Author's Note: Hello and welcome, intrepid readers! Note well: This story is the third and final installment in a trilogy of fics that I have written over the course of the last few months, beginning with "The Weary Trail of Deathless Days" and continuing with "Into the Arms of Forever." Although it is not absolutely essential to have read those two stories before diving into this one, I would earnestly recommend that you do so. I do recap some of the more salient points of the first fic in this particular chapter and will probably be referencing other past events as the tale goes on, but it will be a bit easier to follow if readers have already familiarized themselves with those stories. Then of course, there is the simple (and somewhat selfish) fact that it would make me very happy to have more people reading - and even happier to hear your reviews, if you are so inclined. Thoughtful, constructive commentary is always valued, and a kind word or a note of encouragement would just make my heart sing!

As a final note, I have been deliberately vague about the timeline all along, but suffice it to say that this story picks up many years after the ending of the previous fic. I am not very concerned with exact specificity as far as the ages of the hobbits go - just know that by this point they would be uncommonly old for their kind as a consequence of their long tenure in the Undying Lands.

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Where All Roads Converge

Chapter 1: An Unannounced Visitor

Everything was changed.

Perhaps not changed precisely, not in the exact sense of the term, but rather, intensified in a way that was ineffable, a way that was impossible to pin down through the ordered logic of reason. There was an unaccountable sublimity at work, a sense of exaltedness and even sanctity that rendered the earth as consecrated ground. The eyes of the world were more watchful, more keenly discerning and intelligent, and this strange simultaneity of outside perspective seemed to heighten one's sense of self-awareness. The wind spoke not with inaudible breath but with intelligible words in a forgotten language, disseminating its message to the remotest corners of the world – a message that was communicated through the rustle of tree leaves and the resonating vibrato of birdsong.

There are moments of complete self-contemplation when one has freed his mind from all extraneous thought, when one's very soul seems to escape from his bodily thrall and looking at himself as from an outsider's view, he thinks to himself: How must the flower in all of its beauty apprehend me, uncouth as I am? How low must I appear to the nightingale perched loftily in its bough? How does the turf underneath my feet suffer my weight so unprotestingly? And it is as though he is at once being scrutinized and looking out from the vantage point of nature in all of her guises. So it seemed to Frodo at this very moment.

He thought perhaps that he had found his way back to Valinor, that divine sanctuary of the mighty Valar, though he could not for the life of him remember being conveyed across the Sea from his home in Tol Eressëa. He had touched upon those shores before on more than one occasion, and he was quite familiar with that sense of burning oneness with the universe that he had known during those sojourns in that holy land. He remembered feeling as though his body had housed some torch that had reacted fiercely to the sudden immersion in the hallowed air reserved specially for the Ainur and the High Elves, that that fire must surely devour him with its potency and its desire to escape its fleshly prison. But here, it was not so. Here, there was none of that urgency, none of that inner frenzy searing him with its yearning to be freed. Here, he was not outside of his element the way that he had been in Valinor but was assuredly in concert with his environs. His immortal essence was not at odds with his mortal self, but the two walked together in perfect harmony and even ballasted one another.

"But if I am not in Valinor, where then am I?" he thought to himself bemusedly. He had no answer and indeed, was so ensconced in his own soul's rapture that he little cared what the land was named. So he walked on, praising the grass between his toes all the while for granting him passage, praising the glory of the Sun that lit his way, praising wind and sky and space for each lungful of air, for gracing him with their endless splendour, for allowing him to subsist on the nourishment of their heavenly breath.

The land began to rise gradually and Frodo saw mounting before him a grassy knoll whose crest was kissed by the lowering Sun. He fancied that he saw a figure minutely eclipsing the light, thought it might have only been an upright finger of rock or some other topographical feature that had caught his eye. He made his way forward, heading always toward the Western light, that crown jewel that balanced on the summit of the hillock. The climb grew steeper, but his exertions cost him no weariness. As he drew nearer to the top he could now see that yes, there was indeed a certain someone ringed against the erumpent Sun, looming blackly against the white light, but he could only squint blindly against such powerful luminosity and was forced to shade his brow with a hand if he tried to make out the person's features. It seemed that the individual was looking outward in the direction of the Sun, unmoving and perfectly unaware of Frodo's presence.

