Interlude: The Second Letter
My dear Frodo,
Over the years, I have started so many letters to you, but somehow I never seem to finish them. Unfinished, they sit there, staring at me, reminding me of how useless words can sometimes be, when it comes to telling the truth to someone you love.
Maybe you need to come here and see for yourself. Until you've seen Rivendell with your own eyes, I don't think you'll ever understand. Why I came here, I mean. Why I stay.
Yes, yes! What an excellent idea! Come back with Gandalf when he rides back this way. I'll show you what I've been getting up to. I've nearly finished my book, you know. Of course, whenever I almost finish it, I come across something new that I need to put in it, and there we go again. But that's the joy of it, don't you think? Stories are like the Road: when you start out upon them, you never know where you will finish..
I would like you to read it. We can argue about all the things I still need to say. We can walk the road of words together. I think I might be too old to walk the other Road again.
And since you're coming here, could you bring that old Ring of mine along with you? I'd very much like to see it again.
The page stirred in the breeze from the open window. Bilbo shivered. "How cold it is," he said, "although it's barely autumn."
"Is it?" said Gandalf. "I was thinking how warm it was in here."
"But you spend your time wandering in cold places." He laid down his pen. "Will you bring Frodo back with you when you come? I would very much like him to visit."
Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "Would you?"
"I don't think a letter alone will make him understand," Bilbo said. "And I want him to understand; I want that very much indeed. I used to think he wouldn't, but now I've been here longer, I think he would. And, besides, he's got something, something of mine."
"Yours?" The other eyebrow went up.
"That old Ring of mine," Bilbo said. His hand went to his empty pocket. He recognised the movement as something intensely familiar. "I forgot to bring it with me. I can't think why."
"The Ring has passed on, Bilbo." Gandalf's voice was gentle, but the air felt suddenly as cold as winter.
Bilbo closed his eyes. "I dream of it, sometimes. Oh, not often, not here in Rivendell, except when something happens to remind me. But when I pass the borders of Rivendell... Sometimes even when I merely think about passing the borders of Rivendell..." He opened his eyes, and looked at Gandalf beseechingly. "Is there such harm in that, Gandalf?"
Gandalf's eyes were full of pity, but they were merciless, too, in a way. "I'm afraid there could be, Bilbo."
Bilbo picked up the letter and pressed it between his hands. "Then what can I say to him?"
But Gandalf had no answers, not to this.
Bilbo tore the letter in two, and threw the pieces away. "Oh, I can't find the words. I can write whole books, but I can't do this. But when you see him, will you tell him..."
Tell him that I'm thinking of him.
Tell him that I'm happy.
Tell him to bring it anyway. Tell him that I'll come myself one day. Tell him that I'll come for it.
Tell him that it's mine.
"Tell him… nothing," he said at last, "but when you come back, tell me... tell me if he is happy, because I so much want him to be. Because I am," he said, wiping at his stinging eyes. "I am. Really."