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June 16, 1393, Shire Reckoning:
It was a hot June day; all the other young hobbits were splashing around in the creek, eating watermelon by the cartload and laughing as they chased grasshoppers and fairy bugs. Frodo could hear their squeals of laughter as he buttoned up a blue silken waistcoat and tried not to grimace; he wanted to be with them instead of all fancied up for some odd meeting of Bilbo's.
He hooked the last button and hastily combed through his curls when Bilbo bustled in, positively dancing with excitement, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
"Let's take a look at you, lad—ah splendid, splendid; you make a fine figure; they're going to like you, I'm just sure of it." He hustled around the room, grabbing a handkerchief to stuff in Frodo's pocket, checking his pocket watch, giving his own salt and pepper curls a quick going over with the comb. He rocked on his toes, looking into the mirror.
"Not bad for 103, eh? Bet that will bring them up short a bit, most likely indeed!" He glanced at Frodo. "You're all ready? The lunch has been packed?" At Frodo's bemused nod, he took him by the arm and steered him out towards the foyer, where two large picnic baskets waited by the round green door; one filled almost to bursting with the best of hobbit fare including fresh steaming bread and strawberries, and the other basket holding several bottles of Bilbo's best wine.
He wouldn't tell Frodo where they were going, or who they were going to meet. Frodo had met several of his dwarf friends; he suspected today they were probably having this picnic with another of them, but something about Bilbo's attitude was different; he never worried about impressing dwarves. And the wine too—that didn't fit; most of the dwarves had drunk beer when they visited; they didn't seem to much care for wine. It was all a big mystery, which was probably half the reason for Bilbo's glee; he just loved springing surprises on his young nephew. Frodo only wished he'd do it on days less hot; he'd been hoping to see Lily Bracegirdle down by the stream and swim with her—perhaps even get a peek of her in her knickers. He's heard rumors that she had a crush on him.
With a grunt, he picked up the food basket, most undoubtedly the heavier, while Bilbo sprightly lifted up the other basket, without even a waver in his step—he really was in quite remarkable shape for his age. Another mystery.
They passed out of the bright green door into the even brighter sunlit day, with only a very slight breeze to send tufts of dandelion floating lazily above the grass, quiet except for the chirping of crickets and the distant shouts and laughter from the creek. Surprisingly, they didn't walk down the main road, but cut across the grass at the old Gaffer's to duck through a break in the hedge, heading for open meadows.
Bilbo took in great lungfuls of air, grinning as they rejoined the road past the outskirts of Hobbiton. "Ready yourself, my dear boy; it's a bit of a walk we'll take this morning. I mean for us to reach the Bidgebale woods by midday."
Frodo almost dropped his basket, his eyes going wide. That was well on the way towards the Grey Havens! This was mad; what kind of a picnic required you to prance halfway across the Shire lugging a very heavy basket of food in a very warm and confining silk waistcoat that in an hour would no doubt be soaked through? Now he understood why everyone thought Bilbo so queer; it certainly wasn't typical Hobbit behavior to exult in the act of walking. And each step farther and farther from Lily Bracegirdle—Frodo clenched his jaw and stared sullenly at the road, hating it suddenly. He'd liked all his walks with Bilbo as a child, but he was 25 now—not a child, no certainly—he was growing up, and should be allowed to do as other hobbits his age. See Lily Bracegirdle in her knickers.
He was brought out of his sulk as Bilbo suddenly began to sing in low voice,
For ancient king and elvish lord
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought and light they caught
To hide in gems on hilt of sword.
On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun.
"I've heard that before," Frodo said, trying to place it—Bilbo had sung it with a dwarf—it had to do with the adventure he'd been on, he believed.
"It is a part of Thorin's song of his quest," Bilbo said, reaching down along the roadside to pluck a fat red poppy. He put it in his lapel, humming and eyeing Frodo with a rascally grin. "Have you guessed who we're meeting yet?"
Frodo tried to count how many of the original thirteen dwarves (or their families) he had met—there had been Fili and Kili, Balin, Gloin—"Surely we're not going to see old fat Bombur!" he remarked. If they were, they hadn't brought nearly enough food.
Bilbo laughed. "Oh Bombur's too fat to travel these days, I'll wager! No, you're way off. Think about the song. And the wine. Why would I bring wine for dwarves?"
"Ancient king—well surely we're not visiting some elvish royalty!" Frodo said, laughing, then gaped when Bilbo winked. "No, surely not the King—Thranduil?!"
Bilbo grinned from ear to ear. "No, not the king himself—busy fellow, I'm sure—but his people are traveling across the Shire, including two of his offspring, I believe. Yes, you're going to meet the elves. Now you see why I dressed you up."
Frodo gasped in delight—he had met one elf, when he first came to Bad End, but he'd only been 15, just a little waif, and the elf had seemed so tall and frightening, though he'd been most gracious, even reading to him a favorite storybook. After that he'd begun asking Bilbo for every tale he could think of concerning elves. Hobbits always said he looked elvish, that he had "an elven air", whatever that meant. Well this was certainly news for the better! He couldn't wait to see what a whole party of elves would be like!
"We're going to see the elves!" he whispered, eyes shining.
