A Star Shines by Rowan

Author's Note:

At the time I wrote this story, I had noticed that there seemed to be a lot of Frodo Meets Sam stories, but I hadn't yet come across a Frodo Meets Bilbo one.

In my particular version of Frodo's childhood, Frodo had no contact with Bilbo until after his parents' death. This is because I imagine Drogo as a "typical" Baggins: i.e. "never had any adventures or did anything unexpected". I always pictured most of the Baggins clan as trying to "live down" Bilbo's notoriety. So Drogo would have kept his family away from Bilbo so as to "protect" his son from the taint of (gasp!) adventure.

The Gaffer states that Drogo and Primula were staying with her father, Gorbadoc Brandybuck, at the time of their fatal accident (S.R. 1380, when Frodo was 12). Yet according to the Brandybuck family tree in Appendix C, Gorbadoc died in S.R. 1363, five years before Frodo was born. I have chosen to side with Appendix C. Since the Gaffer says "staying", not "living", I deduce that Frodo did not live in Brandy Hall until after the drowning. Lastly, at the time I wrote this, I thought Rory and Menegilda probably took responsibility for Frodo, though I agree now with most YoungFrodo fic writers that it was most likely Saradoc and Esmeralda. I think this still works, though.

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Rating: G

----

I was fourteen years old when I first met Bilbo.

It had been two years since my parents died. I remember that day very well. We had been visiting my mother's family in Brandy Hall. "A chance for you to see your cousins, Frodo," she had said to me. Since my Brandybuck cousins were all either years older or years younger than I was, this prospect did not excite me as much as it did my mother (apparently); but I did enjoy the chance to be away from home for a while. So did my parents, possibly not least because there were many other adults able and willing to keep an eye on me while they engaged in their own pursuits -- an opportunity they had not often had since my birth.

I sulked quite a bit over not being allowed to go boating with them that night, until my cousins Saradoc and Seredic managed to distract me with games. However, when morning came and my parents had not returned, everyone had a very difficult time trying to keep their worry from affecting me. They failed; I was fairly perceptive, and not stupid. That was the worst day of my childhood.

It was nearly nightfall again when the bodies of my mother and father were found floating in the Brandywine River. Oddly, I have no recollection of the exact words that my relatives used in telling me what had happened, and attempting to comfort me. Nor do I remember whether I wept, or fainted, or did anything else. Perhaps I simply did not believe that they were telling me the truth. When at last I did believe, or I could no longer deny it, it seemed to me as if I had died as well, and had become a child-ghost walking among strangers.

I was not sent back home, but stayed in Brandy Hall. It was decided, with the consent of my father's sister and brother, that my uncle Rorimac (the Master of the Hall) and his wife Menegilda should bear responsibility for me. They were amply aided by various other adult relations; for Brandy Hall was a huge smial, stuffed with Brandybucks, coming and going and staying and eating and laughing. In such a place, it should have been impossible to feel alone.

Previously, I had been a relatively normal, cheerful hobbit child, with nothing about me that distinguished me from others. When anyone spoke of me, it was with approval for the most part, except when they said that I should put down my book and go to play. But things changed that day.

My status as an orphan and a ward of my uncle marked me. The fact that there were no permanent residents of the Hall who were near my age did not help. I stopped reading, and grew moody and restless. I began to do things that got me into trouble -- minor pranks that annoyed the adults, though they won admiration from some of my younger cousins. I suppose it was because I was tired of hearing myself referred to as "that poor young Frodo". It seemed preferable to be a nuisance than to be an object of pity.

The incident at Farmer Maggot's brought a stop to that. Several times over those two years, he caught me on his farm, stealing mushrooms. Undaunted, I kept going back. It wasn't mushrooms I was after, so much as the thrill. It became a game to me. But not to Farmer Maggot. There came one occasion on which he beat me, and his dogs chased me all the way to Bucklebury Ferry.

