1: Mad Baggins in the Spring

It was Spring again. He was sure of it. His 98th spring to be exact, so he'd had lots of practice. Bilbo unlatched the shutters, swept his hand across the fogged west window and smiled out the dripping little space he had cleared. The plants outside looked the same as they had the day before, but he still "felt" it. Spring had come. Heading into the kitchen, he stirred up the banked fire and placed a fresh kettle of water on to heat for tea, then trotted down the hall to his wardrobe to choose a sufficiently springlike attire to suit his mood for the day.

By the time the kettle was singing, he was dressed and poking around in the pantry for a breakfast cake to go with his eggs. His daffodil-colored waistcoat and green woolen trousers were just the ticket to shake off the doldrums of a wet and muddy winter, and especially if topped off with a good warm plate of eggs inside. How cheering to think of winter receding away, even though by all accounts it had not been a very bad one. The ice-fringed mud and grey skies were wearisome to look at, and he had spent most of the preceding months indoors, entertaining visitors, studying and writing in his book. Mostly the former.

In winter he found his large, warm and generally luxurious (by local standards) hole all too often attracting every relative in the Shire and others who could not even pretend to be remotely related. It seemed that everyone wanted to enjoy his hospitality, his large fireplaces and especially his pantries. He had given up on trying to keep up with all of their prodigious appetites himself and finally hired a cook to come restock his shelves thrice weekly, and even then there were times he was hard put to fill every plate. While the expense was not really a burden to him and the songs were merry, he had grown tired of forever entertaining. It felt as if he never really had enough quiet time to himself, time to just think, and dream and write. Time to learn new things, or to explore.

He had vague memories of being very much like the hobbits that filled his entryway, his kitchen and his parlor. Content to hash and rehash the same tales of small doings in the Shire, they never strayed beyond the unmarked boundaries of their minds. While he enjoyed a good talk as much as the next fellow, he sometimes found their topics too well-trodden, and longed to say "Look here, we've already talked about that last week and the week before, and now here it comes again. Let's turn off the path, shall we? Let's see what's over that ridge, over there!" But they never would. He had tried it, from time to time. Their reactions, for the most part, were incomprehension and even a little fear. They did not want to leave their pathways, whose conclusions they knew by heart. They were comfortable the way it was.

Yes, he had a few who enjoyed a good romp through the imagination. All younger than himself by a great deal. They would come to listen to him and to ask questions until their elders pulled them away or distracted them with a sweet. As to the older ones, the worst of the lot were the Sackville-Bagginses of course; it seemed they were forever showing up at his home though all they did was eat his provender and inquire after his health. Only a very few of his relations showed any real spirit, and when he thought about it, only one that was anything like a close relative. His family was insufferably dull at times.

All these thoughts and more went through his mind as he washed up from breakfast and made his plans for the day. He set down his tea mug on the rack with a thump and also set down a resolve that he would not entertain any visitors today. It was warmer outside, he could see it. Still chilly, yes, but at last he could have the freedom to leave a visitor out on the front step and know that they would not freeze to death. And if they did, well, they should have brought a thicker coat. No amount of cheerfulness would sway him, no excuses or obligations would make their way past him this day. No, they would not. He would be steadfast. He would enjoy the peace indoors and the warmth, what there was of it, outdoors. Yes, outdoors.

Sure enough as he was packing up a snack and tucking it into the largest pocket of his favorite out-and-about coat, the bell rang on his door. He squared his shoulders and opened it. Two hobbits, Mssrs. Bump and Green, stood on his doorstep with tentative smiles of greeting that faded as he gave them a sharp up and down appraisal. Young Mr. Bump took breath to say something but it never came.

"Nope." said Bilbo peering at them closely, as if they were strange specimens. "Not related to me. Not a bit of Baggins in those faces. I can tell. Good morning."

He shut the door.

He waited silently inside, pressing his ear to the door to listen to them. They muttered between themselves in confusion. He heard the welcome sound of their fading footsteps and grinned a little, congratulating himself on the success of it. He headed back down the hall to select a walking stick when his doorbell rang again.

He frowned, finished choosing his walking stick and returned to the door. He opened it. On the step stood the Mrs. Goodbody and her tweenaged son, Offal. He remembered them well, for Offal had consumed vast quantities of sausages the last time they had visited, to the point that the others were betting on whether or not his stomach would explode. The younger hobbit had a hungry look.

"Mr. Baggins!" said Mrs. Goodbody brightly. "Fine day..."

"No, it isn't." replied Bilbo, as if stating a very obvious fact. "There are two hobbits on my doorstep, and it quite blocks my view. Not a fine day at all. Good morning."

He shut the door.

Again, he listened for a moment as she worked up a good head of steam and began righteously blustering to her disappointed son. He reached over and threw the latch for good measure, knowing they would undoubtably hear it. They did. The voices retreated to the roadway and passed off to the right, finally fading from his hearing as he sifted through the hats on the shelf for his brown walking hat, the one that kept his ears warm. It was up there somewhere. The shelf in the hall tended to be a catch-all for anything that had no other place to go. He paused to fetch a small jug of cider from the kitchen to fill his canteen with.

To his irritation, he heard footsteps once again approaching his door. He didn't know who it was and he no longer cared. He only had a few moments to think of what to do...

The bell rang.

He reached up and scooped his hand across the shelf, scoring a rather heavy decorative chain. It was meant to hold back the heavy winter drapes in his bedroom, but he immediately saw other potential in it. Ah yes, and those! And that! Draping the golden chain around his neck, he leaned over and rapidly jammed his feet into the dusty dwarvish boots that had been left behind by another sort of visitor. He reached up and jammed three hats, one on top of another onto his head, grabbed the small hatchet that sat near the door for chopping kindling and opened the door.

The visitor on his doorstep was the sharp-nosed Mrs. Proudfoot clutching a basket. He never did find out what her errand was coming to his home.

"G....." was all she got out of her throat.

"Mrs. Proudfoot!" exclaimed Bilbo, trying not to trip over the unfamiliar boots. "I was just about to sit down to my daily lesson of Dwarvish. The hatchet works so well on the seedcakes..." he paused to swig a drink straight out of the cider jug. "Would you care to join me?" He waggled his eyebrows at her.

"B...." she said.

He shut the door.

This time he was hard pressed to not guffaw so loudly she would hear him, though she beat such a hasty retreat he was really in no danger of it. He pulled off the boots, chain and multiple hats, located his own singular brown one and decided to leave by the back door. Tongues would wag, he chuckled to himself, yes they would but what was one more tale about him? At least he would have a little peace to enjoy the early springtime.

2: Westward Wandering

Bilbo shrugged his shoulders into his coat, gathered up his walking stick and padded down the long hall and out the back door of Bag End. The Springtime air that greeted him was full and fresh, and he pulled deep draughts of it into his lungs with great appreciation. He hadn't realized how stuffy it had been inside until he was out. The scents of the damp earth with its sleepy plants mixed with the woodsmoke coming from assorted chimneys near the Hill. He turned down the garden path and slipped through the gap in the hedge, striking off across the heavily dewed field. Once away from the Hill, he paused and leaned on a large rock to catch his breath a little and to give thought to where he was going. He had gone a bit North-east last time, and he knew the Southern and Eastern ends fairly well. Perhaps it would be good to go West. He tried to think of what was over in that direction, or if there were any hobbits that might make a good visit.

Gazing westward he found his eyes drawn to the far off hills, lit by the early morning sun as they were under the grey sky they seemed to glow. They seemed very bright and very inviting, and as he pondered on them it occurred to him that he while he knew there were some sort of towers of Elven design on those hills, he had never really seen them up close himself. They were very far, but what a grand thought, something Elven on the borders of his own Shire that he hadn't seen yet! Filled with excitement at the prospect of exploring them, he abandoned his earlier plan of a simple walk and decided he would make an expedition to them. A real expedition. Today. He turned and retraced his steps to Bag End. He would need provisions, and better traveling clothes, and something to write in, of course... The day had started grey, but it was breaking up into bits of blue already. If he waited for it to be dry, he might never get started. The road was calling to him, and he was glad to step back onto it, if only for a short while.

Back inside he gathered his traveling things with a practiced hand. Most of them were standing ready, always prepared ahead for any whim that might strike him. He added a few additional items to it, his tightly rolled cloak, extra handkerchiefs and a little traveling money for the Inn. This would be more than a days trip, after all. Perhaps several days now that he thought about it more fully. He went into his study to look at the maps of the West Farthing and wandered into reading a book that lay open beside the map. Before he knew it, he had lost a precious hour of the day and hadn't even left his own hole. I should know better, he berated himself, than to let my nose be caught in a book on a morning like this! Choosing a small folded map, he tucked it inside his leather note-book, tucked both into an oiled packet to keep them dry, added it to his bulging pack and turned to go. A glance out the window told him it was clearing nicely. He grabbed a quick lunch and once more headed towards his back door before reversing himself and going out the front instead.

Ever since that long-ago day when he had returned to find his belongings up for sale he had been slightly hesitant to leave Bag End alone for long so his neighbors were not surprised when he showed up at the door. It was not the first time.

Daisy opened the door, clutching her wrap against the morning chill with little Marigold peering around her skirts.

"Yes, Mr. Baggins? The Gaffer is already gone over to the Square if you're needin' him. It's time to be buyin' seeds, you know, though goodness knows I think he has enough of them already, boxes and boxes of them under his bed. A body would think..."

"Miss Gamgee," said Bilbo, cutting her off gently as he knew she would natter on for some time if he allowed it. "I'm not needing him at all. I just wanted to let you know I am off. I'm not sure quite where I'm going...West, I think. I'm not sure really when I will be back, but could you let anyone who comes around... That is, if you see anyone... looking in my windows and such, well, could you let them that I fully intend to return?"

Marigold stuck part of Daisy's apron into her mouth and chewed on it, smiling at him. Daisy bobbed a small polite curtsey. "Of course, Mr. Baggins. No problem at all. I'll be sure to tell the Gaffer when he gets back, and Halfred too as he's helping with the seeds this year. They both are planning for some grand flowerbeds..."

"Yes, yes." interrupted Bilbo. "Well, the hour is moving on and I must be on my way. Good-bye, Miss Gamgee." He politely touched his cap and nodded to her then moved away towards the gate.

Somewhere inside the smial he heard two other children start squabbling, then Bell's distracted voice. "Daisy? Who's at the door...?"

"Oh, of course, sir. Good-bye, sir! Fine day for walking, I'm sure..."

He didn't reply. To do so would only be to prolong her tongue-wagging, cheerful though it was. He did not wish for any more socializing this morning. The Gamgee's gate swung easily under his hand and he was out on the road, hearing her muffled answer to her mother as she closed the door somewhere behind him.

Ah. The cool, hard-packed surface felt good to his feet. It was right. No, better than that. It was perfect, utterly perfect on a day like this. The road stretched ahead of him. He headed West.

3: Hugo's Bookcase

Once Bilbo was out of Hobbiton proper the going went smoothly enough. Passing through the town he had taken careful efforts to not make any direct eye contact with anyone, thus he didn't even know if those he had turned away earlier were among the low-voiced hobbits he passed. He stumped along with a "don't bother me, I'm busy" look on his face and none tried to get past it. Now that the farmlands opened up on either side of him he felt as if he were a rabbit being released from a crate. A stuffy, fenced-in feeling that he hadn't even realized was constricting him fell away and he sniffed at the air with the appreciation of a fine connoisseur of the outdoors.

The road was wet and every depression held a bit of water in it, but the center and edges were dry enough and the gentle spring wind was rapidly taking the dew from the grasses. He walked for some time with almost no thoughts at all, just a passerby for all of the beauty around him; soaking up each sight as it came and then releasing it for the next.

After a fair bit of time had passed in this sort of pleasant reverie he neared the place where the road forked and realized he needed to give the choice some thought. Which Delving should he go to? If he remembered right, it had seemed the towers he wanted to reach were somewhere between the two roads, yet he saw no reason to slog across country for several miles if he didn't have to. As it often is at the beginning of a journey, a few miles out of the way later on did not seem like anything worth bothering about then.

He gave some consideration to Little Delving, but thought it would place him too far north. Besides, the other option was much better. Michel Delving had a real Inn while he had never heard of one in Little Delving. If there was one there, it couldn't be anything to write to anyone about. Michel Delving had the Mathom House also, and he had not been there for quite a long time. Unlike many of the hobbits around him, he thoroughly enjoyed an afternoon examining the mathoms. Their histories and origins interested him, and brought out a thirst for knowing more of them, of their original owners, why and how they had ever come to such a place as the Shire.

Not that there were that many "Foreign" mathoms there. Most of the somewhat dusty collection consisted of odd items that had been a part of the Shire's own placid history. Items that no one really needed, but which were too good to throw out and no longer commonly used.

He remembered the last time he had been there he had spent over an hour attempting to sketch the designs carved into an ancient floor harp. No one knew its origins, and several of its strings were missing. Under the dark rime of years in some lamp-lit hall he could see the wood had once been a lovely deep red. He hated to think of what it would have sounded like if it had been struck now, and mourned the imagined beautiful music it must have once produced. His impatient relatives had finally persuaded him to leave for supper and he had never made it back again. A pity.

Michel Delving then. He reached the fork in the road and swung without hesitation onto the more southern branch. A handful of houses and a small grocer's shop had grown up around the split in the road, no doubt to provide lodging for those hobbits who proved less decisive in their natures, but he had no interest in stopping. He purchased a small paper packet of dried apple slices from the grocer and continued on past. He stopped at the first quiet place with a suitably flat rock to serve as his late luncheon table, laying out his own simple picnic on one of his handkerchiefs. His legs ached a bit, and he rubbed them as he chewed. Out of shape, old chap, he told himself. A regular sluggard you've become. Need to do this more often.

As he was finishing up his the last of his bread, cheese and apples, he gave some thought to where he would be having dinner than night. The Inn? Possibly. But it occurred to him that with all the socializing and visiting he'd been putting up with it would only seem fair for him to have someone else put him up for a change. He had an assortment of relatives and friends in just about every corner of the Shire who would be obligated to pretend delight and take him in for the night. Who was in Michel Delving?

It wasn't until about an hour later down the road that he suddenly realized which of them would be the perfect person to inflict himself upon that night. Hugo. Hugo Bracegirdle, who had certainly eaten his share of Bilbo's food on his monthly visits to Hobbiton. Hugo was a great lover of books and seemed to always have one with him that he was reading. This was uncommon and Bilbo admired the trait. Too bad Hugo was also cursed with a terrible memory and recalled so little of the many things he read, otherwise he would have made a wonderful partner for long talks by the fire. As it was, he could only be expected to carry on about the book he was currently reading or had just read. All others seemed to fade into a fog in his mind, only stray bits and pieces snagging in his brain for later use.

Bilbo reached Michel Delving in the early evening, just as it began to drizzle. Inquiring of a passerby, he soon found the modest home of Mr. Bracegirdle; it was an actual house, though thatched to a pleasant curve, and the yard was neatly swept enough. He entered the gate and gave a little tug on the unraveling bell rope that hung by the russet door.

He heard someone fumbling with the latch, then the door opened up and Hugo clad only in his breeches, shirt and braces peered out at his visitor without recognition.

"Yes?"

Bilbo offered him a small smile and a nod. "You really ought to light your porch lamp, old fellow, so you don't leave your dearest relations standing out in the night. How's that book you borrowed from me?"

"Bilbo? Bilbo Baggins? Whatever are you doing out here?"

"Standing on your front step being cold and hungry, for one thing."

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Come in, come in. Make yourself at home. Can I get you some tea? Just getting ready for a bit of supper here."

Bilbo entered the smial and looked around at the cluttered shelves and tables. Hugo worked as a bookkeeper for the various shops in the area and an assortment of ledgers, quills, ink-wells (both empty and full) and bits of nibs lay scattered about on both table and desk. Hugo stepped into his small kitchen and set another plate beside his own on the table after sweeping his arm across it to clear a space. He was a widower and the lack of feminine attention in the home showed. He poured a cup of tea for Bilbo, then one for himself.

Bilbo set his pack and stick in the corner, pulled off his damp coat and hung it over the chair nearest the fire to dry. The loaf, butter and hot soup that Hugo ladled out were very welcome after a day outdoors. The outdoors always made him hungrier, even if all he did was sit under a tree. He was never sure why. Something about it... he tucked in with a will and felt no hesitation at all about asking for seconds. Hugo refilled the bowl, then also his own. They both ate in companionable silence until the last bits were being mopped up with the ends of the loaf.

The finest thing about Hugo's bad memory was that he was aware of it. By the end of their supper, Bilbo knew Hugo would no longer be sure if he had already asked something before and he was counting on it. Sure enough, as Hugo cleared away the plates he said "So... how long are you staying again?"

"Why only the night, as I said before. Just long enough to take care of that business that brought me here, you know."

Hugo covered his mild confusion, not wanting to seem rude by inquiring 'again' about what that business was. Bilbo saw it and was pleased.

"Now, how about we have that pipe by the fire before we retire for the night?"

"Pipe? Oh, yes of course." said Hugo, reluctantly bringing out his own hoard of leaf. Bilbo slipped his own pipe out from his pack and generously filled it with Hugo's leaf. They settled by the fire and puffed. Hugo eyes stared into the fire. Bilbo's eyes slowly wandered around the room looking for something of interest to think about. They found it when he noticed the bookcase against the far wall. The stout wooden bookcase top was littered with the same mixture of quills, pots and papers, plus a well-thumbed abacus. The inside was stuffed with books. All sorts of books. Tall, short, fat, thin, leather, cloth, wood. Their spines called out to him to read them. And some of them looked...familiar. Very familiar.

Casually stretching, Bilbo got up from his seat and walked over to the bookcase. As he has suspected, several of his own missing volumes were clearly to be seen among Hugo's collection. He was not too offended, as Hugo probably did not even remember that they were Bilbo's, nor his promising to return them when he had borrowed them long ago. Before Bilbo had figured out that they never returned and ceased allowing him to borrow them at all. He was not offended, but a bit saddened.

He gazed at them silently. Old friends, every one. He still had a long ways to go and couldn't be weighed down with them. And besides, they might get wet. Still, he thought he had room in his packet for one slim volume. That wouldn't be too much. He ran his thumb over each of the spines lovingly then slipped a slender brown leather-bound volume out, silently apologizing to the ones he had to leave behind. It was about different kinds of birds in the Shire, with illustrations. He knew that without even opening it, remembering his own hours in the garden telling the Gaffer the names of each kind of bird as they came by Bag End. He weighed it in his hand and smoothed his hand over the soft leather binding.

"Nice collection of books you have here," he said to Hugo. Hugo grunted and looked up at him.

"Books? Yes. Taken me years to gather them all. I'm a great reader, you know."

"Yes, I know. You always were a very literate hobbit and I admire it! I was just telling the folks in Hobbiton the other day, you know old Hugo Bracegirdle? He's quite a literate hobbit, he is. Great collection of books he has."

Hugo smiled slightly at the praise and straightened up a bit from his former slouch. "You are welcome to look through them. I've always liked being a bookkeeper in more than one sense of the word, ha ha."

"Ha ha." replied Bilbo. Flattery was easy with Hugo. He poured a little more butter on. "I really have never seen such a fine set. This volume here, for instance - quite exceptional." He showed Hugo the bird book. "How I wish I had a volume like this one at Bag End." This was true.

Hugo soaked up the unaccustomed flattery and it made him feel generous. "Would you like to borrow one to read? I could pick it up next time I'm in Hobbiton. It would be no trouble at all."

Bilbo smiled to himself. "Oh no, I wouldn't dream of taking your books from you...well, perhaps just this one small one would be a nice companion on my trip?"

"Oh of course! Please, take it along! My compliments. From one lover of books to another. Think nothing of it."

I shall, thought Bilbo. Out loud, he thanked him and safely tucked it into the oiled packet in his pack. He trusted that by next month Hugo would have completely forgotten the incident and then the bird book would be safely back in it's place in Bilbo's own study. In his imagination, the leather book thanked him for rescuing it and later as he settled onto the cushions by the fire to sleep he composed a short song about it, about a book lost and found, singing in the dark bookcase all alone. The song didn't seem worth keeping, but it sufficed to sing himself to sleep.

4: The Mathom-House Harp

The next morning dawned drizzly and cold. Bilbo awoke beside the cold hearth with a stiff neck, having scattered his cushions in the night. He slowly, creakingly clambered into an upright position and stood near the small window, twisting his head left and right and alternately shrugging his shoulders trying to get his neck to work properly again. Hugo sleepily ambled in from the hall with a bucket of kindling and seeing Bilbo's contortions, simply stopped with the bucket swinging in his hand. When Bilbo turned and saw his expression for a moment the notion crossed his mind that Hugo's memory had deteriorated to the point that he didn't even know who his visitor was.

Hugo nodded and grunted noncommittally at him as he shambled to the fireplace. "'Morning." he said, as if it were something you might scrape off of your foot. He knelt down by the fireplace to restart the fire.

Not being a sociable hobbit in the early hours, he offered no further comment on the strange movements of his guest. Bilbo was glad of it as he was often not too sociable in the morning himself. In unspoken agreement the two of them went through the morning routine and had their breakfast without any unnecessary talking, though by the time some hot toast, apple pie and cheese omelets had gone down the proper gullets they were feeling considerably more ready to face the day.

Hugo had to work on the accounts for a candlemaker at the other end of the town that day. He gathered up his papers and went on his way entrusting the care of his home to his houseguest simply because he had no other choice. Bilbo looked out at the cold, wet weather and decided it was not a very good day for walking after all. Having no reason to hurry and hoping it would be better tomorrow, he decided to spend the day in Michel Delving's shops and at the Mathom House. Afterwards he could return to Hugo's for one more night of hospitality before he let his relation off the hook.

He helped himself to a generous after-meal snack, then headed out to investigate the shops. Michel Delving had a fair selection, really. A small book shop especially intrigued him, but he remembered the lonely books back at Hugo's that he already could not carry. He walked on, sampled several fruit preserves at a nearby stand and purchasing a jar for later. He tucked it into his pocket where it's weight made his coat sag. The loaves at the bakers were so exceptional he had them wrap up a nice crusty one which went into his other pocket.

By the time he had worked his way over to the Mathom House he looked rather like some sort of walking flea market with things stuffed into every pocket and his hands full. Having plenty of time left he turned and walked back to Hugo's where he unloaded his prizes onto the table, ate a few of them, picked up his packet with his notebook in it and retraced his steps.

The Mathom House was neatly kept and perhaps the largest structure in the town, except for the Hall. The Hall was more like a barn, really. Used for dances in the summer and dry storage in the winter months, always changing. The Mathom House never changed; that was one of its strange charms for him. It took his imagination far back in time but not in the way that his books did. Not in ways that were so far from his own people that he really had no true connection to them. It was a different sort of feeling, his own history that he was a part of however distantly. It was here, where he could look at it and touch it. He could feel its weight in his hand and be a part of the old Shire. Nevermind that the Shire had really changed very little over the years. He reveled in the feeling of antiquity.

It was built into a large chalky hillside. At the top grew older trees whose roots protected it and helped support the walls inside as well; it even had a downstairs of sorts - cellars where various items were kept when not on display. The smaller rooms were a touch dark and tended to run damp in the winter, but it did not stop them from sometimes being used for small meetings or simply rented for extra storage. He had explored them briefly the last time he was there but had found them unpleasantly cramped for hobbit holes and had soon emerged back into the welcome light of the main floor.

The first thing he went to see was his own mithril coat where it stood as it had for so many years now among items that were considered "foreign" curiosities. He briefly "visited" with it, promising it he would be back shortly, then began working his way around the other rooms. Everything from old-styled butterchurns to the amazingly large saddle that was purportedly that of Bullroarer himself was given his attention, one at a time. Thoroughly steeped in his own history, he then stepped back into the "foreign" room as one who has saved the best dessert for last and anticipates that first bite.

He faced his mithril coat once more. See? he told it, I told you I'd come back again. Did you think I'd leave you here all alone after so long? My how you sparkle.

He reached out his hand past the rope that defined its corner stand and ran his hand gently down it, listening to the small silver sound of its movement. Thorin. Poor old Thorin. The crystals of the corselet shone, but to his eyes it was the amazing beauty of the Arkenstone that shone. He remembered its heaviness in his hands, bound in rags. The fear of being caught with it, Thorin's rage, and Thorin's dying apology...

"Can I help you?"

Bilbo startled out of his memories to see the mathom-curator looking at him curiously. As he turned to face him it was the curator's turn to jump a little.

"Oh! I'm so sorry, Mr. Baggins! I didn't recognize you at first...so good to see you again. It's been quite a long time, hasn't it? Are there any questions I can answer for you?"

Bilbo silently considered the plump curator. A nice enough fellow, but he wanted for a little more appreciation of what had been entrusted to his care. Oh, he took care of the items well enough, but he didn't care about them. He didn't know half of what was to be learned from them and didn't seem inclined to learn. On another day, Bilbo might have been inclined to draw him out a little, teach him something, hoping it would spark some curiosity in him. Not today; he just wanted time alone, with his memories.

"No, no. No questions, thank you. Except one: how long will you be open today?"

"As long as you like, Mr. Baggins. It's been a slow week and I've other work to take care of. If it gets late, just stop by my writing-desk and let me know when you are done and I'll lock up."

"Thank you. Most kind, most kind." said Bilbo as he turned his attention back to the corselet and belt. After a moment, the curator slipped away.

Gazing at it he found his thoughts being drawn back to his relatives. They would inherit this, he thought. He inwardly cursed the inheritance laws of the Shire that would allow such a lovely thing to fall into the hands of someone who would not appreciate it...no, more than that. A chill went through him. They would not only not appreciate it, they would probably waste no time at all in selling it to the highest bidder, to be taken apart, melted down. Otho had no heart for beauty, and his son seemed to be taking after him. Money was all he really cared about. He fought down the sudden desire to take it off of its stand and hide it under his coat. He really needed to do something about that. About Otho. But what? He couldn't just live forever after all. He sighed.

He moved slowly past a handful of other odd pieces until he reached the one that had embraced his imagination so well the previous time. The floor harp. It was a fairly massive piece, really. Made for someone with a much longer reach than a hobbit to play. As before, he noted the rich red wood under the aged finish. He ran his thumb gently over the intricate carvings. Sitting on the bench across from it, he slipped the packet out to get his notebook. The bird book came out with it. He paused and flipped through the vibrant illustrations in it, looking as if they might sing right on the page. He thought of Otho's hands turning its pages and suddenly slammed it shut. This would not do; he needed to think on something else.

He opened his notebook and went over to the harp to see if he could finally get a proper sketch of the carvings on it. It was Elven in design, and the intricacy spoke of their long lives as well. He sketched the swirling fern, the leaves and flowers on the border then a ship that adorned the top right. It was a graceful, fanciful ship with a swan-head at its prow. Tiny gems had once given the swan eyes, though they were long lost. He wondered what color they had been. His hands continued sketching, taking what his eager eyes saw and putting it to paper. There were...waves, yes, water-waves along the edge with fluff like feathers on the tops of them. Trees. The detail astounded him, that he could identify ash, beech and pear trees. Rolling hills, a stream. It rather reminded him of home. He wondered anew where it had come from. The placard said its former history was unknown. You would think it had always been here.

In the branches of the pear tree there was a bird. He was partly through sketching it when he suddenly stopped. He knew this bird, he was sure of it. He jumped up from where he had been kneeling and retrieved the bird book from his packet. Striding back to the harp, he thumbed through its pages. Sure enough, there it was. He even held the book up to the harp as if introducing the two birds to one another. See? Alike. You are completely alike. The harp bird seemed almost alive, peering curiously at its flattened cousin. His excitement grew as he read over the notes the book had about this particular songbird. It was native to the Shire. Travelers from other areas did not know it, and prized its song, though its colors were somewhat drab.

Native to the Shire.

Carved on this ancient floor harp. Why that meant...the floor harp was 'native to the Shire' also? Could it be? That would solve the mystery of how such a large, unusual and heavy instrument ever came to be here. It was from here. Or very near to here. He looked at it with renewed interest. The traces of fire damage; what fire, where? Had its previous owner perished in that flame? Or some earlier house it was kept in before the Mathom House was dug? The scratches along one side, as if it had been dragged over something rough; an accident in moving it here, or a desperate struggle to save it? His imagination was quite aflame. What or whom, in this placid Shire would have ever produced such a thing? How long ago? Not a hobbit, and the hobbits had been here for a very, very long time...

Elven design in the Shire. Now, there was something else in the Shire....well, not in it, but near to it, that was Elven and that was where he was already bound. The Towers. Could this harp have come from them somehow? He supposed he would never truly know so he contented himself with deciding that yes, they had. Somehow they were related to the Elven-towers. He had no way of knowing the facts so he made some up instead. It would make a fine tale. Maybe even a song. Maybe even an entire ballad. The Ballad of the Lost Elven Harp and the Forgotten Towers. He didn't know how it would go yet but he rather liked the forlorn sound of the title. Hm hm a hm, the Elven harp of long-ago.. hm hm...In ages past when ruled the kings, a long-forgotten harpist played, the firelight shone upon the strings as cleverly his fingers strayed...

When he came back to himself, his back, legs and fingers were cramped and he had filled several pages of his notebook with verses and notes. If it hadn't been getting dark, he might have gone on writing for some time. Where had the time gone? He slowly got up, stamping some feeling back into his legs and reluctantly packing away his notebook. Picking up his coat and hat, he gave a polite farewell nod to the harp and the corselet and left them there in the fading light.

5. Small Lands

The following morning peered over the tops of the hills to find Bilbo already stepping past the white fencing that marked the western bounds of Michel Delving. The overnight rains had given way to such a freshly-washed morning that he had wasted no time taking his leave. The half-awake Hugo blearily accepted his many thanks and claims of looking forward to seeing him again and had simply gone back to bed. Shutting Hugo's door behind him, Bilbo had almost skipped to be back on the road - much too nice of weather to waste. Beyond the town the roadway was still rain-soft, but as long as he avoided the wagon ruts, it wasn't slippery. His walking stick left a small series of dents in the mud, and occasionally swung through the wet grasses just to watch them bend and spring back.

How he loved the haze of vibrant green that hung among the branches and shrubs, the puffy clouds freed of their burdens of rain, the lack of travelers on the road. Tomorrow he knew it would be a busy market day, but today the morning road was nearly empty. It curved gently a few times, then continued on fairly straight between the farmlands until past midday. As the time passed he paced along, singing softly to himself, pausing now and again to just enjoy the stillness and to nibble on the dried fruit and yet another loaf purchased from the same town baker as he was leaving. When necessary, he offered brief, friendly greetings to hobbits he passed on the road and to those working in the fields alongside it. The far-off hills didn't seem to get much closer, but he knew that was the way of longer distances. It was nothing like the taller mountains he remembered so fondly, and would be at his feet soon enough.

In the late afternoon the movement of the air died away and in the cool stillness a mist began to rise up. He pulled his coat closed around him and buttoned it nearly up to his chin. In spite of the chill, he rather liked the change. It was one of those spring mists that reach up from the ground but never quite grasp the still-blue sky above, and he was delighted to have the time to just watch it dancing. He spent so much time watching the top of it wisping slowly in the nearly-still air that his neck became stiff. He rubbed at it with his hand while still gazing upward, walked backwards a little, then forwards again. Like gossamer, he thought, like cream swirling in blue tea. Shadowed as he was, the blue above looked dazzling and unusually intense. He thought of his own attempts at painting and wished he could produce such a sight on canvas, as the Elves sometimes did.

Somewhere behind him he gradually became aware of a creaking sound; cart-wheels slowly gaining on him and the patient plod of the beast that drew it. With nothing else to listen to and little to see, the plodding and creaking seemed very loud. After a time a glance back showed a misty shape that slowly became darker and more lifelike until the last of the mist that separated them gauzily drew apart. A farm wagon, drawn by a sturdy brown-grey pony who seemed half-asleep on his feet and unheeding of Bilbo loomed up out of the mist by his side. The farmer on the seat was well-matched to his beast, shaggy and brown-grey and half-asleep also.

"Hullo! Good afternoon!" said Bilbo.

Both man and beast startled together as the farmer's hands convulsed on the reins which he had been dangling slackly a moment before. The pony halted, then turned its head with an accusing look to Bilbo. The farmer was hardly better.

"Hey now, what do you mean hoving up out of the mist like that and startling a body so?"

"I'm...ehm. Please forgive me, as I did not intend to do startle you. I've been listening to your coming for a good half mile and didn't realize you hadn't seen me, but of course hearing is better than seeing in weather like this. Isn't it just a glorious white, this mist?"

The farmer briefly squinted at the mist that surrounded them. It looked the same as ever to him. "Walp, it's white anyhow. Where you headed? We don't see too many travelers out this way aside from the post and them what live here."

"I've come from Michel Delving where I was visiting a relative." This was true, in a way. Old Hugo was related after all. And in the Shire 'visiting a relative' was always a safe thing to be doing. It was what most of them did all the time, except when relatives were visiting them. "I was hoping to reach Greenholm by dark. Is it much farther?"

"Well, you've come a fair pace, haven't you? It's not too much farther, but I doubt you'll reach it on foot now. Why don't you go ahead and climb up? I'm going to Greenholm m'self and the pony won't mind a bit more, will you Dumplin'?" This last part was addressed to the pony, not Bilbo of course. Dumpling turned his head and gave Bilbo a sour look that differed with his master's opinion as the offer was accepted and Bilbo clambered up onto the seat and settled his pack in front of him. The wooden seat creaked beneath his weight, but seemed sound enough.

"Fungo Bolger," the farmer offered, more out of politeness than friendship.

"Bilbo Baggins," offered Bilbo in return. The farmer gave him a long, measuring look and a little twitch.

"Hobbiton?"

"The same."

The farmer made no further comment. He slapped the reins lightly.

"Get up, Dumplin'! Enough rest for your lazy rump now." The shaggy pony reluctantly took about three quicker steps then settled into his steady plod, which he continued without further urging or direction. It was plain he had traveled this road many times before. The wagon creaked and slowly bumped along the road and the mist closed in behind it.

Bilbo found himself glad of his companion's silence. Hobbits are as a rule quite garrulous compared to many other races, at least when among other hobbits, so it was unexpected that he would be allowed to peacefully watch the remainder of the mists before they began to turn patchy and to give way to a small wood. His legs and feet were grateful for the reprieve and as the road continued on the rest of him was grateful that he had not had to try to walk it all before nightfall.

As the darkness grew, the farmer paused only to water the pony and to light a lantern at the front of the wagon and continued on. The woods around them fell away in a myriad of scattered, changing shadows as the lantern slowly bobbed past them on its chain. They drew out of the trees again and into the lighter evening sky, sloping down slightly to the farmlands of Greenholm.

Greenholm was a very small town. Hobbiton would have seemed like a bustling city to it, with all of its lights and paths and homes. Here a single road was bordered with a mere handful of homes, and one small building served all of the communities needs from dance hall to post office to smithy. The lamps by the doors looked very lonely in the midst of so much darkness.

"You have someplace to stay the night?" asked Fungo, breaking the long silence as Dumpling slowed to a stop near the building at the center of the town. Bilbo thought the farmer was very much hoping that he did. He really wasn't sure, as he couldn't remember who he was related to clear out here. Had to be somebody.

"Perhaps. Can you tell me who lives over there?" He pointed randomly at a home to the left.

"That's the Goold's place."

"Ah. Of course. And over there?" he tried the right.

"That would be the Chubb's."

"Yes! Thank you so much. I'll be staying at the Chubb's. Appreciate the ride, Mr. Bolger. Much obliged to you."

He climbed down off of the wagon with more confidence than he felt at the moment and gave a simple wave and nod to Fungo who nodded back and slapped the reins. Dumpling knew his oats and hay were near and gave a more lively movement than Bilbo had seen out of him all day. The wagon rattled away down the road.

Left to himself, Bilbo adjusted his pack for a moment to gather himself then approached the cheerfully firelit home on the right. He hoped the Chubbs didn't keep dogs. Bilbo's own uncle Bingo had married a Chubb. His cousin Falco was a Chubb-Baggins, if he was yet living. Bilbo wasn't sure. He had far too many relations and had outlived so many of them he was losing track. This being the Shire, he could be fairly certain the Chubbs would know this bit of family history as well as he did. Yes, they would have to take him in.

Not seeing a bell-pull he knocked on the door and was glad to not have a barking dog but a screeching, excited child answer the sound. The sounds of a lively family reached his ears before the door was opened and a stoutly healthy looking hobbit in work clothes looked out at him curiously. Children of assorted ages gathered behind him whispering among themselves and shoving for space to see.

"Yes sir? Can I help you?"

"Mr. Chubb? I am Mr. Baggins from Hobbiton. I have been out this way visiting some relatives and seem to have found myself rather far from home tonight..."

"Come in! Come in!" interrupted Mr. Chubb heartily. "Lacey! We've got company! Come in out of the cold, Mr. Baggins! We were just getting ready for supper! I'm sure you would like to join us! Mind the rug, it sometimes slips! Here, let me get that pack for you!"

Bilbo found himself all but swept bodily into a warm home where a large number of round, rosy children swirled around him shrieking and laughing and trying to show him their small tricks they could do. Even later on, recounting that evening he never could tell anyone how many children there were. They never obliged by holding still long enough to be counted.

In the center of all of the motion a very plump Lacey Chubb smiled at him before turning back to her stove. She seemed aptly named, he thought, as he watched the strings on her vest and apron straining to hold between the layers of well-stored past meals that adorned her figure. Amid the babble of small questions that the children continuously asked he was seated and fed and then swept into a leather chair by the fire as if he belonged there every night. He rather liked it. As the adults finished the evening chores, he told fanciful tales to the children and the hour grew late before he knew it. The children were gathered up under the ample wings of their mother and sent off to sleep.

"I'm sorry we haven't extra beds!" boomed Mr. Chubb. "Children stacked like cordwood as it is. But you are welcome to sleep here by the fire, if you would like Mr. Baggins!" His tone brooked no arguments, so Bilbo nodded in agreement. Mr. Chubb shook out a single clean blanket for him. "Would that I had another for you, Mr. Baggins. No extra when you've so many and only a small land you know!" Bilbo took the blanket from him and thanked him.

"It's quite all right. I have another with me, and my cloak besides, see?" His host nodded and lightly touched the thick wool of the cloak that Bilbo had lifted from the pack. He smiled briefly, but Bilbo noticed the father's gaze turn to follow the direction his numerous family had gone shortly before. It seemed a bit wistful. Only one extra blanket. Bilbo couldn't help but wonder if even it were not truly 'extra.'

"It must be hard to know they will not have much..." he began. Realizing it implied they were not being provided for properly right then he quickly amended, "...when they grow up. To have passed on to them, I mean. So many..."

"No, no!' Mr. Chubb boomed softly back. He shook his head, but smiled. "It is a small land, but it feeds us. At least I know they will be glad of what they get, for they might not get much of anything else but their mother's smile." He gently touched Bilbo's blanket once again, then grinned and gave him a little cuff on the shoulder.

"You know what it's like. Yours must be grown by now! Waiting for their share of their inheritance I'm sure, and smiling your own smile back at you as only your own can. Am I right? They are happy for anything you give because they are yours, no matter how small it is." Bilbo nodded back at him with a polite half-smile but didn't comment. Mr. Chubb paused as if he were considering saying more, then suddenly bid him goodnight and went off to his own bed . The household slowly quieted then slept. In the silence embers shifted in the fireplace with a faint sound like breaking glass. The banked fire began to die down, lighting Bilbo's face deep in thought.

6: Fool's Gold

Bilbo was awakened from his sleep by a small noise that he could not identify. He cracked open his eyes to see the nearly cold hearth of the Chubb home and for a moment could not remember where he was. Recalling, he wrapped his blankets warmly around his shoulders and closed his eyes again trying to recapture the fleeting wisps of his dreams; but not for long. Again, there came a noise. The smallest of noises, a soft rustle of cloth and a child's breath. He lay still with his eyes shut and tried to decide whether to let the child know he was awake or not. He didn't wish to startle them, or to get them in trouble for waking a guest, after all.

He listened as the quiet, careful padding feet came a little closer to him. Small fingers gently poked around the ends of his blanket by his feet, making it almost impossible to keep holding still. He finally gave up.

With his eyes still shut he whispered. " What are you looking for?"

There was a tiny intake of breath and the movement stopped.

He tried again. "It's all right. I won't tell. Maybe I can help you find it. We can look for it together." Never mind that he didn't even know what it was he was volunteering to look for. For all he knew he was offering to rob himself, though he doubted it.

A light, warm weight briefly settled on his legs. There was a shuffling of knees on the floor and small arms wrapped themselves around his shoulder and neck from behind. He was given a brief warm hug then let go. He opened his eyes and looked back over his shoulder to see who his late-night benefactor was. In the dimness, he could only make out enough to tell it was one of the medium-small ones dressed in a simple sleeping gown and watching him. The house was still, and the windows showed it was yet before dawn outside.

"Maybe we should stir up a little light?" he whispered. There was a movement of the child's head, an agreement. He sat up and untangled his blankets just enough to reach the hearthside, where he knew the poker lay ready for morning. He stirred the embers as quietly as he could and then put one small bit of wood among them where it smouldered a moment. He blew on it a little, then it caught.

The small flames seemed very bright. He turned to look at the child, who was watching them dance among the coals. She couldn't be more than six, he thought, or thereabouts. One of those in the middle of this large family.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She just looked at him for a moment then whispered back, "Posey."

"What were you looking for, Posey?"

Her lip quivered a little. "Sunnyface."

He struggled not to smile. He didn't want her to think he was laughing at her. "And who is Sunnyface?"

"My bag."

Curiouser and curiouser. "A...bag?"

Posey nodded with great emphasis. "Sunnyface is my bag. I sleep with her. But I couldn't find her, and...and I couldn't sleep...and..."

"What does...she..look like?" He was honestly wondering about this.

"She's this big." said Posey, holding out both of her hands. She sketched a round shape that would fill her two hands and then pretended to hug it. "She's yellow. And she's lonely."

Bilbo added another small stick to the fire. "Well then, let's have a look, shall we?"

The two of them shook out his blankets and checked his pillow. He moved his pack and even checked inside it. Posey looked under the chairs and table while Bilbo crawled around on the rug checking under baskets and firewood. Finally giving up, he reached for the arm of the rocking chair to pull himself up. The chair tipped and something fell to the floor with a small thump. Posey crossed the room so quickly he hardly had time to see what it was that had fallen before she had it in her hands, cuddling it with joy.

In the dim firelight he could see it really was a bag. A small home-dyed yellow yarn bag with a simple face stitched into it with thick dark thread.

"May I hold your...may I hold Sunnyface?" he asked politely. Posey beamed at him and gently lay the bag in his hands. It was heavier than he had expected, filled with dry corn from the feel of it. The yarn had been loved to a fuzzy softness that blurred the smiling features. A very well loved little yellow bag, lacking though it might be in finer features such as arms, legs or body. The toy of a child in a large family with small lands.

"She's beautiful." he said reverently, and somehow he really meant it. He gave the bag back into her hands. Suddenly an idea struck him. "Posey," he said, "Can you keep a secret? Would you like to help me with a little surprise?"

She nodded at him, then yawned.

"What is inside Sunnyface?"

"Corn. Father puts new corn in her sometimes." She seemed to feel this was quite impressive. Bilbo made sure his face showed that he thought so too.

"Really? Do you think you could ask him to put new corn in her tomorrow? After I'm gone? I would like to do something special to Sunnyface's corn, if I may. Just for tonight."

She eyed him, unsure. The bag was held close.

"I won't hurt her," he reassured. "I want to make her extra special. As a surprise, for your Father and Mother. Let me show you..."


By the time dawn began to color the sky, Posey was safely back in her bed with her beloved bag, but it was considerably heavier. Bilbo sat wrapped in his cloak by the fire watching the very beginnings of a dawn and smiled at the little heap of dry corn that lay hidden near the hearth. It looked to be a nice day. Very nice. His wallet was lighter, but so was his heart. After all what really was the use of dragon treasure except for opportunities like this? If he could not use it thus, it might as well be a fool's gold; hoarded and useless as dragon's bedding. If it could not help honest families like this, it was all mere ballast and shine.

7: Dogged Steps

Leaving Greenholm had been easy only because he had been quick, thought Bilbo to himself as he paced along the deserted westward road. If he had been only a little slower off the mark, he would have been obliged to spend breakfast with the Chubb family and their many endearing Chubb offspring which while a pleasant enough repast would have led to having to explain to each of those many young hobbits why he had to leave and if he would be back and to say good-bye. Repeatedly. Then there would have been the needing to spend time accepting some small provision for the road, having to thank them all again, repeatedly. Follow it all up with a long farewell at the gate and it would have been lunchtime and he would have had to start all over again. It was no wonder hobbits never went anywhere. It was too difficult to leave!

Yes, he was glad he had been able to slip out with none but little Posey knowing of it. She had promised to pass on his regrets for having to leave so early and he knew she meant to do so, if she remembered. He smiled to himself again at the thought of her now gold-filled bag. Mr. Chubb seemed the sort that would not waste the gift, especially coming from a child.

He knew he had a long march ahead of him today. Perhaps tomorrow as well as he did not expect to be able to travel all the way across this part of the Western Marches on foot in one day. The green hills were before him, but hazy and they grew in size only very slowly. They were far enough away that distant clumps of trees could still easily hide them from his view, coming and going in his sight as he walked along. The weather was pleasantly warm, raising a thin, brief morning mist from the damp ground, perfect and fragrant after the rains. The bright green buds in the trees seemed to have visibly grown overnight, some of them already waving as small newly-opened leaves.

With hours to pass in a peaceful lack of interruption, he found himself mulling over sections of his book back home, unsnarling knots in some of his verse and wishing he didn't have to keep moving. If only there were a way to write and walk at the same time, I would be doing it, he thought. He considered trying it, but knew from past experience it would only cause his walk to slow to a crawl and his writing to be filled with ink dots and shaking bumps. He did allow himself to briefly pull out his notebook and jot down ideas and key notes from time to time, but otherwise had to content himself with other amusements. He added four good verses to his walking song, then composed a new walking song to go with it. In his mind he wandered through Hobbiton and had various imaginary conversations with people he had been meaning to talk to. He mentally composed a letter to his cousin Dora, telling her what he really thought of most of her frequent and unwanted advice. It was refreshing to have the luxury of cleaning out the drawers in his mind this way.

This part of the road seemed little traveled. He had met a very few farmers and other hobbits taking their wares towards Michel Delving early on, but almost no one else. Rabbits scurried away from hiding places in the roadside grasses, startled to have anyone walking by. Once a fox crossed the road, near enough to see the shine in its eyes.

The lands on either side were a mix of fallow and tilled grounds with the occasional widely scattered flock of sheep or goats grazing, and homes were infrequent and far off. About midday he passed an apple orchard that had bee boxes set up along its edge, ready for the first blossoms next month and noticed chimney-smoke rising up just beyond it. In the shade of the trees, mushrooms had been cultivated and were flourishing in the damp. Somewhere a dog barked.

Bilbo sniffed the air to appreciate the slight breeze that carried the rich scent of mushrooms past him. Very pleasant. Should have bought some to bring with me, he thought. Not that the little store in Greenholm seemed to have any...

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted as a huge brown and black dog lunged out of the grasses nearby snarling and barking. A long-buried reflex made him fumble briefly at his belt for a non-existent sword, then lacking that, to hold his walking stick defensively in front of him.

"Nice dog, good dog..." he said. The dog growled low in its throat. He tried taking a couple slow steps down the road. The dog uttered another deep bark and showed its teeth. Where was its owner? Carefully keeping his walking stick between himself and the animal, he continued to flatter and soothe it with his voice while edging along. It seemed to be working. The tail wasn't wagging, but at least the dog wasn't following him either. He went a four more slow steps.

The dog's shoulders tensed and it lunged towards him, growling, all legs and teeth. All of the good advice that he had ever given or been given about not running from dogs went straight out of his head and he ran. His legs seemed to have a will of their own, propelling him down the path without his mind having anything to do with it. There was only the sound of the dog's rapidly gaining paws on the road behind him and he knew it was futile. He could hear it growling and breathing. He spun back around and made a stand, his stick held at ready. His heart pounded in his ears.

The dog seemed surprised, skidding to a halt about two yards away. It simply stood and looked at him for a moment, then gave another short bark, slowly approaching him again. Inwardly one part of his mind smacked the other part for allowing the running, while the running part gibbered in panic. Never too old to panic, after all. Still, it was what you did while panicking that made the difference.

He stood his ground. The dog stopped. From the corner of his eye Bilbo could see part of a smial, set back from the road. If he could just get beyond whatever the dog considered to be its own territory, he should be fine and it appeared his running had at least accomplished traversing over halfway past the home. The dog started to take a step forward and he brandished the stick. It stopped, but growled again. After a moment it took another step. He again feinted with the stick and it stopped.

Bilbo suddenly decided that was enough, thank you. He was not going to do this all day. If the dog's owner would not come to call the animal off, he would have to send it away himself. Gathering his courage, he looked the dog in the eye with a determined ferocity that made the animal pause. The dog knew something had just changed, but didn't realize how completely, nor what sort of hobbit it was facing. Bilbo had run before, after all; surely he would run again. It gave another short bark and bared its teeth. Bilbo didn't move.

It gathered its haunches and made a spring into the air, intending to close its teeth on him. It never reached him. There was a resounding "crack!" as the walking stick swung down and sideways on its head with such force it was knocked to the side of the road. The dog fell, tumbled over and staggered back to its feet, dazed and angry. Bilbo stood his ground.

"Come on," he said in a low dangerous voice. "I dare you to try that again."

The dog, angered and humiliated, obliged by repeating its leap at him. Again the orchard trees echoed with a "crack!" as it was knocked aside by the sturdy walking stick. It staggered back up from the dirt, reoriented and went for Bilbo one more time. This was a mistake.

The stick thudded into its sides, on its back, across its legs, over its head. Utterly bewildered it snapped at the air, trying to get a hold on its enemy. Bilbo thwacked it hard across the nose and shifted his grip to follow it with a good shove with the point of the stick, flipping the protesting creature over onto its back yelping.

"You're a stubborn one, aren't you?" he panted. "Well, you've met one more stubborn than yourself today." He shouted at the dog, feinting at it with his stick again. "Get away! Be gone!" Its eyes rolled so the whites showed, and it half-heartedly gave one bark, but it had had enough. Battered and bruised, it tucked its tail between its legs and ran limping towards its home.

Once he was sure it was really gone, Bilbo lowered the stick then leaned upon it to catch his breath and to still the trembling that was only now making itself known. Not wanting to have to explain to the owners why he had just beaten and possibly injured their dog, he set off down the road to put the other half of the orchard between him and the house. He glanced back from time to time but the dog did not reappear.

He couldn't help but think of another time he had had to deal with a dog like that. But that time had been much worse, for he'd had a younger hobbit to protect, and the dog's angered owner to deal with besides. Maggot, it had been. He remembered it all too well, taking a long walk with his young nephew down towards Buckland, his fear at the viciousness of the dog, especially when it had gone after Frodo.

Perhaps it was the fear that had lent him strength, for he had not intended to strike the dog down...he really hadn't. But Maggot had been unforgiving about the loss of that dog, even though it was on the boundaries of his property and they had not even been trespassing. Even though the animal was going after a child. He'd had bitter words for all Bagginses ever since, as if it had been a-purpose. A shame really, for he seemed a decent enough fellow otherwise and grew a fine mushroom crop. Bilbo had even gone out of his way to be sure that he only purchased mushrooms from the Maggot's farm, but to no avail. Only Mrs. Maggot would speak to him at the market in Hobbiton, and then only if her taciturn husband were nowhere nearby.

Grudges were very inconvenient. Dwarves were the masters of grudge-holding, so he was well-acquainted with them but he never saw the point in it. Time moved on. Why spend it gnawing on old grievances when there were so many other things to do?

Well, he hoped the youngster had kept well away from him after that. He had good sense, that lad. How was he doing anyway, clear over there in Buckland, a lone Baggins among all those Brandybucks? Having at least some small adventures Bilbo hoped. If any of his nephews or nieces were to have a small adventure, it would probably be Frodo. Bilbo rather liked that.

The orchard slowly retreated behind him as he headed out into the unfarmed marches that lay between him and the distant towers, but his mind was so filled with others that it was as if they were still nearby. He did not really feel alone at all. There were times that he had felt alone, and the irony of it, he reflected, was that the loneliest times were right in the middle of Hobbiton. Right in the middle of uncountable distant relatives and acquaintances.

It had been a while since he had had that Frodo-lad over, why, not since their last birthday wasn't it? Having a birthday on the same day of the year was a bit of fun and the youngster was pleasant company in spite of just being a child... well, no, he would be in his tweens now wouldn't he? Yes. Maybe. He wasn't sure. The birthdays all ran together for him. Perhaps he ought to send a letter when he returned home, invite him over for a bit. It might be a nice diversion for both of them. And perhaps by the time he got back home he would have the makings of some sort of tale to share with his appreciative young audience too. So far, nothing had happened that was really of note.

8: March Across the Marches

The last of the orchards and farms were safely passed with no further incidents with dogs, though he found himself a bit jumpy about it, holding his stick at ready and listening closely for any barking with each one he went by. He soon entered into the lands that lay along the outer boundaries of the Shire, lands that were generally considered safe enough, but were not farmed; the only activity they saw was the grazing of livestock in the warmer months and occasional berry-picking excursions. The road was quiet and as the afternoon passed on he decided to stop for another picnic.

The shelter of a lone ash tree alongside the road offered a comfortable leaning-and-thinking place. He gratefully slipped his pack off his shoulders with a thud and leaned it against the tree's trunk, shook out his blanket and settled down to enjoy what small repast he carried with him. It was early enough in the season that he was unaccosted by grasshopper or ant and it was really quite pleasant, in spite of his legs, arms and shoulders being a bit sore. He had exerted himself rather heartily when swinging at the dog and now he was feeling it. Still, in his opinion all his personal party wanted was something hot to drink and a bit of music.

"I don't suppose you can sing?" he rhetorically inquired of the ash tree. "No, I didn't think so. But fear not that I'll use you to heat my tea, for I haven't a pot, nor a spring."

No, he couldn't produce a teapot but the musical lack he could fill well enough, making up a tune as he went and filling in the rough spots with heys and hos.

Hey ho here I stand,
I've got an apple in my hand,
A tree above and ground below
What a picnic, hey ho ho!

An apple sliced and dried is sweet
My tongue and teeth upon it meet,
Oh topped with cheese it is a treat,
Hey ho, ho, ho...!

He happily laid out his meager lunch, methodically finished off his apple and cheese, brushed his blanket off and began rolling it up. It still quite a lot of grass sticking to it. He flourished it into the air towards the meadow vigourously.

Hey ho, here I stand,
With my blanket in my hand,
Wave it hard and watch it flap,
Smooth it out for nighttime's nap!
Flap, flap, flap!
Hey ho, hey ho, hey...

He suddenly stopped and looked around, aware of a noise behind him on the road. A farmer's wife sat on the back of her pony, balancing two sacks of seed and looking at him with very strange expression on her face. With all the singing he had been doing, he hadn't even heard her approach.

"Oh! Pardon me. Just singing and er...flapping." he said and smiled at her.

Her already wrinkled brow furrowed further. She laid her hand across her sacks of seed protectively.

Trying again, he offered "Bilbo Baggins, at your service." and gave a small bow. "You wouldn't happen to know how much farther it is to Undertowers? I can't say my friend the tree here is any use for information of that sort." He smiled and gestured in that general direction with his blanket.

To his great puzzlement, she suddenly kicked her pony to a fast trot and took off down the road, back the way he had come from.

"I say, didn't mean to startle you or anything...!" he called out, but she gave no reply, only a glance back over her shoulder at him as if to be sure he wasn't following. If anything, she was picking up speed.

He watched her ride away. The sound of the hooves soon faded into the smaller sounds of the grasses and leaves.

"Well. That didn't go so well, did it?" he asked the tree. He finished packing up, pulled his pack back on and thumped his stick a couple times to get his walking rhythm going.

Ho, ho, don't you know
I have quite a ways to go,
Some hobbits shy and run away,
But down the road I'll go today...

By the time dark was approaching he was quite literally 'in the middle of nowhere' with untilled grasslands and brush around him. He decided it was high time to find someplace to camp that night. It would take him a good part of tomorrow still to reach Undertowers. The good weather had held and he was in no danger of being rained on; the land was soft and grassy, with only a few trees under a clear sky and he would be comfortable enough.

As shadow lengthened, he turned off the road and slowly angled towards a brushy copse of poplar and beech. In the field nearby a small stream offered clear water, then lifted up a swell covered in trees. The ground under them was a bit drier, and he hoped the underbrush would provide him with something of a windbreak if it became breezy later in the night. A few minutes of searching revealed a sheltered sort of nook. He set about clearing the ground of any sharp twigs or rocks, scooping the leaves and sticks up on the sides to create a nest that would stop the worst of the breeziness and help to hide his sleeping form from any curious passerby on the road should he inadvertently sleep away the dawn. He set aside the driest leaves and the few fern fronds he could find for bedding. Going back out to into the open, he gathered three good armloads of fragrant dry grasses to supplement it.

He considered starting a small fire, but even as he dug into his pack for his tinderbox, he decided against it. He did not want any unsought attention, being so close to the boundary of the Shire, nor did he want to spend his evening dealing with the myriads of moths that might be attracted to such a light. He spread his blanket over the rustling bedding, curled up in his woolen cloak with his notebook and began to write a few small ideas down. The light was fading too quickly for him to get very far, and when he was hunched over squinting at the page with his nose in danger of being inked he had to admit defeat to the night and put it away.

Without the company of his notebook he began to feel lonely. He ate a bit of bread in the dark as he had not wanted to waste writing time eating before. The night closed in around him and the stars slowly kindled. It was so very quiet, and the stars seemed so very bright and alive it was a little frightening.

I am...so very small, he thought, and so very, very... temporary. All the immensity of the eternal sky is spilling out over my head. The world is filled with diamond flecks and sparks of fire, fire and moonlight and dark waters...

He found his thoughts turning to Elrond, whose eyes had held a certain starlight about them. He tried to imagine what it would be like to have memories that spanned back through entire ages. It was beyond his comprehension. For those who had lived so very long, history would not be history but memories. They would have known all those long-ago names, known their faces and voices. He strove to stretch his mind around this and to explore it but it was too much. As a small child who peers into an immense and hushed cathedral, it found it too much to comprehend. He fell back from the heights into the Shire, a hobbit who was thankful that he was just a hobbit and did not have the burden of all those years upon him. He grew weary enough with the few he carried.

The slight movements of the tree-branches made the stars flicker overhead. Worn out from walking, he felt sleep lulling him under even before the moon had risen. Pulling the cloak further up until only his nose was open to the cool air he curled up within this warm cocoon and soon drifted away.

He was walking to the towers, and they were lifted above him in the sky, very white and very fair. They were taller than he had even imagined. The stars from the sky snared on the peaks of them as they wheeled by, hanging upon them like glittering garlands. Silver with crystal in them. Two of the towers stood dark but a strange soft singing and the sound of a harp could be heard from the tallest one, and hot firelight spilled out from the partially opened door upon the cold grasses. He went closer, wanting to see this harpist who sang sweet notes, sweet as birdsong but terribly sad. Trees grew up around the tower, and when he reached its side he realized it was not stone at all but wood, carven wood that had once been deep red. The harpists birdlike voice mourned, sang nearer to him and the firelight grew brighter as he approached the door...so bright...

Bilbo squinted his eyes shut against the sunlight that had made its way through the branches and landed across his face. Somewhere above him a bird sang cheerfully. He had slept through dawn, but was more frustrated at the ending of his dream than he was with the lost travel time. He pulled his cloak up over his face and tried to regain the tatters, tried to see who was on the other side of that door but it was hopeless. Sighing, he sat up, ran his fingers through his hair and scrubbed the feeling of sleep from his face with his hands. He reached for his notebook and began writing.

The fire spilled across the floor, the harpist's tongue ran sweet,
The carven harp beneath his hand like blood ran red and deep.
What longing would a harpist know, to mourn with sorrowed song
Amid the starlit beauty of the tower where he belonged...

After filling most of a page he stopped. He couldn't go any further with it, and he was hungry. As he ate a simple breakfast, washed up in the stream, broke camp and waded through the grasses back to the road, he mused on his double-edged desire. How he longed to know the history of that harp he had seen back in Michel Delving, for instance, and to know if it were in fact connected with the towers. And how he also didn't want to know, because so often real history was so mundane and not nearly as interesting as the tales his imagination was free to spin for lack of facts. What if it was a terribly boring history? He would rather enjoy the adventurous one even if it were not the true one, especially when it was safely in the past where it could not bring about uncomfortable inconveniences. Good tales were always uncomfortable and inconvenient to live, and the very best tales were downright dangerous. Better to tell children about dark creatures by the warm fire at home than to encounter them in real life; he could even vouch for that one.

The road spread out before him. The morning sky, strewn with its handful of clouds did not seem to even be a part of the same world as the night had. He shook off the last of the faint dream that yet hung upon his mind and started off with a will once more.

9: Peddler's Lunch

The clear morning was beginning to wane into an overcast afternoon as Bilbo walked along the road to Undertowers. The road was not as well-maintained so far out from the Shire's center, and the wagon ruts and muddy holes had become more frequent the farther he went. Traffic was very sparse, with only three other hobbits seen all morning, a Gaffer and Gammer in a light pony-cart who had been pleasant enough and a Post rider who had returned his polite greeting as he went past. Bilbo decided it must be nearly noon and began looking for a nice dry spot in the grasses where he could settle down for a midday meal.

He had just begun to slip his pack off when he noticed a peddler's wagon approaching from the west. He had a passing acquaintance with most of the peddlers in the Shire, so this was a welcome sight. He hoped it might mean some familiar company to share his lunch with and an update on whatever news there might be.

He smiled a greeting to the peddler as the wagon squeaked and clanged closer, then lifted a hand. "Hullo! Care to share a bit of lunch and a bit of news? I'll make it worth your time." He could see the driver a little better now. Ah yes, he remembered this one. And he knew this peddler, Hilalard "Lardy" Took, wouldn't stop for anything less than a paying customer so far away from town. And the peddler knew he knew it. The wagon squeaked to a stop as he reined his mismatched pair of ponies in. As he gave his customer a good looking over his bushy eyebrows lifted with surprised recognition.

"Mr. Baggins! A bit far away from home, aren't you? Of course I shouldn't be too surprised. Think we've had the good fortune to meet up in almost every farthing over the past few years, eh? Good to see you, yes very good, and I'd be glad to share a bite. I've a small keg of reasonably good October ale if you've a mind to broach it. Not too dark, but a good brewing. Also a top-notch cheese from Tuckborough. Just wait until you taste it! Best they've ever made, in my opinion, and I've sampled plenty, believe me." He wasted no time shifting his bulk down from his seat and opened up the panel on the side of his wagon to display what little foodstuffs he carried. His curiosity about Bilbo's current wandering would have to wait until business was done. "I've some jams too," he continued, rummaging into a padded box and pulling out two glass jars. He polished them with the hem of his jacket to make them shine. "Blackberry and strawberry..."

"Thank you." said Bilbo. "I see your wares are as good as ever." Lardy gave him a quick look, unsure if that was a compliment or not, but Bilbo was simply looking at the cheese. He perused the selection and paid for a small circle of the softer goat cheese, a small jar of the blackberry jam and a sampling of the mild ale. Being far from a proper store, he also added a few winter apples and a packaged seedcake for later. Even though Bilbo ignored the not-so-subtle offers of a silver spoon for the jam, a new linen tablecloth, a pair of mittens, a set of embroidered napkins and a large umbrella, Lardy was well pleased to see such good coinage so far out in the middle of nowhere. Greatly cheered, he was quick to offer his own loaf of bread to go with their lunch and took down two elaborately carved mugs from his stock to drink the ale from.

The peddler then turned to his wagon to loosen the ponies' harness and hooked a nosebag with a bit of grain in it for each one. He settled onto the blanketed grass alongside Bilbo, taking up most of the space.

"So," said Bilbo around a mouthful of excellent cheese and bread, "What news can you give me? I'd especially like to know something of where I'm going. Tell me about Undertowers. You must have passed through it, at least?"

Lardy spread his bread thickly with the jam Bilbo had purchased from him. "Oh, that I did. I get to most of the farthings, you know, but I...don't usually mention that I sometimes go outside the borders." He looked around, as if to be sure no one was listening to them. "I'm not often out this far I admit, but I made some good trades taking seed and bulbs to the farmers out there. They grow a good mint - I have three big sacks of the finest dried mint you've ever smelled, and good sweet butter too. A block of butter, this big, clean and white all the way through. There's an old fellow further up the road here who keeps bees. I'll be stopping there tomorrow and I bet I'll trade that butter for the best beeswax and honey you ever..."

"Tell me about the town," interrupted Bilbo. "And the towers on the hills. Have you ever been out to those towers?" He toyed with a coin in his hand.

"Towers?" said Lardy. He took a long drink of ale and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, watching the coin. "Don't know anything about them. Even the folks that live over there don't go to 'em. They think they're haunted or something. Probably just some outsiders skulking about the things, but I don't care to find out." He took a big bite of his bread and Bilbo was obliged to wait while he chewed.

"Is there any kind of path to them that you know of?" he asked.

Lardy swallowed. "Naw. Leastways I don't know of one. Not safe out there anyways. Too far. It's bad enough being outside the Shire, trading with folk clear out here. I don't need to go poking my nose into foreign ruins, nor should anyone else. There was talk at the inn there that them towers are bad luck of some kind, but they don't talk about 'em much. Can't really say."

Bilbo nodded as if in agreement but kept his thoughts on it to himself. He casually flipped the coin towards Lardy, who just as casually slipped it into his pocket. They both continued eating as if it hadn't happened.

"So, there's an inn? That's welcome news." Bilbo finished the last of his bread and stood up, brushing the crumbs off his coat.

Lardy nodded and also stood. "There's an inn. The Twinin' Rose, but it tain't near as pretty as its name. All thorn and no flower, y' might say. It's not much to look at and even less to sup at. Innkeeper holds every penny pretty tight, and the ale is watered down. No bedwarmers neither. Sorry I can't give you a better report, but that's the way of it. And you'll need to get there before dark, otherwise you'll have to get the gatekeeper to open the doors again for you. It's fenced, bein' outside and all."

Bilbo nodded his thanks, his mouth full of the last bite of the cheese. Lardy gathered up the empty mugs and then picked up the half-used jar of jam and eyed it. "Will you be wantin' this, Mr. Baggins?"

"Yes, thank you Mr. Took." Bilbo pointedly took the small jar out of his hand. Half empty, it wouldn't be too heavy, and he would enjoy having it along later in the day. He slipped it into his coat pocket, then reconsidered and put it in his pack. He shook out the blanket and began rolling it up.

"If you don't mind my askin', Mr. Baggins, what brings you so far afield from Hobbiton?"

"Just visiting relatives."

"Ah."

"Speaking of relatives," Bilbo said, struck with a sudden idea, "Would you mind earning a bit of silver acting as a delivery service? Nothing large, nothing alive. I have some books at a relative's home in Michel Delving that need to get back to Hobbiton. Will you be going that way perchance?"

"Hrm," considered the peddler. "Perhaps so. No reason I can't go through there instead of further south this round. The season's markets are all about the same. How many books? My wagon won't get any bigger..."

"Not many at all," Bilbo assured him. "I'll write you a letter. Once you get them to Hobbiton, they're to be delivered to Bagshot Row, #3. I'll collect them there upon my return." He deliberately jogged his wallet to make the coins jingle. Lardy brightened noticeably at the sound.

"Of course, of course. They'll be safe and sound there or my name isn't Hilalard Took! Just leave it to me. Soft as eggs I'll carry them."

While Lardy hitched his ponies back up and closed up his wagon Bilbo drew out his notebook and penned his letter to Hugo.

My dearest Hugo,

Please forgive me that I must have this delivered to you thus instead of coming in person. It appears my business will keep me away from my home for some time still, but the one who bears this letter has generously agreed to help you in my stead. I have decided that I can spare room for those books you so kindly offered to me after all, and have chosen the following titles from among them:
(here he listed all that he could recall that were his, ending with a flourish)
I am pleased to be able to free up space in your bookcase for the new ones you no doubt were hoping to purchase, and look forward to many a gracious and merry meal with you in the future.
Yours cordially,

Bilbo Baggins

He sealed it, then wrote out instructions for Lardy, a small note asking the Gaffer to keep the books someplace dry until he could pick them up, and a reciept for Lardy to sign. He gave him some money including a little extra to buy a nice tight box to keep them in. The peddler carefully counted over the coins and a smile spread across his fat face.

"Thank you, Mr. Baggins! I'll be glad to oblige. And if you ever need some more delivering done for you, just call upon me!"

"Be assured that I shall." said Bilbo dryly. "If I've a good report. I shall be inquiring about the manner of your delivery, as well as inspecting the books most closely, Mr. Took."

Lardy bobbed a little bow. "Of course, of course. Carry them like fine glass, I will. And I know how to pack things properly too." He smiled again and climbed up on to the seat of his wagon.. "Well, it was a fine luncheon, Mr. Baggins! I hope we may meet again sometime. Good traveling!"

Bilbo waved a mild farewell. "Likewise. Travel safely."

The peddler flapped the reins and clicked his tongue at his ponies. As they began ambling forward again he leaned over and gave a little wave of his hat then continued on. The wagon squeaked and rattled away down the road, picking up speed as Lardy began trying to make up his lost travel time.

Bilbo watched him go, then shifted his pack into place on his shoulders and set out in the opposite direction with a lightness of step. It felt very good to know things that had been out of place for so very long could be set to rights at last. This mood bouyed him along for a nearly a mile before thoughts of the upcoming town slowly brought him back down. He would have to keep up a dwarvish sort of pace to get there by dark, so he set his mind to do so.

10: Undertower Tales

It was still early in the year and while the days were lengthening they were far from the long summer hours they would later show. Bilbo passed along through somewhat marshy lowlands where the road had been built up with gravel, then back upward towards the distant downs with only the occasional bird or rabbit for company. In his mind Kings and Elves and mysterious beasts of the past waltzed and wandered to the rhythm of his walking feet and he felt not one bit alone. His mind was good company, peopled as it was with all that he had studied over the years.

Somewhere along the way he knew he had passed out of the bounds of the Shire but he wasn't sure where. Someone really ought to mark the boundaries out here a little better, he thought. Why, to the East you certainly know when you've left. A body ought to be able to know when they are in their own land and when they are not.

The shadows of the downs lengthened out, overshadowing the road as it entered a copse of poplar, maple and birch. The effect was a wonderfully treeish tunnel. He paused to consider whether it would be better to make camp there, or to continue on to the town which was sure must be just ahead somewhere. After Lardy's less than complimentary words regarding the Inn he wasn't sure he wanted to stay there. Of course there were plenty of places that had no Inns at all...

Stepping a little off the road and brushing his way into a small clearing he was very tempted to stay right there in the little woods and pretend he was far, far away in some much wilder place. He just stood in the clearing for a time wishing it were summer. When it came right down to it, though, the woods were still quite damp and the rising breeze was chill. The clouds were still in the sky and could easily turn to rain. He sighed and stepped back out onto the road. Sure enough, not long after he had left the little copse behind the smoke from the chimneys of Undertowers came into view and it began to sprinkle.

By the time he reached the town, the lamps were being lit and children called in for supper. He entered the main gate with only one question from the bored-looking gatekeeper and walked up the main road. If there really was that Inn, he didn't see it. The town was not really that large, but it felt that way out of unfamiliarity. Nearing the far end he passed a small smithy where a leatherworker sat under the shelter of his shop's porch mending a bit of harness.

"Excuse me, can you direct me to an Inn?"

"Inn?" said the hobbit, glancing up at him then back to his work. "We've only the one Inn, if you're traveling on, though we've a decent boarding house if you're staying."

"Staying? No, no. I'll be going on. And also, can you tell me if it is it far to the towers, themselves?"

The hobbit gave him an odd look. "Towers?"

"Yes, the Elf-towers. You know, the ones this place is named for." At the continuing silence he clarified, "Out there." and gestured west and slightly upward with his walking stick.

The hobbit went back to his leather-mending. "No one goes there," he said, slowly and deliberately. "It's said to be bad luck. All sorts of dark tales about those towers."

He recalled Lardy's mention of this now. He decided to press it anyway. "Tales? What sort of tales?"

He just shook his head and tightened his lip. "Take my advice and choose yourself a different path, sir. No one lives out there and it's just not done. If you take my advice, you'd not mention such an idea at the Inn, neither. They'd toss you out for sure and certain. Bad luck it is. You're not in the Shire anymore, you know." He seemed proud of that last statement.

As if you yourselves weren't more than a rock's throw from the bounds, thought Bilbo. He was not put off by the warnings. They had quite the opposite effect really, for that would mean that no one had been there recently and it might be all the more interesting to explore. Untrampled.

"Well, thank you. Good evening." he said and when he received no reply he continued on.

It wasn't until he had left the hobbit a ways behind that it occurred to him he had never had his first question answered and still didn't know where the Inn was. He also realized that he didn't really want to go there anyway. If it was an establishment that might deny an honest traveler a bed because of superstition...well, he would begrudge giving them any of his coins then. He would just go on until he found a warm barn if need be. There were still plenty of farmhouses with small lights twinkling from their windows in the gathering dusk. His decision was made. He didn't stop in the town. Marching straight through Undertowers, he headed out the seemingly unguarded far gate into the rapidly cooling darkness of the westernmost countryside.

After a mile or so, he figured he was far enough away that he wouldn't just be waved off to the town. He turned off the road to try a friendly looking farm to the north. Beside the way was a post with a small handlettered sign. He peered closely at it in the last of the light and could just make out "Brockhouse." As he neared the low farmhouse a yapping dog barked twice and was shushed. The farmer, a sturdy hobbit with a dishtowel hanging from his belt, held up a lantern as it was now full dark.

"Hullo?" he said.

"Hullo," replied Bilbo putting all the friendliness he could into that one word. He stopped walking and leaned on his stick. "Just a traveler, on my way to visit some relations.The time has quite gotten away from me, I fear. Would you happen to have a dry, warm corner that I could sleep in until morning, and perhaps a bit to eat? I can pay you for it."

"Eh." the farmer said, relaxing at the sight of an unthreatening plain Shire hobbit. "I suppose. We haven't much room inside, but you could share a meal with my wife and I if'n you don't mind sleeping in the barn after."

"No, no. I don't mind at all. Thank you very much."

"Where are you coming from?" he asked as he led Bilbo towards the thatched house.

"Hobbiton."

"Hobbiton? That's a fair pace. You must know of that Bilbo Baggins they have out that way then. Maybe you could tell us a tale about him, eh? Is he really mad? I heard he rode right through the square on a pig, done up like a pony it 'twas too, harness and all, eh? Must have been a sight to see. We could use a good story."

Bilbo had almost stumbled over the threshold at the mention of himself in this light. He entered the kitchen with his mind going very quickly, trying to see the best way out of this awkward situation. The farmer greeted his red-cheeked wife.

"Darlin' Aster, this is...eh," he turned to Bilbo. "I'm sorry, didn't catch your name?"

"Bracegirdle. Adelard Bracegirdle." said Bilbo, randomly sticking together names he knew.

"Mr. Bracegirdle. Gulbo Brockhouse, at your service." The farmer bowed slightly then turned to his wife. "Mrs. Brockhouse, Mr. Bracegirdle. He just needs a sup, darlin' and then I'll find him a warm place in the barn. He's come from Hobbiton to visit relations and saw Mad Baggins go ridin' that pig in broad daylight himself he did. Fetch us a sup, darlin' and some blankets. He's goin' to tell us a tale or two, perhaps, eh?"

Bilbo offered a mild noise that was neither negative nor affirmative and drew off his wet cloak. Mrs. Brockhouse took it from his hands and spread it over a chair by the fire to dry, then bustled to set an extra place at the table and to serve up the meal.

The "sup" was good and hot and filling, even though it was split three ways instead of two. Bilbo needed every minute of it to try to think of what to say. As soon as they had finished, the other two hobbits pulled the seats over to the fire. The farmer generously offered Bilbo some pipeweed for his pipe while his wife started the washing up. They warmed themselves and spoke of small things; the rain, the approaching Spring, how cold the winter had been. Mrs. Brockhouse came back over to the fire and offered each of them a thick slice of sweet bread for dessert, then wiped down the table, hung up her apron and slipped in beside her husband on the settle. They leaned back comfortably and looked at him with expectation, apparently ready for a tale of....Mad Baggins. Bilbo coughed slightly over his pipe, then began.

11: Baggins According to Baggins

Bilbo shifted the cushion under him and gazed into Mr. Brockhouse's warm fire, then over to the waiting faces of the farmer and his wife. Their eyes looked bright in the firelight. Inside he was feeling a bit mixed as to how to present them with a "Mad Baggins" tale. He was well aware of his nickname in Hobbiton, and how many things that were perfectly innocent had been taken and exaggerated by others. It was a two-edged reputation, for he had to admit he sometimes delighted in shaking up their placidity when the tales were just of oddity or fun. But he also knew there were worse tales out there, tales that were born of fear of the unknown by hobbits that had no better task to occupy them. Darker tales about...him. That were wholly untrue. He was glad that the one this farmer had mentioned had been an innocent one. Should he gratify his hosts with a fanciful tale of oddity, which was what they wanted, or should he seek to defend his own sanity and disappoint them? All of these factors and more were weighed rapidly in his mind as he took one more puff on his pipe then drew breath to speak.

"Well," he began, "I can't say I know Mr. Baggins real well, but I have seen him a time or two. Handsome enough fellow for his age. He's quite old, you know, but it hasn't changed him much." His own reflection in his dressing room mirror at home came to mind, and he smiled to himself.

"How does he dress?" asked Mrs. Brockhouse. "Does he really have a weskit all of golden thread?"

Her husband looked at her askance. "Leave it to a woman to want to know about his clothes first." he snorted with cheerful tolerance.

Bilbo considered for a moment. "No, can't say I've ever seen any golden weskit. But his buttons are nice and bright, and he nearly always has a hat when he goes out. Dresses pretty much like anyone else, I suppose..." seeing the somewhat disappointed look on her face he amended slightly, "...though I'm no expert on fashions and I'm sure I may have simply missed it. He has been known to dress in a Dwarvish style. They say he has entire rooms just for clothing." This was true in a way - he had two very large closets. Let her have her dreams. In her drab farmhouse so far from other towns she might be needing them, however small they may be.

"Entire rooms! Just for clothing!" she exclaimed to her husband, no doubt thinking on her own modest lodging and wardrobe.

"Eh, what's he need so many clothes for?" said the farmer. "He's only got one body, ain't he?" He dismissed the topic with a slight wave of his hand. "What happened with that pig? Does he really ride one?"

Bilbo reflected how tales could change, and grow. "Yes indeed, there was a pig. But he had no harness...just a collar, and it was only ridden once." He did not add that it was not himself who had ridden it, but a boy whom he had been helping to get his stubborn animal to move. "It was quite a sight, though, and yes, right through the main square!" The boy had enjoyed Bilbo's suggestion that he try surprising the animal that way, but look at the form the tale had taken. He noted the slight disappointment in them again. They needed a tall tale. Something to think on and talk about with their friends later. They didn't want truth. Truth wasn't nearly as interesting.

"Let me tell you a little about his last birthday party, shall I? It was quite a sight. You may or may not have heard how he often mixes with...foreign folk, as you say, Dwarves and even Elves at times."

They nodded, all ears, but looked uncomfortable. "Eh," muttered Gulbo. "Bad luck they are. What does he have to do with them? And Dwarves - now that's a greedy lot. Wonder that they don't steal him blind."

"He..." learns from them, thought Bilbo. He loves their music, their memories, their tales. He loves their languages, their poetry... He continued.

"He...never was the same after he came back all those years ago, you know. Always singing strange songs, inviting strange travelers into his very own home, right there in Hobbiton. Most unusual. No one else does it."

"Oh, I heard about that! He come back from the dead, didn't he? Right powerful strange, eh? I would think that that would addle anyone."

"Dead?" his wife said in astonishment. "How could he come back from bein' dead? That can't be right."

"I heard he was dead." her husband replied firmly. "Plumb dead. Dead and gone. And then just as they was fixin' to hand over his belongings to his kin, here he comes alive again, and walks and talks and everything! And he had gold with him, he'd brought it from foreign parts, no one knows where, some say he stole it from them Dwarves and that's why they keep comin' back, to find their missing gold."

"Well, I don't know if he was truly dead or not, but he certainly was changed." said Bilbo. His old ways certainly died that year... he paused again then caught himself. He had to smile at the thought of the Dwarves visiting him only to regain their gold, remembering the rich gifts that Gloin had left with him.