When Frodo had finally completed the long trek to the top – and truly, it felt as though the ascent had been taken far longer than he had projected when he set out – he found himself looking at a hobbit whose back was to him. The hobbits' arms were clasped loosely behind his back, as though he were pondering some deep philosophical question, perhaps, or else ruminating on what to serve at the next mealtime (which was the likelier alternative, Frodo thought to himself).

"What a strange place to meet another hobbit," Frodo mused. "I wonder how it is that he arrived here."

He extended an arm to him and touched him gently on the shoulder, but there was something uncanny about the ordinary manoeuvre, as though a puppeteer had pulled an invisible thread connected to his arm and compelled him to the motion. The mystery hobbit unclasped his hands at Frodo's touch and slowly turned his curly brown head to face his unannounced visitor. Frodo gasped and took an astonished step backward, nearly stumbling over his own feet in the process. The hobbit chuckled mirthfully, but without any trace of condescension, and the hairs on the back of Frodo's neck stood up at the noise. If he had not heard the sound of that laughter, he would have sworn that the light had dazzled his eyes and so deceived him; but now, he could not deny the proofs that had been laid before him.

"Bilbo?" he said aloud, wondering that those syllables should escape his lips.

"Hullo, Frodo lad," Bilbo hailed him serenely – but it was not the Bilbo that had cohabited with Frodo in Tol Eressëa. This Bilbo was young, as young as Frodo could ever remember seeing him, his physiognomy unlined and his complexion rosy and healthful.

"Uncle…" Frodo murmured in awed overtones, a suggestion of lingering disbelief evinced in his address.

"Yes, Frodo, I am here, so you may stop goggling at me once you have thoroughly convinced yourself of the fact!" he gibed with his typical irreverent humour.

"Forgive me, Uncle, but I had not expected to see you here – and looking so well, at that!" Frodo replied dumbly.

"I daresay you didn't, my boy, but that is no reason to go gaping and gawping at those you meet, chance encounter or not, now is it? But never mind. Though you might not have expected me, I have certainly been expecting you," said Bilbo.

"But…where are we?" Frodo queried, sweeping his head from side to side to survey his surroundings.

Bilbo turned his back suddenly, resuming his former stance as he gazed toward the western horizon. Frodo stepped forward and stood by his side, looking searchingly at his uncle's profile.

"Do you not know, Frodo?" Bilbo said at last, meeting his eye. He took one of Frodo's hands into his own and raised it eye-level. Frodo's brow wrinkled faintly as he tried to divine his uncle's meaning and his breath caught in his throat. He tore his hand away precipitously and splayed his fingers out in front of him, naked shock displaying itself on his visage. All of his fingers were present and accounted for, all ten fingers. Slowly, his eyes reconnected with Bilbo's, and a new thought occurred to him, one that he could not believe that he had neglected to remember.

"Bilbo… have I died?" Frodo asked tremulously.

"Let's just say that you are a long way from home," Bilbo said.

Frodo sat down in the grass dazedly and buried his face in his palms.

"I don't understand, Bilbo, I don't understand any of this," said Frodo, uncovering his face after a space. "How did this happen?" Bilbo lowered himself beside his nephew, stretching his legs out before him with an unconcern that Frodo found unbefitting.

"Now there, Frodo, you needn't look so down in the mouth. Where is that dauntless Baggins spirit that I know so well?" Bilbo encouraged. "You are not even sure of where you have got yourself landed in and yet already you fear for the worst."

"No, I do not know where I am, but I do remember what's become of you, Bilbo. And if I am with you now, then that could only lead me to one conclusion."

"Yes, that's all very sensible and reasonably stated – but then, we Bagginses were not always known for our good sense, now were we?" said Bilbo with a droll smirk.

"No…no, perhaps not. But it's all so strange. Strange that I should be sitting here with you like this…and you so young, and me with…" he glanced down at his hands. "Oh, Bilbo, I have not greeted you at all in the way that I should but I am very frightened and terribly bewildered. If this is what it is to die then it is not at all what I supposed."

"And why is that, Frodo?" asked Bilbo.

