He was tired. So tired, and yet he couldn't sleep the night through. It wasn't the elves' fault. They'd been kindness and solicitousness itself. They'd realized he wasn't sleeping well even though he'd tried not to show it. They'd not said anything directly, of course. They wouldn't. Instead they'd quietly begun providing more comfortable bedding, soothing music, various herbs and tisanes, and eventually even some stronger draughts from locked rooms. None of it helped. He was so tired, and yet when he slept, he was back in the fires, back where he struggled with Gollum and himself and the Ring. His missing finger itched and burned as if it were in the fires as well, which, perhaps, it was.
So he couldn't sleep. He read, and he walked, and he thought, but that was dangerous too. He remembered things when he thought, things he didn't particularly want to remember, but couldn't forget. Boromir, influenced by the Ring. The eye. The wraiths. Shelob. Dol Guldur. Gollum's triumphant face just before he disappeared into the lava.
Merry and Pippin and Sam saw things too, he knew, and would never be the carefree Hobbits they once were. They sometimes joined him on his nightly walks, especially Sam, but he was more often alone in this as in so many other things.
He was alone tonight. All his friends were asleep. All of Rivendell was asleep. Quietly, so that he did not disturb anyone, he walked to a balcony that allowed him to see the stars and moon and to hear the waterfalls. There he sat, breathing deeply and wondering whether he would ever be able to forget the Ring and what it had been, what it had done.
A slow, careful, quiet tapping became gradually louder and he smiled at his Uncle's careful, aged steps. Some things still made him smile, and he was glad of that. He got up from his bench to help Bilbo sit down and then sat down again himself.
"Thank you, my boy," Bilbo said in his creaky, ancient voice. There were some that had difficulty understanding Bilbo in recent days, but Frodo never had. Sometimes Bilbo's mind wandered, and sometimes his voice wandered too, but Frodo still understood him. Perhaps he even understood Bilbo better now.
"You are troubled," Bilbo said, and Frodo nodded, but didn't speak. He thought Bilbo had something else to say, and Frodo would let him say it. Instead, though, Bilbo pulled out a knitted item and carefully handed it to Frodo with his shaky, gnarled hands.
"Do you remember this?" Bilbo said, and Frodo turned it over in his own, nine-fingered hands.
"This is your Dwarvish doily," Frodo replied slowly.
"Indeed, my boy, indeed," his uncle replied proudly, as proudly as he ever was when he thought Frodo had been clever. "And do you remember the story behind it?"
"It was an apology. You got it on your adventure with the Dwarves. I found it in a storeroom and asked you about it. I didn't believe you when you said Dwarves made doilies. Having met Gimli and all the other Dwarves at the Council, I still don't." Frodo actually smiled at the recollection of the story and the Dwarves. No, Dwarves weren't the type to have doilies.
Bilbo's answering chuckle was rusty. "And in that I do not blame you, Frodo. In many things I do not blame you, for many things have happened that you could not have foreseen. None of us could have foreseen them."
His voice trailed off and he fell silent, staring off into the distance. Frodo allowed him to be silent for some time, but eventually, he gently tapped his uncle's hand.
"Uncle Bilbo," he said gently and patiently. "Why have you brought me this now?"
Bilbo started, as if he had forgotten that Frodo was there, and it was likely that he had. Wherever he had gone and whomever he had seen there, he had returned with a slight smile on his face. The smile disappeared, though, when he looked at the doily.
"It's an apology, Frodo my lad. You once made me a doily out of branches to apologize, do you remember?"
Frodo nodded, feeling his ears turn slightly red. That incident had not been his best moment as a child, though Bilbo had been kindness itself, all things considered.
"And now … now I must apologize. For it is my fault the Ring came to you. My fault you have suffered and seen so much that hurts you and does not allow you to sleep. And so I will give you my doily, and hope you will accept it." Bilbo's voice was full of sorrow. It wasn't the first time he had apologized for the actions of the Ring, and for his own actions in relation to the Ring. Frodo did not hold him at fault, though. He knew full well what the Ring could do and the power it could exert.
"I will accept it, Uncle Bilbo, and I forgive you," he said seriously. Bilbo nodded, though they both knew that the doily alone would not allow Frodo to sleep, nor allow Bilbo to forget his part in all of this. Still, as a much younger Bilbo had said to a much younger Frodo, it was the apology that was the important part.
"Excellent," Bilbo said, determinedly cheerful now. "Now, shall we make a raid on the kitchens? I believe I know where they are keeping the tarts this week."
Frodo chuckled, then tucked the doily into his pocket and stood to help his Uncle to his feet. Yes, some things could still make him smile. And doily diplomacy was still a winning strategy.