o-O-o

Bilbo stared out the southern window of his hobbit hole, the light of an early morning dappling through leaves and tickling his face. Smoke gently wafted up from his pipe, full of Old Toby, on this rare occasion that he allowed himself an indoor reprieve. It was early winter now, and there was a unique mix of creaking wood, scattering winds, and melancholy drifting through the air. Before, as a younger lad, Bilbo had loved rising early to watch the first sunrises of the winter season, awake before dawn and waking his restless spirit as the sun broke steady over the far hills. Now, as he went rather gently into older age, curiously not yet showing many signs of aging save a grey hair or misplaced wrinkle (much to the chagrin of cousin Lobelia Baggins who was rather fervent about him croaking whenever he liked so she could finally get her hands on his silverware and oak wood furnishings), the winter offered a more sobering outlook on the world; that his prized strawberries would soon succumb to the frost and he'd have to sell away his soul to find proper jam in the Shire winter, and that it was close to one very somber anniversary.

Suddenly he felt irritable, squirming in his chair, feeling as though the soft wood had splinters under him, prodding him into discomfort and decided to rise from his once comfortable position scowling at the seat all the while. The long pipe clenched between hard teeth, he went to the window. He always became more irritable during this time of year, though that could never be attributed to his aging demeanor. He'd since forgiven himself for his change of mood, coupled with the lack of niceties that inflamed his disparaging. While he was a Hobbit, and Hobbits nonetheless enjoyed a friendly nature and open homes with tea and good conversation, he found that after his return from his adventure so many years ago he was less inclined to welcome strangers.

Smoke rose lazily into the air, brushing against the opaqueness of the glass, flowing toward a small gap between the wood molding and a window pane, escaping out into the dawn. Bilbo sighed a lengthy breath, feeling altogether jealous of the ability of the smoke to simply slip away, and disappear before his eyes. It was times like these, he thought, when he most missed his adventures. His eyes grew misty, not enough for any tears to fall, thinking back to the splendors of Rivendell, how the music of the elves would float through the gardens and halls as if played everywhere at once, and the grand architecture of Thranduil's keep in the Greenwood, which he would have very much liked to explore under better circumstances than his last visit.

But it wasn't just the adventure itself that he felt melancholy for; I honesty, he often doubted he would have left the Shire if the company of dwarves that found themselves at his doorstep were any different. He was quite comfortable that night they arrived, and had any group less awkward and proportionately charming infiltrated his Hobbit hole he would have shut the door on them and tucked in to a good book. Bilbo chuckled at that, shaking his head in a light bob of still red curls. He missed them all dearly, some nights more than others . . . and some more than most.

With a final huff, Bilbo decided that he had spent enough of the morning dwelling on dwarves and had- beens, and turned on his heel to snuff his pipe in the small ochre box he kept by his bed. No sooner than he had turned, a familiar beaming face crossed the threshold of his room, bounding over with a youthful energy that Bilbo was quite fond of.

"Uncle Bilbo, good morning!" Frodo clamored, plopping himself on top of the newly smoothed linens Bilbo had laid out at the foot of his bed. On any other day, he would have simply chided Frodo with a smirk and remedied the situation with a jam cookie for the both of them. Today, he simply sighed and shooed Frodo away, laying the linens back into place. The young child frowned, knowing he had annoyed his Uncle, and withdrew a number of steps from his presence. "Sorry 'bout that, Uncle," he apologized graciously. Frodo's politeness had always astounded Bilbo, and he took great pride in that he was raised in such a cordial manner. In spite of the wistful morning, Bilbo quickly shook his head, and decided firmly to remove all traces of grumpiness from his day, knowing that it would do neither one of them any good to be in a foul mood. "It's quite alright my boy, quite so. Linens can be smoothed over, as can a sour expression." At that, Frodo smiled once again, giving him a smirk that was all white teeth and dimples.

"Now, Frodo, how shall we use this fair morning?" Bilbo inquired, having stored his pipe and walking a few rooms over to his writing desk, nestled among the gentle, but organized, clutter of his study. Taking a quick seat, he motioned for Frodo, and the boy happily placed himself propped on Bilbo's knee, looking in fervor at the crisp sheets of newly inked paper that Bilbo was stacking out of the way.

"I think I'd like to hear a story today Uncle, one about your adventures!" Frodo lead on. "My adventures again," Bilbo questioned with a grin, "the same adventures you hear about at least three times a month and quite more than that if I were giving an honest estimation?"