"And yes, he did have gold with him. I've even seen it! Or, some of it, that is...They say he's free enough in spending it, so he must have plenty. Shares with some who are needing it. There are those who say it fills his cupboards, but I can't see why anyone would keep their gold, if they had any, in a cupboard." He smiled. This last tale he had heard through his gardener's boy.

"Maybe his dishes are gold." offered Mrs. Brockhouse. "If he has golden dishes he would keep them in his cupboard, wouldn't he? I would bet that they're gold." She nudged her husband. "Imagine Gulbo, golden dishes!"

"Golden dishes. That would be treat to eat off of now, wouldn't it?" agreed Bilbo amiably. "Though if he had stolen them from Dwarves, why would they be coming to his home as friends and staying under his roof so peaceably? They sing songs, long into the night but seem friendly enough."

The Brockhouses were not ready to let the Dwarves off so easily. "Maybe they're just wanting to steal it back quiet-like. One piece at a time," theorized Gulbo. His wife nodded. This seemed logical to them.

"Maybe." Bilbo replied noncommittally. "At his last birthday he had some Dwarves there. They say it snowed food and rained drink, and that most of the drink was stuff the Dwarves had brought with them. Strange wines from far away. Strange songs. There were some hobbits there too, of course."

"Did they...dance with the Dwarves?" asked Mrs. Brockhouse. She shuddered with a sort of mildly repulsed fascination at the thought.

"Oh, not really that I know of. But they enjoyed watching. Dwarves can cut quite a caper when they've a mind to, but my, how they stomp! Very loud it was. There were tales told by the fireside that would tighten your curls, tales of far-off places, the great mist-covered mountains and giant Eagles and dark woods filled with strange and magical things, tales of...."

Their eyes were getting wide and a little fearful. He suddenly realized he needed to pull back. "Of course that's all hearsay... child's tales, I'm sure." Ah, to be such a child...

"What I'd like to know is what he's like, when you see him at the market or out walking or such." said Mrs. Brockhouse. "I pictured him a bit...wild-eyed, and unkempt, I guess. He hasn't a wife, has he?"

"No, no wife. But he seems to keep his household well enough for a bachelor. Neat and clean enough, I suppose, and generous with others. He's been known to teach the children in the town odd things and to stir up their imaginations..."

"What a wicked thing to do!" she interjected. "Why do their parents let them speak to him if he stirs them up? He doesn't...catch them or... anything, does he?"

Bilbo was a bit nonplussed at this turn. Catching children indeed! What rubbish hobbits could come up with sometimes. He struggled to hide his offense, lest he give himself away. "No, I should hope not! Never heard of any child coming to harm. He's gentle as a fly. The people in Hobbiton completely trust him." He hoped this last part was true, though he honestly doubted it. "And he knows people all over the Shire."

"And he's been seen all over the Shire, I heard." said Mrs. Brockhouse, as if telling a great secret. "And..." her voice dropped to a half-whisper "..even outside it!"

"That's right." said her husband. "We've heard of him being seen just about anyplace you can think of. Odd places too. Why does he drift around like that? Seems like a daft thing to do. Makes a body nervous, not knowing if he'll go and pop up on some road when they're traveling alone. Maybe that's where he gets that gold of his, eh? Maybe he's a-robbin' innocent travelers!"

Bilbo spluttered slightly and tried to cover it with a cough. "Not too likely, I'd think. Shirefolk don't carry much gold, do they?"

"But Dwarves do, I've heard tell, and even..." he gestured westward.

"Elves?" said Bilbo. They both jumped slightly.

"Now, Mr. Bracegirdle, keep your voice down. Said to be bad luck, speaking of them. They can hear it if'n you speak of them, even from afar off. We don't need none of them coming around this place. I suppose you don't know that, bein' from inside the Shire and all, but out here we sometimes get strange travelers, you know. We have a neighbor-boy who heard some of ...them...one night. He followed 'em clear out to..." he gestured west. "Bad luck been with him ever since."

"I see." said Bilbo. "I do apologize. Now, as I was saying, I don't think old Mr. Baggins would go robbing honest folk, though I have heard tell that he robbed some rather nasty folk once who deserved it. Trolls, I hear!"

"Trolls!" said Mrs. Brockhouse. "He robbed Trolls!" She was all a-flutter. Even Gulbo looked a bit surprised at this turn.

"Yes he did. Not in the Shire of course. Further out. Got their wallet, he did. But he got caught."

"Caught! Is that how he ended up being dead, then?"

"No..well, in a way you could say so. I'm sure he never tried it again."

"I should think not!" she said. "Goodness. Such tales!"

Her husband stood up and stretched, tapping out his pipe. "Quite an earful, Mr. Bracegirdle, I must agree! We're glad you could share it, espcially as you must be worn out with travel. But it's gettin' late and we need to get you settled in the barn - Aster, dear, did you get those blankets, oh, thanky..."

Mrs. Brockhouse looked a touch disappointed to have the tale-telling end, but Bilbo was glad enough to be off the hook. He gratefully gathered up the other half of the blankets and with polite good-nights to his hostess, followed his host across the yard and into the side-door of the small wooden barn.

The lantern lit the way into a dusty warmth. Though it was spring, there was still plenty of hay heaped, filled with the scent of the previous summer. Two huge wooden bins heaped with dry corn-on-the-cob flanked the few stalls. Bilbo was made very comfortable in an empty box stall, setting his pack into the hay-wisped manger. He slipped the farmer two small silver coins for the bed-and-board and thanked him for his hospitality.

"No problem, Mr. Bracegirdle. You seem a good, sensible hobbit. Nothing like that Mad Baggins - why if he were to show up at my doorstep, I wouldn't let him into my house, nosirree." He folded his arms. "If he ever showed up out here with his foreign ways and golden whatnots we wouldn't be takin' the likes of him in... Well. Hope you will be comfortable. Goodnight, then." Apparently having finished having his say, he stumped away, shutting the door against the outside as he went. Left to himself, Bilbo curled up in the blankets and hay with such mixed feelings and thoughts he couldn't tell if he was more amused or offended. He finally decided he was both, and let it go. He wondered about the neighbor-boy who had heard Elves... perhaps tomorrow he could find out something about him. He sighed and nestled down, allowing sleep to take him as the rain pattered on the roof.

12: Up the Downs

The barn was warm and snug with the soft breathing of the pony and milkcows; after traveling so hard all day Bilbo slept deeply. He awoke when the rooster awoke, being in close proximity to it and having no choice. After doing what he could to comb the straw out of his hair and to somehow convince his aching legs that another day was a good idea, he pulled himself up out of the hay, shook and folded the blankets and gathered up his belongings. He could hear Farmer Brockhouse moving around in the yard outside and the excited squawk and rabble of the chickens as they bumped into each other, seeking the cracked corn he spread. Bilbo smoothed his rumpled clothing as best he could and opened the side door, shivering a little in the early morning chill. It was still overcast, but promised to break up and the morning sun was bright on the horizon. The rain had finally stopped, though he still needed to navigate assorted puddles to reach his host.

"Good morning, Mr. Bracegirdle! Sleep all right?" asked Mr. Brockhouse. He twisted the feed sack shut and stepped away from the frantic crowd of hens.

"Yes, yes. Thank you. Good morning." returned Bilbo, and followed the farmer's inviting gesture into the home where the kitchen wafted warm and redolent of griddle cakes, honey, butter and eggs. He settled himself at the table where a plate awaited him and with a mind to the cold and possibly sparse meals upcoming, ate heartily.

Gulbo passed him another helping of eggs and topped his own stack of cakes generously with honey. "My dear Mr. Bracegirdle! You enjoy my wife's good cooking? She is the best there is, I must say. I doubt any of your Hobbiton friends could cook nearly as well, no matter how fancy their clothes or dishes." His wife beamed at his compliment and blushed a little, making her red cheeks even redder.

Bilbo noted her pleasure and his pride; he went along with it. "I must agree, Mr. Brockhouse. We should be most fortunate if we had any hobbit with such a light touch to the batter. She is a rare treasure, I am sure. Why, I would think even old Mad Baggins himself would love to fill his plate at her table, and he's had delicacies from all sorts of far-flung places. Nothing like good Shire cooking!"

"Aye, well, he'd be an odd one to have at table, eh? Hah hah. We'll have to be sure to eat his share for him." Mr. Brockhouse cheerfully stuffed his mouth with an ample helping of cakes and caught the honey dripping with the tip of his tongue. Bilbo followed suit, for they were in fact quite good and his flattery was not entirely empty.

"I shall gladly eat his share for him," Bilbo declared, and set out to do so with a will.

Gulbo swallowed and took a sip of his tea, then grimaced from the heat of it. "You'll be heading back to Hobbiton now?"

"Erm, well, yes." By a very long way around, but yes, qualified Bilbo silently. He filled his mouth again to avoid talking.

"Just stick with the road, takes you right into town. Be sure you're heading downhill, not up. Wouldn't want you to accidently head off in the wrong direction, ha ha."

Bilbo scooped up another forkful of eggs. "Hm, yes. Is it dangerous up that way?" They gave him such a look he paused his fork and added "Just out of curiosity - I'm sure no decent hobbit would want to go wandering out in the middle of nowhere, of course not." No decent hobbit indeed, he added to himself.

They both relaxed. Gulbo blew on his tea. "Well, now. Can't say I'd call it dangerous, but it's bad luck! Foreign...peoples sometimes wander on those hills. You wouldn't want to run into them, you know. Nobody lives out that way anyways but a couple neighbors. Oh, when you get to town be sure you stop at our Inn! Good sensible hobbits there, they'd be glad for any news of Hobbiton."

Once the meal was finished, Bilbo gathered his pack and stick and taking his now-dry cloak, draped it over his shoulders. Aster took up several of the extra griddle cakes and rolled them up into a packet for him to eat later. He accepted them with a small bow. "Well, I must be off; the road is long. I thank you again for your hospitality. Most kind of you to take me in." He offered a handshake to Gulbo and a nod to Aster as he politely eased out of their door.

"If you are ever out this way again, please stop in. We so enjoyed your tales!" Mrs. Brockhouse called after him. Bilbo nodded politely, gave a little half-wave and turned away, heading down the path towards the road once more.

"Right decent hobbit." commented Gulbo to his wife as they watched him on his way. "Who did he say he was related to?"

When Bilbo reached the road, he turned east for a number of paces until he saw them go inside their home, then he did an about-face and rapidly headed uphill. The last thing he needed was their 'helpfulness' in directing him towards Hobbiton, and he thought they might argue with him if they knew he was going west. Bad luck, after all. He rolled his eyes.

As he continued on the road was little more than a wagon-track through the grasses. He trotted westward along it he until the curve of the hill finally hid him from view then slowed to catch his breath, wishing now that he hadn't eaten quite so heartily. Having warmed up from the exercise, he paused to put the cloak away and to decide what came next. He knew the towers were somewhere along the tops of the hills, but it appeared the rolling downs that lead to those hills were wider than he had first thought. For lack of any other direction he decided he would simply follow this track until it ran out. The slopes were gentle enough they shouldn't be too bad. He suddenly realized he had forgotten to inquire about the neighbor-boy who had heard Elves. Well, they were already jumpy enough about the subject, he probably couldn't have brought it up anyway. Maybe he lived around here. He'd have to keep an eye out.

After a couple of hours he had passed up the last of the small farms with no sign of any young hobbit, nor any hobbits at all really. The track had slowly dwindled to a simple footpath. He followed its faint line upward over one hill and then the next. The breeze was chill and he was glad for the sheltered intervals as every hilltop meant facing it anew. The few trees were small and sparse and soon ceased altogether, yielding to the waves of tall windswept grasses and clumps of brush. The sun came and went as the clouds scurried overhead and he was dazzled anew with every sunbreak.

About noon, topping yet another rise he found the remains of a stone wall in its shelter, built from the light-colored but brittle stone that littered the ground. Judging by the grown-over heaps alongside it, it must have once stood twice its height. A sheepfold perhaps? Whatever it was it had been long abandoned. A little further on he spied more ruins, and left the path to investigate. More stone, tumbled in a rough circle, but little else...ah! What delight! Was that a well? If that was the sheepfold, this must have been the shelter for the shepherds. He picked his way over the uneven lumps of grass-covered stone to the well. The grass grew thick and green to one side of it as the water seeped along the ground. He peered over it's low crumbling edge and was delighted to find clear water nearly up to the top. He dipped his water bottle in and drank his fill. It was cold and sweet. He laved his face and hands, and then rested in the windbreak formed by the tallest part of the walls. Rummaging in his pack he brought out the packet of griddle cakes from that morning and snacked on part of them.

Setting out again, he soon discovered that the path ended at the ruins, or at least had become so faint that it made no difference. He glanced up at the position of the sun and set out approximately westward again. After a a few more seemingly unending climbs he topped a rise, panting, and looked back at the lands spread out below him to the east. It was a lovely sight. The wind had blown the air clear of any haze of dust or smoke and the distant farmlands, fields and woods sparkled as if newly washed. Somewhere far below him to the east the tiny farm of the Brockhouses was hidden, small and isolated as its owners. He opened his arms and let the wind billow his coat; it was a marvelous feeling, a free feeling. If his legs hadn't been so tired, he probably would have cut a caper along the ridge.

He turned around and shaded his eyes against the now westering sun. Slightly above him there was yet one more ridge, but then...yes! There, to the north a bit. Something white. He could only see a part of it from this angle but he was sure it was the first of the Elven towers. Much heartened, he set off again, singing loudly about Elves just to spite the absent Mr. Brockhouse for his own amusement.

Elves, foreign Elves
How I'd love to meet with Elves!
Sweeping and strange, their Elvish songs
Sweeter than honey. They say it's wrong,
Bad luck you say, but strangers ways
Will outlast all of our nights and days...

He knew it wasn't a very good verse, set to a child's tune, but it seemed suited to the childishness of hobbits who would cower, fearing to even speak of them lest they hear. It would do. He laughed to himself, making up for being unable to laugh at the notion the night before. Not speaking of them for fear their Elvish ears would hear it. The funniest thing he'd heard in a long time. He sang it a couple more times with variations, shouting Elves! Elves! in between just for good measure, then faded off as the climbing used up his breath, frustration gone.


It was nearing nightfall by the time he reached the final ridge and had a full view of the first tower. The others beyond it were fading in the twilight, but the nearest was a sight to behold. The last vestiges of light glowed on its western side, and he was utterly enchanted. Nothing stirred except the wind and the occasional startled fieldmouse as he slowly worked his way over to it. Even when it was full dark he kept on, stumbling over hillocks of grass and matted roots in the darkness. By the faint starlight he could still make out his goal, standing as a tall shadow against the sky where no stars shone. As he approached it seemed faintly luminous, as if the stones were reflecting the starlight itself.

He stopped. In the darkness and the silence it was a bit overwhelming and even a little frightening. He had originally been thinking to look at it once the moon had risen, but now that it was so close he found he did not dare. Waiting until morning before going closer to explore seemed the better choice, and with none around to know of this small cowardice, he felt free to indulge it. Angling away from the tower a short distance he managed to find a clump of brushy shrubs that would serve for a windbreak if he hung his blanket up over part of it and slept on what was left. He lay down, bundled up in his cloak with his pack close beside him and watched the stars wheeling overhead near the tower's peak until he fell asleep.

13: No Mystery

Bilbo woke before dawn, stiff and cold. The heavy coastal dew had soaked his blanket while he slept, and low clouds wisped past like a fog in the predawn twilight chilling him even further. He was sore from climbing, cold, aching, hungry and thirsty. It was times like this that adventuring didn't seem so pleasant at all, he reflected wryly, this is the part they never sing about. Shifting on the ground he tried in vain to sleep again. It was useless. He sat up, chafed his hands to get them working and felt about in the wet grass for his pack. After tending to his thirst and some of his hunger, he was feeling a little more ready to face the day. He considered trying to start a fire, but the lack of good fuel and the now steady breeze made it seem unlikely to succeed so rather than wasting tinder he got up and stamped and flapped his arms, beating at his chest trying to warm up. It helped.

The sun had begun to light the eastern sky with grey and lavender tinting, the last of the stars slowly giving way to the coming dawn. Low clouds lifted to reveal the Elven tower looking grey-white, cold and somehow lonely. Off in the distance he could see the second one, and even further off a small part of the third. He drew out his notebook and penned a few lines about the journey over the downs and his first impressions of the tower, strangely reluctant to approach it after all the traveling to get there. He wasn't sure if it was a shying away from something that was somehow "above" him, or if it was the reluctance to have the mystery of it end. He had learned long ago that many fabled and fantastic things and people were terribly mundane and uninteresting once you got to know them well. Now that it came to it, he wasn't sure he wanted the mystery of these ancient towers to be revealed. Revelations weren't all they were cracked up to be.

The light grew stronger and the cold breeze thankfully died away. Bundled in his dew-damp coat and cloak, he walked away from the tower until he could peer westward over the far side of the rounded ridge. It went gently for a time, then fell away steeply to the west. In the distance he could now see an immense body of water, grey-green and dull in shadow of the hills, sparkling farther out. The land curved around a distant bay, but beyond it.... Ah...It shifted and twinkled, with thin threads of white drawn across it as with a comb. It was his first glimpse of the Sea; it quite took his breath away. Never ending! How could anyone fathom such huge amount of water with no land? It stretched clear from the horizon, as far as could be seen.

Wisps of cloud were caught in the trees of the far bay like wool in a carding comb, not seeming to move. Far, far below there were great grey rocks and a strip of pale beach with the occasional stream running over it into the water. It all looked very small at the base of such cliffs though he knew the distance was great and those tiny rocks must be quite impressive. Tiny white flecks of seabirds circled below. He knew there was some sort of Elven settlement down there, someplace, or at least there had been at one time. He couldn't see any trace of such a thing from where he was, but hoped it remained. It would be comforting to think that it remained and was not all hollow and abandoned as the towers seemed to be. He knew that Elves sometimes went west, leaving Middle-earth, never to return; but he had never imagined the Sea they were crossing.

How long he stood there gazing out towards the Sea he couldn't say. The sun had fully risen behind him now, lending a slight warmth to his shoulders and the light was bright. He finally stirred as if coming out of a dream, then turned and walked towards the waiting tower.

It was very tall, and seemed to grow as he approached it. The base being mossy and webbed with the roots of tenacious grasses, orange and yellow lichen edged the lower stones, yet above it was surprisingly clean. Bilbo reached out his hand and ran it over the cold stone, brushing away flakes of lichen and plucking out a clump of dead grass to clear a small space. While not truly white up close, it was pale and veined with light grey. Some of the stone had a sheen to it that reminded him of mica. No wonder they shone in the light! Bilbo had spent enough time around Dwarves to recognize and appreciate good stonework when he saw it. They were well-made, works of art.

It was no wonder that they yet stood after all these years, he thought, it would take an army to bring them down. And who would ever want to harm them? They were beautiful. He got out his notebook and did a quick sketch of the stone with a description of its colors and what it felt like under his hand. Moving around the base of it, he began looking for a door. He found it opposite where he had slept, a beautifully graceful arch with time-worn carvings that had lost their detail. He could see where a stout wooden door must have once hung, though there was none there now. With no trees nearby, there was no litter of autumn leaves to accumulate, so aside from the encroaching grasses, it appeared fairly clear inside.

He peered into the open doorway and found it led into a sort of hallway with single openings on either side. Entering, he found them to be empty rooms. One had shelving and places that must have held boxes of some sort. A storage room, then. Elaborate hooks were set into the curving wall, and an empty torch bracket. The other room showed no clue as to its purpose other than the marks of what may have been a table in the center. An elaborate mural gave one wall a fanciful look into an Elvish-looking golden forest. A small fireplace, its frame carved to resemble two twining trees was built near the far wall, apparently using one of the window slots for a chimney.

Passing these rooms, the hallway ended and opened up into a larger room that made up the rest of the tower's floor space. Another fireplace was here, backing to its neighbor on the opposite side of the wall.The unshuttered windows let in a little light, and he could see a stone staircase lifting upwards, curving with the wall. There was little in the room: two stone benches, a shelf and the remains of another. Over by the hearth there was a pile of debris, a heap of grass grown over something...

The grass moved.

Bilbo about jumped out of his skin as the heap inside the tower sat up, rubbing its eyes and peering at him.

It was a hobbit!

His heart was pounding from the surprise, and he gasped before he could make his voice work. He gripped his notebook in front of him and wished he had his stick. "Hullo! Who are you? What are you doing here?"

The hobbit sat the rest of the way up. The blanket heaped with grasses for warmth slipped off of his shoulders. Bilbo relaxed slightly as he saw it was only a small one, not yet a tweenager and apparently quite harmless. He looked young, bewildered and apologetic.

"I...I'm sorry, sir. I'm Finch. Finch Cornfield, sir. I'm didn't mean to startle you, I slept longer than I thought..."

Bilbo relaxed his hold on his notebook and breathed more easily. "I see. How did you come to be here? I thought no one came out here. Are you alone? You don't live around here, do you?"

Finch stood up, rubbing his hand over his nutbrown hair so it stood out in curly clumps. "Nossir, I mean, Yessir, I'm alone. No one would ever come out here with me. I...well, I saw you go past yesterday, and you were going up the west path. No one goes west, sir." He offered this with an embarrassed look. "I... well, I followed you, just to see where you were going, not for any mischief sir, and then I heard you singing about Elves sir...!"

Bilbo nodded. He had. And loudly too, as he now recalled. The youngster must have been somewhere near the ruined sheepfold then. No doubt he was the 'neighbor-boy' that the Brockhouse's had referred to.

"You're from around Undertowers, then?" A nod. "Why did you wait so long to make yourself known to me? I would have enjoyed a little company seeing as you were going my way."

Finch scuffed at the limp grasses with his toes. "I was afraid you'd send me back, sir. And I wanted to come out here again, but I didn't want to be doing it alone. No one else would come out here with me... I don't even tell the others, of course, they'd never understand. I hope you aren't too angry with me, sir?" he glanced at up at Bilbo, then looked at his feet.

"No, not angry at all. Not at all. But I must admit the last thing I expected to find in an Elven tower was a hobbit! Have you come here often, then? How did you come to find them?"

Finch smiled, glad to be accepted. "Oh, I've only been here twice before, sir. It's a long ways, of course. The first time I was quite a lot younger. I heard some of the...Elves...singing, sir. They were going past, not on the path but up behind the land where my da farms. I was scared at first, but I wanted to know where they were going, and the music was so..." he faded off for a moment. Bilbo smiled slightly, remembering their haunting and lovely music himself.

"And...?" he prompted.

"Oh. I followed 'em right up to here sir, except they didn't stop. They just kept right on. I didn't dare go any further than this. Not even that, then. I came back once more, to see the tower in the daylight sir, up close. But I never saw any more Elves. Fell on the way back and busted up my arm pretty bad. My folks said it was the bad luck, from following them. My mum said I wasn't to speak of it, nor to come here again, but...sir..," his hazel eyes seemed to plead for understanding. "When I saw you going past, I just had to..."

Bilbo found a pity for this young hobbit welling up in his breast. Yes, he knew what it was to be surrounded with folk that were deaf and blind to anything beyond their own noses. He smiled for him. "I understand. And I know exactly what you mean." Finch straightened up and the fearfulness left his eyes.

"But." said Bilbo. Finch sagged slightly, knowing what was coming. Bilbo nodded. "Yes, but. I am going to be continuing on, and you will not be able to follow any further. Your family will be looking for you, no doubt, and it sounds like you will be in enough trouble as it is." Bilbo spoke firmly, leaving no room for arguments. Finch nodded a bit miserably.

"Now!" said Bilbo, catching his eye and lifting his chin. "Show me this tower of yours, young Master Cornfield. What have you found?"

Finch grinned at this, then turned more serious about his charge. "Not much, really Mr..." he paused as he realized he didn't know his companion's name.

"Mr. Baggins. Bilbo Baggins, at your service," offered Bilbo to set him at ease. Right after this came out of his mouth he wondered if he oughtn't to have used a false name again. He hoped the youth had not had his ears filled with tales as his neighbors apparently had. He didn't want the poor lad frightened away.

Finch showed no reaction to it except to nod and smile. "Mr. Baggins then. There's not much here 'cept the tower itself, but it's a rare sight anyway. I suppose the fireplace works, but haven't used it." He gestured upwards. "The windows almost all face west, so it's brighter in the afternoon."

"Have you been up the steps?" asked Bilbo, whose feet were itching to try them himself.

"Not really. I felt too afraid... But now that you're here with me, I'd be willing to try again."

"Let's do that, then. Up the steps we shall venture, lad. Together! I don't care much for heights either." He crossed the room to the base of the steps and looked up them. They seemed very,very high and curved around into shadow so it was difficult to see what lay above. "Never could see what they find so appealing about heights. Why live anyplace you have to climb to reach one of your own rooms? Well, I suppose they didn't really live here, at least I should think not. More of an outpost sort of thing." This said he lifted a foot and stepped onto the stairway. Finch stepped up beside him. They both stopped.

Bilbo smiled at their mutual hesitation. "Not much of a start, was it? Let's try again, with a good heart. Up now, up we go! One and two, one and two!"

14: Up the Steps

Bilbo and Finch started up the steps together. The ground very quickly felt very, very far away. Too far for comfort, but each encouraged by the other they bravely went on. The steps followed the curve around and they soon found themselves climbing up through a sort of hole in stone flooring. The morning light filtered in two windows here, a narrow slot on the east and a wider one facing the west with elaborate empty shutter fasteners. The room appeared to be mostly empty. Opposite the side they had come up another set of stairs lifted upward.

Both of them nervously moved away from the stairway hole. Bilbo went to the western window and by standing on tiptoe was able to look out. The view towards the Sea stunned him anew with its beauty. Then he looked downward and the world felt shaky and insubstantial as he saw the ground so far below. It was an uncomfortable feeling and he made himself look back up at the horizon. Finch came up beside him.

"Here, have a look. Just don't look downward; keep your eyes on the horizon." While Finch timidly peered out the window, Bilbo poked around the edges of the room. The walls were smooth and unadorned, though there were carved details in the stonework around the stairs and the sills of the windows. There was one additional room, shaped like a half-moon with one window slot, a few more wall-hooks and a graceful if dusty tall oak table. If anything else of interest or value had ever been left there, it was long gone. He took out his notepad and jotted a couple first impressions about the stairs and the view from the window. Closing it again he walked over to the base of the second set of stairs and looked up them.

"Well now, young Master Cornfield, what do you think of this set of steps?"

Finch left the window and gave them a good look. "I don't like them at all. They give me a twisty feeling inside."

"I agree. Too narrow, aren't they? And look at the cracks above us. I don't think the floor will be as sound. Should we chance it?"

Finch looked a bit white. "I..I'm sorry, sir. I don't think... I want to."

Bilbo gave him a long look. "That's all right, lad. I don't particularly want to try it myself. Tell you what: if you'll hold my notebook here, I'll try going up them, but only to look at the top. Then I'll come right back down."

He handed off his notebook and gathered up all the odd bits of courage he could scrape out of the corners of his being. They made a rather pathetic pile at the moment. Still, he wasn't going to leave this place saying that he hadn't the nerve to even look! He put his feet to the narrow stairs, practically hugging the wall. He had already determined that it was best to keep his eyes on the goal ahead and never to look down or back. This same conclusion had held him in good stead in the past and it served well now.

Step by step his reluctant feet took him, farther and farther from the ground, above Finch's head, then to the ceiling of the room. This was an especially unnerving moment, something about being at the ceiling. He willed his feet to keep moving. He entered a small dark space between the floors, then his head came out into another open room. He stopped to look around. Like its companions, it was also empty but in worse repair. There was the smell of dust and dry droppings from old bird nestings. He could see where lamps had hung, the shutter brackets, the carvings on the sills. Each level being a progressively smaller circle, there was only a set of closets where the room had been below. Another shelf, another small fireplace. Notches in the walls where something once hung. Drapes? Tapestries, perhaps? The cracks in the flooring were not so obvious from here - he was glad he had noticed them below. Yet another set of steps went upward, but he dared not cross to them.

It was so sad, so empty and bereft of color. So many wondrous things gone forever out of Middle-earth, the dwellers of the towers among them no doubt. Sunsets would light this room with red and gold fire, everyday giving it a glory from the past. But no eyes would be there to behold it.

He began working his way back down. This proved even more scary than going up and he soon was hugging the wall as he went down nearly crawling backwards. He was terribly grateful to feel the floor under his feet again, and suddenly this floor didn't seem nearly as high as it had before. The two of them cautiously and slowly made thier way back to the ground level.

Once back in the main room Bilbo breathed a little easier. While his reasoning mind knew those steps were sound and he had been in no danger, some hobbitish part of him still protested the height greatly, made his heart squeeze with a brushing of fear.

Finch spoke timidly beside him. "Do you...know anything about...Elves, sir?"

Bilbo gave him a little smile. "Perhaps, a little. How about we see if this fireplace works. We can both warm up a bit and have a talk that way."

Finch helped him gather dry branches from the shrubs until they had a fair heap. He knelt and kindled a flame at the hearth, blowing on the small spark gently until it caught the grasses and twigs. Full of resin, the twigs sizzled, snapped and burned hot and quick. They both huddled near it, basking in it's small warmth.

"Well now, what would you like to know?" asked Bilbo expectantly.

"I can't rightly say," said Finch shyly. "Maybe something about their singing? And where were they going?"

"They often sing as they travel, same as we do. But their songs are about things that are much, well...bigger and older and more...starlike, if you understand my meaning? Our language really is quite clumsy, we don't seem to have the right words for what they sing of." He glanced at Finch. "Would you like to learn about their language?"

Finch cocked his head as if thinking. "No, I don't think so. What would I do with it, not having any to talk to? And if I could talk to them, I wouldn't know about the same things anyway. Where were they going as they sang?"

Bilbo hid his own disappointment at the subject being so lightly turned aside. "They were going west, to the Sea. Sometimes they grow weary of the troubles we have here, in Middle-earth. Did you know they do not age?"

Finch seemed a bit skeptical. "Everything ages. And how can you leave the Middle-earth? I wanted to know where they were really going."

Bilbo nodded. "And I am telling you. What you say is true enough for Hobbits. We don't leave these lands to go over the Sea because it isn't for us to make that journey. Only Elves do that. They aren't like us, Finch, not at all. I was not teasing you when I said they do not age either. But living forever has its downside, yes it does. It means all of the things you loved when you were younger pass away, but you live on. It means seeing things you loved age and fade and not being able to do anything about it. When they cannot bear that fading anymore, then they go West. They have ships, and they go over the Sea."

Finch had that "polite" look on his face youth will wear when listening to a doddering Gaffer. "I don't know, Mr. Baggins. I don't think they live forever. Nothing can do that. Maybe they just live a really, really long time. And my da says people that go on the Sea always drown, or disappear and are never heard of again. It would be very dangerous and foolish for them to try doing that."

Bilbo considered this as he fed the fire with more twigs. "Don't you think it would be a great adventure, don't you think it would be a wondrous thing to go over the Sea?" His voice was soft and wistful and he realized even as he said it he was speaking as much to himself as to the young hobbit beside him.

Finch shook his head. "No. I think it would be awful! It would be cold and wet, and there wouldn't even be any land. It must be terribly deep, with strange creatures that would most likely eat a hobbit whole. I would never go out on a boat, not for anything! I don't know why they do it. Maybe that's where their bad luck is from, maybe it comes from the Sea."

Bilbo looked at him a little sadly. "Would you really rather stay on your parent's farmland, on solid Shire ground and grow crops, and visit the same town all of your days?"

Finch looked at him strangely then gazed into the fire and gave it thought. "If I left, I wouldn't get to be at my own home anymore, nor see my family," he said slowly. "I wouldn't get to help my da with the planting or harvesting, and, and my relatives would miss me. I wouldn't get to tell my aunt that I am taller than her this spring. I don't think I would like it at all, I would miss them. And if I left them just to go drown, that wouldn't make too much sense, now...would it?"

"No, no I suppose it wouldn't. You have a good home, after all. Why wander?" Bilbo fed the fire more twigs. It was burning so rapidly they were almost out already. He studied Finch's face and attitude.

Inwardly he sighed. He had not realized how badly he wanted to find a young hobbit who would go adventuring until Finch had raised those hopes. But he could see it was only a passing fancy for the lad. His true desire was the same hobbitish desire that Bilbo knew well, to stay home, to have his own kin about him, to have the same comforts each year. He didn't sense any spark in Finch, not really. It was more like the lad was living out a curiosity, a hearth-side tale. It was no more than a tale to him; it didn't reach his heart. He would "grow out of it." He was disappointingly normal.

"So," he said tossing in the last of the twigs. "The morning is moving on. You better head back to your family soon or you won't get back before dark! They'll be worried for you." He began to gather up his things and snugged his coat around him.

Finch stood, watching the last of the twigs blacken and crumble on the hearth. He nodded and obediently picked up his own small lunch satchel and water bottle. "I suppose so. Are you going to be going on or coming back with me?"

"I'll be going on. But if you are ever in Hobbiton, you are most welcome at my home. Go on now, young Master Cornfield. You have a long life ahead of you to live. Thank you for your pleasant company, and I wish you safe travels!" He paused in the doorway of the tower as the boy moved past him and out into the sunlight. One last try.

"Will you be coming back here again sometime?"

Finch paused and looked back at him for a moment. He glanced up the height of the tower above him and thought about it. "No sir, I don't think so. It's quite a long ways to go, and I've seen it now, after all. But I am glad you were here to look at it with me. Thank you, Mr. Baggins."

"Yes, yes. Already seen it all, as you say. What more could there be to see? Off with you now, and have a care you don't fall this time." Bilbo waved him away.

"I won't! Goodbye!" Finch waved back over his shoulder as he turned and like a puppy rapidly bounded through the grass back towards the downs.

And so it goes, thought Bilbo. How I wish it could have gone differently. To have a young hobbit with some spirit, some real sense of adventure would have been too much to hope for, I suppose. He was a good lad, but with no more adventure in him than some of the lot back in Hobbiton when it came down to it. I wonder if it runs in families. If I had ever had children, would any of them have been...like me? Or would they have ended up like this one, or worse, like Otho? Maybe it was just as well I haven't. It would have been hard to bear having an heir with no sense of adventure in him.

He stopped in his tracks as he was passing the tower's walls. What was he thinking? He already had an heir with no adventure in him. Not a scrap. Otho seemed to embody a sort of anti-adventure even. Even a lad like Finch would be an improvement over him. Now there was an odd thought, he considered as he continued on. Replacing Otho with a lad, though he'd have to be related of course. It would bear more thinking later on.

15: Cloud and Stars

Once he was sure Finch was well on his way and would not be coming back for anything, Bilbo gathered his coat about him and waded through the tall yellow grasses until the Elven tower was some way behind him. As the ridge sloped downward he found it partially blocked the winds that seemed to perpetually sweep in from the sea on these ridges. He stopped in this sunny lea and settled himself into the warming fragrant grasses to write and sketch a few moments. From this vantage point he could see all three towers, more or less; he rendered them onto his paper as best he could. He added notes about the sea wind and the morning exploration, a brief verse about Finch. He tucked a dry sample of the grass into the pages and closed it back up. It was still some distance of traveling to reach the second tower, but he thought he should be able to cross it by that afternoon. If it was anything like its cousin he could then shelter through the night within its fair walls.

What a thought! he chucked to himself. To think he, Bilbo Baggins of Hobbiton, would be sleeping in one of the Elven Towers of old. It would have sounded very grand, unlikely and quite exciting before he had reached them. Now it still seemed fairly exciting, but only for the novelty of it. He held out some hope that there might be some item of interest still to be found in one of the remaining two. A bit of furniture, perhaps? Some writing? They were very old and very empty, but might yet have some tale to tell. Such things were always more interesting to do than to write about anyway.

A fog blew in shortly after lunch and stayed until late afternoon, extinguishing the warm sun with an unwelcome cold grey-white cloak. He walked on, feeling strangely muffled in the dampness and hoping his sense of direction was holding him in good stead. He had a rough idea of about how long it should take to reach the second tower but feared more for the far edges of the ridge, where the sloping broke off into steep grassy cliffs. The mist was the thick cottony kind that hung in great clumps, the clumps constantly being rearranged by the hand of the seaward breeze. He climbed up and down a few swells, and crossed a small stream that he presumed ran towards the sea. The water was a blessing and helped orient him. He filled his water bottle and continued on.

After a while all sense of time and direction began to fade. He plodded on, pushing through the grasses and walking uphill and down through the mist. He was sure he should have reached his goal by now and was getting a bit worried as he had no landmarks to go by and all the scrubby bushes looked alike. Just as he concluded he'd better stop until the mist broke up a grey-white wall loomed up on his right. He almost cried out, so glad he and his tired legs were to find it.

Running a hand along the cold wall, he worked his way around until he found the doorway. Like its companion, this one was also wide open but the interior had more debris in it. There was a heavy wooden door that fit into a sort of pocket so it was flush with the wall. After poking his stick into every debris pile to reassure himself that this time he was truly alone, he dropped his pack down by the innermost hearth and went back out to gather what dry fuel he could in such a mist and damp. This took some time, for there was little to be had aside from grasses and he didn't want to wander too far from the tower now that he had found it. He returned with an armload and spent a few minutes tugging on the door experimentally but couldn't move it. Back out for more fuel. The light was beginning to lose strength as he finished stocking up all he could find in the mist, telling him he had wandered even longer than he had originally thought. How he hadn't passed the place up he couldn't say. He peered up the inside of the chimney to be sure it wasn't blocked, then started a little blaze going to get the chill out of his hands and to dry his mist-soaked clothing a bit.

Once he could feel his nose and ears again, he arranged a clear space on the floor near the fire to sleep in. It was out of the worst of the breeze that came in the open doorway, and near the fire. First class accomodations! Having done all he could, he finally allowed himself to explore while there was light. As before, there were two rooms on the sides and a set of decorated stairs swept upward. The fireplaces were even in the same location as they had been for the first one.

He examined the carvings on the lintels and the stone shelves which had not suffered the breakage the first had. That tower had shown carvings of fanciful plants, leaves, fruit, corn and trees. This one showed stars, mostly. He wondered what significance there was in the differing themes, if any. Continuing on he found designs on the benches, the sills and even on the stairs themselves. The side-room that had shown a forest mural in the first tower featured a moonlit lake with swans instead, the swans were stylized, but their eyes were so bright looking under their painted stars and moon it was a slightly unnerving. They seemed too aware for mere paintings, somehow. He shook his head. Get ahold of yourself old fool, he chastised himself, you're letting it all run away with you again.

The star theme continued. Even in the storeroom he found various designs with stars, even whole constellations of them, and the Sea....The white seabirds figured in a few, and even some grasses that were like the one he had pressed in his book. Going back to tend his fire, he noticed over the fireplace a rectangle of soft stone had been cleverly chiseled with a scene of a ship on stylized waving water.

Taking up a branch, he lit it in the fire for an impromptu torch and held it close to light the carving better. He touched it lightly. The detail was enchanting; this was much better than the first tower had been. He hated to think he had allowed himself to be distracted by Finch and possibly missed things like this before. He brought out his book, but then set it aside and decided to save the sketching for the morrow. He wanted to look up above while there was still some light. He slapped his knees with determination and got up. Once more he faced a set of stairs. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders he stepped up them. Having no audience to be brave for, he once more found himself hugging close to the wall and inching up until he came out into the second floor. The flooring seemed sound enough. He lightly crossed to the window, eager to peer at the Sea again, but a blank wall of grey-white was the only view. Looking around the walls and in the half-moon room to the side he again found the star and ocean motif. And - oh! What was that?

He crossed to the base of the second set of stairs. Several pieces of something like soapstone lay there, carven stone. He knelt and gently ran his hands over them. They were a picture, like the one over the fireplace. How long had it lay here like this, and how had it come to be dropped? He nudged the pieces together like a puzzle. Slowly an image came together. Another ship, with the front carven into the fanciful shape like a swan. More stars, trees forming a border. It was a shame the ship was so cracked. After considering a little, he chose one piece adorned with one big star and the swan prow and slipped it into his pocket.

Getting up, he stretched out the kinks in his legs and back and then peered up the steps. Just above the entrance to them there was a large blank place in the lintel carvings. Right away he realized the pieces on the floor must have fallen from it, giving way after who knows how many years.

"That would explain why there was no one here to pick you up." he said to the remaining pieces. He touched the heavy shape of the one in his pocket. and considered the rest. "Don't look at me like that. There's no use asking to come too, I can only carry a little. You're beyond repair, you know." But I'll try to sketch you in the morning he added silently as he turned away. The upper floor would have to wait. He carefully made his way back down to find little left of his fire; the brush had no staying power for burning. He got it going again then huddled close to examine his new treasure. It was a lovely stone with a tint of sea-green in it, smooth and pleasant to the touch. He hummed over it a little then wrapped it in a handkerchief and wedged it into the side pocket on his pack.
Realizing the brush was still burning too quickly, he took one more scouting mission to add to his stack, than curled up by his small fire to write as best he could in the failing light. The light of the fire flickered badly and every now and them it would spit hot bits of resinous burning wood out with loud cracking sounds, but he nevertheless managed to catch up on most of his notes. He finally set the book aside, rubbed his stiff writing hand and curled up in his cloak and blanket to get what sleep he could. The Elven designs around him were oddly comforting to him, as if some virtue from their makers still hung about the place. Without any fears for the night, he drifted off to sleep.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
Silivren penna miriel
O menal aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-diriel
O galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, si nef aearon!..

It was still dark when he awoke beside the long-dead hearth. He lay very still, for the Elvish singing in his dreams had seemed so real to him he thought for a moment that some of the fair folk really were nearby. He had been dreaming of the top room of the tower, but in his dream it had been warm and light and filled with music. The sunlight streaming in through the windows had been bright in his eyes, lighting tapestries upon the walls, tapestries so cleverly done the figures in them seemed almost to move and breathe as they reenacted their tales. It was something of a shock to awaken to darkness, and unmuffled, bare stone. He felt bereft. A great sense of loss, or mourning for something he could not even name welled up in his breast, held him motionless for a space of heartbeats then released him and was gone. Waking a little more, he greatly wondered at it and rehearsed it to himself so he would still remember when true day came. His eyes shut, he finally allowed himself to drift away again, not stirring until the sun spilled its rays over the top of the ridge.

16: Room With a View

Clearing his head of Elven dreams always took a while. Bilbo found himself just sitting, wrapped in his blanket for longer than usual before his mind could begin to find the true day. Turning to more mundane matters he looked for something to assauge his growling stomach. After breakfasting on the last of his jam and griddlecakes from his pack, he finally brushed his hands on his breeches and went to the doorway to have a look outside.

The tenacious fog had finally lifted and a spring wind pinked his cheeks and stirred his hair as he gazed out. It looked to be a nice, clear day. The grasses waved green and golden. To the east he could see the distant Shire laid out like a map. It was beautiful. Now that it was clear, he could also see where the stream ran that he had crossed in the fog and how very much he had wandered. He was glad all over again that he hadn't missed the tower entirely! He walked to the stream to rinse and fill his water bottle and to wash up a bit, then headed back for one last exploration before moving on.

Up the first set of steps one more time - he still didn't care for it, but it wasn't nearly as frightening as it had been at first. He wondered if he was capable of ever "getting used to" such a thing. The window gave him his view of the Sea this time, and also the sheltered bay far below where great quantities of tiny white seabirds flocked over the waters. He gazed for many minutes to memorize the view. The sunshine and sea air lent him a certain amount of courage, so carefully stepping over the shattered carving on the floor he started up the second flight of steps.

As he emerged into the third level of rooms he was glad to see it had fared better than the first tower's had. The flooring was intact and in spite of evidence of various bird-nestings, it was much cleaner. He hesistantly stepped off the steps, and went as far as the center of the room shying away from the window. He wasn't sure he really wanted to see the view from this high up, it made him all fluttery inside just thinking about it. It felt strange enough just knowing he was at the top of a tower and the comforting ground was so very far away. The wind gusted a little outside and his imagination made the whole room seem to sway with it, the tower seem to tilt slightly. Some distance above his head a looped metal lamp hung from a wooden beam, dusty but sound. Yet another small fireplace was found along the wall, and the breeze could be felt coming from its chimney slot as much as from the window. He looked down at his feet and suddenly let out a "ahhh!"

Hunkering down, he ran his hands over the flooring. Thin pieces of different kinds of wood and stone lay joined in an elaborate pattern. The wood had worn, but was in surprisingly good shape. Each shade of brown, gold or red brightened under his hand as he cleared away dust and grime. His hands were soon black with dirt. When he had cleared a goodly portion of it, he got out his notebook and sketched, making notations of what each color was, though the dirt from his hands smudged the page. It would have to do. Star patterns, moon patterns and tree-branch patterns, the occasional flower. It must have taken some craftsman years to do this... He shook his head. No, some craftself, and an Elf wouldn't mind so much spending years of his life on a thing of beauty as a mortal would. Perhaps even several craftselves.

When he had all he reasonably could written down, he stood and took a good look at the next set of steps. They were narrower than the previous ones had been, and curled more tightly as the tower went upward. Did he want to go even further up? He put one foot on the step and then took it back down. He repeated this exercise twice more. Maybe later. Going back to the lower set, he prepared to descend the steps again, then hesistated, looking at the window once more. Would he regret it if he did not look? Yes, he decided, he would. Well then...

Before he could think about it too much and scare himself out of it, he crossed to the window, grasped the sill and stood tiptoe to look out, remembering to keep his eyes on the horizon.

The day was as clear to the West as it had been eastward, and the additional height made more of a difference in what he could see than he had thought it would. There was the sunlit Sea, the ridge around the bay, the tiny seabirds and dark trees upon the cliffs. But now he could also see down into the bay, and could see some of the Elf-built structures there. The top of a couple buildings, rounded and shining faintly. Part of a walkway, a smaller tower-like structure, a dock. A bit of tiny stairs. He watched long, but saw no movement on them, so intent that he forgot to be frightened of the height. It wasn't until he looked a notch farther down and saw the grassy edge of the ridge that he suddenly remembered and almost felt he would swoon. There was a strange sensation of falling, though he hadn't moved. He backed away from the window and just stood in the center of the room again until that unnerving feeling stopped.

He reached for his notebook again, but noticing his own blackened hands changed his mind. Back to the upper steps. He steeled himself.

In a sudden rush he ran about a third of the way up the flight of them looking straight ahead. He paused and glanced to the side, realizing he was now level with the ceiling lamp. This was a mistake. He much more slowly made his way up until his head came out in the uppermost chamber, which was smaller and musty with old bird-nestings. He didn't go up into it, but glanced around. A single chamber, with small windows and to his great surprise a ladder going even further up. It ended in darkness. He could only assume it went up to the roof of the tower, a thought that was out of his reckoning when it came down to it. With no one to witness this small cowardice, he allowed himself to edge back down.

He worked his way back down to the main floor. After washing up at the little stream once more, he filled another page in his book then gathered his things to head to the last tower. The sight of the Elven buildings and the improvements between this tower and the last had buoyed his hopes that there might be something worth seeing there after all.


Bidding farewell to the "star tower," he walked north along the ridge. The weather started off spring-warm and clear, but as the day wore on a wind came up, blowing in off the sea. It strongly bore the scent of the waves and the chill of them also. In the late afternoon he finally began to approach the third tower, but by then the wind had become so strong and gusty it was occasionally knocking him off balance. Off towards the sea dark violet-grey and yellow clouds had formed and the sun began to sink into them, bringing a premature shadow to a bright day. He struggled along through the grasses that now whipped him painfully with their leaves and stalks and was glad to see a bit of trees in the distance, where the ridge began its long slope down towards the distant road. The more wood, the better.

It appeared he was in for a bit of a storm. Grateful once again for their enduring shelter, he staggered out of the force of the wind into the now-familar doorway of the Elven tower, and just leaned against the wall there for a couple minutes to catch his breath. He knew from the blackness of the rapidly approaching stormfront that he only had a short time before rains began and he better stock up on dry firewood while he could. Who knows how long it would take to blow itself out?

Glancing all-too-briefly into the rooms, he dropped his pack and stick by the cold fireplace in the largest room and headed out towards the relatively nearby wood. The trees creaked and waved alarmingly over his head, but the wind was proving useful in bringing deadwood down from their boughs. He rapidly gathered as much as he could carry and waded back through the grasses, puffing. He dropped his burden down by the fireplace, pivoted on his heel and went straight back out, brushing away bits of bark and dirt as he went. No time to stop now. Another load of sticks, the fattest ones he could find. Back to the tower. Drop it. Back to the wood. He pulled up an entire dry branch, too hefty to break easily, but it he could work on that inside later. Tugging its length behind him he dragged it over the grasses and down the hall. I spite of the chill, he wiped sweat from his eyes as he went out a fourth time.

He was almost knocked down by the wind as he crossed to the wood, spinning like a dancer to regain his footing. The first few drops of rain struck him, fat and hard. Another big armload of wood, large twigs stuck under his arms as he struggled to carry all he could. Using his chin as a hook, he managed to keep the stack in place long enough to reach the doorway, put spilled over half of it in the hall. Time enough to pick it up later. He dropped the rest clattering among their companions and went out once more. By the time he made his sixth round, the rain was coming down. By the seventh it was coming in sheets and after he had briefly become airborne he had to admit defeat, hoping it would be better later on. The Shire rarely saw weather like this. He suddenly realized it must be because these very hills sheltered it from the worst of such blows.

Where he had been hot before, now that he stopped moving the chill of the wind and rain began to catch up with him and he shivered. At least it was short work to choose a handful of the dry twigs he had first gathered and to start a fire going.

There was a banging sound. Startled, he looked up from the fireplace to the window that the sound came from. It banged again: thump, thump, THUMP.

He picked up his walking stick and carefully approached the sound, mystified at first and then suddenly smiling. Shutters! This tower had shutters! Where the others had only been able to offer empty brackets, there they were. He found it a very welcome improvement indeed, and was quick to climb the bench and stretch out to grab at them the next time the rising wind swung them back and forth. He pulled them closed and fastened them. The room immediately felt warmer, even if it did lower the light considerably. He went back to his little fire to tend it lest it die, feeding in slightly larger wood. Now if there were only a door. He blinked, realizing that he had simply assumed there wasn't one, and hadn't given it a good look with all the hurry. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, he thought he has seen a door.

He pattered down the tall hallway to the entrance. Sure enough, the door! How had he missed it? There was that clever recess in the wall that it just fit into, so it did not block the entrance at all when opened, almost as if it were just another large shutter. It was all of a weathered, thick wood and he had to tug on it with all his might willing it to move. It didn't budge. He pried at it in futility. Sitting down, he leaned his back against the wall and fitted his feet along the edge to push at it with all the strength of his legs. It moved slightly. A couple more hard kicks and it suddenly scraped free of an unevenness in the flooring to swing away from the wall. Quickly getting up, he barely managed to push it shut against the wind and dropped the bar into place. The tower was suddenly dark and quiet compared to what it had been a short time before. He didn't mind the dark at all though, it felt homelike and cozy somehow. Even though he was far from home, alone and beset by a storm, he was content.

17: Stormy Weather

The storm shut safely outside, Bilbo had only to gather up the spilled wood in the hallway and to drag the branch the rest of the way into the large room, which he promptly did. With the wind no longer a factor he found it feasible to use the smaller "meeting" room as his camp where the room would heat up more quickly and not lose all its warmth straight up the stairwell. He was quite pleased to find a table there; as barren as the others had been he no longer expected furniture or anything, really. Perhaps it had been too big and heavy to be moved. He listened to the wind and rain, muffled through the thick walls and was glad of his fire.

As with the other two, this tower had a storeroom to one side and the sort of meeting room to the other. Once the fire had become established enough he could leave it to burn unattended, he took a good look around. Where the first had displayed a mural of trees, and the second of moonlit waters this one had stylized Elves, frozen forever in a silent and bright merrymaking. He only wished the heavy wooden table that filled the end of the room were as laden with food as its painted counterpart was. His stomach growled at the sight of it. He took stock of what he had left and it wasn't too encouraging; a bit of cheese, a bit of hard bread, a nearly empty jam jar and the apples and seedcake he'd purchased from Lardy. He hoped the storm wouldn't last too long.

He lit a small branch in the fire and by its meager light took a look into the storeroom. He was so sure it would be empty he almost missed the fact it wasn't and had to do a bit of a doubletake. There were two wooden chests under the shelving, and something small on the shelves themselves. He looked a little closer. A bundle of candles! His excitement soared. If someone had left candles here, then maybe there would be other things to find also! The discovery was none too soon either, as his branch's flame had quickly fallen to little more than a useless smoking ember. He took up the bundle and crossed to "his room" to lay them out on the table. The thick tapers were long and smooth and smelled faintly of honey. There were seven of them, held together with a bit of cording;. he slipped one out and lit it in the fire, silently thanking whomever had left them and hoping they wouldn't mind his adopting them for his own use.

Carefully shielding the wavering flame with his hand, he went back to the storeroom. He scanned the shelves briefly, then turned to the chests. They weren't latched, and the first lid he tried lifted open with only a small complaint. The inside was lined with a reddish, fragrant wood that still held a sweet, rich scent and his delight at the contents was so great he almost dripped the taper onto them. A blanket! He knelt down. reaching into the chest he ran his hands over it appreciatively, bunching it to feel its thickness. He gently lifted it up. It was light but warm, a dark shade of brown cleverly and tightly woven. Under it he was surprised to find two other blankets, slightly thinner, both woven of the same cloth but in green, warm and sound. Wrapped beside them lay a wood-cutting hatchet. Such a wealth! He would have to be sure he got them back in their proper places before he left.

He hefted the hatchet thoughtfully, large but light. These items did not appear to be that old. This tower must still in use from time to time, being closest to the western road then. It would make sense, he thought, for some basic wayfaring supplies to be kept here in case they were wanted. He wondered briefly if any such travelers would be by while he was there. Not in this weather, that was for sure and certain. Besides, he knew they didn't usually travel through in the wet and unpredictable springtime.

Still, it was nice to think of for a moment or two, to imagine having an unexpected guest.

The second chest also opened easily. This one held three wide-mouthed rain jars and to his lasting gratitude, a sack of dry, unshelled hazelnuts. He had no idea how long they had been there but hoped they were still good. He was glad of the jars also, for he had not noticed any well nor stream nearby when he was carrying in the wood. Water was something he would be wanting in a bit, no doubt. He set down the hatchet and tucked the candle into a sconce on the wall. Storm or not, there was nothing for it but to get it done.

With a rain jar under each arm he went back to the door. Lifting the bar, he nearly had to jump out of the way when the wind tried to slam it open. He got the jars out where he figured they would fill up quickly enough. There was now a moderately deep rivulet running right past the door and the rain swirled around the tower walls in sheets. Panting, he pushed the heavy wooden door shut again and then stood in the quiet shivering, all of his accumulated warmth having gone out with the rain jars. Wrapping up in the blankets like a diminutive ancient king with multiple cloaks, he trailed them behind him back to the warm fire where he settled down to warm up and to inspect the nuts.

The hatchet was no doubt a small one for an Elf, and gracefully made as well but it seemed almost an axe to him. Reversing the blade, he used the blunt side of the head to bash open nuts on the hearth. Whether some Elven favor rested upon them he didn't know, but every one he opened was both fat and fresh. He had to remind himself to ration them, for he was so hungry he would have happily eaten half of the generous bag right then. Closing the sack, he tossed the shells into the fire and lifted the hatchet in a salute to the silent Elves merrymaking on the wall beside him.

The harp.

He almost choked on the last nut he was still chewing and coughed. How had he missed this before? He must have only noticed their laden table, being hungry himself. The firelight spilled across the mural, lit the harpist's hands upon the strings. Only part of it could be seen behind the other members of the tableau, but he had no doubt at all. The trees, the waves, even the bird carved along the edges and top. The graceful red-colored floor harp stood silent and singing both. He reached up and touched the painted harp, remembering the feel of smooth wood under his hands in the Mathom House. He was almost in a daze to think that his silly fantasy that it had come from the towers was true. It couldn't be, and yet there it was. The painting must be old then, very old, though the colors were still bright. He looked at the faces of the stylized Elves with their laughing eyes and flowing robes, especially at the harpist. He looked a bit more serious than the rest, his mouth open in soundless singing.

Bilbo stood and gazed at the firelight on the harpist, and then in a whisper began to sing along, singing softly a bit of his own verse about the harpist at first. As naturally as breathing he found himself slipping into the few Elven songs he knew by heart and his voice grew. He sang on and on, softly with the harpist until his throat began to give out and the fire began to settle into glowing embers, lost in the verse and tale, firelight and storm. The shutters suddenly creaked loudly with an exceptionally hard gust of wind and the sound it made broke the spell. As one waking from a dream he suddenly looked around the barren room, coming back to find himself alone in an empty room, with a dying fire.

He gave the harpist a long look. What had just happened? It had seemed so alive to him, for a time. He looked at it closely, but it was just a painting on the wall again, the fire dim. He lifted the hatchet to the harpist in a silent salute and turned to tend the hearth.

Outside, the water jars were filled to the brim. He managed to carry them in one at a time and latched the door, then set about straightening up all the wood he had brought in earlier. It was now very dark out, and the storm showed no signs of letting up; if anything it seemed to be getting worse. It hissed around the edges of the shutters and pulled and pushed at the door. The tower stood unmoved by its passing fury, at peace.

Bilbo worked, but his mind was far away from the tasks of his hands, far away in his study searching his books for more songs, far away in the woods of the Shire watching the Elves passing along the way, far away in Rivendell, listening to their music under bright stars until at last he lay down to sleep warmly under the dreaming eyes of the harpist on the wall.

18: Holing Up

The storm blew on through the night; he listened to it moaning outside when he awoke in the small hours. He fed the dying fire a bit of wood and slept again. The next time he awoke it felt like morning, though nothing had changed. A small amount of grey light came in the window slots that were not shuttered, but the wind and rain continued on and the passage of time meant little. He could hear the water sluicing against the walls outside. By now his fire had warmed the room nicely so he drank clear water and ate his apples and seedcake in relative comfort.

"Well," he said to the harpist on the wall, "I hope you don't mind, but I think I'm going to have a look around your home. You and your friends are welcome to enjoy the fire. I'll be back in a bit." Not caring about the appearance of it, he put his belt over one of the blankets to bind it around him for warmth, tucked his notebook under his arm and headed for the stairs.

He was surprised to realize that while uncomfortable, the stairs no longer frightened him. As long as he kept up against the wall and deliberately thought about something else, he was able to walk up them fairly steadily. As he expected, the second floor followed the pattern of the other towers, but he immediately found several improvements. Right away he crossed to the window and pulled the shutters closed against the wind and rain. The open window had resulted in a wet stone floor for a space and he gingerly stepped out of the puddle on the floor. This room had furniture! Sort of. A little anyway. He noted the light, moveable screen cleverly woven from the same grasses that grew on the downs, and two stands of some sort, perhaps originally for musical instruments. There seemed to be an ongoing musical theme here, after all. The lintels were carved with patterns of ribbons, graceful wine goblets, flutes and harps.

In the side room he found a rounded table, a narrow writing desk with a dried up inkwell, some untrimmed quills in its drawer and two stools. They were a bit tall for a hobbit, but he decided he would lug one down to sit on by the fire later on. For now, he sat on it and dangled his legs while inscribing in his book.

As I write this I am sitting upon a tall wooden stool far above the ground in more ways than one.- in an Elven tower, suspended in the air in the midst of the worst storm I have heard for many years yet I am as warm and comfortable as any bird must be in its nest. Holing up takes on new meaning when one is dwelling in a home that seems determined to pull its occupants up into the sky...

I cannot forget the Sea's nearness. It has taken the miles that yet lay between us and closed that distance to naught, throwing itself at this place. It hardly seems to be the same Creature as that which lay so calm and white-drifted just a two days ago, or that which hence will be the softness to bear any craft without the perishing of its passengers....

After a bit his hand and back complained against the writing, so he closed it back up. The day was moving on - now for the next set. Over towards the rising stairs he found the stone flooring partially overlaid with an intricate layer of interlocking wood pieces, giving it a pleasant feel under his feet. It formed a fan pattern, radiating out from the base of the steps. He squared his shoulders, took a breath and started up the next flight.

Stepping out onto the third level he was suprised to find the shutters already closed. Again he found a smooth wooden flooring laid over the cold stone, it's pattern repeating and interlocking. A neat, dry stack of firewood lay ready beside the empty hearth as if awaiting someone's return, and an ornate metal brazier stood near the rank of closets to the side. He peered into the closets feeling for the first time a touch uncomfortable, as if he were trespassing in someone's home. They were mostly empty, but not all. In the center one a leather packet held clean linen strips and squares. Beside it, a cloth-wrapped block of resin, a carven box with coarse-ground salt in it and another box. It was clasped but empty, and he guessed from the shape and size of it may have held the tools of a healer.

Upon the shelves of the next closet there were several gracefully made apothcary jars of various types. He gingerly opened them and looked inside them, then sniffed. Empty but still holding the ghosts of their medicines and herbs, the faint scents wafted up to him from their interiors. One tickled his nose with a scent of pipeweed; he hopefully shook it upside down, but it was empty. A little pipeweed would have been a nice treat. He was mildly suprised to find it, for he had not known the Elves to smoke; perhaps it had other uses for them. One tall jar was sealed with pale wax. He hesitated over the idea of opening it for a moment, but decided he dared not break the seal. It did not stop him from wondering greatly what was in it. He lifted it to feel the weight and found it was heavy but did not slosh. He carefully set it back where it belonged.

Turning, he went over to the window. The wind whistled around the edges of the shutters in gusts, cold on his hands. The lintel was carven with a flute design, and he could swear he was hearing musical notes. A trick of the wind no doubt. He reached up and undid the latch, allowing the shutters to be blown open.

The sound and the smell of the storm came in a rush. Outside the sky was dark, the clouds low and angry. They swept past at a great rate. The storm-swept ocean was barely visible, obscured, grey and sullen. A wet gust lifted his hair to wave above his head and spattered him with fat drops of rain. He remembered to not look down, but grasped the lintel so tightly his knuckles showed white as he tried to convince his own self that he was not uncounted feet above the earth. This turn of the weather did not look like it would be over anytime soon. He pushed the shutters closed and after a bit of struggling with it got the latch back in place. Memories of the storm he had faced in the Misty Mountains long ago had suddenly surged up around him as he stood there, and he was glad to be able to shut it outside. Some things were better not dwelt on, even after this many years. As he stood there, waiting for his mild shivering to subside he heard a flute again. No not a flute. Maybe more like hand pipes being played, only a note here, a note there. No tune.

It had to be the wind. For his own sanity's sake, he needed to believe that. He looked at the lintels and fireplace, which all bore a pipe and flute theme. The music sounded again. Not really music, more of the random notes. Multiple ones, softly sounding nearby.

Mystified, he tried to track where it was coming from, moving silently around the room. It was only intermittant, but he tracked it first to the fireplace and then to the next set of upward sweeping stairs. Yes, there it was. Up there. Soft notes questioning, then an answering one.

These stairs were narrower than the previous ones. He reluctantly set his feet on them and step by step lifted upward. The notes sounded again, softly, closer. It did not sound like the sort of sounds wind would make, it sounded more like.... His head came up into the upper chamber and the sounds stopped.

Roughly two dozen pairs of eyes looked back into his own.

Birds! A type of seabird perhaps, though they were darker than the white ones he had seen far below. A small flock of them had taken shelter from the storm and now moved restlessly, unsure what to do about the hobbit-head that had so suddenly introduced itself in their midst.

The wind blew past the small open window they had no doubt come in through. The room did not smell like a nesting place; only temporary visitors then, not unlike himself. He knew how aggressive some birds could be if they felt threatened; a neighbor's gander had given him quite a fright more than once. He moved very slowly, talking to them in tones that he hoped were at least a little like their own, the soft friendly stream of flattery that he also used for dogs and very small children.

He very slowly climbed up into the room.Their glossy brown and white necks followed his every move but they didn't back away from him. They looked at him so curiously he could not help but wonder if they had ever seen a hobbit before. Keeping the soft words going, he looked around the room. A wooden chest stood near, but it was open and obviously empty. He realized the birds appeared to be sitting in a pile of sacking. No wonder they weren't moving, they weren't about to give up thier 'nest.' He considered the ladder that went up to the rooftop on the other side. He warred within himself, part of him wishing that the weather were better so he could go up it, the rest of him being grateful for the excuse that kept him where he was. Nothing else to be seen.

Bidding a soft stream of farewells to the watching birds, he lowered himself back down the stairs. Their bright eyes, trained on his every movement bobbed up and down with every step and he suddenly had to fight the desire to laugh at them. He deliberately bobbed up and down in place, watching their beaks rise and fall with him in unison. He rocked side to side and they all swayed together.

A last smiling farewell and he left them to their sacking in peace. After all, they were just holing up too.

He worked his way back down to the main floor, stopping to pick up the wooden stool on the second level. It proved more difficult to get it down the one flight of steps than he had thought and after he and the stool took a brief tumble on the last three steps, he was a bit shaken up. No more furniture moving. He dragged it over to the hearth and built the fire back up. He then sat upon it and gave a little wave to the harpist.

"Look at this! Nice, eh? Aside from getting it down here, it's quite pleasant. I figure it's only fair reasoning if you have a seat to sit on while you play, I should have one while I listen." He settled down to crack a good portion of the remaining nuts then began sketching and writing of all he had seen, including the birds. Outside the wind and rain raged on and the hours of the day whiled away into an early windswept night.

19: Little Rivers

Somewhere in the night he became aware of a change. The sound of the storm softened, the heavy rains gradually lessened until he could barely hear them outside the walls at all. Bilbo awoke early, added wood to his banked fire then dozed again. He was glad to hear the change, for his food supplies were low and he was still at least a day if not two from any farm or cothold that might be able to sell him some provisions. It was too early in the year for foraging.

Late in the morning he allowed himself a bit of breakfast, then began to straighten up the tower rooms he had used. Almost all of the wood he had brought in was now gone. Using a leafy branch as a makeshift broom he was able to sweep the worst of the bark and bits of twig back outside. He packed the nuts and one candle and put the remaining ones, the hatchet, the rain jars and blankets into the storeroom chest. It was tempting to keep one of the blankets, but he didn't feel it would be right. They were a loan. The stool he left where it was. When all was reasonably tidy and gathered together, he faced the painting on the wall one last time.

"Farewell," he said with a nod to the silent singing harpist. "I rather hate to have to leave you here alone again, but that is the way of it, you know. Trust that I shall be looking at your harp in Michel Delving with different eyes after this!" The harpist regarded him seriously as he played upon the painted strings without ceasing. Bilbo reached up and ran his hand along the harp also. "I am sorry that I do not know your name..." he whispered. He paused, then sighed heavily and slung his pack over his shoulder. With one last backward glance, he passed out of the room and then from the tower.

The storm had washed the air clean and clear, and while the wind still blew it was with a much gentler hand. He listened to it sighing in the nearby trees and to the gurgling of uncounted little streams as the rainwater found its way back down the hill to the sea. The ground was wet, the grasses laying half-flattened and sodden as a newly washed rug. He set off eastward and down, skirting the trees that encroached up the water-filled gullies in favor of the openness of the downs. Off to the north he knew the road ran, but he cut northeast to cover as much ground as he could before he met with it. He'd had a late start and wasn't quite sure how far he was from the nearest homes.

The hours passed slowly, though the walking was easy as he was mostly going downhill. He ate only sparingly and rested only when he had to. The small animals and birds were out in abundance between the new Spring and their having been holed up through the storm also. Flocks of quick little birds swooped among the grasses and every now and then a movement underneath the stalks would tell him of some small animal startled by his approach. When he almost tripped over a rabbit at one point and it would have been difficult to say which of them was the more surprised. It skittered off into it's hole, something that he was wishing he could do himself at the time, if his hole had been closer.

He found his way to the road somewhat impeded by the countless little rivers that had sprung up from the rainstorm. Some he could jump over, some he could wade. Others were deep and wide enough to be real causes for concern, and with it still raining now and then there was little hope of their receding. He found his path bent again and again as he had to navigate these small waterways, following along them until they either spread out enough to be shallow or narrowed to be jumpable. A few of the widest, deepest ones could have qualified at rivers and small ponds, right down to the waterbirds bobbing around on their surface. He noted a few of the brown and white duck-like seabirds ducking their heads into the water, ruffling and preening and couldn't help but wonder if they were the same ones he had met at the tower. They ignored his greetings, drifting away from him unconcernedly as he waded past. A couple glossy brown feathers floated past him and he lifted one out of the water, shaking the drops off of it and tucking it in his pocket to remember them by.

Because of the little rivers it was much later than he had anticipated by the time he reached the road; as the day began to wane he still found no sign of any type of dwelling. The weather was still proving very changeable, so he began to look in earnest for someplace he could shelter the night. At the foot of the downs he found a clump of woods and decided it would at least be an improvement over the open grasses. Luck was with him, for shortly after he entered it he found a large tree that had fallen with a very convenient dry sort of cave where its heart once had been. And even better, it was unoccupied. He knew most dry hiding places in the wild already held one type of animal or another and had approached it cautiously with a stone in either hand ready for throwing.

He crawled in over the soft red loam and spongy bark, brushing away cobwebs and sticks. Breathing in the rich, woody compost scent; he found it was quite dry inside and even had enough room to sleep if he didn't stretch out all the way. He cleared a small area for a fire, being careful to keep it away from the walls of the tree lest he set his 'house' afire. The tiny warmth and light were very cheering after such a long, wet day though it did little to dry his clothing out. He ate the last of his seedcake for supper and wrapped himself up, too tired for anything more.


The next morning used up the last of the hazelnuts from the tower. He walked back to the road and set out eastward fairly confidently, but soon reached the point in the path where he had to choose north or south. If he turned south he would eventually end up back in Undertowers. This did not appeal, and would add many unnecessary miles he thought. North should eventually bring him to Little Delving. He thought about cutting straight across country, but any houses or smials would be found along the road, not out there. North by the road it was then.

At lunchtime he ate most of his remaining apple, and there still was not a home in sight. He had forgotten how truly uncomfortable it was to have to walk so much and not have anything 'decent' to eat. As he paced along he found his thoughts drawn to memories of food, of favorite meals and treats. As often is the case, the more he tried to not think of them, the more they intruded into his mind. Platters of roast and potatoes, eggs and bacon, fresh-baked nut-cakes, vegetable stew all steaming and fragrant and hot...

He finally gave in and ate the last bits of his apple. It didn't help.

Another thing that didn't help was the continuing problem of little rivers. The road frequently had them crossing it along this stretch, waters coming down off the hills and heading for the marshy lowland on the other side. He soon was greatly wearied of having to wade and jump through cold muddy water, and of trying to avoid the pale worms that lay scattered along the flooded ways. Only thing worse than stepping on dead worms was stepping on slugs, and he encountered a few of those along the side of the road as well, grimacing and scraping the bottom of his feet in the dirt to get rid of the feeling of them.

By the time the day was waning he was muddy and miserable enough that any food or fire would have been welcome, and when a farmhouse finally came into view he would have run to it if he hadn't been so footsore.

He walked up the cartpath. It did not look particularly welcoming, but there was smoke coming from a stovepipe so he knew there had to be someone about. He noted there were three barns which were low and in ill repair. When a whiff of the barns blew his way he sincerely hoped he didn't need to sleep there; he heard and smelled a great many chickens, but to his relief no dogs barked.

The brown door was in need of fresh paint, and a sour smell rose up from the old hay that was scattered about the yard. Two stacks of empty chicken crates leaned against the house. No, it wasn't promising. He could find neither bell nor knocker, so he tenatively tapped on the door with his knuckles, and waited. Inside there was some movement then the door abruptly opened to reveal a somewhat pinched-looking hobbit-lady with a stained apron tied over her dress.

She frowned at him warily. "Yes?"

Aware of his muddy and bedraggled appearance, Bilbo could only assume she was taking him for some sort of begger or worse, especially being so far out from any other home. He smiled at her and tried to set her at ease. "Good evening! I've just been traveling to visit relatives and seem to have found myself rather far from town. Is there any chance you might be able to offer some shelter for the night, and a bite to eat?" She looked so unhospitable he added, "I am willing to pay you a fair price for it." Topping this information off with a slight bow, he waited for a reply.

"You'll have to wait." she said, and firmly closed the door.

He blinked at the shut door. How very strange. Wait for what, and for how long? He looked around for a place to do as instructed and finally had to settle onto a stump that was apparently used for chopping wood. There was another nearby that judging from the embedded chicken feathers and stains had been frequently used for something other. Having no other options around, he would wait. At least a little. He rubbed his tired legs and brushed at the worst of the mud on his clothing. The smoke curled out of the chimney into some nearby trees. The shadow of the hills crept out towards him as the sun settled behind them. He finally stood up again and tapped at the door.

She opened it again. "What?"

"Ehm..how long shall I wait? It's getting rather late..."

"You'll wait until my husband gets home, of course!"

"Ah. I see!...And is he expected anytime soon?"

She looked past him and frowned even deeper than before. "Right now."

He wondered at her dour look, then turned. Back up by the road, a cart was turning in the drive. He turned back again only to discover the door shut once more. An unhappy household, apparently. Well, he would speak with the master of the home then, if the mistress was determined to be less than hospitable. He could understand propriety, but such rudeness to a stranger was unexpected. He walked to meet the cart as it creaked his way.

The pony pulling the cart was thin and mean-looking. Not to be outdone by his animal, the hobbit driving it was meaner, the sort of face that would have looked better hidden by a dwarven beard if such a thing were possible. At least that was Bilbo's initial impression, one that he hoped was quite wrong. The cart was nearly filled with empty crates.

"Good evening," greeted Bilbo as the cart slowed. "I've been traveling to visit relatives and find myself in need of some shelter and a bit to eat..."

"What, does this look like an Inn to you?"

Bilbo was a bit nonplussed at this brusque greeting, but it matched well with the mistress of the home. "I am fully prepared to pay you a fair price for your kind hospitality."

"Hah. You are are you? Well, we'll see about that." He climbed down from the cart and started unharnessing the pony. "I'm no Innkeeper, and I don't intend to become one. Folk think just because we live out here near the road that they can just come trespassin' on our land, walkin' right up and eatin' up our hard-earned food, they think we..."

"Now look here." Bilbo frowned and bit his tongue for a moment looking for polite words. "I said I would pay you. If I had another place to go, I would be glad to do so. Is there a neighbor nearby I might inquire of?"

The hobbit grunted as he lifted the harness off and slapped the pony to send it to the barn. "Nah. No neighbor. You'll have to stay, but you'll have to pay too, is that clear?"

A stubborn set showed in Bilbo's chin but he kept his voice civil. "For the third time, I already said I would."

He was given a hard look, then dismissed. "Hasno! Get your lazy, empty head up off those sacks and stable the pony! I'm going inside." There was a movement in the back of the cart and a nearly-tween hobbit staggered up sleepily, then climbed down and headed for the barns. Bilbo didn't think he'd even realized there was someone besides his father in the yard. Lacking any other direction, Bilbo followed the hobbit back towards his house.

The farmer glanced back at him as they walked. "So, what's your name?"

"Bilbo Baggins."

There was a pause, then a slight change in tone - a sort of hideous attempt at being cheery. "Hardno Todefoot." He opened the door. "Come in, Mr. Baggins, come in! I'm sure we can find you some, eh, hospitality. You like eggs?"

The brown door shut behind them.

20: Only the Best

The inside of the home was neat enough, but had a shabby feel to it. Mrs. Todefoot merely glanced up at him before going back to her work. Their brief acquaintance at her door apparently was all he would get in the way of greeting. The smell of chicken roasting filled the small kitchen, and something bubbled on the stove. Bilbo was glad the noise of their entry had hidden his stomach growling. He was surprised to see there was a dog after all, but it was hardly a threat. The elderly dog lay under the table, so unmoving he wasn't sure if it was alive at first; it lifted it's head partway up, gave him a clouded uncaring look and dropped it back to the floor.

"Beryl, this is Mr. Bilbo Baggins!" Hardno announced a bit too loudly to his wife. Her eyebrows went up slightly. "He's going to be staying with us for dinner, and gets only the best, of course!"

Bilbo was no fool, and Hardno was no actor. Bilbo could see this hobbit was a sour old miser and his only reason for letting this "guest" stay at all was no doubt the tales that circulated around the Shire regarding Bilbo's wealth. If he hadn't been so hungry and tired, he would have turned around and left right then, but having no other lodging available he reluctantly had to play along.

"Yes, yes." He said, with equally false cheerfulness and flattery. "I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Todefoot. You are most kind to allow me to share your meal. I am sure it will be the best in the Shire, or anywhere around it and look forward to sampling your cooking. While I wait, I will be glad to bathe the weariness of my travels away to be able to grace your table more appropriately."

They just looked at him.

"Do you have a bathing room I could make use of while the food is cooking?" he asked more straightforwardly. Apparently the courtesy of his speech was wasted on them.

Mrs. Todefoot went back to cooking, leaving her husband to deal with it. Mr. Todefoot frowned, then remembered who he was speaking to. The false smile crawled across his face again and clung under his nose like a parasite. "Of course! Nothing but the best for our guest. We'll set some water to heating right away."

"Very good. Then I shall wait by the fire until it is ready. Thank you."

He turned to the sitting room adjoined the kitchen. The hearth was cold. Hardno followed him in. "The fire in the stove heats the house well enough for us, Mr. Baggins. If you're going to be wanting an extra fire and baths, you'll be making it up for us?" It was a question yet not a question. Bilbo knew what he meant.

"Yes, I'll be willing to pay you a fair price for the water and wood." He sat in the chair, very pointedly making no move to start the fire himself. Hardno hesistated and his smile flickered badly, but he moved to set the wood in the fireplace. He blew on the small sparks until they caught, grumbling all the while.

"Takes a lot of time to get wood, you know. Hard work too. Time that has to be taken away from other jobs. Then it has to be chopped too. My son, now he knows how to keep warm; good hard work warms him up just fine."

The implication was obviously that his guest was lazy as well as greedy and demanding. Bilbo ignored it, determined to be pleasant but not to bend. "Thank you for the fire. It is most welcome. Might I also have something to drink while I wait?"

Hardno stiffened again. "There's the well, right outside. Just go 'round the corner."

Bilbo laughed hollowly at him, as if he had just told a joke. "No, no my dear fellow. Something warm of course. I am sure the very best you can offer would include something warm to drink on a cool evening."

His host turned so Bilbo couldn't see his face and addressed his wife in a slightly strangled tone. "Some tea for our guest, he needs something warm to drink. Price of tea has been pretty high lately, so I hope he will enjoy it." He abruptly went outside, the old dog following him. Bilbo sighed. After being alone for several days it was annoying to have to deal with temperamental hobbits like this. Seems every town had at least one. Maybe that was why they lived out here, so far from town - no one wanted anything to do with them. Sad, really, but self-inflicted and Bilbo had little pity or patience for it.

Mrs. Todefoot came with a cup and handed it to him without comment. He took it and thanked her. It was a welcoming warmth to his cold hands. He sipped it carefully, then looked at it more closely. It was tea, sure enough but so weak as to have almost no flavor at all - she must have simply waved a tea-ball through it to color it. He toyed with asking for cream, but decided to leave it be. At least it was warm. No reason to harrass more than was necessary.

He fed the fire to keep it going and finished the 'tea'. "Is my bathing water ready?" he asked.

She took a cloth and pulled a large kettle off of the stove. "Follow me." she said. He followed her to a room at the end of a short hall. "Here," she said with barely concealed irony, "The very best." She left him there and went back to the kitchen.

The bathing room was cramped, cold and musty. He decided to stick with only the most necessary repairs and poured the kettle into a small washbasin, laving his face and hands, then using the single washing cloth to take care of his feet. He poured it out and returned to the sitting room. The smell of the chicken was making his mouth water and he was glad to see her getting ready to serve it up.

With a rush of cold air, father and son came in the door. The son directed a look his way, but Bilbo couldn't tell if he was surprised at Bilbo sitting there, or at the fire which was now crackling merrily as Bilbo had stacked on a generous amount of wood.

"Ma, got another one!" he held up a dark object that dangled. She turned to see, then made a face.

"Well, you can be the one to dress it then. I've already done my part for today, and we have two hens roasting already. Why'd you go and do that?"

Bilbo looked curiously from his place by the fire, then he heart contracted within him as he realized what the boy was holding. One of the brown and white seabirds hung from his hand, limp and dead.

"Aw, it was goin' after the chicken feed and wouldn't shoo. I chucked a rock at it. Didn't mean to kill it..."

