Interlude: The First Letter

My dear Frodo,

How are you, my boy? I'm hoping you're taking good care of that old hobbit hole of mine. But of course you are; you always were far more responsible than me. Not the kind to go gallivanting off on his birthday. And it's yours now, of course, not mine.

Oh, this isn't the way I meant to start this letter. I've started it so many times in my head, you know, but now I come to write it, I can't find the words, and here I am, prattling away like a fool.

I'll start again. My dear Frodo, I hope you're well. Since I left Hobbiton that night, I've been on such journeys. First I came to Rivendell, and then I went to see the Dwarves in Dale, and then

The pen stopped writing. The fire crackled, and a high clear voice was singing. Outside the window, the sky was grey, and fine rain fell on the many-panelled glass.

And then, he thought, I went to see the stone cities in the south, and I sailed upon the Great River, and I slept beneath the stars. I saw strange rock formations and vast grasslands where horses ride free. Because that's why I left you, my dear Frodo; because I was no longer content to live within unchanging walls. There is now no door between me and the open road.

He laid down his pen. He could write no lies.

"Frodo didn't want me to go, Gandalf," he found himself saying. "Oh, he loved me too well to say so out loud, but it was true, even so. He didn't want me to go, but he knew I had to. He knew I needed to travel. He knew I felt trapped by staying in one place."

"He knew," Gandalf agreed.

Bilbo pressed his hands down on the letter, feeling the last words smear and blur. "So how can I write the truth?" he said. "I always meant to settle down to rest somewhere, but I didn't mean it to be so soon. He offered to come with me, you know, but I said no. He's still in love with the Shire, but I craved the wilds and a larger country. He knew that. So how can I tell him that I've just exchanged one set of walls for another, and the only difference is that these walls don't include him?"

"He would not see it that way," said Gandalf, "because that is not how it is. He understands, Bilbo."

"But he would still be hurt."

"No," said Gandalf. "He understands more than you know."

Bilbo picked up the letter and threw it into the fire. The shadows of words were imprinted on his palms, impossible to read. "I'll write next year," he said. "I'll have travelled by then, after spring comes. I'll have such tales to tell him!"

Gandalf stood up, his steps soft on the carpet. "What shall I tell him? Shall I give him any news of you?"

Bilbo let out a breath, and moved to the window, to gaze out at the rain. "Tell him nothing," he said, as his mind saw pictures beyond the clouds. "Let him imagine me to be where he wants me to be. It's better that way."