DISCLAIMER: No own. I don't even own the idea for this.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: All right, this is slightly tough to explain, but I'll give it a shot.

In my Brit Lit class, Fellowship was one of our assigned readings. And instead of writing an essay about it this time, as we had with all our other parallel reading books, my teacher handed us this project sheet. They were all creative projects: I toyed with the idea of doing a large, quality illustration of one of the characters, but then I remembered that somehow almost all my art supplies disappeared (we have a black hole in my house) and I wasn't that good either. Then I realized that one of the projects basically equaled "write fanfiction," which I do anyway *grins* So that's what I did. More specifically, write a short (one-page) essay/story on what a character (any character) is thinking/feeling at a particular place in the book.

Fanfiction, no? So I got out my thinking cap, hammered away at my writer's block, and gave it my best. The first one I wrote didn't turn out so good, but apparently the others were all right. I don't think I hit my stride until the second, where I attempted Bilbo. That's what's below. I'd just like to see if anyone agrees with my interpretation... or something like that. It sounded so much better in my head. What I'm posting is what I turned in to my teacher, no edits. The little thing in italics at the beginning is the introduction to each section we had to put on to explain when this was taking place, and also where.

There's one problem in here where I got the order of the story mixed up, but I chose not to correct it. I like that part. Thanks for listening to my rambling!



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This one takes place when Bilbo's hiding in the corner in the spacious room at Rivendell, before he's revealed to be Bilbo, when he's just observing. It mostly focuses on Frodo.



He seems so different now, as if he's become a different person before my eyes - and he has, more than once, but this time it's different. I have watched my nephew, my heir, my closest friend in the world come back from death's door almost overnight. Before now, the only thing that betrayed the fact there was still life in him was the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and the words that seemed to spill themselves from his mouth, pushed by some force other than his will.

I often looked in on him when no one was sure whether he'd live or die, but never when one of his friends was there. They all knew me on sight, and I didn't know what they'd do when they saw the changes that have come over me in just the few months I've been gone. Now that the ring is out of my possession time's affects on my body are rapidly catching up and overtaking me; the transformation of decades is compressed to weeks. I feel my age, great even for a hobbit, catching up to me and gripping me day by day, hour by hour - and I can no longer stop it.

Frodo is more than my closest friend. He's almost a reminder of myself at his age, which has to be fifty now. And yet, at the same time, not. He's much more worldly, much more secretive, and much less naïve. I suppose being brought up the "eccentric adventurer" will do that to a young hobbit. He's thinner than he was when I last saw him, so many years ago, but he's again in the pink of health after that close brush with death. But he's acquired a look in those years, one I know well, as I saw it - and still see it - in my own face. It's the look that only comes after a life-changing event: an adventure. We hobbits have them rarely enough that it's easy enough for one who's had the experience to spot another.

I can't help but wonder if he has only recently acquired the look, in his journey here. From what Gandalf has said, and what I've heard with my own ears, the four young friends have had a time getting even as far as they have. I know, as they don't, that they have far to go indeed; their journey has hardly begun, and as usual the most perilous part is certain to come. An adventurer is always in the greatest danger right before the end; I should know.

I want to go with them. I want so badly to go with them that I can feel it in the air I breathe, every pore of my skin, every hair on my body. I'm writing my memoirs not just to have an accurate (well, mostly accurate) record of my journeys, but also to take me back to that time, that time when I was so happy even though I was in danger of my life every day. I was alive then. But the rapid aging has had more than just surface effects; my body couldn't take the hardships now. So the most I can do is watch Frodo.

And here is Elrond, reading my internal thoughts with a certain peculiar twist as always, talking easily to my nephew. For now, I am just an anonymous figure in a dark wrap, leaning in a corner, being allowed this time for reflection and meditation, although neither are hard to find at Rivendell. Soon I shall be caught up in the festivities and jocularly needled by my new friends and old ones such as Gloin that I haven't seen in years. But for now, I just wish to remain unknown, in my corner, observing the hobbit I watch grow for so many years, then had to cut loose and leave to his own devices. It may well be the last time I ever have the luxury.



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AUTHOR'S NOTES II: So? Did I totally screw up?