"They make good enough eating," interrupted Hardno, "not like them gulls. No sense letting it go to waste. You'll dress it after we're done with dinner." The boy opened his mouth. "No arguin'!"

Hasno took the bird back outside. Bilbo sat and stared at the flames, trying to erase the pathetic look in its dead eyes from his mind. It was just a bird. Yet he sorrowed inside, remembering their glossy necks and bright looks in the tower. It was well that Mrs. Todefoot was slow on serving the meal - he needed that time to mourn.

They finally gathered at the table where two roast chickens sat upon a platter, along with a bowl of boiled potatoes, a bowl of boiled eggs and a pan of cornbread. More of the weak tea was poured and they set to. Bilbo was starved, and though he knew the farmer was begrudging him every bite, he ate heartily. Hardno talked a little about the market he had been at that day, mostly to comment dourly that no one appreciated how much work it was to raise the best chickens in the Shire. He added comments about how expensive everything was nowdays and how everything wore out too soon, and mostly how no one truly appreciated the value of things.

Bilbo chewed, not really listening too closely. His host was an unimaginative bean counter. It was not the honest gold-lust that Dwarves had, who could tally values within an inch; it was a mean, scrabbling sort of gold-lust, the kind that profits from anothers misfortune or tries to gain more by trickery. Like scavenger-birds, except worse as they might even create the accidents they scavenge.

Hardno rebuked his son for reaching for more chicken. Can't he see they have a guest and food is expensive and so on. The son obviously resented it, but was ignored. His father continued in his monologue, gloating to his family about having gotten rid of some elderly hens by slipping them into a lot that had been sold that morning. They nodded as if this were very clever; Bilbo kept his thoughts on such matters to himself.

The unpleasant meal wound to a close fairly quickly with almost no leftovers. Bilbo went back to the sitting room and fed another log to the fire pretending to not notice Hardno's grimace when he did so.

"Well now, I have two favors that I must yet ask of you, Mr. Todefoot. For tonight I must have a warm place to sleep, and I require it be in the house, not the stable. For tomorrow, I am in need of provisions for the road as I still have many miles to go."

Mr. Todefoot opened and shut his mouth. "I'm not a grocer nor an Innkeeper, Mr. Baggins and this is no Inn. We haven't any extra rooms..."

Bilbo shifted, then pulled a wallet from his pocket and tilted it, deliberately making the coins clink together. He eyed his host. It had the desired effect.

"....but I'm sure we can work something out." He turned to his son, who was running his finger around a bowl in the kitchen and licking it off. "Hasno! Mr. Baggins will be taking your room tonight."

"But, da..!" began Hasno, silenced by a stern look from both of his parents.

"No, no," said Bilbo, who didn't even want to know what the boy's room looked like, the bird-killer. "I'll not need his room. I'd prefer to just sleep here by the fire, if you don't mind."

This brought relieved smiles all around. "Not at all, Mr. Baggins. That would be fine."

"Now, about those provisions."

"Only the best! Only the best. Beryl here will fill your pack with only the best we have, of course."

"Only the best." said Bilbo drily. "Yes. And I shall be glad to watch her do so, lest she need any help or suggestions."

They were unhappy with this but nodded, Hardno went to his wife and after speaking softly with her for a couple moments returned more cheerfully. "As you say. But once it is packed, I will need you to settle our score before we retire. I'm sure you'll be wanting an early start, and that way you won't need to wait for us."

It seemed very solicitous, but Bilbo knew they really were afraid he would slip away in the night without paying them. He went along with it. "Of course. Now let's see what we can fill my poor, empty pack with, shall we?" He went into the kitchen with it in his hand, opened it up and set it on the table. Then he pulled up a chair and waited to see what would happen.

"Hasno, come with me. The chickens need to be watered and readied for night, and you still have that bird to clean. I'll be back." Father and son went out. Bilbo mildly gazed at Mrs. Todefoot. She seemed uncomfortable, but set about filling his pack. He watched without much comment, and was quite surprised to see what she put in. She really did put in the best, pulling items from deep within her cupboards. She gave him seasoned chicken jerky, jam, a packet of cornbread, a small pot of sweet butter, tea, dried fruits, a pouch of candied nuts, several carefully wrapped boiled eggs, and even a small bottle of wine. As she continued to tuck even more things in, his brow furrowed. She even added two reasonably nice cloth napkins. She was so generous he was suspicious. Was she doing it hoping her husband wouldn't find out? It seemed entirely out of character. The pack was stuffed to the brim and would be heavy to carry, but he wouldn't be going hungry for a long time if these were in fact to be its contents. What was the catch?

Mr. Todefoot returned. He looked at the filled pack, gave his wife a look, then turned to Bilbo with another of his artificial smiles plastered between his nose and chin.

I really wish he wouldn't do that, thought Bilbo, it's most disturbing. I'd rather have an honest frown...

"Does it meet with your approval, Mr. Baggins? Only the best!"

Bilbo quirked his eyebrows questioningly, sensing something odd going on. "Only the best," he agreed. "She was very generous, in fact. I doubt my old pack has been so well filled in many a day. I am most grateful."

"Are you? That's fine, just fine. Fine...yes, fine..."

Enough dithering. Bilbo got straight to the point. "What price are you asking for these provisions, Mr. Todefoot?"

"Well, it is only the very best, as you agreed. Considering the way prices have been at the market lately, and the long winter... and then there's the water and wood, and dinner o' course, and lodging...."

Bilbo was not inclined to indulge his dickering for very long. He chose a fair price then stuck to it until the farmer was obliged to give in. The starting sum had been nothing short of astronomical, but it had not been unexpected. As it was, Bilbo still felt he was paying too much for what he was getting but was willing to pay it just to be done with the matter. He silently counted the coins into Hardno's eager hand. The payment done, they took their leave of him very quickly more than once mentioning his need to be on his way bright and early.

Probably counting and recounting it in their room, thought Bilbo.

He hadn't been offered any bedding, so he pulled a rug over to the fireside and used his own blanket and cloak. It would do. He had added so much wood to the fire to spite Hardno that it was almost too warm, but after a while he dropped into an uneasy sleep.

He didn't know what it was that woke him up, but suddenly he was looking at the red embers of the fire and listening in the dark for...something. There. A soft stealthy sound of movement, back in the kitchen. He didn't recall the old dog coming back in. It was so small it made him wonder if their kitchen had rats, or some other vermin. There was a small bumping-shuffling noise and something that sounded to him very much like his pack carefully being moved off of the table, where it had still stood. The sound moved down the hall, away from the room he was in.

Now fully awake he considered what to do. His host was up to something,he was sure of it, and nothing honest he would bet. His hand slipped into his pocket and fingered a concealed chain, following it down to a familiar smooth weight. He didn't like using his ring, though he couldn't put words to why, it just... it was like being pulled, somehow, when he did....It wore him out in an undefinable way. He carried it with him for safekeeping, but rarely ever put it on. Except at times like this.

It slipped onto his finger and the world changed to shadows. He got up and checked the table. Sure enough, the pack was gone. He quietly slipped down the hall.

In their room, Hardno and Beryl were bending over the pack, quietly taking out everything that had been put in. Beryl took out the beeswax taper he had brought from the tower and fingered it At least she had the decency to look unhappy about what they were doing. Her husband had a smug look about him that galled his guest. He dug deeper into the pack as if looking for something, pulled the notebook partway out and looked at it curiously for a moment then put it back.

Beryl gathered up the foodstuffs into a basket and after a pause added the taper to it, then covered it with a heap of clothing to hide it. Hardno took the now nearly empty pack and began filling it back up from a stack of small pieces of wood that lay ready at hand. Once the pack was nearly filled with wood, he added a small canteen of water and topped it off with the packet of cornbread so it appeared to be full of food.

"Water and wood." he whispered to her with an ugly smile. "Just as he agreed."

"What if he tells the town...?" she whispered back.

He waved it away. "Everyone knows he's daft. He said he'd pay for water and wood, and that's what we gave him, right? We only gave him what he asked for. If he wants to fill his pack with it, that's his affair." He tightened the top and gave it back to his wife. "You be sure to put it back just like it was. We'll send him off early, he won't even look at it until he's well away, and then who would believe him anyways?

Bilbo was seething. Of all the underhanded, lowdown, trollish... He was glad he'd kept his wallet with him or no doubt it would have been likewise emptied. Probably what Hardno was digging into the bottom of it for.

He stepped well back to allow her to pass him with the pack. She furtively carried it back, set it on the table, then slipped back to her room. Bilbo considered what to do. Keeping the ring on, he settled himself into the corner and waited as they whispered together, then climbed back into their bed and blew out the candle. Once their breathing had evened out, he set to work.. First, the pack.

In the kitchen, he slipped off the ring so he could see better, then set about removing all of the wood from his pack. He opened the kitchen cupboards and placed wood where the food would have been. For good measure, he added several of the pieces of firewood from the sitting room as well and filled the frying pan and teakettle with twigs and wood-ash. Once the pack was empty, he put the ring on once more to slip into their bedroom and retrieve the basket of food. He'd paid for it, it was his. What a way to have to spend a night, burgling a burglar!

The concealing old clothes were lifted off and he carried the basket back to the kitchen. Transferring the contents back into his pack was quickly done. The empty basket was filled with more wood from the woodpile plus the bones from the chickens that had been consumed that evening and taken back to the room where he covered it up with clothing once more.

Mission completed, he put the ring back on its chain in his pocket, gathered his cloak and blanket up and hefted the pack onto his shoulders. Enough was enough. He'd had a meal and a little sleep and now he had provisions. No more reason to spend even one minute with these fools. He unlatched the door and went straight out into the misty night. It was still a good three hours before dawn and the starlight barely showed him where the driveway lay but he didn't hesitate to set out. By the time he was back on the main road he had walked out the worst of his anger and offense, and began to chuckle to think of what their breakfast would be like in the morning.

Only the best, of course. Only the best.

21: The Little Things

Having had an extra early start Bilbo made good time heading up the road, but as daylight approached he chose to turn off of it and cut across country a bit, heading west and slightly north where by his reckoning, he ought to find Little Delving before the day was done. Besides, by leaving the road he had little chance of being overtaken by a grouchy Mr. Todefoot, should there be any pursuit. Not that he thought the old miser would harm him, but he would rather not deal with the unpleasantness of seeing him again.

The day had dawned somewhat misty but the mist soon burned off leaving a clear Spring day, perfect for traveling in. By late morning he was within sight of the band of woods that marked the boundary of the Shire, and by luncheon, somewhere in the middle of them. He figured he was back "home" inasfar as maps define such a thing. Pausing to check the position of the sun while he was out in the openness of a small meadow, he noted a vague cart-track crossing it. It was going nearly the way he wanted to go so he followed it along, glad to have a respite from picking his way through brush, bramble and overgrown, babbling creeks.

After about half an hour of walking along the track he heard the sound of an axe up ahead, rhythmically chopping wood. Following the track soon led him out of the trees to the edge of a clearing and to the source of the sound: a muscular hobbit in sweaty work clothes whose wagon stood nearby partly filled with firewood that had already been sawed into lengths and split. The smell of fresh-cut wood filled the clearing, the bright yellow-white chips scattered the ground and a well-fed pony contentedly crunched the new grasses nearby. Bilbo patted the pony, who paused to sniff his jacket for treats then went back to its grass.

Red-faced, the woodcutter paused to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. He set a new piece of wood on end and took a new grip on his axe then suddenly did a doubletake as he realized he had company. Bilbo did a doubletake right back as he realized he knew this woodcutter, and was in fact related to him.

"Ponto! Ponto Baggins - imagine meeting you here."

"Aye, Mr. Bilbo Baggins! I must say I think you are the one a-wandering! Good to see you, though I must admit a bit unexpected?" He proferred a warm, calloused hand for a firm handshake.

"Yes, I suppose it would be. I've been out walking, visiting relatives and such but hadn't expected to find one here in these woods. So good to see you. How are your parents, and that new little one...?"

Ponto laughed a hearty, clear laugh. "Little one? She's growing fast, Mr. Baggins. My Angelica will be seven soon, and as lovely as the day is bright. She is such a beauty! My parents are fine, fine. Porto has a new job, you may or mayn't know, working the stables at the Inn in Little Delving, and Peony has been spending her days simpering and fluttering with a new beau, so my darling Angelica might have little cousins someday yet." He laughed again.

Bilbo found his laughter to be such a balm upon his heart. After the unpleasantness of the Todefoot family it washed over him like good, clean Shire water. A more honest and hardworking hobbit than Ponto Baggins would be hard to find, and he was pleased beyond telling to find him here. Besides, his pack was heavy and the prospect of a cart-ride into town was welcome news for his back and feet.

"Well good, good. I was planning on staying the night in Little Delving - will you be going that way? I can offer you a very good meal in return for a ride. And Porto is working at the Inn there?"

"The Dented Thimble! Best meals in the town, though I'd say there are other places in the Shire that best their ale. Not that you'd want to say that to the owner," he laughed, "He's a mite proud of his place, but a good soul. He's got a right fine cook. You'll have to try their pies! Go ahead and have a seat in the cart and rest yourself a bit. I'll have this done within the hour and then we'll head to town. I appreciate the company."

Bilbo gratefully eased his pack off of his shoulders and hefted it up to the front bench of the cart, then climbed up beside it. Ponto managed to continue a stream of conversation and small news, surprising considering how he was swinging his axe. Bilbo climbed down after a while and helped load the split pieces into the wagon's bed, then pulled the pony's head up from the grass and led her over to the cart for Ponto to harness.

Bilbo reflected on his dwindling money and the cost of lodging. He offered a blatant hint, hoping for an offer of hospitality. "Are you expecting any other company tonight?"

Ponto knew what he was driving at and was straightforward about it. "My missus is in Hobbiton, visiting her folks and mine, so I can't really offer you much in the way of hospitality, but if you were planning on having supper at the Inn I'd be glad have you stay with me after. I'm expecting her back on the morrow if you need another night..." He buckled the last of the straps into place.

"Oh, no, I think I'll be heading towards home tomorrow. And I do appreciate the offer, yes, very much. I would be honored to stay with you this evening. Many thanks."

"Well then! Let's be off. It's a bit of a drive and we'll have to go slow with the laden wagon. I hope you were not in a hurry." Ponto smoothed the pony on the cheek, tweaked its forelock out from under the bridle strap and climbed up onto the seat of the wagon. Bilbo joined him. With a gentle slap of the reins they were off.

A pleasanter drive Bilbo could not remember having in many a season. Ponto was good hobbit company, easy and unchallenging to talk to, interested in every bit of news and the small doings of every mutual acquaintance. Ponto's parents, the aging Posco and Gilly Bunce-Baggins, lived on the edge of Hobbiton and Bilbo saw them at every family gathering, which for hobbits meant he saw them quite frequently. He had not seen Ponto much since he and his brother had taken up bachelor residence in Little Delving. Ponto, of course, was no longer a bachelor having courted and married one of the Little Delving lasses nearly ten years hence. His marital status meant a great amount of his ambling discourse centered upon his little girl.

By the time they bumped out of the woods and along the base of the low hills that led towards Little Delving, Bilbo had heard enough about the little lass and her every mannerism and clever saying to last him for some time. In her father's eyes there had never been any hobbit-offspring so blessed with natural wit, charm, intelligence and beauty. The only one who outshone her in his esteem was her mother, who would have blushed with pleasure to hear how well her husband spoke of her outside her hearing. He spoke of her, of the plans for the spring gardens, of early onions, of lambing times and visits with faithful friends.

Bilbo basked in this good nature. Ponto's compliments, admiration and general positive view of life soothed and smoothed his ruffled composure until the ill events of the previous evening were only dimly thought of, if at all. They no longer mattered. This was what mattered. The little things, the daily caring and sharing and affections between family and friends. That was the heart of the Shire's peace, warm as a summer sun on newly budding blossoms, bringing out the beauty and the fragrance.

There was much to be valued in the love of food, of gardening, of peaceful pursuits, he thought. We need to be reminded of it. He was gently pulled from his lofty star-filled studies back to the good earth from which his people came, and his roots drank of it deeply.

They edged up onto the main road, then traveled eastward until they passed the zig-zag log fencing that marked the boundary of Little Delving. Ponto eased the cart to a stop in front of a building whose windows were ablaze with light.

"Here you go! The Dented Thimble. Remember to ask for their pie, no matter what kind they have it'll be good. I'm just up the lane, then to the left, third smial. Have a good supper!" He made sure Bilbo was safely down then gave him a friendly wave and headed into the early twilight.

Bilbo stepped up the single step onto the porch, then pulled open the door of the Inn.

Smoky, warm air washed over him, bringing with it a mixture of scents: baking bread, woodsmoke, pipe-smoke, candles, ale, stew... There weren't too many people there, but as it was not a very large establishment they seemed a cheerful crowd. Some were industriously eating their supper, others leaned on the bar visiting and sipping their ales. A few occupied themselves with minor diversions, tossing dice upon a table, playing for nuts and occasionally consuming their winnings. He paid the Innkeeper for use of their bathing room first, eager to wash away his travel-worn stiffness and mud and found it kept warm and clean. The towels were a bit thin, but there was an entire stack of them so they served well enough.

Clean and refreshed, he chose a table in the corner of the main room nearest the fire where he could eat and write undisturbed, only half aware of the others in the room. The innkeeper's lad brought him a hot chicken stew, fresh bread, a wedge of well-aged cheese and a small pot of sweet honey-butter. He thanked him, slathered the butter over the bread and set to with the appetite of a traveler, even though he and Ponto had liberally enjoyed the contents of his pack not that long before. He followed it up with a small ale and a piece of the dried-apple and berry pie and after a sip and a nibble had to concur with Ponto's opinions of both.

The warmth and firelight, the cheerful hubbub of conversation and good food all worked together to remind him of home, and of the pleasant evenings he sometimes spent at the Green Dragon. This brought the matter of the books being shipped to Hobbiton to mind. He drew out a small piece of parchment from the pocket at the back of his book packet and smoothed it out on the table before him. He addressed it from himself at the Dented Thimble, to Hamfast Gamgee of Hobbiton, and dated it.

Mister Gamgee,

I am finding that my travels are taking longer than expected, but intend to be home within the week. If you have not already done so, you should be receiving a small shipment of books by the hand of one Hilalard Took, Peddler by trade. He will be bringing them by my arrangement from Michel Delving. I request that you might leave them in their packaging and store them in a dry place until such time as I may inspect their condition. I hope to bring you a few quality onion sets compliments of one Mr. Ponto Baggins of Little Delving for the vegetable garden, and will await your listing of what seed and supplies are needed next week.

Bilbo paused, thoughtfully tapping his fingers for moment. Remembering that Mrs. Gamgee had been ailing of late, he added,

My best wishes remain for you and your family. Once the spring gardens are readied to your satisfaction, I shall be pleased to arrange for an alternate gardener for the space of a fortnight that you may attend to their needs without any loss of pay. You may submit the identity of that chosen hand to me upon my return.

Bilbo Baggins

He folded it, dripped a bit of wax from the taper on the table to serve as a seal and addressed the outside to Bagshot Row and glanced out the front window of the Inn to assess the lateness of the hour. He would have to find the postal office in the morning. He gathered up his things and leaving the payment for the dinner on the table, headed for Ponto's home and a peaceful night's rest back within the boundaries of the Shire.

22: OmelettesA comfortable morning breakfast was already waiting for him, hot and fresh when Bilbo awoke. Ponto was cheerfully humming to himself as he folded over a large omelette and slipped it onto the plate along with a large bowl of steaming spiced applesauce, all flecked with plump raisins and nuts.

"Good morning! Breakfast is one thing I can manage, even without the missus. I'll be glad to have her back this evening. Are you sure you can't stay? How you'd enjoy my little Angelica, she's such a darling. This applesauce is her favorite."

Bilbo managed a smile for his friendly host, in spite of the earliness of the hour and not being quite awake yet. He honestly thanked him then turned his attention to shifting the sweet, hot meal from his plate to his eager stomach. While he ate, there was a continuing theme of admiration for the absent child. Ponto even got up from the table at one point to display a "work of art" that his clever daughter had recently produced; Bilbo nodded and made affirming sounds with his mouth full to the proud father's satisfaction. Ponto then reseated himself, considered his chair and commented on how she was beginning to outgrow the little child's seat he had made just for her. His guest was beginning to be glad the little one was not home that day - it surely would have been worse, for then he would have had to admire her every facial expression, every word and little trick. It was easier to admire from afar, in absentia.

"Did I tell you I was helping her put in her very own garden last year? We've dug up a small row in the front, and she planted some columbine and foxglove. The foxgloves were taller than her of course, and the columbine! Such lovely colors. I think she shall be a natural gardener when she is grown. I kept the seeds from them too."

Bilbo nodded, but his mind was drifting away to his own garden, and the colors outside his own windows in the summer. As he ate, Ponto's words affected him little more than the bees humming outside a sunny window.

The morning dawning fully, the two of them washed up the dishes and readied themselves for their respective days. Ponto had to deliver and stack the wood he had cut the day before, and Bilbo wanted to continue on without delays. He gladly accepted a burlap package as a goodbye gift, for it had been spoken of on their ride the day before; it smelled of onion and was in fact small sweet onion sets for Bilbo's own garden. This brought his mind to his other errand so after getting directions from Ponto, he bade him farewell and walked to the local Postal Office to post the Gaffer's letter.

It was still early enough that he had to wait a short bit before someone could register the letter for him and ready it for the next bag heading to Hobbiton. He sat on the long green-painted wooden benches that ran along the front of the building while he waited, the morning sun was warm on his legs and the peaceful, comfortable sounds of the town waking to life around him was pleasant enough. Two other hobbits also came along, observed the time and sat down to wait, speaking congenially between themselves.

He found himself eavesdropping on their conversation for lack of anything else to do. He soon discerned it was a discussion of legal matters and the items that they were posting were of a legal nature. Bilbo hadn't really spent much time studying law, it had always seemed unnecessarily convoluted and lacking in good sense when he delved into it, and his attention had invariably wandered. Always glad to take another chance to learn something new, he casually edged in with a couple side-comments until they natuarally shifted to include him.

"Can't wait for this to be over. This set should put an end to it. Such a complainer I never had to work with! You know how land issues are always so drawn out... Still, at least it was just the default."

"Yes it was." said his friend, his head bobbing in agreement.

"Default?" asked Bilbo.

"Yes, default. You know how the laws are set up? If you don't take the time to say otherwise, things will go to their default. That is, the way it will be if you don't fuss. This fellow," he waved the paper vaguely, "he and his neighbor never took the time to fix the fences that stood between their lands, yet when the fence fell down and the goats got into his garden he goes and squawks. But he had never set up any papers saying that fence was his neighbor's responsibility, so he couldn't complain."

"Law says if there's no fence, then your neighbor's animals can graze on your land if they've a mind to." added the other hobbit.

"Yes," he agreed and nodded at Bilbo. "That's the default. And there was no fence worth calling a fence anywhere between them. Now they've got their signatures and papers and fences and such all ironed out, at last."

"So you helped them with that?"

"Certainly! It's part of my job, writing up and filing papers for folk in need of such things. This one's on it's way to Michel Delving to be filed there."

The other hobbit leaned forward. "It's kind of like if you never told your missus that you hate the taste of peppers, then you can't go complaining if you get peppers in every meal."

"But only if the default was everyone always eats peppers." amended his companion.

"As you say. If we all normally ate peppers every morning, noon and night, then you'd have to come out and say you don't want any peppers."

"And she'd have to agree not to serve them?" asked Bilbo.

"No, no. She'd have to do what you'd said, if it was a filed legal change. I mean, let's say you hate a pepper omelette, and want it to be a bacon one instead."

"I'd like that. Bacon is my favorite, especially with tomatoes." offered his friend.

"All right. Bacon and tomato then. You'd file a paper with witnesses saying that you weren't going to have the default peppers anymore, you were going to have bacon..."

"And tomatoes. Very nice."

"Yes, and tomatoes from then on. You'd have witnesses brought to make sure everyone knew it was really you signing it, and really what you wanted to do. Then you'd file it at the Mayor's Office so if anyone ever tried to make you eat peppers again, you could refuse and take your stand for bacon and tomato."

"You're making me hungry." his companion said.

"Well, I'm just trying to help our friend here understand, so I'm not going to pay for another breakfast anytime soon. Besides, it's your turn to buy breakfast, not mine."

"Gladly! How about go to the Thimble and get an omelette after we post these?"

"I'll take you up on that."

Bilbo considered what had been said. "Does this only work if the person is alive? I mean, if they wanted bacon instead of peppers that might be fine while they are around to eat it themselves, but can the law make their heirs eat bacon too? Or would it turn back into peppers for them?"

"Depends what kind of papers were filed. Some would only have you eat the bacon yourself, but if you had a will drawn up that said your heirs could only eat bacon or they don't get their omelette at all..."

"Those usually only last a little while," added his friend. "After a while, they can eat their peppers again if they want to, instead of bacon, and still have their omelette."

Bilbo tried again. "But what if you wanted...someone else to eat the omelette? What if your default were a cheese, a really smelly old cheese, and you wanted your omelettes to only have sausage... even after you were gone, and no cheese."

"No cheese at all?"

"None, ever. Could I have papers that would change smelly cheese to sausage, permanently?"

"Hm. I suppose so. Is it your own sausage, or are you getting it from somewhere else? If you decided to disown the cheese and put it away in the celler, so it wasn't in the kitchen anymore, then brought in the sausage..."

The other hobbit, whose attention was wandering looked at them askance. "What happened to the bacon and tomatoes?"

Bilbo thought about it. "I would be bringing in my own sausage, from somewhere else."

"What? Sausage?" asked the other, mildly baffled. "What happened to the peppers?"

"From an out-of-town sausage seller. I don't want the cheese. How do I get rid of it?" Bilbo asked.

"The default is cheese."

"Yes."

"So you would need official papers drawn up that specified the sausage as your choice for omelettes, with witnesses or the cheese would probably be persistant."

"Very persistant. This cheese would crawl into an omelette without help from the cook."

"Hm. I would recommend you pick your sausage right away and get it in your kitchen, or you might end up with cheese."

"Does the smelly cheese have to agree with it? With not being in the omelette, I mean?"

"No, no. The cheese is just the default. It's up to you what you fill your omelette with."

"I thought the default was peppers." interrupted the other. "Either way, I'm starving - and look - there's the window being opened now."

The two of them posted their letters, gave a "good-day" to Bilbo and headed down the road towards the waiting Inn to order a hearty breakfast. Looking down the lane after them, Bilbo noticed more and more carts were congregating at the far end of the street where a large square of grass served as an open-air market. After posting his own letter, Bilbo decided he would take a look at whatever the vendors had for sale before he headed out. Some flower seeds for his garden would be nice, perhaps, though he expected Hamfast had boxes of them already; there might be some new variety out this way.

He walked down the lane only pausing long enough to extend greetings to Ponto's brother, Porto who was busy enough with his morning chores at the Inn's stable that an extended visit wasn't even a consideration. Cutting back through the building to the front, he smiled to see his two lawyer acquaintances deeply and intimately involved in a huge steaming omelette that occupied the table between them, their forks plying up and down in tandem. He stepped back onto the street and headed for the color and sound of the small market.

Upon reaching it, he stopped to peruse the greenhouse-grown early vegetables one farmer was laying out, then the spicy root bunches another had. One had jars of preserves, another sold smoked hams and bundles of pipeweed. Hand-woven blankets, children's toys whittled from soft wood, potted bulbs with their bright blooms bobbing above them. Much of it was good quality, but he had to bear in mind the weight of his pack, the fact he was still at least two days from home and his dwindling wallet.

He was about a third of the way along the rows when he became aware of a change in the hobbits around him. They were whispering and looking at him excitedly. Ahead of him, the vendors turned from their regular customers to straighten their wares or to pull some choice item to the front. He sighed. He'd been recognized. He had seen this reaction before, though it had lost its novelty and fun long ago. His pride was not flattered: all they saw was a walking gold-piece when they looked at him now, and all of their expectations were going to be set on his buying up half the town. And if he didn't, then the sour grapes would set in. Then all the fawning and flattery would turn to dregs...

There would be no flower seeds then. Abandoning the rest of the market, he turned and walked back out to the main street, completely bewildering them. A couple even followed him hopefully, carrying a sample of their wares with them as they tried to get his attention. He knew how it went. If he bought something from even one of them, that seemingly fortunate individual would become the focus of all their jealousy. The only solution was all or nothing. When he continued on without so much as a sideways glance, the pursuit reluctantly had to leave off. He reached the end of that lane and turned onto the main road out of town, glad to be out of sight and hopefully out of mind.

On towards home then! He passed the last of the neatly kept yards, the zig-zag boundary fence for Little Delving. There was a shout behind him. He kept going at first, assuming it was only another marketer but the young hobbit who was shouting came puffing up right beside him.

"Mr. Baggins!" he gasped, "A package from...t'other Mr. Baggins....he said to... give it to you."

Bilbo's eyebrows lifted with mild surprise. He already had the onion sets. "Thank you, and please extend my thanks to..."t'other Mr. Baggins" as well." He pressed one of his last small coins into the boy's hand, making him grin and touch his cap before he jogged back the way he had come.

Bilbo turned the small paper packet over in his hand. The writing was blocky and misspelled, but he smiled to see it. "Angelicas Colembyne Seeds."

23: NoBottle & Needlehole

Bilbo walked along the road as it wended its way generally east from Little Delving, though it also went farther north than he recalled. The smials and houses along the way dwindled; the open farmland and scattered woods were the bright new green of Spring, peaceful and neat. The day had warmed, the clouds being scattered, fat and fluffy; as docile as sheep. All in all this meant the occasional farm wagon or cart trundling along were driven by folk who were in a pleasant mood, glad of the warmth and brightness and inclined to be generous and talkative. Most of the traffic seemed to be headed the other way, back to Little Delving, and after a while he found out why.

The road ahead slowly grew smaller and less and less traveled. Eventually it seemed to become the driveway to the barn at the last farm on the road, after which it was simply a well-trodden riding path. He followed this along through the grasses; it went straight for a time between sets of farmed fields, then wandered in and out as it's boundary became a bush-enshrouded creek.

Along the creek the birds sang deep in the thickets, seeking nesting sites. The thickly thatched ground became uneven with mole-holes and other small burrows. The soft, warmed earth felt good and the rich scent of the creek filled his senses. He fell into a pleasant reverie as he walked and the distance went by sweet and steady. The afternoon was moving well along and beginning to become a bit windy before the path left the stream, crossed a low knoll and dropped down into the village of Nobottle.

Nobottle was a smaller town than Little Delving had been, a farming community best know for its families of goat-herders whose milk, soft cheeses and angora blankets were much sought after. He tried to think of what else he had seen sold at market from Nobottle... didn't that stout lady with the cut flowers come from here? Or maybe not. There was that glassblower who always tried to use the same old tired line about 'know your bottles from Nobottle' every time he set up his stand, the one with the nasal wheeze when he laughed...

Arriving at the unmarked edge of the town, he continued along the lane until he reached the crossroads at the center of the town where he stopped to consider his path.

If he was going to go straight towards home, this would be the time to do it. And in practical terms, if was what he should do. After all, he was nearly out of money, though his pack still carried provender thanks to the unwitting generosity of the Todefoots. He had already been gone longer than he had thought he would and the spring cleaning and garden-planning and other seasonal tasks were waiting for him back at his dear old hole. His own bed to sleep in, yes that was a siren-call also. He paused and leaned on his walking stick, gazing down the road south, to Hobbiton.

But he wasn't sure he wanted it to end just yet.

He closed his eyes and tilted his chin up, thinking: Yes, that was what it came down to. He wasn't quite ready to go home. But where else to go...?

A fat drop of rain hit him smack between the eyes, making those two items snap open and causing his whole body to startle. He lifted a hand to wipe the drop away. Another smacked the packed dirt by the tip of his walking stick, leaving a darkened circle in the dirt. Two more hit him on the head.

As if these heralds had been judged sufficient warning, there was a whoosh of cool breeze: floodgates opened above him and a strong downpour began in earnest. Everyone on the street scattered for cover in a confusion of excited exclamations and small shrieks. A large number of them all ran for the same nearby building, so Bilbo ran with them.

Panting slightly more from the excitement than the running, they all cheerfully bumped each other through the wide doorway into a sort of pavilion, sweeping him along. As the locals turned to one another to hubbub about the size of the drops, how many there were and their personal degree of wetness, Bilbo turned in place to take a good look around. As with many small towns the pavilion seemed to be the all-purpose building used for just about any large gathering. There were stables and a paddock annexed to it on one side, and large doors that could be swung into place with ropes, like huge wooden drapes. The doors were on all sides of the building, and busy hands were already swinging shut the ones on the windward side to block out the spattering rain. The quavering complaints of a handful of wet goats bleated from the paddock.

It seemed familiar. He had been here before, he remembered it now. It had been a long time...what had he been here for?

A wedding, I think, or was it a funeral? One of those nicely crowded sorts of things, with lots of distant relatives and cakes and such. No matter, I suppose, if it was for the living or the dead. Only the living get to eat cakes anyway.

The firm-packed dirt flooring was well-swept and dry rushes long ago gathered from the nearby wetlands were spread near the doorways to soak up the mud. Outside, the rain was hitting the ground so hard it looked like a choppy lake of frothed cocoa with uncounted small coronets of water shooting up in small splashes. Twin impromptu rivers ran down the wagon ruts in the street, carrying with them anything that had been laying loose on the roadway. Every dimple became a puddle and the cool hissing sound of the spring storm filled his ears, echoing in the pavilion.

He listened to those around him and wondered anew at the tendency of Hobbits to state and restate the obvious as a topic of conversation.

"Hard rain, at least it's not dry like that summer we had, back a bit."

"Going to be a good year for fishing, with this much water coming down."

"My, what a lot of rain!"

"Haven't seen it rain this hard in a while - look at the size of them drops!"

"They're big ones all right. Sure is raining hard."

"Look at it come down! All that water in the road there."

His ear was drawn to the only ones who seemed to have something of interest to talk about, some younger hobbits who were grouped to one side. Three of them were listening to two others talking about 'the Rushock'. That would be the wetlands off to the east somewhat. Bilbo remembered the Rushock Bog more or less, having explored the edges of it on a couple of different summers but he was a bit hazy on the details. He mostly remembered dragonflies, and how they flitted over The Water where the river flowed out, that and a picnic once had by the cool waters on a hot day, fingerlings in the water nibbling at his dangling toes....

The two youngsters who were taking turns excitedly speaking apparently lived near the Rushock, at Needlehole. From their appearance he guessed them to be a brother and sister, seeing as his breeches and her frock were sewn of the same patterned cloth. Cheerfully interrupting each other, they painted an attractive picture of the wetlands near their home, of cranes and fish, hidden bird nests, strange flowers and hanging mosses, waterbirds and cattails and fresh duck eggs.

By the time the rain had began to let up, Bilbo's mind was filled with images of those sun-dappled waters, birdsong and fresh fish that practically swam right onto the hook.

By the time the rain had stopped and the children had gone shouting out into the street to splash through the puddles, his mind was made up.

He was not quite done with adventuring, after all, and this would make a nice minor side trip yet still be sort of on the way home. All he had to do was to cut further east before going south to Hobbiton, taking the narrow road to Needlehole. It wasn't that far after all. If he remembered right, he should be able to reach Needlehole before dark this very day if he didn't dawdle.

The spring shower past, the sun abruptly came out again and all of the colors seemed to glow, aflame after the shadow. The light went shining on the puddles and lifting steam from the roofs of the houses, a thin sheen of steamy mist swirling over the street, small wispy columns of steam lifting from every individual wooden fence-post.

Seeing no reason to linger now that his direction was set, he sloshed out across the little road-rivers, hopped in a small puddle along with the children to make them smile, then took the lane heading East. Glancing up he was happy to see a rainbow, or at least part of one, gracing the sky amid the scattered clouds. The air felt washed fresh and the newly rained-on road was soft to his feet. He waved back at the children, gesturing upward to draw their attention to the sky. Their high-pitched excitement upon seeing the colors above lifted his heart and set him on his way with good cheer.



He reached Needlehole without incident just before full dark. Finding his way more by luck than memory to the small stables for the postal service, he easily conviced the bored stablemaster to allow him to sleep among the dry hay that night in exchange for the small bottle of wine Mrs.Todefoot had put in his pack. One of his last two coins got him a serviceably warm bath and a large mug of sweet, hot peppermint tea ; his supper he provided for himself.

As he settled in for the night, the stablemaster stuck his head in one last time. "You comfortable? I'm going home now."

"Oh yes, quite comfortable. Thank you."

His host had such a relaxed, congenial smile on his face Bilbo was fairly sure the location of the wine had shifted from its bottle to the inside of its new owner. The stablemaster nodded a few beats too long.

"That's just fine to hear. That you are comfortable, I mean. It's a fine night to be comfortable with the ponies. I love ponies."

Bilbo smiled agreeably. "Yes, fine, useful creatures aren't they?"

"Always there when you need 'em. Always glad to see you. Always!" he said with emphasis. He paused as if thinking. "Why were you here again?"

"I was visiting relatives."

"Oh yes. Well. Ponies beat relatives any day in my book. Good night."

"Good night."

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, yes. Comfortable. Go ahead and latch the door."

"Latch the door."

"Yes. You need to go home now."

"Oh yes! Of course. Thank you. I'm going home now. Good night."

"Good night."

He finally withdrew, and after a pause did in fact latch the stable door behind him. Bilbo spread a clean horse-blanket over the hay, added his own now well-worn blanket and curled up to sleep under his cloak. The darkness and the warmth of the ponies was comforting and somewhere outside water gurgled softly. Under the peaceful rhythm of their soft breathing he fell asleep.

24: Bogged Down

Bilbo awoke with a snort. It wasn't his own, but one in his ear that was unexpected and disorienting. He jumped and tried to sit up, promptly smacking his face into that of a pony who startled back from him with a whoosh and a staccato of hooves on the soft floor of the stable.

"Aigh..." he rubbed his forehead. "Sorry to startle you, but ow. You have a hard head. I suppose you are thinking the same of me, eh?" He slowly sat forward and extended his hand, waiting until the pony relaxed and came forward to sniff his palm for treats. He reached over to a grain sack beside him and loosened the top just enough to dig a bare handful out as an apology. The warm velvet and whiskers on his palm tickled, and then the grain was gone.

He could see sunlight coming in the cracks around the doorway, the straight, clear light of morning. Plucking odd bits of hay out of his hair and brushing off his clothing he made himself as presentable as he reasonably could. He drank a dipper of water, gathered his pack and then unlatched the door to go out into the cool air. He was none too soon, for a boy was coming around the building with a bucket and currycomb in his hands heading for the stable.

"Excuse me," he said to the boy. "Can you tell me which is the best way to go to the Rushock from here?"

The lad's tea-brown eyes looked at him curiously, but he replied politely enough. "The bridge across the water is over that-a-way." and gestured down the road that ran east through the town.

"Thank you, but I didn't mean the way over it, but rather into it. The bog that is."

The boy blinked at him, then pointed southeast. "There's an orchard you have to go through, but there's a path over that way. Right between the two big willows." he said helpfully.

"Thank you! Much obliged. Good morning." He left the boy to his chores and lifting his pack decided to head that way first and find a suitable breakfasting spot later.

The ground sloped gently downward, slowly pulling away from the narrow stone bridge that spanned The Water at Needlehole. He soon found the orchard and slipped between the bars of the fencing without much trouble then paused to listen. No dogs barked, no geese hissed. Relieved, he worked his way down through a few rows of apple and pear trees into an adjoining orchard of trimmed hazelnuts. Beyond he could just make out a grassy, thick greenness. Shuffling along through rain-softened leaves of the previous fall he felt a small thrill, a spark in his breast. He felt like a lad again, exploring the farmland around Hobbiton, hiding from his parents who were calling him to supper. What a rascal I must have been, he thought, if that is the sort of thing I remember best after all these years.

He came out into a border of mown grasses no wider than a cart-track. Across lay the wilderland of the Rushock Bog, tangled and overgrown, uncountable shades of brown, green and gold. Looking up and down the border, he soon located the willows the boy had referred to, thick-boled and whispering in the light morning breeze. Their new red-green leaves still tender among the clinging brown ones of the previous year; he slipped under the canopy of the nearest one and paused to listen to the birds and rustling all around him. This was a fine breakfasting spot if there ever was one. Hidden under the boughs from passerby should there be any, he spread out his blanket sorted through his pack for whatever breakfast he could still put together. He still had provisions but he and Ponto had made great inroads upon it and it wasn't lasting as long as he had at first thought it should. Still, two flat oatcakes with a bit of jam and a paper full of sunflower seeds soon cheered his insides up enough to match his outsides.

Leaving the willows found the well-trodden dirt path descended over fat roots and under green tunnels of overhanging boughs until it came out into a more open area; he was greeted by mosses and clumps of various grasses extending out to a veritable wall of cattails and the bright sky over all. Buzzing, chirping and the whispering of the grasses surrounded him. In spite of the earliness of the season he had the impression of untraceable small movements in the grasses, of garter-snakes and insects.... In the summer, what a bedlam it must be! He remembered too late the insect bites that were as much a part of the bog as the water and grasses, and grimaced slightly, rubbing his arms in mute anticipation of unavoidable itching. Still, he decided, even if he had recalled it as he should have it wouldn't have stopped him. So much to see here!

His path turned and skirted along the cattails. He followed it, though he soon found it more necessary to watch his footing than he had at first expected. Roots and grasses layered and overlayered across the path giving more opportunities to land him on his face than he cared to have. He picked his way along, occasionally reaching up to enjoy the soft velvet fatness of a cattail under his hand. The heads were somewhat ragged, many of them completely in tatters, mere tufts and bits still clinging to their stalks from the previous year; the new ones had not yet formed. Even as he watched, a bird flew down to perch on the bent stem of one, dug in its beak and flew off with a wad for nesting material.

He remembered reading that cattail fluff made good tinder, though he'd never tried it himself. He paused to dig his tinderbox out of his pack. It was nearly empty anyway, so he pulled a cattail down to him and pried it open to get at the dry inside. Filling his tinderbox with the creamy fluff, he let the remains of the cattail spring back up and slipped the box back into its pocket. Only time would tell if that book had been right - he would probably be wanting a fire at the end of day.

He continued on, slowly picking his way south along the edge of the bog, enjoying the nesting waterbirds, the bright chirps of small frogs and the slow sway of the waterplants in the clear, shallow pools. He crouched for a time teasing tadpoles with a reed, caught some in his empty jam jar then after gazing at them in the sunshine a bit, poured them back into their home. He sketched a little, tucked half a dozen samples of grass, moss and bird feathers into his pack and snacked on raisins, tossing a few to some ducks then laughing as they all curiously dove for them.

As the morning drew on he began picking his way across. It looked wide and shallow enough here, with an endless array of little grassy patches to be followed like stepping stones. All went well at first, stepping and occasionally leaping from one mossy little islet to the next, some large and surrounded in their walls of cattails and bulrushes, others so small he barely had room to land evenly upon them. He was a little wet from the occasional splash but the sun was warm and bright, and the insects weren't nearly as much of a nuisance as he had originally feared.

It was only when he began to be weary and hungry nearing noon that he took good stock of how far he had come and how far he yet had to go. All of the zig-zagging he had done going from islet to islet meant he had not covered nearly the distance he'd first thought. He was a little disoriented, figuring his direction roughly by the sun and the way the water was flowing. Looking back he saw the exact same view that lay ahead. Cattails, rushes, mossy islets, hillocks of grasses all surrounded by wet mud or shallow waters. And the waters were not always shallow anymore. As he had gone on he had found them to be deeper; he could see small fish swimming past down at the bottom. The water was still fairly clear, but the depth was certainly increasing. And the mud also. It wasn't the sort a body could stand on anymore, but a sloppy, soupy mud. The sort that grabbed at his feet, pulling downward. It worried him; if he should slip and become entrenched in it, what help would there be?

He forged ahead, leaping and clambering, sloshing and splashing then resigned himself to having to add wading to his activities for the day. Another slow hour passed before he was brought to a halt. The current in the water had been steadily increasing, and the depth also; the small island he stood on was long and thin, a grassy ridge surrounded by mud and water. The next one was much too far away, and the water too deep. He could see the Eastern bank, tantalizing in the distance with its trees but he could not reach it. The Water would not allow the Rushock to tame it utterly, and its strength was found here, on the Eastern side.

He sat down on the ridge to ponder, wet, muddy and sore from countless small nicks on his legs and hands by the sharp-edged bog grasses. Of course his earlier memories of the bog had also been from the summertime, when the waters were lower and warmer. The recent spring rains had greatly lifted the depth of the Rushock and the Water; those storm rains were hurrying past him, deep, strong and silent. He was no swimmer. He had acquired a small amount of dog-paddling skill long ago in Laketown but only under duress and didn't think he cared to try it out here.

"Not much of a barrel-rider without a barrel, am I?" he said aloud. "Stopped by a little water. What's to be done?" He looked up and down the river for inspiration but received none. Sighing, he turned and began working his way upstream along the ridge, then started back the way he had come. Leaping from one section to another he nearly stumbled over a section of log, washed into the bog from some winter storm. It bobbed and rotated slightly, turning it's green-mossed edges over.

He stopped and took a good look at it. He pushed on it with one foot. It bobbed strongly, but stayed afloat very well. Not waterlogged then. It had a long branch on one side, but it was cracked and partially peeled away. He tugged at it until the branch came loose then used it to pry at the log, guiding it and turning it to the side of one of the tussocks.

"Maybe I'm crazy after all." he muttered. "But a barrel is a barrel when one is in need." He pulled off his pack and adjusted the contents, fastening and tightening everything inside, then pulling the cord to strap the oilcloth and leather firmly in place. It should stay dry unless completely submerged. Better practice without it first, just in case.

He lay his pack aside and carefully lowered himself onto the log, as if he were mounting some strange sort of pony. It bobbed alarmingly under him, wanting to turn to one side or the other. It was some minutes before he felt he had it under control enough to try moving around on it at all. Remembering Gollum on his darkened lake, he experimented and found that laying flat across it and paddling with his hands and feet worked pretty well. Never know when something will come in handy... He tried minor navigation, paddling first to one side than the other without too much tipping.

Feeling only slightly more confident, he carefully climbed back off (a trick easier said than done) retrieved his pack and climbed back on again. Paddling and bumping along he slowly navigated his way eastward with only a few mishaps. He knew the stronger current was still to come; what would happen then? All he could do was hope for the best...

The last ridge of grasses and mud was bumped past.

He could feel the current tugging and pulling at the log. He scooped the water with his hands and kicked frantically on one side, trying to turn it quickly lest the river water flip it over and drop him in. It bobbed up and down, the entire front submerged badly but it came back to the surface with a splash that made him blink water from his eyes and shake it from his hair. He was still afloat! And he was moving, drifting along without any effort at all. The current wasn't fast, but it was inexorably pulling south. He began kicking and paddling as hard as he could for the eastern shore.

That was when he heard a sound over his own splashing and panting that made him stop and drift to listen.

There it was again!

A child, crying.

25: Cattail Ducks

At first he hoped all he was hearing was the sound of some waterbird or other wetlands creature, but as he worked his way back towards the bank it continued; the sobbing of a child, somewhere in all of this brush and bog. Such a forlorn sound his heart tightened as he hastened to trace it.

Bilbo managed to clumsily navigate the log into an inlet that held it steady enough to climb off and up onto the overgrown bank. He tugged the end of the log up onto the bank as a moorage. The crying sound only came intermittantly but he followed it, pushing aside towering cattails and rushes, jumping from wet hillock to hillock until it sounded very near, with unintelligible words occasionally mixed into the crying. He pushed along another cart-length, then parted a curtain of grasses to find a startled, muddy, tear-streaked young face looking up at him, all eyes and curls, both as brown as the cattails surrounding them.

Why, he can't be above eight summers, thought Bilbo, poor little fellow. He immediately crouched down to be closer to the child's own height, brushing futiley at the green mess the log had made of his shirt and breeches.

"Good morning," he said gently. "I heard you crying... May I help you? Are you hurt?"

"N...no. I'm not hurt I'm....." there was a pause as the dignified self-control the little one had tried to put forth for him broke apart and a flood of pent-up fears poured out in one long wail. "Looooosssst......!" This was followed by an equally plentious flood of tears, washing clean streaks across the plump, mud-grimed cheeks.

"Lost, are you? Well..." so am I, he thought. That would hardly comfort the child, through. "Perhaps we can work together to help you find your way back home, then!" He smiled, trying to comfort him. "What's your name?"

There was a series of sniffles, then a small voice. "Brush."

"Rush?" asked Bilbo, thinking it not an impossibility that the child's family would have named him after the bog if he lived somewhere near. Rushock wouldn't be such a bad name.

"No...not Rush, Buh-rush. Brush."

"Pleased to meet you, Master Brush. What might the rest of your name be?"

"Brushtail...Waterby...but I'm usually jus' called Brush. My da says it's a famous name, my uncle has it too." He was slowly cheering up now that he was past his initial fear and had someone with him. Bilbo tried to think if he had ever read or heard about anyone named Brushtail but was drawing a blank. A minor fame perhaps, the sort only passed down within a family.

"I see. And what brought you out here today?"

"I was lookin' for good cattail leaves, to make ducks."

"To make...ducks."

"Yah. And I had some too, they just...I lost them when I put them down, and then I couldn't find them. And I lost my knife for cutting the leaves, and it wasn't mine, it was my brother's knife and he'll be so mad....and then I....I couldn't find my things, and then I couldn't find anything and...."

Bilbo ran a gentle hand over the youngster's curls to comfort him. "We'll find our way, don't worry. I'm sure your family will be missing you too, so we need to get you back home. Oh! And you must accept my apologies, Master Waterby, I haven't even given you my name. You may call me Mr. Baggins. Come now."

He took the little one's hand and looked around for the best path back towards the western bank. "While we go, how about you tell me about these 'ducks' you make."

This topic took some time for him to understand. It seemed to be something that would be easier to understand if he could just see one than the vague ideas he gathered from the child's animated descriptions. Near as he could tell it involved tucking and wrapping cattail leaves in a certain manner so that when they dried they formed a floating duck decoy. Brush said he and his siblings had made many of these and the money they made when their father sold them at the markets as a novelty was their very own to keep. Bilbo found young Brush to be a veritable treasure-trove of information about cattails. Coming from a family whose business centered on the plants, he knew how to make not only ducks but dolls and other toys. As they jumped, splashed and struggled along he talked about the medicines that his parents made from them and the parts that were good to eat. He agreed that the down was good tinder. Bilbo had had no idea how useful the plants were and gained a much greater respect for them. He had previously only enjoyed them for the artistic look of their fat sausages of fluff. Besides, it kept both of them from worrying about finding Brush's home.

Bilbo wasn't too worried, really. It was obvious the child lived very near the bog, so if they kept going westward they had to eventually find the bank, and then they could range up or down it until they found his home. Brush had been pale and fearful at first, but as they continued he seemed to take courage from the older hobbit's presence and the way they kept finding ways to get further and further back. He became cheerful, describing the adventures he and his older siblings had had catching frogs or hunting eggs, even when he bogged down in the mud and had to be pulled free. He was apparently used to being pulled out of the mud, and simply spread his arms into handles to make it easier to pull him upward.

It was a great relief to Bilbo when they heard someone calling in the distance. As they came closer, they could hear several voices in several different tones all calling out. Brush brightened and began yelling back, and as Bilbo had just been bending over to lift him up from another mudhole he ended up yelling right into Bilbo's right ear, half-deafening him.

"I say! You've quite a set of good lungs there, young Waterby. Just a minute. I'll lift you up and you can holler right into the sky if you like. They'll hear you better that way." He knelt down and got the boy on his shoulders then carefully stood back up, hoisting him as high as he could.

"Halllloooooo!" bellowed Brush as best as a young hobbit-voice can bellow. "I'm over here! I'm over here! I'm coming!" He waved his arms, trying to be seen over the screen of cattails, nearly unbalancing Bilbo who was standing on a slick hillock and was covered with mud anyway.

He shouted again, and then they heard the tone of the distant cries changing, the sound of excited discovery. They had heard him then. Bilbo lowered him back to the ground and they resumed their slow progress, focusing in on the direction the voices were coming from. They were met halfway back to the bank by two young hobbit-lasses, both taller and older than Brush and by their appearance obviously two of his sisters.

"Brush! Brush! Where have you been...where were you...are you all right? We were looking and....couldn't find you.... how could you.... thought you were lost!" they both cried simultaneously, jumping around and hugging their little brother. In return he managed to smile, be worried about getting in trouble and ask for something to eat all in the same breath. When the initial wave of bedlam was past, the girls suddenly seemed to be aware of Bilbo standing by. Brush took their hands and gave them a little tug, pulling them towards Bilbo, speaking rapidly.

"This is Mr. Baggins! He found me, and he's been helping me. Did you see me over the cattails? He lifted me waaay up! I was yelling for you - did you see me? He's real nice. He's from Hobbiton, and he doesn't have any cattails in his yard, but he wants to get one of my ducks for his the big pond they have there. He says he's never seen one before. He's not from the bog. He was paddling on a log! He was. He was paddling like it was a boat, and he was crossing The Water when he heard me. Really!"

The older of the two sisters remembered her manners first. She bobbed a short curtsey. "Thank you for helping our brother, Mr. Baggins. He's never been lost like this before, he usually stays with one of us..."

"It's all right." said Bilbo, returning her curtsey with a small bow. "He was no trouble at all, and now that we've found you I shall place him into your very capable hands to see him home..." He trailed off as they all became aware of the crashing and splashing of someone else approaching nearby. "Over here!" Bilbo called. The noises changed direction and came closer until the cattails were pushed aside and one of Brush's brothers clambered up onto the hillock. He was a sturdy lad in his early teens and had a sour expression on his face. After a brief introduction to Mr. Baggins, he turned to Brush, put a hand on his shoulder and shook him.

"Where's my knife? Fern said you had it this morning. What did you do with it?"

Brush paled and looked like he was going to cry. "I... couldn't find it... I...."

His brother shook him again. "You lost it? You lost my knife? First you take it without my permission and then you lose it?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I lost it...and then I lost myself....!" His brother scowled. Bilbo looked at the two sisters. One was looking at her feet, the other had a worried frown on her face. The brother had a temper. He stepped forward and placed a calming hand on the lad's shoulder.

"Now, now. Calm down. He didn't do it on purpose. You should be at least a little grateful that you didn't lose a lot more than your knife this day. You might have never seen your little brother again." The boy hesitated, then let go of Brush, looking mollified and a bit embarrassed. His gaze shifted to his feet. Bilbo continued, "Perhaps it will turn up yet - it's out there...somewhere. And in the meantime, I have a small penknife you may make use of."

He shifted his pack, knelt down and opened it. Withdrawing his penknife, he considered it one last time. It had trimmed many a pen and sharpened many a pencil. It was a good sharp, bright knife with a lightweight staghorn handle, smoothed from long use. He mentally revisited its uses and bid it farewell, all in a moment then handed it over to the boy. "Be careful with it, it's quite sharp. And promise me you will share it."

The boy was all round eyes, taking the unexpected gift into his hand. He weighed it in his palm and appreciatively ran his hand over the smooth hilt, tested the edge of the blade with his thumb. "It's a very nice knife. Is it mine, then? To keep?" He obviously expected the answer to be no.

"Yes. Keep it. May it cut many a cattail leaf in its time." They all looked amazed. One of the girls suddenly reached into the large pocket of her apron and withdrew an object.

"Here's something for you too, in return sir." She bobbed a little curtsey again and shyly placed it in his hands. It was a duck. The head wasn't too featured, being little more than a thick leaf end, bent to form a neck and bill and dried in that position. The body was solid, but made entirely of layer upon layer of tightly wound cattail leaves around a middle piece of cattail stem. It was cleverly tucked in somehow to keep them that way and dried. He turned it in his had, impressed with the neat handiwork of it. At last he understood what Brush had tried to explain to him before. There was really no need for them to give him a gift in return, but he knew it would make them feel less beholden.

"Thank you. I shall be honored to keep it in remembrance of this day. Now. I have to reach the far bank yet and the hour is growing late. Do all of you know your way home from here?" He recieved a quartet of nods. "Good. Then I shall be off. It was very pleasant to make your acquaintance, young Waterbys. And after this, please don't wander, Master Brush. I guarantee you the next time your family has a booth at the Hobbiton market, I will be sure to enjoy perusing your many uses for cattails! I had no idea they could be so useful. Farewell, now, farewell!"

After a muddy hug from Brush, and handshakes from the others, he turned and headed back into the sea of cattails. Useful or not the cattails were getting a bit wearisome. But more wearisome still would have been to have to spend time with the Waterby family, having to listen to the mother be grateful and the father be thankful and they were so indebted and so on and on and on. He was glad the lad was safe, but what typically followed after wasn't a pleasant thought. Better the mud and endless cattails to push aside than an ooze of gratitude and a sea of platitudes.

Working his way back seemed to take forever for he was getting extremely weary and hungry, pausing only when he had to. After hunting up and down the bank a short distance, he was as grateful to find his mossy log-boat as any sea-captain returning to a well-beloved craft. He sat down by it to rest and eat a very little, then tightened down his pack once more and set out upon The Water. Away from the sun-warmed shallows the current was uncomfortably cold, but he grimly lay across the log with his cheek on a patch of slightly slimy moss and paddled for all he was worth. His hands splashed in the cold water and his feet quickly took on the feeling of slightly-numbed lead weights. Slowly, oh so slowly, he made some headway, inching across eastward even as he was swept southward. How had Gollum stood it? He remembered the feel of that dark, terrible lake. It had been icy and thick and somewhat stagnant. The idea of paddling across such a thing, of untold years of crawling about in the darkness and the wet and cold... His arms and legs ached and the smell of algae was everywhere, but at least the sun was shining and bright where he was...

He had to be careful how he angled across, for the slightest change in the log's angle increased his danger of being swept over. It turned and bobbed and bucked under him alarmingly more than once. By the time the bank was getting close enough that he could begin to look for a good landing place, it was getting late and the grassy bog was being left behind. There was a forest in the distance, with some straggling trees along the bank and clumps of willows. Finally bumping up onto a muddy incline, he staggered up off of the log and slowly made his way up the lightly graveled bank until he rested upon good dry grass. He was too tired and cold to do more than unfasten his pack and pull out his cloak for a covering, he simply lay down in the sun-scented grasses, curled up and promptly fell asleep.

26: Tree-watching

When he next opened his eyes the shadows had deepened into early twilight and a breeze had sprung up to herald the setting of the sun. Bilbo slowly uncurled, still damp and cold and uncomfortable from his unorthodox river ride. He stood up, brushing at the layer of grass-seeds that were now adhered to the layers of algae and mud. If the water in the river hadn't been so cold he might have washed up a bit, but right then the idea of the chill was worse than the mess he was in. No one was around to see him anyway.

Moving and feeling like a gaffer, he hobbled along towards the edge of the nearby Bindbale woods. By the time he had covered half the distance he had unstiffened enough to be able to walk a bit more normally and had begun to pick up odd sticks along the way for kindling. Reaching the edge of the woods, he cleared a place for a campfire as it was nearly dark. He sure hoped Brush's reassurance about the cattail down being good tinder was true. He was shivering with the damp and cold and his hands were stiff so that it was difficult to start a flame going at all, but to his great relief the down smoldered then caught and he soon was able to nurse the little flame into a reasonable twig-fire.

Sitting beside his fire he gradually added larger sticks and then stood to rotate like a roast trying to warm and dry all sides. The wind kept shifting, and between trying to avoid the smoke in his eyes and the need to apply even heat he found himself dancing about in an irregular circle. It was just as well there were no prying eyes - what a tale someone would make of this, he thought. Did you see old Mad Baggins? He had covered himself in mud and was dancing in the woods. He slapped at the insects that were attracted by the light and mentally added, and waving his hands around in the air like an idiot. He paused to examine his own collection of assorted bugbites, scratches and grass-cuts. What a day this had been! If he had known he might have just taken the bridge home and been done with it after all. He wondered if he should go ahead and cover some of the distance home that night. He had rested for a while, and it was pretty straightforward; all he had to do was follow along the edge of the woods going south. Easy as cake. Or was it pie? He was hungry.

He had a small bite of his dwindling provisions while allowing the fire to slowly burn down. Poking at it, he broke up the embers and mashed them with the end of a stick until the last spark was dead, then he headed south. As he had thought, near the wood's edge the going was easy. Even though the moon had not yet risen he was able to make out the silhouettes of the trees well enough and the grassy land between the woods and The Water afforded little obstacles. He had been walking along lightly humming for only an hour or so when his path approached a tree that was slightly out from the main woods by itself. He ambled towards it, ready to duck around it and continue on.

The tree moved.

He stopped in his tracks.

It had been just ahead of him and now was just slightly to the left. He experimentally leaned to one side then the other to test his own balance. All was normal. So it wasn't his own moving. He had a very active imagination and made good use of it with frequency, but he knew when he was imagining and when he wasn't. He knew the difference between dreams and reality. Didn't he? The tree had moved. It had sort of stepped aside, out of his path. He had seen it. He was sure of it.

He very quietly and slowly came closer to the tree in question, half expecting...something. He wasn't sure what. It was a tree. A nondescript tree with smooth, fragrant bark and leaves that moved softly in the light breeze. It had roots that radiated out at its base. Nothing extraordinary. He peered around all sides of it. He ran his hands up the trunk, still half-expecting...something. What? A breath, a heartbeat? He knew enough about the world to know there were strange and magical things in it. Not all things were impossible. He wished Gandalf were here. He would know what to make of this.

It didn't feel dangerous. He couldn't place his finger on why he would even think such a thing, here near the heart of the Shire, but no, it didn't feel dangerous. And yet... It felt like something. Something vaguely familiar and yet not. He wasn't tired enough to chalk it up to fatigue, either.

"Well, what shall I do about this?" he asked the tree. "I am sure I saw you move just now, and while I appreciate your courtesy in stepping out of my path I would even more enjoy a conversation with you. Would you move again, if I asked nicely, I wonder?"

There was no movement, no reply.

"You don't need to fear me. I won't tell anyone else, or at least not anyone else in the Shire. I do have a friend you might know. Have you ever heard of Gandalf the Grey, the wandering Wizard? He's been around a tolerably long time, near as I can tell, and might have known you when you were a sapling."

He waited, but the only sounds were his own breath and the leaves and grasses in the night.

"So here's a nice kettle of fish. What shall I do? You are most remarkable. If you don't mind, I would like to stay here beside you a while, in case you decide to take me up on the offer of a good bit of conversation. I'm not in such a hurry that I can't wait a bit for something truly wonderful like you."

Silence.

He spread out his blanket on the grass near the base of the tree and sat on it facing the tree, wrapping his cloak around him. "I'm right here." he volunteered in case it's night-vision wasn't very good. What would it use for eyes anyway? He mused upon animals that could feel the vibrations in the earth when something was coming and wondered if that was what the tree had felt, though he had been going softly. After a short time he had an idea and got up to test it. He went to where the tree had originally been and bent over, running his hands over the earth. His heartbeat quickened with excitement. The ground was stirred up, as if it had been plowed. Something had very recently broken it up. He felt outside the area. The ground was hard and smooth. He looked back up at the tree with wonder in his eyes.

"So it's true. You really did move."

He settled back onto his blanket to watch the tree. The night grew older, the moon rose above the trees and it began to lightly rain. He didn't move except to put up his hood. The rain gathered on the peak of his hood and ran down onto the blanket in small rivulets as he kept his vigil. Every now and then he would wipe the water from his face and shift his position. The minutes stretched into hours and he had to resort of slapping his own face to stay awake. It was futile. By the time the sun began to lighten the eastern sky his eyelids closed of their own accord and he fell asleep sitting up where he was, facing an unmoving, silent tree.

He abruptly woke back up when he slumped sideways and his face landed off of the blanket's edge in a very cold and wet clump of prickly weeds.

"Aggh..." he said, sitting back up and rubbing at his sorely prickled cheek. He blearily looked up at the mysterious tree, which stood as unmoving as ever in the early morning light. He clambered up off of the ground and went over to it again.

"I'm still here." he offered, running his hand politely over the bark of the trunk. He didn't know if it could hear, or feel touch, but it was worth a try. He took another look at the stirred-up earth then turned his eyes upward, seeking among the branches for something, anything.

"You're not going to be cooperative, are you? I guess that's the way of it. But I shall be sure and certain to remember you. You are a most interesting creature! I can't help but wonder now how many of the trees in that wood there are actually a bit like you. What an interesting idea that would be! I shall have to write something about it."

He no longer expected any kind of reply. He patted the bark in what he hoped was a very friendly way and gathered up his things. After sitting for another hour or so on the off chance the tree was just waiting for daylight to move again, he reluctantly left it and headed south towards Hobbiton.

Thanks to his late-night vigil he was terribly fatigued and achy too. Never had the uneventful, open miles from the Bindbale to Hobbiton seemed so long.

When he slowly made his way through the square up towards Bag End at last, the few hobbits that were out and about past the dinner hour gaped and whispered. He was head to toe mud, dried algae, grass-seeds, burrs and who knows what else. And he was too tired to care what they thought. He slowly plodded up the path and finally up those last few familiar steps and in the round, green door. It was cold and dark inside, but it was home.

He didn't even start a fire in the fireplace, but simply dropped his pack, peeled off his caked traveling clothes and pulled on a clean nightshirt. Burrowing into his own dear, soft, lovely, wonderful, clean bed he finally allowed the weariness to wash him away into a deep and dreamless sleep.

27: Tales and Tonics

Waking up had never seemed so hard to do. Bilbo finally climbed out of his warm bed to start a fire in his stove, opening up the shutters on the windows to let in the morning light. He was surprised to see how late in the day it was, especially considering how tired and achy he still felt. He warmed up a kettle of water for tea and a hot porridge but nearly fell back asleep sitting at the table while they warmed. With hot tea and porridge inside him, he was still shivering. It was only then that he had to reluctantly admit he was ill.

He hated being ill, and tried his best to hide it from everyone when he was. The word always leaked out and invariably he had to put up with the overly-protective ministrations of his neighbors, the horrible home-remedy suggestions and worst of all, the Sackville-Bagginses. They took an ill-concealed sort of eagerness in his every turn for the worse and their company was not unlike having two vultures sitting over his sickbed.

He started a fire in the bedroom hearth and washed up a bit. The effort exhausted him; he was grateful to climb back under the covers for the remainder of the afternoon. He only awoke enough to be vaguely aware of someone ringing his doorbell, and ended up having a strange half-dream in which he got up and put on his dressing gown to answer it. By the time he realized it was only a dream about answering it and it had in fact gone unanswered, the ringing had stopped so it was a moot point anyway. He burrowed his aching head back into his pillow, trying to get comfortable.

The sun was westering before he got up again and slowly made his way back to the kitchen. While he was struggling with the lid on a crock of applesauce the doorbell rang. He sighed, tied his dressing-gown snugly and peered out the side window to see who it was. Hamfast Gamgee stood on the step, cap in hand. Bilbo opened the door partway and greeted his hard-working gardner.

Gaffer Gamgee could probably tell right away that all was not well for the Master of Bag End, but he politely averted his eyes and avoided the subject.

"My boy Sam said you were back, Mister Baggins, and right glad I am to see it. I hope your travels were good ones?"

"Yes, yes they were." Bilbo considered his state of unkempt dress as he peered around the edge of the door. He couldn't step out like this. "Won't you step in, Mister Gamgee?"

"Oh, I don't need to be doin' that now, Mister Baggins. I just wanted to let you know I got your letter and your books too. Mr. Boffin read your letter for me, he's right clever with letters you know. Just let me know when to bring them up and they'll be here, safe and sound."

"Thank you, Gaffer. I had worried about those books arriving safely, I have to admit. I'm so pleased to hear you have them. You may go ahead and send them up to me tomorrow, after breakfast."

"Thankee, Mister Baggins. Erhmm." He cleared his throat and hesistated a moment. "Would you like a little extree help, just around the house and all for a few days, sir?" He paused, apparently afraid it was a little too forward. "It bein' Spring-cleaning and all."

Bilbo smiled. He could see right through the ulterior motive, but he was grateful for the offer, for he had been hard put to even cook his own supper for that evening. "Why yes, Mister Gamgee, that would be most welcome."

Hamfast relaxed, visibly relieved that there was no censure. "That's just fine. I'll send up my Daisy then, to help with the cooking and such, and Samwise can run any errands you need. He's a strong lad, with fast legs and he don't drop the eggs."

Bilbo's heart was warmed as he bid good-day and watched his elderly neighbor head back towards Bagshot Row. He closed the door gently and leaned on it to consider. Daisy Gamgee was a good cook. He was in good hands then until Lobelia and Otho got wind of it. Leaving the door unlatched he finished his tea and went back to bed. Sure enough, it wasn't long before he heard the gentle tapping at the door, the sound of it quietly opening and shutting and then movement in the kitchen. Good smells began to drift down the hallway and tickle his nose, setting his stomach to growling. The smial began to warm up as fires were lit and fed.

After a while the sounds stopped and it was quiet again. He ventured out of his bedroom to find a warm meal all ready for him and the table set. There were even a few twigs with apple blossoms on them in a vase. After a supper of stew with lots of broth and soft bread, he felt much better. Daisy had left him a tray of food ready to carry to his bed for later and the fixings for breakfast all laid out in the kitchen before going back to her home. She tended to be a very efficient and quiet worker as was the rest of her family. He felt well-cared for, a tonic for the heart.

He suddenly realized his muddy travel clothing had gone from the hallway too. He smiled and made a mental note to give a bonus of some sort to the family when paytime came around again. Gathering up his pack, he carried it into his study to sort.

The slim book about birds went into its rightful place on his bookshelf at last, his fat notebook on his desk to look through later. The beeswax taper had made it clear from the Towers all in one piece, much to his surprise, and he displayed it in a place of honor on the mantel where he intended it to go unlit. Likewise the stone fragment of the Elven carving was rubbed clean with a soft cloth and set up on the mantel, though he had to rearrange a few things to fit it there. His mantel tended to be cluttered with such momentos. An extra-large pinecone fell off the end; a souvenir of an earlier trip to the foothills in the west. He put it back up only to have it fall again. A second attempt balanced it carefully. He willed it to stay.

Sitting down by the hearth, he leafed through the notebook. Feathers, grasses, scribbled notes. It was going to take a while to sort it all out.... Reaching into the bottom of his pack he withdrew the cattail duck and weighed it in his hands, admiring the cleverness of it. He ought to take it out and try it on the Water...

The pinecone hit him on the head.

Setting the duck aside, he picked up the offending cone and carried it with him as he headed back towards his bedroom. "The first time you hit me on the head," he commented to it. "when that hail was coming down so hard, I thought you were the biggest hailstone ever imagined..." He considered it a moment, unwilling to let go of that journey's memory yet. He finally tossed it up onto a high shelf in his room among some decorative crockery where it could be seen but not be in the way. Seeing his bed so near and convenient, he fell down among the covers and slept some more.


He awoke early with a weight in his chest, a sore throat and a cough beginning. This is what you get, old fool. You sat out in the rain for who knows how long it was staring at a tree. What do you expect? I expected it to move, he answered himself. I know what I saw. I ought to go back up there sometime and see if that tree is still there. Can't exactly send someone else. I say, would you mind traveling clear up to the Bindbale Woods to see if there is a tree there?

He ate some of the breakfast fixings, the tea as hot as he could stand to try to steam the inside of his head, then retrieved his notebook from the study and sat at the kitchen table working on it for a while.

He was deep into a rewrite of a verse when the doorbell rang.

There was something in the way it jangled when it was rung, something in the force of the pull that made his heart sink. Sure enough, the slightly shrill voice of Lobelia could be heard on the other side. The bell jangled again.

"Bilbo Baggins!"

He coughed, closed his notebook and turned over the paper he had been writing and covered it all up with a kitchen towel. Rubbing an ink-stain from his fingers, he reluctantly opened the door. Better to get it over with.

Lobelia blew in the door with her son Lotho more hesitantly entering in her wake. As always, her eyes scanned the rooms of Bag End before coming back to the owner of those rooms. He sometimes wondered if she thought one of them would go missing somehow. What have you done with the parlour, Bilbo? he imagined her saying. Where have you hidden it? Amused by his own thoughts, he managed a small smile of greeting.

She didn't return it, she was being solicitous. In what she must have imagined to be a "caring and worried" voice she nasally inquired after his health.

"I was so concerned when I heard you were ill, I just had to come comfort you. What are relations for but to help in times of need?"

"Of course." said Bilbo noncommittally. "But it was only a brief illness, soon overcome."

"Was it?" she raised her eyebrows and took a surprised air. "I heard you coughing just now. A terrible cough. How very sad that you are feeling so poorly. You look so tired too, and pale! Don't you think Mr. Baggins looks a trifle pale, Lotho dear? Such bags under your eyes. I've brought some of my very special remedies." She reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew a small, dark flask.

"Yes, I'm sure you have. You always do when I am ill."

"How kind of you to notice," she said without any drop of gratitude in her being. "Here I take time out of my busy day just to come cheer up an invalid and to bring him my very own medicines that I paid for and made up myself and..."

"I'm not an invalid."

Her solicitous face slipped a little. She plastered it back on but it didn't quite fit straight. He could still see the ill-will leaking out around the corners.

"We've heard such tales about what you've been up to. I hate to say it, but they don't really put our communal family name in the best light. Why just day before yesterday, Opal Grubb was saying she'd heard you'd been seen singing and flapping your arms like some sort of bird out in goodness-knows-where, and she'd heard it from very reliable sources too...."

"Yes. Yes I was."

"What?"

"I was singing, and flapping." he smiled at her disarmingly.

"Well." She couldn't seem to think of what else to say, but it didn't last long. "Well. I've brought you this very special tonic and I'm sure it'll soon have you feeling right as rain. Just be sure you take two large spoonfuls on the hour until it's gone. You really do look as if you are on death's door if I must say so myself."

A cough tickled in the back of his throat. The last thing he wanted to do right now was cough. He stopped the biting reply he was about to make and swallowed. He swallowed again. He tried not breathing, to see if that would help.

Lobelia and Lotho looked a bit alarmed, then slightly smug as his face took on an odd expression and he grew red-faced.

"See? You poor thing. You are so fortunate that I was able to come right away."

Bilbo did not reply, but his cheeks puffed out and his eyes looked a little glassy. He suddenly stepped forward and mutely opened his front door. Taking the hint, Lobelia gestured to Lotho to follow and stepped out.

"I'll be sure to visit you again, often. No one ever said Lobelia wasn't good company for the sick. Oh dear, look at you! I am just sure you are on your last legs. Hope you feel better soon!"

He shut the door behind them, dashed to the kitchen and grabbed up the towel. Wadding it up in front of his mouth as a muffler he coughed violently until the tickle finally quit. He gasped for air, then had a long drink of cold tea. What a trial that creature was. He picked up the bottle she had left behind, opened the cork and sniffed at it. It smelled positively vile. He poured it out in the compost bucket, belatedly hoping it wouldn't kill any of the Gaffer's plants if used on the garden. He didn't think she would poison him, but he didn't completely trust her either. It was an awkward situation at best.

Visit often indeed. Not if he could help it. If ever there was an impetus to get better soon, it was Lobelia.

28: Good, Bad and Smiling

The following day was as varied as the spring weather. Bilbo's cough worsened, but his energy began to come back. Daisy Gamgee had quietly come and gone in the early evening, leaving a hot supper and breakfast fixings as well as a batch of tiny iced cakes for a treat. He'd left a note for Daisy requesting that she let the Gaffer know Bilbo wanted to speak with him so he was ready when there were some muffled thumps and a polite tap at the front door to herald his gardener. He coughed quietly a couple times, hoping to get it over with until after the Gaffer had gone. Once his throat felt ready to speak, he opened the door.

"Mr. Gamgee! So good of you to come so promptly."

Hamfast seemed almost apologetic to be standing at Bilbo's door and had a hefty box at his feet. "Daisy said you'd left a note asking for me, Mr. Baggins? Also, I've brought your books."

"Indeed I did." Bilbo knew the Gaffer was more comfortable outside than in Bag End, so he picked up a package he had ready on the sidetable and stepped out into the morning himself. "I have something for you too."

"For the garden, sir?"

"Well, in a way. But also for you. Personally." Bilbo passed the package into his neighbor's hands. "If you recall, I mentioned in my letter that I had met Mr. Ponto Baggins in Little Delving. Before I left his good company, he gave me a lovely batch of sweet onion sets. I would like half of them in the garden for Bag End, but I would like the other half to go to your own garden. Would you see to it for me?"

The Gaffer paused, then smiled so that his wrinkles all deepened most cheerfully. "I would be honored to. Thank you, Mr. Baggins. I'm sure the Mrs. and children will be most happy to know of it."

"And I'm gratified to hear that it will cheer them." He coughed slightly, then handed a paper packet over. "Now, I've also these most excellent columbine seeds for my flowerbeds. I'd like them sown where you think they will grow best as long as I can see them from the windows. When they go to seed later this year, I would like you to keep some of the seeds for Daisy, if she would like them. Please let her know she is welcome to cut flowers from my gardens for your family's table as well. She's been a great help."

"Yessir. Thank you sir."

"Now about these books..." He knelt down and tried to pick up the box. "Ooof. You didn't carry this up here yourself, did you?" The mild effort started him coughing, but he managed with effort to quell it.

"No sir. My older lad helped me, he's just run quick-like back home to beat his sisters to the pancakes." The Gaffer grinned at him. "I don't think my old joints would have done near as well."

Bilbo smiled back, then with the Gaffer's help hefted the box over the threshold.

"Now I'll let you return to your work. Thank you for coming by so promptly! I should like to sit down with you and go over our garden plans for this year, perhaps in a day or two? Also, you'll need to be thinking on who shall be replacing you for a fortnight so you can take some time off once the planting is done."

"Yessir. Thank you sir. I'll be thinking on it."

"Good day to you then."

The Gaffer touched his cap politely and slowly headed down the steps. Bilbo slipped back inside, nudged the box across the floor until the door could shut and rubbed his arms to try to warm up. The morning was still a bit nippy and he hadn't thought to slip into a coat before going out. This time of year it was always hard to tell when to start a fire, it was so chilly in the morning but so warm later on.

He started a small fire in his study, then went to heat up some tea. It was annoying having to stop and cough so often, but the steamy tea helped. He added several of the tiny cakes to his tea tray and settled down on the floor-rug of his study to sort through his newly-returned books.

He was lost deep in a chapter about the history of the Shire calendar and holidays when the front bell jangled. There were times he really wished he had someone else living there, if only to be able to ask them to answer the door for a change. He sighed and set aside his book with an edge of the rug folded into it to hold his place. Brushing away cake crumbs, he coughed a couple times to clear his throat and went to the door.

He regretted it as soon as it began to open and the unmistakable sound of Lobelia was heard on the other side. He briefly considered slamming it back shut and hang the consequences, but his general sense of ingrained politeness got the better of him and it opened the rest of the way.

"Bilbo Baggins! You look worse than ever."

"And good day to you also, Lobelia. What brings you to my doorstep today, if I might inquire?"

"To cheer you up, of course. I won't let it be said in the Shire that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins doesn't do right by her relations. Did you take that dose I left you? And aren't you going to invite me in or do you expect me to just stand out here all day?"

Bilbo grimaced slightly. No doubt she would have it said in the Shire if he left her out. "Do come in," he stepped aside as she swept past him. "And yes, I've finished off every drop of your medicine." That is the bottle is empty, he continued silently.

"Did you?" She looked at him sharply. "Can't see that it helped. You are the very picture of sickness and misery, I'd say. Must be a serious case. Here, I've brought some flowers for your sick room, and a candle and I want my bottle back." She put a small handful of loose blooms on the side table.

"Of course!" said Bilbo, retrieving the bottle from the shelf in the entry. He had known this was coming, so it was rinsed and ready. He gave it into her outstretched hand. She weighed it, then opened it and sniffed.

"Well, seeing as it went over so well I'll be sure to bring you some more tomorrow. You look terrible, like death warmed over."

Bilbo tried to stifle a cough, but it came out anyway. It led to another and to his great frustration at the ill timing of it, he was red in the face and his eyes were watering by the time the coughs finally stopped. Lobelia was looking slightly triumphant.

"You see? It really is too bad, at your age to be catching such an illness. The candle has oils in it that will help clear the sickness from your sick room, so be sure you burn it tonight. I've been around a few seasons myself, you know, and I can tell when a hobbit is at death's door and needs a little help."

She reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a small yellowish candle. She set it next to the drooping flowers. "Well, aren't you going to even thank me? Here I go to all this trouble..."

"Thank you, Lobelia. Now, good day to you." Bilbo gestured to the still-open door and smiled a tight smile at her. She sniffed, and turned to go.