I was so badly frightened by those dogs that I did not re-emerge from the Hall for a week. I explained my bruises by telling my aunt that I had fallen out of a tree.

After that, I mended my ways. But this caused another dilemma for me: finding something to do with myself. My aunt was one of those who felt that the whole point of being in a wealthy family was to have someone else to do the work. She did not like it when I spent time with the gardeners or the cooks (not that that would necessarily have stopped me, but I did not want to get them into trouble). The company of my younger cousins was enjoyable, but grew tiresome after a time; they were only little children then. My cousin Merry, who years later would become one of my closest friends, was a newborn infant at that time, and beneath my notice.

So I returned to books as my only escape, raiding Uncle Rory's library almost every day. Tales about Elves, and Dwarves, and dragons, and even Big People, filled my hours and my mind. I read histories, and adventures, and legends, and poetry -- everything I could get my hands on. I was rarely seen without a book somewhere on my person. Then, when I had gone through the whole library (which wasn't very big, actually), I began to get books of my own. It was not hard for anyone who knew me to choose what to give me for their birthdays (despite the concerns of my aunt, who thought I would ruin my eyes).

As time passed, people began to think me "a bit of an odd duck", though if my aunt and uncle were in earshot, they quickly added, "but a pleasant lad overall, of course." The truth was, I found books to be better company than people, whom I felt at times to be too dull and stupid for words. It would not be such a bad thing, I sometimes thought, if some of them were to be eaten by dragons or swallowed up in an earthquake. Then I, of course, would save the rest with a magic sword or ring, and I would no longer be "poor Frodo".

***

One day, I walked as I always did (when the weather was fine) to my favorite reading spot, a small secluded hollow beside a stream, with a huge oak and a boulder nestled inside a rough circle of long grass. It was the perfect place to sit for hours at a time, my ears hearing only the birds and the gentle trickle of the water, my mind far away. No one else knew about it, or so I thought.

This time, however, someone was there. I stopped short at the sight of a man sitting under the oak. He was a hobbit, and he was well-dressed. I guessed him to be around the age my parents had been when they died (old, in my reckoning, though in fact they had been only middle-aged). He had a book in his hands, and seemed totally absorbed by it, so much so that he had not looked up at my approach.

I was annoyed. It had taken me a long time to discover this spot, and I did not want to have to find another one. I could not simply order him to go away (him being an adult), so I stood and looked at him for a while.

Presently he raised his head, as if to gaze up at the leaves, but instead he saw me, and gave a start. Then he smiled. If I had been in a better mood, I would have noticed then that he had a kind and friendly face. I did not smile back.

"Hullo!" he said. "Lovely weather, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," I agreed reluctantly. I did not want to talk to him, but politeness was a habit that had been firmly instilled in me from a very young age.

Perhaps there was something in my tone nevertheless, for his eyebrows rose as if in sudden comprehension, and he glanced at the book in my hand. "I say, I haven't taken your reading spot, have I? I do apologize." He began to get up. "Everyone should have their own private place to read and think, after all, and it wouldn't do for other people to go stealing them, would it? Although, please allow me to present my compliments for having chosen such a fine one as this."

I blinked. I was unused to being deferred to by an adult. "Thank you, sir," I managed. Then I heard myself adding magnaminously, "It's all right. You can stay, if you like. I don't mind."

"What a nice young lad," he beamed, and sat back down. I climbed up on the boulder, set down my book, and watched him, curiosity replacing annoyance.

"What's your name?" I ventured to ask.

"Bilbo Baggins, at your service," he replied, with a polite nod.

My eyes widened a little. I had heard of him, of course. There was not a hobbit in the Shire who hadn't heard the gossip about Bilbo, who long ago had vanished on a mysterious journey, and been thought dead, only to come back very much alive, and fabulously rich into the bargain. His wealth was matched only by his eccentricity, or so it was reputed. He was related to both my parents, but I had not met him before. I could not fathom why at the time. As I grew up, though, I gathered that my father had been a conservative sort who was embarrassed by Bilbo's notoriety and thought that it had brought shame to the family. At any rate, now here I was, actually sitting and chatting with him. It was as if one of the legends I had read about had suddenly become flesh.

