[Was re-reading some of my favorite parts of Return of the King and felt like writing a quick thing. Because why make my favorite characters happy when I can just drown then, and myself, in angst? I remember I had read a few fics tackling this idea years ago, but I thought I'd give it a go.]
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It felt strange to be back in Rivendell. Unlike Gondor, it had remained untouched by weariness and war. Time seemed to have simply passed over the elven realm, leaving it as quietly wonderful as it had been when Frodo first came to it so long ago.
The sun had nearly set by the time they reached the house of Elrond, and they were informed upon their arrival that supper was waiting for them. But food was the last thing on Frodo's mind. Instead, he excused himself from his traveling companions, insisting on finding Bilbo before doing anything else. Eager to see the beloved hobbit as well, Sam, Merry, and Pippin followed after him.
Frodo led the way as the hobbits hurried through the grand halls of the house. Soon enough they were standing before the door to Bilbo's rooms. Frodo hesitated, staring at the intricately carved wood for long seconds. Then he raised his unmaimed hand and gave a gentle knock.
"Come in!"
Tangled emotions flickered across Frodo's face at the sound of the familiar, yet clearly aged, voice. Pressing his lips together, he pushed the door open, and he and his companions wandered inside.
A cozy warmth embraced the room. A fire was crackling softly in the room's fireplace, blanketing everything in a gentle sunset glow. Books and loose papers littered the room, while pencils and sketching charcoal lay forgotten on tables or stuffed in-between sofa cushions. In the midst of the clutter a small chair had been placed before the fire. Sitting in it was Bilbo.
As Frodo drew near, he realized that there was indeed something time had managed to lay its touch upon in Rivendell. Bilbo looked as though another fifty years had passed since Frodo had last seen him. Wrinkles familiar to Frodo had settled deeper into his skin, and were now neighbored by new ones. His hair was as white as new morning snow, wispy and thin. He sat slouched in his chair, eyes closed and relaxation softening his face. Upon hearing the faint patter of approaching footsteps, he raised his head with a smile.
"Hullo, hullo!" he said. Though brittle with age, his voice had not lost its cheery tone. "So you've come back? And tomorrow's my birthday, too. How clever of you! Do you know I shall be one hundred and twenty-nine? And in one year more, if I am spared, I shall equal the Old Took. I should like to beat him; but we shall see."
Frodo stared at his uncle, not knowing what to say. He had expected a greeting of relief, of joyful tears, or exclamations of praise that Frodo had returned to him alive. And yet it seemed the sharpness of Bilbo's mind had dulled during Frodo's absence, withered by time's hand. Frodo felt his heart sinking. How was he to tell Bilbo all that had passed? How could Bilbo fully understand everything that had happened to him?
Unaware of Frodo's budding despair, Pippin bounced forward. "Bilbo! How glad we are to see you!"
Flashing a radiate smile, Bilbo grasped Pippin's hand eagerly, nodding as Pippin and Sam chatted with him. Merry glanced at Frodo, worry in his eyes for his cousin, but Frodo shook his head. He moved forward and forced a smile as he and Merry greeted Bilbo. The exchange was lighthearted enough, and soon Pippin began asking when they were all going to go to supper. Bilbo waved away the invitation to join them, insisting he had already eaten. Frodo urged the others to go on without him. And so Merry tugged Pippin and Sam out of the room, leaving Frodo kneeling by his uncle's chair.
"I hear the elves have prepared quite the extraordinary meal for my birthday," Bilbo said proudly. He grinned down at Frodo. "I am so pleased you will be here for it, my boy."
Frodo gave Bilbo a weak smile. Careful not to use his mangled hand, Frodo reached out and grasped Bilbo's.
"Bilbo," he said quietly. "Do you remember where I had gone to, when I left Rivendell? Do you know why I had to leave?"
Bilbo did not seem to hear the question. He blinked sleepily, his gaze drifting back to the fireplace.
Frodo fought down the sudden lump in his throat.
Bilbo glanced back at Frodo. "Frodo, my lad," he said, a crease forming on his brow. "You look so pale. Are you ill? We must have one of the healers have a look at you. Can't have you lying sick in bed on my birthday, can we?"
Frodo opened his mouth, intending to reassure his uncle that he was perfectly fine. He knelt there for a moment, struggling to twist together a lie from the truths in his mind. Then a choked sound of grief spilled from his lips and Frodo lowered his head, pressing his forehead to Bilbo's hand as he wept.
Bilbo stared at his nephew in bewilderment. He frowned nervously, unsure whether he had caused this unexpected outburst, or if this was a result of something else. He lifted his free hand and patted Frodo's head, stroking the dark curls.
"There, there, my boy," he murmured. "It's alright." He edged forward and, frail arms shaking with the effort, pulled Frodo to him. Frodo buried his face in Bilbo's chest, his sobs muffled as he clung to Bilbo's checkered robe.
"Whatever is troubling you, we'll set it right," reassured Bilbo.
Frodo closed his eyes against the promise Bilbo could not possibly keep. Even so, it was enough for Frodo to simply be held by his uncle. To feel the comforting embrace of one he loved so much. Perhaps being with Bilbo would help ease the draining chasm within him. Perhaps, even if it did not last, he could feel some of the relief he wearily yearned for.
If only for a little while.