"I'll bring you more medicine tomorrow. It's so sad to see you deteriorating so quickly."

"Yes, thank you. I do the best I can."

She looked at him oddly, but all he did was give a small bow and shut the door.

He took a deep breath of relief and regretted it when it made him cough again. He turned and muffled it in one of his coats. No reason to give her the satisfaction of hearing him cough again. Once was more than enough. Leaving the flowers and candle for later disposal, he went back to his study. It took some time to settle back into his books, the contentment had been so completely shattered by her visit. This was also annoying because he suspected that was exactly what she would have wanted. He took up the poker and beat it on the burning logs, watching the sparks fly up in showers. It helped slightly.

In the afternoon his bell rang again. Had she decided to come back so soon? No, she had been very emphatic about 'tomorrow.' It must be someone else. He closed his book, stretched, coughed a little and shuffled to the door to answer it.

Daisy Gamgee stood on the step with her young brother, Samwise. She lowered her eyes and curtsied politely. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but I'll be away later this day and wanted to be sure your supper would be waiting for you on time. Sam wanted to come along, to cheer you if you would like..." she apparently thought this wasn't the best of ideas, as an older sister badgered into bringing along a young sibling might but Bilbo smiled warmly at them both.

"Come in! Come in, it's no bother at all. I was just looking through some books. Go right ahead." Daisy stepped in with her basket, but Sam hesitated on the step. "Yes, you too young Samwise! Come in. It'll do me good to have your cheerfulness alongside while your sister works. What is it you have there?"

Sam shyly extended a flat brown square to him. "It's a book, sir. I made it m'self, jus' for you, 'cause..." he looked at his toes. Bilbo took it from hand and examined it. It was a child's homemade effort, with what appeared to be two thin wood shingles for the cover. A few sheets of light brown wrapping paper from some market purchase had been neatly trimmed into rectangles and laced in-between the covers to form a book.

"Because...?" prompted Bilbo.

"'Cause you're sick, and you like books and you're always nice."

"Then I shall treasure it always. Tell me, what is this?" He indicated the scrawl of charcoal on the front page of the book.

Sam blushed terribly. "I wanted it to say 'To Mr. Baggins, get well.' But...it didn't come out very good."

Bilbo considered it. "Hm. I see what you mean. Well then. I suppose what we need to do is help you learn a few letters, shall we?"

Sam looked up at him with eyes bright with hope. "Really sir? Would you really teach me some letters?"

"Yes. Really." Bilbo laughed, even though it made him cough. "I will. And not just some, we'll have to teach you all of them so you can really write and spell and best of all, read. But I warn you, it can be hard to do. It can take a long time. You may have to study them even when you don't want to. Someday you may even have to read things you would rather not have ever read, or go places you would rather not go. Stories can take you to all kinds of places."

Sam looked at him with a resoluteness that seemed almost out of place on such a young face. "I can do it. Even if it takes a long time. And I won't be scared of any story neither."

"I believe you. Let's start with three letters today. Three very important letters. S, A and M. Come with me now..."

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly and quickly. Sam was slow to grasp the concepts of lettering, but eager to trace out the letters that made his name, even if the sounds that went with them didn't make sense to him yet. Once he had traced them well enough with charcoal on bark, Bilbo helped him to trace the letters onto a small bit of parchment for him to take home. His face glowed as he ran to the kitchen to show Daisy his name. Bilbo heard her exclaim over it and Sam's chatter of excitement.

Sam reappeared in the study doorway. "Thank you, sir! Thank you. When should I come back? For more letters, I mean?"

"Tomorrow, Sam. Come tomorrow if you're not needed to help at home. I'm not doing much else right now so we might as well do a bit more before the planting kicks in."

"Yessir! Thank you, sir!" He ran back toward the kitchen where Bilbo could hear Daisy's voice calling.

"We'll be heading home now, sir. Your supper will be ready in a trice, all you need to do is give it a stir. And...oh dear, look at these poor flowers. Sam, could you fetch me that little vase on the table there? Put a dipper of water in it first. Thank you.... Good evening, Mr. Baggins! Rest well."

"Good evening, Miss Gamgee and young Master Gamgee. Thank you again for your help." Bilbo called back from the study doorway. He heard the front door open and softly close, their voices fading away.

Bilbo went to the kitchen where he found a large, fragrant meat pudding that as Daisy had said, only needed a little stir to keep it from being too hot on the inside. A small loaf of bread sat warming on the stove along with a bowl of hot peaches with spice. After enjoying his fill, he was headed back to the study when he was distracted by Lobelia's candle still sitting on the side table. He picked it up as he would a dead fish and carried it out the back door. Looking around for inspiration, he noticed the Gaffer's shovel. He quickly dug a hole just off the edge of the garden and dropped the candle in, burying it, then put the shovel back as it was.

He went back in, heated a good steaming bath and followed it with a good cup of herbal tea. As he readied himself to retire for the night he looked at his mirror and realized he was alternately frowning and smiling as he considered the events of the day. He decided he would end on a smile. He went to his study and retrieved the little shingle-book. Propping it up by his bedside, he made himself think of good things, like young Sam's eagerness to learn. It was good. It made him smile as he blew out his lamp.

29: Wagging Tongues

Bilbo didn't know it, though he might have guessed, but his recent excursion and return had started a new wave of minor tales circulating around much of the Shire. Occupied as he was with recovering from his illness and working with the Gaffer on the layout of the year's gardens he had not taken the time to go to the Inn nor had many visitors; thus the tongues were allowed to wag as they would without any correction for a time. It was nearly a week from his return before any of it reached his ear.

Lobelia had shared one that very morning that made him grimace to recall. She and Lotho had showed up on his doorstep bearing yet another bottle of her vile medicinal concoction and a small packet of tea that she brewed but would not drink herself. He pretended to drink some - it smelled unpleasantly of moss - but managed to avoid actually getting any past his lips. After they had eaten most of his cakes and finally been shooed out the door, he poured it out the back. He counted his teaspoons, stifled his lingering cough and rehearsed being very healthy so he could turn them away if they came back whether he was healthy or not. He had noticed Lotho pacing off the size of the parlour to see if their furniture would fit. Just remembering it made him almost bend the spoon he was holding. They would not be coming back in anytime soon if he could help it.

Lobelia had carried on about some tale being told in town, that 'everyone knows.' It involved his having been seen paddling around on a log in some bogland, singing and flapping there too, no doubt (her own addition) and how could he bring such shame to their communal name this way? It was said he had been hunting ducks, catching them with his bare hands too, and that he had pulled out a knife and threatened some innocent children with it! And oh, how could he? Didn't he know there were other people hurt when he did these outlandish things? Didn't he have any pride in his family name? Whatever was he thinking?

He slammed the spoon drawer shut too hard and it stuck at an angle. He had to stop and pry it back open and close it again properly. It didn't improve his temper. He frowned his way into the kitchen to rinse out his tea kettle, and frowned over the empty cake-platter as he rinsed away the crumbs. The ill-will that lay over his thoughts didn't begin to lift until he opened the door to go out, looked up at the morning sun and heard Sam laughing at something in the garden around the side; a bit of light breaking in on his overcast mood.

Young Samwise had been a real ray of sunshine for him. The sturdy lad was not quick to learn, but he was determined. He had been back to Bilbo for three lessons now and could write his name without help. He was slowly working his way into more of the alphabet letters and Bilbo felt he was close to 'cracking the code' that would associate the letters with sounds and allow him to read. It had been a joy to work with him in the lazy afternoons and both of them were a bit disappointed when Daisy really wasn't needed to come to Bag End anymore and the Spring chores began, calling Sam away to work. Bilbo promised him he would still be able to come by whenever he could.

It had been a while since he had taken the time to work over basic lessons, there were too few who were, well, teachable. Now, young Frodo over in Buckland. There was a good, teachable hobbit. They'd made great inroads on studies together the last couple of visits, but it had been quite some time since he'd seen the lad. Too long. Now that he thought about it, he'd hardly laid eyes on him since they had given each other birthday presents last fall though they'd exchanged a nice note or two. Having the same birthday would have made him easy to remember, even if he weren't more adventurous than most... He missed him.

Bilbo's cough was receding at last and he was glad it no longer ambushed him with paroxysms but had become a more controllable tickle. His mood had brightened enough that the sun was shining both inside and out as he pulled on his brown coat and went into the yard to have a look at the gardening progress.

The ground was nearly tilled, but it was still just wet and heavy enough to make it a slow job. Halfred and Hamfast were struggling with it as Samwise dutifully tugged his small wagon of compost along, shoveling it out to be tilled into the ground. Nearby, May was helping Daisy to hang up a collection of newly laundered workclothes and towels to dry. Bell sat in a chair they had carried out into the sunshine so she could supervise without overtiring. Daddy Twofoot was out also and could be glimpsed between pickets as he slapped a new coat of whitewash on his bit of fence. All in all it made for a busy and somehow comforting scene.

He settled onto his favorite bench knowing he would not be allowed to help and joined in their conversation for a while. The talk was mostly of the weather, the condition of the ground, the quality of seeds, what was already done and what needed to be done. The usual things, not challenging but soothing. After the compost was spread, Sam was given permission to take a break and with Bilbo's encouraging smile, came to sit by him on the bench. The Gaffer frowned slightly, and Sam saw it, promptly shifting his seat to a sunny spot on the ground instead. It was the Gaffer's way, and Bilbo would not naysay him. Sam seemed happy enough where he was that it didn't really seem worth protesting.

Sam picked up a twig and carefully drew in the soil, S-A-M. He smiled up at Bilbo, who smiled back, glad he was proud of his accomplishment. Slowly and thoughtfully Sam circled it with the twig, then started talking.

"The lads in town were tellin' a tale yesterday, Mr. Baggins. An' seein' as it was about you and all, I listened a bit. I do love good tales, though my Gaffer says we shouldn't listen to gossip, but this one wasn't gossip, I don' think anyways."

Bilbo listened. Inside he tensed up slightly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. What if Sam had heard that ridiculous tale Lobelia had mentioned, the one that had him threatening children with a knife?

"Well," continued Sam, "I've been thinkin' on it and wanted to ask you if it was true."

"Go on."

"They said you were seen far, far away from Hobbiton."

"I have been, yes. I traveled quite a pace this past trip."

"Well, they said you came out of a mist. Like magic. You weren't there, and then you were. Right out of th' mist."

Bilbo smiled and relaxed. "Yes, I do recall being out on a misty day. But there was no more magic than any other mist. It was a very thick mist, very white. I remember being a bit surprised myself when a farmer's cart came up to me right out of it. I can see where they might have thought it was like that."

Sam said, "I never thought it was magic. Not really."

Bilbo smiled. "It's all right with me if you did. The world has many magical things in it. I just don't happen to be one of them. What else did they say?"

"That you came out of th' mist - though of course it was reg'lar mist - and that you left a solid gold doll for a little lass in a poor family. They were so poor, so poor they didn't even have proper clothes or food and anything and you left 'em this doll, and it was solid gold..." Sam was starting to get excited, recounting the tale.

"Yes, yes I did, in a way."

"You did?" His eyes grew very round in his head.

"But not in quite that way. Remember the mist? Tales change in the telling. The family was a very kind family, and while they weren't wealthy they weren't as poor as all that either. They had a snug home and perfectly good clothes and fed me a good supper too. And I didn't leave a solid gold doll, but I did leave a small gift of gold coins hidden in one of their lasses' toys before I left."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you hide it?"

"Because if they knew it was there, they would've felt beholden to me. I wanted it to be a surprise."

Sam knew all about being beholden to people. The Gaffer spoke on it frequently. He nodded his head. "It was a good surprise, then."

"I hope it was."

"Why do they change?"

"Tales?"

Sam nodded.

"I don't know... I suppose a good part of it is wanting to impress someone. To have them think you are clever or important. What good is a plain old everyday story for telling after all? Sometimes it is added onto to make it more exciting. Sometimes it's someone not hearing right, or misunderstanding what they see. Sometimes it's purely made up, right out of someone's head. And it isn't always nice tales, either."

Another nod. His curly brown head was bent down as he poked at the dirt with his twig.

"I'm sure you've heard others that were scary, or sad. They were probably not quite true either."

"Are there any that are all the way true?"

"Some. And there are others that are all the way made-up. Would you like me to tell you a real tale that really did have some magic in it?"

Sam lit up. "Oh yessir, please!"

"It's not a frightening magic, it's Elvish magic...and Dwarvish magic too."

He launched into a recounting of the moon-runes on the magic map, and how Elrond showed them that they could only be seen when the moon shone behind them at a certain time of month.

He could see most of it was going right over Sam's head and in hindsight wished he had chosen something with less detail and more action. He would have to think of a good one, more suitable for a young hobbit next time. Sam was called back to work and Bilbo went back inside to continue with his own task. He had been slowly translating a verse from the Elvish and it had something to do with the moon, which is what had brought that tale to mind in the first place. He slowly stopped writing, unaware he had done so. The quill-pen dribbled a bit of ink on his idle fingers as he gazed at nothing up toward the ceiling.

Someday, he thought, I need to get back to Rivendell for a suitably long stay so I have time to make use of their libraries. They had such books, such maps... But then... I won't even need the libraries to translate if I have great heaping flocks of Elves all about me. What a nice thought that is. Elves, whenever you want them. I'd like to see the Lonely Mountain again, to visit with the dwarves, and to see the men from Laketown too. I wonder how fat old Bombur has gotten by now. Maybe I could even see Beorn, if he would let me anywhere near; he was an odd one though a bit frightening, but if I wasn't alone... I wonder if Gandalf would be willing to have a tag-along. Perhaps I should ask him, next time he comes to the Shire... Oh, Bilbo Baggins. What are you thinking indeed? Here you just got back from a trip; remember how glad you were to get home? Thinking of wandering after Wizards already, are you?

Yes. I was glad to be home. I am glad to be home. There's no place as peaceful and homelike as this. But I would be glad to be off again also. Someday.

How the tongues would wag at that, if I left for another entire year. I'm sure it would take at least that long to see everything I want to see.

I couldn't just leave everything as it is for that long anyway. Lobelia and Otho would be moved in before I was over the bridge. The only good thing about it would be all of my spoons would finally be back together again. Hmph. Yes, all melted down into one shiny pile, right along with my coat and my sword and any other item of value they could lay hands on. A fine dragon's bed that would make, just the right size for the three of them.

I think I ought to look into stuffing my own omelette...

30: Ducking

Spring was moving on apace in the Shire and everyone was busy. Busy enough that Lobelia wasn't even able to gain a sympathetic ear when she tried to complain at the Market about poor, suffering Bilbo who was on death's very door so far gone he was turning her tender ministrations away. At least that was the news Bilbo heard from Daddy Two-foot the day after he had refused to open the door for her morning visit; he was greatly cheered to hear it. He had just been sorting through three of Dora's letters that had come all at once from the Post. Dora never stopped writing supposedly wise and good advice to him, though he almost never read through much less followed most of it. He had just scanned over one and read about 'turning away from wrath,' so Lobelia was on his mind anyway.

Dad was an honest fellow, and knew the relationship between the Master of Bag End and his erstwhile relations had always been a little strained at best so he accepted the smiling thanks of his neighbor with a good humored nod and strolled away to his home.

With everyone outside working, airing, cleaning and trimming, the gold-and-green land was alive with activity. Bilbo delighted in his late morning walks, seeing the last of the dead brown of winter being pulled away from the ground, heaped to the side like brown wool lifted from shorn sheep. Underneath that old growth the newly cleared ground and foliage was bright with green new leaves and red-tipped late buddings. The bulbs were all well up and nodding in clusters of white and yellow and purple along the waysides, the ground moist and fragrant with dew.

The fields were filled with toiling hobbits and sturdy ponies tilling, hoeing, raking and planting. Overhead the sky was a clear, freshly-washed blue unfaded by summer's heat. He lifted his walking stick cheerfully in greeting to them all, including the sky. One of the things he gained the most enjoyment from was the exuberance of the little children as he went. The older ones were having to work, but even they were given times to play and rest, and they all romped in the sunshine like puppies out-of-doors at long last. Several of them were clustered down near The Water this morning, carefully watched to keep any from venturing too near but enjoying the soft low bank near the Market, away from the tramplings of the livestock who sometimes watered along it further north.

On a whim, he turned back to his home and fetched the cattail duck down from his mantle. Back he went to the sunny bank where he chose a small calm inlet and carefully knelt down and set it in the water. The silt stirred up slightly as he withdrew his hand, leaving dancing golden motes in the water all around the little grass-waterbird. It bobbed slightly in the ripples of the water, its head tipping at him jauntily.

"What's that?" asked a voice.

He looked up to see three young hobbits squatting down just behind him to watch. He hadn't even realized they were there.

"It's a duck. A cattail duck. I got it from a friend who makes them."

"Can I try?"

"Certainly." Bilbo reached out and lifted the duck up, shaking off the drops of water. He handed it to the youngster and stood ready to catch him should he look like he would follow the bird into the water himself. He need not have worried as the child was very careful, almost exceedingly so. He set it in the water and it bobbed. Smiles broke out all around as if this had been a great accomplishment. Bilbo settled down on the grass to watch them taking turns lifting it out and floating it, pushing it around on the water. Others came who were curious and he soon found himself at the center of a small crowd of assorted children with a two or three older lasses hanging back, keeping the smallest ones away from the water.

"Tell us a 'tory, Mither Baggins."

He looked up from where he had been watching the mill-wheel slowly turning. A very young lass with curls the color of burnished brass in the sunshine sat beside him, her petticoat edges all dampened brown and green from playing near the water.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"Tell us a 'tory? My bruvver tol' me you do."

"Does he, now?"

Another voice piped just behind his shoulder. "He does, too." Bilbo looked back over his shoulder.

"Hullo, young Tolman. Aren't you supposed to be helping out at home?"

Tom Cotton looked at him and grinned a gap-toothed smile. "I am! Ma asked me to watch Rosie. So I'm watchin' her. She's right there."

Bilbo looked back at the little lass. "Rosie! I'm sorry, Rosie, you've grown so big I didn't realize it was you." Besides, I can never keep track of all the children around me anyway, he added to himself.

Rosie smiled up at him. "I'm this many." She held up three muddy fingers.

"Yes, I can see you are. And what a great, big number of fingers that is. I am so many fingers I don't think I can count them anymore. Here, why don't we move somewhere a little less damp and I'd be glad to tell you a story." He reclaimed his duck and walked back up toward the square.

Rosie took Tom's hand and they followed him up to the empty tables in the square. Others tagged along. It had been a long time, he reflected. He was usually so involved in his own quiet pursuits that storytelling for noisy, wiggling children didn't often appeal. Besides, all too frequently it seemed the older hobbits didn't want him telling them anything "scary" or "outlandish" and he never seemed to be able to stay within those bounds to their satisfaction.

He settled down at a warm, sunny table and considered. What tale would work for such a young group? Something simple. "Once upon a time," he began, "in a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit hole, and that means comfort." The children settled onto the warm hay that scattered out from a partially spilled stack and listened.

How it brought back memories, the retelling of his tale. His greatest adventure, though not his only one. No one could say it hadn't happened either. "...Gandalf! If you had heard only a quarter of what I have heard about him, and I have only heard very little of all there is to hear, you would be prepared for any sort of remarkable tale. Tales and adventures sprouted up all over the place wherever he went...of course I didn't know that then though I do now for this tale is a true one."

The little ones listened, wide-eyed. Even the older lasses were starting to be pulled in a bit, though they seemed to think they shouldn't be.

"...I am so sorry to keep you waiting! I was going to say when I saw it was not Gandalf at all. It was a dwarf with a blue beard tucked into a golden belt, and very bright eyes under his dark-green hood..."

"A Dwarf?" said one of the lads. "I don't think there is such things as Dwarves."

"Is too." protested his neighbor.

Bilbo smiled slightly. "You would be surprised how many things there are that don't give a fig if you believe in them or not. They are there just the same."

"Whassa beerd?" asked one of the smallest, removing his thumb so he could talk.

"It's a lot of hair all over their face. Like Mr. Bump's dog." volunteered his cousin, very importantly.

"Be quiet!" said Tom. "He's tellin' a story!"

Bilbo waited for them to settle down, then continued. "Well, this dwarf pushed in just as if he had been expected..."

He hadn't meant to get so deeply into his story. He was only going to tell a little of it, mostly about running out the door without his hat and handkerchiefs because he thought they would find it amusing. But once it was started, it was hard to remember to keep it simple, and 'safe.' The sun slowly shifted the shadows, but his audience stayed and listened with wide eyes.

"...Suddenly first one and then another began to sing as they played, deep-throated singing of the dwarves in the deep places...

Over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold...*

"What sort of rubbish is that?" interrupted an irritated grown-up voice. Bilbo had been so deeply in the tale it was almost a physical shock to come out of it. He looked up to find Mr. Sandyman the miller grasping his young son's arm and pulling him away from the group.

"Filling the children's heads with nonsense and poppycock again, Mr. Baggins? Fie on you! Come away, Ted, you've better things to be doing. And the rest of you too! Don't listen to him. He's cracked as an egg."

The older children looked slightly ashamed, as if they had been doing something wrong. The younger ones hunched slightly, away from his harsh words.

"Half-cooked rot, that's what it is..."

Mr. Sandyman headed back toward his mill, pulling his son along with him.

Bilbo saw no spark in young Ted's eyes as he went. If it had ever been there it had long been extinguished by his father. His mouth tightened but he didn't want the children to hear any ill from him. They had already heard enough for one day. He ducked away from the awkward pause.

"Well, it is getting late. I'm sure most of you are wanted home for luncheon soon..." he noticed a couple mothers coming to get their children on the path. One was Mrs. Cotton. "If any of you would like to hear more of my tale, I will be glad to tell it to you another time, but it is a long one. That's quite enough for one telling. Now run along, your mother's won't want your meals getting cold. Tom, Rosie, there's your mum right now."

The children began to scatter, younger ones recovering their spirits quickly as children were wont to do. The older ones walked together talking in hushed voices, a couple of them glancing after the Sandymans, who were crossing the bridge to the mill. He stayed where he was. He felt like hanging his head, he was so disappointed. But he didn't want anyone watching to think he was ashamed of telling the children stories. No. That would not do. Nor would he duck under hurled insults. He kept his back straight and his head up, but inside he was aching and angry, too. Cracked as an egg, was he? Well, how better to break out of a confining shell than to crack?

He stayed that way until everyone from his storytelling group was gone. Only then did he allow himself to get up and walk towards his home again, still being careful to keep his head high. As he came up the Hill, Hamfast ambled over to meet him.

"Mr. Baggins, sir! My Sam read this package for me this mornin', he did! He says it says "SEEDS" clear as a bell. And I know it must, it bein' a seed-packet and all." The Gaffer stopped in front of Bilbo wringing his cap and the seed-packet between his hands with emotion. "He can read letters, my Sam can! And it's all thanks to you, sir. It means so much to 'im. Thank you, sir!"

Bilbo hadn't seen the Gaffer so excited since he'd won that keg of ale in the pumpkin-growing contest year-before-last. The weight of Sandyman's words lifted away into the air. There was no struggle to stand tall and straight, none at all.

"You're welcome, Gaffer. You are quite welcome."



*Much of Bilbo's tale is made up of excerpts from The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien.

31. A Medicinal Marriage

It was a mild morning when the Hamfast and Bell Gamgee along with their younger children set off in a pony-cart for a fortnight of visiting with their relatives on Bell's side of the family. Their family holiday had been the subject of every breath Sam had taken for the past couple of days and Bilbo had enjoyed watching his excitement when he was out in the yard. Now that all the seeds were safely in the ground and the trimming completed there was little that would need to be done on the grounds except what came naturally by sun and rain, so the timing was perfect and it was good for Bell to get to have some time away.

Halfred was not quite ready to take on the full responsibility in the Gaffer's eyes so their oldest lad, Hamson, had come from his home to stay in Number Three and watch over the gardens while they were away. While he was not normally a gardener but rather a rope-maker, Hamson was a carbon copy of the Gaffer only younger and Bilbo remembered him from before he had gone to be apprenticed under his uncle Andy. He was content with the choice of a replacement.

Bilbo stood at his gate and waved to Sam and May who waved from the back of their cart with great energy until it turned the bend and he couldn't see them anymore. Hamson came up to him and doffed his cap politely.

"Well, Mr. Baggins, there they go."

"Yes indeed. I am glad to see them getting a chance at a holiday. Fair traveling weather, too. Those bits of cloud are perfect for keeping the sun off your neck when you've a long ways to go, don't you think?"

Hamson cocked an eye upward. "I hadn't really given it thought, sir. My Gaffer left me some marketing instructions so I'll be headin' off to care for that first. If you need anything else, just let me know."

"Very well. Thank you, Hamson."

He gave a nod of farewell and headed down the road toward town, leaving Bilbo to his own pursuits.

Bilbo knew what the instructions were about, as Hamfast had spoken with him on it a couple days before. Two of the three apple trees that were on the northern side of The Hill had both suffered from some sort of malady the previous year and he had finally taken them down early in the Spring. Now that the stumps were chopped and tugged from the ground, he wanted to replace them with new apple saplings.

"Only bother being that spring t'aint the best time o' year for saplings, o' course. Should've been planted in the fall. But they'll be all right if we get 'em in before too much longer. I'll have Hamson buy a couple and pop 'em in the ground," he'd said, "One pie apple and one eatin' apple."

It was a Market Day again in Hobbiton and after enjoying some quiet time in his study, Bilbo thought it would be a pleasant diversion to take a walk into town to see whatever there was to see before it was all taken down again. The Market tended to be just as much socializing as buying and selling, perhaps more. Putting on a clean vest and tucking a fresh handkerchief into his pocket he set off down The Hill.

There was nothing quite like the sound of a townful of hobbits all talking at once. He paused where he was on the road as he was approaching, held perfectly still and just closed his eyes, to listen to it. He heard sheep, goats, a cow lowing, babies crying, children laughing or squabbling... a cheerful and familiar cacophony of noise. Someone was singing and others clapped along, another hawked their wares to passerby.

He opened his eyes and realized the hobbits passing by him on the road were giving him odd looks and a very wide berth. He smiled disarmingly at them. "Such a nice noisy market, isn't it?" They glanced at one another, offered small polite smiles and continued on their way.

Walking down the gentle slope he soon passed the outermost market stalls with their bright bunting of ribbons flickering in the sun. He wandered up and down the aisles of stalls, sampling and admiring as seemed fit. He hadn't come with a mind to buy anything but a few coins jingled in his pockets just in case. Almost on a whim he found himself searching for anything made from cattails, and was mildly surprised to find a modest stall set up entirely with cattail items. There were balms, salves, cleverly woven mats, packages of cattail fluff...but it was the ducks that were the clincher for him. He turned to the hobbit who was presiding over the stall.

"Excuse me, you wouldn't by any chance know a Mr. Waterby?"

The hobbit smiled a broad, sunny smile. "Know him? I am him! Can I help you?"

"Mr. Waterby, so pleased to make your acquaintance. I met some of your children, I believe, while I was recently traveling near Needlehole. One young 'Brushtail' gifted me with a fine cattail duck, not unlike the ones you have here in your bin."

Mr. Waterby's eyebrows went up briefly. "So you are the Mr. Baggins they were speaking of. I was sure they had to be mistaken. I thank you sir, very sincerely, for if I understand right you were a great help to them."

"Anyone else would have done the same," said Bilbo with a small bow, brushing it off. "The reason I was seeking you out was because Brush told me that you produce medicinal items from cattails. Can you tell me something of them?"

"Why, yes we do! My wife is the one who makes up most of our medicines. Is there a particular ailment you're needing something for?"

"I can't really say...I have a neighbor whose wife is frail, and I suppose I was hoping there would be something new that might be of aid to their family."

"Hm. Well, most of what we have is for simple things like toothaches and rashes and such. We've a couple balms, and a very nice powder... Tell you what. Seein' as it's for womenfolk, how about I have Mrs.Waterby give your neighbor a visit?"

"A perfect idea. They are out of town for a fortnight. Would after that be a possibility?"

"Certainly, we can do that. What address should she call at?"

"Bagshot Row, Number Three. I will be sure they know of it so it isn't unexpected. If she does choose to purchase any items from you, you are to say they are already covered and to bill me. I will see to the cost."

"I understand." Mr. Waterby tipped his hat politely. "We'll be glad to help if we can."

"Now, I'd like to purchase some ducks."

"Ducks? Oh, of course! Choose any that you like. The children will be pleased to hear that you have enjoyed their effort."

Bilbo looked over the jumbled bin of ducks. They were in a variety of sizes and shapes and he realized the little one Brush had given him was quite small and simple in design compared to most of these here. Some of them had even been outfitted with carefully trimmed cattail 'feathers' on their wings and had shiny black seeds for eyes that made them surprisingly lifelike from a distance. Being indecisive and knowing the profit was going to the children anyway, he finally bought eight of the best and cheerfully headed back toward home with his arms full of ducks. In his pocket he also carried a salve for insect-stings and a small green bottle of a sticky substance that was supposed to be good for toothaches, not because he had one but because it was a curiosity.

He was going past the last few stalls when Opal Grubb was suddenly at his side.

"Good day, Mr. Baggins. My, what a lotof er...ducks, you have there."

"Yes, I do. Aren't they clever? Some children made them from cattails."

"I see! Yes. I was just thinking you were looking very chipper for someone so recently recovered from such a severe illness. How are you feeling today? No sudden changes or anything, I hope?"

Bilbo's real smile faded to nothing, though he managed to keep a polite shadow of it in place. Opal Grubb was known to be a full-fledged gossip if there ever was one. Anything he said would be broadcast throughout the town and possibly the Shire. He was weary of the topic of his health... he had to conclude she must have been spending time leaning over the fence of Lobelia's garden recently to bring it up so quickly. A severe illness indeed. Humph.

"I am just fine, if anything I am better and more healthy than I've ever been." he said firmly. Then a bit of madness took him. It must have been the reference to sudden changes that did it. That was the only explanation he had afterwards when he thought back on it. He didn't know why, but the next words out of his mouth were:

"In fact I was just thinking of getting married."

Opal Grubb's eyes bugged out of her head. Her mouth opened and shut and opened again but no words came out for a moment. "Oh...!" she finally managed. "Oh, well, that is...quite surprising news! And...who is this very lucky lass?"

"Oh, I don't know. Someone will come along, no doubt. Plenty of unmarried hobbits in the Shire you know. I haven't decided if I prefer thin or stout yet, and whether or not she ought to have accessories."

"You haven't? Accessories?"

"Yes, you know. Eyes, ears, feet. That sort of thing."

"I...uh..."

"But as I said, I'm sure I will find someone if I go looking. Now good day to you, Mrs. Grubb, I must get my ducks in a row."

He left her there and headed for home, struggling to not laugh out loud or to drop his ducks as he gasped with silent paroxysms of laughter. He reached Bag End all right but the effort of balancing ducks while opening the knob on the door meant he burst into his hallway with ducks flying in every direction. He leaned against the wall and laughed until tears ran down his cheeks, then gathered them up and set them along the shelf where they could survey his comings and goings for now.

He knew what would happen next. Opal would make a beeline for Lobelia. Might as well be ready. He headed back down the Hill.

Sure enough, no sooner had he reached the market and purchased a mug of warm cider to sip at than Lobelia came into view. She looked agitated, her head turning this way and that as she sought him out in the crowd. He deliberately wandered over to a bench where he knew she would see him. In moments she was at his elbow.

"What's this I hear?"

He looked up at her mildly and sipped his cider. "Hullo Lobelia. Fine day, isn't it?"

"Don't you 'fine day' me, Mr. Bilbo Baggins! What's this I hear about you taking a wife?"

"A wife? Oh, I don't know. Just a passing fancy. Don't you think it's a good idea? Perhaps it would improve my health."

"A good idea? No, no I don't think so."

"Why not? Are you afraid I can't afford one? It is very kind of you to be concerned, but I'm sure I'd manage somehow."

Her mouth puckered.

"Not to be unkind, Bilbo Baggins, of course not, but..." she seemed to be thinking very hard. "Are you sure any of the lasses would want you?"

He feigned an innocent blink at her over the rim of his mug. "Mmm? What do you mean?"

"I mean.. Well. It is a delicate matter, I suppose. You must be aware that you are... old, Bilbo. You are old, and in frail health. Why, anything could happen to you. You must realize that it would be most unfair of you to leave some poor wife without her husband so soon. It would be a drain on you, not a help. And you aren't exactly the most... well..."

"Yes? Go on." He was enjoying this.

"The most...appealing to the eyes. Your days of youth and health are long past." She gave an exaggerated sigh. "It is so sad, but it happens even to the best of us."

He gave the appearance of thinking deeply and furrowed his brows for her. After letting her shuffle her feet anxiously for a moment he gave out a dramatic sigh himself.

"Ah! Dear, kind Lobelia. I can always count on you to say it like it really is. You are right. I am old, and decrepit. It was just a passing fancy of long-forgotten youth. I guess I won't take a wife after all." He lowered his head as if in sorrow, though it was really to hide the twitching grin he was attempting to quell on his face.

She stood there a moment longer. He was sure she knew he was up to something, but she couldn't figure out what. It was an old game of cat and mouse, but he hadn't played it in a while. "Well. I am so glad to hear that your good sense is returning! You can always trust me to tell you the truth. It's a good thing I found you before you did anything foolish."

"You are so right."

"So, you won't...be continuing with that folly?"

"No, no I won't. You have quite convinced me. I am better remaining a confirmed bachelor. Thank you for your fount of wisdom, Lobelia. I am the better for it." He figured he better stop soon. The sarcasm was coming through. He stood and gave her a nod, then headed for home. "Good day!"

He was nearly to his gate when he noticed the cart filled with burlap-sacked saplings standing nearby. Hamson smiled at him as he struggled to untangle the boughs of the topmost from the others to lift it out.

"Hullo Hamson. What have you there?"

"Apple saplings, Mr. Baggins! And they're fine, strong ones too."

"Good! Who are the other ones for?"

"Other ones?"

"There's a cart-full there. I understood the Gaffer wanted two, one for pies and one for eating apples."

There was a silence. Hamson stopped moving, then cleared his throat and asked. "Two?"

"Yes, two. To replace the two that had to be taken down. Is something wrong?"

"I, um. I bought...more than that."

"You bought all of those? Why so many?"

"I thought he needed two...dozen."

"Two dozen? You mean I now own two dozen apple trees?" Bilbo's eyebrows went up, but he also couldn't help but smile. He felt sorry for Hamson, who had no doubt thought he was doing right, and it was funny in a way.

"I thought maybe you were putting in a new orchard. Two dozen would make a nice small orchard. And they were a good price, but... I'm sorry..."

"Now, Hamson. Don't get too worked up. It was a simple misunderstanding and perhaps some good will come of it. What I'll do is have you go looking for folks to buy some of them from you, and we'll plant whatever is left over. How's that?"

"I will sir!"

"Be off then, before the day gets any later. Good luck!"

Bilbo walked up the steps into his home and threw himself down in a chair. What a day. He was enjoying himself.

It was late in the afternoon before Hamson returned and somewhat timidly knocked on Bilbo's door. Bilbo opened it and raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

"Good afternoon, sir. I found folk willin' to buy eight of the little trees from me. It's late in the season for plantin' them, sir, and most folks who would be lookin' for one have already got them."

"So we still have...how many?"

"Sixteen, sir."

"Sixteen apple trees."

"Yessir." Hamson shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.

"Well then. I suppose you have a lot of digging to do. Put most of them over by the original set, then fill in whereever you believe a tree might fit along the back."

"Plant all sixteen?"

"That's the idea."

"But, in ten years or so this land will be awash in apples."

"Yes, I suppose it might. There's always uses for apples. I don't have to eat all of them myself. Go ahead now, your work is waiting."

"Yessir."

Bilbo gently closed the door and went into his kitchen to get an afternoon snack. He reflected on Lobelia's reaction earlier in the day. What would I want with a wife? Haha...too priceless, the expression that had been on her face. I suppose I shouldn't pull her chain that way, but it really was too funny. Besides, if she's going to listen to gossip, it serves her right. A good dose of medicinal shock to make her reconsider some of the news she listens to maybe.

Taking his plate and tea with him, he went out the back and sat on the bench watching as Hamson struggled ineffectively with the stack of saplings. I suppose I should have let him just plant the two. He is a ropemaker, after all, not a gardener.

Sometimes it just has to be the right person or it doesn't work.

And being related isn't enough. It has to be the right relative too.

Setting his plate down, he reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper he had gotten at the market, the one with the other information he had been looking for that day.

The name of a lawyer.

32. A Letter from Buckland

About a week later Bilbo was contemplating his windowboxes when Hamson Gamgee came to him with a letter in his hand.

"Hullo Hamson, good morning. Take a look at this windowbox, will you? Do you think the end there is drooping down, or is it just me?" He glanced up. "Oh, what have you there?"

"A letter came from the post for you, sir. As I was coming that way, I told 'em I'd just bring it along."

Bilbo took it from his hand. "Thank you." He turned it over to see the addressing on it; there was only his own. The postal mark indicated it had come from Buckland. But he knew the handwriting, knew it well. He smiled. "Yes, thank you Hamson." He gave him a nod of friendly dismissal, not inclined to share his personal communiqués with the erstwhile rope-maker. Hamson understood, touching his cap politely and heading back down the steps.

Hamson's light steps fading behind him, Bilbo was already turning to go back inside Bag End. He pulled the door shut behind him and went to the sunny window of the parlour to enjoy his letter. Scooping assorted papers aside, he cleared a place then lay the letter there in the circle of sunshine from the window, all glowing white on the glossy brown wood of the table. He admired the effect, just enjoying it being there for a few minutes while he went to get a cup of tea.

Returning with a steaming mug of spicy drink and a small cake, he settled himself properly, took a deep, refreshing breath and reached out to break the seal on the envelope. The creamy-colored folded paper slipped out and he opened it. His own name, in firm, flowing script ran across the top of the page.

My dear Bilbo,

Springtime has come again here in Buckland, and the brightly flowering weeds are outstripping the more acceptable order of the garden vegetables that someone has planted just outside my window. I don't know why this makes me think of you; it draws me to place pen to paper and send you greetings. Perhaps it is because your life always seems so bright to me, thriving in the midst of your orderly neighbors as you do.

I am well, and life continues on here in Brandy Hall as it always has. The last of the frosts are gone, and though I shall miss the silver tree-shaped shadows in the morning wherever the sun has not yet touched them, yet I am glad for the warmth. The planting and cleaning are finished and I have been allowed some time to myself at last. What a long winter this past one seemed to me with everyone indoors more often than out! It is not so bad when the weather is good, but I suppose I might be brought almost to be envious of you, with your own home all to yourself. I sit here at the window trying to find something of interest worth writing about but am somewhat at a loss. As I said, all goes as it always has.

I think I have about finished the book you lent me in the Fall, and found it to be of great interest. I look forward to perhaps spending some long summer evening with you as we did this past year, to learn more if you will have me. I have tried to find someone here to practice speaking with, but they deem it of little practical use and chide me for it, as a childish pastime. The Shire has so much history, and it is of value, but they do not see that the rest of the world may have a history also. I have been helping at odd jobs whenever I can to save up for some books of my own.

Have you had any visitors, or met any travelers since we last wrote? I would dearly love to hear some news from the outside. Something in the spring makes me restless somehow -you are the only one I think would truly understand that feeling, for I remember you speaking of it. How I miss your encouragement, and your silences also! I look forward to a reply from you, whenever you can manage it. Your words always seem to be just the right thing for any season.

The shadows are growing and I am called to help set the tables and chairs out for the evening meal. No doubt something of interest will happen here the hour after I post this to you, such has been my luck of late. Still, I remain

Yours affectionately,

Frodo Baggins


Bilbo smoothed the paper with his hand and read it over twice more while he sipped at his tea, then carried it with him to his desk where he laid out some fresh parchment and pulled up a stool. Where could he begin? He touched the tip of the quill to the parchment, then pulled it away again. What would he write? How could he sum up the experiences of going to the Towers and back in a letter? It was easy to do so for those who really didn't care to hear the details - in fact he had already written to more than one relative that he had "made a brief journey west and back again." But this was Frodo, and he knew the thirst for details would not be so easily slaked with him.

He touched the quill to the parchment again and withdrew it.

It was simply too much to write, it would take a whole book to talk about properly. In fact, it was; his somewhat battered traveling notebook was proof of it. He made a rapid calculation of how many days he had left until the Gamgees returned and the lawyer he had contacted was supposed to arrive from Michel Delving. It was a favorable number, though only just. He stood up, rattling the quill back into the ink-bottle with a small ting.

He would have to take the story to Frodo then. He found himself suddenly very cheered and a little excited about it, in spite of the long drive. Leaving the parchment with its two lonely dots of ink on it, he began to gather up his notebook, the feathers and grasses and such, the fragment of Elven carving...It would be a short trip, the weather was fair enough...

Hamson's eyebrows went up but he made no comment when Bilbo sent him to arrange for the pony and cart he used from time to time, then announced he would be gone to Buckland for about five days or so and was entrusting Bag End's safety into the rope-maker's care.

By noon, Bilbo had packed up some clothing, food and money, filled his pack with the mementos from his trip and was on his way driving along the East Road. He knew getting such a late start wouldn't be too much of a problem with the Floating Log in Frogmorton not quite halfway along. It had been some time since he had stayed there, but it was serviceable enough. With a quick luncheon under his belt and a clean handkerchief in his pocket his mood was positively buoyant. He hadn't been to Buckland since...well, he wasn't sure when. It had been too long.

The pony was a patient beast and steady, and the road was dry enough that mud-wracked wheels were not a problem as they might have been the previous month. He hummed as the miles began to slowly roll away:

Tree and flower and leaf and grass,
Let them pass! Let them pass!
Hill and water under sky,
Pass them by! Pass them by!

33. The Floating Log

Bilbo had been driving east at a leisurely pace throughout the afternoon, settling into the slowly bobbing pace of the ponycart until he'd felt half-hypnotized by it; a sort of long, wandering waking dream. The gold, red, and grey-brown of the road slowly slipped past, punctuated by watering stops for the pony and picnics for himself, plus the occasional conversation with another traveler. By the time the sun was setting behind them both he and his pony were weary and glad to see Frogmorton ahead. They perked up slightly at the thought of supper, each to their own kind. Their communal shadow stretched out long and thin, pointing the way down the hedge-lined road.

The yard in front of the Floating Log was ridged with mud and hay from the earlier rains, dried in ripples of hoof, wheel and footprints. The cart-wheels bumped over them up to the front post where Bilbo stiffly climbed down and waved a hand to catch the attention of a stableboy, watching to be sure the pony was well-cared for before turning his attention to his own empty belly. Back in the front, various hobbits lounged on the benches along the front of the building, smoking in the growing darkness with contentment, their pipes glowing softly orange from time to time.

Bilbo greeted two of them he had a passing acquaintance with and ducked past the carven wooden frog-on-a-log that decorated the doorway to enter the dimly smoky interior of the Inn. A pleasant hum of voices, kitchen pans clanging, glasses being filled with a soft glug of ale and the crackling of the fire all came together into a comforting familiar blanket of Shire-like sound.

The Innkeeper remembered him and was very quick to put down the mugs he'd been carrying and offer the best room he had, an offer just as quickly and gratefully accepted as it was given. With a warm bath for his outside and a few mouthfuls of a steaming rabbit-and-potato pie with a cloth-covered basket of biscuits for his inside he was feeling relaxed enough to turn his mind away from the weariness of the day's miles. He paused, blowing on a hot forkful, scanning the room for any friendly diversions or familiar faces. A dart game was in progress, two farmers were comparing preferred fertilizers and near the bar he heard a somewhat spirited argument about weather patterns; it was sufficient diversion to bring him to the end of his supper. He mopped up the last of the gravy with a fluffy biscuit and then settled back contentedly full, feeling for his pipe and pouch.

The leather pouch was only half-filled but that was more than enough for a short jaunt like this one. It was familiar and soft to his hands, the fragrance of the leaf lifting up from it sweetly. Patting his pocket for his pipe, he scootched his chair back and stood, intending to join the others smoking on the front porch when he heard a familiar, hearty voice offering greetings outside as it approached the front door. A slightly-rounder than usual hobbit with red cheeks pushed past those loitering by the entry.

"Hilalard Took - fancy meeting you out here," offered Bilbo with a smile for the rotund peddler who had brought with him a waft of fresh evening air. "I thought you would be down in Tuckborough at this time of year."

Lardy Took paused a fraction, then his eyes lit with recognition. "Mr. Baggins!" he said, offering his hand and seating himself uninvited but not unexpected at Bilbo's table. "A fine fancy meeting you also! I must say it's been a while since I've come across you anywhere near your own town. You would make a fine peddler if you ever took it into your head; travel more than any hobbit I know, and I know a good part of the Shire...oh, and as to myself I am just on my way to Tuckborough so you weren't far off on that call, no you weren't." He chuckled with good humor, managing to eat the rest of the basket of biscuits that Bilbo had left on his table and talking all the while.

"I've been selling the last of my seeds and such for spring...mmmf...had some fine apron material for the ladies, too. Good prices to be had... everyone wants something nice and bright when the sun is out...gwaph...mmffmm...grass is so tall the scythe-blades are all but gone too..." He paused to reach for the butter and slathered the last biscuit thickly.

"Glad to hear it's going well." said Bilbo amiably. "I was going to write you to let you know the books met with my approval. You delivered them well-packaged, as you promised. My compliments."

Lardy swallowed the biscuit and lifted a dripping mug of ale from the innkeeper's tray as he went past. He took a long, thoughtful swallow, then set it down with a thump that spattered both of them. He brushed absently at the drops on his vest. "Books. You know, it was an intriguing thought you gave me, to try selling some books."

Bilbo wiped drops of ale from his sleeve with his napkin. "Selling them? Did you?"

"Try, I said. Try selling books. I found a few and gave it a good effort, but you know what?"

"What?"

"Hobbits don't buy books. Leastways the folks that are my customers don't. No market for it, except for cookbooks it seems, and even that few and far between. I showed 'em to everyone, but they'd just look and look, like they were decorations for my cart or something. No, no market for books. Especially as they weigh so much. I even took an extra long loop into Buckland just this past week, to see if that old Brandy Hall there would be wanting any. They're said to have a library of some kind there."

"Any luck?" asked Bilbo, sipping at the last of his own ale.

Lardy shook his head. "No, no luck. They liked my bread-pans and late-spring bulbs, and bought up the last of my jam. Bought my wool. But no books. Think I only had one lad who was serious about them, and then he didn't have any money. I almost gave 'em to him just to be rid of the lot."

"And why didn't you?"

"Eh, what?"

"Why didn't you give them away?" Bilbo asked mildly.

Lardy laughed as if he had just heard a great joke. "Give them away? Hahaha! You think a peddler gives anything away? That's a fine one, Mr. Baggins! Haha!" He chuckled into his ale and repeated himself a couple more times before he was over it. After he regained his composure he continued. "I wasn't serious."

"So I gathered."

"One thing any peddler worth his salt knows is you don't ever give anything away. I'll find a buyer for those books someday. They'll keep. Might even make a good trade with the bookseller in Michel Delving if nothing else. Nah. Won't give them away."

Bilbo finished his ale and stood once more. "Would you be wanting a pipe? I was just on my way outside when you came in. I'll even share my leaf with you, if you like. Not being a peddler myself I suppose I am allowed to give something away now and then, eh?"

Hilalard smiled broadly. "Gladly, Mr. Baggins, gladly. You make me hope to be finding you on the road even more often than I do if the outcome is a free pipe!"

"It isn't entirely free. I would like to ask one small trade."

Lardy took it in stride, instantly prepared to dicker. "All right. What might that be?"

"What did this lad look like, who wanted the books? Can you remember?"

"Oh..." Lardy looked up, considering. "He looked like most any other hobbit, I suppose... but maybe a bit fairer than most. Barely in his tweens if that, hadn't filled out yet. Well-spoken, he was too, I remember. Sorry I can't really say more."

"It's enough. Can you recall which book he wanted most?"

"Hm." Lardy closed his eyes and thought. "That would be...well, there were a few that he wanted, not any one in particular. Maybe the plant book...no, no, the map book. Yes."

"Map book?"

"You'd probably know more about it than I would, being an educated hobbit and all. All I can tell you is it's a little book that has some map drawings in it."

"Thank you. I would like to purchase that book from you after we've had our bit of a smoke, if you don't mind."

"Mind?" Lardy laughed. "I don't ever mind making a sale or trade, Mr. Baggins. I'll fetch it for you before I turn in tonight. In fact, I'll fetch it before that if the leaf is good, haha."



Later, as he settled under the covers of his bed, Bilbo turned the slim volume over in his hands and leafed through it briefly. He would lay bets that the lad Lardy had met was his own Frodo. If not, it would still make a nice gift for him. There were not many pages enclosed in the dark blue leather cover, but the few that were there were well done and it even had a bit of woven ribbon to mark the page. The little trees on the cover were tooled and accented with a bit of silver, like birches in the winter.

There were maps of each of the Four Farthings, Michel Delving and even one of Hobbiton proper itself as well as a less-detailed one of the entire Shire. As was all too common, the edges beyond the Shire proper were unmarked white spaces, as if the entire world ended where that boundary was crossed and all of creation fell away into nothing. Bilbo mentally penciled in various additions. He wondered if Frodo had also ever lain wakeful at night to wonder what really lay beyond a map's boundary. What was in all those white spaces, and if a hobbit were to cross into them would he ever be able to go both there and back again....

Bilbo ran his thumb along the edge of the Hobbiton map, then turned to examine Buckland. A small, fanciful illustration of a smial marked Brandy Hall, complete with minuscule perfect billows of smoke coming from a singular chimney. Tiny flowers dotted the too-large hedge. It wasn't exactly accurate, but it was charming.

If only the true world could be as neat and clean and well-swept, he thought. Nothing messy, nothing uncomfortable, nothing frightening. I suppose as long as a hobbit were to keep within the boundaries, and never go off into those white spaces, they have a fairly good chance at living that way. Better than most. There were many who were not so lucky... What keeps darker things away from the Shire, I wonder? It's not the Bounders, nor the Sherrifs. They can hardly turn away a goat from a flower patch, much less a goblin or a troll. I don't think it's the Elves. I know it's not the Dwarves. But it's almost as if something is protecting us, letting us be at peace. I wonder.... He turned the pages again, but his head felt muddled with fatigue. He slipped the book into his pack where it sat slumped by his bedside and pulled the covers up, careful to keep his feet away from the bedwarming pan that radiated the heat of the coals within it.

Blowing out the lamp he soon slipped off into sleep framed by the round patch of striped moonlight that came thorough the shutters. He drifted, lost in a half-dream of great white spaces that ships could sail upon, white mountains, white rivers and silver trees that faded away into a bright winter's mist.

I like the sound of that...I ought to write that down.... His last thoughts whispered as he faded away.

34. Buckland or Bust

Bilbo was up early, well-breakfasted and on his way while the morning was still damp and cool. The ponycart awaited him in the courtyard as he had requested, though the pony looked none too pleased about it. He shivered slightly, blowing to see if it was cold enough for his breath to show and being slightly disappointed when it wasn't. The last of the pink, lavender and peach faded into blue above him as he gave the reins a little flap and clicked to the pony, who reluctantly began to amble forward and out of the yard of the Inn.

Turning back onto the East Road, he glanced back at the dwindling Floating Log to see if Lardy's peddler cart was still there. He'd half a thought to turn back and take a look through the books that the peddler carried, but seeing it already gone from its place, he sighed and turned his face back towards distant Buckland. Yesterday had been a slow amble to reach Frogmorton, but today he would need to move more steadily if he was going to cover the distance before nightfall. Mentally tallying up miles, he was grateful for the longer daylight of the season. It was going to be a long day.

Long, but not lonely. The weather was fair and every hobbit he passed was busy with some task. The smials had yards filled with children, wash being hung, candles being dipped and any number of other jobs being carried out. The fields and orchards were being tended and trimmed and hoed. Most travelers were walking, a very few went along on ponies or hauled hay and such in farm wagons. He smiled and greeted all he knew (which were several) but didn't pause to visit as he would have if he'd had more time. The sun slowly lifted upwards, and he ate in his cart to save time.

Halfway along he pulled to a stop at a Postal Office that kept a small stable of ponies for such purposes. His weary pony was grateful to be led aside and rubbed down as another took its place between the shafts, and the stable boy was grateful to pocket the coin Bilbo gave him for his willing service. Bilbo knew how to prime the pump of good service with a few well-placed coins in the palm and encouraging words in the ear. Top it off with a smile and a perky, grey-brown fresh pony was waiting and ready to go. He gave a wave to the lad and set off on the second leg of his journey.

The afternoon was still and warm and he looked longingly at every shady spot he passed, steering the pony to whichever side of the road had the most overhanging trees and frequently pulling out his water-bag. Stopping to water the pony he squinted up at the sun through the branches of the cottonwoods that grew along a small creek. It was lowering, and a low bank of clouds lay purple-grey and hazy to the west, so his light would be lost sooner than he had thought. As soon as he could, he was on his way again, occasionally jogging wherever the road lay level and straight. He sang little tunes to pass the time, slipping in and out of simple traveling songs and deeper verse.

Going to Buckland,
That's the way
Going to Buckland
We'll go today
Buckland it is, with river fair
With wooded land and ale so rare,
Buckland, oh Buckland oh Buckland ho ho!
To Buckland to Buckland to Buckland we go!

The pony slowed questioningly. He flapped the reins. "No, I said "ho ho and go, not whoa. And technically, it should be I go, but then that wouldn't count you, would it?" he asked. It twitched its ears at him and continued on. He shifted around on the wooden seat trying to find a patch that didn't already feel beat to a pulp, though the East Road was fairly well-maintained. Yes, driving was faster, but it had its own price to pay.

When the stone bridge with the Bridge Inn beside it finally came into view he very pleased to see it. He paused only briefly at the nearly-deserted Inn to get a drink and small snack for both of them. He knew once the sun went down the small Inn would be alive with tired farmers looking for a bit of news and a pipe but he expressed his regrets to the Innkeeper that he really couldn't stay and moved on.

The pony's hooves clumped loudly across the wide bridge, over the sluggish waters of the Brandywine. Tiny clouds of gnats swirled up into the sun from the damp banks. He paused half-way over to just enjoy the view. The sun was westering a bit now, lighting up the trees on the Eastern bank bright as a painting. The river was a patchwork of grey shadow and golden mirrors, dotted with tiny ripples from feeding fish, bounded by greens and yellows. He watched a twig slowly rotating along through the waters and only reluctantly pulled away; the pony was nosing along the edges of the bridge looking for stray weeds to eat. He followed along after it, clambering back up and pulling up its head to continue into Buckland.

Turning south he followed the road that meandered along with the river, the sun glancing off the waters nearly blinding him at times until it began to settle into the cloud bank, dimming the Brandywine from gold to pewter, then dull grey. A breeze blew along the banks, bringing with it the rich wet smell of riverbank and grasses. There were a few other travelers afoot and he nearby smials began to show lights in the windows and smoke from the kitchen chimneys. By the time he approached the well-trodden path to Brandy Hall he could hear children being scolded for being out past supper, and the light had dimmed until it would have been difficult to be sure of the path if it had not been so broad, a lighter stripe of road between the darker grasses and yards.

It was full dark by the time he had reached the Hall itself, an unmistakable Hill blazing light from its many windows. The sound of voices and the clink of plates carried to him as he pulled his tired pony to a stop and climbed down. He took the pony's bridle and led him forward, trying to remember where the stables were in the darkness.

"Hullo!" said the shadowy shape of a hobbit nearby.

"Hullo!" returned Bilbo. "I've just arrived and I've a tired pony here. I thought the stable was somewhere nearby?"

"Just a second." said the other. There was a pause and a small clanking sound as a lantern was taken down and lit. The flame flared up to reveal a stout hobbit with an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. He lifted it up to light Bilbo and the pony. "That's better. You're headed in the right direction, stable's right over here." He led the way around a small bend that had been hiding the light of the open barn doors. "There you go."

"Thank you. Much obliged." said Bilbo, guiding the pony forward. Not that the beast needed any encouraging with the smell of oats and alfalfa nearby; he was hard put to not be dragged along. The helpful lantern-bearer turned back the way he had come without so much as a single inquiry: a mute testament to the number of hobbits in the Hall, that a stranger would not even be recognized as such.

Bilbo handed the care of his cart and pony over to the stable master with the promise of a generous tip if they were both well-cared for. That tended to, he turned his own steps at last towards the waiting Hall. There was more than one 'front door,' in fact there were several. Going off of a somewhat uncertain memory, he worked his way around to the westernmost door. He could hear voices conversing, laughing, arguing inside. Some shutters were pulled snug against the night, others still lay open to the breezes, some dark some lit. He passed his earlier guide who was now lounging on a bench, his pipe puffing a little glow of red in the dark. A few hobbits walked past him with a small lantern, their attention only for one another's conversation so that they didn't give him a glance.

He shifted his pack to his shoulder more comfortably and came around the last bit of bending garden wall to the western 'front.' Here the walk was wide, paved with a criss-cross of soft moss and flagstone. He walked up to the door and pulled the bell-rope, hoping someone would hear it over the noise coming from inside. He had just begun to reach for it a second time when there was a jiggling of the knob, then the door swung partway open. The light spilled out across the stones.

"Hullo, yes?" asked the short lass with long curls who had answered the door. There was a baby balanced on her hip and a breadloaf tucked ignominiously under her arm. She seemed harried.

"Good evening. I've only just arrived, and would like to inquire for young Frodo Baggins, if you know him?" He knew better than to assume everyone in this house knew everyone else they lived with.

She paused to consider. The baby peered at him with round eyes then hid her face in her mother's hair. "Hm. Oh yes. Frodo. I'm sorry I don't really know where he is right now, but you're welcome to come in and I'll send a lad to look for him."

"Most appreciated. Thank you." said Bilbo as she opened the door up the rest of the way and stood aside for him. The baby peered at him from under her hair and suddenly gave him a toothless grin. He returned the grin. "Sweet child."

The mother smiled a crooked smile. "When she's not being fussy, she can be." She looked down at her tiny daughter who promptly hid in her hair again. She turned to the nearby doorway. "Berilac! Can you or one of your friends there go find Frodo Baggins? He's got a visitor here. Go ahead and be comfortable" she said, the last directed to Bilbo. "Now, I've got to go take care of the sauce or it'll burn, if you'll please excuse me."

It didn't matter if he excused her or not, as she turned and was gone down one of the halls, the baby peering back at Bilbo around her arm and grinning again. There was a stir in the adjacent room and a stripling lad bounded out, then stopped when he saw Bilbo sitting on the entryway bench. "Hullo! Are you Frodo's visitor?"

"Guilty as charged," Bilbo returned mildly.

"He's gone out."

"Out?"

"Outside. He left after supper. He goes out a lot."

"He does? Any idea where?"

"I followed him once. He went down by the river. We aren't supposed to do that alone like that, so I got him in trouble." The lad seemed strangely proud of that.

"I see. Well. I'll be off looking for him then. Thank you." Bilbo stood back up

"It's dark outside." stated the lad.

"Yes, I'm aware of that fact. Thank you." said Bilbo, shouldering his pack and reaching for the knob.

"We aren't supposed to go out alone."

"Yes, I suppose you aren't. Isn't Frodo lucky."

He ignored the odd look the boy gave him as he slipped back outside. After the blaze of light inside he was blinded in the dark and had to lean back against the plant-covered wall and wait for his eyes to adjust.

The sweet smell of flowering herbs hung around him as the flagstones slowly came back into view. Passing over the stones, he followed the ghostly shape of the lighter colored path leading off to the south. His guess was that Frodo would have wanted to walk away from the light and the noise, but wouldn't go off into the forest so it was the logical direction to take to begin his search.

He walked along until the noise and light faded away and the dark was peaceful again. Overhead stars had come out, a though the moon hadn't risen their small light was enough to walk by. The air was cool and he could hear the river's soft watery sounds off in the distance, along with a handful of singing frogs.

He walked up another small rise and was just considering going back the other way to circle around the Hall when he noticed a dark hobbit-sized silhouette just up the slope, against the sky. He smiled and called out. "Frodo! Frodo, my lad!"

There was a movement, a pause and then a sudden rush as the hobbit up on the slope turned and suddenly ran towards him joyfully through the starlit night. "Bilbo! Is it really you? I can't believe it's really you!"

35. Starlit Walk

Bilbo was nearly knocked down by the enthusiastic greeting Frodo gave him; they both spun off balance in the dark for a moment, laughing. Regaining his footing, Bilbo said "Well, I've found you at last!"

Frodo laughed, still embracing him. "You have! I do hope you weren't out looking for long? If I'd known you were coming...."

"Then I wouldn't have had the fun of surprising you this way." Bilbo said, brushing aside Frodo's polite concern. "I didn't get in until dark as it was." He glanced around the darkened knoll, blue-black sky and dark silhouettes of distant trees. "Do you come out this way often?"

"Some..."

He could hear a smile in the voice. "It is so pleasant to see you again. Not that I can see you, of course - I don't need to see you to know when you are smiling." He held the younger hobbit out at arm's length. Now that his eyes were adjusted to the dark, he could actually see him fairly well and yes, he was smiling.

"You got my letter."

"Yes, yes I did. But you presented such a conundrum, a terribly unjust puzzle for me in writing it."

"Did I?"

"Yes, you asked for whatever news I had since we last wrote. And as it would have taken me the better part of the month to write it all for you, I had to bring it to you myself."

"Really - The better part of a month!"

"Indeed. I went for a little walk, you see. Come, let us walk a bit." he paused. "You don't need to get back to the Hall anytime soon, do you?"

"No. They won't miss me until breakfast, and there's always some way to get in. I have my own room now, Bilbo! It's small, but it has a bit of a window. There's shelves in it, because it used to be a pantry but they're useful enough..."

"Now, that's a bit of news. You didn't mention it in your letter."

"No," Frodo laughed, "it was arranged right after I posted it to you, just as I feared would happen. If you hadn't come, I would have put it in the next one though. Forgive me?"

"Much. I'm glad you've a bit of space to yourself. Is there room for two?"

"Only just, but there's always room for you, dear, dear Bilbo... I just can't tell you how pleasant it is to be here, talking to you. I sometimes imagine you're here, did you know that?"

"You do?"

"Yes. I walk, and I talk to you."

Bilbo's eyebrows raised. "And do I ever say anything back?"

"Sometimes, in my mind." grinned Frodo, slightly embarrassed. "I imagine what you would say, that clearly."

"Hm! And have I been well-behaved?"

"Not always. If you were always well-behaved, I should think I wasn't talking to you at all."

Bilbo chuckled. "So I see! Well, if you can tolerate my ill-behaved voice speaking aloud to you this time, let's walk a bit together. Show me what it is that draws you way out here besides the obvious peace and quiet." He turned, following Frodo's lead back up the low slope that lay between them and the long decline toward the Brandywine.

"Well, there is a peacefulness, as you say. But there are also those..." he paused at the top of the rise and tilted his head back.

Bilbo likewise raised his eyes to the stars. "Ahh.."

"And that..." said Frodo, indicating the distant river.

Bilbo looked over to the west where the waters ran. The starlight was just visible on the surface, the palest of silver dancing slightly with the current. Through the lace of branches, motes and streaks of silver could be seen; a tableau of nighttime beauty. They stood together quietly for a moment, just listening to the soft sounds of the water and the light breeze that lifted the leaves and whispered through the grasses, stirred its gentle fingers through their hair. There was a slightly wooden sound as some boat gently bumped up against its docking.

Frodo stirred. "I wish I could write about it. I wish I could capture it in words, like you can, Bilbo. I've tried but poetry eludes me." He turned to the thoughtful hobbit at his side. "Would you catch it for me?"

Bilbo stirred out of the dark riverside's spell. "Catch it?"

"Write it. The nighttime, the stars, the waters. Would you... paint me a picture of your words so I can read them again someday, when I'm older, and remember how beautiful it is..."

"Ah." Bilbo considered seriously for a moment. "Yes. That is, I can try. It may not come to me for a while, but I can try. For you." he smiled. "I haven't been writing too much lately, I've been translating."

"Translating?" They slowly walked along the small ridge, then down toward the river.

"From the Elvish. I've a ballad in Elvish and I'm trying to set it down in the common tongue. It's not too bad, a fairly short one for them. It's nearly finished. I'm hoping I can learn enough to be able to translate some of the longer works with more confidence. It's very difficult with poetry or songs because the meter of the words must be right and it doesn't always translate across... There's one I would very much like to conquer someday that has had me... ha ha, I've been around a few too many Dwarves I guess...'pulling my beard' is the idiom that came to mind."

"What's it called?"

"What's what called?" asked Bilbo, still thinking of Dwarves.

"The Elvish ballad that makes you want to pull the beard you are plainly lacking."

Bilbo smiled. "Oh - it's a ballad about Eärendil. See? There's his star, right up there. Look. Over there. That one."

"That one?"

"No, no to the left a bit. Up. Over." He reached over and adjusted Frodo's pointing arm. "There. See the bright one?"

"It's very bright in middle of all that darkness. They named a star for him? Was he a hero, or a king...?"


The moon rose up slowly, peeping its silver-white face over the eastern forest as they walked and the evening grew late. Bilbo, all weariness forgotten, gladly taught his willing student the legend of Eärendil , the significance of the stars to the Elves and their sailing on the sea. He knew there was still so much he himself did not understand, so much history and so many stories to yet be read, but what he did know he was glad to impart. It was such a joy to have a kindred heart nearby, someone who was wanting to hear instead of just humoring him. And someone who wasn't surly about Elvish, unlike his occasional Dwarvish visitors. They made a gradual loop back toward the Hall as they talked, but by the time it came into sight again nearly all of its many lights were darkened in the late hour.

Bilbo paused and lowered his pack to rummage in it. "While we're on the subject, I have something I want to show you." He pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle that was small but heavy.

"This is a piece, only a fragment really, of an Elven carving I found in the Elven Towers off to the West."

"The Elven Towers!"

"Yes, as I said, I've too much news to write of easily."

"You could have said something sooner."

"Perhaps, but I'm saying it now. That will have to suffice. Here, take this." He unwrapped the stone and handed it to Frodo. "I know it's dark..."

"It's all right. I can feel it." Frodo ran his eager fingers lightly over the carving.

"It's a ship," said Bilbo. "Or a good part of one anyway, and a star. The ship has a swan-shaped prow, like the ones I've seen in other carvings and paintings of theirs. I've never been sure if it was some sort of symbol or real ships, or both. The star..."

"Is Eärendil." finished Frodo.

"We'll take a look at it in the light when we get back." He glanced ahead of them. "Are you sure we can get in? Everything looks closed up for the night."

Frodo handed the carving back into his hands. "Oh yes. There's always a way in." His voice held a confidence that Bilbo believed. He just hoped it wasn't some small way that only worked for thin tweens, rather than stouter hobbits.

"Wouldn't there be someone awake, to tend the door?"

"Yes, but I don't feel like listening to her lecturing me about being out late again."

"I see." Bilbo wrapped the carving and stowed it away. Together they softly crossed the grassy lawn.

"Here," said Frodo. "Over this way." his voice dropped to a whisper as they stole along the outer perimeter of the Hall. "The lower shutters are all latched. But see how it slopes up? You don't really realize you're going up when you're inside, but the upper windows are sometimes open."

Bilbo whispered back. "Aren't those bedrooms? What if we wake someone up?"

"We won't. Shhh." Frodo silently led the way, scaling up the steep slope of the Hall's grassy side.

Bilbo wasn't so sure, but he followed as quietly as he could which was very quietly.

Up ahead of him Frodo paused, then began to work his way across the hill to the right. Bilbo reached the same level and followed suit. It all seemed a bit silly somehow, climbing around on someone's house this way. Frodo had stopped and was waiting for him to catch up.

"Here." whispered Frodo softly. "This is a storeroom. Follow me." He hefted himself up and reaching in, pushed aside the shutters slowly and quietly. Then he slipped over the edge and disappeared inside the room with a slight flumping shuffling noise. His head reappeared in the opening. "There's some sacks of flour." he whispered.

Bilbo took off his pack and handed it in to Frodo, then hefted himself up onto the tiled sill, grateful that there was no windowbox. He slipped over the cold edge and down into darkness, landing on the uneven stack of fat flour sacks. He stumbled slightly finding his footing. By the time he looked back up, Frodo was already back at the window, swinging the shutters back where they belonged.

They went to the door. Frodo opened it just a crack and listened carefully, then nodded and slipped out of the room, gesturing for Bilbo to follow. Feeling strangely anxious about being caught by someone, a feeling he hadn't had for a very long time, he followed the younger hobbit down the hall, past several doors and shuttered windows, around two turns and then doubled back down another hallway. He was glad he had a guide. The hall widened out. Frodo finally stopped at a somewhat small doorway and opened it.

"My room." he whispered with a smile. "Go ahead."

Bilbo ducked slightly under the small door, followed by Frodo who shut it behind them and in short order had a candle lit. He smiled.

"Home sweet home. What do you think?"

Bilbo turned around, catching his pack on the shelving as he did so. "Snug and cozy."

"You mean small." corrected Frodo. "At least it has a door that I can close. Go ahead and take the bed. I'm used to sleeping on the floor."

Bilbo looked at him with an unspoken question.

"The last room I had, the bed was filled with two smaller cousins, so I had the floor. Before that I had a bed, but half the time I had to give it up for visitors."

Bilbo's eyebrows raised slightly.

"It's all right, really! You don't need to look at me that way.We'll split the covers. It's warm enough."

Bilbo acquiesced, sitting gratefully on the bed. He didn't want to admit it, but he was weary. Frodo still seemed fresh and ready to go. Ah, for youth.

As they both settled down for sleep, Bilbo asked. "Who was that lad?"

"What lad?" answered Frodo from the floor. He sounded slightly sleepy.

Bilbo described his erstwhile greeter when he had arrived. "The lady who answered the door mentioned Berilac. Was that him?"

"Oh, him. No, not Beri but one of his cronies. Beri is the nephew of the Master so he gets away with a lot but he's basically a good fellow. That one was from his group he likes to play with. He used to follow me everywhere but when I tried to befriend him it turned out he was just trying to make himself feel important, trying to get someone older than himself in trouble. Quite a little tattler, that one."

"What about your cronies?"

"Haven't any."

"None?"

"Don't want to be one, either. Sounds terrible, crony, doesn't it? I shouldn't like to be anyone's crony, ever. I should only want to be their friend."

Bilbo shifted on his pillow. "And are you?"

"A friend? I don't know. I suppose I must be, to some. It is hard to see oneself through other's eyes. How can a person learn to be a friend, Bilbo? Are there books for things like that?"

"No, I'm afraid not, through there are books about friends. Friends who stuck with one another through thick and thin. Being a friend, that is something learned from reading eyes and hearts, not books."

There was a long pause, then Frodo's sleep-laden voice came up to him softly.

"I should like that, to be able to read eyes and hearts. But I'm not sure I would want someone to read mine."

Bilbo lay in the darkness listening to Frodo's quiet, steady breathing.

I wonder what he would think to know he's already read mine... he thought as he drifted off.

36. Wondering

Bilbo awoke groggily in the early morning to muffled thumps and clangs coming from the other side of the wall. He blearily sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Frodo was gone, having apparently slipped out without waking him and the 'bit of a window' as Frodo had called it showed a patch of sky no bigger than a grapefruit; what he could see of it indicated it wasn't much past dawn. He slowly dressed for the day, yawning, and folded the blankets. Cracking open the door he peeked out into the hallway: several voices were carrying on in the adjoining room, there was the sound of water sloshing and something sizzling. But of course; if this bedroom used to be a pantry a kitchen nearby made sense. He wondered if it would startle anyone to have him show up unannounced in their kitchen that morning, he wondered where Frodo was. He knew a handful of the Brandybuck family and had a passing acquaintance with several of the inhabitants of this sprawling Hall, so why did he feel like a burglar? Must be leftover from their unorthodox entry to the hall the previous night.

A baby began to cry and was hushed, two lasses went by in the hallway talking rather loudly for the early hour. He sat back on the bed listening to their skirts swishing against the sides of the passage and wondered what was being cooked. He remembered the food of Brandy Hall and had no concerns about quantity; Old Rory still kept a good table, and no one in the Hall need ever go hungry. His son Saradoc had been taking over the more arduous duties of Master as time went on, but Old Rory was easily still hale enough to preside over a laden table and to wield a spoon and fork with the best of them.

He had just decided to go looking for Frodo when the door quietly cracked open and a bright blue eye framed with dark curls peeked around the corner at him. Seeing him up and dressed, Frodo swung the door the rest of the way open and gave him an apologetic smile.

"I wasn't sure if you would be awake yet."

"Is it always this noisy here in the morning?"

Frodo rolled his eyes. "Not always. It figures it would be an omelette day right when you visit. Salvia and Viola are the self-proclaimed queens of omelettes but they're none too gentle with the cookware. I'm surprised they don't crack as many plates as they do eggs! Still, they do serve it up nicely. I hope you like omelettes? There's pancakes too, if you'd rather."

Bilbo couldn't help but ask. "What are they stuffing them with?"

"Oh, any number of things. They usually have several cheese ones, or you can stuff your own."

"Sausages?"

"I think so. Yes."

"Now I like the sound of that." said Bilbo amiably following his young host to the adjoining kitchen. The air was redolent with fragrant steam and toasting bread. They threaded their way through the bustle past a huge griddle and a wooden table covered with bowls of assorted veggies and meats. A colossal bowl of scrambled eggs stood ready to cook. A large colander heaped with empty shells went right past Bilbo's face, borne in the hands of one of the cooks.

"S'cuse me."

He ducked away. "Of course." A small lass, her arms full of early spinach leaves collided with his legs. Frodo took his arm and gently pulled him out of the confusion into the dining area on the other side.

"We all pretty much serve ourselves at breakfast," he said, handing Bilbo a plate and fork from a stacked sideboard. "And I'm afraid I'm one of the dish-washers this morning, but I'm going to see if I can trade with someone so we can go out walking."

Bilbo followed Frodo to a sort of window in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. Frodo held out his plate and a plump, pink-cheeked matron slid a folded omelette onto it. Bilbo followed his example and likewise had his filled. She glanced up at him as she reached for the next plate.

"Good morning! Are you visiting?"

Ah, so they do notice if you don't live here, thought Bilbo. Or at least some of them do. "Yes, I'm a relative of Frodo's." he said politely. "Thank you so much for the omelette."

"We've plenty and to spare!" she smiled then turned away to tend some youngster who was struggling with a large circle of cheese. Bilbo nodded thanks to the back of her head and turned to see where Frodo wanted to sit.

There were several hobbits at the two tables by the windows, and a group of younger ones clustered near the fireplace balancing their plates on their laps. Frodo didn't join them, but headed for some smaller empty tables on the side. There was a sudden pushing away of chairs as half a dozen browned hobbits dressed for working in the fields stood and carried their plates past him then went out a side door into the morning, talking amongst themselves. Bilbo waited until they were past then moved forward again, threading around the chairs.

A small curly-headed lad with two huge sugared buns in his hands dashed past him from the direction of the kitchen nearly upsetting the plate he balanced in his hand, a lass in hot pursuit pounced and grabbed the child by the back of his collar, dragging him screeching back out of the room. Bilbo raised his eyebrows questioningly. Frodo shook his head.

"That's Merry. They watch him night and day, but he can be quite the conniver. Can you imagine this place being in his care someday?"

"Merry?" said Bilbo, vague about the significance of the name.

"Meriadoc. They call him Merry for short. He's Saradoc's son. Only one so far." Frodo settled down at one of the smaller tables taking a generous bite of his breakfast from the plate before it was even on the table.

"I see," Bilbo said listening to the outraged hollering that was now emitting from that same child as he was dragged literally kicking down the hall. Bilbo noted he was still clutching both of the buns to his chest and was in fact attempting to eat one whilst yelling. "Well, we all grow up someday. No doubt he won't be kicking like that when he's older."

"No doubt." agreed Frodo, rapidly demolishing his serving. "But when he's older no one will be dragging him along like so much baggage either... I hate to think what sort of damage that much determination packed into one hobbit could do. If he sets his mind to it, nothing stops him no matter how much of a whipping he gets."

"Hm." offered Bilbo, his mouth full.

The omelettes were very good, and Bilbo was bemused to see how quickly Frodo went through his, rising and coming back with a refilled plate which he was half through before Bilbo had finished his first one. No one could eat like a hobbit in his early tweens. Bilbo got a second serving but only finished half of it. Frodo obligingly finished off the rest of it for him, along with his own third helping, then went off to the kitchens to haggle about his dishwashing duties while Bilbo sipped tea.

He returned before long and offered a crooked smile. "We're free to go."

Bilbo could see there was more to it than that. "What sort of deal did you strike?"

"It doesn't matter." he said evasively. "A walk with you is worth any number of chores."

Bilbo accepted Frodo's wanting to be noble about it. He set down his empty tea cup and didn't press further. "Just let me fetch my pack, and check in on my pony."


They walked together in companionable silence for a while until they were well away from the Hall and the main traffic of the road, heading North this time. The morning was fresh and clear, the last of the night mists that formed near the river were rapidly burning away. They spoke of small things at first, of weather and water and wood, their conversation as wandering as their feet. Bilbo began relating his narrative regarding his own springtime walk that had turned into a small journey. It was delightful to have a companion who understood. Frodo never stopped him with questions like 'but why would you do that?'; he knew why Bilbo had done what he had done.

As it went on, Bilbo found himself relating parts of his tale that he hadn't even intended to include, the dream he'd had, the seabirds bobbing their heads, even his own awkward tumble down the steps of the tower clutching that wooden stool - it all just... flowed out. It was rather more than the carefully cleaned-up-for-presentation version he had thought about writing down, but it was wonderfully freeing. He knew no gossip would find its roots in Frodo's good heart, no jealousy or dark twists of his tale would come back at him, no mangled echoes of truth as he sometimes heard from others who only half-listened, who only half-understood.

It wasn't until past luncheon that the tale began to wind down and he realized his throat felt dry and thirsty from talk. They had stopped above the River for a small snack and drink, spreading their coats over the cool-damp ground and sitting on them to watch the lazily moving waters far down the slope. Birds could be heard faintly singing from the woodlands to the side. It was all very peaceful, and quiet.

Bilbo plucked at the grass absently. "Frodo." he said, breaking a silence.

"Yes?" The startling blue eyes looked up at him from where they had been gazing across the waters at nothing.

"When you consider yourself, I was just wondering... would you say you have many friends?"

Frodo pondered this seriously for a moment. "Well, no. Not really. I have many acquaintances, and people who are friendly enough but if you mean close friends, no... I suppose I don't. I can't say it really bothers me much, though. I mean, it sounds like it should, but I like the peace and quiet of being alone. Usually, anyway. You understand...?"

"Yes, I understand. I am much the same way. While I enjoy visitors, and I know about everyone there is to know in Hobbiton and many in other places besides, my very best friends are few and far between. And some aren't even hobbits." He considered a moment. "Some of them are books, in a way. I often am at my best when I write my thoughts rather than speaking them."

"I do that too." said Frodo, "but not like you do. You have such a way with words. It seems more of a struggle to me, for you it comes as naturally as drawing breath."

Bilbo had to smile at that. "I don't know about that, now. You should see me sometimes, wracking my brain for a phrase or a word..."

"Still," insisted Frodo, "It is a gift I think. You have a gift with languages too."

Slightly uncomfortable with the adulation, Bilbo turned the topic away from himself. "Have you been studying much?"

"Not as much as I would like, through there is a bit of a library here. I'm afraid most of the collection is rather dull. Records about farming, who won the prize at the fair. That sort of thing. Oh!" he brightened up. "There was a peddler, one of those who drive around all the time in their carts, you know what I mean?"

Bilbo nodded, carefully keeping a politely interested expression on his face.

"He had something very unusual this time when he came by - books! I mean, real ones, not just recipes and picture-tales. He had those too. I got to look through them all. There weren't many, but some of them were interesting. It made me think of you, with your marvelous study and all of your books."

Bilbo knew the answer but thought he would ask anyway. "Did you buy any?"

As if a cloud had covered the sun, Frodo's face fell. "No. Not that there weren't some I would have liked, of course. I couldn't afford them..." he brightened slightly. "But I've been taking on some small jobs, saving up to buy some when he comes around again."

"What sort of small jobs?"

"Oh," Frodo leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the clouds. "I cleaned harnesses for a bit. I weeded. I moved furniture. I even babysat."

"Babysat? You?"

He laughed. "Yes, hard to imagine I know. Almost as hard to imagine as you babysitting." He chuckled at the expression on Bilbo's face at the thought. "And what's worse, it was that little terror, Merry."

"The bun-snatcher?"

"That's the one."