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(tbc)
June 16, 1393, Shire Reckoning:
It was a hot June day; all the other young hobbits were splashing around in the creek, eating watermelon by the cartload and laughing as they chased grasshoppers and fairy bugs. Frodo could hear their squeals of laughter as he buttoned up a blue silken waistcoat and tried not to grimace; he wanted to be with them instead of all fancied up for some odd meeting of Bilbo's.
He hooked the last button and hastily combed through his curls when Bilbo bustled in, positively dancing with excitement, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
"Let's take a look at you, lad—ah splendid, splendid; you make a fine figure; they're going to like you, I'm just sure of it." He hustled around the room, grabbing a handkerchief to stuff in Frodo's pocket, checking his pocket watch, giving his own salt and pepper curls a quick going over with the comb. He rocked on his toes, looking into the mirror.
"Not bad for 103, eh? Bet that will bring them up short a bit, most likely indeed!" He glanced at Frodo. "You're all ready? The lunch has been packed?" At Frodo's bemused nod, he took him by the arm and steered him out towards the foyer, where two large picnic baskets waited by the round green door; one filled almost to bursting with the best of hobbit fare including fresh steaming bread and strawberries, and the other basket holding several bottles of Bilbo's best wine.
He wouldn't tell Frodo where they were going, or who they were going to meet. Frodo had met several of his dwarf friends; he suspected today they were probably having this picnic with another of them, but something about Bilbo's attitude was different; he never worried about impressing dwarves. And the wine too—that didn't fit; most of the dwarves had drunk beer when they visited; they didn't seem to much care for wine. It was all a big mystery, which was probably half the reason for Bilbo's glee; he just loved springing surprises on his young nephew. Frodo only wished he'd do it on days less hot; he'd been hoping to see Lily Bracegirdle down by the stream and swim with her—perhaps even get a peek of her in her knickers. He's heard rumors that she had a crush on him.
With a grunt, he picked up the food basket, most undoubtedly the heavier, while Bilbo sprightly lifted up the other basket, without even a waver in his step—he really was in quite remarkable shape for his age. Another mystery.
They passed out of the bright green door into the even brighter sunlit day, with only a very slight breeze to send tufts of dandelion floating lazily above the grass, quiet except for the chirping of crickets and the distant shouts and laughter from the creek. Surprisingly, they didn't walk down the main road, but cut across the grass at the old Gaffer's to duck through a break in the hedge, heading for open meadows.
Bilbo took in great lungfuls of air, grinning as they rejoined the road past the outskirts of Hobbiton. "Ready yourself, my dear boy; it's a bit of a walk we'll take this morning. I mean for us to reach the Bidgebale woods by midday."
Frodo almost dropped his basket, his eyes going wide. That was well on the way towards the Grey Havens! This was mad; what kind of a picnic required you to prance halfway across the Shire lugging a very heavy basket of food in a very warm and confining silk waistcoat that in an hour would no doubt be soaked through? Now he understood why everyone thought Bilbo so queer; it certainly wasn't typical Hobbit behavior to exult in the act of walking. And each step farther and farther from Lily Bracegirdle—Frodo clenched his jaw and stared sullenly at the road, hating it suddenly. He'd liked all his walks with Bilbo as a child, but he was 25 now—not a child, no certainly—he was growing up, and should be allowed to do as other hobbits his age. See Lily Bracegirdle in her knickers.
He was brought out of his sulk as Bilbo suddenly began to sing in low voice,
For ancient king and elvish lord
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought and light they caught
To hide in gems on hilt of sword.
On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun.
"I've heard that before," Frodo said, trying to place it—Bilbo had sung it with a dwarf—it had to do with the adventure he'd been on, he believed.
"It is a part of Thorin's song of his quest," Bilbo said, reaching down along the roadside to pluck a fat red poppy. He put it in his lapel, humming and eyeing Frodo with a rascally grin. "Have you guessed who we're meeting yet?"
Frodo tried to count how many of the original thirteen dwarves (or their families) he had met—there had been Fili and Kili, Balin, Gloin—"Surely we're not going to see old fat Bombur!" he remarked. If they were, they hadn't brought nearly enough food.
Bilbo laughed. "Oh Bombur's too fat to travel these days, I'll wager! No, you're way off. Think about the song. And the wine. Why would I bring wine for dwarves?"
"Ancient king—well surely we're not visiting some elvish royalty!" Frodo said, laughing, then gaped when Bilbo winked. "No, surely not the King—Thranduil?!"
Bilbo grinned from ear to ear. "No, not the king himself—busy fellow, I'm sure—but his people are traveling across the Shire, including two of his offspring, I believe. Yes, you're going to meet the elves. Now you see why I dressed you up."
Frodo gasped in delight—he had met one elf, when he first came to Bad End, but he'd only been 15, just a little waif, and the elf had seemed so tall and frightening, though he'd been most gracious, even reading to him a favorite storybook. After that he'd begun asking Bilbo for every tale he could think of concerning elves. Hobbits always said he looked elvish, that he had "an elven air", whatever that meant. Well this was certainly news for the better! He couldn't wait to see what a whole party of elves would be like!
"We're going to see the elves!" he whispered, eyes shining.
-----
(tbc)