it were up to me I'd have you stay there and have us respectable people take up shop who deserve it. But, no, you went and disappointed the entire Shire when you came back, expecting to be welcomed with open arms and songs of dark places and unnatural things."
Bilbo smirked. "Careful Otho, you've had your fair share of those unnatural things when we were boys and I'm certainly not the only hobbit who knows of that."
Otho's expression darkened as he leaned forward. "Answer me this then, why did you come back if the world out there was so much better than what we hobbits have here, us simple folk? Were riches not enough for you? Did your elves find you too small? Did your dwarves not find you fat enough? And what of your kings? Insult them with your simple talk and rustic ways, did you?"
Bilbo paused as Otho badgered on, throwing insult after ridiculous insult. Kings. There was only one king he knew, one that stuck out in his memory like a candle flame to a dark endless cavern. That was all they had when they buried Thorin. Candles. The small procession into the darkness, carrying the first and only King of Erebor Bilbo would ever know was so clear in his memory he half wondered why he had never recalled it before. At the time, their simple burial seemed unfit for a King. But on the sad way home, Bilbo had come to realize that they could have done no better. Thorin could not have asked for anything more because he would not have wanted anything more.
"You're a hobbit, not some monster-conquering fairytale hero you make yourself out to be!-"
Wealth never lay in riches. And in a way, Thorin had desired much more than what lay in The Lonely Mountain. The wealth he sought so ardently was memory itself. That night he spoke of a legacy to Bilbo, a legacy not just for himself but for his nephews, for his family, for all dwarves. And that glimmered more to Bilbo than any gold or silver they found at the end of their journey. He would never know the true reason why he had taken the Arkenstone, but he knew what he felt when he touched it for the first time. Bilbo wished every year after he returned to The Shire that Thorin could have felt the same amount of humbling awe that he did.
"-And here you've gone and degraded another respectable up and coming hobbit with your unseemly practices and false promises!"
The gold might have dimmed that flame Thorin had for his own memory, but it only shone more brightly as the years went by for Bilbo. To Erebor, Thorin would pass out of memory, remembered only in name. To the whole of Middle-Earth, Thorin would turn to bones and ash, his blood washed away by time. But to Bilbo, Thorin would be immortal, remembered perfectly to the end of his hobbit days. Bilbo had never given a thought to old age and on the journey to Erebor he thought many times he might not live to see the next day, but staring down the red puffing face of Otho made Bilbo realize something very important.
"If anything," Otho raged. "I ought to report you to the constable, threatening me like you are-You're a complete outrage! And what's more, you're an ignoramoose** if you think you won't rue the day you ever spoke to me in such a manner!"
Bilbo tried not to laugh, but his subdued chuckling quickly turned into an outright fit of laughter, leaning on his knees in vain to catch his own breath. It was truly comical. To think that he had once feared these miserable hobbits! Now-now he fully understood why Otho and Lobelia were as miserable as they were. If they couldn't value anything above money, even themselves, then the very idea of Otho painting them as respectable, dangerous to cross, and noble was nothing more than laughably absurd.
"Did I say something funny," Otho exclaimed, affronted.
"Oh-oh, yes you did," Bilbo said, stepping closer to the other hobbit until he was backing the man against the window. "But I'm sure you said it out of pure ignorance, otherwise I may have to correct myself in my assumption of your intelligence after all. I didn't face down trolls, wargs, orcs, goblins, stone-giants, spiders, and a bloody dragon to cow to intimidation from the likes of you! A Sackville-Baggins! Now, you listen to me and you listen proper. You say what you will about me but if you so much as look at that boy the wrong way again, mark my words right now we'll be having much more than just words if you ever dare to. Do I make myself clear, cousin?"
Otho stared at Bilbo with bulging eyes. Whether it was from rage or terror, Bilbo could care less. Being a Sackville-Baggins, Otho probably wasn't used to someone telling him no. Bilbo shook his head in disgust and calmly reached around Otho to grab his walking stick, feeling a bit of unnecessary satisfaction at seeing the other hobbit flinch and step to the side. Just before Bilbo set one foot outside the door, Lobelia was screeching from the back of the house, coming at him full-force with a finger pointed at him like a weapon. Otho surprisingly shrunk back from his wife as well.