"Ah."

"But if I can get a couple good books, all for my own, it will be worth it. There was one, it wasn't very big but it was interesting. It had maps, rather than a tale. All maps, of the Shire. I think it might have been done up for a Postmaster. They were small, and so cleverly done. I know it wouldn't further my language or history studies, but there was something...."

"Charming?"

"Yes! Charming about it. How do you always know the right word to use?"

Bilbo reached for his pack and flipped the top flap back to rummage inside.

"Because it is charming." he said, drawing it out into the sun.

Frodo gaped. He looked at the slender blue book in Bilbo's hand in utter disbelief, then turned huge, disbelieving eyes on his friend. "Where did you get that?!" he exclaimed in wonder.

"I bought it. From a peddler."

"But....it's..... I...."

"Yes, it's the same one. Go on, take it! It's yours now."

Frodo slowly lifted the book from Bilbo's waiting hand, then suddenly lit up with delight as the weight and feel of it made it real. He turned it in the sun, to see the tooling on the leather, the silver glinting. Bilbo sat and smiled as the younger hobbit opened it up, noting the delicacy of his handling of the pages even in his excitement. He enjoyed each and every drawing all over again with the sometimes breathless and even awestruck commentary that flowed from the book's new owner. Every page had something to be admired, to be noted, to be pointed out. Even the white spaces along the edges.

"What's over here?" asked Frodo, running his finger in a circle on a white space.

"Mountains. Much larger than any we have around here..."

"And over here?"

"Marshlands. I never got all the way around them...."

One tale led to another, until Bilbo was afraid he was doing all the talking. He wanted to hear what had been happening with Frodo also, but every time he tried to turn the subject, the lad was reticent.

"Nothing really happens here. Not really. Every now and then there's a little thing, like a boating party...." he paused, gazing at the distant river.

The silence grew longer.

"Well," said Bilbo, who knew what the problem was and decided to change the topic. "Let's walk a bit more, shall we? What's further up this way? I missed most of this the other day, it being so near to dark, and it's been just long enough..."

Frodo accepted the offer gratefully. They brushed the bits of grass off of themselves and continued on.

37. Contentment

With deep breaths of the earthen scents wafting past them on the cool morning air, Bilbo and Frodo wandered along the wide grassy bank of the Brandywine. It paralleled the road for a time until the bushes and trees growing thick by the water's edge nudged them back to the main path. There seemed little need for lengthy words; the waters, birdsong, insects and breezes in the grass were sound enough. It was only after a comfortable half-hour of ambling in this near-silence that Bilbo spoke.

"Are we going anywhere in particular?"

Frodo looked up from where he had been absently scuffing a clod along with his foot as he walked, leafing through the book he held in his hands. "No, not really. But with the Forest on one side and the river on the other, Buckland only gives you two good options for walking and we already went the other way last night."

"Mm. I just wondered. I'm in no hurry."

Frodo gestured vaguely ahead. "If you go further north and over, there's an area called Crickhollow. I was just noticing it's not on my map."

"Not on the map? I wonder if the Post delivers mail there."

Frodo seemed slightly miffed. "Do you think they would leave off something just because it didn't get enough mail? And why wouldn't it? Why should only the 'more important' ones be there?" He stooped and picked up the clod, pitching it at a nearby tree. It smacked the trunk in a small explosion of dirt, dead center.

Bilbo wondered at the unexpected vehemence over such a small thing. "I was being facetious. I'm sure it was just an oversight; they show other places that are just as small. Good aim, by the way. So tell me, what is this Crickhollow like? I must have passed it on the way?"

He watched as Frodo's eyes unfocused slightly. "It's a very peaceful place," he said more slowly, "though I suppose it is a bit out of the way. Smaller homes...Nothing really worth noting now that I think about it... some farmland. I'm not even sure there's that many hobbits who live there."

"Well," offered Bilbo reasonably, 'You could always sort of pencil it in anyway." He figured the lad must have some favorite childhood haunt up that way. He remembered such things in his youth, leafy glades and brush piles that he imagined were his own smial. "Is it much known around here at least, where it's local?"

"I can't say it's mentioned much, it gets overlooked." Frodo was still thinking. He glanced over at Bilbo's mild eyes. "But that can give it a great...value?"

Bilbo nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"Not the kind other people think of, not crops and money, or important names, or even history, but the quiet. The peace." He made an impatient gesture. "Oh, Bilbo! I get so weary of all the crowding and noise around me sometimes. I just... I know I shouldn't complain, and they're my relatives and all, and I do care for them, but..." he trailed off.

A flock of waterbirds flew over them, all honking together in a mass of movement, bound for the river. "Like that." said Frodo.

Frodo and Bilbo stopped to watch them fly over. The honking and frantic wing-pumping subsided as they splashed into the distant water, and the peacefulness returned.

Frodo quietly spoke again. "I really appreciate your taking the time to come here. I apologize for sounding so ungrateful and churlish."

"Not at all, you were just being honest. And I had already guessed as much anyway."

They walked on, slowly passing a flock of stolid sheep who raised their heads from the grass and looked at them curiously, their spring lambs suckling without a pause. Small white tails went around like leaves in a whirlpool, their heads always butting for more. Bilbo noticed the way the older ones stood, solid and unmoved by the energetic youth beside them, protecting and comforting. He hoped he could do as much.

The younger hobbit beside him grew serious as he walked. "Sometimes I wonder what I will do - with my life I mean. I so admire those who have some sense of purpose, or history and who are content with their lot. They know what's expected of them and they're comfortable with it. Most everyone I know is content with what they have, or seem to be. And I feel like I should be. After all, I have relatives, a home, I even have a room of my own now. But what can I do?"

Bilbo didn't reply, trying to be solid, letting him talk it out.

"Maybe I should apply with the Post and put this new map you've given me to proper use. It has advantages. Most hobbits - at least the ones I know - don't want to work for the Post because of the travel, but on the other hand Post workers would meet a lot of people and see other places in the Shire."

"Some of the biggest gossips in the Shire are in the Post." Bilbo replied."I can't say it would suit you, but on the other hand I'd rather have someone like you than that tongue-wagger that works in Hobbiton. But as for their travel, well, I would say it's overrated. They have the same route usually for years and years... I suppose there are worse jobs out there.... With you on the job, those obscure hobbits in overlooked Crickhollow might get some mail at last, eh?" He smiled, then considered for a moment, remembering Hamson. "I think part of it is you need to be suited to your purpose to be content. Some people seem born to it. Take the Gamgee family, my gardeners, for instance."

Frodo nodded. He remembered them well.

"Wondrous gardeners," Bilbo continued. "The Gaffer boasts he has the best potatoes of anyone in the Shire and he's probably right. He comes from a gardening family, and I expect his sons will continue it after him."

"I can't garden to save my life." commented Frodo wryly.

"Well, I admit I'm a good hand with most flowers," said Bilbo, "but when it comes to trees, and vegetables and grasses and such I'm grateful he's there - it was the same with my father. Maybe every Baggins should have a good gardener somewhere nearby to help him out. The point being that you would think any hobbit in his family would be a gardener, naturally and without thought. As you said, it's expected of them. But - you remember Hamson?"

"Mmm. Not very well."

"Doesn't matter. Picture the Gaffer, only younger. Hamson wasn't the bad sort, but he never did have any interest in gardening. Oh he learned it, because he wanted to please his family, but it was never in his heart." Bilbo tapped the front of his weskit for emphasis.

"What happened to him?"

He's apprenticed to a rope-maker of all things, and happy as a robin in its nest - as long as you don't ask him to garden. I didn't really realize it until he came to fill in for me a bit. I believe he's content with his lot now - but only because he found a new home with someone who had the same passions he did, if you can call rope-making a passion."

Frodo quirked a smile. "Rope-making? For many hobbits, I suppose it could be."

There was a long pause, both of them lost in their own thoughts again. Bilbo watched his young companion gazing over toward the distant river and couldn't help but wonder if Frodo would be happy away from what he knew. Hobbiton wasn't nearly as peaceful... more in the center of things. Was he being selfish to...

Frodo broke his musing. "Are you content, Bilbo?"

He had to rein in his thoughts, turning them to ponder this new question. "I don't know." he said slowly. "If you mean being at peace, what I do isn't all fun and games. The studying and research can be frustrating. Travel can often be uncomfortable and even dangerous. Not all travelers are friendly for hobbits. Many of my best friends are so far away I can never see them. And the being set apart from the rest of your family..."

"Is hard sometimes."

"Yes. But there's good and bad in everything. And after all, the good parts are what make the best storytelling later, even if you thought they were bad parts when they were happening." he smiled. "Am I content? Not if contentment means staying just as I am. I'm always looking for something new to think about. Like you, I suppose I should be content...I certainly have all I could want, one would think."

"But isn't it enough, to just... to live and eat and sleep and work and grow old?"

"I suppose it should be. It can be. There are many who would give their eye teeth to enjoy the peace we have right here, right now."

"Then why aren't we content?"

"Most of us are! Many in the Shire are as content as they can be. They are positively marinated in contentment. Don't judge others by your own state."

"I didn't mean 'we' as in Hobbits... I meant 'we' as in you, and I."

Bilbo was quiet for a time, walking. He had to consider the way Frodo had referred to them, the two of them, as alike. He was very touched by it; it reached inside him and warmed his heart somehow.

"I don't know. I used to be content. I remember great scads of contentment. Oh, days and days of it. Years, even. But then..."

"Then...?" prompted Frodo.

"Then one day a wizard showed up on my doorstep." Bilbo said matter-of-factly. "Gandalf showed me there was so much more to these lands, more than I'd ever been taught. The history of the Shire itself even...I am still finding out new things. I may never be content until I know all there is to know of this world, and there are whole areas on maps that I have no notion what is beyond them. None!"

He gestured to Frodo's coat pocket that held the map book. "But I also find that when I am out-and-about, I long for my own home and hearth. So I must take my contentment in exploring what I can from time to time." He considered the white spaces on the map. "For instance, I hear there is a place somewhere to the East where it is so dry all year round, nothing grows. It's all sand, for miles and miles and no water at all. It's not on the maps, and I have not seen it; I only know from reading, and from a Dwarf who told me of it. And he hadn't seen it himself either..."

Frodo frowned slightly and looked at him askance. "Who would want to? Travel to such a place, I mean. A place without water would be terrible!"

"True, true. To some. But it might be interesting to visit. You could carry in a bit of water, you know. Spend a day or two there. Just to see what it's really like."

"I don't know... I'm not sure I would care for that sort of travel, all that ways for nothing."

"Not for nothing; you would get to see things other hobbits have never seen! If it weren't so far away, it might be a place to go in the winter, when it's cold. If it's dry all the time, it stands to reason it might also be hot. Like summer."

Frodo snorted lightly, unconvinced. "Rocks are dry, but cold. Maybe it's all rock. And if its dry all the time, there wouldn't be anything alive. Why would you want to go all that way just to see a dead land?"

Bilbo chided him gently. "I'm a touch disappointed in you, Frodo. You sounded just like my neighbors in Hobbiton there, for a moment. Do things have to be living to be worth seeing, or doing something about? Do you remember the Arkenstone?"

"Yes..."

Bilbo paused, lost for a moment in the image of the magnificent gem, remembering the weight of it in its rag-wrappings in his hands. He remembered seeing it lowered into its place on Thorin's cold breast, the stone lid covering it over in darkness once more. Beauty lost in darkness. In the heart of the mountain. He thought of the stars, cold above, named for those who were no longer among the living. He thought of his own ring, on its chain and its beauty, brought out of darkness. A golden beauty. The looked down at his empty, cupped hands. "The Arkenstone wasn't alive, but its beauty haunts me to this day."

He considered his words carefully, still exploring the concept. The Arkenstone was found, lost and found again only to be buried. Perhaps someday it would be brought back to light once more, for other hands to hold. Someday when Thorin was forgotten. His hand strayed to his pocket. Who knew how long his own ring had lain in darkness, or how old it might be?

He plucked a leaf from the hedge as he went and twirled it absently in his hand. "Not all beauty is living beauty, my lad. Not all deemed of great worth is beautiful either, though many things are. And deep things, old things - they...return after a time. The small things endure like dandelions, passing away but also being ever-present, because there's always more of them. That's like us, like hobbits, I think. And we should be content with that. But it doesn't stop us from studying the older things. They have roots that go deeper, that aren't touched by the frost of time. Stars, oceans and Elves... Death can be beautiful...yes, I suppose even death has a beauty of its own."

Frodo unexpectedly smiled at this. "Death and beauty."

"Well, yes..."

Frodo answered his quizzical look. He gestured out at the hedged farming fields around them. "After endless months of talking to people about things like crops, sauce seasonings and harness repair, it just suddenly struck me as funny to be talking about things like Death and Beauty."

Bilbo was about to reply when a hobbit rounded the line of hedges that had been coming up alongside them. Before him came three newly shorn sheep and he had his clippers tucked under his arm. Halting their conversation somewhat self-consciously, they nodded polite greetings to him as he went past. He nodded back and with a curious look continued past them on the path to a distant low barn. The sheep baahed in protest as they were turned from going to the field by the stick he carried.

Bilbo leaned over and whispered to Frodo once they were past. "Instead of Death and Beauty, there's always Life and Ugliness, I suppose." They both snickered.

"Now, that's not nice."

"No, not at all. Did you notice how much he resembled a melon, left out in the sun too long?"

"Stop that!" Frodo said as they both snickered again, glancing back to be sure the shepherd hadn't heard them. It was a release, to enjoy a moment of levity.

After a bit, Bilbo, who had still been pondering the original topic in the back of his mind spoke again. "A gift of words, as you called it, is two-edged, you know."

Frodo brushed his bangs out of his eyes and gazed up at the sky, but he was listening. "In what way?"

"Someone who has that gift can see things, notice things, that others don't - and when it's put into words, others can see them too. But it isn't all pleasantry and peace, what is seen. Some of it may be things you later wish you hadn't seen at all. Things that will haunt you, that other people... they will not want to read about it."

He considered the lad next to him realizing how he had withheld many topics from him, because they were too dark, or too difficult. Or unpleasant. So far the education he had offered in bits and snatches had been mild. But the lad was growing up. What would he think of the tales of war, of hideous creatures, of greed and of traitors, now?

"It may be that contentment for us is being free to explore those words...both pleasant and otherwise..." He felt he was floundering somehow, being too vague. He realized he wasn't sure of the answer to Frodo's question himself. He paused, searching for a good, solid concept he could wisely propound as he felt was expected of him. Not finding one, he finally veered back to the relatively mundane.

"Well, it takes thought, doesn't it? But the Road goes ever on, you never know where it can take you. And look at me here! It swept me to Buckland and now it's sweeping both of us too far to walk back before dark if we don't turn around soon..."

Frodo stopped in his tracks and nodded. "True." Then he suddenly asked,"How long will you be staying?"

Bilbo looked away from those expressive eyes, out over the field. He didn't want to see the change his words would bring. "I'm afraid I'll have to be on my way tomorrow morning."

"What? Tomorrow? But you've only just arrived!"

"I know. But I need to be there when the Gamgees get back from their little journey, and I have a...someone coming from another town to see me. Remember, I hadn't planned on coming here at all."

"But..." Frodo looked terribly disappointed and inclined to protest.

"Now, none of that! I thought you were old enough now..."

"I'm sorry." Frodo said, immediately chastised. "You're right. I just... I guess I was hoping to spend more time with you. I don't think we've nearly finished talking."

"I can't promise to have answers for you..."

"I know. But you encourage me. It's nice to know that there are things even you don't know."

Bilbo quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe we can both learn about them together someday. You will have to come visit me this summer, you know." He hesitated. "Then...there won't be any rush."

Frodo brightened happily. "How long? When?"

Bilbo smiled at the 'lamb' that practically capered beside him."I'm not sure yet. But I shall certainly write and let you know. Now let's turn about. Hup! And off we go again. We should have packed more food. It might be past supper by the time we get back."

"There's always food in Brandy Hall," said Frodo equitably. "If you don't mind a thrashing from the cook the next morning."



It was late in the afternoon but not yet supper when they arrived back at the Hall, so Bilbo was spared having to find out what sort of thrashing Frodo had referred to. The Hall was overflowing with hobbits coming in from their work, cleaning, talking, getting ready for dinner. While Frodo went to wash up, Bilbo requested a few withered carrots from the kitchen and went to the stables to see his pony, leaving instruction with the stable-master so his cart would be ready to go first thing in the morning.

The pony reached his head over the stall door and snuffled the carrots from Bilbo's palm, crunching them contentedly. He was obviously content where he was, as long as no one asked him to go anywhere. Bilbo patted his soft nose then reached up to ruffle and scritch the forelock. The pony tilted his head with appreciation and dribbled bits of carrot on Bilbo's coat-sleeve. Bilbo sighed.

"Well, old fellow, one more night and it's back we go." The pony snorted lightly and shook his ears. "Yes, I know. You just want to stay here in one place and eat to your heart's content. Not unlike most of us, really." He scrubbed behind the pony's ears, then turned away, brushing away the carrot bits. He washed his hands and headed in to find Frodo and a bit to eat.

38. Evening & Morning

Brandy Hall was a warm and welcoming place to be on a late Spring evening. The shutters and doors had been opened to the breeze through the warmth of the afternoon leaving a fresh scent throughout the rooms even after they were closed up against the night. Fresh flowers gathered by the children graced the well-scrubbed wooden tables, and a cheerful fire was snapping at a large resinous pine log in the dining-room fireplace. The room was cluttered with chairs and mismatched tables. Wading through the suppertime bustle, Bilbo finally managed to find the Masters (both Old and 'young') and extended his proper greetings to them.

Saradoc was pleased to see him but distracted with others calling for his attention and his young son clinging to his leg and howling. He soon left Bilbo with various polite 'excuse-me' variations to tend to his duties, walking awkwardly from the weight of little Merry who was still wrapped around his leg.

Old Rory held court over his assorted relatives from his overstuffed green chair at the head of the biggest table, his thinning white hair wisping around his head. Bilbo thought he resembled a bobbing, withered dandelion all gone to seed and found himself smiling at the mental picture of a gust of wind blowing the Old Master's hair off and around the room. He remembered Old Rory from before he had attained the title of "Old," yet found that title suited him somehow. Old Rory seemed to accept it as part of his name. Bilbo wondered how long it had taken him to become used to being called that - he knew he wouldn't care to have everyone calling him Old Bilbo all the time. But then, he didn't have a younger one taking his place, either.

Bilbo found himself invited to sit near Old Rory as an honored guest, which he did. He enjoyed visiting with the old hobbit, even though Rory's hearing was going and the clinking of plates and clanging of pans made it difficult. Bilbo had just had a large platter of ham go by when he felt a light hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Frodo behind him.

"Ah, there you are!"

Frodo quirked a wry look at him. "I was conscripted to help in the kitchen for a bit. I've only now been able to pull away. Sorry."

"No, no - don't apologize. I just missed your company. Can you sit down now?" Frodo's eyes went mutely to the filled seats on either side of Bilbo. "Ah. Hm. I see." He turned to Old Rory to make a seating request but shut his mouth on the words unspoken. The Old Master hadn't eaten much himself but instead, after encouraging everyone else to eat heartily, had fallen asleep only partway through the meal.

Frodo smiled. "It's okay," he said in a low tone. "It happens all the time. He'll wake up in a little bit."

Bilbo was handed a bowl of baby red potatoes. He scooped some onto his plate and passed it on. "Aren't you going to have any dinner?" He turned to the hobbit on his right. "Excuse me, would you mind terribly if I asked you to scoot down just one chair, seeing as there's room? My young friend here...thanks so much."

Frodo hesitated, glancing around the room. "I don't usually sit at this table..."

"Nonsense. You're my guest now. Sit down." Bilbo patted the chair with authority. He turned to the snoring Old Rory. "May Frodo sit here? Snort once for yes. Very good." He turned back to Frodo. "See? Even he thinks its a fine idea."

Frodo had to stifle a laugh at that. "All right. If you insist."



It was late before they retired for the evening. As they helped close things down for the night, Bilbo noted how Frodo was spending a little time with some of the others close to his age at last. Unfortunately it seemed only to be defending his sitting at the Master's table earlier on, judging by the gestures and few words he heard, going by. Coming in the little bedroom, Frodo shut the door a touch too forcefully. The blue eyes flashed toward him with a spark of anger.

"They think..." he started angrily then cut himself off. He stood a moment, his head down, his hand still on the door. He seemed to go somewhere inside himself, somewhere far away. After a moment, his voice came again more calmly "No... don't mind me. Or them. It doesn't really matter what they think anyway."

Bilbo looked up at him from where he sat at the edge of the narrow bed. While admiring the way the lad had reined in his temper, he didn't care for the slight note of defeat he heard. He had to quell an upsurging of anger in his own breast, a desire to find those who had hurt and angered his young friend, to...do something to them. What, he didn't know. Something. Give them a piece of his mind. Teach them some manners...

He was surprised at his own thoughts. It reminded him of the sort of things his father would have once said, or his mother. Old recorded memories from his youth, parental phrases. He was unaccustomed to it and it confused him slightly. Get ahold of yourself, Bilbo. He's a tween and very capable of taking care of himself. He doesn't need some old relative doddering into his life and acting like a mother hen of all things.

Frodo silently dressed for bed and lay down among the blankets on the floor. Bilbo waited as there was only room for one person to move around comfortably at a time, then followed suit and pulled the cover back to climb into the bed. He lay back, listening to the sounds of the slowly quieting household outside the door then sat up to blow out the lamp. He glanced at Frodo, but the long-lashed eyes were already shut. He blew out the small flame. Night descended in the little room, its tiny window slowly fading in as a grey circle high up on the wall.

Frodo spoke from the darkness as Bilbo lay there waiting for his eyes to adjust.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to them at all, I should have known they would..." he didn't finish the thought.

"I'm sorry also," replied Bilbo. "that they upset you. But it taught me something."

"What's that?"

"That I wanted to wallop them for it. It quite surprised me."

There was a soft sound of laughter. "That makes two of us. But we can't, you know."

"No, we can't."

There was a long pause, then Frodo's voice came again seriously. "Thank you. For wanting to protect me, even if it was just a thought. You have no idea how much that means to me. Dear Bilbo..." he trailed off.

"Frodo."

"Yes?"

"Were they harassing you about the dinner-table, or about me?"

The young voice was guarded. "Why do you ask?"

"So it wasn't really about the table. Not entirely."

There was no reply. Frodo shifted in his blankets.

Bilbo lay in the darkness, not knowing whether to press the matter or not. Did he really want to know what had been said? What would a handful of irresponsible Brandybuck tweens have to say to one of their own who spent time in the company of strange Mad Baggins from Hobbiton? Who was related to the crazy old thing, even? He frowned. Was he being more of a hindrance than a help, bringing a hardship down on Frodo, jeopardizing his friendships with the others? He lay awake, worrying at the edges of that thought until it frayed. What of his half-formed plan? Would it be a welcome change, or a tearing away from what he loved? Would he even want to come? He lay so long he heard Frodo's breathing shift to sleep.

Bilbo looked up at the tiny window, which now looked quite bright with his eyes adjusted to the dark. He quietly sat up and looked over the edge of the bed again, to see if Frodo was really asleep.

The young hobbit lay on the blankets peacefully enough, his dark hair spilling out over his pillow. He seemed to be asleep. Bilbo studied him in the faint moonlight. Willful, intelligent, teachable, spirited. He was all those things and more. Quite a remarkable youngster. He didn't want to bring him trouble, but yet...

Frodo's eyes fluttered slightly. They glinted up at Bilbo as he turned his head and gave a faint smile. His voice came up, sleepy and soft. "Thank you again for coming... It's been so nice to have you here..." He trailed off, his eyes dropped shut again.

"Thank you," said Bilbo softly. "Yes, dear lad, thank you."


Morning came early again. Bilbo woke up slightly disoriented as to where he was and had to take a few moments to pull out of his confused dreaming and remember. It was a traveling day. He slowly sat up and looked up at the window, grateful to see it appeared to be clear. Frodo was still asleep, cocooned in his blanket between the bed and the wall. Bilbo swung a leg over the edge of the bed and nudged him with his foot.

"Good morning!"

"Unh."

He nudged a little harder. "Good morning!"

A hand shot out of the blanket's edge and grabbed his ankle.

Bilbo grinned and kicked himself free. "You'll have to try harder than that." He nudged him again, in the side with his toes.

Frodo's eyes didn't open but with unerring aim he pinned Bilbo's nudging foot against the side of the bed. "What's the time?"

Bilbo tried to pull his ankle free and failed. "I have no idea. Somewhere close to dawn."

Frodo sighed. "Are you sure you have to leave today?"

"Unfortunately, yes. And sooner rather than later if I'm to make it back to Frogmorton by tonight."

"You have a problem."

"I do?"

"Yes. You only have one leg."

Bilbo chuckled and tried again to pull his ankle free again, but Frodo's arm was surprisingly strong and the angle he had him at made any movement threaten to lever him right off the bed.

Frodo opened his eyes and grinned at him from the floor. "You should never try that with someone who used to bunk with three Brandybucks. I am an expert at Not Being Woken Up. It's a rare skill, only taught by the best in the field." He shifted and released Bilbo's foot. "But I'll forgive you. This time. I won't get my revenge the next time I find you asleep, like they would. See? If you would just move to Buckland, I could teach you all sorts of things."

Bilbo pulled his foot back up onto the bed lest he be pinned again. "I'm most grateful and forever in your debt, but I must pass on that offer. Now, what about breakfast? The stablemaster will have my pony ready soon and I don't want to keep the poor beast waiting in the cold."



Some time later later as his pony-cart rolled along the road he was still reflecting about his departure. The cart had been ready, he was well-provisioned and the weather was fair. But it had been surprisingly hard to leave Frodo standing there in the lane, watching him go. He had looked so small, and alone, though there were other hobbits about. Alone in the midst of a crowd.

When he had first come to the Hall he had expected a pleasant visit, some time with a friend, a chance to play the 'rich relative bringing a gift' again but not... what? He wasn't sure. A sense of leaving part of himself behind. An unfamiliar tearing away, an emptiness.

Still, he thought as he squared his shoulders and flapped the reins to keep the pony moving, there was business to tend to at home, and paperwork too. Visitors, correspondence, his pantries needed a good cleaning... And yet he still found himself thinking of Frodo, standing there in the lane, bidding him goodbye.

His thoughts continued to circle. What about the idea of moving the lad to Hobbiton - Should he truly invite him to stay? Was he just being selfish? Where would the lad live? Would the two of them get along well enough to share a house, or should he find other lodgings nearby? What if it didn't work out? He could still provide him with an allowance, surely... but he couldn't expect him to stay just because of money. That wouldn't be right at all, in fact it would be terribly wrong...

Too many questions, questions that needed answering. He was getting nowhere with it, and it was wearing him out. By the time he finally reached the Floating Log in Frogmorton that evening he felt none the wiser, but one thing he was sure of selfish or not, if things worked out with his lawyer this next week something would be changing.

39. Jiggidy-Jig

Bilbo reached Hobbiton as the afternoon shadows were just starting to stretch their arms over the road to meet with the slowly drifting Water. As he came down the last stretch of lane, the Cotton family on their way to visit a relative for dinner all cheerfully filed to the side to let his cart trundle past. Little Rosie pulled wet fingers out of her mouth and waved at him. Yes, he was home again. The square was scattered with hobbits beginning to pack up the days work, packaging their purchases, fetching last-minute groceries or just sitting on the benches, basking in the late sun. Some waved and offered passing greetings, a few glanced at him then turned to speak to their companions in low tones.

He turned the cart and pony in at the Green Dragon's stables, his pony as glad to be back as he was. Too weary to even think of cooking supper at home, he went in the familiar doorway of the Inn and settled somewhat heavily at a small table.

"Mr. Baggins! Haven't seen you for a while. Off on a bit of trip? What'll it be?" the Innkeeper's older son, whose name he never could remember, stood at his elbow, leaning over to swipe a damp cloth across the surface of the table and to drop a clean, folded napkin in front of his customer.

Bilbo ignored the blatant hint for information on where he had gone. He noted his waiter was only a little older than his Frodo. "Whatever the special is today is fine. A cold drink also, something mild."

"Yessir." The server was only mildly disappointed. Where he worked he heard everything eventually, and it would only be a matter of time until someone else would be bending his ear and filling him in on Mr. Baggin's latest excursion no doubt. He thought Bilbo a bit of an odd bird, but kind, and he knew he was generous with his tips. His feet did not falter to bring the dinner as quickly as he could.

Bilbo sat at the table, closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. His Frodo. Why was he thinking like that? He had no claim to the lad, not really. Who was he, to think he could just yank some other hobbit out of his home... He sighed. It felt like the still wooden chair beneath him was faintly swaying and bumping along, a memory of the ongoing motion of the cart in the past hours. As soon as the fragrant, well-laden plate was placed before him, he tucked into the hot shepherd pie, buttered squash and cool ale, washing away the hunger and the dust. It had been a long road home; it was never as pleasant coming back as it was going out.

With a warm meal inside he finally felt a little more up to visiting, but it was still early enough in the evening that there weren't many others there to join in. The small talk with the other patrons petered out fairly soon when he was not forthcoming about his own personal affairs and soon settled into the all-too-familiar circle of well-trodden topics, the small doings of neighbors and relatives. After a few laps around the peaceful but uninteresting conversational track, he bid them good-evening and rose to walk home.

He checked #3 on his way, but there was no sign of the Gamgee family having returned yet. He did notice several of the apple tree saplings still in their burlap wrappings in the yard. They were embedded in heaps of wet sawdust from the Mill and were standing at odd angles in a row along the fence - an empty water bucket and a small shovel in their midst - like bunch of lanky strangers loitering together. Poor old Hamson. He had told Hamson that he only needed to plant as many as he was sure of, the locations for some being matters of dispute. Apparently the younger Gamgee was not sure of many locations at all. There would be plenty for the Gaffer when he got back.

Up the smooth stone steps he lifted his feet, home at last. He had barely had time to drop his pack and pull off his dusty coat before the bell rang and the Post delivered a large stack of correspondance all tied together with green twine. The somewhat winded lad who brought it lingered hopefully until a small coin was pressed into his hand then skipped back down the steps. Bilbo winced slightly as his front gate banged shut none too gently. He shook his head over how much could pile up in such a short time of being gone. Still, it was good to be home, yes it was.

Dropping the packet on the table, he worked his way along the side of the smial, trotting along the hall and ducking into each room to open windows, then started a small fire in the parlour's hearth and set a kettle to heat. Poking at the crackling twigs, he reached up and fished a tin down from the shelf above the kitchen mantle. Sprinkling some spices from it onto the new coals helped chase away the musty scent of disuse that seemed to linger whenever he was gone. The smoke whiffed past him with the scent of overdone raisin-toast.

While the water was heating he fetched the packet of letters to the kitchen table and pulled the twine loose. He spread his letters out on the table to sort through all of them. Fetching his pen and ledger, he decided to get as much of it as he could out of the way before retiring for the evening. A letter from Dora, billing for the apple trees, two birthday party invitations, a tea-party invitation, the grocer's bill, the bill from the stables... The usual things...ah, and a note from that lawyer. Setting the rest aside in neat stacks, he slit open the small envelope and unfolded a closely lettered, somewhat sterile card that indicated Mr. Egnog Banks, Attorney at Law, would be arriving in Hobbiton Thursday next. Hm, he thought, a lttle less than a week then. He considered his empty pantry and household in general disarray - there was work to be done.

The water was steaming hot. He pulled off the kettle and splashed it into a wide basin for a quick washing up. The washcloth steamed as he wrung it out, and the amount of dust that came away on it when he laved his face made him wonder what he must have looked like at the Dragon. It felt wonderful. He hung the cloth to dry and emptied the basin into the sink, then started a second kettle for tea.

Much refreshed, he opened Dora's note. Scanning over her carefully-spaced rows of handwriting, he soon found the gist of it to be that Home is Where the Heart Is and that she had heard he was traveling again. She thought he traveled too much and was never shy about letting him know it. He tossed it into the wastebasket and reached for the bills, only stopping to light a lamp and close the windows back up as the evening began to settle over the Hill.

By the time the paperwork was done he was stiff, yawning and a little peckish. Latching the door, he banked the fire and padded down the hall to his bed. At the larder he paused to get a small bedtime snack, and surveyed the general emptiness of the shelves. He really had been neglecting things here - tomorrow must be a baking day. Perhaps two baking days were in order. Yes, that would be the way of it. Nodding to himself in agreement, he took up a small plate with a rather dry end of a loaf on it and continued down the hall.

His bedroom seemed strangely big to him, huge in fact. As he dressed for bed he couldn't help but think of Frodo, back in Buckland. Why, this second wardrobe alone was larger than that room back there. He measured out the width of it as best he remembered. Yes, Frodo's entire bedroom could fit inside the second wardrobe. Amazing. He started to close the shutters on the bedroom window, then swung them back open. The moon was just starting to rise, and the evening was somewhat mild. It would disperse the last of the stuffiness inside.

He hung his coat up and took down his yellow dressing gown, laying it out where it would be ready in the morning. He smoothed out the fabric, ruminating. Why had he been so reluctant to bring up the idea of more than a summer visit? Was it cowardly? In his heart of hearts he had to admit he was afraid his offer would have been rejected. Why would a young, bright hobbit want to come live with a stuffy old bachelor? He had never been in such a position before, usually he was the one in any transaction who got to choose whether something would happen or not. He had never really had to extend himself in this way, taking such a risk of being unwanted. Not by someone he cared for. It was not a little frightening.

"Oh, Bilbo, you silly old thing," his imagination chided him in Frodo's voice. "Why would I want to go halfway across the Shire from my friends just to live with some strange old relative all by myself?"

He shook his head to shake away that thought and got dressed for bed. Well, Bilbo comforted himself, it might not be that bad. No sense in imagining doom. And better to have things ironed out with that lawyer-fellow first anyway. No sense in getting up any hopes when I'm not sure about the details of it myself. There was planning to be done.

He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up, shivering slightly as he waited for the sheets to warm. Crickets sang outside his window, but it seemed very quiet. He blew out the candle and lay in the dark, watching the slight movement of moonshadowed leaves on the floor, fluttering in their faint pool of white. Somewhere out there, a tiny bit of moonlight would be coming into a very small room.

And, he smiled, the room would probably be unoccupied.

"Goodnight, Frodo." he whispered softly, and drifted off to sleep.

40: Emptiness

The next two days were devoted to the comfortable routine of baking and roasting. Bilbo kept the grocer's lad busy with his little goat-cart starting early on in the day. Three chickens were soon stewing as he chopped vegetables and tossed them into the biggest stock-pot. The fire is his oven was hot and the first of what became a succession of pies was baking nicely inside it. By the end of the first evening, every flat surface anywhere near the kitchen displayed something cooling, something rising or something that needed washing up. Cakes were wrapped and put away, pies were carefully set in their places in the pie-cupboards and the stock was skimmed, then sealed into jars for later.

The second day went much as the first, starting with an energetic punching down of all the rising bowls of dough and sloshing all the bowls and tins that had been left soaking overnight. With breaks for lunch, tea and supper he chopped, sliced, stirred, mixed, kneaded and rolled. The empty pantries began to have a properly full and agreeably restored feeling again, as did the grocer's wallet. It was very relaxing, all of the baking, and he found the day went by swiftly in a hum of contented hobbitness.

It was late on the morning of the following day as he bent to pull a breakfast nut-loaf from the oven that he heard the sound of farm wagon creaking up into the lane. He quickly wrapped a towel around the hot loaf and reached over to push aside a vase of flowers that blocked his view out the kitchen window. Yes - the Gamgees were back. He set the loaf on the sill to cool, brushing away the flour from his shirt to be more presentable. He could see they looked tired from the journey, but were probably happy to be home; a feeling he could relate to well. Hamson came to meet the wagon as it pulled around the Hill and Bilbo waited just inside his door, not wanting to interfere with the family's own greetings for one another.

It was only after the sounds changed from talk to the shuffle and thump of luggage being unloaded that he came out. The Gaffer straightened up from a trunk he had just lowered to the ground and touched his cap in greeting as Bilbo came down the hill.

"Hullo, Mr. Gamgee! You're back at last. I trust it was a pleasant trip?"

The familiar face folded up in its accustomed smile-wrinkles. "That it was, Mr. Baggins, sir. But it's right nice to be home again. My lad tells me there was a bit of a mixup about the apple trees..."

Bilbo waved it away. "Oh, nothing that won't soon be set right. He's a hard worker, and I shall be pleased to recommend him to anyone. I trust you to find a corner for each of those saplings, or a suitable buyer for them." He reached into his pocket and handed the Gaffer an envelope. "Here's Hamson's pay - I thought he might be wanting to go back soon, and didn't want to risk missing him..."

Hamfast took the envelope in his weathered hands. "Thank'ee Mr. Baggins. It's right good of you." He carefully tucked it into his weskit pocket and buttoned it shut.

"Also, I wanted to let you know there will be one Mrs. Waterby coming by this next week to see Mrs. Gamgee, with your approval of course. She makes various mild medicines, and may be able to bring a bit of comfort to Mrs. Gamgee."

The Gaffer took off his cap and twisted it in his hands slightly, looking at his feet. "Thank you sir. We don' deserve it, your kindness and such I mean, but it is much appreciated, sir."

"You will pass the word to her? So she isn't surprised? I recall she likes to know when there might be visitors."

The Gaffer smiled at him. "That she does. Thank you, Mr. Baggins." He glanced back to where his family went back and forth carrying things into the smial.

"Now, off you go. I can see your family is waiting for your help, and I don't want to be delaying them. When you've finished with your unpacking, I would like to hear about your trip if any of you would like someone to listen."

Hamfast nodded, then turned back towards the wagon, glancing back. "I'm sure my Sam would love to tell you if you can spare him a moment. He's been naught but words the last two days!" Bilbo smiled a farewell, then turned and retraced his own steps upward.

What the Gaffer had said was true. It wasn't an hour later when young Samwise showed up on Bilbo's front step enthusiastically greeting him, and so full of words that he was still breathlessly talking about it when the Gaffer came to apologetically pull him away for lunch, the words still continually spilling out of him.

Bilbo felt a bit wistful as Sam was towed away and the quiet descended upon Bag End again. He couldn't help but remember the enthusiastic greetings that Frodo had given him. It was pleasantly fulfilling to have his company so desired. He missed the lad, and the smial seemed empty. It was a strange feeling, the emptiness, as nothing had really changed. Strange.... yes, it was strange.

Over the next week Bilbo caught up on his social obligations and invited many visitors to tea, to supper, to after-supper talks by the fireside. The pegs in the hall had an ever-changing pattern of light coats and hats, but the empty space he was continually aware of never seemed to fill. He was distracted from it as long as the visitors were there, at least usually, but after they had gone and there was no one to compare notes with about the departed visitor he would sit gaze at the dying coals of the fire and feel a hollowness inside. He couldn't even tell himself why he should want someone 'rattling around underfoot' in his own home, but he did.

He tried writing down the moods that came after the social visits, to see if it was something else bothering him. His Engagement Tablet began to be littered with inscrutable abbreviations that to his eyes told him the various topics that had been covered, the overall pleasantness of the visit, what food had been served and then the mood that followed. He was very pleased with this system of marks, but frustrated anew when he realized he all he very much wanted was someone he could share it with and show it to. Besides, the moods were the same no matter what the topic. He was empty, and disaffected. It was very unaccustomed.

The day before his lawyer was to arrive, he was trying to distract himself with paperwork when the post brought him a most unusual letter. He thanked the delivery-lad and took it inside eagerly. There were three seals on it in three kinds of wax and he immediately recognized them as Dwarvish. Carefully cracking the packet open, he unfolded a very thick piece of parchment with an elaborate geometrical texturing pressed into it. Two soft tassels fell from the folds to decoratively dangle from the sides. Two more wax seals were pressed at the bottom of it by the signature.

Bilbo went over to his red lamp and settled next to it to scan over the letter. In the usual Dwarvish fashion it was full of unnecessary words, blathering on with titles, flattery and compliments for Bilbo, polite inquiry regarding his health and the overall state of the Shire. Near the center of it Bilbo found the true message in all the formality. He could expect some Dwarven company, but they would be on their way to the mountains and not staying long. They were coming from Erebor and would be bringing with them a very special gift of some sort for Bilbo, compliments of Balin. This was followed by another round of polite bowing and scraping, so to speak, that filled the remainder of the page. At the bottom was Balin's own seal and name.

Bilbo turned it in the light. The handwriting was far too good for Balin's, so it must have been written up by a scribe, but the signature and seal at the bottom were certainly his. He wondered what his old companion could have possibly decided was worth sending all that way. Typical of formal dwarvish letters, it was a complicated filigree of polite phrases with little substance.

A gift from Balin. Well, that might provide a welcome bit of distraction, and he needed to get his papers in order for the morning also. He carefully folded the letter back up and placed it in the drawer of his desk that already held a small number of other dwarvish communiques. He ran his hands over the wax seals one last time before shutting it.

"Well, Balin. We'll see what you have in mind when it arrives, I suppose."

He thought about his friend, wealthy and surrounded by admiring followers. Balin was a dreamer too, in a dwarven way, always talking about other mountains that could be mined, deep places on maps that had been forgotten. Legendary treasures. Of all of the remaining companions from that long-ago adventure, Balin was the one that Bilbo loved best to sit and talk with, to share dreaming with. He had hoped the letter would bear news of a visit to the Shire by Balin himself, something that Bilbo had hinted he would welcome more than once.

He ran his fingers over the knob on the closed drawer, then turned towards back to his paperwork. "A gift is good and appreciated, old friend. But how I wish you were coming too..." He didn't finish the thought. He didn't like to admit that Bilbo Baggins, confirmed bachelor, popular and well-known hobbit and sole Master of Bag End was lonely. But he was.

41: Law and Love

A clear morning sun found Bilbo already up and sorting papers in his parlour in preparation for the Michel Delving lawyer's arrival. Sipping his after-breakfast tea, he scanned over ledger and notes then satisfied he had done all he reasonably could ahead of time, put on his hat and went out into the morning for a walk.

As he came around the Hill he found the Gamgees all out in their yard, working on the cleaning and sorting that always comes after a journey. Bilbo nodded good morning to them around the dripping laundry that had just been hung up and continued on past to the nearby field. The large tree there sported a handful of children building a small smial out of the branches it had shed over the winter, pulling up handfuls of the long green grasses for a childish thatching. Summer was nearing and the berry-bushes had shed their blossoms, birds had completed their courting and now spent their times flying busily back and forth to feed newly hatched chicks. Even the mild heat of the sun spoke summer to him, warming his shoulders as he walked. He tipped his hat slightly to shade his eyes. It looked to be a very promising season indeed.

He was just coming back around the other side of the Hill when he noticed a neatly dressed hobbit he did not recognize going up the steps to his own front door. He stepped up his pace, and arrived only mildly winded just at the other was turning away from the unanswered bell.

"Hullo! Good morning! You must be the lawyer, Mr. Banks, from Michel Delving?"

The hobbit looked him up and down somewhat impassively then extended an inkstained hand. "Yes. Banks. Mr. Egnog Banks at your service. You must be, hm, Mr. Baggins." It wasn't a question, but Bilbo clasped the proferred hand and answered it anyway.

"Yes! So good of you to come. I was just out for my morning walk. Let's go in, shall we?" He opened the round green door and they gestured for his guest to precede him. In the entry, Mr. Banks hung his hat on the nearest peg and followed Bilbo's lead into the parlour where all of the papers and a large plate of sliced spice cakes lay ready on the table.

The lawyer settled himself at the table and reached for a thick piece of the fragrant cake while Bilbo fetched the teapot. Once both of them were comfortably equipped with refreshments, he opened his satchel and pulled out a neat leather notebook to write in. He leaned forward.

"Now, Mr. Baggins. Tell me what service I may be to you."

Bilbo swallowed a bite of cake and brushed away crumbs. "First, I need to know if I understand right. Regarding inheritance. If something were to happen to myself, the default - is that the right term? - is that my nearest relative inherits, yes?"

"Yes, the default." He cleared his throat somewhat noisily and looked down at his opened his notebook. "I took the, hm, liberty of researching your family tree from the records in Michel Delving. It appears one Mr. Otho Sackville-Baggins would be your heir. Do you agree with this?"

"Unfortunately, yes. And one thing I was curious about regarding him, as we're on the subject: what would happen if Otho had already... passed on?"

Mr. Banks smoothed out a napkin. "The inheritance would follow his family, going to his own heir."

Bilbo grimaced. "Lotho."

"Mm?"

"His son. Now. What I would like to do is draw up some sort of paper that would change all that. I would like to leave clear instructions that I have a different heir."

"A Will. That would be a legal will regarding your estate. Yes, I can do that for you. Not common, to have a complete change, but not unknown. Once it is drawn up, it will need to be registered in Michel Delving, of course. That requires a, hm, fee." Mr. Banks looked up from his notebook questioningly.

Bilbo met his gaze steadily. "Fees are not an obstacle. Tell me, does the new heir need to be a relative?"

"No, though it makes a more smooth transition. Is the person you have in mind, hm, unrelated?"

Bilbo took a sip of tea. "No, I just wondered. Law is somewhat unfamiliar to me. It's a moot point anyway as the lad I have in mind is a cousin."

"Very well. Let me show you what, hm, will be needed...."


The morning crawled into early afternoon somewhat tediously. Once the basics were established, that Frodo would be made the official heir of nearly all material goods and land, and assorted details worked through, the lawyer gathered up his papers to have the official copy drawn up on official paper. Bilbo bid him good-day and looked over his own list of witnesses he needed to gather to sign it when it was done. Seals would need to be affixed in both Hobbiton and Michel Delving, and assorted fees handed out all around. It seemed an awful lot of bother, he thought, but still it was a relief. He was intrigued by the way it could be made so very specific, the way a person could say so-and-so inherits one brass button and his brother gets the other! He shook his head, watching Mr. Banks walking down the lane to the Inn. What a way to make a living.

The weather had apparently decided it was close enough to summer to behave as such, and the following week was as warm and sunny as any hay-farmer could wish. Bilbo marked on his Engagement Tablet the days it would take for the papers to be finalized, and drew up his list of witnesses but didn't ask any of them about it yet. Plenty of time for that when the papers were at hand. He knew it would stir up the wagging tongues, and that would invariably lead to the S-B's descending upon him once again.

He was out in his yard carefully dribbling a brown concoction that the Gaffer called "compost tea" onto his best flowers one morning when Lobelia came by for her weekly visit, carrying her sun-parasol. He knew 'visit' was a loose term, as she only rarely came in the yard or offered much in the way of pleasant conversation, but walked by and 'looked things over.' He glanced up at her and shifted slightly so his back was toward the road, giving her little more thought until she spoke.

"Bilbo Baggins!" There was an acerbic edge to her voice that grated across the golden afternoon like a rasp.

He sighed and continued dribbling tea on his plants. "Good morning, Lobelia."

"Don't you Good-Morning me in that tone of voice. Such discourtesy to your own family. Picked up in other parts, no doubt. Whatever are you doing there?"

He held his breath for a moment. Once he felt he could trust his own voice he answered evenly "Feeding the flowers some tea. Is there something I can help you with?" She was in a fine fettle and he wasn't sure he felt like humoring it.

"Tea? On flowers?" She sniffed.

"Yes, I find they get a bit peckish in the afternoons and good tea and a little sweet biscuit by their roots perks them up considerably, unless they prefer ale." he added. "As I said, is there something you need?"

"Nonsense. Did that gardener of yours tell you to do that? Why isn't he doing it himself?" When he didn't reply she continued on anyway. "Don't you pay them a good wage to take care of this yard? Can't say I think much of them, if they take your money and leave you to do all the work!" She thumped the fence with her parasol.

Bilbo restrained himself from another sigh. "I work with the flowers because I enjoy working with the flowers." He shut his mouth and stopped. Why was he telling her anything at all? He needn't make any justifications for his activities to her.

She sniffed again. "Well, I think it's disgraceful. They are paid servants, and they should be doing their job if they're using up all that money. You are far too free with the family gold, you know. It won't last forever. I walked by that home of theirs earlier and they were all just sitting around in their yard."

"They were sorting seeds into packets and hanging their wash." He bit his tongue on her calling his money the 'family gold.' He sometimes wondered if she thought out how to needle him or if it came naturally.

Yes, Lobelia seemed to be in some sort of high dudgeon that morning. He couldn't help but wonder what she was wanting to purchase with his money this time, and wasn't able to. She tended to take offense easily, so it was hard to say.

"So they told you, no doubt. You are much too easy to trick, Mr. Baggins. Someday, when this Hill is my Otho's, you can bet they won't be pulling the wool over my eyes that way." She snapped her parasol shut and marched away. Bilbo was sufficiently grateful that she was so suddenly gone that he didn't register the direction her march had taken her. It was only when Bell Gamgee came to him, walking carefully up the steps to the front porch a hour later that he found out what damage had been done.

Having seen her from the window, he answered the timid tap on his door right away. She rarely came to his door.

"Mrs. Gamgee! What a surprise. Please, do come in out of the sun. What can I do for you?"

She seemed agitated, wringing the corner of her apron in her hands. "Mr. Baggins, I do hope you will forgive me for intruding on you this way..."

"Not an intrusion at all. Here, please sit down."

She allowed herself to be gently drawn in and seated near the entry"...but, well, Mrs. Sackville-Baggins came by our home earlier today... and I needed to speak with you."

"She did, did she? I noticed she was in a rare mood." He looked at her sharply. "What did she say?"

Bell looked at her hands, clenching them together. "That, that your health wasn't as good as it appeared, begging your pardon..."

He brushed it away with a small wave of a hand. "Yes, yes. She often says that but it isn't true. Don't worry."

"Thank you, sir. She was quite adamant about it. I'm sorry, Hamfast doesn't know I came to you, so please don't blame him if I speak out of turn. She also said..." Bell paused, and to Bilbo's great distress he saw her lip quiver as if she would cry. He quickly patted his pocket for a clean handkerchief. "She said...that my, my own Hamfast wasn't working hard enough for his pay, and that..."

"Now, Mrs. Gamgee.You know he's earned every penny he has..." Where was that handkerchief?

She glanced up at him and tremulously continued. "She said that, that, when Bag End is hers she's going to....to kick us out of our home, Mr. Baggins. She says she won't keep us on as gardeners anymore, and...and.... what will we do? It's our home, Mr. Baggins...the children...."

Bilbo saw a need for the handkerchief just as he located it in his other pocket and pulled it out. He gently tucked it into her hands without comment. She gratefully dabbed at her eyes. Inwardly he seethed that Lobelia had brought any distress down on Bell and her family. It was one thing to be spiteful to Bilbo himself, but to target others...

"Please don't let it trouble you, Mrs. Gamgee...Here now. Let me set you at peace. First of all, Bag End does not belong to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. No matter what she says, nor how often she says it. You and your family are welcome to stay in your own home, with full employment. No one is sending you away." He looked at her hands clenching the handkerchief. "I beg you not take her words to heart like this. She frequently has a sharp tongue, and I regret greatly that it has hurt you."

He hesitated a moment. The legal situation was incomplete, but it might bring her some comfort. After teetering on the verge for a moment he decided to go ahead and share it with her. He knelt down by the chair and tried to catch her eye. "Now, I'm going to tell you something to raise your spirits, but you mustn't tell any others just yet. I need it to be a surprise for them. Can you do that for me?"

She dabbed at her eyes one more time, then her lips formed a determined line. She nodded, and he knew she meant it.

He lowered his voice. "Good. I've been working with a hobbit who knows law of late. A lawyer-fellow. I'm having some papers drawn up that will bring changes as to who inherits Bag End. Even if something were to happen to myself. So you need not worry, things will be changing soon, but you and your family are assured both your home and your employment. Just keep it under your hat for now, as it isn't ready to announce."

Her face brightened and she nodded conspiratorially to him. "I won't tell a soul" she whispered. Then she paused. "Not even my Hamfast?"

Bilbo considered. No, it wouldn't be right to expect her to keep anything from him. "Hamfast is fine. Just no one else...please."

She nodded, clutching the handkerchief. "As you say. You've so comforted me, Mr. Baggins. I am sorry that I..."

He held up a hand. "Now, no more of the apologies."

She nodded again and managed a small, tremulous smile. "May I ask one thing?"

"Certainly. Ask anything you like."

She spoke so softly he almost missed it. "Who?"

"Who what?"

"Who...will be the new...owner of Bag End if it isn't Lobelia and her family? If it isn't too forward to ask? Who will be living here?"

His own quandary made him flounder."I...was thinking, planning...hoping to bring someone here... It's rather in the air, so to speak." He looked at her, then out the still-open door at the bright-blooming yard. He could hear crickets singing in the garden. He took a breath but let it out unspoken, unsure how much to say.

"You're lonely." she said. He looked up from where he knelt at her hazel-green eyes and was completely surprised at the unexpected gentleness and sympathy that he saw there. The look of a mother to a hurting child. It took him so off-guard, something inside his heart unexpectedly released.

"Yes. Yes, I am. But I don't understand it."

She looked at his eyes and waited. He looked down at his own knees where the tile of the floor pressed into them. "I've always been content, all these years... There's a lad, in Buckland, a cousin. At first I thought it would just be something of a novelty, bringing him here."

He glanced back up at her and took courage that she was still intently listening. "A 'good deed,' to give him a home, to maybe take him in for a bit. We've always gotten along well. But something happened...to me. I am quite unsettled. When I left him there in Buckland this last trip, it felt as if I were being torn somehow. As if I were leaving...a part of my heart behind. I know it sounds like silly poetry, too sentimental by far..."

"No, no it doesn't. Not to me."

Her gentle voice was a balm on his turmoil. "...Yet that was what it felt like, and I haven't been able to think of another expression for it. It isn't just a 'good deed' anymore, not for me. I want him here...and I am somewhat unsettled by that shift. I cannot seem to keep my mind from it. I don't even know if he will be willing to come, and it has quite taken away my peace, the wondering...."

Unexpectedly, she reached out and took his hands in hers. Her hands were thin, dry and warm, like silk and paper. "Mr. Baggins. Of course you are feeling this way. Don't you know when you love someone?"

He looked up from her hands and furrowed his brow. "Love?"

She smiled and released his hands, sitting back in the chair. "Yes, love. When you care so much about someone they never quite leave your thoughts, when all you want is to be with them, when you miss them every time you are apart. Parents and children, friends...there are many kinds of affection. I think your old heart has been captured by this young lad. You want to care for him, and take him in. You want to give him a home."

"I fear it sounds too much like taking in some stray kitten."

She laughed lightly. "No, nothing of the sort. Trust me, I've been around a few days also, Mr. Baggins. I've taken in many a stray, and this is much more. I can see it. Forgive me if I have overstepped my bounds, being so candid with you. Perhaps I have become too used to mothering, if I begin to mother those above myself."

"No forgiveness needed. Instead, I thank you." He bowed slightly, and put out a hand to help her up. She took it and stood, then allowed him to escort her the short distance to the door.

She paused on the front step. "Be of good cheer, Mr. Baggins. I'm sure it will all work out in the end." He had the impression if he were Sam, she would have patted his cheek.

"Yes, I do hope so." He watched her slowly stepping down and out the gate. Turning, he went back inside to mull over the conversation. He had set out to comfort her and been unexpectedly comforted himself. No wonder her family was so devoted to her, he thought, if she can do as much for them.

With a heart-ache eased, he turned his attention back to the rest of his day's work.

42: Mapping

Bilbo was bent over a map, carefully penning in some trees in green ink when there was a sound outside that made him pause and look up inquisitively, listening. He couldn't place it at first, what was different about it but something made him drop his quill into the ink bottle and hastily wipe the ink off his fingers. Leaving the map in the midst of the others, he edged around the cluttered table and went to the window to look out.

The summer sun was bright enough to make him squint, but when he heard the distant voices again and saw the style of wagon that was approaching along the lane, he was so excited he leaned part way out of the open window, one hand buried in the sweetpeas that cascaded from his windowbox as he waved his other vigorously. He turned and jogged to his pantry to pull out a pair of pies, slid them onto his parlour table, added a good half of a yellow cake from that morning that was handy, topped off the water in the kettle and swung it over the kitchen fire to heat then jogged to the door.

It was already ajar to let in the cool breezes, the sunlight streaming over his green door made it hot to the touch as he pushed it open and went out so quickly he nearly missed his footing on his own steps.

To mountains far, to mountains blue
Across the lands we come to you,
Our tools are sharp, our hands are strong
Unto the mountains we belong.

Deep dwarvish voices broke off and the one in the fore hailed the hobbit that had tumbled from the Hill so hastily.

"Halloo! Bilbo Baggins?"

"Yes! Yes, speaking!" Bilbo was delighted. Five dwarves and a sturdily built dwarven wagon creaked up to his gate, pulled by a dusty grey mule stout enough for two, another trailing behind on a lead. As soon as he managed to come to a stop from his rapid descent of his steps, he bowed courteously. "At your service!"

The dwarves bowed back. "Likewise, To you and to your family," they mumblingly chorused.

The first one bowed again more deeply. "Mr. Baggins, we bring you greetings from the Erebor and a gift from Balin of the Lonely Mountain..."

"Balin! Oh, how wonderful!" Bilbo clasped his hands. If he were a child he would have capered. "Yes, I had his letter last week. I can't tell you how marvelous it is to have you here. You will be staying for tea? And for supper?"

The speaker seemed slightly taken aback at his enthusiasm. "And for supper."

"Of course! Of course. There's plenty for all. Do come in - oh, wait. There's stabling for your mules at the Inn just down and round a bit. If you would like..."

"The wagon stays here with us."

"Of course," he knew Dwarves tended to be suspicious about leaving their belongings out of sight. "If you would like to unhitch them, I'll send a lad to take just the mules to the stables. Do come in, out of the sun and have a bit to eat!"

The apparent leader of the group bowed to him thankfully and then followed him up the steps while the others maneuvered the wagon into the sideyard and unhitched. Bilbo settled the dwarf at the parlour table with a large slice of pie and a mug of beer, then trotted back out to hail a curious Daddy Twofoot who was nearby.

"Mr. Twofoot! Can you please have Halfred or whatever Gamgee is about sent up here quickly? I need an errand run right away."

Daddy Twofoot nodded and reluctantly turned away from the spectacle of dwarves to go to the Gamgee residence. He need not have bothered, for he wasn't halfway there when Samwise met him at a dead run. Bilbo could see a brief message conveyed, as Dad pointed his direction; Sam nodded and continued running.

Bilbo would have rather had the older brother to deal with the mules, but decided Sam would have to do. Soon the lad was on his way to the Inn looking very small indeed with two large grey mules following along in docile single file behind him. Looking terribly curious and proud, he carefully clutched a coin for the stablemaster. No doubt bursting at the seams to tell the others in town about the dwarves, thought Bilbo. He soon forgot about Sam, turning his attention back to his guests.

The other four dwarves had finished up and were politely waiting for him to lead them up the steps.

"Welcome, welcome. This way, come in, yes, please do come in."

They each hung a light cloak on a peg, went into the parlour and settled themselves in the chairs. It was time for introductions, Bilbo knew, and as host he was expected to start it off.

"As you have said, my name is Bilbo Baggins, welcome to my home. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

The leader of the dwarves stood up, one hand smoothing his thick brown beard. "Bagin, at your service."

"Excuse me? I'm not sure I heard you right."

"Bagin, of Lonely Mountain."

"Bagin. I see. Thank you, Bagin. It was only your name seemed...familiar."

The dwarf grunted in his beard with a sound of mild mirth. "'Twas not on purpose, Mr. Baggins, but I assure you Balin found humor in it as well."

The second dwarf stood, his dark beard bobbing as he spoke. "Dwadul, at your service. And this is my brother..."

The third one had stood almost in tandem with him. "Twadul, at your service, Mr. Baggins."

"Twadul?"

"Yes."

"Good heavens. Is that really your name?"

There was a mildly annoyed noise."Why do you ask?"

Bilbo suddenly realized he had said that comment out loud. He scrambled to smooth it over. "Oh...nothing really of note, I suppose. No disrespect, of course. It is a very serviceable set of names, I am sure. Very respectable. Suits you." He turned to the other two to quickly move on.

"Grumblin." offered the next one briefly. Bagin gave him a nudge with his elbow. He bobbed a brief half-bow. "At your service."

"Ümlat," offered the last more cheerfully. "At your service, and that of your family. Your hospitality is greatly appreciated by all of us." His reddish beard was slightly shorter than the others, and his mannerisms younger. Bilbo couldn't help but remember Fili, and Kili, a bittersweet memory. Introductions done, all of the dwarves seated themselves again and took up generous helpings of pie as Bilbo brought drinks.

"We've many miles yet to go," said Bagin. He had been looking around the room curiously as he ate. "You've many maps."

Bilbo smiled. "That I have. It is an especial interest of mine. I've found most of the maps available in the Shire to be lacking in several features and have been filling them in as I'm able, as well as adding in and correcting a few errors in other maps I've had from Men and... other people. Some of them need translation also... More cake?"

"Yes, thank you." Bagin helped himself to a large portion. "I would interested in seeing what you have of the Blue Mountains."

"Not nearly enough. It's an area that I was rather hoping you would be able to help me with, in fact."

He raised his eyebrows. "It is near your own land. Do your maps not show them?"

Bilbo shook his head. "I can see you do not know much of Hobbits," he said wryly. "While I love my own folk dearly, they have a certain blindness to the world beyond their own borders. Most maps in the Shire do not bother to show anything outside the four Farthings of our land. Hobbits do not travel much, nor have any desire to do so."

"Yet you travel. I have heard of your bravery at Erebor, which is many leagues from here."

"I am considered most... unusual among my own folk. Here, let me show you..." he turned and flipped through a stack near the window then carefully slipped a thick scroll out from the bottom. "Ah, here it is." He unrolled it on the table, weighing down the edge with plates.

"The Blue Mountains," observed Bagin, tracing along the ridges with a calloused finger. "Not very detailed, but fairly accurate."

"Thank you. I am hoping more detail can be added if you or any of your companions are familiar with them, or corrections made if needed."

"Familiar?" laughed Bagin. "I should say so! While Ümlat and myself are from Erebor, Grumblin, Dwadul and Twadul all hail from the Blue Mountains and are just returning home."

At the sound of their names, the others had their attention drawn from their own conversation and food to come see the map in question. They made assorted noises that left Bilbo unsure of what they thought of it.

Twadul stabbed a finger at a place on the map. "There should be a deep gully marked here. More of a canyon, really. Good springwater to be had there. And over here, Dwadul, he hasn't your ridge at all."

His brother leaned over to see. "A grievous omission, Master Hobbit. Whatever should my wife say if I did not correct it? She is most proud of that ridge, and keeps a fine home within it."

Bilbo smiled. "Well, we shall have to correct it without delay then! If you would be so kind as to lightly sketch it in, I will ink it in this very week."

He watched as the dwarf very carefully sketched in the missing ridge with great concentration. "Has it been long since you were home?"

"Too long," he replied, finishing the sketch. His hand lingered on the faint ridge. "Too long. My Zîm is strong, and well able to care for herself, but I miss her."

"And Zadîm." added Twadul.

"Yes, Zadîm," said Dwadul a bit wistfully. "My son. He was just getting his baby beard when I left. He'll be walking by now, and swinging his first hammer before long... Have you any children, Mr. Baggins?"

Bilbo shook his head. "No, no children. No wife."

"Who will carry on your family line for you, then? Have you brothers?"

"No, no brothers either."

"You will not live forever. You should give thought to an heir."

Bilbo smiled. "It is kind of you to be concerned, but do not waste your worries on me. In fact, I've very recently chosen an heir for my home and goods, so all is well."

He meant it too. He hadn't realized what a burden that situation had been until it was lifting away. He knew inherited lines meant much more to Dwarves than to Hobbits. Hobbits loved to know who was related to whom, but they each had their own lives to live. Dwarves tended to take on the concerns of the previous Dwarf, so that the matters of a family would continue over hundreds and hundreds of years.

He considered their viewpoint and added "I haven't any longstanding debts or grievances to pass on, so yes, it is well."

They nodded. "An inheritance without grievance is greatly to be desired," said Bagin. "Which reminds me, we have finished this repast for now. Time to bring in your gift!"

"I'm not done." said Grumblin as he reached for his plate.

"A maker of such maps not to be looked down upon." Bagin said sternly. Grumblin muttered something under his breath, took a buttered roll with him and made no more protest. The five of them headed down to the wagon, followed by Bilbo.

43: Thrush

Ümlat and Dwadul climbed up into the wagon bed and began moving crates and tools, finally pulling a barrel out from the front corner. It was apparently quite heavy, though they managed it well enough between them. The others reached up and gently lifted it down from the wagon bed to the ground.

Bilbo felt a small tug at his jacket and looked down to find Samwise half hiding behind him, very wide-eyed at the visitors.

"Are those Dwarves, Mr. Baggins?" he whispered.

"Yes, Sam. Those are Dwarves. No need to be frightened of them. They've even brought me a gift, see?"

Sam timidly peered at the barrel, then up at the Dwarves, who were all looking at him with good humor. Embarrassed by their scrutiny, he moved from Bilbo to shelter himself behind the barrel in question.

"Well," said Bilbo. "I suppose we ought to open it up and see what's in it. Will you be returning to Erebor, that I might be able to send an acknowledgment by your hand?"

"I will be," said Bagin. "Come, carry it into the house and out of this hot sun! The delivery isn't done yet." The others went to pick it up just as a small voice called out from behind it.

"Apples!"

"What?" said Bilbo.

"Apples! It says 'Apples' Mr. Baggins! I read it!"

Bilbo chuckled. "Does it really? Leave it to Balin to find me an apple barrel. Come on, Sam, come along. I can see you're as curious as I am about the contents. Stand back now, let them pick it up. They're much stronger than we are."

The dwarves lifted the barrel up the steps while the hobbits ran ahead to open the door wide for them. It thumped down on the entryway tile with a solid sound. In a trice, the lid was being pried off and twists of straw that had cushioned the contents were being lifted out and dropped outside the door.

The first piece that was lifted out reminded Bilbo of a large stone bowl. It was carven of a smooth, beautiful marble, all swirled with grey and green. Gold flecks sparkled along it. Clever designs were worked in in along the inner ridge, and the outside. A tiny Esgaroth, a lake's edge, trees... Bagin helped him heft it in both hands, then set it on the table to admire.

"Why does it have a hole in the middle?" asked Sam.

"I don't know," answered Bilbo. "But no doubt we'll soon see."

Behind him there was a grunt as two of the dwarves lifted out a carven column with a hollow center. It was also crafted of the same translucent marble, a design of mountains and waterfalls worked around it. Some metal pieces were tugged out, then a smaller piece, well wrapped in cloth. Dwadul handed it to Bilbo. It was quite heavy.

Unwinding the cloth, Bilbo found an exquisite bird carven of stone. He smiled broadly, then found himself inexplicably having to dab at his eyes from emotion. It was a thrush, with a snail shell in its beak. Like the other pieces, it had a hollow in the center of it. The opening seemed to be where the snailshell was.

"It's beautiful," said Bilbo. "But what is it?"

"A fountain!" said Ümlat. "See? The pieces fit together, so." He lifted the marble basin and set it in place on the column where it fit so perfectly they appeared to be one piece. The thrush was set in the center, so lifelike he half expected it to take flight.

"A fountain?" Bilbo remembered fountains, mostly from Rivendell. There had been some in Laketown also... a fountain, in his home? "How will it work? I've no spring or waterfall here."

"Ah, that's where we can help you," said Bagin who was doing something to it down below. "Setting it up is what we were commissioned to do, not just delivering it. You see this crank?" Bilbo looked at the column, where a copper crank now extended from the side. "Once we have it set up, you have but to turn this a few turns and it will give you a running fountain for over an hour. The water circles around, see this hole here? You could even have it indoors, right where it stands, and fill it from your water bucket."

"Amazing!" said Bilbo, and he meant it. It truly was a wonder. "I am most grateful for all of your help with it. But where shall I set it up? Let me think on that a moment, while I get you some refreshment."

"It would be welcome." said Grumblin. "Ale, if you have it."

Bilbo nodded and headed for the kegs. Sam looked up at Ümlat. "Does that hair on your face make you hot?"

Ümlat laughed. "I can't say I noticed. Does that hair on your feet make *you* hot?"

Sam looked at his own small feet with their tousled curls. "No. But it's on my feet. I think a hairy face would itch."

"Do your feet itch?"

Sam grinned. "No. But if they do I can scratch them on the floor. You can't do that with your face."

The dwarves all laughed at that. They were in a good mood now that they had a project to keep them busy and cold ale on the way. Bilbo brought in a foaming jug and quickly filled mugs from it, then refilled the jug again so it could stand ready.

"Fountains are generally outside, aren't they?" he asked.

Bagin looked up from where he was kneeling by the column, fiddling with the crank. "Generally, yes. Unless Hobbits do things differently. Of course, we Dwarves have fountains underground, but that may not suit you."

"Well, I think this hobbit is going to do things differently. Seeing as it doesn't need to be outside to run, I would like it indoors. That way I can enjoy it year-round, and it won't become soiled with tree leaves and such."

Grumblin nodded. "Very true."

"Very well," said Bagin, "Where would you like it?"

"Just in here," Bilbo said, leading the way into the parlour. "Over here, near the window." They followed him, carrying the fountain pieces and eased it down where he said, fitting it back together. "See how the sunlight touches it? Isn't it wonderful?"

Sam looked at it, awed. "The bird looks alive."

"It's a thrush... is it ready to go, then?" He noticed they had all stepped back.

"Just need to fill it up and we'll give it a try," said Bagin. " Ümlat, fetch that bucket there."

Bilbo and Sam watched as the bucket of water was carefully poured into the fountain basin and drained down the hole. The dwarves checked to be sure the seal was firm and there were no cracks or leaks, then poured in a second bucketful. This one also drained down the hole.

"Where's it all going, Mr. Baggins, sir?" asked Sam, wide-eyed.

"It's in there," said Bilbo. "I think we just need to add more. Like filling a cup."

"Yes, very much like filling a cup." said Ümlat cheerfully, pouring in a third bucketful. They could hear the tone changing as the water neared the top. "One more should do it."

The fourth bucketful brought the water up into the basin. A little more was added, until it matched the carven lakeshore around the edge, the thrush standing up above his reflection proudly, shell in beak.

"Now, turn the crank, Mr. Baggins. Let's see if it works as it should," said Bagin.

Bilbo tentatively moved the crank. He expected it to be quite heavy, or stiff, but it moved easily around, as if oiled. It was perfectly balanced and he now noticed the handle itself was shaped like a short sword. Like *his* short sword, come to think of it. He smiled and gave it a more confident cranking. There was a pause and a soft gurgling noise.

"There it goes!" shrieked Sam with excitement. "Look, Mr. Baggins! Look!"

Bilbo watched in delight as the clear water began, a sputtering trickle then a steadier thin stream appeared to fall in a gentle, unending line from the snail shell the thrush held. It trickled and pooled over two ridges in the carven rock the bird stood upon and then fell back into the basin in curling silver threads and ripples. The afternoon sun slanted over it, the ripples giving a lifelike shimmer to the thrush's bright eyes.

"It's magnificent," he breathed.



While Bilbo worked on a reply and thank you for Balin, his guests spent the rest of the pleasant afternoon and early evening consuming much of his hospitable table and looking over his maps. Bilbo sealed the letter and Bagin stowed it away in his pouch. They told tales of their travels and their homes and offered some small news about the outside. The Beornings had changed the travel routes by offering a safety that had not been known for some time, and the dwarves remained busy with their restoration of the glory of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo found himself longing to return there, if only for a visit. Maybe someday, he thought. He would like to see Rivendell again before too much longer, also. Not that he would mention that to the dwarves.

He told them a little of his recent travels, but they were not interested in Elven towers, or the small doings of the Shire. He was glad his maps held their interest. Dwadul spent a good part of the evening copying the Blue Mountain map that Bilbo had onto a piece of parchment, in spite of the unsolicited and constant corrections from the others.

The summer's late-hour light was fading and the Bilbo was lighting a lamp when Grumblin began to sing in a low voice by the fire. The others joined in:

The way is old, the year is new
Long passages for passing through,
The days and nights, each treasure filled
If we will delve beneath the hills.
Each hour a gem that soon is lost
Each season soon burned off as dross,
Each year a room soon plundered, gone
Each life a long-remembered song.
The way is old, the year is new
Long passages for passing through
Another verse this day to bring,
Another life someday to sing.

They were about to start another stanza when the doorbell rang.

"I wonder who that could be, at this hour?" said Bilbo. He opened it. Daisy was there, looking apologetic and worried.

"Mr. Baggins, sir, sorry to disturb you, but have you seen Samwise anywhere abouts?"

"Sam? Is he missing?"

"Well, we thought he'd gone with the other boys this afternoon when they went fishing, but he didn't come back with them and they say he wasn't there. Dad said he ran an errand for you earlier today..."

"Yes, and he was here with me for quite some time. Forgive me, that I didn't think to let you know. But I thought he had gone home at suppertime!"

"Is this the one you're looking for?" interrupted a deep voice. Daisy's eyes grew round in her face as a firelit bearded figure came up behind Bilbo. He followed the direction the dwarf's arm pointed, then gave a small exclamation of relief. Sam was curled up behind the chair near the fire, sound asleep.

"My goodness. I didn't even realize he was there in the corner, he was so quiet." said Bilbo. Dwadul stood aside as Daisy reluctantly passed him to go to Sam.

She knelt down. "I hate to wake him, but he's grown so much..."

"Allow me," said Dwadul. He reached down and with a gentleness that belied his stocky girth, lifted the sleeping lad from the floor, cradling him against the beard on his breast. "Lead the way. I can carry him easily."

Daisy's eyes about bugged out of her head, but seeing the reassuring nod from Bilbo, she led the way out the door and then to #3, where a light yet burned. The dwarf followed her, carrying the sleeping Sam. Bilbo watched as he transferred him into Daisy's arms once they were at the door on Bagshot Row then came back.

"That was a great kindness. Thank you," he said when the dwarf reached his own door again.

"Young ones are a treasure," replied the dwarf as they returned to the fire. "Especially when they are young, like warm metal, and can still be shaped. I hope your own heir is still young?"

"Yes," said Bilbo softly. "He is young."

Dwadul nodded in approval. "May he be as bright and soft as gold is his youth, strong as mithril and iron when he is grown." he intoned in a Dwarvish blessing.

"Doesn't sound right in the Common Tongue," muttered Grumblin. "Now, where were we in that song?"

44: Treasure Seeking

The fire had died down to coals by the time Bilbo wearily went to his bed. Both guest rooms now held two dwarves apiece, and Ümlat snored lightly from the very comfortable couch in the parlour. Bilbo knew it was comfortable having spent many a night there himself when he was too deeply into a project to bother sleeping in a bed. The normally quiet smial droned with a muted cacophony of snores, each on a different tone. Knowing that Dwarves tended to snore more loudly when they were fatigued made him slightly more sympathetic than he would have been otherwise, but he still had to put his pillow over his head before he could make any attempt at falling asleep himself.

Underneath the warm muffling of his pillow he reviewed the day and considered the next; he had heard what news was worth hearing, and the maps he had been working on were much improved. The dwarves had been glad to help him and interested as long as it involved mountains, though not forthcoming about the locations of their mines of course. It was very satisfying to have made so much progress on them all in one evening after the long weeks and months of relatively fruitless research.

He shifted the pillow, bending it to create a little tunnel to breathe through while still covering his ears. The copy of his Blue Mountain map they were taking with them had likewise been greatly improved; all in all, a successful visit. And then there was the fountain, a wonder in itself. They had laughed at the way he kept interrupting conversations to turn the crank and watch the water anew, but he could see they were enjoying it too.

It was too stuffy. He turned his head to anchor one pillow end and flung an arm up to hold down the other end, framing his head in a U. It had been a fine evening. While he did not look forward to having to wash all of the dishes they had been generating, it was a small price to pay for the companionship... his thoughts wandered over to mentally reviewing the contents of his pantry and considering what to make for breakfast. Pillow firmly in place, he fell asleep.


He was laying on the ground, and a Troll's hideous voice was speaking somewhere in the dark. They must have pulled him from the safety of the bushes and stuffed him in a sack, and he couldn't get out! He struggled to free himself. Roasting and mashing, the Troll was speaking of. Where were the others? He could hear the sound of their voices nearby, but not their words - they must have been captured too! He clawed at the muffling, stifling bag. If only he had a knife! Where was Gandalf?!


Gasping, he awoke rather suddenly to find sunlight outside and a deep voice singing in his bathing room across the way. Fighting off the pillow that lay across his face, he pitched it onto the floor, blearily sat up and swung his feet out over the edge. It had been a very long time since such dreams had haunted his sleep. The dwarves must have brought it back to his mind, with their deep music and their maps. He scrubbed the weariness from his face.

There were Dwarven voices in his kitchen. Not trusting others loose in his kitchen and pantry, he quickly dressed and tossed the offending pillow back into its rightful place. He need not have worried - Dwadul and Grumblin had already set the table with freshly washed dishes and were stirring a generous pan of eggs, half-cooked.

Ümlat came stamping in from the back with more wood for the oven. "Good morning, Mr. Baggins! Sleep well? Oh, no, that's quite all right. We'll do the cooking, you provided the food. Sit down. After weeks of travel, a real kitchen to work in is a luxury!"

Bilbo sat as instructed. "Fine thank you. And yes, I understand about the kitchen! I well remember camp cooking..." turning to adjust his chair, he noted their packs ready to go and stacked by the door. "Are you heading out already then?"

Dwadul put a generously heaped plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast down in front of him. "Already went a bit out of our way coming here and need to make up the time. Twadul's gone for the mules, so once breakfast is done" - he bobbed a small bow - "I fear we shall have to bid you farewell."

"I regret it! You've been generous and courteous company. I have missed hearing good Dwarven music in the evenings."

Bagin came into the kitchen from the bath, the fresh dampness of his hair and beard darkening to the waist the short tunic he wore over thick breeches. He picked up his belt from where it lay on top of his pack and cinched it round. "Music?" he asked. "You shall have to visit our halls someday, Mr. Baggins, and there you shall hear some real music."

"I've heard it," said Bilbo, filling his plate. "in small measure. The great halls echoed so. Dain's dwarves were all singing together, before I left Lonely Mountain. It was a sound unlike any other and I remember it well."

He took a bite of toast and eggs, his mind drawn far away from the sunny kitchen, into the deep places; that strangely warm darkness, still faintly reeking of dragon. The sound had swirled around him, filled with their love of beautiful things and of gold, a melancholy, of the enduring ties of generations of Dwarves back to the very beginning, songs of retribution attained at last, of justice and the laying of old vows to rest. He shivered slightly and reached for his tea to chase away the echoes.

Bagin sat opposite him, his own plate already half emptied. "You all right?" he mumbled around his food. "You look like a staring jelly."

Bilbo shook away the last threads of the song. "I suppose I must have. Terribly sorry. Just remembering." He hummed a stanza of the remembered tune, then sang one of the lines.

"Mmmf." replied his companion, his eyebrows going up. He swallowed and took a swig of the tea to clear his throat. "Shouldn't think on such things in daylight." he said firmly. "Songs of that sort intended for night. That's what they were written for."

Twadul came in from preparing the wagon and leaned over the table to scoop up eggs between two slices of toast, which he then ate noisily as he went down the hall to wash up, his brother following with the steaming kettle.

In the awkward pause that followed, Grumblin silently went to the other room to finish packing the provisions Bilbo had given them. Ümlat began washing up the dishes, speaking over his shoulder. "The hobbit didn't mean anything by it, Bagin. He isn't even a Dwarf."

Bagin smoothed his beard with his hand and nodded without comment.

Bilbo looked from one to the other. "Please accept my apologies if I've offended. I had no idea it was something only meant for a certain time or place."

"No, no..." Bagin paused a moment, thinking. "Do you have...seasons, Mr. Baggins?" He looked at the hobbit who began to open his mouth. "Not seasons of the year, not seasons of plants and such, but certain times that are revered among your people?"

Bilbo gave it some thought. "We have holidays, of sorts, and small events, birthdays and harvest times. But my people lack a sense of... history. I know yours have many such remembrances of things from the past."

Bagin seemed to be considering his own beard, where it draped down his chest. "Yes."

"Like Durin's Day."

The dwarf gave a small grunt of mild surprise hearing it from him. "Music is the heart of our remembrance. The beat of the tools, the feel of the rock, the treasures of the earth - these are all in our music." He stopped, apparently remembering he was speaking to someone who was not a Dwarf.