Frodo simply giggled and tucked into Bilbo closer, knowing that he would be getting his way. Bilbo wrapped a firm arm around the boy, finishing his shuffling of documents with the other before strumming his fingers on the table wondering where to begin this time.

"Once," he began, "long ago, there lived a Hobbit in the Shire, whose Hobbit hole wa-," "No, no, no Uncle Bilbo, not that one. I want to hear the new story that you've been writing, the one on those papers you moved over there," Frodo pointed out.

Bilbo tensed a bit, realizing that he should have guessed the young boy would have snuck a glance at his latest musings, and was more embarrassed than annoyed. What Frodo didn't realize, was exactly the nature of what he had begun writing, and Bilbo hadn't intended for it to be seen by anyone but his self.

His eyes glanced over to the foremost page on the pile of parchments, barely more than a collection of selected ramblings so far; but what careful selections they were. In Bilbo's rolling script, unknown to the boy, words of deepest emotion had flowed onto the papers swifter than the waters of the Brandywine. . .

'In every lifetime, there is at least one mystery, one unsolvable event that perplexes the mind and heart well past the crux of its bearing.

It was an unexpected, and at the time, unwelcome manner that mine would come to be known to me, and I do not believe that any mortal or god could come to explain just how a Hobbit of Bag End in the Shire could come to wish himself, for all the life of the earth, to a dwarf by the name of Thorin, Son of Thrain, King Under-'

"Uncle Bilbo, I read your manuscript." Frodo said, pulling Bilbo away from the parchment. "Why have you not told me this story before? It's just like your other tales, but I've never heard it told like this, it sounds lovely, and full of-," "Oh, Frodo," Bilbo replied with a pained look that could have told all of the story in its own, "Lovely, yes, very lovely a story it is."

Frodo hopped down from Bilbo's knee, giving him a look that seemed all too wise for a young Hobbit that had not yet seen much more than a decade of life. "If you'd like, I can ask you to tell me again once you finish writing. Or you could just tell me about the Trolls again."

"No, Frodo, I don't think that will be necessary. Especially not since you've gone sneaking a peak at it already," Bilbo said with a wink. "Come, let's go into the kitchen and have us a few of those jam biscuits from the market and a nice cup of tea. This particular story might just take all day."

They went then into the next room, gathering their supplies for a day to be filled with an unmeasurable number of fantasies and confessions, and tucked into their two most comfortable armchairs while Bilbo started up a small fire in the hearth. Frodo sat patiently, nibbling contently on his snacks, waiting for his uncle to begin weaving his grand tale.

Moments passed once Bilbo settled in, unsure of how he could begin explaining such a complex tale to someone so young. Admittedly, he hadn't planned on telling Frodo this story for some time, though, he decided that now was better than never, since he seemed to hold the boy's utter curiosity.

"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo asked timidly, "If you were so fond of this man, where is he now? You wrote of him like he was a great friend, and like how my parents used to talk about one another. "

Now this was something that caught Bilbo unaware. The boy had gleaned more than he thought from the few short pages.

"Did. . . is he. . . is he passed on to the next life, like ma and da?" Frodo questioned softly, placing his small hand gently on top of Bilbo's, who started at the unexpected touch, but welcomed it nonetheless. He grasped onto the warmth of the boys hand, finding solace in the comfort of the gesture. Bilbo stared at it, so small, and soft without the telltale signs of work and hardship. How could he begin to tell such an innocent boy, though with grief of his own still written on his face, of a loss so deep and bottomless that it had never faded? He said nothing yet, simply taking a long sip of his cooling tea, wondering how to begin. Frodo shifted, slightly uncomfortable at his uncle's silence, but unable to suppress his childlike urge to ask his questions. "Uncle Bilbo?" Bilbo turned to him. "Yes, my dear boy?"

"Will you . . . would you tell me . . . how did he die?"

And with those short words, it came to Bilbo; great words that he knew were the correct beginning of such a tale. A tale of sorrow, and of melancholy, but the kind that could only have been borne from something of great love, and of greater loss.

"No, my Frodo. No, I will tell you how he lived."

o-O-o

A/N: Thank you for stopping in to read my story! Just a few things to sort out:

This story is taking an AU approach to The Hobbit, sticking to the movieverse more so than the book, and will have very, very, slow burn Bagginshield, because it wouldn't be appropriate any other way. I'll be including some dialogue from the film, though I will be changing scenes and some events around so the story isn't simply regurgitated from the movie. Thank you again, and have fun with this!