This is what comes out when you stare at an empty MS Word document for too long.

Special thanks to shirebound for beta reading.

~*~*~

A Lesson on Writing

Frodo gave a frustrated sigh and put the quill back into its holder. Resting his chin on his hands, he gazed into the white light of a candle on his desk. He blew gently, sending a soft whiff of air towards the flame and making it flicker. Almost entranced, he watched the long shadows of piled books and scrolls dancing on the wall. They were dancing like an elf-maiden he had never seen -- dancing like Lúthien the Fair with her long, dark hair flowing in the twilight.... and the silent hiss of the fire when he carefully dug his finger into the molten wax just beneath the flame was the music that followed her song.

"I don't like you doing this."

Startled, and with a hiss of his own, Frodo pulled back his hand. He quickly got rid of the already drying wax and sucked his burned finger, sending a not-too-friendly look in Bilbo's direction.

The older hobbit entered the study with a tray in his arms, laden with tea and seedcake. He had watched his young nephew, who had moved to Bag End some months ago, for most of the evening, brooding over an empty piece of paper, scrawling some words only to cross them out again. "I told you, you would burn yourself sooner or later if you keep doing this," he reminded the boy as he placed the tray on a stool and went to fetch a second chair.

"I would not have burned my finger if you had not startled me," Frodo told him grumpily, but gratefully accepted the offered cup of tea.

Bilbo said nothing, but watched the lad as he sipped his tea with a far-away look in his eyes. Bilbo knew that glance, had seen it several times on his visits to Buckland and even more often since the day Frodo had moved in. The boy was troubled.

"What's on your mind?" Bilbo asked when he saw the furrows on Frodo's brow deepen.

Frodo reached for a piece of cake without a word. A smile crossed Bilbo's lips. Within the past few months he had discovered that the sweet had on odd effect on Frodo, making the usually withdrawn lad uncommonly communicative. If he waited just a bit, he would get the answer to his question in no time.

So, again, he remained silent and went back to watching his nephew. The light of the candle illuminated only half of his face, but even then Bilbo could see the fine features of the boy. Frodo might be in his tweens now and think himself very much an adult, but his face was still that of a child.

"I want to write!" Frodo suddenly blurted out and sighed in frustration. Bilbo gave him a puzzled look as Frodo's eyes met his almost pleadingly. "I want to write a poem. My mind is full of verses and ideas, but they won't come out." He sighed again and hung his head, his next words muffled by his own frustration. "You can write whenever you wish and your poems are always elegant, whereas mine --" He fell silent, his gaze fixed on the cup of tea in his hands.

A smile born of both sympathy and love appeared on Bilbo's lips as he watched Frodo's hands clutching the teacup almost convulsively. These were the moments when he was painfully aware why he had adopted Frodo and made him his heir. He reached out his hand and gently closed his fingers around Frodo's, which made the boy look at him again, a grumpy, yet sad and helpless expression in his eyes.

"My lad," Bilbo said, his smile growing even wider, "you write wonderful poems as well, but you cannot force the words to come and neither can I. If you force yourself to write, you will only end up frustrated like you are now." Frodo lowered his eyes again, but Bilbo put away his cup and reached for the boy's chin so that he had to look him in the eyes. "Believe me, I have been frustrated more than once -- and I still am, at times."

That seemed to surprise Frodo, for the look of sadness changed to one of curiosity and confusion alike.

"Writing is a talent," Bilbo continued, "but unlike any other, you cannot use it as you please. You have to wait for the right time and the right words -- and when these two come together, you must allow yourself to be touched by these words. Only when you feel them will your verses flow and satisfy you, as well as anyone else fortunate enough to read them."

Frodo looked at Bilbo, flabbergasted and unable to answer. What his uncle said sounded true to his ears, and yet he doubted that he possessed the talent Bilbo spoke of. The older hobbit seemed to read his mind, for a sparkle appeared in the dark eyes and he winked at him.

"You have a gift, my lad; just don't force your words, for they are easily disgruntled."

A shy smile lit up Frodo's face. Perhaps his uncle was right, although the thought of a disgruntled word was quite amusing. Perhaps he could write poems about annoyed words and seedcake, while Bilbo did the serious pieces about elven-lore and poems that ended up being made into a song?

~THE END~