"Rise and shine, Uncle," a voice greeted Bilbo's ears warmly as rich amber light filtered through the window and decorated his wizened face like a golden nimbus. The elderly hobbit lifted his eyelids and greeted his addresser with a sleepy smile.

"Hullo, Frodo! I'd ask you for the time but I'm afraid what your answer will be. You've let me sleep in much longer than I ought to have from the looks of it," he half-chided. Frodo smiled at his uncle's good-humoured admonition. It had become something of a daily routine between the two of them ever since their arrival on the Blessed Isle to begin each day thusly, and Frodo secretly delighted in the familiarity of this undeviating pattern. It cultivated in him a sense of normalcy and groundedness, connecting him back to the comforting simplicity of his homeland.

Not that he had any grounds for complaint in his current place of residence – far from it – but Bilbo's presence had given him a sense of real belonging. Indeed, it had been much the same when Bilbo had invited him to live in Bag End another lifetime ago. Although Frodo had been very fond of his relations in Brandy Hall and had become particularly close with certain among them in after-days, he had often felt isolated as a lad, counterintuitive as it may seem in such a densely populated living space. He had sometimes thought himself more a nameless occupant than a true member of the family, a boarder who came and went as he pleased and took his vittles appreciatively and drifted unobtrusively through the many-corridored halls without anyone taking much notice. It was easy to feel invisible amid so large a company and easier still to be drowned out by the clamour and the din of so many competing voices. But that had all changed when he had come to live with Bilbo.

The camaraderie between them had been instantaneous, so much so that Frodo's move to Hobbiton seemed a matter of course. The similarities in character and personality that the two shared were quite striking from the first, but they became especially pronounced once young Frodo came under his uncle's tutelage. Indeed, Bilbo's eagerness to instruct him in the lore and language of the Elves, to regale him with stories from his own legendary adventure, and to lend an ear to his nephew whenever he desired it had effectively moulded Frodo into the hobbit that he was today. Where his feet had wandered aimlessly (and often errantly) in Brandy Hall, he had finally found purchase in the well-laid groundwork of Bag End. Where he had once thought himself set adrift in an ever-shifting sea of relations, he had found his rock in Bilbo. And if their rapport had been effortless before, it was strengthened twofold in the days that followed by Frodo's abiding love and gratitude for his benefactor.

Now, in this magnificent country across the Sea, Bilbo had continued to be a constant that Frodo could depend upon when he needed centering, a return to selfhood when he was lost in the enchantment and majesty of the High Elves. Truly, Frodo's decision to leave the shores of Middle-earth had hinged on whether or not Bilbo would be taking the last journey with him for just these reasons, and he could hardly imagine how he should have fared if Bilbo had not been by his side.

These thoughts fluttered across his mind in the space of a moment as he looked upon Bilbo's face, and he answered to his uncle's objection.

"Now now, Bilbo, I won't hear of it! You've reached an age where you are more than entitled to a bit of extra bed rest. There's no need in waking you any sooner than when you are good and ready to do so."

"Which is to say, 'stop your grumbling you silly old dolt, I'll do as I very well please whether you approve or not, thank you very much!' Typical Baggins' stubbornness!"

"If so, then you have only yourself to blame, for I have ever learned by your example," Frodo retorted, grinning as impishly as though he were a hobbit still in his tweens.

"Ah well, you have me there I suppose. But it's still no excuse for letting your uncle degenerate into a shameless sluggard."

"Nonsense! You're just as lively and hale as you were the day you set first set foot on these shores," Frodo replied, and not without truth.

"Hmph, yes, just as lively as I was at 131 you mean to say. If that is an attempt at flattery, you'll have to do better, lad," Bilbo rejoined sardonically.

"Well then, perhaps I might in some measure be forgiven after you have sat down to the breakfast that I have made for you and is cooling even as we speak."

"Yes, I daresay you should!" Bilbo chuckled, "Now help an old hobbit out of bed before this breakfast of yours gets any colder."

With that, the two hobbits breakfasted quite sumptuously, for Frodo's skill as a cook had improved greatly since coming to the Blessed Lands, and the open windows let in an invigorating ocean breeze which did for their spirits what the morning repast had done for their stomachs. Frodo leaned back contentedly in his chair, lacing his fingers across his midsection and studying Bilbo's face with interest. He could not be sure precisely how much time had passed since he and Bilbo had come to live among the Elves, but if Bilbo's longevity had been a marvel when they had first departed, his antiquity would now be considered downright unnatural by the reckoning of their kinsfolk. But such was the power of the western lands, and Frodo counted himself doubly blessed for having the opportunity to enjoy an extended stretch of time with the person whom he esteemed above all others. As far as he could tell, his uncle had showed no unusual signs of fatigue, no aches in the joints or shortness of breath, and his wits – not to mentions his tongue – were just as sharp as ever they had been.

Not that Frodo hadn't reached an advanced age in his own right, although one would have hardly guessed that his milestone one hundred and eleventh birthday had come and gone (albeit without ceremony) some time ago. True, his once-brown locks had been mostly exchanged for silver and a tracery of new lines had been delicately carved into his marbleised skin, but his youthful vigor had not forsaken him nor had he lost any of the brilliance of his intelligent and thoughtful eyes. A healthy strawberry blush coloured his face yet, and he was given to taking long, seaside walks as often as he could bring himself to be away from Bilbo. He knew that much of this uncanny vitality was due to the extraordinary healing properties of his milieu, but then Bilbo himself had been a rather active and industrious hobbit himself at Frodo's present age – and Frodo had taken after Bilbo in more ways than one.

But now, as he surveyed his much-aged uncle, he wondered if these prolonged periods of sleep might not be a symptom of some greater weariness that he had refrained from giving voice to. He found himself wondering how he should feel if he were to go on living for another half a century or more, Undying Lands or no Undying Lands. Though the aging process had been significantly delayed, it had not been altogether halted – were not his own graying hair and lined face testaments to that inescapable reality? And then, of course, there was the matter of the Ring…

The Ring. Even after all of these years, he blanched at the recollection of that odious trinket. He had hoped with all the power of his being that he would truly be free of its thralldom once he had taken his last voyage, and it mostly had been so. Truly, he had found respite and blissfulness beyond his greatest imagining in the Blessed Realm and he had not entertained a single moment's regret for his decision to part ways with Middle-earth, as difficult a task as that had been. Yet to be completely and utterly free of all the memories associated with his Quest was impossible, though the vividness and immediacy of these memories had been assuaged with time. The stub of his missing finger, the white line of a scar on his shoulder, these were un-ignorable tokens of his horrifying trials. So then, were his and Bilbo's prolonged life yet another consequence of the Ring's lasting influence?

"Good heavens, Frodo, what an awful notion! For surely, it is the powers of good that allow Bilbo and myself to endure in this state of peace and content, not the devices of some lingering evil."

So he told himself, and his anxieties were quieted considerably. But looking into Bilbo's face, he wondered if similar doubts had assailed him as well, if he had ever been compelled to ward off such sinister murmurings. He did not think so, for it was a subject that he rarely touched upon and, indeed, seemed almost to have forgotten entirely. Still, he could not stand to think of his beloved uncle shrinking under the weight of his years, clinging on to an overlong life that he would not have elected for himself in the first place. He thought of the way that the lengthened years had warped and twisted the pitiable Gollum, and a shudder passed through him.

"I shall have to confront him with it myself at the next opportune moment. I hate to cast a damper on his spirits and trouble him with such unpleasantness, but I feel that I must, for his sake as much as my own."

And he resolved to do just that.