Ümlat hadn't found that Dwarvish reservation and secretiveness quite so ingrained yet. He continued over by the sink. "We remember those before us, our family line, our heritage this way. Perhaps your people need such music, to help them remember and learn. Every song has a time, a season. The dark music..." Bagin caught his eye and he suddenly trailed off. He clattered plates in the sink noisily, suddenly very industrious in his washing.

Bilbo wasn't offended, knowing it was the way of Dwarves to keep their own council close. He had been surprised to learn has much as he had. He also knew enough to pretend he hadn't been listening closely and wouldn't really remember it. He vaguely changed the subject dissembling a lack of understanding.

"Hm. Well, the seasons here certainly go by quickly enough, I can hardly remember whether or not I put up applesauce last Autumn, or who helped me with the woodpile last Winter. And here it is Summer beginning already and I feel as if I've only just planted for Spring."

He pretended to turn his attention to his eggs again, carefully watching the dwarves through his lashes. They took the bait and relaxed considerably, exchanged small nods with one another in a secretive fashion and turned back to breakfasting themselves.



After his guests had said their farewells and departed towards the distant mountains, Bilbo finished straightening up, started a couple of loaves baking to replenish his pantry and pondered. He went to the now empty-seeming parlour and gave the copper crank on the fountain a few turns, watching as the little stone thrush poured clear water out beside the tiny Esgaroth once more. The sun caught the ripples of the water, sending a lace of intertwining light around the ceiling and far wall of the room.

He watched the play of light and darkness, musing. A time for remembering. Seasons. Treasures. Times for bringing hidden things to light.... He reached for a paper to jot down an idea for a poem.

The bell rang and he frowned at being interrupted from his reverie, but he answered it. The lawyer, Mr. Banks, stood upon his front step with a paper packet in his hand.

"Mr. Baggins? You instructed I was to come as soon as it was ready. Is this a suitable, hm, time?"

Suddenly excited Bilbo said "Yes! Yes, please come in. Is that the Will then?"

Mr. Egnog Banks came into the parlour and paused at the sight of the little fountain. Bilbo pushed past him and led the way to the table. "Here, let me just move these out of the way." The maps were hastily stacked to the side. He patted the empty space impatiently, causing the lawyer to snap out of his gaping over the rippling water and place his packet on the table. Bilbo smiled at him.

"It's a fountain, a gift from a good friend. Quite remarkable, isn't it?"

"Hm. Yes. Very." Mr. Banks pulled his eyes away from the thrush and opened the packet. "Now here is your Will. This is your own copy to keep in a, hm, safe place. The other copy is now filed at Michel Delving, or will be within a day or so. All this one requires is the, hm, witnessing signatures, and the final seal."

Bilbo looked over the papers carefully. "Very well. Witnesses it is. I shall start in on that this very afternoon."

"When they are all collected, I will affix the remaining seal. In the meantime I require, hm, accommodations."

"I understand. You may tell the Innkeeper to charge it to myself. It may take a few days..."

"I am prepared to stay for as long as my presence is, hm, required."

Yes, thought Bilbo, I'll bet you are, seeing as you're staying on my tab. He thanked the lawyer and saw him out the door and on his way with a signed letter from Bilbo authorizing his charges at the Inn. The Will, thick and official-looking, lay on the table waiting for it's signatures. Now that it was a reality, he was feeling a little excited about it. He considered the longish list of potential witnesses he had drawn up. Most of them were crossed out now for various reasons, but there were still enough to suit. Well, no time like the present to start it off. He picked an easy one, heading out the door to #3 right away.

Once the Gaffer's unpracticed mark was in place, he sent out a notice inviting two of the others potential witnesses to tea the following day, and made a fruitless walk to another smial where no one was home. He left his calling card on the door, and walked back to Bag End to compose a letter to Frodo. What would he say? He didn't want the news to be in a letter, he wanted to tell him himself, face to face.

He had a bit of a early supper, then seated himself at his desk and adjusted the lamp. He smoothed out a piece of his very best paper, with the color bits of dried flowers and herbs embedded in it.

My dear Frodo,

He paused, tapping the quill against the desk until he noticed he was spattering his weskit with tiny dots of ink. Considering, he tried to think of what wouldn't be saying too much.

As we spoke of during my recent visit, I am pleased to be able to invite you to stay with me at Bag End this next month, if you can be spared from Brandy Hall.

He paused again. It sounded so brief and so dry with all of the excitement of the Will wrung out of it. What could he say that would make it of interest without giving everything away?

I've had some interesting visitors, and a gift given to me that I look forward to sharing with you. I think you will find it enjoyable.

He pondered again, looking at the brief lines. This was quite pathetic. Maybe he should just start over. No, it would have to do.

Enclosed, you will find a sum to cover your travel expenses. I look forward to your arrival with the greatest pleasure. Please remember to bring your map book - there are some new features that we may be able to add while you are here.

Like Bag End, he thought.

Yours with affection,

Bilbo

He waited for the ink to dry, then carefully folded it up, enclosed it in a fat envelope with the travel monies and sealed it. Weighing it in his hand thoughtfully, he considered the treasure he himself was seeking, and wondered what the dwarves would have thought of that analogy. He felt they would have approved. He took his hat from the peg nearest his front door and headed to the Post.

45: Summer Vigil

Bilbo's kitchen was filled with strawberries, or at least it felt like it. A few days after posting Frodo's letter he had been offered a very good price for a large amount of the sweet red berries and hadn't been able to resist it. With the warm sunny weather many of the berry fields had been brought to a sudden ripeness; everyone was enjoying that brief summer interlude where so many are ripening that even the poorest hobbit may eat his fill. Bilbo had certainly eaten his fill, repeatedly, with cream.

He still had a great quantity left so the following day he had set out to make himself some strawberry jam. It was a pity, he thought, that while a fairly good baker from his youth he never had found the knack for making good jam, but the activity helped to keep him from fretting - he had not heard a reply from Frodo yet. He held up a jar of his second attempt and glumly watched it slosh around when he tipped it. Like the first, it had failed to set up as it was supposed to. He had poured a jar of the first batch over pancakes. It was beginning to look as if he wouldn't have much jam next winter, but plenty of syrup. He frowned at the jar.

"Why aren't you thickening up?" he accused it. The soupy jam looked back at him without excuse. He shook it until it bubbled, which made no difference in its consistency but made him feel better. He looked out the window where he noticed Mrs. Cotton and her children among those walking past from their early berrying. He had began to place the jar back among its fellows, but on impulse stuck it in the generous pocket of his berry-spattered apron instead.

He opened the door and trotted after her, wiping juice from his red-stained hands as he went. "Mrs. Cotton! If I might trouble you for a moment..."

She stopped, one hand automatically going out bring her children to a stop with her. They stood there with their hands full of berry buckets smiling as he came puffing up to them, his apron billowing. "Good afternoon, Mr. Baggins..." she offered, somewhat bemused.

"Mrs. Cotton. Forgive me for interrupting you this way, but I have a matter of some mild importance that I could use your assistance on."

'Why certainly, Mr. Baggins. Is it that paper of yours? I thought Mr. Cotton had already been over to your home..."

"No, no. I mean, well yes. Both. That is to say, that's important too. Yes, he did come over, no that isn't the matter I am referring to."

"What?"

"Let me try again." He took a breath. "First of all, thank you very much for sending your husband to my home so promptly upon receiving my note." He gave a little bow. "It was much appreciated. Secondly, my jam is giving me fits and I was wondering if you might render some assistance, or advice as to why it looks like this?"

He held out the guilty jam jar for her inspection. Smiling, she set down Jolly, who sat and looked up at them sleepily, smeared with berries. She took the jar from him and tipped it, watching it slosh. "It's most unusual jam. All those bubbles look troublesome."

"Yes, well. I'm afraid I shook it up a bit. The trouble isn't the bubbles, but the way it's setting up, or rather the way it's not setting up."

Rosie, bored with the adult conversation, stood on tiptoes and reached for the bright jar. "Trouble-bubble!"

Bilbo smiled down at her. "Yes, trouble-bubbles indeed. Perhaps your mother will help me get it right, eh?" Embarrassed at the attention, the lass hid her face in Mrs. Cotton's skirt.

Her mother smoothed her daughter's curls absently and smiled. "I'd be glad to do whatever I can, Mr. Baggins. I'm afraid this one is a lost cause for jam, but it might make a good syrup. Oh! That reminds me, we were supposed to let you know - Mrs. Water...bye?"

"Waterby. Yes, was she here?"

"Waterby. Yes, thank you. She came to see Mrs. Gamgee yesterday afternoon and gave her some liniments of some kind and a syrup that greatly improved her comfort. My Cotton was talking with Gaffer Gamgee about it this morning. He said to let you know if we saw you - that you would want to know it." Jolly looked up at them smiling as if in agreement, holding a fistful of his mother's skirt.

Bilbo smiled. "And I'm very glad to hear it. Capital news. Thank you!" He gave her another little bow. She handed him his jar.

"You've too much juice, and you may not be cooking it long enough. Try putting the berries in without chopping them up so much, just a little is plenty. Tom, stop swinging that bucket like that, you'll spill the berries. And maybe try lowering your fire a bit, so it simmers longer to thicken without overcooking. Apple peel helps it thicken too... Tom, I said stop. If you've put in much honey, it will take longer also... Rosie, hold still. We'll be on our way in just a minute."

"Thank you. I'll certainly give it a try. And thank you for the news also, it is well heard. I better be letting you go. Good day!" He smiled a farewell at them, then turned to head back up the Hill. Behind him he heard a squall.

"Tom! Look at the mess you made...and Rosie, what are you crying about now?"

"Tom got st'awberry in my haaaaair!"

Bilbo gratefully left the care of the children to their capable mother, gloating slightly that he could do so. A few other hobbits were trailing along the way, lugging boxes and buckets of berries; he nodded greetings to them. It was evident that the path to the biggest berry-field went past his door: ripe berries were scattered about on the road in sticky red splotches where they had fallen and been trodden underfoot, powdered with dust and bits of grass as they lay hot and fragrant in the sun. A bee hummed past him, settling on one of them to sip the sweet juice. He reached to open his gate. Behind him there was a pattering of hurried feet.

"Mr. Baggins! Mr. Baggins?"

He turned, one hand still on the gate-latch. The lad who ran errands for the Post came panting up to him, a letter in his hand. "I was tol'... to bring this to you... right away." he gasped.

"Yes! Thank you, they seem to have taken my request for extra-quick service quite seriously. Here..." he pushed the apron aside and dug into his pocket. "A coin for your efforts. Much obliged."

The lad gave him the letter and gratefully took the coin, then trotted back down the Hill more slowly than he had come, holding his side. Bilbo turned the envelope over in his hand. It was stamped from Buckland.

Shutting the gate behind him, he walked up the steps and settled on the front bench. Setting the jam jar beside him, he licked a stray bit of jam off of his fingers, wiped them on his apron and opened up the letter.

My dear Bilbo,

I am writing to let you know that your letter arrived, and that I shall be most glad and grateful to accept your generous invitation. I apologize for any delay in my response, and ask forgiveness for any worry I may have caused by it. It seems your letter was given into the hands of one of the children here, and the lad in question was not inclined to be responsible about delivering it. I fear the traveling money that you make reference to was no longer to be found, and the letter itself was only discovered when it was being made into clothing for paper dolls. I've pieced it back together well enough, only missing a hat-shaped piece near the edge.

The Master threatened a sound thrashing if the money was not returned and it promptly turned up on the mantelpiece. Such a diversion gave all of us something to talk about for a time, at least, and all's well as ends well. Even with your letters you manage to make a stir, don't you?

I plan to be on my way to Hobbiton day after next, if all is well. I shall not be needed back until harvest, if you would like, but am willing to go back any time rather than overstay my welcome of course. I trust you to be honest with me about that. I look forward to seeing you again.

With affection,

Frodo Baggins

p.s. I will bring my map book!

Bilbo read it over a couple more times. At first reading he was indignant that the letter had gone astray. The second time he was annoyed, but by the third time he was beginning to see it as rather amusing. At least it had been recovered, and Frodo would be coming to see him. He made a mental note that next time he would have to use a plainer paper so it would not be tempting for doll-clothes. He folded it back up. Well, no time to lose then. He wanted Bag End to look welcoming, and knowing the state it was currently in, his work was cut out for him.

Going inside, he took off the apron to straighten and sort papers in a flurry of energy, even though he knew it would be two days before his young cousin arrived. He looked over the Will that lay on the parlour table, weighed down with knickknacks at the corners: with Farmer Cotton's long-handed signature at the bottom, all of the witnesses were now gathered. Two of them had been second choice ones, but at least it was done. The methodical Mr. Banks had already affixed the lawyer's seal to it and gone on his way back to Michel Delving, well-fattened from eating at the Inn on Bilbo's tab while he had waited. Bilbo shifted it a bit, looking over the pages and small, neat writing once more. He rolled up the pages and tied them with their ribbon, then slipped it into the front of his desk. He would have to find a safer place for it eventually, but at least there it was unlikely to have anything spilled on it.

The rest of the day passed in alternating cleaning and airing of the smial and finishing the berries which were already getting soft. For the third batch of jam he reduced the honey, barely chopped the berries, added apple peel and cooked and cooked it. The result was certainly much thicker - so thick, in fact that he could barely scrape it from the pan into jars. He sighed, trying in vain to flick a gobbet of it off of his hand. First syrup, now paste. He should have just bought some.

The following day was spent baking, sweeping, dusting and sorting; the old hole was quite a bit cluttered up and he wanted it to feel welcoming. He added fresh water to the fountain and cranked it, enjoying its small watery sound as he dusted the mantelpiece yet again. The earliest Frodo could possibly arrive would be that afternoon... As the sun began to slip over to the west, he realized he was spending all of his time peering out the window to see the road, so he finally gave Samwise a small coin and hired him to keep lookout. Sam was glad enough to be excused from the raking to get to sit under a shady tree instead; he watched the road diligently and Bilbo tried to not think about it, though he still found himself checking again and again - except now he was checking on Sam.

The hot summer afternoon began to wane and there was no sign of any cart from Buckland. Sam sat under the tree, shifting now and then to stay in the shade. The few thin clouds floated by, leaving a clear blue sky. Occasionally someone would walk past the Hill on their way to or from the Square. The clock ticked in the parlour. Fidgeting with his household, Bilbo dusted his mantelpiece for the sixth time that day then gave up and went outside to sit with Sam for a bit.

Sam was very still, but moved and tried to look alert as Bilbo sat down beside him. There were the remains of a snack in the grass beside him and a neatly folded unused napkin. He wiped strawberry from his face with an already juice-stained sleeve and looked down the road with great earnestness.

"I've been watchin', Mr. Bilbo sir."

"Yes, I can see you have. It's getting late. I wondered if you had fallen asleep in this heat."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "Nossir. I wasn't sleepin', I was just watchin' the clouds."

"The clouds cleared away over an hour ago."

"Oh."

"It's all right. It's been a long day."

They sat in silence, watching the shadows lengthen. Sam stirred restlessly.

"Why don't you go ahead and go on home? I can watch now, Sam. Thank you for all your hard work."

Sam looked at him slightly surprised. "But I didn't do anythin' but sit, Mr. Baggins."

"Your eyes worked for me, Sam."

He nodded agreement with this. "They worked really hard too. Do you need more watchin' tomorrow, sir, seeing as Mr. Frodo hasn't come yet?"

"Perhaps. I think I'll be wanting to watch until he comes, so yes. How about you watch for me some more tomorrow? Now run along home, I'm sure they're wanting you for supper. Go on!"

Sam needed no more urging and was on his way. Left alone, Bilbo sat under the tree enjoying the peacefulness of the early evening after the bustle of the rest of the day. The leaves above moved slightly as the air stirred with the oncoming sunset, then it began to grow dark. Frodo had not come; he must have stayed in Frogmorton. Standing a bit stiffly, he stretched and went inside to light a lamp against the darkness. He lit a second one and lowering the wick, set it in the window as a small beacon then went to bed.


The evening was a restless one. When he opened his eyes it was still dark outside his window. It was very still, even the crickets were silent and the whole countryside seemed asleep. He stood in his nightshirt looking out at the stars that had not yet had their glory stolen away by the approaching sunrise. The heat of the day had gone up into the clear sky leaving a freshness in the light dew. He breathed of it deeply.

Figuring he wouldn't get any more sleep even if he lay back down, he lit a candle, dressed and went into the strawberry-scented kitchen to stir up the fire. he swung the kettle over it to warm and looked out the window towards the dim blue road. Underneath the tree he and Sam had kept their vigil at, something moved.

Curious, he stood by the window watching. Something on the ground. It moved again.

Taking up his coat from the back of a chair, he went out the door. The dew-laden grass brushed its cool fingers over his feet as he approached the tree. There was only a slight lightening in the eastern sky, most of the world yet lay in silhouettes of blue and black, the road lay like a dim ribbon of tarnished silver. The tree lifted up above him, the thick column of the trunk black, the leaves a black lace cutwork above.

He approached very quietly, expecting some sort of animal perhaps. As he came near he could make out a small irregular lump. It sneezed.

"Hello?" he asked quietly. "Who's there?"

The lump spasmed with surprise, a sudden movement that made him realize it was a blanket-covered hobbit. A small blanket-covered hobbit.

"Mr. Baggins? Sir?" said a very small and timid voice.

"Sam? Is that you? Whatever are you doing out here at this hour?"

"Watchin' the road, sir. 'Cept I fell asleep." He rubbed at his eyes and yawned.

Bilbo came around the tree and knelt down by the youngster. "You needn't watch in the night." he said gently, wondering if Sam had really thought it was required of him.

"Nossir. But no one else was watchin' and I didn't want to miss him, not after watchin' and watchin' all yesterday."

Bilbo settled himself next to the lad. "You look well supplied with blankets. Does your family know you're here?"

"Well, no. I didn't want to wake 'em up. But I'll tell once they're up, sir. I will."

"Hm."

"I'm a good watchman."

"You are, are you?" Bilbo smiled. "It looked to me like you fell asleep at your post."

There was an uncomfortable pause. "I didn't mean to, it just sort of snuck up on me."

"Sleep does that. But you must be vigilant, if you ever have to take a real watch, you know."

"Have you ever been a real watchman, sir?"

"Yes. Yes, I have. Many times. When you are traveling, if you ever travel that is, you always need to take turns and have someone watching at night, so nothing takes you by surprise. There are no Bounders in the wild."

"You don't sleep when it's your turn, at all?"

"No. You need to stay awake at your post, Sam. The others are depending on you for their safety. And you never know when you might miss out on something wonderful if you fall asleep."

"Like what? Elves?" Sam sensed there might be a story in the making, but waited patiently.

Bilbo knew what he wanted. "Like Elves. Elves passing by as quiet as a breath, except for their tiny bells and muted music." He rested his head against the tree and looked up at the sky. "You must watch and listen most carefully to hear them. Sweet bells all of silver and gold, and music like that of the stars themselves, singing in the night. Even their horses are quiet, and all hung with silken trappings and gems..."

The sky was lightening as he spoke, the stars fading away bit by bit. Bilbo and Sam watched the deep blue fading to lavender and grey in the east.

"I would never fall asleep if I was on watch." said Sam with conviction. "Not a real watch. 'Cause if I did, my friends might get hurt, and I might miss seeing Elves." He watched the road slowly brightening. The birds had begun to sing and a wakefulness was arising in the fields and trees. "How far does the road go?"
.
"Far. Very, very far Sam. Far out of the Shire, beyond the Misty Mountains and the dark forest of Mirkwood."

"Does it go to Elves?"

"And Elves. Rivendell is on this very road, Sam. So is the Lonely Mountain that my Dwarven friends came from. But it's a very serious business, going out your door, that's why you must set a watch. You step onto the road and you never know where it might sweep you off to. There are always more places to find, small roads, secret gates."

"Tell me about it."

"What do you want to know?"

"Are there... other hobbits who are like Elves?"

"Like Elves? What do you mean?"

Sam blushed slightly. "You said the Elves have songs, n' poems, and talk with their own kind of pretty words. They dress dif'rent than us and have nice things with gold. You do all those things!"

Bilbo had to laugh at that one. "What a joke the Elves would think of that one! Oh my! To put myself forth as one of them!" he grinned at Sam. "Trust me, I am in no way an Elf, Sam. And if you ever met one of them, you would know it sure enough."

Sam smiled, but he had a stubborn set to his face as well. "Well, I think you'd make a good Elf, Mr. Baggins, sir."

Bilbo humored him. "I thank you for the compliment, it is higher than you know. No... Elves, they are... They have their own ways. They do not age as we do, Sam. They can remember things from very, very long ago. They have a grace, and a sadness that we do not."

"Why are they sad?"

"Ah, now that is a very long tale for another day...when you are older perhaps."

The first fingers of sunlight lanced up into the sky, the few clouds, all peach and lavender suddenly gloried in frames of gold and silver light.

"Your family will be waking. You'd better be going back home. I'll watch for now, Sam."

The lad stood and gathered up an armload of blanket, leaving one for Bilbo. "Are you on watch? Does it only happen at night?"

Bilbo smiled up at him. "Watch can be set anytime it's needed."

"Then...after I do my chores, I'll come take a watch. Set a watch. Take a turn, I mean."

"He's not likely to be in until afternoon."

"But I said I would watch for him."

Ah, earnest, faithful Samwise. He had much of his Gaffer in him - once a job was started nothing would stop him from finishing it.

"All right. You may watch."

"Thank you, sir! And I will too."

"I believe you. Mr. Frodo couldn't ask for a better watchman." Bilbo smiled. "Now go on, your family will worry."

Sam obediently trotted off to his smial trailing blanket behind him, and Bilbo sat back against the bole of the tree to watch.

46: Niche

Bilbo sat under the tree watching the sunrise grow until the clear light spilled out over the distant woodlands to fill his eyes, then shook out the blanket that Sam had left him, wrapped it around his shoulders and huddled in it against the dawn's mild chill. The East windows were all ablaze with the reflected morning light and the flowers were just beginning to open up their petals to take it in.

He went in to find his fire dying down and the kettle he had left earlier half boiled away. He filled his cup with the now nearly tepid water, floated a bit of tea in it and stirred up the fire again. There was little chance that Frodo would arrive before afternoon, assuming he had stayed in Frogmorton the night before. Fretting wouldn't solve anything. He set his will to turn his mind to other matters; time would pass soon enough.

It did pass, and surprisingly quickly. Bilbo busied himself with papers and cooking, the only reminder of his vigil being when he noticed Sam taking up his post under the tree again once his morning chores were past. Bilbo went out and sat with him for a while at luncheon, sharing sandwiches and two bowls of strawberries and cream.

"I'm keepin' watch pretty good, aren't I, Mr. Baggins?" Sam asked, his mouth full of strawberries.

"That you are, Samwise."

"Do Elves come out in the daytime?"

"Yes."

"So I would need to watch in the daytime too, or I might miss some, if I was someplace else."

"I suppose you would."

"Why don't they come to the Shire?"

"Sometimes they do, a little. Passing through on their way West, to the Sea."

Sam's eyes grew round. "They do?" he squeaked.

"Yes, they do." smiled Bilbo. "But not often. Now close your mouth or you'll get strawberry on your shirt."

Sam closed his mouth and swallowed. "Have you seen them? In the Shire, I mean?"

"Yes. Yes, I have."

"What are they like?"

Bilbo began gathering up the luncheon dishes. "Well, they are gentle-spoken, and graceful... they sing as they travel, beautiful songs. Yes, the music often goes along with them. They're very fair to look upon."

Sam filled his mouth with the last of his strawberries and helped gather things up. "But what do they look like?" he half-mumbled around his overfilled cheeks.

Bilbo had to give it thought. How could he describe them in a way a child could understand? He wasn't sure. "They look young, but... their eyes are old. The kind of eyes that you can see starlight in, even in the day. Their hair can be bright or dark, and I've heard that it can be red, though I never met a redheaded one myself. Their voices are soft, and musical..."

"Sam!" called a girl's voice.

They both looked up. Daisy was coming towards them. She paused when she noticed Bilbo. "Oh, I'm sorry Mr. Baggins - I didn't realize you were there with him. The Gaffer needs Sam to run an errand, if he is free?"

"Of course," He gave a nod and smile for Sam. "Go on, Sam. Time enough for stories another day."

Sam wiped his mouth and reluctantly followed along after Daisy, and Bilbo gathered the dishes and napkins into his arms and thoughtfully carried them back up the Hill to wash up.


The sun had slowly passed over the peak of the warm blue sky and a slight breeze rose up to bring relief from the heat of the late morning. The bees droned from flower to flower outside the windows and dust motes danced lazily on the air inside. The whole world seemed to fall into a sleepy reverie, and the quiet, which usually filled him with peace seemed to press in upon him. He listened to the small silver sound of the fountain and the breeze lightly stirring the poplar, maple and oak leaves outside. The clock ticked. He sat at the table, slowly inking in the penciled corrections and additions on his maps.

He didn't know he had fallen asleep until there was sound somewhere outside that made his head suddenly jerk upright. The shadows had shifted, the fountain was quiet. Confused, he looked around trying to orient himself. Sam's small voice called out an excited greeting and there was a sound of a hoofsteps, the creak of a cart being pulled to a stop. Bilbo staggered to his feet, maps slipping off the table and chair, rustling to the floor. He was rapidly regaining his senses. That must be Frodo, and Sam the faithful watchman had been there to meet him.

Bilbo ran a hand through his curls to smooth them, quickly adjusted his weskit which had gone askew in his slumber and opened the door. Afternoon sunlight flooded in half-blinding him. Down below a slender young hobbit was replying politely to a chattering youngster that bounced around his feet.

"Mr. Baggins! Mr Baggins, sir! He's here! He's here, sir!"

"So I gathered, Samwise. Ah, Frodo-lad, hello! So good to see you..." he came down the steps right into a welcoming embrace from his young cousin. He held him out at arm's length. "I'd say you look well enough. Long road, isn't it?"

"Long enough," replied Frodo with a smile. "I don't know when I've ever been welcomed anywhere so enthusiastically though." He turned back to Sam. "You've grown, Sam. I remember you from last Fall, and you didn't even come up to here back then."

"I eat a lot!" Sam told him.

"I'll bet you do."

"Now, run along Samwise," said Bilbo. "Mr. Frodo's only just arrived and he'll be wanting to rest, not to carry on with a talkative lad like yourself."

Frodo grinned at him as he picked up a satchel and followed Bilbo towards the door. "I'm only supposed to carry on with a talkative lad like yourself I take it?"

"Lad?" Bilbo snorted with mock indignity. "Been a long stretch of summers since anyone's called me a lad." The door still stood ajar, so he pushed it aside. Frodo followed.

"Been at least half a year since anyone's called me Mister Frodo," he said. "I'd forgotten about that. Always sounds... I don't know. Too...formal for me. Makes me feel like I should be acting more important or impressive or something."

"You'll get used to it. It's a sign of respect."

"Yes, but am I so respectable?"

"I'm not. And they call me that."

Frodo dropped his satchel on the parlour sofa and gave him a wry grin. "Ah, that's right. I'd forgotten that too. I've been away too long!"

"That you have."

Frodo suddenly stopped moving. Bilbo followed his gaze and smiled indulgently. "Do you like it? It's a fountain, a dwarvish fountain. Balin, my old companion from my adventuring, he sent it to me."

"It's...amazing." Frodo stepped closer to it, but seemed afraid to get too close to it. "Is this the gift you mentioned in your letter, then?"

"Yes. Go on, touch it! It won't shatter." Bilbo came up beside him, then reached down for the handle. He started to turn it, then changed his mind and offered it to Frodo instead. "Here, see this? Give it a few turns and you'll see what it does."

Frodo hesitantly took hold of the smooth copper handle and gave it a turn.

"More, a few more turns. There you go, that's more like it!"

Frodo cranked it around then gasped in wonder as the water came pouring from the snail-shell into the basin. "How does it do that? " he marveled.

"I haven't any idea, but I'm not taking it apart to find out. It circles the same water around somehow, so you don't need a spring or waterfall. Eh, I thought you'd like it." he smiled.

Frodo tentatively cranked the handle one more time. "How long does it go?"

"I'm not sure yet, it's a bit new to me as well. I would guess the turns you gave it will last a good hour at least."

"That much! I can well see why it was worth mentioning."

Bilbo watched indulgently as Frodo curiously touched the water in the basin, then touched the stone eyes of the thrush with wet fingertips to make them shine. "It looks alive... I remember you talking about the thrush, cracking snail-shells. It had something to do with finding that door, the one on the mountain, didn't it?"

"Yes. The thrush was a help to us more than once..."

Frodo looked over his shoulder at Bilbo. "Now don't go off into a trance that way," he smiled. "Tell me about it again."


They were up late that evening, in spite of Frodo's weariness from travel. It was so pleasant to just talk, not only in words but in silences also. They talked over their tea and supper, they sat on the bench in front and talked as they watched the sun begin to sink over the nodding flowers. They talked as they watched waves of black and red wash over the coals in the parlour fireplace long after it had grown dark out-of-doors.

They had been silent for a time when Bilbo reached for the poker and jabbed at the embers sending small starbursts of bright sparks flying up. He looked over at his young cousin, who sat with his head in his hands gazing at the small flames that danced among the ruins of the blackened oak log.

"What do you think of your home?" he asked. "Of Brandy Hall?"

Frodo glanced over at him. "What do you mean?"

Bilbo weighed his words carefully. "Just...what do you think of it? How does it suit you? Are you happy there?"

"I don't know....." Frodo trailed off, his gaze going back to the fire as he considered. "It's home. It's familiar, and busy and friendly enough I suppose."

"Ah. But what about you, yourself? Are you...content there?"

"Content?" Frodo gave him a small smile, but it faded. "I should be."

"But you aren't, are you?" Bilbo watched him.

Frodo looked down at his folded hands. "You know me too well, Bilbo dear. You always find some way to see right through me, whether I speak something or no."

"What is it that brings this 'discontent' of yours?" Bilbo persisted gently. He poked at the log, turning it over to bring up fresh flames.

Frodo shifted in his seat, then spoke slowly as if blindly feeling his way over the words as he went. "I guess I just feel...out of place somehow. Have you ever been surrounded by friends and family, rooms full of them and... and felt alone, Bilbo?"

"Yes." Bilbo set the poker back down. "I have. They aren't unkind to you there, are they?"

"No! Oh, no...not at all! And that's part of what I don't understand. Maybe it is just that I haven't quite found my own place yet." He looked over at Bilbo's mild eyes. "You see, a while back I determined that I would find a niche for myself, a purpose or a place that someone else hasn't already taken. There must be one... even though there are times I've thought all the niches a household could have are already filled."

He continued earnestly, "When you came to visit me, you said contentment comes when you pursue your passion, but when I've tried to see what my passion is there, I can't seem to... I just... I flounder so. I want to study, and learn more, but I have no one to study with and no time to study when there are so many chores to be done anyway. It's not that it's unfair; everyone must earn their own way of course - I just wish... I wish I had someone I could talk to about it at the end of the day. I mean, I think of so many things, while I'm working..."

"You haven't any friend you can share with, at all? You haven't enemies, have you?"

Frodo sighed, then picked up the poker and absently used the tip to extinguish individual embers while he spoke. " No - please don't look so worried, Bilbo. I'm all right. I mean, some of them get away with themselves, forget that they are stronger at times, but they aren't mean at heart. I spend time working with them well enough. It's just when the job is done and the sun in setting, they go their way and I go mine. What can I offer them? I don't know. I'll find something. Viola says I might make a half-decent cook someday."

"You?" Bilbo snorted slightly. He'd sampled Frodo's cooking before.

Frodo smiled a moment at that. "Yes, that was my thought also. I don't blame you for your disbelief. The old Mistress, Menegilda was very kind, and often let me spend time reading to her while she was knitting. She didn't know her letters, but enjoyed hearing books and tales, even recipes - but after the cough took her a few seasons past... well, the new Mistress, Esmerelda, is so busy all of the time. She never holds still long enough for anyone to read to her, much less to listen, and doesn't seem to approve of anyone else just holding still either. She thinks I should join the Post."

"Are you kept from your studies then?"

"I don't think they mean to. It's just a... a look, a tone of voice... Usually followed with suggesting some work that needs to be done. Now that I have a room, I've been able to be out of sight and out of mind more often."

Bilbo frowned slightly. "It isn't laziness to study. Far from it."

"And well I know it. I've spent enough hours trying to puzzle out just those little lessons you've sent me. But she doesn't see it that way."

"And as the Master and Mistress go, so goes the household."

Frodo was fair about it."Of course, but it is their home. Who am I to say how they run their own home?"

Bilbo was not inclined to be so fair. "It's your home too, isn't it?"

"Well, yes! But like I said, I don't really feel I have a place there. A...a purpose. No little niche of my own. At least not yet. That's why I was asking you about contentment before; and you helped me make a decision about it. Yes, you did. I have decided I must set my mind to learning what my place is there and being content with it, no matter what it is."

"And if you don't have one?"

Frodo hit the log with the poker beating off the clinging cinders. "Then I'll make one!"

"And if you aren't truly content with it? You can't live your life in a lie."

There was no answer. The poker twisted around, rubbing the life out of a fat red-black cinder on the edge of the hearth.

"Hm." said Bilbo after a long moment of silence had passed. "Well. At least you are here, now."

Frodo relaxed slightly. "Yes. I am, and very grateful to you for letting me come. It's so different here."

"Then be at peace, Frodo-lad." said Bilbo, clapping him on the shoulder. "And leave off mashing that poor cinder. It's time you were in bed; your eyes look like holes burned in a blanket."

"I wish I had an answer for you, I really do."

"It doesn't matter. We're both tired. Tomorrow is another day, and who knows what it will bring? Go on, now. Get some sleep."

Frodo began to protest but was stopped by a yawn and begrudgingly admitted his weariness. Bilbo nodded to him. "Good-night now. I'll be going to bed too, as soon as I bank the fire."

He watched the lad go off to his bed, then sat back down by the fire to watch patterns in the coals, pondering until late.

47: Prolonged Vigour

The following morning dawned clear and sunny with a small breeze that toyed with the leaves outside his window. Bilbo was already in the kitchen getting breakfast ready before Frodo came in, tousled with the shadows of sleep still in his eyes. He was dressed, but somewhat rumpled. Bilbo eyed him questioningly.

"Need more sleep?"

Frodo ran his hands through his tangled hair apologetically. "Sorry. I guess I'm not quite awake yet."

"It's all right. It's just the two of us, after all. No reason to stand upon ceremony. After you get a bit of breakfast inside you, you can heat some water and wash up. I'm sorry I didn't think to set any water heating last night, we were talking so late..."

Sitting at the table, Frodo rubbed at one of his eyes then smiled. "As you said, it's all right. It's just the two of us."

Bilbo set the platter of pancakes on the table and sat down beside him, stabbing three on the top with his fork and transferring them to his plate. Steam rose up invitingly from rest. Frodo didn't wait for any urging, but quickly helped himself to a similar share.

Bilbo slathered his cakes, then passed the butter. "Are you content with the room you have? You could shift to the other guest room..."

Frodo took the butter from his hand. "Very! I'm sure I'm only tired from being up so late, not from any lack in hospitality, never fear. I admit it does feel strange to have such a big room to myself, but I like it."

"Here, have some syrup. It's strawberry. Made it myself!"

"Made it yourself? You'll have to teach me someday. The only time I tried to make syrup it ended up too thick, like jam. I could never get it right. What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Bilbo smiled then turned his attention to his plate. "Nothing." He poured on some of the 'syrup' himself. "I was just thinking how many things we seem to have in common. Don't you think it strange that we do, when I'm so much older than yourself?"

"No." Frodo seemed surprised at the idea. "I don't see how age has anything to do with what a person likes, or who they are. I mean, once they're old enough to think for themselves and all. "

"True, true. I suppose age isn't a hindrance to enjoying someone's company then, is it?"

"No, at least I don't think so." Frodo filled his mouth with pancake and spoke around it as he chewed. "Do you think so?"

"No. Of course not." Bilbo took a bite also. There was a comfortable silence as they ate for a while, then Bilbo carefully extended another idea. "I'm glad you're comfortable here. Have you given any thought to having your own place someday?"

Frodo speared two more pancakes from the platter and slipped butter pats between them where the heat would melt them quickly. "I don't know. Sometimes, but only in a childish, dreaming sort of way." He drizzled a fat Z of syrup over them. "When I was smaller, I wanted to live in the stables with the ponies for a while, then I dreamed of tunneling into the river banks and making my own smial that way." He smiled reflectively. "I tried once, a friend and I tunneled all day and came home covered in mud, head to toe. The next day when we went back it had all collapsed in. That was long ago...I was very young."

Bilbo pressed a little harder. "What about now? What sort of home do you see for yourself?"

Frodo thought about it as he added another dollop of syrup and began cutting them up. "Well, if I stay in Brandy Hall that will be my home, so I'm already there."

Bilbo felt his throat constricting, but tried to sound unconcerned. "Are you planning on staying there, then?"

"Where else can I go, right now?"

Bilbo picked up his tea and drank the entire mug in one long gulp.

Frodo continued. "Maybe when I'm older, if I saved up for a while I could get a small place, I suppose. I'm not much of a hand at farming... it would depend on what I'm doing. I don't think I could afford a nice smial, but maybe a house of some kind, or a bit of land I could build something on. Maybe I could go in together with someone else to get one and we could share it or something. " He chewed thoughtfully. "How did you get Bag End?"

"It was given to me. That is, it was my father's, and I inherited it when he died."

"That's kind of sad then, isn't it?"

"Not really. It already felt more like home than any other place. It's full of good memories, and after all, no one lasts forever. There's always been a Baggins in Bag End, Underhill. It's just my turn this time."

Frodo considered as he mopped his plate with a wedge of pancake. "I like that. It's a more pleasant way of looking at it, just seeing it as being your turn."

"It was strange at first, but I guess I just... adjusted. Being the Master of Bag End could be very pleasant, after all."

"It's pretty big."

"It is, but also very comfortable. And there's plenty of room for my books and such..." He paused, gazing toward the window. Frodo finished off the last of the pancakes then rose and started gathering up the dishes.

"It's nice only having two hobbit's worth of dishes to wash." he commented, taking the stack over to the sink. "Doesn't seem like much at all."

Bilbo fingered his empty mug. He cleared his throat. "What...ahem...what did you inherit from your parents?"

He was quiet a moment, pouring the steaming water over the dishes, but when he spoke his voice was steady enough. Bilbo remembered years past when he would have never even asked such a thing; time was a great healer and gentler of wounds. It was long ago, now.

Frodo picked up a dish cloth. "A few things - most of it went to the Master to pay for my upbringing of course. Most of the other things were my mother's so they went back to the lasses in her family. A son has little use for petticoats. The Postal things my father had were returned to the Post. He wasn't a very practical hobbit..."

Bilbo considered, then carefully ventured. "I thought your mother had some jewels, a necklace, wasn't it?"

Frodo was silent as he looked over at Bilbo. His eyes showed a brief shadow and he bit his lower lip a moment, but it passed. He took a breath. "They were buried with her."

"I see. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. It was a long time ago."

Bilbo let the topic go, turning to speaking of his garden, the sunny weather, the berry harvest. Frodo seemed willing and glad to follow him to these simpler things. Going out to cut some fresh flowers for the table a while later, Bilbo mused on what he had learned and was heartened by it. The lad seemed to have no particular plans, or really anything he had mentioned that would hold him to Buckland. He liked Bag End, and felt no barriers about their age difference in their friendship. He had no employment, no apprenticeship...

He went back into the smial, trimmed the flowers and filled the vase with water. Frodo was in the parlour, looking at the fountain.

"Now, show me your map book." Bilbo said, clearing a place on the table beside the fountain. He set out a bowl of fruit and breadsticks to snack on."And after we've had a bit of a look at it, I've something to show you also."

Frodo went to the guest room to fetch his book from his pack. "Here it is," he said returning almost as quickly as he had left. "And see, here's the one for Buckland now!" He eagerly lay it out on the table, flipping it open. "I've added in the trees over here, see, and this place here where those rocks are."

"And Crickhollow, I see."

"Of course!" he grinned. "First thing I added. I just wish I had better tools. I'm afraid I smudged it, and the trees look like broccoli to me. Perhaps you can teach me how to make them a little better."

Bilbo leaned over to take a closer look. "Hm. I see what you mean. Well, I have better pens here, and many colors of ink. Perhaps you can make some progress on inking in these charcoal marks... while you're here."

"Thank you. I was thinking of asking you just that. I was hoping you could help me fill in the rest of them too."

"In time. This can wait just a little. Now. I have something I would like to show you.... just wait here." Bilbo pushed away from the table and went to his study. He opened the desk and delicately pulled out the thick scroll with its ribbon, weighing it in his hands, which he now realized were shaking a little. "Stop that, you old fool," he quietly chastised himself. "You've faced down a dragon. What's to fear from a hobbit?"

Tucking the scroll under his arm, he turned and almost marched back into the parlour. Frodo watched, bemused, as he wordlessly lay it down on the table and undid the ribbon.

"A new map?"

He was almost brusque with nervousness. "No, not a map. Here. I want you to see this."

He stepped back slightly, weighing down the edge with the bowl of fruit to keep it from rolling back up. Frodo came close beside him and leaned over the document on the table. He glanced over at Bilbo questioningly.

"Yes, go ahead and read it. I know it's a bit wordy, but it concerns you."

"Me? Why should it..."

"You'll see soon enough. Go on."

Mystified, Frodo turned back to the waiting sheaf. Bilbo watched as the bright eyes began scanning over the writing, widening slightly as realization that it was a Will began to dawn. Frodo looked up at him again, a flash of blue, then back to the paper at a gesture to continue. Bilbo waited. The clock ticked. It was near the lower third of the page that he would know. Never had anyone seemed to read something so slowly. He felt as if it had been hours, not minutes.

A pause. An intake of breath... then silence.

Bilbo felt like his head was going to explode if he didn't hear something soon.

"I...I hardly know what to say..." Frodo had gone past the part that named himself and obediently read all the way to the end. He looked up from the paper with strangely unfocused eyes and blinked several times, like something young come into the sunlight for the first time.

Bilbo felt faint and realized he had forgotten to breathe. His own eyes needed a little blinking. He took a breath and desperately hid behind a rapidly constructed wall of gruffness. "Well. I hope you approve?"

"Approve?" Frodo didn't seem to understand. He looked a little dazed.

"Of the Will. My Will. Does it meet with your approval?"

"I... I ....but, Bilbo...."

Bilbo's heart squeezed, flip-flopped and braced to be struck. "But what? Is something wrong?" His voice sounded sharp in his own ears.

"This... this makes me your heir." Frodo was still looking at him unbelieving, as if he expected to have this mistake corrected once he pointed it out.

"Yes. It does. It makes you my heir. Didn't I say a Baggins had always been in Bag End?"

Frodo suddenly broke, like a dam giving way before a pressure too great to resist he turned and clasped Bilbo in a strong embrace, then held him out at arm's length. He had tears in his eyes, but he was smiling tremulously.

"I'm... I don't know what to say. I'm... overwhelmed. You are too generous by far..."

"Nonsense." Bilbo fished out is handkerchief and handed it to Frodo. "Here. I'm not going to last forever and do you think I want those... the Sackville-Bagginses to be in here, pawing through all of my effects and squabbling over my silver? You are saving me many a night of worry, that's all. I'm really quite selfish."

Frodo accepted this. "It would be a shame to see this lovely Hill fall into their hands.I'm glad to help you - but I am all in a muddle. I can't tell whether I should be pleased about it or not."

"What do you mean?"

"That, well, that it's double-edged. I just wanted to spend some time with you here... and the thought that someday I might be here, but you might not... isn't it a little... morbid? "

Bilbo looked at him as sternly as he could manage, which from behind his crumbling wall of reserve wasn't very stern at all. "Now none of that! I have no plans to be going anywhere at all for quite some time, and you'll have to wait. I've been told I have a 'prolonged vigour' and I intend to use it." He spoiled the effect of the scolding with a smile.

Frodo just looked at him.

"Come on. You can't tell me you had no notion at all what I was up to?"

"None. And I don't mind waiting at all! In fact I hope I shall have to wait for many, many years more. You just keep prolonging along."

"I shall. Vigourously. So, you do accept?"

"Well, I guess that... I mean, if you are really sure it's what you want..."

"None of that either. It's a simple yes or no." And you're going to kill me soon, right where I stand if you don't tell me for certain, he thought.

"I... "

A strange numbness seemed to be congealing his brain. Speak, blast it, speak...

"Yes."

Bilbo stabbed his finger at the bottom of the Will, as if afraid he would change his mind if given another moment to consider. "Then sign here. The lawyer fellow thought it would be good to have your own signature on it as well." He held out the quill.

"There's so many others already here... Oh, Mr. Cotton! I remember him...." Frodo took the quill from Bilbo's hand and after a long pause, suddenly and firmly signed it. He handed the quill back and grinned.

"Now what?"

"I have no idea." There was a sense of unreality about it. As if they were only play-acting setting up a Will, a rehearsal before the real thing.

"None?"

"I hadn't really thought beyond your seeing it. I suppose. Now don't just stand there and look at me that way. We'll both appear to be fools. I'll have to let the S-Bs know eventually; not a pleasant thought, that part."

"I suppose." Frodo seemed to be waiting for him, to do what he didn't know.

Still, he felt as if a great load had suddenly slipped away from his shoulders. "We really ought to have a little something special, eh?"

"Like what?"

"A cake or something!" Bilbo rubbed his hands together like a little lad. He felt almost giddy after all his worries, and a little foolish for having had them in the first place.

This brought a laugh. "As you wish! Lead the way!" Frodo cheerfully stood aside and bowed, sweeping his arm toward the kitchen.

48: Have Your Cake

As the afternoon was waning, Bilbo and Frodo sat under one of the larger trees along the side of the Hill, the remains of the huge cake they had baked in ruins beside them. Their plates lay on the grass, the occasional ant scuttling across to lift and carry off a crumb or two. In the distance the low droning of bees on the roadside clover lent a warm lassitude to the afternoon that made it difficult to think. Bilbo sat with his back against the trunk watching the few wispy clouds higher up, the flutter of the maple leaves slowly waving their green and silver in the occasional bit of breeze.

Samwise sat near them contentedly stuffing his cheeks with some of the extra cake, an invitation he had not hesitated to accept. His more fastidious sisters had taken their portions with many thanks and curtsies back to their home, but his quick eye had sized up the number of remaining slices and decided he would be better served staying nearby. He had been right.

It was very peaceful, all of them lost for a time in their own thoughts as they were. Bilbo was pleased that so far everything had gone so smoothly. Frodo seemed to have accepted the idea of inheriting a home in Hobbiton instead of Buckland someday, with only a few misgivings, and aside from occasional references to others back 'home' hadn't seemed to be feeling out of place at all.

Next to him, Frodo spoke to Sam, who by now had managed to get cake crumbs as far up as his hair. "You like the cake, Sam?"

"Yephhiuh!" Sam said enthusiastically, spraying crumbs on his questioner. He looked embarrassed, chewed rapidly and gulped to clear his mouth, then promptly began coughing until his cheeks turned red and his eyes watered.

Bilbo's eyebrows raised. "Hold easy, there! No need to hurry like that, Mr. Frodo can wait for his answer. Serves him right for asking you a question when your mouth was full, eh?"

Sam finished coughing, rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and nodded. "Sorry, sir."

"It's all right," smiled Frodo, "As Bilbo said, I should have timed my question better."

"I can write my name." Sam said abruptly.

Frodo has spent enough time in a household with young hobbits underfoot that he wasn't taken aback by the sudden change in topic."You can, can you?"

"Yessir! Mr. Bilbo taught me!..." Sam turned, hunting around on the ground nearby. Frodo, shot a mildly amused glance over at Bilbo, who strove to look innocent. Sam fished a stick out of the long grasses by the fence, shook off the dangling bits of leaf and came to Frodo with it. "See, sir? See? Like this..." The lad bent over and carefully scratched into the dirt S - A - M. "That is an S!" he pointed out.

"Very impressive." said Frodo, humoring him. "Read it to me."

"Sam! It's my name."

"Yes, but from where I'm sitting it looks to me like it says wvs."

"What?"

"No, wvvvvs." Frodo drew out the v sound, enjoying the bafflement on Sam's face.

"It's upside-down for him," offered Bilbo, whose closed his eyes as he leaned back comfortably. "It looks different that way. Look at it upside-down, Sam."

He heard a small shuffling sound in the grass.

"No, not that way!" said Frodo's voice. "He meant for you to come over here, where I am." There was a pause as Sam came around to where Frodo sat.

"Do you see it?"

"It says Sam."

"The letters sometimes look like different letters if you turn them around."

"But I'm Sam!" he sounded determined. "And I'm even Sam if I'm upside down! See?"

Frodo laughed and Bilbo opened his eyes to find Sam attempting to stand on his head once again.

"Now, don't do that, you'll land in the cake." he admonished mildly. "Yes, I suppose you are still Sam, no matter what direction you are pointed. You'll always be yourself, no matter where you are or how you're standing."

Sam dropped his feet back to the earth, then scootched over in the grass and looked up at Frodo.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"Yes?"

"Have you ever gone West?"

Frodo looked slightly puzzled. "Yes, I suppose. I live East of here, so I've gone West."

"Do you know how to write, and read and talk in different kinds of words?"

"Yes... I suppose I do. Why?"

"Do you like bells and music and stars?"

"Bells and stars?" said Frodo, wondering where this was going. "I suppose so..."

Bilbo's smile flitted about his lips. He had an inkling where it was going. And while he had thought the idea ridiculous applied to himself, he rather liked it applied to his young cousin. Sure enough....

"Well, I think you're Elvish." Sam continued, plowing right on even as Frodo drew a startled breath to speak.

"Mr. Bilbo says hobbits aren't Elves, but I think you are, like one, I mean, 'cause, 'cause... you're like an Elf, kind of. Mr Bilbo said they're not hobbits, and they're tall, but if you were tall I think you would be one. Are you grown-up?"

"Well...no," said Frodo still slightly confused on how to respond to this.

Sam continued in a determined voice. "Then you can go to school! Mr. Bilbo can teach you. And you might get taller. Then you can be an Elf when you grow up."

"Um...." Frodo looked over at Bilbo somewhat desperately and found him silently laughing. "Somehow... I think there's a lot more to it than just studying, Sam. A hobbit stays a hobbit, no matter how much he learns."

"You can study lots and lots!"

"No, Sam," said Frodo gently. "A hobbit stays a hobbit."

"Oh." Sam looked slightly deflated, and slightly stubborn at the same time. "Well. Maybe you could be an Elf's friend, then. You could talk to them..."

"Does Mr. Bilbo tell you a lot of stories about Elves?" Frodo interrupted.

"Oh yes! And I like them a lot, sir, even if I don't really understand 'em much."

"So I see." Frodo appeared to be at a loss as to how to continue.

Bilbo decided to rescue him. "Sam, look, there's your da waving to you, I think you better be going."

"Oh..." he looked over to where the Gaffer was, in fact, gesturing with a rake in his hand at something in the garden. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bilbo, I didn't finish all the leftover cake like you wanted me to. I'll try again tomorrow."

Bilbo waved him on his way, smiling. "I think it will be taken care of one way or another. Don't worry about the cake - we'll save you another piece. Go on now."

Sam reluctantly trotted off. Frodo sat back and gave Bilbo a flash of amused blue eyes.

"Never thought you'd have an Elf for your heir now did you?"

"I never thought I'd have an heir I liked at all, much less an Elvish one. That Sam, he's a real flatterer isn't he? He doesn't really know what a compliment he is paying of course. But I have to agree with him on one thing, you might do with a little more reading and studying, so you don't embarrass yourself if you do speak with them. Your accent is atrocious, but with a bit of work you'll make a good Elf yet."

Frodo rolled his eyes."No thank you. Not to the study, of course, but to the rest. I think I prefer just being a plain hobbit, in the Shire. Nothing fancy, and it's so peaceful here... You know, I think I could travel to other places, someday, and even enjoy it. But only as long as I knew I could always come home again. I wouldn't want to really leave the Shire, I mean really leave it, not even to see Elves or any other wonder. At least not for too long."

"It is peaceful," agreed Bilbo. "Peaceful and calm. A bit placid and stagnant at times too, yes, but a fine place to live." He gestured toward the plate with the crumbs. There are places where something like this cake would be an unheard of luxury; and there are places where this cake would be seen as far too humble to even be eaten. But here....hm." He picked up his plate from the grass and brushed off a wayward ant. "Pass me that slice will you? No, the one from the other end, that didn't get stepped on."

He took the proferred slice and picked at the browned edge they had drizzled with sugar, his favorite part.

"Speaking of peacefulness, or lack thereof, I still have to figure out how to tell the S-B's about all of this. They're going to hear about it somehow. I just can't decide if it should be from me or from some neighboring gossip."

"How would a gossip know?"

"They always do. And remember there were several other signatures on that Will. I trust each of those hobbits well enough, but they each have families and I highly doubt with that many tongues involved..."

"I see what you mean." Frodo brushed crumbs off of his sleeve. "Well, I just hope you'll at least wait until I'm gone again. I don't want to be here for it, truth be told. They rather intimidate me."

Bilbo poked at his cake. "After you're gone?"

"Isn't Buckland far enough away?" he smiled. "They can't be that bad, can they?"

There was a pause. Bilbo looked out over the field. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like, I hope you realize."

Frodo looked at him, slightly puzzled at the change in his tone of voice. "Yes, and I thank you for it. Would you like me to leave sooner, if you need to deal with the S-Bs alone?"

Bilbo still did not meet his eyes. "No! No, no dear lad. Nothing could be further from my mind. Ehm. How much longer do you think you have?"

"A little over a month. But then I'll need to be heading back home, of course."

"Of course."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, no. It's nothing worth noting. I suppose there are times when I rather wish you could be... well. Both at your home in Buckland, where you are happy, and also...here."

"Where I am happy?"

Bilbo wasn't sure how to respond. He couldn't quite read Frodo's tone, to tell if he was serious, or just humoring him. For the time being he decided to avoid it altogether by changing the subject. He stood up and brushed his hands over his weskit. "Come now, let's see how that new trellis for the sweetpeas is coming along, shall we? It's an idea I had when I was traveling up by the marshes recently, using willow withies."

He was grateful as Frodo allowed him to move on. He noticed him stooping to quickly stack the plates together and wrapping them all in neat a bundle with the tablecloth. He led the way back up the Hill, knowing that his young cousin would follow without further questions. It was a great comfort to him, and something he greatly valued, to have that space to think and to simply sort things out. No, Frodo wouldn't be underfoot, he decided, and now he wondered what had ever made him think he would be. He was unfailingly courteous in giving Bilbo the space and the silence that he needed when he needed it.

Bilbo was pleased with himself for making this new observation, and heartened by it. Yes, he was making the right choice. Only time would tell how others would see it, of course, but time was something he seemed to have plenty of. Yes, time enough for others to get used to the idea. No matter how much it would take.

49: The Inn Crowd

It wasn't long until the news reached Bilbo that Otho and Lobelia had, in fact, heard about the changes made by his Will, and most predictably didn't like it. The gossip vines in Hobbiton were quick ones even by Shire standards and news of something 'big' like the change in the heir for old Baggins had brought it to a high hum day and night. Tongues wagged over fences and under washing lines, over ales in the afternoon and under tables late at night.

As he had warned Frodo, when either of them went out together or apart they very frequently were made aware of hastily broken conversations, whispers, suddenly changed topics and sidelong looks as they passed. It was even moreso if they walked together through the market square; every eye seemed to be measuring them up, comparing them, every common greeting became loaded with unspoken questions and double meanings that neither of them could always guess at.

Frodo was uncomfortable with this strange attention, but seemed to bear up under it all right as long as he had Bilbo somewhere nearby to encourage him. Bilbo would catch his eye, and straighten his shoulders. Frodo's shoulders likewise would come back up, mimicking Bilbo's proud and unconcerned stance and firmly pleasant expression.

You are a Baggins. You are mine. I chose you. You have no reason to be ashamed. Their opinions don't matter, it's just talk. You are above such things.

Some days, Bilbo had to bring the lad back up in this unspoken way several times, but he kept going out and kept making Frodo go with him. Hobbiton needed to get used to seeing them together, and only making it commonplace would do that. His only regret was that it took a long time for Hobbits to see any change as commonplace. A very long time.

As they walked up the Hill one mild morning the following week, yet another such meeting inflicted itself on them. The basket tucked under Frodo's arm was filled with small produce that they had purchased, though they really didn't need them considering Bilbo's overflowing garden. It was a bare excuse to make Frodo go out with him again, Bilbo readily admitted. The morning had gone fairly well until they came to the bend where a group of three farmers stood talking amongst themselves. When they saw Bilbo and Frodo, they suddenly stopped, shuffling awkwardly. They mumbled back a return to Bilbo's "Good morning" and wouldn't meet his eyes though he did note that they certainly eyed Frodo sharply enough as the two walked past. Wordless measuring up, and not the especially friendly kind. More the way they might have compared stock animals on market-day. Frodo bore up under it, but it was as if the basket had suddenly become a great weight to him. It was well that they were almost home.

Sometimes Frodo took comfort in talking it out when he came back to the smial after such encounters. Bilbo was always ready to listen. For his part, Bilbo took great effort to be sure no matter what was going on it didn't appear to affect him. Water off a duck's back, serene and unruffled. Inside he reacted rather more violently or sarcastically at times, but for Frodo's sake he hid it and curbed many a double-edged comment he might have said if he had been alone. It was hard work being a good example. He wasn't sure he was quite cut out for it, nor if he could sustain it long enough.

The town he could handle. It was the Sackville-Bagginses that gave him a headache.

One thing Bilbo hadn't decided yet was whether he would say anything to the S-Bs himself. If he had to, he thought, it would be better to wait until Frodo was gone again and out of range as a target for their sharp tongues. No reason for the lad to be unduly distressed. The problem with this line of thought was that it served to remind him that the days were passing all too swiftly; Frodo would be going back to Buckland once more at the end of month. This always made his spirits sink. But still, he told himself, it would be for the best until the worst of their malice was past. Time enough to invite him back again later. Plenty of time.

The gossip lines working so well and so quickly had been double-edged: while he was glad that he was spared having to break the news to them himself, he was also concerned that the information the hobbits were getting was not going to be very accurate, thanks to the source. He knew from the many tales he had heard about himself over the years that while the gossipers were quick, their clarity was confused at best, sometimes completely muddled into something unrecognizable.

As a good week and a half or so of heavy gossip had passed, he thought it was time to see what the tales were like. The S-Bs had been seen pacing past his home only twice that he was aware of, and both times he managed for himself and Frodo to be safely hidden away indoors before they got there. He felt cowardly hiding, but if he needed to face them he needed to know what was being said first. He was reluctant to have Frodo hear it, especially as it was very possible that it wouldn't be complimentary to either of them and he really didn't know how the lad would react. He was only a tween, after all.

The perfect opportunity arrived that very day. Frodo was invited to a birthday party for a Bucklander who had married a Hobbiton lass and come to live nearby and had gone cheerfully out that afternoon, glad to offer what news he could of Brandy Hall for them in exchange for a good supper and an evening of song. As soon as he was gone down the lane, Bilbo went out the back door and headed for Daddy Twofoot's place. If anyone had been in the tavern long enough to hear all the tales, it would be Dad, and Bilbo knew he could trust his good-natured neighbor to be truthful with him. Especially if he brought along some good pipeweed to share.

His timing was good. Dad was just getting ready to go back to the Inn for his afternoon round, having recovered from his morning round to be sufficiently thirsty again. This meant the news was fresh in his head, but his head was still unmuddled by ale. Daddy was glad enough to accept the offer of a well-filled pipe that he didn't mind the delay at all. Bilbo's pipeweed was always the best, and well he knew it. It wasn't the first time Bilbo had come to him for a bit of talk. He and Bilbo made themselves comfortable on the split-log bench that lay on the shady side of Dad's smial and smoked companionably together for a while.

Bilbo tapped out his pipe on the side of the bench. "So, how's it been at the Inn lately?" he inquired casually.

Dad blew out a little stream of smoke. "Oh, 'bout the same as always. Mashed turnips on the menu again, too much salt in the cabbage soup. Uncommon good pie this past week. Holbang won hisself a sack of summer squash in a dart contest last night."

"Ah. Sounds very comfortable. Ale good?"

"Eyup. A mite too warm, but with the summer an' all it's to be 'spected."

Bilbo rubbed at the bowl of his pipe, polishing it with his thumbs. "Any interesting news lately?" he fished.

There was a long pause. He carefully looked up from the pipe to find Daddy still working on his, but he had a long smile around the pipestem he held in his stained teeth and a knowing sidelong glance for his companion.

"I know'd that's what you were up to, Mr. Baggins. I figured to m'self when I saw you comin', Dad, says I, Dad that there Mr. Baggins is a-comin' to hear the news. An' you know why I said that to m'self?"

Smiling, Bilbo went ahead with it and took the bait. "No, why did you say that?"

Daddy's smile widened. "'Cause it ain't been about nothin' but you... all week!" he said, pointing his pipe at Bilbo emphatically. "You and that lad of your'n." He cackled lightly, pleased with himself. "Eyup. I could see it comin' a mile off. No dim lampstand here."

Bilbo nodded at him, trying to show great appreciation and admiration. "You're a clever one, you are. Saw right through me."

"O' course I did." Dad leaned forward and furrowed his brow with thought. "Now, let me see. First off, can you tell me the straight furrow? Is this lad really goin' to be gettin' the Hill and all someday?"

"He is." said Bilbo. "And with my blessing."

Dad smiled and nodded with satisfaction. "I thought as much, but it's a good thing to hear it from the pony's mouth. He seems a good lad. Now... let me see. What have I heard? No offense, but some of it ain't too compliment'ry."

"I expected it might not be. Go right ahead, no offense will be taken."

"Walp...all right. I'd say it's been right mixed. Good an' bad. There's some as approve of it, think it was right clever of you. There's others that don't, and most fall somewheres in-between." He settled back against the wall, crossing his thickly shagged feet comfortably.

"I suppose that's to be expected. What do the in-between ones say?"

"Some say Ol' Baggins has gone completely mad, beggin' yer pardon and all, it was them as says it, not me..."

"As I said, no offense. I would rather hear it as it was said. Go on."

"Right." Dad's voice settled into the gentle sing-song, like that of a school-child reciting. "They say that madness has taken up again, and Ol' Baggins has up and given everything to some lad he'd never even seen before, a field worker, some say, who happened by right when the hot sun cooked the brainpan like an egg and made Baggins crack. Lucky lad, no one real sure who he is, but they figure surely them Sackville-Bagginses will set is all straight soon and that unknown lad won't be allowed to be so unlawful and unfair, benefitin' like that from the madness."

Bilbo considered this one. Nothing unusual in it, but he could see it would help if he continued to introduce Frodo to more of the general folks about town. Much of the discomfort seemed to be in his being an unknown. He looked up from musing to find Dad watching him and waiting politely.

"Go right ahead. What else?"

"Hem. Let's see. Others been sayin' Ol' Bilbo has given away a real treasure map to where all his gold and jools are hidden, an' that he gave it to some unknown relative from far away, for safekeeping, y'see." He paused to suck on his pipe and blew out a little stream of smoke. "Now, this relative and Ol' Bilbo are conspirin' to hide all his money so the S-Bs won't see a penny of it, burying it most likely. Maybe stashing it in barrels. A few said they heard the relative went away with a cart-load of gold just last week in broad daylight, and Ol' Missus Lobelia's fit to be tied."

Bilbo had to smile at this one. "A cart-load of gold, and in broad daylight no less! That one might make a good jest in time. Go on."

Dad smiled, tapping his pipe on the end of the bench. "I never thought that one held any water. But y'know some folk will haul on a bucket that's naught but holes and still swear they've had somethin' to drink of it."

"I know just what you mean. What else?"

"Let me think here." He sat and squinted up at the thatch above him for a long moment. Bilbo waited patiently.

"Oh, here's another doozy. Some say Ol' Bilbo Baggin's up and sold everything he owns to the Master of Buckland for a cartload of gold, and the Master hisself is going to be setting up a summer home right here in Hobbiton, at the Hill, 'cause he can't stand being around his own queer folk any longer."

"That one really is a doozy. And there's that cartload again."

"I don't think too many could swaller that one."

Bilbo agreed. The patterns of legislation in the Shire were too ingrained in all of them for it to even be comprehensible that the Master would really cross that boundary, though they might believe the rest of Bilbo.

Dad sat silently for a couple moments, lips puckered with thought. "I can only think of one more. It ain't a happy one. This one says Old Otho is right unhappy and whomever this lad may be he better watch his steps, taking, as he had, y' might say, what was rightfully the Sackville-Bagginses and claiming it for his own. They figured the lad must've hoodwinked old Bilbo, must have tricked him good. Can't be right, and no doubt no good will come of it."

"I see. And that's all?"

"That's all I can recollect. But I'll keep my ears open, and I got big ears."

"You're a good neighbor, Dad. Thank you."

"Any time, Mr. Baggins. Any time. But you be careful with that lad, now. Old Otho, he's jest a old hound with no teeth. All growl and no bite. That lad of his'n though, he's shapin' up to be a bad 'un, havin' such a sour crabapple for a mum an' all."

"I appreciate the warning. And the enjoyable visit. Many thanks."

Bilbo left him with a coin to put towards an extra ale, and walked back up the Hill. His late afternoon shadow stretched out on the ground, long and thin and insubstantial as some of those tales had been. He noted that all of them tended to mildly vilify the "unknown usurper," and little blame was being placed upon himself.

In his experience, many of the hobbits would be somewhat sympathetic given time and a chance to see Frodo was a welcome addition. They didn't like change, but if he could bring in Frodo as a logical extension of his own relations, they should come to accept it. The ill-will between himself and the S-Bs was well known among them, so that would not be seen as anything unusual. They just needed to know him... needed him to be a part of their 'town.'

He remembered that there was the monthly town picnic coming up soon. Wanting to avoid the S-Bs and the gossip he hadn't intended to go, but now that he reconsidered it, it might be a good way to introduce Frodo to the Hobbiton families without it being some official occasion. He need not be 'unknown' anymore. Maybe Frodo might even meet some of the other tweens there.

He paused on his front step, absently rubbing fingerprints off of his brass doorknob with the edge of his shirt. Yes, that would be the way of it then. S-B's be hanged, he wasn't going to keep on hiding from them. He smiled down at his own oddly shaped reflection in the knob. They would go to the picnic.

50: Gossip's Race

Three days later as the sun began its climb into a somewhat hazy summer sky, Bilbo and Frodo packed up their two large baskets of food for themselves and to share, gathered up a clean tablecloth and headed for the field below the Hill to join in on the monthly town picnic.

Bilbo scuffed his feet thorough the last of the dew. It promised to be a warm day, a bit humid but fair. He figured it wouldn't be uncomfortable if there was enough shade to be had.

"Whoop. You're dragging the tablecloth." said Frodo behind him. He looked down and gathered up the trailing end where it was bumping along behind him over the grass. Carefully leaping over the small ditch that bordered the field, he tried not to stumble over the berm of dried grasses that yet lay where they had been cut. The goats hadn't had time to eat their way this far down the road yet.

He turned to place a steadying hand on Frodo's arm as the lad struggled up after him, lugging the larger of the baskets. "Looks like we're not the first ones here."

"Still, I don't really see why we needed to be here so early. Breakfast is barely past."

"All the better. I've arranged for us to have a table set up in a nice shady place, and don't want anyone else to get to it first. It's going to be a long day, and the early bird gets the worm and all that."

"I can't say I've ever been too interested in worms." Frodo replied. He shifted the weight of the basket to his other arm and then bent to pick up the soiled tablecloth tail that was trailing once again. "But if you really think this rising with the birds is worth the effort..."

"It is. Just over there. Ah, I see someone's been here before us but not to steal our seats. Daisy's work, most likely."

Frodo smiled at the wooden picnic table. It sat, weathered silver in the morning sun right next to the leafy hedge. The later hours would shade it nicely. A bright, clean tablecloth has already been smoothed into place over the top and a vase of Bilbo's own roses, lifting from a froth of primulas and sweetpeas shone from the exact center. Next to them a small basket overflowed with fruit and vegetables from his own garden. Bilbo dropped his basket down on the bench and sniffed the flowers appreciatively.

"Ahh. Very nice. And it looks like we don't need a tablecloth after all."

"Just as well." said Frodo wryly, setting down his own burden and examining the browned end of the one they had brought with them. He sat down at the table, leaned on one elbow and looked around the green, his curls glowing chestnut in the morning sun. Bilbo sat and rummaged through the basket to pull out a couple of books and some notepaper he had brought along to pass the time, watching the youth from the corner of his eye. It was hard to believe he had ever been so young, he thought. Where had the years gone?

Like many of the Shire's larger towns, Hobbiton held an informal picnic for anyone who cared to come at the end of each month, at least during the warmer months; families came from around nearby area mostly, each bringing their own provender and sometimes extra to share if they could. Children ran about shouting with their mouths full of food and their hands covered in grass and dirt and if the weather was favorable they might continue until past their bedtime.

Bilbo only rarely attended the picnics. They had seemed more a social event for those with growing families to him, but this time it looked to be a perfect way to informally introduce much of the town to his young cousin that they had heard so much about but knew very little of. He knew the gossips would be busy as bees over clover in having him there. But this time it was that very buzz that he hoped to feed and direct a bit, so it was for the good.

For the first hour there were not too many others there, and he and Frodo passed the time in companionable reading and writing. Other hobbits began to arrive, in pairs, in handfuls or in large family groups and the visiting and small talk of the day began.

Frodo seemed uncomfortable with the socializing at first, aware that he was being put on display. For the most part he stayed near the table where Bilbo sat, sharing the savoury chicken pie, fruit and cakes that they had brought and making small conversation. He and Bilbo were viewed curiously from afar by many that came to settle themselves upon whatever bit of grass seemed the most sweet to them, and not so afar from others who boldly came up to greet them and to surreptiously eye Frodo. Bilbo made no bones about introducing him, being sure they all knew that he was a legitimate relative and well-approved of. Frodo kept his own thoughts on this affair to himself, responding politely only when necessary.

"Mr. Baggins!" said yet another well-aproned lady, two smudged children clinging to her skirts and a small babe in her arms. "It's such a nice surprise to have you here today. And such a fine day for a picnic, isn't it?"

"Why, yes, Mrs. Hornblower. It is a very fine day. May I introduce my cousin, Frodo Baggins?"

"Oh, most pleased to make your acquaintance. How very nice that you can come spend some time here in Hobbiton. I do trust you are enjoying your stay?"

"Very much, thank you." said Frodo somewhat neutrally. "Pleased to make your acquaintance also."

"And are you staying long?"

Frodo glanced at Bilbo. "At least until the end of this month, ma'am."

"You're staying at Bag End, then?"

"Yes ma'am." Frodo said. How many times had he said that now?

"He 's staying with me," said Bilbo in his firm and friendly manner. "Of course, seeing as Bag End will be his own home someday." He watched the now expected voiceless flutter at this. "He is a Baggins, after all."

"But of course! How pleasant that must be...." Her further comment was drowned out as the babe in her arms suddenly awoke and began to squall. "I'm sorry. If you'll excuse me..."

They watched her move on, towing the smaller ones in her wake. Frodo looked at Bilbo.

"They're all asking the same thing, just in different ways." he said a touch wearily.

"Yes. It's as I expected. That's why we're here. I am sorry that it can't be a more enjoyable time for you. Of course, you don't have to sit here with me the whole time you know. I expect they might ask the same of me even if you were simply somewhere hereabout. You ought to walk around."

Frodo looked out, around the green. "What about the Sackville-Bagginses?"

"I haven't seen them yet, but I would be most surprised if they don't show up now that we're here. Even if they weren't planning on it, they'll be along once word reaches them. Now, go on. Stretch your legs a bit while you can. We've still several gossipers to go."

"You don't encourage me with that news. But all right...just a bit..." He gave Bilbo a half-smile and wandered along the hedge.

And so it continued. The late morning was already drawing on into an early warm afternoon before the Sackville-Bagginses arrived. They came onto the green very pointedly as far away from Bilbo's table as they could get and still be in the soft part of the close-mown grass. Seeing as this placed them on the eastern side, their late arrival and choice of seat meant there would be no shade for them at all. Bilbo's carefully chosen spot afforded more and more shade as the afternoon heat came on, and he wondered how long it would be before their pride would melt in the heat enough to seek out the shade on "his" side.

Frodo had wandered somewhat aimlessly for a time then drifted back to their table to read a little and answer more repetitious questions as they were asked of him. The two of them were enjoying a break in the flow of questioning when the SB's settled in. Bilbo chewed on slices of apple and sharp cheese, watching as the various known gossips casually flitted across the green, bobbing from family to family like bees gathering nectar, all with the goal of reaching Lobelia.

He nudged Frodo. "Watch this, Frodo-lad. You see that lady over there, with the striped green apron? She's one of the mainstay gossips I mentioned to you. And that one over there in the brown also. That's Opal Grubb, Lobelia's neighbor. A third one is way over there, with the orange-and-rust. See? Yes, that one. Now watch them. Lobelia is over to that side, and they all want to talk to her. But they don't want to be too forward about it, so they can't just run an honest footrace. Watch now, see how they work their way along? Bet you that last berry tart that the one in brown gets there first."

Frodo considered them, but seemed too weary to be able to enjoy the jest. "I suppose. Are they also wanting to talk to Lobelia about me?"

Bilbo looked at him sharply. "Probably. You and me both. What else? We can't stop their tongues. But you needn't be fretting, and you can't give out on me yet. Buck up, now; we've still much of the day left." He reached over and tipped up the lad's chin until he met his eyes. "When all is said and done, it's character and reputation that will win out. The whole town knows Lobelia is sour. And if you can stick it out just a little longer, your own character will outshine her sourness. They just need time. Let your worries go. It isn't worth it." He lowered his hand and gave him a small, encouraging smile.

Frodo took a breath and slowly let it out. "I'm sorry, Bilbo. You're doing your part, and I'll try to do mine." He managed a slight smile back. "You were saying about the gossips?"

Bilbo relaxed. "That's more like it. Now, watch carefully, for a berry tart hangs in the balance and I'm likely to get it if you aren't sharp! Look, the brown one is getting ahead. See? I thought she would."

Frodo considered them for a moment. "The orange one is having trouble getting away from her children, I think." he said.

"Yes, she needs to take a lesson from the green one and just dump them on their da."

"How can you do that, Bilbo?"

"Do what? Dump children on their da?"

Frodo smiled. "No. How can you just...not let it matter to you that they're all talking about you that way?"

Bilbo finished his apple slices thoughtfully. "I'll have to think on that." He crunched the apple and reached for the rest of the cheese slices.

"I remember that I used to care about what they said. I used to care quite a lot, but that was before my Adventure." He quirked an eye at his cousin. "Perhaps by the time I had seen so many other things in this wide world, their small opinions just didn't seem so big anymore. They change all the time anyway."

The lad still looked a bit too concerned, and Bilbo searched for the words to convey his conviction, to erase that shadow in his eyes. "It's like a sport to them, telling tales about others. You and I just happen to be some of the characters in their tales right now. They're just telling stories, and we are in them. It will change to someone else after a while and you know what? The Shire and Hobbiton and even Bag End will still be exactly the same as it was before they ever started talking. They're just... noise, a wind going past. Mayflies. Cut-flowers. It really doesn't matter. The only time someone's opinion about you should matter is when it comes from someone who really knows you, really, truly does. Someone you can trust to tell you the truth. All the others shouldn't bear any more weight than a butterfly's wing, and should bother you just as much."

Frodo silently met his eyes, then looked out over the sunlit green again, but his shoulders had relaxed. Bilbo followed his gaze. Lobelia sat, small in the distance, with her yellow skirts puffed out around her and looking for all the world like a butter pat melting in the sun. Her umbrella popped up as a sun parasol. "The queen bee. The worker-bees will reach her soon enough."

Frodo had to smile again at that. "They're still working at it. Though I think your brown one is falling behind. The green one will get there first."

Bilbo was glad he was willing. It wasn't always easy to make light of something. Sometimes it could be much harder than being serious. "Perhaps she will. Is it a bet then?"

"Perhaps." Frodo smile lingered a moment. "I'll try to do as you said, to not let it bother me. I'm just not used to being the subject of tales, I guess. At least not from hobbits I hardly even know."

"Your skin will thicken in time. After a while you'll wonder that you ever let them trouble you."

"I hope so."

"Aha - there goes the orange one." Bilbo pointed. "She's trying to make up for lost time. See? She's pretending she needs to borrow something at the other side or some such... see how she's going along with a purpose, but not quite towards Lobelia? Good strategy. I don't think it'll quite be enough though. The others will still be closer."

Frodo joined in the game. "I say the green one will be there first."

"I still say the brown."

"Green is nodding her head, moving away from that group...."

"Where? Ah, yes, I see."

"Go on, Green, you can do it. Two more families.... "

"Go, Brown...good lass, yes, pass that one by with a simple smile and wave, keep on... No, no, don't let that one stop you with her jams..."

"Come on, Green. Come on. You don't really need to say more than 'Good afternoon' do you? What are you talking about? Move on!"

"No, no more jams, Brown. Keep your eye on the goal. Yes, look at Lobelia. Good, good... make your exit..."

"Green, why are you still standing there? Lobelia is so close and you only need to get past this last family! Uh oh, watch out, here comes Orange."

Bilbo thumped the table. "Brown, Orange is coming up from behind! Don't let her trump you. Go on, now. Go on - yes! Nod, smile, say goodbye. Good job. Now amble, amble. Amble faster."

"Green, don't you see her? Yes, there she is. Orange is right there. Move! Good, good. Walk faster, can't you?"

"Quick, someone intercept Orange, anyone! Yes, oh good. Well done, child. Good intercept. Hold her skirts tighter." Bilbo grinned. "I think I'm going to have that tart."

"Not yet you aren't... Go, Green... No, no, don't look at Brown. Look at Lobelia. Yes, pretend you don't see Brown there...."

"Brown, don't stop! No, that tipped basket can just stay tipped. To Lobelia, quick!"

Both Bilbo and Frodo were now about halfway up from their seats. There was only about three yards left and both of their chosen gossips were on a slow collision course of sorts.

"Green!" said Frodo.

"Brown!" said Bilbo

"Agh!" they both said together as Green and Brown met and began exchanging pleasantries with each other, mere yards from Lobelia while the Orange one swept past them to victory, a medium-sized child still towed along in her skirts.

Frodo and Bilbo looked at one another. They looked at the honey-crusted berry tart.

Bilbo picked up a knife. "Split it?"

Frodo grinned, took the knife from him and carefully cut the tart in two. He licked berry syrup from his fingers. "That was fun."

"Much better than agonizing over it." agreed Bilbo, picking up the half he perceived to be ever-so-slightly larger. "A little honey does wonders to remove the sting."

Chapter 51: The Picnic Papers

Bilbo nibbled at his half of the berry tart, bemused. The gossips of the town had all converged on Lobelia where she sat by her picnic basket, hiding her for the time being behind a curtain of skirts and their hands waved around in animated conversation. In spite of his words to Frodo to not worry about what was being said, he couldn't keep his own imagination from concocting what he thought might be the topic of their conversations. None of it was complimentary.

"You ought to go move around a bit." he told Frodo, who still sat next to him though his own half of the tart had already vanished. "You're young. You don't need to be sitting around as much as my old body does. The gossips are well occupied for now - it would be a good chance to have a visit with some of the other folks without their noses being in the way, if that's what you're worried about."

Frodo considered. "Well... "

Bilbo followed his gaze and noticed a small number of other tweens over by the berry bushes. "Go on." he said more gently. "You're a Baggins. No reason to fear anything, least of all a few hobbits, eh?"

Frodo had to smile at that. He brushed crumbs off his hands and stood. "I don't know if I have the courage of the Barrel-Rider facing a dragon, but I'll be back soon."

"The only barrels I've ridden lately have had ale in them, which I'd much more gladly face than any dragon, and of course you do. Go on. Take all the time you want. We're here all day and I'm not going anywhere. " said Bilbo amiably.

He watched the lad walking with a studied casual pace towards the tweens. It was pleasant to see him seeking out the company of others his age, and a good sign to everyone watching that he wasn't too timid to leave Bilbo's side. Bilbo was so pleased he finished the tart and reached into the picnic basket for a fat apple-nut muffin to celebrate. He settled back comfortably to eat it.

Nibbling and dozing in the afternoon warmth, he was lost in his own thoughts and paying little attention to the rest of the picnic for a time, which is why he was caught a little off-guard when Otho Sackville-Baggins suddenly stood before him. He slowly sat up straighter. Otho said nothing at first, just stood there with a grim expression and glared at him.