"Well…certainly it is beautiful here, beautiful in a way that I am hard put to describe. But it is also rather more desolate than I would have expected – but perhaps desolate is not quite the right word. It certainly seems as though the place is alive, but oddly enough, there is not a soul to be seen as far as I can tell, present company excluded of course. I feel as though I was still in transit, so to speak, like I have not yet arrived at my true destination. Tell me, Bilbo, have I really died or am I not just wandering through a dream?"

"Perhaps neither. Perhaps both, for who says that the dead do not dream? In either case, you are stuck with me now and you might as well make the best of your present situation if you want my advice," Bilbo replied.

"I wish you would speak plainer – you are worse even than Gandalf! But I am glad to see you, though I have done a poor job of showing it. Only, it's all so strange. I cannot think of how I came to be here at all. I cannot remember anything, Bilbo."

"You remembered me, didn't you? And you remembered your hand, isn't it so? No, no, Frodo, there is much that you still remember, only the entire picture has not yet come into view. But you must apply yourself," Bilbo pontificated, and Frodo was swept back to his early days in Bag End, when he would sit in the study and pore over his Elvish characters, his uncle quietly overseeing his progress and nudging him forward when the going was difficult.

"Yes, perhaps I misspoke. Things are beginning to come back in dribs and drabs, as it were. But it seems almost as though the things that I can recall have happened to someone else and I have only been taking note of my life's events all along."

"It does feel that way, doesn't it? It will wear off though, don't you fret about that. Well, I had hoped to hear news of you so you had better get on with remembering, if you have a mind," said Bilbo, planting his hands behind him and leaning back relaxedly. "For it has been a long, long time."

"Well, let me see…" Frodo deliberated, combing his fingers through the grass absentmindedly. "I remember the white ship and the home that we kept on the Blessed Isle. How long was it that we remained there? Oh well, I suppose it is not very important. But it was wonderful, wasn't it Bilbo? Do you remember the sound of the Sea – for it seems to me that I can hear its echo even here – and the voices of the Elves as their songs were given lift on the air?"

"I do indeed. How could I forget? But do go on, Frodo. What else do you remember?" Bilbo said.

"I remember Valinor, for that is where I thought that I was walking moments ago, only some part that I have never travelled to. Valinor. That is where you…where we parted ways, wasn't it? Yes, there was a great procession, as I recall, and a bed for you to lie on. Gandalf was there, and Elrond, and ranks upon ranks of Elves all come to bid you farewell. And we let fall white flowers at the foot of your bed so that when all was done it looked like the ground was blanketed with snow. They sang for you, Bilbo. They sang with more than their voices; they sang with a melody that proceeded from their immortal souls. The sound swelled so hugely that I thought that even the peoples of Middle-earth could hear it, that it must have resounded even unto the high heavens. I even wondered if it might wake you, foolish as that sounds. Or maybe that was only wishful thinking. I wish you could have heard it."

"I have heard and seen a great deal – more than even you might guess, in point of fact. But now, you have told me almost nothing of yourself – and though I am very much flattered to hear of this kingly treatment that the Elves have lavished upon me, I fear that all this talk shall go right to my head if you continue to enlarge upon the same subject."

"Such treatment was very well deserved, in my opinion, and the Elves' tribute brought me some small comfort while I was in the throes of grieving. But there were dark days as well," said Frodo gravely. "There were days whose end was nowhere in sight, days whose emptiness left me numb and drained in spirit. Some days, I wondered what it was I was holding on for, what joy was left in living when the one I loved most was no longer beside me. I thought to myself, 'How funny that the stars should show their faces now that Bilbo cannot look at them,' and 'Why does the Sun rise when its rays can no longer touch his skin or warm his bones?' It seemed almost callous of the world to go on the way it ever has once you had departed from it. But the days marched on, as they will, and I marched along with them. And then something happened," Frodo murmured, a look of concentration marking his face.

"Bilbo!" he cried, unable to suppress his anxiety. "Where is Sam? Not alone? Surely not alone?"

"Rest assured, Frodo, Sam is quite safe. You have it on my word," Bilbo remarked, covering Frodo's hand with his own.

"You are quite sure, then? Because I cannot stand to think of his being left behind; it would be a knife right to my heart, Uncle, if such were the case."

"But it is not, and so much the better, lad, or else you should not have the heart to talk further with me, if you will forgive the expression," Bilbo replied.