"All that gold," Lobelia ranted. "All that treasure put to charitable uses-you, you miserable hobbit! Two chests! Only TWO CHESTS?! My house, you only have two chests of treasure held up in that hole of yours! You're keeping it all for yourself and using that boy as an excuse to keep it there. Selfish greedy thing you are. You're a disgrace-and what's more you're a coward and a liar. I know you, Bilbo Baggins. You've been keeping secrets and lying since you could talk! Well let me tell you, you can't keep the truth from me. I know you've got much more than a mere two chests of treasure in that filthy hole of yours-admit it!"
"You know, you're absolutely right," Bilbo said, staring back at the fuming woman with a false placating smile. He twirled his walking stick in his hand as he stepped out the door and into the sun. She followed him closely, still red in the face and huffing and puffing in anger in much the same manner as her husband previously did. "There is much more than mere treasure, my dear Lobelia. There are swords too."
And as he finished speaking, Bilbo gently tapped the top end of his walking stick to her nose with a cold gaze that held nothing but the truth. Lobelia paled and fumbled with the front door of her home, slamming it in Bilbo's face and seconds later screeching at her husband and how he had ruined their chances. Bilbo scoffed as he walked away. He knew he shouldn't have given in to his urges to put Lobelia in her place, but damn it all if the woman didn't make it so easy to do! There would be repercussions for what he had just done, but if taking a little gossip and rude talk meant preserving more of Frodo's innocence for a little while longer…well, Bilbo had certainly faced far worse adversaries in his lifetime thus far.
The walk home made him late for tea, but Bilbo found he didn't mind. He was simply enjoying the countryside when he suddenly found himself at his front gate yet again. Gandalf, much to the hobbit's dismay, was waiting for him, perched on the bench in front of his home and blowing smoke circles from his pipe. Inside, Bilbo felt that regret from a few days ago resurface. The words he had said to the wizard in anger stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth and made it hard to swallow. The wizard simply looked down at him and waited until Bilbo chose to speak.
"I," Bilbo started, clearing his throat with a bit of uncanny nervousness. "I hadn't expected to see you back so soon." Or ever, he couldn't help but think to himself.
"And I," Gandalf said with a straight face and a soft gentility to his gaze. "Had not expected to be waiting on a Baggins, of all people, for tea-time!"
Bilbo kept the old man's gaze and felt a smile break out on his face at the same time one broke out on Gandalf's. Then, the hobbit did something he hadn't done in a very long time. He laughed, deep and hearty at hearing the forgiveness he had wished for over the past few days. And finding the strength to open his front gate and join his unexpected visitor suddenly didn't seem so difficult. "Well, you know how it is," Bilbo said, sitting down next to the wizard and pulling out his own pipe. "Things come up. Adventures. Dangerous Business."
With a small smile Gandalf turned to Bilbo and spoke in a knowing tone. "And would visiting relatives be considered dangerous business nowadays?"
Bilbo leaned back, put his feet up, and lit his pipe, puffing happily on it in utter relaxation-the likes of which he needed and wanted to become more familiar with around this time of year. "Not for this hobbit."
A/N: This turned into a much longer story than I anticipated and thus took me longer to finish. I have a sequel for this sequel planned, but hopefully not as long. Not sure when I'll be able to get to it, but for now, suffice it to say that some years down the road our favorite hobbit and dwarf get to reunite. I'm not sure whether this was what everyone was expecting for a sequel, but I hope it lived up to some of your expectations at the very least. It was a pleasure writing this and I hope it was just as much a pleasure for you reading it.
*In reference to a similar line said by Bilbo in the second to last chapter of The Hobbit, "The Return Journey."
**The correct spelling is "ignoramus." Not moose ^^.