Knowing him fairly well, Bilbo was mostly unperturbed. Otho often stood and glared (or stared) at those he wished to intimidate, as he had found it worked better than his words, at least with his wife, son and usual associates. Bilbo had long ago seen through it to the lack of intelligent argument underneath and chose to ignore the attempted intimidation. He met Otho's stern hazel eyes with his own mild ones; our eyes are about the only thing we have in common, he reflected.

A few beats of time passed this way, neither of them moving. A small breeze came up, ruffling the leaves lightly. Three small children ran nearby, laughing. Bilbo waited.

Otho finally drew breath to speak. "Is it true?" he asked shortly.

Bilbo tried to decide whether he should lead Otho along by pretending he didn't know what was being referred to. Seeing no good reason to prolong an unpleasant conversation, he opted to get it over with instead.

"The papers being drawn up? Yes."

Otho's lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. "Is it final?"

"I'm still working out a few of the details. I shouldn't worry about it overmuch, Otho. I'll be sure that you get all that is coming to you. You'll get your fair share."

Otho was nonplussed. "Fair share? Fair share of what?"

"Your fair share of all that you deserve." Bilbo replied sedately. He had thought about this reply beforehand, so it came to him glibly enough. "The papers will be clear about it."

Otho grunted. "Clear? Where's these papers, I'd like to know, and why haven't I seen 'em?"

"Why should you?" asked Bilbo.

Otho seemed taken somewhat aback. "Why should I? Because I'm your blood kin, your next-of-kin as well. If these papers are so all-fired important that they're changing my plans, if you're really going to go giving part of my inheritance to that...to that..." He seemed to have no words to describe Frodo at that moment. He floundered slightly and continued "I have a right to see 'em!"

"Oh, I'm sure you will. In time. They've been put away someplace safe for now, so they won't be lost. They'll be brought out eventually."

"When?"

"When I'm gone, Otho. That's what it's all about after all, isn't it?" Bilbo cleaned his nails with the end of the apple-paring knife. There was a long pause. He glanced back up at where Otho still stood. "Would you like to be introduced to him?"

"No." said Otho. "I wouldn't."

Bilbo finished cleaning the nails on one hand and started on the other. Otho stood there another minute, then clenched his jaw and walked off with a deliberately heavy step. Bilbo let out a breath of relief. In spite of his agreement with Daddy's assessment that Otho was nothing but an old hound with no teeth, it still took a bit of nerve to face down an old hound. He knew any real danger would only come from the younger pup, not the hound but still.... He reached for his pocket handkerchief and surreptitiously wiped his brow, then tucked it away and looked around for Frodo.

He was pleased to see him apparently still socializing with a few of the tweens, or at least listening while they talked. Their initial greetings to Frodo that morning had seemed friendly enough, he thought, but when he had tried to good-naturedly shoo Frodo off to them then, the lad soon returned to his side. Bilbo was a bit torn on this; he knew it would be good to see him in the company of others his own age but also flattered that Frodo would want to spend the time with himself instead. He had had a hard time drumming up the gumption to shoo him off again, but was glad it had worked. That it meant the lad had missed Otho was a double bonus.

He got up and stretched, deciding to walk around the green to socialize a little himself. The afternoon was growing later and the first shift of families with small children had taken them home for naps; a second round was just settling in for the late afternoon and evening meals, the day being a fair one. There wouldn't be many more picnics before the cold weather drove all but the hardiest indoors and everyone seemed determined to make the most of it.

Walking from group to group, he offered greetings, commenting on how much this or that child had grown, sampling treats and homemade jams or baking that were offered. In spite of all the gossiping that went on, he knew he was generally well-liked and respected enough by most of them he would be welcomed with smiles and curtsies as he went. Aside from his carefully steering wide of Lobelia's yellow skirts that billowed out from underneath her umbrella-turned-parasol, he made the rounds with a pleasant mood intact.

A few of the more forward hobbits still ventured to ask him straight-on about Frodo, and to each one he firmly and cheerfully confirmed that Frodo was his chosen heir now, a "true Baggins" again and again, setting them at rest as best he could.

"Why Mr. Baggins," Mrs. Goodbody said as he worked his way back. "I've never seen such a nice young lad. Very well-mannered. My Ivy was just telling me that he's going to be getting Bag End besides! Isn't that something! Of course it could just be her girlish fancies getting away with her again, he does have nice eyes, doesn't he?"

"Er, I suppose. I can't say I'm a good judge of what a lass might appreciate. Ehm. And yes, he most certainly is my heir now, Mrs. Goodbody. Thank you for your kind compliments." He began to step forward but she spoke again.

"But, if you'll pardon my being so forward, if he is, to be inheriting and all I mean, how is Mrs. Sackville-Baggins taking the news?"

Bilbo frowned slightly. "I wouldn't know that either, I'm afraid. I haven't spoken with her about it."

"You haven't?" she said with surprise. "Oh. I see. Well."

"Have a good picnic, Mrs. Goodbody. It's a fine day for it." he moved past where she stood, smoothing her apron awkwardly, trying not to glance over to where Lobelia sat.

"Mr. Baggins!" said Opal Grubb, coming up and reaching out as if to catch his sleeve. He looked at her and her hand froze in midair.

"Yes, Mrs. Grubb?"

"Well, it's so nice to see you here today, Mr. Baggins. You're looking well, especially considering how very...busy... you've been lately. You know, all that paperwork and all that, must be very wearing."

"Not at all. Thank you for your concern. It's all settled now, you know." He began walking and she moved along with him.

"It is? The.. I mean, how nice. He seems a pleasant enough young lad, even if he is a Bucklander and all."

"He's a Baggins, Mrs. Grubb. And I am sure that Buckland has benefited from having him there these few years."

"Of course! Of course. Is he planning on... spending more time here, then?"

"Mrs. Grubb." Bilbo stopped. "I am sure that you will have all the opportunities you might like to get to know him better in the future. Good day." He looked up past her shoulder. "I believe those are your children throwing pieces of pie at one another?"

She turned and threw her hands up to her face in horror. "Hatch! Rooty! Put those down! I'm so sorry, Mr. Baggins, I'll be right back." She hurried towards her fruit-spattered offspring.

Bilbo did not wait for her.

Frodo rejoined him as he came back around to their table. The lad reached over and took a moment to squeeze the plums in the basket until he found a nicely squashy one, then seated himself next to Bilbo to eat it.

"Good visit?" asked Bilbo.

"Mm." said Frodo, catching plum juice off of his chin. "I suppose. When I first got there, they all went quiet, like the people in the market. But I remembered how you said to just keep on, like it wasn't happening."

"And?"

"It worked," he said and took another bite of plum. "There was something a bit strange through. There were two there, a brother and sister. Ivy was her name, and now his escapes me. Something. She's the older one, about 26 maybe, and he's about my age. Oh, there they are - over there. Do you know them?"

Bilbo looked. "That's the Goodbody family. Certainly I know them, or their parents at least. I'm afraid the only thing I remember about Offal..."

"That's it. Offal."

"...is his prodigious appetite. He can outeat any tween I've ever seen anywhere. Amazing capacity for sausages in particular."

"Come to think of it, he did keep going back to their picnic to get more food. The entire time we were talking he had something in his mouth."

"That's him. I don't know his sister at all." Bilbo wondered at this lass, if she was keeping Frodo's attention. From where he sat she didn't look exceptional. Well-figured, perhaps, but still.... "Is she pretty?"

Frodo rolled his eyes. "I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. That's where it got a bit uncomfortable. It seems Ivy has been courted a bit by Lotho..."

"Poor thing."

"You might say so, but I don't know. I got the impression from her brother that it had been more along the lines of her courting him. But now that he's not standing to, well..." Frodo looked slightly uncomfortable. "Inherit..."

"Ah."

"She says she's not interested in him anymore. She went out of her way to make that point, right in front of one of Lotho's friends and then grabbed my arm and leaned in like some sort of vulture. It was pretty bad..."

"What did you do?"

"What could I do and still be polite? I didn't want to make a scene. I mean, here her brother is, and Lotho's friend, whatever-his-name-was, and she's older than I am, too. I kind of pulled her arm off of mine and leaned the other way. She started up in this strange giggling and wouldn't let go. Her brother told her to let go and then she did, but it was very odd."

Bilbo raised his brows. "Very. Did she keep trying to follow you, or did she truly let you go then?"

"She followed me and kept up with the laughing at everything I said, as if it were all very witty, no matter what it was. That's why I finally had to just get away from them. Offal wasn't a bad sort, but that Ivy Goodbody...no thanks."

"Hm. What about Lotho? Did he join you?"

"No. He sort of drifted nearby a couple times, listening to us, but he wouldn't come over. Offal invited him once, but then Ivy turned her back on him."

"And what did he do?"

"He glowered at me, as if I had anything to do with her behavior. Another reason I came back. I'm not sure I'm cut out for this sort of thing, Bilbo. How do you just... drift through it all so smoothly? I get ... I feel as if I don't know when I should say something and when I should just be quiet, when to stay and when to leave..."

"But you manage to make the right choices anyway."

"I don't..."

Bilbo cut him off firmly. "Yes, you do. You, Frodo Baggins, have shown a great amount of self-control and wisdom for your young years, and I admire it in you. You think before you speak, which is a trait that far more hobbits could do with."

Frodo looked down at the table, uncomfortable with the praise.

Noting it, Bilbo switched the topic slightly. "You know, I had Otho come talk to me."

Frodo looked back up at him through his lashes, a bit warily. "You did? What did he say? Was he angry?"

"Well, he wasn't too friendly. But then, he never has been so no loss there. He just wanted to know if the papers really existed and if he could see them. I told him yes and no."

"You aren't going to show them to him?"

"Why should I? It's none of his business anymore. He'll see them someday, when I'm gone. That's soon enough. I don't want them bandied about, but kept safe."

Frodo considered this. "You sound a bit...brusque."

Bilbo felt impatient at this observation. "I'm sorry, Frodo, but if you had had to deal with the S-Bs as many years as I have you would be a bit brusque too."

"Here," said Frodo, "have a plum. They're sweet and squashy."

Bilbo took the proferred fruit and tried to make himself relax. "If you say so. And yes, I can see that you're changing the subject because I'm being a grumpy old curmudgeon. But I'll let you do it anyway. Thank you."

Frodo smiled. "You're welcome."

There was a swish of fabric next to them and a high-pitched voice suddenly cut in. "Mr. Baggins!"

Bilbo turned to find Ivy Goodbody, holding a bottle in her hands. She was addressing him, but her eyes were entirely on Frodo. One plump hand smoothed then fluffed her brown curls.

"I just wanted to bring you this bottle of berry-wine from my mother. She was very much wanting you to be able to sample it. For being so.." She widened her eyes and then blinked them very deliberately over Bilbo's shoulder to where Frodo sat silently. "Kind." she finished.

Bilbo reached out and took the bottle from her hands, hoping to send her on her way rapidly. "Thank you, Miss Goodbody, and please convey my sincere thanks to your mother. She has been most generous with her berry-wine this year, as she herself brought me a bottle just this past week, you know. Another one so soon is an unexpected treat."

Ivy's cheeks went blotchy as she was flustered. "She did? I mean...of course, she did. She just....knows that you like it very much." She stepped to the side slightly, to look past Bilbo and leaned forward over the table slightly, reaching out a hand to brush one of Frodo's curls back from his shoulder. "Very much." she repeated. Bilbo could smell sausage and mustard on her breath.

Frodo was leaning hard into Bilbo's shoulders, apparently trying to avoid her hand without being obvious about it. Bilbo couldn't see his expression, but he could imagine it. Enough was enough. Bilbo turned and faced her, capturing her hand in his own.

He shook it very firmly, pumping it up and down. "Thank you! Good afternoon now, Miss Goodbody. I do hope you will be enjoying the rest of the picnic, so nice that you get to spend all that time with your own family." He met her eyes very meaningfully, and continued shaking her hand as looked past her to where Lotho stood a distance away. She followed his gaze, and pulled her hand back as soon as he released it.

"Good-day." said Bilbo.

"Good-day." said Ivy, unhappy but polite. Rubbing at her hand, she turned to go and then paused and suddenly turned back with one last parting attempt. "Good-day... Frodo...." she said breathily, attempting to flutter her lashes but only succeeding in looking like she had a nervous twitch. Bilbo was pleased he had shaken her up enough for that to be the case.

He watched her walk away, swinging her skirts. Sure enough, she took a route that almost but not quite took her to Lotho, then veered away from him, waving an overly-dramatic hand back in Frodo's direction, as if bidding him farewell.

"What an annoying creature that child is growing up to be."

Frodo released the breath he had been holding and shifted next to him. Bilbo turned to see him looking both disgusted and relieved. "You see why I didn't stay in her company."

"Quite." He took a long look at his young cousin. "She's gotten to you though, hasn't she?"

"What do you mean? You can't think I like her!" He was honestly aghast at the thought.

"No, what I mean is that she's succeeding in forcing herself into your notice, whether for good or ill. I hope you realize that Ivy means nothing, Frodo. She's an annoyance, and seems to lack good judgment, but she's harmless in herself. " Bilbo glanced over toward the distant hedge. "It's Lotho we need to be watching, she's just a distraction. She's also stirring him up against you and that's something that didn't even need stirring."

Frodo brow furrowed as he also glanced involuntarily to where Lotho had been, though he was no longer there. "You don't think he'd... harm either of us, do you?" he asked in a low voice.

Bilbo shook his head. "No. No, I don't think he would go that far, but he might try to stir up mischief of some sort. I'm afraid he's already gotten his true inheritance - he's vengeful and proud, just like his mother. And stubborn, like his father. Not a good combination. Let's hope he finds something else to keep his attention soon." He considered Frodo carefully. "Lotho probably feels like you are a usurper of sorts."

Frodo blinked quizzically. "I'm a what?"

"Usurper. Someone who steals another's throne without having the right to it. Think about it. There he was all set to inherit Bag End someday, and in his imagination it probably came stuffed with treasures. He listens to those sorts of tales, or at least he used to. I know his mother has imagined herself in those rooms for many a year, and raised him on such rubbish. And now we find he had a lass paying attention to him, which for someone as erm... personable as Lotho is, was probably very flattering to him."

He looked straight into Frodo's eyes. "But then..."

Frodo nodded slowly. "I came along."

"Yes, you came along. And in his eyes, you stole his future. His home, his money and now even his lass. Never mind that it was my choice. That Bag End wasn't really his, and was given as a free gift to you, and never mind that you don't even return the lass' attentions. He will not stop to think that through, to see it from your side. He will only stew, and try to think of something he can do to reclaim it."

"But..."

"He can't. So don't go around being afraid of him. Just be aware of him. And always, always be reasonably civil with him. There's no reason to give him anything he can nurse his grudge with. He'll come up with quite enough of that on his own."

He polished the bottle of berry wine on his sleeve and examined the label. Two years old. Not bad. He cracked the wax seal off of the top.

"Now, let's forget about it for a while. There's better things in life to do than waste time fretting over the S-Bs of all people. Like having some of this. Fetch me a couple glasses from the other basket, will you? We may have to drink it quickly, before Mrs. Goodbody finds out that her daughter has given it away and comes looking for it."

Redirecting Frodo's mood, he cheerfully continued on in small talk, pouring them each a glass and holding it up to the light. But inwardly he was carefully filing the incident away. In spite of his reassurances for Frodo's peace of mind, he knew it would be too much to ask, that Lotho should do nothing. He expected that young hound-pup would try something before long, it just remained to be seen what it would be.

Chapter 52: Shifting

As the afternoon wore away into a summer evening, the sun slowly deepened toward golden and the berry wine slowly wore away the edges of Bilbo's worries. The bottle was nearly half-gone, mild and just sweet enough. He would have to remember to extend his compliments to Mrs. Goodbody, especially after he used up the second one back in Bag End. Leaning on his elbows, he looked over at Frodo where he now lay in the soft clover near the table, picking at the leaves absently.

Given time, their talk had wandered away from their present concerns about Lotho. It was always more pleasant having someone who fell so naturally into the same interests, thought Bilbo. Very pleasant. The comfortable silences were interspersed with the less comfortable but polite visiting with the various hobbits who took it upon themselves to come by their table. Not that any of the visitors had been prying - in fact, they had done little but offer their greetings, and some commentary on the weather and crops. There were just so many of them.... None had mentioned the Sackville-Bagginses, inquired about the Will, or even asked much about Frodo for the past couple of hours beyond acknowledging that he was there and giving occasional compliments. Bilbo took this as a good sign: it meant the picnic was accomplishing what he had hoped. Word was getting around, and the 'mystery' lad from Buckland was no longer being regarded as a mystery.

Yes, it was good. Given a little more time, the favor of the Hobbiton folk should shift well enough, assuming nothing unforeseen happened. And in Hobbiton, it was rare for something unforeseen to happen at all that didn't directly involve his own instigation.

Through the shifting blue smoke of the small cookfires, he noticed Lobelia and Otho were packing up their basket and beginning to make their way out of the field. He was grateful to see it, and counted himself lucky to have avoided speaking with her entirely. Lobelia bunched her puffy yellow skirts up and awkwardly clambered through the low hedge on the opposite side, Otho following her lead. Anything to avoid coming closer to where Bilbo was sitting.

Lotho wasn't with them, and Bilbo unobtrusively began scanning the green to find out where he had gone. When he finally did spot him, he was very surprised to note Ivy Goodbody walking slowly alongside him, talking with him. He couldn't help but wonder if the lass really did have some affection for Lotho aside from his supposed inheritance after all. For both of their sakes, he rather hoped she wasn't as fickle as she appeared to be. He started to open his mouth to make a comment along these lines and thought better of it. Frodo looked fairly relaxed, and there was no reason to remind him of her.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Frodo, twirling a clover blossom in his fingers.

"Eh. Nothing."

Frodo looked up at him. "I find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

"You almost said something just a moment ago, then you didn't. What was it?"

Bilbo's eyebrows went up. He drew breath to speak but was interrupted by a fish.

Two fish, actually. Trout, dangling and glassy-eyed, their silver-red glossy flanks speckled with bits of dried leaves. Neatly speared on the white wood of a forked stick, they regarded him with a look of mute gaping surprise as they rapidly approached his face.

Bilbo gaped back at them uncomprehendingly for a split-second, his hands automatically coming up to ward them off before they could hit him. Nearby there were sudden exclamations of apology and dismay. The fish just as suddenly jerked away.

"Tom!" cried a horrified woman's voice. "Watch where you're going!" He turned to find Mrs.Cotton hurrying his way, young Rosie clutched and swinging on one hip, baby Nick jouncing on her shoulder and the rest of her family following in her wake. Tom Cotton, for it had been his hand at the other end of the wayward stick, held the brace of trout close, his eyes almost at wide and glassy as theirs.

"I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Mr. Baggins! I .... they... "

"Tol-man Cot-ton!" said Mrs. Cotton in an unmistakable mother voice, reaching for his shoulder and pulling him further back. She gave him a little shake. "I told you to slow down and... oh, Mr. Baggins, I am so sorry... he didn't hit you with them, did he? I just knew that stick was going to be trouble, and Tom, how could you? Didn't you even notice where the end of that stick was? Can't you watch where you're going?" Another shake.

"Mrs. Cotton." said Bilbo.

"Too busy trying to run ahead of everyone... didn't you hear me calling you? I must have called you three times! Mr. Baggins, I do ask your forgiveness, these children are sometimes enough to drive any hobbit to distraction, I declare... but this wayward..."

"Mrs. Cotton," repeated Bilbo a bit louder, trying to be heard over her lecture, the children's voices and now Frodo's laughter. "It's all right. I'm not hurt."

"But, trout in your face, Mr. Baggins! I never..."

"It's all right!" he repeated, and tried to divert her. "Did you catch them yourself, Tom?"

Tom stood, still within the firm grasp of his mother's hands, looking a little shaken in more ways than one. "N...no sir. Mr. Baggins, sir. It was Uncle Will, sir."

Wilcome Cotton had come up after the rest, his arms full of blankets and clanking dishes wrapped up in a tablecloth, his other hand tugging young Jolly along. "What happened?" he asked.

"Tom hit Misser Baggins wif a fish!" Rosie offered, wide-eyed.

"What? Hit him with a fish?" Will tried to peer over his mounded arms at his young niece and grinned. "That must have been somethin' to see. Where is he now?"

"Right here." said Bilbo drily. Seated on the bench, he had been hidden from Will's sight.

"Oop. Sorry Mr. Baggins, sir. No offense. And I meant Tom anyways... Are the trout all right?"

"Trout?" said Mrs. Cotton, rounding on him. "What about Mr. Baggins?"

This set Frodo off again. Bilbo gave his laughing cousin a mock-glare then held up his hand. "No, Mrs. Cotton. It's all right. Sometimes these things happen. Go ahead and enjoy your picnic. No offense taken."

"Really, Mr. Baggins.... but if you're sure..."

"Yes, I'm sure. But Will,"

"Yes?"

"If you catch another one as fat as those are, I'd be glad to share it with you, eh?"

Wilcome Cotton shifted the blankets in his arms and smiled broadly. "Of course, Mr.Baggins - and Mr. Baggins also! I'll see if I can catch one for each of you."

Bilbo smiled, waving them on. "Then all is truly forgiven. Go on, now - lead the way, young Tom. I'm sure your da has the coals all ready for those. No, no Mrs. Cotton. No more need be said. Yes, thank you."

As the entourage moved past them, Bilbo noted Will giving Frodo a friendly wink. Bilbo watched them go, then turned to him. "Well, I'd say that was quite an introduction from the Cotton family."

Frodo pushed himself up from the ground and dusted bits of clover blossom from his hands. He looked at Bilbo. "I wish I had some way to show you what you looked like just then," he began then went off into quiet laughter again.

Bilbo raised a brow at him. "Hmph. Quiet, you young rascal. You're going to deprive me of all my respectable dignity."

"You still have some?" Frodo wiped his eyes.

"Just for that, when Will brings us those trout I'll eat both of them myself. Bones and all."

"Very respectable, I'm sure. Besides, Will has offered to go fishing with me before, so I might just catch a few more for my own plate." Frodo smiled at him, then glanced past Bilbo and his smile faltered. "Oh. Not again." he groaned softly.

Bilbo looked back to find Ivy Goodbody coming their way, her brother following behind. There was no sign of Lotho.

Ivy's mood was considerably dampened from the last time they'd spoken with her; as she approached their table she looked troubled, and wouldn't meet their eyes. Both of the Goodbodys came to a stop. Her skirt swished slightly; she clutched a handful of it, as if thinking of taking a curtsy and then not. Offal stopped slightly behind her and shifted his feet awkwardly in the brief silence. Frodo seemed to be waiting for them to speak first.

"Good day," said Bilbo after a pause in which none of the younger ones said a word. "Can I help you with something?"

"Good day, Mr. Baggins," said Ivy in a low tone. "May I..." Offal nudged her slightly. "May we speak with Frodo for a moment?"

Bilbo glanced at his heir to see what he really thought of this, but Frodo had already taken refuge behind a polite facade.

"Of course, Miss Goodbody." Bilbo said, and gestured for Frodo to follow after them. He ignored the brief almost pleading look that flashed in Frodo's eyes. The lad was old enough to care for himself and no dimwit. He didn't need sheltering from such as this. Besides, Bilbo wanted to know what was afoot, especially as it might have something to do with Lotho, and the only way to find out was to hear it through him

Frodo reluctantly followed the two tweens off to the side, but not far. Bilbo pretended to be very interested in straightening the tablecloth and rummaging in the basket, all the while keeping an eye and ear on the threesome.

They started out speaking in low tones, Frodo listened to them but didn't offer much in the way of comment. They kept glancing over at Bilbo, then around the green and into the hedges, as it afraid of being overheard. As they continued Bilbo was surprised to find that he really could understand most of what was being said. He lowered his eyes and sharpened his ears.

Ivy had been saying something, he couldn't tell what... There was a short comment from Frodo in response, then she started up again but her brother overrode her, raising his voice just enough to bring it into Bilbo's hearing.

"If he's so nice, what about the other day when he shoved you into that (something...)" he gestured.

She gestured back. "Well, he didn't mean to, he was just upset that I wanted to spend time with that instead of him. I was just..."

"And what about him forbidding you to speak to Frodo, just now?"

"Well, he was just jealous. He didn't mean to use such strong words. And see, here I am speaking to him anyway. Lotho isn't stopping me..."

Offal wasn't taking it. He shook a finger at her face. "But you're already worried, because you know he'll be angry. He might even hurt you. You shouldn't have to be worried." He looked to Frodo to agree with him, though Frodo just watched them. "Don't you see it? He acts like you belong to him, Ivy. It's not like you're betrothed or anything..."

Her voice rose up. "What do you mean? We're too young to be betrothed!"

"And it's a good thing too. He's mean to you, and you just keep making excuses for him! It's always 'he didn't mean to this and he was sorry that he that.'

"But he can't help it sometimes, he's just..."

"Like that! There you go again! Well, if he gets mean to you any more, even one more time, I'm talking to Ma and Da about it."

"Offal, no! Don't do that! They wouldn't understand..."

"And I'll tell 'em that you've been after Frodo here too. And he's not anywhere close to being of age. You're same age as me, aren't you Frodo? See? No where close!"

"But Ma said I could..."

"I don't think Ma knows how old he is. He acts way older. And you knew it too, but didn't tell her."

Ivy began to wail a protest, and was hushed by her brother. She held a hand to her mouth and glanced around, then continued. "But, they'll make me have a chaperone! I'll be the only lass on our lane who has to be followed around everywhere, like a babysitter! No one else on our lane has a chaperone..."

"What do you think I'm having to do already?" said Offal with disgust.

"What?"

"Not because they told me to, but because I don't trust him. And you keep doing stuff you shouldn't too. You need a chaperone, Ivy."

"Well, who made you the boss? I'm older than you. You're not Da, and Lotho and Frodo and me can do what we want. Right, Frodo?" She appealed to Frodo, hands out in a sort of supplication, though he still kept his thoughts on the matter to himself, his arms lightly crossed. He just looked at her. Bilbo suppressed a wince at having Lotho and Frodo lumped together in one sentence that way.

Offal's face was stern. "I'm talking to Da."

"Offal! No! No, don't!"

The lad turned and took a couple firm steps, but she ran past him, crying. He stopped and watched as she ran towards their mother in the distance, then turned back to where Frodo still stood. The two of them exchanged a couple low words, then came walking back towards the table where Bilbo sat, fluffing the wilted flowers in the vase for something to do.

He looked up with a careful semblance of innocent interest. "Well, I hope what needed to be said is taken care of?"

"Yessir, Mr. Baggins." said Offal formally. He cleared his throat and pulled back his shoulders into a more formal stance. "Sir, I thought you ought to know that my sister, Ivy has been... well, she's been spending time with Lotho for a while, and they've had a bit of a falling out so she thought she'd try to get Frodo here to replace him. As a beau, sir. She didn't tell our Ma how young he was, and I just wanted you to know that she won't be bothering him anymore. It wasn't my Ma's doing, sir. She gave permission for Ivy to be talking with him because she didn't know. I just wanted to apologize for my family, to you, and to Frodo here too."

Bilbo nodded. "Apology accepted. You are growing up to be a very well-spoken young lad and I appreciate your telling me. That took courage."

Offal relaxed slightly and pink tinged his cheeks and ears. "Also, sir, I wanted to let you know that Lotho's been telling her tales about... well, about you sir, and I don't think they were true ones. I just thought you ought to know."

"And I thank you again, though I am well-aware of such tales. It doesn't surprise me. Will your sister be all right? She looked a little... distressed when she left just now."

"Oh yes. She gets like that. Thank you for inquiring." He shifted his feet, glancing back at where his sister and mother were talking, then looked at the vase of flowers that Bilbo had fluffed, seeking a more comfortable topic. He touched one of the drooping purple petals. "Huh. Good thing Lotho didn't want to come over here with her. He's allergic to primulas. Did you know that? Makes him turn all bright red wherever he touched it. His mother has a salve she puts on it, but oh, you should smell it. Or rather, you wouldn't want to. Ivy pulled up all the primulas from our flowerbeds and Ma was pretty mad. I heard that they make an oil or something from it, for the healers. Can't imagine for what... " He suddenly stopped, aware he was doing all the talking. "Anyway. I'll be on my way, then."

Bilbo nodded. "Very well. Yes, I see you have other matters you need to tend to. Have a good afternoon...or what's left of it. I suppose it will be evening before too much longer. We'll have to have you over for tea sometime soon, so you and Frodo might have some time to talk uninterrupted, if you would like that."

"Yessir. Thank you, sir. I would!" He suddenly smiled, gave Frodo a nod and a grin and paced off towards his family.

"Now there's a good lad." said Bilbo. "I think I may have misjudged him. Better words than I ever expected to hear from his like. Quite a row he had there with his sister, but his intentions are good ones. Interesting how her loyalties shift to and from Lotho."

"You heard it? I wondered. It sounds like he's doing the right thing, though I can see it must be strange, with him being the younger one and all." Frodo reached out and ran a finger along the wilted primula petals, then looked at his hand as if expecting something to happen. "Did you bring these flowers on purpose then?"

"What? No, I expect Daisy cut them this morning, from whatever seemed brightest. But I'll have to keep it in mind. Don't you think they'd look nice filling my windowboxes, or better yet, along the front walkway?"

Frodo grinned at him. "And you called me a rascal. While you're at it, how about a wreath of them on the front door?"

"I wonder what they use that oil for. I've heard of it."

"What would you do with it if you had it?"

"I have no idea! Perhaps something will come to me." he chuckled. "And speaking of something coming, it's getting on towards sunset. Should we shift over to someone's fire to join in on while there's still good seats available? I still have the rest of this bread, and cheese, and there's a little spongecake in here..." He lifted the basket back up to the table. "Hm. not enough to share. We'll have to finish it off." He pulled the cake into two pieces and handed one to Frodo.

While he chewed his own piece, he looked around at the handful of fires that were gathering hobbits around them. "There. How about that one? Where the Cottons are? That one looks like a good group." He took up the last of the spongecake and bit into it.

Frodo's was already gone. "They won't think you're only there for their fish?"

"Mmf." he said, then swallowed and laughed. "No, I'll tell them that you are. You're the greedy tween, not poor old me. Here, help me with this basket, I'll carry the bottles." He stuffed the last bit of cake into his mouth. "Off fvwe go."

Chapter 53: Smoke and Stars

Early evening approached, pushing the sun down into the west and turning the sky a deep golden bronze behind the western hills. The air stirred with a fresh, slight breeze and the cookfires kindled in their circles of rock appeared brighter by the minute. Here and there plump sizzling sausages and well-wrapped vegetables baking in the coals lifted their scent into the air. Plump hobbit wives presided over their nests of food and blanketed infants as their husbands played a few more rounds of checkers in the fading light, smoked and talked. The older children ran about tirelessly in the grasses pursuing endless rounds of tag and games of their own imaginations as the younger ones began to cling to their family's blankets, fret and sleep.

Bilbo and Frodo set the last of their foodstuffs down among the informal potluck that was accumulating on the Cotton's tablecloth, then chose a place by the fire. Settling down on a section of log serving as a makeshift bench, they were comfortably near the cheerful, crackling blaze. Farmer Cotton and his family offered their greetings, as did the others.

Mr. Cotton's calloused hands firmly held a large long-handled iron corn popper over the hot embers, shaking it so they could all hear the hard corn rattling and sizzling amongst the butter. Steam rose up from the star-shaped holes in its lid, reaching for the early stars just peeping out above them, curling away into butter-scented nothing.

The smell was very inviting, and Bilbo couldn't help but eye the basket that Will held ready for the popped corn, mentally dividing up the amount it would hold with how many mouths were present to see if he could get a handful or two without depriving them. The tally was favourable, and his mouth watered right along with everyone else's. His fragile hopes that any of the trout might be left had evaporated when he noted the few bones that were neatly stacked on a plate to one side, but popcorn was a welcome replacement.

Frodo nudged him and whispered. "Looks like the fish is gone." he said. "Do you want me to ask them to go catch another one for you? I want to watch you eat it."

Bilbo rolled his eyes slightly. "You aren't going to forget that one soon, are you?"

"It's still possible. They may not have a fishing pole, but you could just use your teeth."

Bilbo nudged him back, but hard enough to knock him slightly off balance. "What, is that how you Bucklanders do it?"

Frodo caught himself and grinned. "All right, I deserved that."

"You did." He felt a gentle tug from behind him and looked over his shoulder to find young Tom standing there, looking timid.

"Hullo, Tom."

"Mr. Baggins?"

"Yes?"

"I, um, I saved you a piece of the fish, sir. If you want it. It's really good." He extended a palm with a cold bit of roasted trout on it. It appeared rather mangled.

Bilbo smiled at him, recognizing a child's apology when he saw it. "Why thank you, Tom. That was most thoughtful of you. Does it have any bones?"

"Nossir - I picked 'em all out myself! I'm good at that. I like fish."

"Ah, so I see. Tell you what. I've just been smelling that wonderful popcorn your Da is cooking, and I think I've gone and gotten into a bit of a popcorn mood instead. How about I trade you this bit of marvelous fish for one of your handfuls of popcorn?"

Tom smiled. "Okay!"

"It's a deal then. Thank you, Tom." He watched as the lad headed back to his family. stuffing the fish in his mouth as he went and wiping his grubby hands on his breeches.

"That was a near escape." commented Frodo. "And here I thought you were going to have to eat it."

"Keep your eye on me, my lad, and you'll learn all sorts of useful lessons."


The Mayor Himself came by for a short time, wandering from fire to fire and Bilbo was sure he was not the only one grateful that no long speech was ensuing, due to the Mayor being allergic to something in the woodsmoke. Still, it was a chance to introduce him to Frodo, which Bilbo did along with offering an extra handkerchief to the sneezing dignitary.

"Thag you very buch." said the Mayor and sneezed heartily then dabbed at his eyes. "I'm torry, I cab thtay. Choo! Hobe you are habbing a good pih-nic?"

"Yes, thank you." said Bilbo. "It's been a very fine picnic. So kind of you to come by, your Honor. May I introduce my cousin, Frodo Baggins?"

" Yeh, I'b heard so much abow you, Frobo. Choo! Good to meeb you." He shook Frodo's hand briefly and moved away from the smoke with a series of barely intelligible apologies.

"Good evening, your Honor." Bilbo called after him. "Hope you feel better soon. That was the Mayor." he added as an aside to Frodo.

"So I gathered. He seems nice enough, though I can't help but wonder exactly what it is that he's heard about me."

"Ah, never mind that. Just a pleasantry. He'll have forgotten all about us by the time he reaches the next group."

"Then you won't be getting your handkerchief back, will you?"

Bilbo glanced over the field, where the Mayor's generous silhouette was backlit by the next fire. "Probably not, unless he notices the BB on the corner of it. That's why I had those embroidered that way."

The smoke shifted, stinging the eyes and scenting the hair and clothing of all in turn and making some of them cough and sneeze even if they were not allergic at all. As they listened to the corn pop and exchanged general small talk, the fickle breeze changed yet again. There seemed to be no way to avoid it; no matter how many times he wet a finger and held it up to check the direction the air was moving, Bilbo found it occasionally puffing into his face. A couple of the children tried moving every time it shifted, but after a while even they gave up.

The corn was spilled, all white and golden and steaming fresh into its basket and another fat handful of corn was dropped into the popper.

"Hey-yup. There you go." said Farmer Cotton. "We've plenty more, and to spare. Go ahead and pass the basket round, Tom. That's right."

"Nothing like nice hot popped corn for a picnic, is there?" asked Mrs. Cotton rhetorically. "Tom, you'll choke if you eat it like that. Put a couple handfuls on your napkin, like this, and pass it to the others. That's better."

Bilbo enjoyed the tender crunchiness of the corn, but found it all tasted of woodsmoke; it was a familiar problem with campfires that he didn't miss when he was indoors. A little woodsmoke could be a pleasant scent, but too much of it made him feel like a ham being smoked for winter.

Next to him, Frodo coughed slightly as the smoke shifted once again right into their faces. Bilbo blinked to remove the smart of it. When his sight cleared he was surprised and a bit nonplussed to see Lotho, of all people, seating himself on the opposite side of the fire at the edge of the light. Lotho didn't respond to the greetings the others offered except with a nod, but simply sat and alternately stared into the embers or glanced around the ring of hobbits. He kept looking to one side, and Bilbo followed his gaze to find the Goodbody family had also joined them, though they had laid out a blanket and were sitting on it further back. Perhaps Lotho have been following Ivy, then, rather than looking for any trouble with Frodo. Bilbo relaxed slightly, but still kept an eye on him.

Frodo nudged him and gestured slightly towards Lotho. Bilbo nodded just enough to show that he, too, had noticed he was there. He ate his popcorn slowly, trying to make it last until the basket was filled again and trying to ignore the tension Lotho brought with him. The evening was warm and slightly humid, so while there was little need of the fires for warmth, their light was cheering and friendly. There was no reason to let anyone ruin it.

The popcorn basket went round a second time and a third batch was started as the younger ones started to sing fireside songs. Considering what they were eating, it was no surprise to Bilbo to have the first one be the Popcorn Song.

The popcorn pops, the popcorn pops,
Put on the lid, mother!
It shoots up to the moon and stops.
Put on the lid, mother!
Popcorn popping every night,
Put on the lid, mother!
It keeps the moon all nice and white.
Mother, mother, put it on!

The children laughed as they hopped and clapped down the "lid" on each other's heads. Even little Jolly was trying to clap his chubby hands on anyone near enough to the ground for him to reach. Bilbo had to smile.

Frodo smiled next to him. "You know, I haven't heard that one before. I guess I'll have some catching up to do to learn the Hobbiton songs won't I?"

"What's a fireside song from Buckland? Maybe you could teach them one."

He considered. "I suppose so." Frodo looked over at Tom who was sitting nearby on his uncle's lap. "Do you know 'River's Song'?"

"No," said Will. "Why don't you sing it for us?"

"We'd like that." said Tom, his cheeks puffed out with popcorn.

"All right, " said Frodo and hesitantly started singing with the light, clear voice that Bilbo loved to hear. The tune was slightly melancholy, but the words were fair enough.

The sun, it sets beyond the River,
The trees put on their dinner gowns,
In gold and green their leaves a-quiver
To see the sun go sinking down.

The trees will sleep, nighttime a-borning,
The waters will go rushing on,
The sun returns to them each morning
And so they sleep to River's song.

Do not despair, oh trees that glisten,
The loving sun will soon return.
Throughout the night stand soft and listen
The River's song, his verse to learn.

He faltered slightly. "There's a few more verses, but that's the tune..."

"It sounds kind of scary to me." said Tom. "All the dark trees, and the River. But I like it too." he added hastily. "It's just... different."

"What can you expect from a Bucklander?" said Lotho from the other side of the fire.

Bilbo directed a glancing glare at Lotho and looked to Frodo, who had gone quiet and looked a bit hurt. That blow had hit too close, right when he had opened himself up with the song. Bilbo tightly reined in his temper and his tongue, simmering, but before he could decide what to say Mrs. Cotton spoke.

"It was a nice song." said Mrs. Cotton, smiling a bit too widely, trying to get the conversations going again. She swayed back and forth, rocking baby Nick who had begun to fuss. "Thank you, Frodo. Now how about we all sing something we all know? What do you think, children? How about 'Sweet Potato Pie?'"

The children started off obediently, with some of the adults joining in to wash away Lotho's ill will. By the third verse the basket of corn was going around again and his comment was mostly forgotten, though those nearest to him had moved slightly away. Lotho did not sing.

It was some time before the singing died down. Some of the others bid the rest goodnight and gathered their baskets to go home. This included the Goodbodys, though their children talked the parents into letting them stay just a little longer. The small potatoes that had been baking in the coals for later began to be raked out and cracked open. Pats of salted butter were dropped into them and they were passed, all dripping and steaming to be eaten as soon as they could be handled. A kettle was heated on its small iron stand and hot tea was poured all around to wash them down.

Bilbo licked butter from his fingers right along with the rest, laughing as Frodo almost dropped his from the heat of it. The tea was fragrant and pleasant after the salt. Wishing he had thought to bring some honey for it, Bilbo sipped his steaming mug and looked up at the sky. The stars were now blazing overhead; he watched the sparks, gold, silver and red flying upwards, disappearing into the darkness above him. Bits of flame, above and below. His imagination was drawn upward with them.

"They're so bright in the summer." he commented, thinking of starlit ships, silver-crested waves, sea-driven storms and the haunting and beautiful songs about them.

Farmer Cotton craned his neck back and took a look at the sky. "I s'pose. Must be this bit of wind's kept the air nice and clear. No rain anytime soon. My turnips and beets are both sorely in need of a bit of rain. Of course, it makes good hayin' weather. Tomorrow I reckon we'll have to get ready to start in on that patch of alfalfa, the smaller one. Alfalfa's right nourishing for the milk-cows, you know."

Inwardly Bilbo sighed as his Elven ships were loaded down with sacks of turnips and beets, crashing down through the crystal waves to grind to a stop in a patch of alfalfa.

"Yes. Very nourishing." He had a passing thought of leaving them, of taking Frodo and just the two of them going out walking, where stars and sparks and sea-waves could be spoken of freely. But no, they were here for a reason, and this evening they needed to stay put. The smoke shifted again, and he coughed as he unexpectedly took a full breath of it. Frodo lowered his head and shut his eyes waiting for it to pass.

Farmer Cotton chuckled lightly. "They say smoke is attracted to beauty, y'know. Or was it age?"

"Or was it to money?" Lotho's voice spoke again from the other side, and none too kindly.

"Here now, none of that." rebuked Farmer Cotton. "No call to be unpleasant."

Lotho gave the farmer a look that was almost but not quite disrespectful. "Unpleasant?" he said. "You want to know what's unpleasant? Being expected to just sit by while some upstart takes everything away from your family. That's what's unpleasant."

He stood up abruptly, brushing bits of bark and grass from his breeches. He was almost spitting his words. "Someday we'll have land, and money too. And when I get it, I'll get it myself, no one's going to hand it to me on some silver platter. No spoon-feeding for me. You'll see."

Farmer Cotton regarded him stonily. "Maybe someday you won't be too big for your britches too, and you'll learn a little respect."

Lotho glared at him, then turned and started to walk away. He turned back slightly. "Ivy! Come with me."

The lass, who had been sitting between him and her brother looked distressed, then turned her gaze to the blanket she sat on. Offal looked up at him. "She's not coming."

"She can speak for herself!" snapped Lotho. Offal faltered and lowered his eyes from Lotho's hostile stare.

Ivy looked up at him tremulously. "I'm... I can't, Lotho. My... parents said I can't go with you, not any more, not unless I have a chaperone. I can't."

Lotho just stood there for a moment, uncomprehending. Then his face turned hard. He gave Ivy, then Frodo a terrible look, and turned away into the night.

The others sat silently for a moment. "Well." said Farmer Cotton. "There goes a lad who needs a good whippin'. To bad his folks won't give it to him."

There was a general murmur of consent, then the others stirred and slowly started speaking again, about the weather, recipes, anything to restore the mood once more.

"Maybe he was just tired..." Ivy started timidly, but Offal cut her off.

"He's been like that all day."

Ivy subsided unhappily, braiding and unbraiding the bits of ribbon at her waist.

After a pause, Mrs. Cotton stood and shook out her skirts. "I'm taking the little ones back home, Ivy. Would you like to walk with me? We can go right by your place." she offered.

"Thank you, ma'am." said Ivy with relief. "Yes I would." She gratefully helped Mrs. Cotton gather up the extra napkins and dishes to carry in the empty basket. Rosie was gently lifted from the grassy nest where she had been sleeping and bundled into a blanket to be carried home. Mrs. Cotton balanced Rosie with one hand and carried baby Nick in her other. Ivy took sleepy Jolly on one hip and sleepy Tom's hand on the other to lead him along. Everyone was bid good night, then the two lasses walked away into the night, faintly seen taller grasses springing back as their skirts brushed over the tops of them.

Offal had spoken quietly with Ivy as she left, then came over to sit on the other side of Frodo. Frodo hadn't said a word since Lotho's comment. Bilbo sat, staring at the fire, trying very hard to eavesdrop on them without appearing to be listening in. He was glad to note that Frodo relaxed as soon as the other lad came to him, as it if signaled the end of something troubling. Not wanting to distract them, he sat very quietly and contemplated his nearly empty mug.

Offal picked up one of the longer twigs and poked it into the fire until the tip turned red. He pulled it out and blew on it, thoughtfully watching it turn to silver-black ash.

"You know, it's almost too bad you aren't as old as you seem to be sometimes. I wouldn't mind chaperoning her if she would just pick someone nice, like you."

Frodo looked at him sidelong then rolled his eyes slightly. "I guess I appreciate the compliment, but I'd rather have the time without her along, no offense of course." He picked up a different twig and poked it into the embers. "Would you like to visit, or go fishing or something maybe?"

"I wish I could. I can't, though. We have to finish working our orchards, then I'll be starting an apprenticeship this Autumn, with a sausage-master. He's a cousin of my neighbors, and my neighbor and Da arranged it last spring."

"Where? Here in Hobbiton?"

"Clear down in Deephallow." he sounded forlorn. "So far to go! I don't know what I think of being so far from home yet. Ivy is going to come with me for a fortnight at least, maybe longer, but after that I'll be alone. I mean, I won't be alone, alone, of course, but I won't be..." he faded off.

"Home." Frodo looked up at him.

Offal nodded. "Home. With my family and all. It'll be a big change."

"It would be a big change, moving clear to another part of the Shire." said Frodo softly. "I can understand that. I hope it goes well for you. Maybe we'll still see one another sometimes." He gradually fed the length of his twig into the flames.

"Why would you ever be in Deephallow?"

Frodo's mouth quirked slightly. "Who knows? I never thought I would be here in Hobbiton someday either."

"I suppose. I hadn't thought about that. After all, you are from clear over in Buckland, aren't you? I'd heard the folk in Buckland were a bit queer, but you don't seem to be."

Frodo laughed lightly. "I'll take that as a compliment also."

Offal looked somewhat abashed. "Sorry. I wasn't meaning to say anything against the Buckland folk..."

"It's all right. I've heard worse. I'm sure the Deephallow folk are less queer than Bucklanders. And you'll be busy getting to learn a trade too."

"I guess. At least it will be a good-tasting trade, once I get the hang of it. He's got an arrangement with a pork-farmer down there, and I guess the spices are supposed to grow extra quick... My Da says I'll be able to tell the difference between all kinds of pepper, and how to properly smoke the links too..." There was a long pause. "Well," he said a bit awkwardly. "It's getting late and I better make sure my sister really went home. I'll see you around maybe, then. Sometime."

"Sometime," said Frodo. "I'll have to buy some of your sausages from you, when you're a sausage-master yourself."

Offal smiled slightly at this vote of confidence. "Well, goodnight..." he stood, tossing the rest of his twig into the fire also and brushing bits of ashen bark off of his hands.

Frodo looked up at him from where he still sat by a silent Bilbo. "Goodnight...and thank you."

Offal smiled at that. He bowed slightly to the elder hobbits who were still nearby. "Good night, Mr. Baggins, Mr. Cotton, Mr. Cotton." he said politely and turned, pacing away into the darkness outside the ring of firelight.

Frodo watched him leave, then turned his gaze back to the fire. Bilbo glanced over at him, then turned his own eyes back to the stars.

They seemed to be even brighter as the fires were allowed to die down. Their own fire cracked and rustled as the embers began to settle. It wasn't long until tired children, still and heavy were all being carried to their beds, older ones loaded down with empty baskets, tottered along behind their parents with half-open eyes. The bruised grasses in the dark smelled sweet among the woodsmoke and the crickets were singing. It was time to go home. Bilbo and Frodo bid goodnight to Farmer Cotton and left him there with his brother Will, talking about alfalfa amid the stars and firelight.

Chapter 54: Embers and Buttons

Having been up so late the night before, Bilbo was mildly surprised at himself when he awoke to the faint blue-grey of dawn approaching outside his open window. The only sound coming through was the faint twittering of the every earliest birds among his flowering shrubs. Considering he had planned a nice late brunch after a thorough sleeping-in, he plumped his pillow and pulled the blanket up, trying to recapture the shreds of his dreams. The light was turning rosy before he gave up. Pulling on the rumpled clothing dropped by his bed the night before, he very quietly tiptoed out to the kitchen to build the fire up and warm a kettle for tea. Confident of his own early morning stealth, he peered down the hall at Frodo's door: it was slightly ajar, and dark inside the room just as it had been the night before. Thus it was he about jumped out of his skin when he rounded the corner to find Frodo already sitting at the table.

Frodo raised his brows at him in silent commentary.

"I didn't expect you would be up." Bilbo whispered.

"Obviously." Frodo whispered.

"It's very early." he whispered back, an obvious observation.

"Yes. Why are we whispering?" Frodo returned just as quietly.

Bilbo blinked. "So I don't wake myself up," he whispered, and reached up for the jar of tea leaves.

Frodo smiled and held up his mug. "It's already made," he said, in a more normal tone. "I woke up early, so I went ahead and started it going. I think I put in too much, though, better have some cream with it."

Bilbo poured some tea, took a sip and coughed slightly. "Pass the cream."

"Sorry. I'm used to larger pots."

"Well, on the good side, at least we'll have no trouble keeping our eyes open today."

Frodo sipped at his own. "So. Why are you up so early?"

"I might ask the same." Bilbo poured in a generous amount of cream. "What did you think of that picnic?"

Frodo shrugged. "I'd have to think about it for a while."

"That bad, eh? Pass me those old biscuits, over there."

"They're hard as rocks."

"Makes good pocket food. Doesn't turn to crumbles that way, and takes a long time to chew." He gathered up a handful. "I'm going for a walk."

"Then I'll come with you."

They both stocked their pockets with hard biscuits and topped off their mugs of tea. Frodo followed Bilbo to the front entry where he unlatched the door and and stepped out into the freshness of the early summer morning.

Standing on the front steps Bilbo paused to simply enjoy that certain type of quiet that only comes at dawn; an unruffled pond...snow that had never yet been stepped on. Frodo stood beside him in silent understanding to share it. Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barked. Smoke was just beginning to rise from the chimneys, wisping up into the air until the first bits of sunlight could catch their fading haze far overhead. Farmers were eating their breakfasts, heading to their fields before the heat of the day arrived. At their feet, the sleepy flowers in the garden lay cool with the slight dew of summer like birds with folded wings, their petals yet softly closed.

Twin wisps of steam rose up from the mugs they carried as they both started down the steps. Pale light made the whitewashed gate glow slightly against the darker road behind it. Without a word Bilbo opened the gate and Frodo gently closed it behind them. They walked down the road in comfortable silence until they reached the green, where the picnic had been only the night before.

What a difference a few hours can make, thought Bilbo. The dawning green seemed to have little relation to his memory of the night. He recalled the star-scattered sky, the warm golden fires and soft, dry grasses. Now the cold dew-dampened ashes were slightly acrid in his nostrils, the sweet grass trampled and bent. It would recover quickly enough, he knew, but the contrast seemed to give it a starkness that it had lacked before.

He walked along the hedge line, over towards the dead circle of ash, musing. So much of life seemed to be like the fires... most hobbits were content to burn slow and steady, never losing their shape, logs that slowly grew less and less until they simply crumbled in one day and were gone. Acrid and cold and useless, sinking back into the earth and leaving no lasting mark. And what of himself? He would consider himself content with that slow burning, usually, but there were other times... times when he longed to burn hot and fast, to crack and spark and leap for the stars until he was drawn out into nothing. To burn brightly, to leave a lasting memory where he once was.

He nudged a bit of cold burnt log with his toe, where it lay only half-consumed. That was the danger of it, though, he thought. That he might burn so quickly he would be spent before he was quite used up. And then what would be left? A cold, spark-less bit of hobbit to kick around underfoot until he simply faded away? Someone who always lived only to remember when they once burned with that adventure... No, he thought with a strange determination. I shall be quite used up. I will keep on burning, I will flame and spark until my very last bit of life lays glowing, a gold-traced ember in the ashes of older deeds around me. No sitting and fading away like the Old Took...No...

He glanced up at Frodo, who was wandering along beside him, his tea only half-emptied, lost in his own thoughts.

And here was someone with whom he could share such ideas. If he wrote it all down as a verse, the fire and life, Frodo would understand what he had meant by it. He wouldn't just say 'Oh, how interesting,' and mean nothing by it. He wouldn't brush it off, humoring his old relative. No, he would say 'I've felt that same way, many times... let's talk about it...' He gave the log one last nudge and continued around in a long arc towards the road.

As he walked he chewed on the edge of one of his biscuits, pleasantly tasting the baked flour, butter and salt. He emptied the last of his tea, in spite of the bits of poorly-strained tea-leaf that flecked the dregs.

"It seems so different in the morning, without the fire, doesn't it?" said Frodo, trying to chew on one of the hard biscuits.

"Yes." Bilbo replied with a slight smile. "Yes, it does."



Back inside, and warmed through by a more proper breakfast, Bilbo sat in the sunlight of the parlour window mending his buttons. He carefully threaded his needle and sewed the loose ones on good and tight, so they wouldn't become any looser. He had noticed that they were jut a bit too bendy the day before when he went to button up his weskit. Ever since that ill-fated squeeze through a closing doorway so many years before he had been most conscientious about his buttons all being present and accounted for.

Frodo lay on the thick red-patterned carpet, a carefully copied map of Eriador and a bit of translated verse spread out before him. As Bilbo pulled the first button snug and knotted it, Frodo shifted onto his side and propped his head up with one hand. "Bilbo?"

Bilbo bit off the thread. "Plah," he said taking a bit of thread off of the end of his tongue. "Yes?"

"Do you ever feel...out of place?"

Bilbo furrowed his brow slightly at this. "Out of place? In what way?" He held the weskit up and peered at his handiwork in the light of the window. It was ever-so-slightly too far towards the edge, but it would have to do. At least it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He hated losing things...

"Just... well. As if you didn't belong someplace."

"In Hobbiton?" Bilbo squinted at the length of the thread left on the needle, frowning. Was he homesick for Buckland, perhaps?

"Anyplace." Frodo looked down at the map on the floor. "I mean, I don't have any real friends here, except for you. And it's not that I have any real friends back home either, though at least there isn't all this attention there. I don't know....if I can live this way. Being watched, and peered at, and talked about. I'll miss you when I go back home, I know I will, but..."

Bilbo lowered the weskit and gave him a measuring look. "You would rather go climb into your hole and just hide there, and have everyone leave you alone?"

Frodo looked relieved. "Well... yes. So you feel that way about it too? You never seem bothered by it. They talk and stare and you just carry on as if you hadn't even heard or seen them."

"I hear them, and see them too. But I don't worry about it - and you shouldn't either. It's not always like this. They'll move on to other things, many of them by tomorrow morning I expect. Most of them live for the moment, or for the season to a great extent."

"But why is it so important in the first place? I don't understand why they care."

Bilbo wet the end of the thread and twisted the frayed bits back together. "Because their world is small, and any change is a... " He hunted for a way to describe it. "a threat to their feeling of safety. Not that they are threatened. In fact, the Shire has been peaceful for so long, I'm not sure they really know what it is to be truly threatened."

Straightening a crick in his back, he turned on his seat to face the lad better. "They'll move on once they think it doesn't affect them. That was the main reason I introduced you to so many - was to show them that there isn't any big change, or problem in your being at Bag End."

"Problem?"

"Not a real problem. More of a... discomfort. Like cracker-crumbs in your bedding, or maybe more like a crooked picture on the wall that can't be straightened. Hobbits... we want order, we want everything to continue on just as it has always been. You are a change in their world, Frodo. A small change, but a change nonetheless."

Frodo methodically folded up the end of the paper he had been writing on and unfolded it again. "Does our world change so little?"

"The world is changed, all the time. You should know that from the histories you've read. But here it's rarely in any way that is... unexpected. It isn't like that in other places. Even the picnics and parties around here are planned far ahead - why, if I were even to have an unexpected party it would probably set them talking just as much."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do."

"Then it isn't just me." He absently refolded the bit of paper, then folded it over again until it was too thick to bend..

"No, it isn't you. In fact, it's more likely that it's me." He smoothed his hand over the weskit and sighed. "As I've said, all the talk in the world won't change the truth, and they will get used to it in time. Yes, in time." He took up his needle again, threaded it and poked it into the fabric beside the next button.

"I still feel... I don't know. As if I were halfway across a brook, a foot on either side and no place to stand. I want to stay here, and I want to go home. But I'm not sure I belong in either place. It's as if everything is shifting, somehow."

Bilbo stepped out on a limb. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. It was hard enough hearing that Frodo didn't feel Bag End was where he belonged, but it needed to be pursued. "What do you consider to be home?"

"What do you mean?"

"What... makes your home?" At Frodo's somewhat blank look, he offered "Is it your belongings? Your comforts? What you do each day?"

Frodo gave this thought. "I don't know. Not really my belongings, I don't have many, though I would be sorry to lose some of them, I must admit. I think I miss... all the trees being nearby perhaps, especially at twilight."

"And the land itself?"

"I suppose so, yes."

"When I was away from the Shire, do you know what I missed?"

"What?"

"My own hobbit hole. The Hill. The simple comforts that come from having a regular routine. Warm cakes and buttered toast. I missed the land; the smell of the flowers and grasses, the look of our own particular trees. I missed seeing my garden at twilight through a properly rounded window, with a warm cup of tea in my hand. I missed Bag End."

He toyed with the brass button that tilted under his thread and sighed slightly, pulled far away into memory for a moment. Remembering how he had felt so alone; Thorin's stern face, and Dori's kindness, and Gandalf... With more difficulty than he expected, he pulled away from the memory of Gandalf's blue eyes to look down into Frodo's instead. There were moments...

"So the question is, do you think Buckland's plants or twilights are so different from Hobbiton's?"

Frodo's eyes were lowered. He traced his finger over the edge of Eriador, then along the thick line of the Baranduin. "No, not really. There's even the Water, so I don't miss the river." This seemed to be a surprising thought to him. "I thought I would miss it, but you know, I haven't. And your garden is beautiful: you have more flowers here than ours, at the Hall. We needed to use every bit of space for vegetables, and squash blossoms aren't the same."

"So what is it that you do miss?"

"I miss...." he paused. "Well, I'm not sure. The children, perhaps. Some of the hobbits. Being able to go out without attracting attention. Going out to look at the stars."

"And when you are over there, what will you miss about here?"

Frodo glanced up from the map and smiled briefly at him. "You. I'll miss you. And the garden, the library of books, and Sam's chatter..."

"We have the same stars here in Hobbiton. Did you know that?"

That brought a fuller smile. "You don't say."

"I do say." Bilbo smiled back. "And you may go out and look at them every night if you like."

"I may do that. Every night... You know, it's the end of the month day after tomorrow."

"The month has flown by."

"Harvesting is going to be really getting underway soon. They'll be looking for me back... home."

Bilbo very, very carefully made a stitch in the next button and steadied his voice. "Would you, ehm... consider... staying longer?"

"I would love to, dear Bilbo, but I really do need to head back. Maybe next time I come, I could stay a bit longer."

Bilbo pulled the thread taut and started the next stitch. "Two months?"

"Two months would be a treat, wouldn't it? Next summer..."

The thread was getting shorter. He looped around again with another stitch. "I was even thinking a... bit of a longer stay. Perhaps a whole season?"

"Oh yes, a whole season would be wonderful wouldn't it? If I came at the very first of summer...."

Bilbo pulled it taut again and quickly started the next stitch. "Why wait until next Summer? How about... this Autumn?"

"This year? Autumn?" Frodo blinked, mentally shifting gears. " Well, after the haying is done, yes it would be wonderful to get to stay with you for the whole season. Thank you...."

Bilbo stitched again so quickly he poked his finger. "How about two seasons? The Winter is so cold and wet, and your company would be most welcome by the fireside."

Frodo hesitated. Bilbo stopped stitching for a moment, afraid he had moved too quickly. He didn't realize he had held his breath until he let it out when Frodo spoke again.

"Well.... yes. I suppose Winter would be pleasant that way. I've never spent an entire winter in Hobbiton so it would be interesting to see what it's like here."

Bilbo breathed more easily and took one last stitch. "Very well! Shall I make up a room for you then, or would you rather have your own small smial?"

Frodo's eyebrows raised questioningly. "My room, of course. Why would I want to be off by myself if I'm visiting you?"

Bilbo knotted off the thread. "I thought I ought to offer at least. Don't want you too crowded."

Frodo had to laugh at that. "Crowded? Me? Do you remember the size of my room over there?"

"Yes, I do. But you also said you liked that it was yours, and yours alone."

"I suppose I did say that, but that's because I needed to get away sometimes."

"And here you don't?"

"Well...no."

"So....." Bilbo bit off the thread and smoothed out the weskit very carefully. His throat suddenly felt very dry. "Ehm. Would you consider those seasons a, a sort of trial time? To see if you would like to stay here....permanently? As your home? I know you have friends there, and relatives..."

"I have relatives here too." Frodo said, then looked somewhat grave as he gave it thought.

Bilbo looked at the color of the fabric that lay in the circle of sunshine spilling across his lap, waiting. The rich burgundy looked almost scarlet, shining. Numbly, he watched the threads shimmer as they moved slightly from his trembling. His heartbeat sounded loud in his own ears.

Frodo finally spoke again. "It would be... hard, in some ways. I'd be leaving the only home I've really known since I was small, Bilbo." His eyes sought Bilbo's, looking for understanding and reassurance. "It's where... it's where my parents are buried, and my grandparents, or some of them... and where I thought I would also be buried someday. But...." his eyes brightened again. "What a wonder it would be to get to stay here, in Bag End, for my own home, and to be with you as long as I like instead of always having to go back so soon."

Bilbo smiled. He felt slightly lightheaded from forgetting to breathe, and he smoothed the weskit yet again with a hand that still trembled slightly. All of the buttons were where they belonged, tight and smooth and only wandering a little. It was well.

Frodo continued. "I'll still need to go back, and very soon. They'll be worried about me if I don't return as I promised. I said I would be there to help with the worst of the haying."

"I know. I understand. Ah, look how quickly this past month has gone! And it will be our birthday in September before you know it. If I recall right, I drove to Buckland for yours last year, and the year before you came here. It's really too much bother with that arrangement."

"As soon as the chores are past... I'm sure I'll be able to come and...well, to live here."

Bilbo looked past him to the fire where two good oak logs were burning bright and hot on the hearth, then back to the blue-eyed lad that looked up at him, lit by sunlight and firelight both.

"Yes, you had better come and live here, Frodo my lad, then we can celebrate our birthday-parties together. It will be much more convenient and comfortable that way."

Chapter 55: Fare Thee Well

Inevitably, the morning of Frodo's departure had come.

Bilbo hefted the heavy basket of food from the kitchen table, picked up the slumping, overstuffed satchel from where it lay on the floor of the entry and after a bit of joggling the knob with his overfull hands, went out the door. Below, the cart and pony stood ready.

He set himself to meet the cart with resignation, reminding himself to lift his chin and not be glum about it. After all, the remainder of the week had gone by pleasantly and quickly, what with walking and visiting and working together on the last of the maps in the mapbook... Yet there were still so many things he wanted to show him, teach him about, take him along on. It was a comfort that September would be along, yes it was, but this morning it seemed a cold comfort. He swung the basket further up his arm and reached to open the gate.

Their early breakfast had been quiet, the small amount of packing having been finished the night before. Frodo had been so restless; stirring and stirring the sugar in his hot tea until Bilbo wanted to snatch the spoon away from him and pitch it in the sink rather than listen to it clinking anymore. He had almost done it, too... he smiled to himself. Not that he was any less restless himself. He had burned the toast, spilled the cream and almost lost an entire plate of eggs over the edge of the table if not for Frodo's quick hand.

By the time they had reached the lukewarm tea-sipping stage they had both voiced their agreement that his leaving was for the best, though neither of them had much heart in it. It couldn't put it off any longer without worrying those watching for him back at Brandy Hall, and his promise to help with the haying meant sending a letter instead of himself was certainly out of the question. It wouldn't be right, to rob them of a strong back when the work was so heavy. Besides, Bilbo knew his young cousin really was wanting to 'go home' for a while, at least to say goodbye. Yes, it was for the good, that he could say a proper farewell to his old haunts and to get used to the idea of leaving them. It was for the good.

He repeated this to himself as he closed the gate and stood by it, looking up at Frodo where he was settling into place on the seat of the light cart. The dust-colored pony they had leased from the stables dribbled bits of his flowers from her mouth and snuffled at Bilbo's coat-pockets curiously, smelling for apples. Her breath was warm and it tickled.

The pony was restless; feeling someone in the seat of the cart she immediately tried to step forward only to be pulled back by Frodo's hand on the loosely looped reins. Bilbo put one hand to the cheekstrap, stilling both her and himself, and waited. He ran his fingers through a tangle in the cream-and-black mane. Above him, Frodo bent his head down to settle the canteen of tea that he had brewed (and Bilbo had diluted) that morning; up beyond the curve of his shoulders the sky was already taking on a soft blue; no doubt it would be a bright and warm traveling day.

Bilbo cleared his throat and blinked a few times to clear his eyes. He didn't like long drawn-out goodbyes. In fact, he often didn't like goodbyes at all, preferring to simply go his way when he wanted to go, and to meet others again whenever they met. He was grateful that Frodo seemed share a bit of that trait, or at least to understand it.

He handed up the satchel of clothing he had slung over his shoulder, then the basket of food for the journey. They had both packed it generously, so that the wicker practically bulged with sweet fare. As he had told Frodo, you never know when you might need a little extra on the road, and as he wasn't having to carry it himself, why stint?

"Well." he said, patting the side of the pony's neck. "Good-bye then. I'll be watching for you in time for our birthday, you know. Don't you disappoint me."

"Good-bye." said Frodo simply. He took up the reins, and gave his elder cousin a small smile. "I'll be looking forward to it."

For a moment, their eyes met with the silent and heartfelt farewell behind the brevity, then Bilbo let go of the bridle and stepped back. Frodo gave a gentle slap to the reins and the pony eagerly started forward with a small jolt; they were off, the cart rattling and creaking slightly as it rounded the bend and headed for the East road.

Bilbo stood, one hand on the gate listening to the sound of the cart slowly making its way onto the main road, then picking up the pace. The pony's quick step on the well-packed earth had scarcely faded in the morning when it was replaced with the sound of smaller hurried footsteps in the grass. Young Samwise came running up, red-cheeked, tousled and completely out of breath. Realizing he had missed Frodo's morning departure he looked heartbroken, clutching something wrapped in a clean white dishcloth to his heaving chest.

"He's gone?.... Mr. Baggins... what will... I do?.... I have this cake.... for Mr. Frodo.....and it took too long..... to come out of th' oven.... and now.... he won't have it!" Sam sounded so forlorn about this that Bilbo, in spite of his preoccupation with his own unhappiness, knelt down to try to offer what comfort he could.

"I'm sure he'll be all right Sam. He has a whole basket of things to eat - I made sure of it. He even has tea! Though I'm sure this cake here would have been the best of it all."

Sam sniffled slightly and wiped at his eyes with one sleeve. He glanced down at the slightly mashed bundle at his breast. "I baked it m'self. It's spice cake. I...wanted him to have it. He likes it. He said he liked it last time I made some." He looked up hopefully. "If I run, run real fast I could follow him maybe?"

Bilbo put a lightly restraining hand to the lad's shoulder. "No, Sam. You can't follow him. He's going too far away for you to follow this time."

Sam was silent, looking down the empty road, still catching his breath. He looked at the cake in his hands again. "Mr. Baggins?"

"Yes, Sam?"

The lad pressed the cloth-wrapped cake, softly crumbly and still warm into his hands. "I want you to have it. But... if he comes back, will you share it with him?"

Bilbo accepted it, heavy, warm and soft. "Yes. If he comes back sooner than I expect, I'll share it with him. And I want you to make a promise for me."

"Yessir." Sam looked down at his feet resolutely, a child expecting a grown-up to say something he wouldn't like to obey, though he was ready to do so anyway.

"I want you to promise me that you will bake him another one, just like this one, when he comes back in September."

"He's coming back?" The hazel eyes looked up at him.

"Yes. It will be his birthday then. I expect it would make a very fine birthday cake." Bilbo hoped this was true. He hadn't tasted the one in his hands, after all. But it smelled very good.

The lad gave him a smile, and even if it was still slightly tremulous it lit all the way up to his eyes. "Yessir! I can do that sir. I would like that. I like to bake things."

"Thank you, Sam. You're a good lad. With you around, Mr. Frodo will never have to worry about going hungry, eh?"

Samwise grinned. "Nossir."

"Now, run along home. Oh, and Sam - please tell the Gaffer I'll be wanting to speak with him about some flowers for my windowboxes."

"Yessir, Mr. Baggins, sir!" Sam said and half-ran, half-skipped back the way he had come. Bilbo tentatively unfolded a corner of the cloth from the cake in his hands. It was mashed and crumbling, but looked edible enough. He picked up a broken corner and sniffed it, then popped it in his mouth as he walked back up his steps. It was unusually dense, and needed salt, plus the lad must have put in half a jar of spices it was so strong; but it was otherwise good. Very buttery. Perhaps the birthday cake wouldn't be a disaster after all.

Carrying it inside, he put the rest on a plate for later, scooped the dishes from the kitchen table into a pile in the sink, then wandered into the parlour to half-heartedly tidy up. He dusted the mantelpiece, straightened the various piles of papers and books and flipped the rumpled end of the rug back where it belonged. Taking up a pen, he started to update his engagement book but after crossing out two mistakes and then staring blankly at the same line for several minutes, he found he couldn't concentrate on what he was doing.

Getting back up, he went over to the window and chose a seat by the stone thrush, gazing out at a bit of bright morning sky. It was a warm day, and he thought of Frodo traveling along under it somewhere. The longing to have gone with him welled up, if only to be out on the Road again in that small way, to be riding or walking along through sun and shade. He looked at the fountain, and traced the carven edges of the Lake with one finger. He trailed a couple fingers through the water in the basin and the Lake shore rippled slightly. Perhaps someday he would go there again. But not yet.

"So," he told the thrush. "What do I do now? Moon about like some old dog that's lost its master? Enough sitting."

He shifted restlessly, stood, then sat down again. "Just as well he's gone, isn't it? Too much distraction and too much time with those lessons. I haven't had nearly enough time to just... Well.... No more worries about whether I'm quiet enough in the morning, and no more having his papers all over my table... After all, my visits and correspondence are both behind..." He trailed off. The thrush regarded him, seeming to see right through his very thin veneer of attempted justification. He spattered it with the water from his wet fingertips and got up to do the dishes.

He had no sooner finished them than he had to answer the door to get his morning mail. He thanked the lad from the Post, and stood in the doorway, leafing through the letters. Outside a farm cart was pulling past, heaped with hay, a slowly moving mountain of gold. The time had gone by so quickly with Frodo visiting, it was hard to believe harvesting times were almost upon them again... The rich smell of the warm dry grasses wafted inside as he swung the door shut. He turned over the small stack of mail that had come and sorted it out Two bills to pay, an engagement announcement, a request for money, an invitation to a tea, two thank you notes and a letter from Dora. Carrying them back to the parlour, he set the bills aside, wrote out an acceptance for the tea, smiled over the thank-yous and then picked up Dora's envelope with a sigh.

He looked at the stone thrush, still standing at attention with its snail-shell in its beak. He showed it the letter. "A letter from Dora again. What sort of advice do you think she will have for us this time, eh?" He reached for his silver letter opener and carefully slit the end open, shaking the folded paper out into his hand. "Not that it affects you, of course, or your snails..."

He read the first page over quickly. She was well, and hoped he was also...various pleasantries... some family gossip, a report on the preserves she was putting up and how her hand ached from weeding the flowerbed in her yard. She pointed out that it was an exercise in her Duty to him that she was writing to him at all. She expected him to appreciate it, as Blood was Thicker than Water and the Best Things in Life are Free.

He snorted at that. Thinking of things that truly were freely given, not by obligation, he got up and put a piece of Sam's cake on a napkin. Returning to his seat he nibbled at it and turned to the second page.

"This cake really isn't bad fare," he mumbled to the thrush around a rather chewy bite he had taken. It had lumps, but they were good-tasting ones. "Certainly helps dry correspondence go by pleasantly. Hm. Ah, here we go. Now we get to the real reason for writing."

It seemed a second cousin of hers had visited Hobbiton a while back, and had given her news about the town and also about him: especially that he was giving lessons to some of the children there, teaching them tales that did them no good. Filling their impressionable heads with tomfoolery. Better Untaught than Ill-taught, she said, and the Road to Trouble is paved with Good Intentions. He snorted again.

"I wonder where she gets all this," he commented to the thrush."Sometimes I think she just makes it up... look here," he pointed with one finger. "She says I'm getting old and foolish, or at least I think so. Pot calling the kettle black, if that's it. Huh. No Fool like an Old Fool, it says. Or is she saying I'm better at being a fool now that I'm older and have had more practice?"

He ate more of the cake and considered the idea of foolishness aging in a bottle, like wine. Getting richer and deeper with time. What color would it be, what would its flavour be like? Come to think of it, there were possibilities for a light verse or even a song in that. A drinking song. Inspired, he got up and poured himself a small glass of the berry wine that still stood on the table from the previous night. There wasn't much left - he and Frodo had seen to that.

He held up his glass in a silent toast to the thrush and sipped at it. "Mm. You don't know what you are missing. This beats snails all to pieces. Ha. Beats them to pieces. Nearly done here.... ends with a postscript this time, see? Guess she had to have the last word, even on herself. Trouble Shared is Trouble Halved." he read this out loud and paused for another sip of his wine. "and Joy shared is Joy Doubled. All right then."

He set his glass aside, folded the letter over, tore it in half and tossed it in the wastebasket then happily ate the rest of his piece of cake in two big bites, and finished off the wine in two big swigs.

You know, he thought, for once she was right.

The morning dragged into afternoon. Try as he might to relax, he remained restless all that day, unable to concentrate on his reading. He tried going on a visit but everything that his host had to say seemed so meaningless and shallow he didn't stay long. He paced from room to room fidgeting with small tasks, then after luncheon went out to putter in his garden. Trimming the flowers was simply not enough to do, try as he might to be lost in them as he often was. He finally dusted the earth from his hands and knees, went back inside. He took up a hat and a walking stick. A long walk was in order, brisk and purposeless, perhaps, but long.

The Road seemed to welcome his feet. "I'm only visiting," he told it. "but I would be much obliged if you would bob me along your edges for a bit." He strode along for a time, looking straight ahead, as if he had some important destination awaiting him someplace in the distance, only giving the barest of nods to anyone who greeted him. He strode firmly and steadily, his restless mind finally finding some peace in the cadence of his walking.

The sun was warm enough that his brisk pace soon had him wishing he had brought his canteen with him, and after another mile or so, his own surge of wanderlust finally began to flag. He slowed down a bit, taking more notice of the fields and orchards around him, as if he were coming awake.

His marching circuit had taken him a good part around Hobbiton. If he kept going the way he was, he would eventually circle back to the market. Not feeling like socializing, but not wanting to take his thirst that much further from home he turned off of the road and began quietly cutting across some of the adjoining fields at an angle. He knew from long association with back ways where all of the gates and stiles were to be had. He met no one but a small handful of goats who lifted their heads and stared at him, but didn't even bother to move from their orchard grass and timothy.

He was over halfway back to the Hill and coming along the side of the hedge that lined the road, looking for a good place to go through it to regain the main path when he heard voices conversing on the other side. They were just up ahead. He froze and listened, for one of the voices was one he knew.

It was Lotho.

Chapter 56: Hedge Row

Bilbo didn't really care why Lotho was there, at least not at first. His only thought was how awkward it would be to have him come tromping through the hedge just as the troublesome lad was talking with someone; he was sure it would be misunderstood as if he were skulking in the bushes to eavesdrop. At least if he stayed where he was and just waited for them to move on he had some passing chance of going unnoticed. He slowly eased down to his knees among the mouldering, somewhat prickly leaves of the previous year. A dusty, shallow ditch ran beneath the lowest branches; he edged into it.

Without thinking, his hand strayed to his pocket, his fingers following down the familiar chain to the smooth, rounded weight at the end of it. He rubbed his fingers over the soft gold, trying to decide if he should just lay low, keep quiet and hope Lotho moved on soon or use his ring. His thumb slid around the smooth perimeter of it, the heat of his hand warming it and giving it a sense of life. It would be the least risky route, but at the same time he didn't like the way it tired him, somehow, when he used it and had taken to using it rarely if at all; so he hesitated, listening. His hand slowly drew back out of his pocket - for now he would hope the hedge was sufficient cover.

Ever so slowly he lowered himself again until he was nearly prone under the shadow of the hedge. The smell of the dust, the dry leaves and slightly damp earth filled his nostrils strongly and made him grimace as he tried to breathe quietly.

Peering up through the leaves and branches, he could see very little of the hobbits on the road, only traces of movement. Bits of sky flecked through above him, layers of leaves. He hoped they would see as little of him. His main preoccupation was with a root that seemed determined to bore into his ribs, and he quietly shifted, then shifted again - until he heard Frodo's name. He stilled completely, the root mostly forgotten, and strained to hear what was being said. The breeze whispered in the leaves all around him, muddling the faint conversation. He was too far away.

Recalling the other thing his ring had always seemed to do for him, his hand went to his pocket once more, this time with purpose, and after a moment of caressing the smooth circle, he slipped it on.

All around him, the leaves and sky went somewhat dim, as if a light mist had sprung up from the ground. The hedge-shadow intensified. And so did the sounds around him.

"I'm the one who has to live with it, everyday," Lotho was saying. "Every morning, it's Lotho why didn't you this, and Lotho, why can't you that? She acts like, like we should do something about it, but then she doesn't. And my da, doing his staring thing all the time, breathing and breathing like some old bull in a pasture but he won't open his mouth and do something about it."

There was a murmuring of consent, or agreement, from more than one throat. Bilbo wondered if Ivy were there, with her chaperone. Realizing he now couldn't be seen except for a very faint shadow, he carefully raised himself to his knees to peer through the bushes. No, all of the legs he could see were clad in breeches, and at least one was fairly young, too. Four of them then, counting Lotho.

"It should have been your family's," said one of them. A vaguely familiar young voice that Bilbo tried to place.

"Not it should have been - it was!" said Lotho. "It was ours, we had the rights to it. My da is next of kin to that old windbag, and he never did nothin' to deserve being treated like that. My family has waited and waited for him to go and die and he just keeps on living."

"It ain't right, is it?" said another, the youngest one.

"Rooty!" said the first, mildly shocked. "He can too be alive..."

"No, I mean that he just....well, I wasn't..." stuttered the first.

Ah, thought Bilbo. Rooty. That would be Beetroot "Rooty" Grubb then, and his older brother, Hatch. Opal Grubb's youngsters who lived next door to the S-B's. He didn't know them well, but they hadn't seemed the kind to so caught up in Lotho's tirades - then again, they had grown up with him nearby, no doubt listening to their mother's gossip as well.

I'll have to listen to judge what manner of rot might have infected them, he thought. Hopefully it's not catching.

"You sounded like...like you wanted him to..." Hatch was saying.

"He's right," cut in Lotho. "He's got no right to just keep on living and living and living like that, he should have... " Lotho hesitated, apparently realizing what he was implying. It was to his credit that even he shied away from it. "...moved someplace else by now. Gone away on one of his brain-cracked trips and not come back or something. Moved in with those foreigners he likes so much."

"Yeah. What's he need with all that room, all by himself anyway?" asked Hatch rhetorically. "Why can't he get lost?"

"And stay lost." muttered Lotho.

"He keeps his treasure there," offered Rooty. "I heard ma talking about it. He has all kinds of treasure in there."

"I heard he has other things in there too," said the third hobbit, speaking for the first time. "Stuff from his trips. Strange stuff, from Outside."

"Like what?" asked Rooty, fascinated.

"I heard, well, I heard he has dwarf-weapons. So sharp they could shave the hair right off your foot if you even held it wrong. If you cut the head off a chicken with it, it wouldn't even know it had been cut, it would just keep walkin' and walkin' until it's head fell off..."

"Eew!"

"Stop it, Louey." said Hatch. "Even if he does have somethin' like that, he wouldn't use it on chickens. He'd probably just... I don't know..."

"I heard he has Dwarves that stay there." said Louey's voice, hushed. "In the wine-cellar, 'cause they like it dark. One of the chimneys really goes to their metalworking thing. Forge. They only come out after dark, with their faces all hidden in hair, and their sharp, sharp axes..."

Lotho cut in again. "No matter what's in there, even if it's a whole family of Dwarves, they're no better than rats in a pantry. If they're there, they don't belong there - they're squatters, on my family's property!"

"Yeah." said Hatch. "But maybe you could at least, I don't know... get some of the treasure? I mean, if you can't have the smial, maybe you could still have some of the money?"

