Chapter 1 - An Unexpected Announcement

THE YOUNGER BAGGINS sat in the comfortable parlor at Bag End, with one foot curled under him, and the other resting upon the books that were under the table. He was surrounded by all the comforts that one expected in a hobbit smial; but besides a generous table and a generous hearth, he also had about him all those things which particularly comforted a certain old and unusual hobbit: books in languages he knew and didn't, maps of places he had been and had not, portraits of illustrious (and adventurous) relatives, and token items from, or so it seemed, all around Middle Earth.

He sat, in short, in the most unusual hole in all the Shire, as the late winter sun rose to greet him and to warm the rooms of Bag End as much as she could.

He did not hear the soft step come down the hall from the bedrooms and stop in the doorway, but he felt the steps come through the books on the floor, and turned to smile at his uncle standing in the door.

"Good morning, uncle."

"Good morning, Frodo. It is long since you were up so early. I thought it was a cold hearth I was coming to." He came over to the table, and removing a few books from the seat, took the other chair.

"In truth, Bilbo, I don't know if I slept last night or not. Perhaps I was only dreaming, when I thought I saw the stars circling above the Pool, and twinkling in their turn as if they saw me, too." He moved his foot from under him at last and stretched his stiff legs, and looked about him for something edible that might chance to be in arm's reach.

"Dreaming, eh?" Bilbo looked surreptitiously at his nephew, at the titles of the books on the table, at the parchments that had been spread out, and then looked innocently out the window. "Do you know, my lad, I have been thinking –"

"A dangerous occupation for a hobbit," said Frodo.

"– I have been thinking, that perhaps it is time we put all that Elvish to good use."

"Why, uncle, it has been put to good use. And very well are your lessons serving me. See here," he said, picking up the book he had had in his lap all night, "'Aldanyáre.' I was not dreaming only, last night."

"'A History of Trees,'" said Bilbo. "Study of any language will serve you well, my lad: especially the Elven ones. But I was not referring to our Quenya lessons just now."

Frodo furrowed his brow. After a moment's thought he said, "Sindarin? What about breakfast?"

Bilbo laughed brightly at that. "Well. I suppose the mind obeys the stomach, after all."

The two moved to the kitchen, where Bilbo began to build a fire (a task he liked to take upon himself) as Frodo gathered breads and jams and bits of various cheeses from the cupboards and shelves. He placed them on the table so as to look in a way he thought to be most pleasing; and as he arranged the plates and cups upon the table, he thought of the constellations he had gazed upon at night. Bilbo hummed a tune that he often hummed at campfires, and his mind wandered haply from memory to memory, seeing other fires, and hearing the songs of Dwarves.

At last they were seated upon their benches and dove into their breakfast as if they had truly been fasting. As Frodo came to the end of his coffee, he suddenly held his mug close to his chest, and with a hesitancy that was unusual in him, he said, "Uncle…Sindarin?"

Bilbo did not answer him right away, but seemed to be far off for the moment. Frodo was about to ask him if all was well when he picked up a piece of bread and said, "Sindarin, Frodo. The vernacular, everyday language of the Elves, if indeed the word 'everyday' can be applied to anything of their craft."

"What are you saying, uncle?" said Frodo, trying to calm the suddenly quick beat of his heart. "What use can you be speaking of?"

"What I am saying, is," said Bilbo, tearing his bread ever so slowly and enjoying himself now, "is that the thing about which you were asking me, and about which thing I was saying, just a while ago now, if you follow me –"

"Bilbo!"

"All right, all right, my lad. If you really want to know the fancies of an old hobbit, I was thinking that it may be time you and I visited my old friends in Rivendell."

At this Frodo put down his mug, and stared wide-eyed at Bilbo in such a way that Bilbo began to wonder if perhaps his nephew thought he had cracked at last. "Bilbo!" he cried. "Rivendell! You and I?"

"You and I, my boy." He had intended to ask Frodo what he thought of the idea, but wonder and excitement and joy were shining so brightly on the young hobbit's face that it would have been redundant for Frodo to answer him with words.

Smiling back at him, Bilbo said only, "Now, when shall we go?"

All that day Frodo beamed with excitement. The only thought which dampened his conscious happiness was that Sam could not go with them; but although Samwise was deeply concerned for Frodo's care during the journey, he was nevertheless too young to make such a trip, and had insisted that he would look after Bag End "'til Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo was back safe." The knowledge that Bilbo and Frodo would be travelling together, that Bilbo would have his sword Sting, and that the pair were travelling to one of the safest places in Middle Earth was of great comfort to Sam; it did not prevent him, however, from extracting a promise from Frodo that he would write from every stop along the way where a courier could be had, and again from Rivendell (to tell him about the Elves), and likewise on the return journey.

It was in fact a long way to Rivendell from Hobbiton, and there were many preparations to be made. They had settled first on the day they were to set out: in four weeks – time for the weather to warm – on the first day of spring. Bilbo had assured Frodo that it was an auspicious day to begin a journey, and Frodo had agreed; but he sensed that behind Frodo's outward excitement there was some part of him that was already sad to leave the Shire behind, just as the hills and woods would be beginning to blossom in the sweet profusion of spring.

That night the two hobbits sat up by the fire in Bilbo's study, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea in the Special Occasion china, and munching on small cakes. Frodo was pelting his uncle with questions, and Bilbo was doing his best to stay awake. It is easy, he thought, when one is actually young, and does not just look it.

"Bilbo."

"Eh?"

"You didn't hear my question again. Am I tiring you?" He put down his saucer, concerned. "I'm sorry, uncle. You must be very tired. It is rather late, and I'm afraid I have wrung you out like a towel, at least on the topic of Rivendell."

"Oh, don't you worry yourself about that. That's what you must do. What's the purpose of a library, if no one reads the books?" He looked down into his empty cup. "But it is late, and time for this old hobbit to get to bed."

He rose as one mass with his blankets and laid his hand on Frodo's shoulder, and smiling down at him he said, "Good night, my boy. I am so glad that we are doing this together."

When he had gone, Frodo sat looking into the fire for a time, seeing many things that were far away. He pictured the city of the Elves, and his mind travelled backward in time: he recalled his conversation with Bilbo that morning, and the long night he had spent at the parlor window; memory after memory in Hobbiton came to his eye; and he thought again of the day he had come to Bag End, the first day he had stayed there, in his home, stayed not as a visitor but as a dweller.

At this memory he smiled. But he yet would not allow himself to recall what came before. He plucked idly at the blankets to distract himself, and then with a sigh he rose to collect the dishes and carry them into the kitchen.

Walking back into the study with a half pail of water, he doused the fire, gathered the blankets, and, having made certain that no embers were glowing in the hearth, went quickly and quietly to bed.