"It is him that I have to thank for everything, you know," Frodo effused. "Everything that came after your…your leaving. He was there for me always, Bilbo. A smile from him could drive out the most stubborn of shadows. He spoke words of hope when I was unsure. He held me still when my spirits trembled. He gave life meaning when I thought that the cup of promise had been drained to the last dregs. And although we had our difficulties, we always surmounted them in the end. We have been together ever since."

"Good, good, then all that I could have hoped for has come true," Bilbo smiled. "I could not have left you in better hands."

"Yes, that's so. But though I have spent many grand and happy days with Sam in the Blessed Realm, I have never in all that time failed to remember you, Uncle; not though the skies should open up and wash away all fear and doubt with heavenly rain. So I have lived these last years: without worry for what may come, but rather, with growing anticipation to meet the fate that has been ordained for me. I do not know how my years number precisely, but I know that they have been many. Perhaps I am even nearing the age that you reached when you were last with me. I can feel them accumulating, Bilbo. I can feel the days tallying up so that I wonder if there will be room to make another mark. I think that Sam feels them even more keenly, if that is possible. He was over one hundred years old when he finally set sail, you know, and he begins to show his age. Not that I don't show it myself, though I suppose you cannot tell by my present looks. But I have lived much longer in the West and have had other assistance besides. I suppose what I am trying to say is that I understand now better than ever how you must have felt in your waning days. Perhaps that is why I am here now."

The two hobbits studied the skyline in thoughtful silence. Frodo tried with all of his might to conjure up some memory of where he had been last before he had strayed into this peculiar land, but could not fix upon a single concrete detail. Just as he inwardly wished to himself for some means of clearing his head, Bilbo amazingly produced not one but two pipes from an inner jacket pocket and offered one to his nephew with a flourish.

"Now I know I must be dreaming!" Frodo proclaimed. "Surely this couldn't be…"

"Aye, Old Toby as sure as I am sitting here with you," Bilbo finished, setting a match to the bowl of his pipe and handing it off to Frodo.

"My word, I have not seen a trace of pipe-weed since I was in the Shire," said Frodo, mystified.

"True, the Elves were never very keen on smoking, were they? Well, luckily, your uncle has his resources," Bilbo said with a wink. "I have always been of the mind that smoking, when done properly, is an art form in itself, wouldn't you agree?" he asked whimsically, blowing a triple stack of smoke rings in demonstration of his artistry.

"Heartily!" Frodo corroborated, taking a pull from his pipe with relish. "If anyone had told me that I should be sitting outdoors with you, sharing a smoke and swapping tales, I should have said that they were stark raving mad."

"Why, Frodo, you say that as though it were an insult; for do not forget that you are in the company of none other than Mad Baggins himself," Bilbo returned.

"So I recall," said Frodo. "You certainly gained quite the reputation in Hobbiton after that stunt under the Party Tree. Well, I hope you have forgiven our fellow hobbits for such silly designations."

"What is there to forgive? I have embraced the title wholeheartedly! For it seems to me that we mad folk have a good deal more sense than those who count themselves sane."

"Well, Bilbo, if you are the standard-bearer for madness then I hope that I shall never be sane again!"

"Spoken like a true Baggins!" Bilbo enthused. "Ah, Frodo, I have missed you more than I can say. Really and truly. But I am afraid that I will have to leave you again soon."

"Leave me? But where are you going, Uncle?"

"Now, don't be afraid. This meeting may not be our last. But it's time now you went back to where you belong."

"But we have only just met! And there is so much that I have not learned from you. There is so much still for us to discuss."

"And perhaps we shall have that chance; but see now, the Sun is setting and the day is ending. And when the Sun has disappeared from the sky, so too must I take my leave."

"When will I see you again, Bilbo?"

"Soon enough, Frodo. Soon enough. Now, what say we enjoy the last of Old Toby while the light still remains, hm?"

Frodo sat staring into the glowing mouth of the pipe as the embers mimicked the extinguishing fire of the receding Sun. The shade of dusk drew up to his knees and was working its way steadily upward as the light dimmed to a burnt umber. The Sun went from honeydew full to eyelet small and would soon be overwhelmed entirely and lost to sight.

"Bilbo?" said Frodo impulsively, but when he turned to him there was no sign that anyone had ever been there.