"Really? I'm a Baggins, too," I blurted, feeling shy.

"A Baggins, in Buckland?" He seemed puzzled for a moment. "Are you visiting, too, then?"

"No, sir. I live here, now."

Bilbo's face cleared. "Ah!" he said. "You must be Frodo, then."

I was surprised. "How did you know?"

"Well, it's not every day that you meet a Baggins in Buckland. But I remember now that my cousin Drogo Baggins had married a Brandybuck -- Primula, another cousin of mine. His sister, your aunt Dora, has been corresponding with me for a good while, you know. She told me the news, that there had been a most unfortunate accident."

I nodded. "They were drowned." Even now, the words still sounded strange to me.

"Yes. My deepest, albeit belated, condolences, my boy. At any rate, Dora also told me that their son was being raised at the Hall now. Therefore, as she has always kept me up to date most scrupulously on the whereabouts and doings of all the family, and I know of no other Bagginses living in this region, the conclusion was inescapable." Bilbo gave a decisive nod and another smile, as if he were proud of his logic.

I realized something. He was speaking to me as if I were another adult -- a new experience for me. What's more, I understood him perfectly. I returned his smile for the first time. "Yes, sir," I said.

"Well, Frodo, I am very pleased to meet you at last," he said gravely. Somehow, I sensed that he was not simply being courteous, but really was pleased. "I would like to get one thing clear straight away with you, though, if I may. You are obviously a bright and well-brought-up lad, and your respectfulness does you great credit, but there's no need to keep calling me 'sir'. We're family, after all. Call me Uncle Bilbo, if you will."

"Very well, then." I tried out the name. "Uncle Bilbo."

"That's much better," said Bilbo. "Of course, I'm not really your uncle, as you know. But 'Uncle' sounds so much simpler than saying 'First-and-second-cousin-once-removed-either-way', don't you think?"

"Yes, it does," I replied, completely at ease now with him. "May I ask you something, Uncle Bilbo?"

"Of course you may."

"What are the Elves like?" I had heard some vague rumors of what Bilbo had told of encountering on his adventures. Of course, no one believed that sort of talk. But I was intensely curious about Elves, and the information in Uncle Rory's books was limited.

Bilbo raised his eyebrows for a moment, and then looked at me keenly. I could tell he was surprised by the question I had chosen to ask. "So, you wish to know about Elves, eh?" he said at last. When I simply nodded, he began to tell me about his visit to Rivendell, the far-off vale where, he said, Lord Elrond and many of his kin dwelt. I was fascinated, my book forgotten, and plied him with more questions about places and people he had seen on his travels. He answered every one, until finally he held up a hand. "Enough!" He was laughing as he said it. "Dear me, such inquisitiveness! I fear I am quite worn out with talking. Why don't we walk back to the Hall and have a bit of supper?"

I glanced at the sky, and was surprised to notice that the sun was sinking. Also, I was hungry. I jumped up. "Yes, let's!" I exclaimed. Bilbo chuckled as he too rose to his feet, brushing loose bits of grass off his trousers and stretching.

We walked together to the Hall, under the darkening sky, watching the sunset beginning to glow red as we went. As the great mound stood before us at last, the sun slipped below the horizon, and the lights began to twinkle in the hills. Bilbo halted, took my arm, and pointed at the sky, low and to the west.

"Do you see that star, Frodo? The very bright one, just over the hill where Stock is?"

I peered in that direction. "Yes."

"That is Eärendil, the evening star. That's the Elvish name for it, at any rate. The Elves tell a wonderful story about how it came to be there, and I will tell it to you some day. But it puts me in mind of something. Would you like to learn a bit of Elvish, Frodo?"

Eagerly, I nodded.

"Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo," Bilbo said, and I said it after him. He smiled at me. "Splendid! You got the pronunciation right the first time. I believe you may have an instinct for languages, my boy. "

I repeated the phrase softly once more, then asked, "What does it mean?"

"It is a greeting, in the ancient High-elven speech. It means 'a star shines on the hour of our meeting'. And do you know, this time, I think it really does. Come on now, I'm sure they're wondering where we both are."

***

I once heard Bilbo and Gandalf talking, in Rivendell after the Quest. Gandalf remarked that the day Bilbo and I met was probably one of the smallest and yet most significant events in the history of the Third Age of Middle-earth, though no one could have foreseen it at the time. Certainly Bilbo didn't, and neither, of course, did I. Even now, after all that has happened, I cannot help but think of it as simply one of the chief turning points of my own life.

I continued to live at Brandy Hall for the next seven years, until I was just entering my tweens. In that time, Bilbo visited often, or I went to see him at Bag End. We became close, and he taught me much of what he knew about the history, races, and languages of the lands outside the Shire. We also made the delightful discovery that we had the same birthday, September 22nd, a fact which for some reason made me feel even more deeply akin to him. I believe Bilbo felt that way too.

One late afternoon, while I was sitting with him in the garden outside Bag End, he said to me, out of the blue: "You had better come and live here, Frodo my lad; and then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together."

My first reaction was to smile. "Aunt Menegilda would be horrified," I said. She had never really approved of our friendship; but Uncle Rory, who rather liked Bilbo, had made sure that she did not interfere.

Bilbo gave a short laugh of agreement as he puffed on his pipe. His face grew earnest. "I'm quite serious, you know," he said. "I've been thinking, and making a few inquiries. I am reliably informed that all it would take, on the legal side of it, is the signing of a few papers. And naturally, I will need to change my will. But that is a simple matter."

"You mean that you want to adopt me?" I asked, amazed.

"Of course. Bag End is rather a large place for just one old hobbit to live in, don't you think?"

I shook my head. "Uncle Bilbo, you are not old. And if you've lived for ninety-nine years and still not gotten old, I very much doubt that you ever will. I am beginning to think that you are like a mountain: you'll be around forever."

He smiled at that, but his eyes were thoughtful. "Mountains don't last forever, Frodo," he said. Then, in one of his now-familiar sudden shifts of mood, he punched me lightly on the arm. "Oh, don't look like that, my boy! I intend to be around for many years yet to come. Perhaps I shall even outlast the Old Took. We shall see, at any rate. But in the meantime, as I said, Bag End is too big a place in which to live alone. I have done so for too long. I should very much like to have someone to share it with, and to leave it to when I have gone. And who better than you?"

"Really?" I asked, still not quite able to grasp what he was saying.

"Indeed. Haven't you realized yet, Frodo, that there is no one else in the Shire that I get on with quite so well? I'm not a fool; I know what most of my relations think of me, and to tell you the truth, I feel the same way about many of them. Sometimes I don't know why I bother with them at all. All they ever have on their minds when they're around me is my confounded treasure, and when I'll have the decency to die so that they can get a piece of it. But you are different. I knew it on the first day we met, when you asked about the Elves. You reminded me of myself when I was young, before I grew up and got all respectable, and had to be kicked out the door by Gandalf to start me off on my adventures."

"I never thought about it that way," I admitted.

"Well, I have," Bilbo said. "In fact, I have come to think that on that day when I sat down in your reading place, it was because I was looking for you, though I did not know it. But enough of that!" He patted my knee and briskly got up. "It is entirely up to you, of course. You are old enough now to choose without too much of a fuss being made. So, what do you say?"

I did not answer immediately, but rose to my feet beside him and looked to the west. It was early evening. There, just above the glimmer of the sunset, was Eärendil, the evening star. The thought struck my heart that it was a sort of omen. A gentle wind rose as I turned back to Bilbo and looked into his face.

"I think I'd like that," I said. "Yes."

He laughed, and then put an arm around me as we walked together back into Bag End.

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