"No, that brat from Buckland gets that too," said Lotho. "Baggins is mad, I tell you."

"Which one?" asked Rooty.

"Both!" Lotho said, and spit on the side of the road, thankfully away from where Bilbo lay. "Both of 'em. But old Bilbo is the worse one. And that Frodo-thing, sitting by him day after day, acting like he enjoys listening to the old bag."

"Old bag. Baggins. Heh. Good one, Lotho." snickered Louey.

Lotho was not amused. He sounded sharp. "All those stories about him, some of them are true you know. He has strange folk in his house, all the time. Dwarves, conjurers. Why do you think they talk in ways we can't understand, huh? My ma says it's to keep us from understanding them. On purpose. Conspiring, that's what he's doing, on how to keep all the treasures for himself and his strange friends. He's not a proper Hobbit - there's something queer about him. And you notice how he never gets older? It isn't natural."

"I heard he had...." Louey's voice sank to stage-whisper. "Magic. Magic from the Elves that makes it that way. They gave him books of magic. And there's dragon-magic too."

"Dragon?" asked Hatch. "What do you mean?"

"You know... You remember how he talks about slaying a dragon once? A real one? Well, I heard that dragons can't really die...all the way, dead, I mean. They can't. They come back. And he kept a piece of it..."

"Of the dragon?" Rooty sounded slightly shaken

"Yeah....a piece of it, like a souvenir. And it's...not dead..."

"The piece isn't dead?"

"What part is it?" Hatch was morbidly fascinated.

"It would have to be pretty small, I'd think." said Rooty. "Like an ear..."

"Yeah. Or an eyeball, or a claw. He keeps it hidden, and talks to it sometime when no one else is there. And he has a magic sword that the dwarves made for him too, that moves all by itself... it goes around the rooms at night, all silent in the dark, stabbing anyone who tries to sneak in...."

"Louey, you're scarin' Rooty." said Hatch. He turned to the older tween for reassurance. "It's probably just treasures, isn't it Lotho?"

"Well, he gets all that money from someplace." said Lotho. "And he spends and spends it. My ma said he was trying to use it all up, so we couldn't have any of it."

"That's mean!" two of them chorused.

"It's selfish!" said Lotho. "And now he's giving it all to that creature just to keep it away from us. I'd bet on it."

Bilbo seethed quietly, ineffectually clenching at a double-handful of earth and leaves in his anger. Tiny dusty-grey roly-polys scattered from the trenches his unseen fingers had dug, burrowing into the earth or rolling into miniscule armored balls.

Lotho was working himself up into a righteous dudgeon. "I'm not going to just sit here and let it happen either. I'm going to do something about it."

"But what can you do about it?" asked Louey.

"I saw that Frodo-thing leaving this morning. Old Bilbo is all by himself now."

"Yeah? So?"

"The only thing that's making it all go to Frodo is that piece of paper that says it's supposed to be that way, right?"

"Yeah...I think so."

"That's what my ma said," confirmed Hatch. "And she knows."

"So, if we can get old Bilbo out of the way somehow, and get into Bag End, we can get that paper, right?"

"Get the paper?"

"Take it, you idiot. Take it and get rid of it. If there's no paper, then there's no will. If there's no will, there's no proof that Bilbo didn't just make it all up! Don't you see? If there's no will saying someone else is the heir, then it goes to the next of kin again!"

"Your da," said Rooty.

"Exactly! And I'm not about to let some stupid piece of paper stop me. Us, I mean. My family. We'll get what is rightfully ours, if I have to take every paper in that place to get it."

"But, what will you do with it? If you ruin it, won't they just make another one?" This from Hatch, apparently the more logical of the lot.

Lotho paused. Apparently this hadn't occurred to him. "Well, if we can't destroy it, maybe we can... change it or something. Make is say something different. Then we can put it back. And if that doesn't work, and it's gone, who can prove anything anyway? Maybe it was all a rumor, or his madness again. Everyone in the Shire knows he's cracked."

"But if Frodo comes back..." started Hatch hesitantly.

"Who's to say he isn't cracked too? Imagining he was going to get to stay there, just like that."

Bilbo looked down at the confused roly-polys, who kept unrolling and rolling again every time he moved. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Invisible or not, the hedge began to feel like a trap to him; his emotions were running high and he wanted to move. He wanted to... he wasn't sure what... something! He desperately wished they would leave, or stop talking, decide it was a foolish notion and they wouldn't even dream of it, but he had to know what they were thinking and planning now. Even if they did leave, he would have to follow. He would have to know what to expect.

"But getting it, that would mean, well, going in without his permission."

"Of course it would, dimwit, do you think he's just going to open up the door and let us get it, and serve us tea while we're at it?"

"No. Of course not. But..." Hatch faltered.

"There's music that comes out of that place sometimes, when no one is home I heard. Strange music, and..." said Louey.

"Are you with me or not?" said Lotho. "I'm beginning to think all you Hornblowers are about as skittery as a nest of quail."

"No we aren't," said Louey, his pride stung. "But... I don't know how..."

"Well I do. Now you listen up. All we have to do is wait for old Bilbo to leave his home. He's always going off, you know. When he does, we just go in!"

"But what about the Gamgees?" asked Hatch.

"What?"

"The Gamgees are always watching it when he's gone. I tried to get some peas from his garden once, and Fastred boxed my ears for it."

"You should've ducked quicker." said Lotho without sympathy. "Your ma is friends with them, right?"

"Yeah...?"

"Have her invite them over for tea, or supper or whatever. Tell 'em they're needed to fix something that's broken, right away. You can come up with something. As soon as they're gone, Rooty can run an invitation over to Bag End and we're set."

"Oh, yeah. You're pretty smart, Lotho."

"He should be in charge of something, like being the Mayor, I think." said Louey admiringly.

"Oh, wouldn't that be great! If Lotho was the Mayor, and lived at Bag End and had all that money and everything." Rooty said enthusiastically.

"Which I won't if you don't listen up." said Lotho. "And if I'm not in Bag End, then my friends won't be there either."

"Your friends? Like us?" asked Rooty.

"Be quiet Rooty." said Hatch."Right. So Mr. Baggins leaves, and then we have Rooty here get the Gamgees out. Then what? How do we find it?"

"It's not like he's expecting someone to take it," said Louey. "It's probably just in his desk."

"We'll find it." said Lotho grimly. "If we have to knock out the walls to do it. You'll help me. Hatch will keep lookout by the door, and Rooty will be our lookout by the road."

"What will we do with it? When we get it, I mean? Throw it in the fire?"

"Nothing! You don't do anything with it. You just give it to me, you understand? If we have to, we'll send it with Rooty and he can hide it until later. But if you try to make off with it yourself, it'll be my hand boxing your ears this time, and a lot worse. But," and here his voice took on a strangely oily tone. "If it works, then I'll share some of that treasure with you."

Bilbo had clenched his hands so hard that they hurt. Though he was careful to remain silent, inside he was a roiling confusion of anger, offense and strangely, amusement at the audacity of Lotho. I will not be robbed, he thought fiercely, nor will Frodo. As he considered it, yes, it was the sheer audacity of what Lotho was proposing that hit him so strongly. Robbery, forgery, trespassing, deceit - and all of it justified with his own self-righteous, unfounded 'insult'? He had known the lad was up to no good, but he was amazed that such drastic things would even be considered, much less plotted out to this extent.

Still, they were young. And... yes, and... they were looking to beard the old fox in his den, were they?

The tangle of his confusion settled into a determined knot. He considered them again. Lotho was the oldest of the lot. The two Grubbs weren't even into their tweens. Louey Hornblower appeared to be closer to Lotho's age, but still no more than a croney, as Frodo would call him. Followers to be bribed with promises of sweetmeats and titles of rank. Quick to imitate, and quick to fall away.

Yes, they were young. And they were afraid of him. He had seen that too. What would be stronger, their loyalty to Lotho or their fear of Mad Baggins? He took the knot of cooling anger in his breast and turned it to strategy, a plotting of his own.

By the time Lotho and his group had completed their whispering and plotting and gone their way, Bilbo already had the beginnings of a plan of his own hatching out. He knelt in the shadowy hedge and listened to their footsteps fading, considering many things.

Grateful that he was finally able to remove the ring, he pulled it from his finger and reentered the world of color and light. It seemed so heavy sometimes. He briefly considered its beauty in the afternoon sun, then dropped it back into the darkness of his pocket. His thirst, nearly forgotten in the involuntary eavesdropping, came back with a vengeance and he thought longingly of the cool ale at the Dragon but no, he would head straight home. He had work to do.

He clambered up from the ditch, dusting leaves and dirt from his hands. Something squiggled agaist his hand and he flapped it with involuntary surprise, sending the last of the roly-polys shooting helplessly back into the mould. Carefully poking his head through an opening in the hedge, he checked the road. No one was to be seen, and the way remained empty of onlookers all the way back to Bag End.

Chapter 57: Frauds and Flowerboxes

Bilbo was up late that night, thinking and jotting notes onto his notepad, only to scratch them out and jot down others. It was a serious situation, and the irony did not escape him that he, probably the only hobbit ever officially dubbed 'Burglar' in the history of the Shire, should be the one to be robbed. Who would have ever thought it... It was late before he blew out his lamp, and even later before he stopped getting back up from his bed to light a candle and add another thought to his list.

The night was long; he had restless dreams of being caught in a hedge, and all his buttons were coming off. He scrambled among the thickly fallen leaves looking for them, but they kept slipping away... and then it wasn't his buttons that were missing but his ring.... He woke up in a mild panic, threw aside his pillow reached over to pat at the pocket of his weskit that hung by his bedside, reassuring himself that it was safely on its chain. It seemed a long time before he could relax enough to sleep again.

In the morning he awoke with thoughts already spinning. Looking over his notes with tired eyes he continued to annotate them as he sipped and blew at his tea. He made more corrections and additions in-between pouring and flipping pancakes, and by the time he had reached the washing-up stage he was feeling much better about the whole thing. Yes, here was a plan that just might work.

Fetching his writing set, he quickly wrote out two letters, addressed and sealed them, dropping them into his hat where it sat on the entry bench. He grabbed an apple and a handkerchief, tucked them into his pocket and smoothly snagged his hat with one hand as he reached for the doorknob with his other. He put the hat on his head, paused, took it off again to remove the letters from under it, replaced it on his head and went out to the post.

Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he skipped rapidly down the steps and had already walked a good ways along the road before he realized the blue-and-yellow skirt walking just ahead of him belonged to Daisy Gamgee, going the same way. He increased his pace.

"Good morning, Mr. Baggins," she greeted as he came up alongside her.

"Good morning, Miss Gamgee," he replied cordially, noting the marketing basket on her arm he added "Are you going to town, then?"

She gave a small bob of a curtsy as she walked. "Yessir, I am. Can I fetch something from market for you?"

"Eh, no, no thank you, but I do have a couple of letters that need to be posted today. Would you be so kind as to take them in for me?"

"Of course! No trouble at all," she said. Pausing, she pushed her curls back from her face and lifted the proferred letters from his hand, tucking them into the wide pocket on her apron. He fished in his pocket and drew out a coin, a little more than was needed for the postage. She dropped it into the pocket along with the letter, and asked "Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"No, no thank you." Then not wanting to seem too abrupt, he politely extended the conversation a little further, walking just a few more paces with her. "How is your mother?" he asked.

Daisy gave him a brief half-smile as she went. "She's doing a little better, since that healer you sent came by, thank you, sir. She still tires easy, but says her aches aren't near as bad. I'll be letting her know you've inquired?"

"Yes, yes that would be fine. Oh. And if you could let your father know I would like to speak with him, whenever you get back, it would be much appreciated. Thank you very much." He gave a nod of farewell and touched the brim of his hat politely, then turned back towards his own home.

"Yessir, I'd be glad to," she returned over her shoulder and continued on her way. She was a dutiful lass, he had no worries that the letters would go astray.

Bilbo, seeing that he was spared the rest of the walk into town returned to his own yard. Closing the gate, he started up the steps then stopped with surprise. Sometime in the night his front windowbox had broken! He remembered now that it had been listing slightly before - now it was tipped sharply down, one end come completely off; its darkly earthen contents spilled out onto the grey flagstone below, peat and earth together; pale yellow and white roots, both old and new, were blindly groping up out of the tumble of dirt like tangles of broken thread.

He went up to it and poked at it, turning over a couple of the spoiled plants. They were crusted in dirt, wilted; broken stems hanging their heads sadly. No saving them. He examined the wood that had come away; the small grooves of beetles and wood-borers trailing over it; inverse noodles. Feeling the ends of the wood, split with crumbly brown-white rot he found it soft to his touch. Considering its condition, it was surprising the box had held up as long as it had. He pressed the sponginess of it, and found his thoughts turning to Lotho and others like him who rotted away with hidden weakness, eaten at from the inside, spilling out neglect and leaving a mess for others to clean up. Bad roots, and negligence....full of vermin. He shook his head and frowned at the mental image as much as the broken box.

It would have to be fixed.

He blinked. A half-formed idea in his head suddenly gelled and he knew what he was going to do. He had considered putting in a few primulas, but only as a joke for Frodo, for when he got back. Now he was quite certain he was going to put them in and it was in earnest. He was glad he had already sent for the Gaffer.


About an hour later, Hamfast Gamgee listened to him, then stood and looked at the ruined windowbox. He nudged the broken end with his gnarled toes. "I'll have this fixed right as rain for you soon as I can, Mr. Baggins; though I'm afeard it will need to wait just a day or two, askin' your pardon... I'll get it swept up right away, o' course. Jus' the rebuildin' needs waitin' and as for the flowers, well sir, it's late in the season for 'em, hardly any bloomin' time left in 'em anymore. How about some nice chrysanthemums instead?"

"A day or two is fine, but not more. And I know, I know it's late for them, but I want some primulas. Only primulas. As many as you can manage, any color, in all of the windowboxes. Are there any in the greenhouses, perhaps? I would like them as soon as possible, by tomorrow if you can. I'll pay top dollar for them if that's what it takes."

Hamfast shifted his feet and seemed slightly uncomprehending. "Primulas."

"Yes, primulas."

"Primulas." the Gaffer repeated, squinting as if he hadn't heard right.

"Yes. I insist."

"You want 'em in all of the windowboxes, this late?" He twisted his cap in his hand then gestured with it at the windowbox. "If'n I can suggest, I've some truly grand mums that..."

"Primulas." said Bilbo very firmly. "No, nothing else will do. No chrysanthemums, not this time. No." he held up a hand. "I'm sure they're quite grand, but no. Maybe later, afterwards. Not now."

The Gaffer took a breath, then just stood for a moment, opened his mouth then shut it. He opened it again, shut it, then stuck his tongue in his cheek thoughtfully. "I'll try to find some, sir."

Bilbo was relieved. "Thank you, Gaffer - I knew I could count on you."

Hamfast pursed his lips."Yessir. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes... but I'll let you know if anything else comes up. Thank you!"

The Gaffer nodded, took a breath again then let whatever it was he was going to say go unsaid. Instead, he bobbed in assent and shambled off around the Hill towards the gardens.

Bilbo went back inside to think and plot and eat.

He rapidly mixed up a batch of piecrust, rolling out a set of uneven circles and heaping them with apples and spices. Folding them over he set them in the oven to bake. Back at his writing desk, he rummaged in the drawers until he pulled out a nice thick sheet of creamy parchment, all flecked with dried leaves and petals. It was the most official and fancy looking paper he had, and extra large, so it would do well. He laid it out on the table, weighed down the corners and got out his best pen and ink.

After a few moments of ordering his thoughts, he chuckled and started writing. The rich, sweet scent of the baking apple tarts began to fill the smial. He consulted a handful of the documents and books that he had in his den and began carefully penning what he hoped would look very much like an official Will to anyone who didn't know better.

When the last bits of sand trickled through the slender waist of his half-hourglass, he got up and pulled out the browned tarts, setting them in a row to cool. He realized too late that he'd gotten ink on one of them and rubbed at the hot crust nearly burning his fingers. Giving up, he finally broke off the offending chunk of crust and brought the rest of it back with him, popping it lightly from hand to hand because of the heat. As he sat down, he took a bite and sucked air in to cool his mouth, unwilling to wait for the tart to cool further. It was hungry work, translating.

It was some time before he sat back and gave it a good look: Before him he now had a rough translation at best; a nice mix of Dwarvish, Elvish and Westron. Very elaborate looking. He had Frodo's name in a nice prominent place in the middle, surrounded by official looking words that he knew would be gobbledygook to Lotho's eyes. If the tween managed to find anyone who could ever translate it for him, he would find an amusing (to Bilbo) rebuke regarding his behavior and character, along with bits of proverbs about honesty and some random snippets of historical events. He penned a few flourishes to the corners, and set about copying fake signatures onto the bottom of it.

The tarts which he had wanted warm were now cold, but he ate two more of them anyway. By the time he started in on his fourth one, he had what he judged to be a reasonable facsimile of a Will, complete with assorted official-looking details. He finished the tart and licked his fingers, making a face as he licked bitter ink along with apple syrup. He reached for his handkerchief, found he didn't have one and ignominiously had to go from room to room with his ink-blackened tongue hanging out until he found a napkin he could wipe it off on. Sometimes it was a good thing, living alone.

His dignity restored, he went back to his den. Lacking red sealing wax, he finally had to settle for a deep orange wax that he had leftover from a scented candle. It dribbled this carefully over the rolled parchment in a nice fat circle, and stamped it with an elaborately carved brooch that he had picked up on his travels. For a finishing touch, he affixed a couple small ribbons. Very officious.

He had a fifth tart to celebrate finishing it. Set just inside the main compartment of the desk, it looked very Legal. While he was at it, he pulled out several other things from the desk compartment and packed them away. No reason to have them rummaged through, after all. He added various old letters and bits of scratch paper to the pigeonholes to keep it from looking empty.

The real Will he placed in a large pottery jar, sealing the wooden top with more wax both to keep out any moisture and to be able to tell that it had been left unopened. By this time the afternoon was waning; it had been a good days work. He tucked the jar under his arm and took up a sixth tart to eat as he walked to Farmer Cotton's place. He knew it would be safe enough there, no questions asked.

Chapter 58: Putting a Spin on It

The next three days went by swiftly as Bilbo quietly packed away anything that he did not want to risk being touched. He had gathered many small items during his years of visiting and traveling, and his old hole was rather cluttered up with them. Still, each one held a memory, a story or both. He wasn't willing to have them pawed over by Lotho and his followers, no he wasn't.

He spent several more pleasant hours tending to small tasks and social obligations, such as catching up on visitors and overdue correspondence. He had considered this problem, the steady trickle of visitors that came and went and realized he didn't want any of his friends or relatives stopping by his home unexpectedly this week. The obvious answer was to see to them as quickly as possible, assuring none coming by when his trap was set. It had seemed a good idea, though by the time he cycled through the last of them and washed up his tea service for what felt like the hundredth time he was almost regretting it. He looked at his pruny hands as he set the good teapot back on its shelf. At least he didn't have to cook again; the Cottons had sent him one of their very nice teacakes instead of coming to eat of his, and he gratefully finished it off as his supper.

He was grateful that Farmer Cotton had taken the jar with the Will in it without too many questions - he didn't even know what was in it, only that Mr. Baggins needed it kept safe and dry for possibly a week or two. Bilbo had seen that it was stashed on a high shelf in Mrs.Cotton's pantry and had no worries for its safety, and been treated to a nice ale and chicken pie besides. After this little romp was over, he might share the tale with them - they'd probably enjoy it - but right now he could risk no gossip, even unintentioned, and the younger Cottons might not know to keep their parent's words from others.

The fourth day a smattering of rain had come with the dawn, softening the earth and leaving it clear and cool; perfect for yardwork. Bilbo was out in it as soon as luncheon was past. He had been watching carefully for anyone hanging about the Hill, and did not fail to note the two Grubb lads had been sauntering past with forced casualness. Choosing his position and task carefully, he made certain he was out where they could see him, weeding the roses near the fence. Not being good actors, their nervous whistling and drawn out walking drew more attention to them than was seemly. He hoped no one else wandered by, they were being so ridiculous.

He worked in his flowers near the road, dredging up bits of clover that were sprouting around the base of his roses. When they saw him there, the brothers' sauntering stopped and there was a bit of whispering. The older of the two, nudged by his sibling, stepped closer to the fence.

"Good morning, Mr. Baggins." he said, a false cheerfulness belied by a nervous tremor in his voice.

Bilbo glanced up briefly and continued weeding. "Good morning," he returned a bit gruffly and waited.

There was some more shuffling and whispering.

"Nice garden."

"Thank you."

"Do you...stay home and take care of it... a lot?"

Bilbo grubbed around the stem of a young rosebush. He almost smiled at this clumsy attempt at gathering information, but managed to keep a straight face. "Sometimes. Sometimes I go out." Training his eyes on the ground in front of his knees, he poked the clover with the tip of his trowel. Clover certainly grew fast. Good thing it was fairly easy to pull up. There'd been a lot of chickweed this year too.

More whispering.

"Are you...um... I mean, are you going out anytime soon?"

Bilbo's eyebrows raised. Even the lad seemed to realize this was too straightforward and blunt; he backtracked trying to amend it.

"Seeing as your garden looks so nice already, I mean. It looks... like, um, you've already done all the work on it."

Not a bad recovery, thought Bilbo. Clumsy, but at least he tried.

"Why, yes." said Bilbo carefully. "I do think I'll be going out soon. You're right, I'm nearly done here, and should be planning on a nice, long trip. A few days at least."

"Really?" squeaked Rooty, speaking up next to his big brother. Hatch jabbed him with an elbow. "Ow!"

"That sounds really nice, Mr. Baggins." said Hatch, sounding a bit too forced. "Where will you go?"

Bilbo considered. Yes, there had been more clover than usual, and just a few of those deep-rooted spiny weeds too. Those were the ones he really needed to watch out for; the thorny ones that spread slowly. Much worse than fast-spreading fluff...

"Where will I go? Oh, perhaps to Michel Delving. We'll see." He had chosen it for its distance and could hear Hatch's muttering as he figured traveling time on his fingers.

"That would take a long time."

"Not too long. I've been a lot further than that, you know. Perhaps in a few days, that would be pleasant, wouldn't it? Good day, now." Bilbo, having planted the seed of rumor in them was ready to send them off. They would carry their news to Lotho as surely as bees carrying nectar to their nest, and they would be watching him closely in the next few days. He was assured they would believe him well away when he wanted them too.

"Good day! Good day!" said the lads, walking then running down the road as they forgot to be clandestine in their excitement. They were off, two arrows from a bow, not even knowing they had been aimed.

He was almost amused for a moment, but considering where they were going and why, he ripped up the rest of the clover in a sudden spasm of resentment against Lotho and his plotting. He opened his fist and looked at the crushed stems and dirt in his hand. No, Frodo would not be robbed by these....weeds. Bilbo would see to that; his hands would be on the reins for this jaunt, not theirs. He smiled and wrung the clover into a juicy wad of greenery. He had pulled it too quickly, and the much of the root was left behind. Slowly, old fellow, slowly, he chided himself, time is on your side. Time is on your side. He grubbed out the roots, and got to his feet.

Gathering the rest of the weeds into a small heap, he heard the Gaffer came around the side of the Hill. Glancing over at him, he found the gardener's arms were full of small peat-pots. Bilbo had to smile to see that they most were primulas. Hamfast said no word, but began silently pulling up the plants that he had in the other windowboxes, setting the new ones in place gently. With a set jaw, his silent disapproval of his Master's gardening decision was obvious - though it wasn't in him to take it out on the plants.

Bilbo offered no response to the silent, stiff shoulders. He tidied up, cleaned off his trowel and waited for the commentary to eventually come. Sure enough, as soon as he reached for the doorknob it bubbled over...

"You know," the Gaffer said to the plants he was handling. "I'm doin' my best with 'em, but they're just not very strong, Mr. Baggins. Not too many blooms left on 'em. You'll have naught but leaves from 'em pretty soon."

"Ah."

The gardener's fingers eased two plants apart and fluffed the roots. "Now," he told the plant. "I saw some right good fall mums in town, even better than the ones I've got goin' in the greenhouse. Red, orange, all kinds. Good an' strong. Bright. I could even put in some late snapdragons, a spot o' kale. Would look real purty in among the... primulas."

Bilbo smiled politely but was careful not to nod.

He opened the door and stepped partway in. "Thank you, Gaffer - they look very nice. No, I don't think I'll be wanting any other flowers right now. Oh, and could you send young Samwise to me? I have an errand that I think would suit him."

Behind him, Hamfast grunted an answer as the door swung shut.


II.

When Sam arrived at the door, he was both curious and mystified to find that Bilbo was sending him out to gather all of the dry maple-spinners he could find.

"And be sure they're dry ones!"

Sam nodded and scratched at his leg, considering. "Maple-spinners? But what're you goin' to do with maple-spinners, Mr. Baggins, sir?"

Bilbo put up a hand to still any further questions and looked the lad straight in the eye. "I just need them. Bring me all you can find, will you? There's a good lad. No more questions." He patted him on the shoulder, and got another nod. He watched with a slight smile as the sturdy lad promptly turned and marched off like some diminutive soldier out to fill his orders.

Knowing he was thoroughly intrigued, Bilbo was not surprised when Sam came back again very quickly, his pocket overflowing and more of the spinners in his hands besides.

Bilbo had him drop them into a pan. "Thank you, Sam - but I'll be needing more. Much more. Here, see if you can fill this for me, will you?"

"A whole bucket full?" The lad's eyes widened with surprise and he was obviously bursting with curiosity, but he accepted the small wooden bucket that Bilbo handed him and spent the rest of the morning until lunchtime going from maple to maple all around the Hill and the road, gathering them up. Bilbo was glad of his help, for he still had much to do.

While he waited for the rest of the maple-spinners, he worked on his red lamp. Carefully cutting an old leather apron, he pinned it together to form a slipcover for the lampshade. After he had measured it carefully and adjusted it, he stood back to admire the effect before carrying it to his den.

He rummaged in his kitchen, pulling out each of his pots and pans and banging on each one with a small hammer to listen to the tone. Choosing the two with the deepest sounds, he carried them into the wine cellar, and laid the hammer with them. Next he went out to the shed where he selected a length of heavy chain that had come from a broken wagon brace. Dragging it out from under a hay-tangled heap of discarded harness bits, he ran his hands over it to pull off the worst of the hay and dirt. He carried it back to the Hill, past the sidelong quizzical look from the Gaffer who was working in the vegetable beds. It joined the lamp in the den, where he cleared a space and laid it out on the floor.

There was a knock at his door. Brushing off his hands, he padded down the hall and opened it. Sam stood there with a brimming bucketful of the little brown whirligigs.

"Here you go, Mr. Baggins, sir. An' if you need more, I found a whole bunch of 'em down near the Water, just heaps! Though some of 'em are kinda wet." He handed over the bucket and dug his hands into his pockets. "I've got some more here, too." he said, pulling them out. "But they're kinda crunched."

"Thank you, Sam. You did just fine, and yes I'd like the crunched ones too."

Sam emptied his pockets of spinners, putting them into Bilbo's waiting hands. "Um. Mr. Baggins, sir?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"What are they for?"

Bilbo considered a moment. "Perhaps someday I will tell you. When you're older," he said. He bent down to Sam's level and whispered "I'm not sure you're ready for this particular secret."

Sam's voice dropped to a whisper too. He leaned in conspiratorially. "Is it for something magic?"

"Sort of, in a way. That's all I can tell you for now. Trust me." He smiled and straightened up. "Here's a coin for your help, now off you go. And don't tell anyone, all right? It's a secret. Shhh."

Sam nodded seriously. "Shhhh." he echoed and tiptoed back toward the door, though obviously unsatisfied with the answer to his question. He started to obediently turn towards his home, then looked back. "Will you tell me someday, then? Maybe?" he whispered.

"Perhaps someday." said Bilbo, smiling, and gently shut the door.

Bilbo took the heap of maple spinners to the table, smiling at the thought of sharing this secret with young Sam. No, his parents would not have been happy having their son know this particular trick. It was one Bilbo himself had only learned by eavesdropping on older lads, back when he was fairly young himself... not very nice lads, either. He had only used it once himself, and for his efforts had gotten chased through the fields by an entire group of young tweens, all seriously bent on giving him a good drubbing.

But it had been worth it, he grinned to himself.

He spread out some paper on the table, and settled down with a handful of the little brown whirligigs. Holding them by the wing, he carefully rubbed them together until the tiny little slivers came off of them. He dropped the spent ones to the side and picked up more. It was a long process, but after a time he had a decent little pile of the fine, brown slivers. He carefully gathered them up into a paper twist and set about making another little pile of the perfect itching powder.

The doorbell jangled slightly. He opened a book and turned it upside down over the little brown-golden pile of mangled maple spinner bits, just in case it was someone who would be coming in. He didn't want questions. Carefully wiping his hands clean on a damp cloth, he opened the door. Bobwhite Smallburrow's red-cheeked face greeted him as he stood on the front step, three small packets in hand.

"Mr. Baggins, Good-day!"

"Good-day, Mr. Smallburrow..."

"I've brought some packets that came for you at the Post. The Postmaster said you had asked for anything that came in to be brought right away, but his lads were already out, so I told him I'd be the extra legs. Here you go."

Bilbo accepted them with a nod and glanced at the markings while making small talk. He was surprised but gratified they had come so quickly. It was only three days since he had posted his request. Perhaps the silver piece added to the letter had helped.

"Much appreciated. How's that family of yours doing, Bob? Haven't seen you around much lately."

"Just fine, Mr. Baggins. I've been a bit busy, you know. We've our brand new little Smallburrow, all fat and pink and she's got bright curls just like her mother. My Robin doesn't quite know what to make of having a sister yet, though the older lads are well enough with it. He's a handful, that young 'un. Heh. My little cock-robin, who always wants to grow up faster than he can. Caught him trying to get into the ale just yesterday, heh heh."

"Glad to hear it. I mean that all is well, not that he's in the ale of course. Yes, good to hear you're all doing so well." Bilbo said it heartily, though he had no recollection at all of their expecting another child and only vaguely recalled the infant boy who was now referred to as older. He covered it up with pretended familiarity. Time simply went by much too quickly.

Bobwhite nodded cheerfully. "Well, I won't be keeping you with my carrying on about my family, you know I can always talk about them, thank-you-for-inquiring. Perhaps I'll see you at The Dragon? I'm helping out with odd jobs there now, seein' as my family lives so close by it. I mean, when you're feeling better, of course. Good-day!"

"Feeling better?" Bilbo raised his brows, then looked down at the packets in his hand. "Oh. Yes. I'm sure I will be soon. Much better, thank you. Good-day."

Bob touched his cap and headed down the steps. Bilbo considered the small packets and their simple mark that indicated they had come from a healer. He didn't anticipate too much gossip, as he had deliberately ordered his odd items from a close-mouthed healer clear over in Waymoot to spare questions from his usual one. He just hoped the order was right.

He took them to the table, and carefully opened up the first one. Saltpeter. Yes, and the copper sulfate he had asked for. And the third one... he peeled it open and poked at the powdery yellow substance inside, wrinkling his nose. Sulpher. Perfect.

Turning back to the table, he finished packing up the itching powder in paper twists and carefully wiped down the table. He tossed the bucket of crumbled spinners into the parlour fire, made up a quick snack of apples, summer squash and cheese then went back to his work.

Outside he heard the scraping and creaking as the rest of the old windowbox was pulled away from the smial, followed by various shuffling and banging noises. He peeked out the window to see the Gaffer, two brightly whittled wooden pegs sticking out of the side of his mouth as he carefully fit the sound pieces of wood back together again. He took one of the pegs out of his mouth, spit the loose shavings to the side and began tapping it carefully into place. Nearby, the smaller wheelbarrow stood filled with compost, and several more of the leafy little flowers he had asked for.

Content that all was proceeding well he went back to his work, though he surreptiously scootched a stack of books across the table to block any accidental view from outside. He didn't need questions right now.

Pulling up a chair, he sat and carefully divided the copper sulfate up on six little papers, stirred in some salt and sulpher then folded them over and twisted them shut. Fetching a fat handful of old candle stubs from his stash under the sink, he melted them down in a pan and carefully dipped each of the packets into the wax, several times. When he was done he had a small row of oddly-shaped finger-length wax blobs. Pleased with the result, he set them aside on the mantelpiece for later.

Outside the scraping and banging had given way to sweeping sounds. The Gaffer sweeping up the last of the spilled dirt, no doubt. Both Bilbo and the Gaffer preferred his yard to be neat and tidy. He peeked out the window again, just in time to see the wheelbarrow being rolled down to the next windowbox. The broken one was fixed 'right as rain' as he had said, filled with fresh soil and the flowers of various colors. Some of them did look a little withered, but at least they were there, and still blooming.

Taking a small bowl, Bilbo stirred some of the saltpeter and sulpher together then dissolved the mixture in a bit of hot water. He dipped a thick cotton twine in it, draping it around his kitchen to dry. What anyone peeking in would think of it, he didn't know but he couldn't think of any other way to dry it. Ah well. Let them think what they liked....

Humming to himself he went down the hall to his room. He went to a chest with a locked drawer. Fetching the key, he quietly opened it. The scent of mothballs made him wrinkle his nose. He gently moved an old travel cloak aside and then lifted a heavy packet of oiled leather from its hiding place.

Undoing the laces, he gently lifted his short sword, Sting, from out of its wrappings and considered the shine of the blade, sharp and deadly as ever.

"Eh, you haven't seen much use of late, have you old friend?"

He turned it in the light, watching the reflection from the window sliding up and down the blade. Such memories, such memories.... His hands caressed the hilt. I am sorry to have awakened you from your sleep, I can see the question in you. But no, we're not off, not yet. Someday, my old friend, we will see more adventures, you and I. Someday. But for now, no. I just need a little of your aid if you'll allow it.

And who would have ever thought you would come to such a use? It's a bit of a lark, I suppose, for the likes of you. Just a bit of a lark. Not dishonourable at all.

He considered the neatly folded cloak, and the battered black scabbard that lay in the drawer, then after a long moment sighed slightly and shut it again.

It took some jury-rigging and a small bit of leather scrap, but by working carefully he finally managed to suspend the blade from a length of strong black button thread in such a way it was at an angle, as if held. He stepped back and dangled it to examine his handiwork. Early on in his ownership of his other treasure, he had discovered whatever he was holding or wearing went invisible with him, but if he dangled something by string, it would be seen. Sting must be seen. His thoughts strayed to the Spiders, as they nearly always did when he considered his wondrous Elf-blade. They had seen its glow of course, not the sword itself - and, Bilbo chuckled to himself, while Lotho was rotten he had far, far to go before he would be rotten enough to make an Elf-blade glow.

He ran the length of thread from the end of the hall up and over a root that bent conveniently down near the back door, then along the hall. Tying one end to Sting and the other to a cob of dried corn, to make a handle, he experimentally pulled on the thread down in the pantry. The sword lifted and lowered down from the ceiling into the hall on its makeshift pulley and hung there, rotating, gleaming slowly. Yes, it would do. He pulled it back up into hiding near the ceiling and anchored the thread.

It was getting late. Singing an old battle song he had picked up from Dale, he went out to water the new flowers in the windowboxes. It was turning out to be a very good day. Yes, very good indeed.

Chapter 59: Lying in Wait

It was the fourth day from when he had first overheard the plotting by the hedge that he began to lay in wait.

Feeling a strange anticipation, he kindled an oak fire in both the den and parlour early on and kept them going to be sure there would be a good, hot bed of embers in both. He stood back and surveyed his work: the dipped twine lay along the hearth in the den. The covered stock pot of river rocks that he had gathered from his own yard decor sat on its iron trivet, well washed. He had lugged it into the den and set them over the fire to be sure they would be very hot... The tea kettle, filled to the brim was patiently standing by the modest heap of wax-dipped mineral-packets.

One could learn much about fire and earth from Dwarves, he ruminated. He remembered watching his friends while their calloused hands stirred certain minerals together, and how the result had sizzled, popped and flared with color in the night - their deep, hearty laughter at his own astonishment and exclamation. It had brought Gandalf's fireworks to mind. He had toyed with attempting such a thing, but feared any of his experimenting would only go awry - he had no desire to burn out his dear old hole, and a healthy respect for what the results could look like. No, this was only something small, no more than a child's prank for dwarves. He just hoped it was enough to give some young hobbits second thoughts.

When all was as ready as it reasonably could be, he waited. Some final touches would be tended to at the last minutes, but he knew he would have time for it as the conspirators would be busy getting the Gamgees out of the way. The decoy will was stashed in his small parlour desk, easy to find so they wouldn't rummage too much, but not too obviously out in the open. He'd left papers about the parlour desk to make it appear as his main writing desk, hoping to keep the trespassers away from his den entirely.

As a spider carefully checking every last strand of its web before settling into the center of it, he ran over every detail once more then settled into a comfortable chair.

Yes, he thought with a grim cheerfulness, everything is ready.

Unlike a spider, he was able to eat his luncheon and tea while waiting, a fine enough way to pass the time. The day slowly began to grow later and while he felt he ought to have been impatient, or worried instead he found the hours passed in a strange sort of pleasure or anticipation.

As the day began to spill its sunlight decidedly from the west, he considered the problem of a burglar's entry, concerned that some damage might be done. He finally decided to leave the windows closed but unlatched to prevent them being broken if someone got hasty. All items of real value, or easily anything easily damaged had been carefully stashed away, a scattering of unbreakable knick-knacks, such as pinecones and basketry taking their places.

The late afternoon was already drawing out the shadows of the oak and maple trees, turning them into thin stripes and bottlebrushes on the fields before he noted the boundary bushes of his yard were moving. Finally! The lads were later than usual in their spying today. What had kept them?

He went out into front yard and sat on the bench for a short while, enjoying a small pipe.

"Ah, what a grand day this has been." he commented out loud, as if ruminating with his pipe. "This would be marvelous traveling weather. You know, I really ought to take a good, long walk before it gets colder this fall. Yes, that would be a fine thing to do." He leaned forward and tapped out the pipe on the flagstones. "Yes. Maybe that trip to Michel Delving I've been meaning to make. Now there's a fine notion. A good long walk. I could even stay an extra day or two, perhaps."

He got up, stretched and went inside. Peering out the window, he watched as Hatch Grubb crawled out from behind the bush and ran down the road. He smiled and drummed his fingers in a little staccato on the windowsill with satisfaction. Very good.

Fetching his pack, hat and walking stick he unlatched the back door; he sincerely hoped the erstwhile trespassers would be bright enough to discover this easy way in and not damage his nice green door in the front. Not that he wanted it to be too easy on them... He unlatched the front window also, right over the windowbox and left it the barest crack open.

Humming, he took a packet of the powder he had made and put one in his pocket. Another he sprinkled along the top of the unlatched window.

It would be a few minutes still... he went to the pantry and selected a small wedge of white cheese and an apple. Might as well have a snack while waiting for their spy to return... Timing was important - he needed to be sure they saw him 'leave.' He chose a chair where he could just see the edge of his yard without being obviously in the window and alternated bites of tart apple and salt-creamy cheese until he was down to nothing but the core. All it needed was something sweet to follow it up - but lacking a proper dessert at hand he was willing to settle for the sweetness of revenge. Or was it revenge? Was there another word for something you were doing in revenge before the offense even happened? It was a bit topsy-turvy, now that he thought about it. Perhaps the Elves had a word for that - though come to think of it, it seemed more like something Dwarves would do. He'd have to ask Gloin or Balin about that in his next letter, if he remembered. It would be a useful thing to add to his vocabulary.

His attention wandered off into the etymology of revenge, and he nearly went to rummage through his notes on the Dwarves before remembering he was supposed to be keeping watch. After what seemed an interminable delay to him, he was glad to see young Rooty Grubb belatedly slip into the bush on the side of the yard. He checked his mantle clock and considered the time of day, the sun already dropping down towards the distant hills. At this rate, it would be twilight before Lotho's gang distracted the Gamgees and got them out of the way.

All the better, he smiled in a way that would have given a Lotho pause if he had seen it. Yes, such things would be even better in the dark.

Standing, he took up his pack and shrugged it over his shoulders, and took up his walking stick. Out the front door he went with the pack well-displayed on his back, making a show of putting on his hat and checking all his pockets to be sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He latched the door, went down the steps and turned toward the fields, cutting across one of them as if he were going to go around the edge of town, whisting a walking tune. Behind him he heard the leaves rustle, soft sound of something moving through the grass. As soon as he came all the way past a boundary hedge, he glanced back to be sure Rooty was running off the other way and then slipped off to the road himself. Ducking into a nearby shed, he waited for several minutes to be sure he hadn't been seen.

The shed smelled thickly of earth, manure and old hay; it tickled his nose and he struggled not to sneeze. He sat down on a dusty box beside a stack of hay and waited. Time passed, and all was quiet except for a fieldmouse that slipped past his feet from its nest among the sheaves, a kernel of corn clenched in its teeth. He watched it, remembering an Elf who had once commented that Hobbits reminded him of mice, burrowing, multiplying and always worried about food. He had been mildly offended at the time, but had reconsidered after reflection. For he knew how brief their lives must seem to Elves - that the comment wasn't meant to say they were vermin, but that they were...brief. And occupied with food. Which they were, in all fairnesss. Yes, they were. But there were other things that mattered too, like this, right now.

The quiet continued. No one came to stick their head into the shed and say 'Mr. Baggins! What are you doing in here? Can I help you find something?' Peering out a crack at the road, everything remained deserted. He finally slid his hand into his pocket and after a pause, put on his Ring. The world shifted to shadows; he eased out of the shed and headed back to Bag End.

Slipping in the unlatched back door and dropping his pack near the rear pantry, he took the Ring back off; no reason to wear it any more than he had too, after all. It would yet be a bit of time before they dared approach - Lotho might even wait for dusk in order to be more hidden. It would make the most sense. He patted his pocket for the paper of powder, opened it and sprinkled some more along the top of the back door.

After a short time there were voices, out in the back. Moving near the door, he could make out Hatch's now-familiar voice saying something, and Daisy Gamgee's voice answering. Then there was the Gaffer's voice. Near as he could tell, the lads had something broken at the Grubb's that the Gaffer was needed to help fix. They'd probably broken it themselves, he snorted softly. Mrs. Grubb, unwitting tool that she was, had followed the very clever suggestion of her sons and invited the rest of the Gamgee family along for supper to make up for using their time so late in the day.

Lotho's plan appeared to be moving along like clockwork. Bilbo had to give him some credit there, that part had been well done.

He calculated the distance to the Grubb's home. A quarter hour, if they walked along at a normal pace, as the Gaffer would in getting them there, another quarter to a half hour, at least, before the lads could slip away without their mother thinking it rude to guests... His figuring said they would be along about dusk, which would be here soon enough.

The sun moved on in the last of its arc, first into a bit of a cloudbank and then dimly on its slow slide downward to the hills. The light began to be more muted, the shadows stretched thin, then began to lose their definition in the first colors of a clouded sunset. He tiptoed into his den and lit the red lamp, fed the fires just a little and waited. Yes, it would be twilight soon. Just a little more time. He fingered the golden circle in his pocket. Just a little more time.

60. A Better Mousetrap

The sun faded behind the hills, and the rooms of Bag End began to take on that half-blend of shadow and color that was the herald of twilight. The fields and trees outside the few unshuttered windows were relentlessly blotted of their deep yellows and greens, washed in twilight's bluing to be left colorless; a blanket of faded whites, purples and greys began to be spread out upon the land, the crickets took over the duties of the nestled birds, singing to herald the coming night.

Other things were moving through the garden, among the pale shadows. Things that did not sing, or sleep.

Bilbo's anticipation rose. He shifted slightly, feeling as if he were about to go before a crowd, or to make a speech. He ran over his list in his head once more, ticking things off by running his fingers over the tiles lining his hearth. There they were; he heard the first small noises, the faintest shuffle of feet, a rustle of the grasses on his lawn that might have been a breeze... a brush of leaves. There was a brief silence, a hesitation outside.

He waited, drew his Ring out of his pocket and caressed it briefly. Minutes passed and he waited. There was no hurry...

The noises began again, at his front door. Very small sounds, no more than he might hear from a mouse in his pantry at night. The knob gave a slight jiggle, confirming it being latched. A small whispering of voices, like a soft wind in the trees. More silence.

Bilbo held his breath as he sat by the low, hot fire in his den. The sounds split up, one still near the front, another moving around towards the back. There was a slight sound of something tapping on glass. He winced slightly, fearing for the safety of his windows, but was grateful that so far the would-be burglars were being very careful. Hushed voices and the creak of the hinge heralded their discovery of the unlatched window.

There was some muffled grunting and muttering as they began to heft themselves in through the open window, going right up and over his newly reinforced windowbox. Bilbo had to smile to himself, knowing the type of flowers most likely would not be noticed in the growing darkness. But he was mildly surprised they had not found the unlatched back door. In too much of a hurry to scout it out properly - no doubt they were also too inexperienced at such things for it to occur to them. Bilbo smiled to himself, remembering his own naiveté about proper scouting, at the beginning of his adventure, long ago. How far I have come...

Thinking of his adventure brought his eyes back to the golden circle he still held curled in his palm, warm from the heat of his hands. He held it for a moment more, watching the dim fire and embers playing across its perfect surface.

He slipped it on.

There was the familiar shift in his hearing, the dimming of his sight. He wondered why it did this - and why Sting always continued to have a strange clarity, as did many things of Elvish make. He had never wanted to bring up this aspect of his ring to Gandalf, though he expected the wizard would know something of it. He always became hesitant to discuss it, as if there were something wrong or even shameful in speaking of it... of course there wasn't. It really was very odd. Perhaps the next time he saw him he would ask. Besides, no matter what the reason, it was still a beautiful thing and very useful too, especially at times like this.

There was the sound of a body hitting the tile floor below his window, bumping into a nearby chair, and the beginning of a complaint hushed with a stern hiss from a second voice. He could hear the windowbox creaking with a complaint of its own and hoped it would hold up under the weight.

A second individual flumped to the floor, and a spate of whispering began. He grinned. Judging by their twitching that was also beginning, his powder had gotten to at least one of them - probably the first one in. He peered around the doorframe to see what was happening.

Half-crouched on the tile floor, Hatch Grubb squirmed uncomfortably, twitching slightly as he reached back and scratched his back. He tugged on his shirt and scratched again as he helped Lotho to his feet.

"What are you doing?" whispered Lotho, frowning at him.

"Sorry... I gotta itch..."

Lotho grimaced. "Well, scratch it and be quiet - we need to find where he keeps his papers."

"I am scratching it, it keeps moving around."

Lotho just rolled his eyes unsympathetically, but Bilbo noted that Lotho's hands were also absently scrubbing at his arms. A little of it must have gotten to him too. Or maybe it was the flowers; Bilbo rather hoped it was both. He turned and gathered up a pair of his wax packets for each of the fireplaces, hiding two in his invisible hands and setting two above the embers of the den fire to slowly melt.

There was a sound from the end of the hallway as Louey Hornblower and Rooty Grubb came on tiptoe from the back way.

"Hey!" Louey said in a stage-whisper. "The back door was open... How'd you guys get in already?"

"We came in the window," answered Hatch in a more normal tone. "It was..."

"Hush!" glowered Lotho, then rounded on the others. "And you, why didn't you say something sooner?"

Louey looked surprised and whispered "I'm sorry, Lotho, I only just found it. Actually, it was Rooty who..."

Lotho cut him off. "You're of no use to me if you're slow, so make yourself useful. Rooty, get back out there and keep watch, and don't leave the door hanging open! Louey, get over here and help us look. We want to get out of here as quick as we can."

Rooty seemed all too ready to back out and quickly wasted no time taking himself back outside the smial. Louey came reluctantly forward, scratching at his neck. His eyes shifted to each of the flanking doorways as he came. Bilbo judged him to be the jumpiest of the lot, and remembered he had been the one with the wildest tales about the very place he was now in.

In spite of his earlier sneering bravado, Bilbo could also tell that Lotho was nervous too. He kept looking around, scratching at his arms, hands and neck, legs. For all his swagger, he knew he was out on a limb coming here...

It was time for a little touch of uncertainty. Bilbo slipped over to wine cellar entrance and felt around until he found the small hammer where he had left it in the dark. He peered back out at them for just a moment, listening for a good point in the conversation.

"What was in those windowboxes?" asked Lotho, rubbing at his hands, then his neck.

"Flowers," said Louey.

"I know it was flowers, dumbhead. What kind of flowers?"

"I don't know, ask one of them Gamgees - how should I know flowers, especially in the dark?"

"Smelled like pansies or som'thin' to me," offered Hatch. "My ma has pansies in her yard..." Bilbo carefully tapped the large metal skillet.

tonk

"...what was that?" Hatch said.

"What?"

"That...sound. Like something metal, or something...didn't you hear it?"

"I heard something..." said Louey in a hushed voice.

"Quit it," said Lotho. "There's nothing here. No matter what you heard."

"But...what if he's...."

"He's not here. He's off on some fool journey again. And I'm not afraid of old Baggins either, he's harmless, I've been here lots of times..."

Bilbo gave it one more careful metallic tap.

klong

As he slipped out of the wine cellar and past them where they now stood in an indecisive huddle he had to grin.

"I heard it again." Louey's voice whispered. "Dwarves..."

"What if we get caught?" Hatch was saying, wide-eyed. "Their axes..."

Lotho was not to be cowed. "There's no Dwarves. There can't be. It must just be some rats or something."

Trying not to breathe too loudly, he tiptoed into the parlour where he slipped the other pair of wax packets onto the embers of the fire. He knew Lotho's was a false bravado, he was sure of it: he had seen the trembling of Lotho's hands.

"Can't we at least light a candle or something? It's....getting kinda dark." Hatch whined.

Lotho's voice was sarcastic. "Well, you're the one who forgot the dark-lantern. I'm not lighting any candle now, you fool, the light would show through the windows. We're wasting what light we have. Go find that paper!"

The other two nodded and moved as if to obey but without heart. Louey's eyes were still wide. Hatch began to eye the window they had entered by. His voice trembled slightly. "Remember that dragon...?"

Louey nodded solemnly. "It was still alive..." he whispered.

"I wanna go home."

Lotho, who had been heading back into the parlour, heard them. "Cowards." he spat with contempt. "You don't leave until you help me, or I'll tell your folks where you've been."

It was obvious they believed it of him, too. Hatch looked miserable, but moved towards a bench that was covered with papers. Louey turned to Lotho. "What exactly is it we're looking for then, so we can get out of here? What's it look like?"

Lotho brushed it away as he rifled through a sheaf of letters. "It's paper! I don't know what it looks like. No one's seen it. I asked, and didn't hear of anyone who's really seen it. But it's made of paper, maybe done up all important somehow. We'll know it when we see it."

It was plain to Bilbo that the lads didn't know much about the process, hence the additional aura of mystery about it. They wouldn't know that several other hobbits had not only seen it, but signed it. It was a testament to the trustiness of Bilbo's chosen witnesses as well as to the company Lotho and his family kept that it was 'unseen.'

They begin with searching the bench and table in the entry, then hesitantly approached the parlour where Lotho was already leafing through stacks of papers and books. Hatch continued to scratch at his back and neck and then his arms. Bilbo couldn't help but wonder how long it would take for the small bit of powder to work its way further down; the discomfort it would bring then should be sufficient to send any hobbit jumping for home. He smiled to himself as he quietly went back into the den.

While the others began their foray into the parlour, Louey prowled around the dim kitchen. Judging by the sounds, he was opening jars and cupboards and even the oven. Bilbo had to roll his eyes at that. Why would papers be in the oven?

"Find anything?" whispered Hatch, who had edged back into the entry.

"Mnffng" replied Louey, his mouth full of something he had found in his search. He came out of the kitchen with his cheeks bulging.

"What did you find? Is there any more? I'm hungry."

"We aren't here for a picnic, you dimwits - keep looking!" growled Lotho as he pawed through the stack of letters that lay heaped on the parlour console. "Hatch - you come look through that stack over there, look in that chest. Louey, try the den."

Louey came the rest of the way out of kitchen, licked off his fingers and timidly peered into a small adjoining pantry before hesistantly nearing the den.

Knowing the saltpeter would make it burn very slowly with a nice thick smoke, Bilbo had held one end of his coated twine to the embers until it ignited and it was now smoking nicely. The wax packets had begun to melt into this fire also, so the flames flickered up all green and yellow, scented of sulpher. More sulpher hung in the pale smoke that curled upward from the twine and crawled across the floor in swirling tendrils.

Bilbo was pleased at the fireplace in the den making a rather nasty stink, and the yellow-green flames were effective, but the sulpher wasn't as strong as he would have liked or gathering quite quickly enough. He wrinkled up his nose. Dragon was not a pleasant smell, more brimstone and rot needed, but this reek was nearly as bad - maybe worse in such close quarters. Still it needed to be more dramatic.

At least he knew if the flames were changing color in the den, they were bound to be doing so in the parlour also. He peeked out, past Louey who was dithering in the hallway.

Lotho, done rummaging the console, was bent over a pile on the table, peering at the papers in the dimming light. Hatch stood still and stiff, one hand on the wooden chest, looking towards the fire with round eyes and his mouth agape. The green flames that lifted up, all twined with an unnatural yellow, gave a sickly glow to his face.

"L...L..." said Hatch.

"What?" hissed Lotho irritably, then looked up from his papers and froze. For just a moment, fear and indecision flickered on his face. He tried to cover it. "Aw, it's just...a, a fire."

"But...Lotho..."

"Stop gaping at it and get to work." snapped his leader, hiding his own fear in bluster. He scratched at his arms nervously and turned his back on the strange fire.

Bilbo, cheered by the apparent success of this simple effect, went to the pan of hot rocks he had ready over the coals but then considered and decided to first reach for the bellows. He moved them slowly open and shut a few times, to circulate the smoke faster and to make it sound like...

"Breathing." said Louey in a barely audible squeak. "Something's breathing. I heard it." He had been scratching his back and froze when he heard it, his arm halfway down his shirt.

"What?" said Lotho.

He pulled his arm out. "I...I...uh, asked if you f...found it yet?"

Lotho, who had only just abandoned the pile on the table and, scratching, moved towards the small desk turned and gave him a hard look. He looked towards the other. "Hatch - anything?"

"No," said Hatch in a small voice. "Nothing here b-but some kind of notes with pictures of plants on them, and some b-blankets..."

"You go help Louey look in the den. I think Baggins has a desk in there. Well? What are you just standing there for? And stop twitching!"

"I'm not twitchin', Lotho, I'm itchin' - I've been itching ever since I got here..."

"Get over there - or do I have to come make you?"

"No Lotho, you don't have to..."

Bilbo took the kettle up and slowly poured a small stream of water over the heated rocks. There was a very satisfactory hissing sound, and steam billowed up.

Hatch came around the corner to where Louey still stood. He looked at the smoke and steam curling out of the darkened den where only the slightest flickers of unearthly greens came from the fire. He stopped.

Lotho didn't notice, having already turned to the small parlour writing desk . He opened the first drawer and dug around in it.

Bilbo took ahold of the piece of heavy chain that he had placed there earlier for this purpose and very carefully and slowly dragged it across the floor.

"Hear that?" squeaked Hatch to Louey.

"Y-yeah..." whispered Louey back in a strangled whisper.

Lotho's voice came to them from the gathering gloom of the parlour. "Hear what? And what's that awful smell? That isn't you, is it? What did the old coot leave in his kitchen, a bunch of rotten eggs?" In the silence, Lotho's clothing rustled as he scratched at his back and arms restlessly. He opened the top of the desk.

The rocks hissed. The bellows moved slowly.

"Smells like....a dragon to me...."

"A what?"

"A...d..d...d-dragon..."

Carefully trickling some more water over rocks and slowly working the bellows in the midst of the stench, Bilbo felt like he could hardly breathe himself and struggled to not cough, but it was worth it. Hissing and a miasmic fog obscured the room as the steam combined with the sulpherous yellowed smoke.

Lotho's voice rebuked his cohorts from the other room. "Quit babbling. How would you know what a dragon smells like, even if there was such a thing?"

Bilbo trickled enough water to keep the steam going and moved the chain across the floor once more. The sound of something heavy, and slightly metallic slowly scraping across the floor made Hatch twitch and cower towards the scant comfort of Louey's side. The thick smoke from the twine began to creep out along the hall floor in tendrils.

"Hey, I think I found it...."

The shutters, which he had pulled closed along most of the windows made it even darker, and the den now showed no light at all except for the faintest unearthly green glow of the embers. The two younger hobbits stood in the hall, torn between their fear of and loyalty to Lotho, and their own imagined dread.

"Yes! I have it...!"

It was time. Bilbo reached smoothly for his red lamp, where it was lit under its obscuring leather cover. He slowly opened the flap he had cut in the leather.

The glowing red eye of the dragon opened slowly within the darkness of the curling steam and smoke...

Chapter 61: The Eyes Have It

Several things happened very quickly, like an explosion of playing cards when someone shoots them up into the air.

When Bilbo lifted the 'eyelid,' Louey and Hatch shrank together and their eyes roundly bugged out, Hatch's jaw gaping.

Green fire flared a sickly pallor over the faces of his audience; Louey's face seemed to pucker and puff, there was a small sound, not unlike a teakettle coming to a boil. His hands clamped over his own mouth to muffle it just as a "Maaaaa...." came squeaking out of his companion. In spite of the stink getting overwhelming, Bilbo grinned.

From the parlour, Lotho's voice hissed. "Be quiet! I said I have it - let's get out of here..."

Bilbo smoothly lowered the flap to close the 'eye' of the lamp and slipped out into the hall. He allowed the door to swing partly shut behind him, it's dark circle obscuring his makeshift 'dragon eye' construct from closer examination; besides, he had been barely able to breathe in the stifling smoke. He needn't have worried that his intended targets would come closer; on the contrary, the movement of the door on top of everything else caused his audience to begin vibrating and screeching most impressively, a noise he used for covering his own gasping of fresh air.

In that moment between their fear and their motion - for it was plain their feet were going to carry them out of Bag End, but which way would they go? - he rapidly ducked into the shallow hall alcove and reached for the thread he had rigged earlier. Loosening it, he let the slender black line slide through his hands just enough...

His hands were still damp from the steam and shaking slightly; he had a hard time lowering it slowly enough to keep it from rocking, but steadily his trusty old friend, the waiting blade, descended from where it had lain unseen between two darkly polished roots. It dangled downward like some otherwordly silver spider on its web, a lethal glimmer towards the end of the hall.

As he expected, the erstwhile burglars completed their turning in fear from the den and began running towards the unlatched back door, bouncing off of and into each other in their haste to get out. They had only taken a couple of paces before they saw, as one, the blade turning and shining in the faint green glow, shimmering in the air at the end of the hall as if held in some invisible hand. There was a mutual gasp and skidding to a halt as they spun and tried to reverse their direction.

"Eeeeyahhh..! .D-do you...?"

"Aiinnniyaaa! It's a.... there's a..."

Their faces flushed both red and white as they scrambled back the other way, arms and legs tangling in their haste. As they passed him by, Bilbo reached out - they being so conveniently close - and confettied them with a more generous dose of the itching powder. Very satisfactory - he had hoped the opportunity would arise.

Louey began a moderately high-volume howl. "I wanna go hooooome...."

Lotho came barreling around the corner into the hall, nearly colliding with them. The false will was clutched in his hand, and his voice sounded angry and (if he had admitted to it) afraid. "What's with you?" he snarled.

They ran right into him. In the resulting confusion, Bilbo slipped his useful Elven blade neatly back into its slot on the ceiling.

Both Hatch and Louey incoherently flailed past Lotho and bounced off of the latched front door, the floormat spinning off to the side as they yanked in futility at the latched knob. As one, they both seemed to remember the side window they had arrived through and headed for it, elbowing indiscriminately. Their noise increased as the itching powder began to take effect, adding to their overall panic. Arms flailed as they clambered up over the chair they had placed there earlier and then each scrambled out the window, babbling with fear, head first.

"Aiiiii.... it's biting me! Something's biting me! Bugs....!"

"Gahhhh...."

"Maaaaaaaaa!"

"Get out of my way... I wanna go hoooome..."

"What? What....?" Lotho was saying where he still stood in the hall, ineffectively giving orders to nobody. "Quiet!"

As his followers struggled out, Lotho looked all around and peered back down the dim hallway, but there was nothing to be seen. Muttering terrible imprecations against them and against Bilbo, he hesitated towards the back door then turned and followed their lead towards the window where they were now tumbling out over the windowbox, kicking each other in their haste. It was obvious his plans for secrecy were crumbling around him and he began to hiss warnings after them, though it was doubtful they were heard much less heeded.

"Where's the lookout? Is it clear? Where's Rooty?"

"Ooof, ow!"

"Mama!"

"Ow! Get off...!"

"Waaaah..."

Both of them had gone right over the now rather mashed primulas and Bilbo hoped Lotho would soon follow. There was a loud creak as the windowbox, much abused by the weight of two hobbits, gave way. A crack of wood and a thump.

Oh dear, thought Bilbo, the Gaffer's not going to be happy with that...

Lotho hesitated near the window once more, turning around in the darkened room with a fearful scowl, trying to see what had frightened them so. Bilbo was reminded of a very small dog, cornered by something much bigger than itself. It wouldn't take much to tip the balance...

He looked around for inspiration and found it in a bunch of dried onions that lay nearby. He vaguely recalled starting to take them to the kitchen earlier in the day and being distracted. He reached for them, grasped them firmly, knowing they would cease to be visible once in his grasp. They had never found his kitchen table, but they would do nicely for...

A noise, coming towards him in the dark.

Lotho blanched, and stifled a screech that would have been worthy of his mother as Bilbo stooped over and dragged the now-invisible onions, rustling across the tiles of the floor.

With no lackeys to have to be dignified for, the hitherto indomitable Lotho S-B scrambled in the most undignified manner. Bilbo looked up from the onions to find him scrabbling and whimpering at the latch on the front door. He suddenly let it go - probably because he remembered that he was supposed to be there in secret and coming out the main entrance wouldn't be the best way to stay that way - he headed once more for the waiting window and the chair that had boosted his companions.

Barreling over the sill, he reached for the now-missing windowbox and promptly did a header right onto the dirt-spattered mossy flagstones below. The chair tipped, clattering to the floor.

Bilbo winced slightly at the sound of one of his bordering bushes crunching underneath the weight of his estranged relative. He ran to the window to see what was happening in his yard.

Lotho had struggled up and made it partway down the slope, his followers were already disappearing into the gathering darkness, a headlong flight down the road. Rooty popped up from a nearby bush, which was apparently too much for the overfrayed nerves of Lotho, as his limbs shot out in four different directions, promptly sending him into an uncoordinated tumbe and nose-dive for the mulch at the edge of the yard. The hard-won scroll of paper went flying, landing with a small bounce on the on the road.

Rooty stood there, confused and unsure what he was supposed to do, or what had just happened. There was a sound of running feet as Hatch, still scratching like mad, came back for his missing brother. There was no sign of Louey.

"Rooty!"

Lotho struggled to get up, spit out a bit of turf and then cursed, holding his ankle. "Get it!" he said, "Rooty, get it! Take it to your house. Hide it!" One of his hands still held his ankle, the other scratched at his arm, side, back, so he gestured with his head to where it the fallen roll of paper lay on the hard-packed dirt. Still Rooty hesitated.

"Get it!" growled Lotho like an angry dog.

Rooty jumped, and then rapidly scrambled for the fallen scroll.

"Rooty! Rooty! Rooty!" came his brother's urging voice.

Rooty looked back at Lotho with wide eyes. "Are you..."

"Go!... Take it! I'll catch up...."

The younger hobbit obediently began to run, the paper clenched close to his breast.

"And remember," gasped Lotho as a parting shot, "No one opens it but me...!"

Scratching, moaning and muttering, he staggered up to his feet, and began hobbling down the road into the early evening, moving at a surprisingly quick pace.

Somewhere nearby, Bilbo heard a dog barking. He was surprised there weren't other voices, or an entire crowd assembling - it had all seemed like such a bedlam to him. The dog barked a couple more times, before a loudly gruff voice hushed it.

Silence descended on the Hill. After a pause, a hesitant cricket began singing again out in his garden. In the parlour, the embers settled with a crinkle and a sigh.

He let out a great breath that he hadn't realized he was holding and turned the nearby chair upright, sitting on it with relief. Now that it was over he felt both elated and surprisingly weary. He lay back against the chairback and surveyed his home. It seemed very dark - he really had thought the fires would burn a little brighter than that; it was a wonder they had seen Sting at all.

Ah. The Ring.

He drew it off of his hand and the room brightened, the normal colors of the night washing over his sight once more. The fire regained its gentle glow. He flipped the small circle in the air lovingly and caught it, then slipped it safely into his pocket where he patted it with satisfaction.

Well, he had some cleaning up to do. But he needn't worry that they might be back. No, he need not worry about that at all.

Chapter 62: Aftermath

Early the following morning peering down at his plate, the thought of eggs for breakfast was enough to make Bilbo lose his appetite. The pervasive smell of sulpher still seemed to be everywhere in spite of his having opened the windows in the night to aired it all out as best he could. He hoped the stink would dissipate soon. He set the eggs aside and reached for his plate of muffins instead. He frowned over them as he ate - even his jam seemed to have the lingering flavour of rotten eggs. How did dragons ever live with their own stink? They must never eat...

Still, in spite of the aftermath and a shortened night of sleep, he had enjoyed a generous helping of satisfaction - yes, very generous - and that must count for something. He smiled; how he had enjoyed watching Lotho limping down the road! Yes, all the fuss and bother had been well worth it, truly it had been. He brushed a few crumbs from the table and dabbed his finger into a bit of spilled jam, licking it off his finger as he set about cleaning up all the papers and mess that yet littered his home.

He bent to gather up a stack of letters that had slipped across the floor and wondered to himself as he tapped them, methodically straightening their corners; How long would it be before Lotho discovered that his hard-won paper was a fake? Or would he? Would he really keep it to himself, or would it end up in other hands? He tapped the edges of the letters a hard final rap and tied a ribbon around them before realizing that they were the garbage letters he had put out as props. He pulled the ribbon back off and dropped them in the wastebasket.

He didn't really think Lotho would pass it around; to do so would be to have to explain how he came by it. And besides, the tween was haughty enough to think himself very clever, therefore he would assume it was real... hm. Still, it would stand a bit of watching, to see.

He cleaned out the fireplaces quite thoroughly and gave everything a good sweeping, then went to the hall and gently lowered his blade to restore it to its proper place. The cool metal seemed to fit in his hand so well.

"Well, old fellow, what a time that was, eh? Not that frightening young riffraff is your type of work, but I appreciated it all the same." He smoothed a finger along the coolness of the hilt, just feeling the familiar weight and balance of it for a few moments, then shook himself out of his reverie and lovingly wrapped it up, lacing it tight and snugging it into its place with the old, faded cloak.

With a silent farewell, as a parent might give to their sleeping child, he slid the drawer shut and locked it.

As he was placing his red lamp back into its accustomed place and opening shutters he noticed the light growing outside the window. The morning really was moving on apace - he best get going on the last part of his plan before it grew too late. Leaving the shutters half opened, he quickly went down the hall to retrieve his pack from where he had dropped it the previous night. Slipping it on, he grabbed up his hat and walking stick. If he hurried, he would still have plenty of time to get around the far fields and come in from the other side of town before there were many folk about on the roads.

He stuffed a bit of spending money in his coat pocket and headed for the back door, but stopped with is hand on the knob as he remembered the itching powder. A close call; he had almost been caught in his own trap. He trotted back to the kitchen for a wet rag that he could carefully wipe it all up with, and that accomplished, tossed it aside to head out into the morning. Even though he knew he hadn't got any of it on him, he itched for a while just thinking about it. He scratched the phantom itch on his shoulder, then his side, then his leg... it seemed to keep moving.

Keeping moving was one of his goals, of course, but he was thinking of his feet rather than itches. He scratched a couple more times then forgot about it as he cut through the back ways rapidly as he could, ducking through two orchards and climbing a short fence to reach the far end of the main track without being seen. Puffing slightly, he lightly jogged along a long hedge, crossed another dew-wet field and finally rejoined the path as it curved back towards Hobbiton proper from the east.

He paused to mop his reddened brow with his handkerchief and to catch his breath. There. Now he could be seen. He began walking at a more typical pace for any passer-by to witness. Passing a watering trough, he dabbled his fingers in the mud at the edge of it and lightly spattered his own breeches and the edges of his coat. Wouldn't do to be too clean if he had been traveling, after all...

Hoping to attract some small notice, he struck up a cheery walking tune, whistling and singing as he went lest the few folk up and about should miss him. He knew there was a home coming up just past this hedge. Ah yes, he imagined them telling their friends, I saw old Bilbo Baggins just this morning. Looks like he's been off on another one of his journeys again, he was just coming back....

"Mmbllllaah."

He came out of his self-congratulatory reverie as he rounded the hedge to find a fat ewe curiously staring at him from her picket in the neatly kept yard. She took a bite of the tall weeds she was apparently there to chew down and ground them placidly in her teeth. No hobbits were anywhere to be seen. He paused and glanced around. Just when he needed an audience... Well, there would be plenty of others as he came in towards the market. He nodded to the sheep, who dribbled weed-juice without comment, and continued on.

Humming and swinging his walking stick he made a point of greeting anyone he saw, even when it was only small children, or in one case just someone's backside sticking out of an overgrown bush they were trimming. The sun was rising up towards the treetops by the time he reached the market square and it was already busy. He had figured it would be, though it wasn't a major marketing day; the local vendors and farmers had their customary stalls set up, overflowing as they were with the harvest-time produce. Most were watched over by whichever family member they could most spare from the farm chores. Harvest time was always busy.

Entering from the east, Bilbo decided to make a point of purchasing something from one of the first stalls he came to, which happened to be a cheesemaker.

"Fine day for traveling, isn't it?" he commented to the sandy-haired fat-faced hobbit who remarkably resembled one of his own wares.

"Eh?" he replied. "Traveling? No further than I have to. Fine cheese this, good choice. Let me get your change for you... No, wouldn't want to go a-walkin' any more, these cheeses are heavy enough...

"Yes, I suppose they are. Good thing you didn't have to carry them clear from Michel Delving! It's quite a distance, I can tell you. Well, good-day." Bilbo took his change and the small round cheese he had purchased and began weaving his way through the various folk, very slowly progressing back towards his home, greeting and making small talk as he went.

He had just chosen three small but firm cucumbers when he heard one of the voices he had been surreptitiously listening for.

He smiled at the hobbit-lady who was meticulously wiping the garden soil from the rest of her cucumbers with a bit of sacking, restacking them as if they were fine china, all the while tracking the voices behind him. "Fine day for traveling, but how glad I will be to be home," he said to her as she took his coin. "I'm sure these cucumbers will taste extra good after a long walk." She nodded at him somewhat bemused, and turned to help another customer as he tucked them in his large coat pocket Bilbo glanced around casually trying to see where they were....

Ah. There. Both of the Grubb boys and their mother, Opal, too. Very good.

He studied them for a moment. They all looked very tired, as if they hadn't had nearly enough sleep, the boys especially. He wondered why the boys were dressed as they were, their clothing appeared far too big for them, belted around their waists and draping from their shoulders voluminously. Young Rooty was tripping over the hem of his breeches as they caught on his toes. Their hair appeared to be strangely matted down.

As he approached them the lad's eyes grew wide. One went pale, the other blushed a bright red and both of them shied away from him, twitching.

"Eeeya." squeaked Rooty and half-turned as if he would have began to run, then stopped and hid behind his brother instead. Hatch was little comfort or cover for him as he himself was busy trying to hide behind their mother.

Opal was uncomprehending of their strange behavior and was quick to smack the nearest one a slap on the shoulder, a hen pecking her chick back into line. "Mind your manners!" she whispered and turned to Bilbo.

He nodded to her. "Good morning, Mrs. Grubb."

"Good morning - I'm so sorry, Mr. Baggins, I don't know what's gotten into them. And here they've already been grounded - they're having to spend the entire day with me where I can keep an eye on them after they ran off to gracious-knows-where last night, right when we had dinner guests too, and then the come into my clean house hollering that they're being eaten by bugs! Bugs! Can you imagine! What are my guests going to think of me as a housekeeper or a mother, if my children are ridden with fleas or lice or gracious-knows-what! Ach! So what am I to do with them?"

"I don't know," said Bilbo mildly. "What did you do with them?"

"Why, I had a houseful of guests and a dinner to tend, Mr. Baggins, I didn't do a thing! I gave them over to Mr. Grubb to deal with, of course, they're his sons, after all, and sometimes just as worthless around the house, I say. Gracious! And the hollering we all heard coming from that bathing-house after he got them in there, such a racket, you'd think he was killing them, and that before he'd even given them a strapping."

The boys hung their heads, their ears burning red at their mother gossiping about them out in the square this way. Bilbo almost would have felt sorry for them if he hadn't been enjoying their fate so much. He hoped they would at least think twice before ever following someone into burglary again.

"Well, they do look nice and clean this morning, Mrs. Grubb. Positively glowing with cleanliness."

She glanced over her sons critically. "They should, nigh on had their hides scrubbed off. Kept us all up late enough with the hollering and splashing and then having to air out their bedding and wash their clothes and all. I doused both of them good with mayonnaise in their hair too, to get rid of it. And nightmares too! And then we had to find clothes for them to wear to market this morning, with their own all still being wet and all. Good thing Mr.Grubb had plenty of extras. Where would they go picking up lice and such like that, I'd like to know."

Bilbo met Hatch's eyes. "Oh, you never know. A louse can be a persistent nuisance, Mrs. Grubb, you never know where you might find one, especially the larger varieties." He looked back up at their mother. "I do hope the rest of your day goes better."

"Well, it should, I should hope to shout. Kind of you to say so, Mr. Baggins..." her thoughts came away from her own troubles long enough to take in his own mud-spattered coat. "Oh, have you been away? I didn't know!"

"Just a bit of a jaunt, before the season gets colder you know. It's been fine traveling weather and I didn't want to let the opportunity go to waste."

"Really! Well, I'd love to hear about it..."

"Oh, nothing happening that's worthy of note, no, nothing of note really. I can see you have your hands full with your family obligations right now, so I'll bid you a Good-day, Mrs. Grubb," he said politely, and left them with a smile.

He continued on past a lad hawking birdhouses made from hollow gourds, dodged around a small wagon of corn and another of squash. He had just about given up on the idea of finding out Lotho's fate when Otho Sackville-Baggins came around the wagon's end, several of the small yellow squash balanced in his hands, as well as a basket of pears on one arm and a bunch of onions tucked under his other. Bilbo perked up more than he normally would have at the sight of them and watched with interest as Lotho trailed in behind.

Like the Grubbs, Lotho appeared to have slept very little. he had an untidy, rumpled look and his father wore a frown deeper than his usual day-to-day one. Otho's arms were filled, but Bilbo noted that he didn't use his son as a packhorse as was his usual habit. In fact, he didn't even speak to him.

Lotho limped along behind with a loose shirt, his hair matted down, his bright red hands and legs thoroughly smeared with his mother's home remedy, his ankle bound in strips that appeared to have once been one of Lobelia's aprons. He scratched feebly. Bilbo remembered Offal's comment that it was a remedy a person wouldn't want to smell, and as he came nearer he had to agree. It had to have some sort of fish oil in it to be quite that rank - and the crushed seeds and cucumber bits in it made it look exceptionally grotesque. Gnats circled the unfortunate tween, attracted to the scent and he waved his arms ineffectively at them. Neither of the relatives appeared to be in a mood to visit even if Bilbo had been one they normally would converse with - but he had seen enough to be content for now.

Well, perhaps one small jab. He walked up to them where they stood by the squash wagon.

"Good morning, Otho. Fine idea, squash. Must be a good price. I've been walking so long I'm famished, so everything looks good."

Otho grunted a greeting at him. "What do you care what price they are?" he said, scowling slightly. He turned away.

This being de rigeur for Otho, Bilbo was unfazed. He stepped past them and picked up a squash, pretending to examine it, then glanced at Lotho as if just noticing him for the first time.

"Good heavens. Whatever happened to you?" he asked him.

He had to give credit to Lotho for keeping his face fairly unreadable. There was a scowl and a twitch, but little else to show what he was thinking. "Nothing my real family can't cure." he replied, "We can't afford fancy doctors, after all, but my mother...."

"Hush up." cut in Otho.

Lotho went silent, but managed to look briefly gloating and frightened at the same time., stemming any further contemptuous replies. Ah, thought Bilbo, he's shaken, but he still thinks his prize is real then....

"Well. I do hope you recover soon; no doubt Lobelia's doctoring is exactly what you need. Good day."

Turning back to the waiting farmer's wife who had been trying to appear uninterested in this exchange, he chose two long yellow summer squash and tucked them under his arm. He didn't really need any; his own gardens were overflowing with vegetables but it seemed the right thing to do after walking right up this way. "Thank you, they look very nice." he told her politely.

He found himself toying with the notion of following Lotho as he trailed back the other way with his father, or going by the S-B's home itself but decided it would be much too unusual to go without comment. Since when did he go calling on Lobelia? He took his change and turned to the Hill once more.

Smiling suddenly at the memory of Lotho's frantic nighttime departure, he paused on the fringe of the market to purchase a pair of well-dressed hens as an accompaniment for the battered onions that he had used the previous evening. Some onion and sage stuffing would be just the ticket. Would go well with his squash too. All it took was the right ingredients to make a pleasant thought.

His arms full, he headed home and cheerfully took himself straight to his kitchen. The chickens were stuffed and set to roasting for dinner, and the squash sliced up and layered with butter and pepper, ready to bake. He had began wiping down the kitchen when he noticed the breadbox Louey had pilfered the night before and realized he needed to give thought to getting the rest of the cleaning done before someone...

The doorbell jangled politely.

He quickly whipped away the towel he had tucked in his shirt to keep his weskit clean. Who could it be? Hopefully only a delivery - he wasn't ready for company yet.

"Just a minute. Coming!" he said as he shot his wet rag straight across the kitchen into the basin and trotted for the door. It better not be Otho... or the Gaffer. He wasn't sure what he was going to say about that windowbox yet... He opened it.

The lawyer, Mr. Egnog Banks, stood at his door. His brown coat, shiny pocketwatch chain and brown waistcoat, topped with a perfectly matching brown hat made Bilbo suddenly feel very untidy.

"Mr. Banks! Good morning..." he fumbled, he could feel his cheeks growing warm.

The lawyer removed his hat. "I came as soon as I could, once I received your, hm, letter Mr. Baggins." he said. "May I come in?"

"Oh, of course, of course! Come right in. Please, let me hang up your hat and coat. Have a seat. I'll have tea on in a just a moment."

Mr. Banks stepped in over the rumpled floor mat and looked askance at the papers that still lay scattered about the parlour, the damp rag that had wiped up the itching powder laying on the floor where Bilbo had dropped it that morning. He sniffed slightly and wrinkled his nose but made no comment. Going to the parlour as indicated, he pulled out a seat, wordlessly removed a large pinecone from it and sat down to wait. In his business it was often wisest to simply hold his tongue. Confidentiality was part of what made his profession successful.

Bilbo, who had just swung the kettle over the fire to heat, winced slightly to himself. He had forgotten about the pinecone, which he had placed there on the off-chance Lotho might have a seat; he was quite grateful that Mr. Banks had not ended up sitting on it instead. He fetched down a pair of mugs, a small plate of soft butter and a basket of rolls then seated himself across from his waiting caller.

"I apologize for the disarray. But I am very pleased to see you."

"Hm. Pleased to be of service, Mr. Baggins. How can I be of help?"

Chapter 63: Descendants

Mr. Egnog Banks sat at the table and looked at him with a placid expectation that reminded Bilbo strangely of the sheep he had recently seen. Bilbo took a roll and buttered it to gain a moment to gather his thoughts, then passed the basket of rolls to his guest.

"Well. You remember that will we had drawn up recently...?"

"Of course. It's been filed. Has there been a change to it already?"

"No, no change... not really. Though I might want something like an... addition, er, amendment. I just have a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Yes?"

"What would happen in this paper, this will we've gotten all done up and signed and such, what if it were 'lost'?"

Mr. Banks set his roll down and steepled his fingers over it. "We would have another copy drawn up from the one filed in Michel Delving. It has been known to happen. Has it been, hm, lost?"

"No, no... Yes, I understand about the copy being drawn up, but let's say that copy in Michel Delving, that it were also lost?"

"A highly unlikely event, Mr. Baggins...."
"But if it were?"

The lawyer furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "I suppose if we are to entertain the notion, for a moment, though I assure you it would be most irregular..."

"Irregular, yes, but not impossible. Well?"

The lawyer's steeple folded inward, cupping the roll in his well-scrubbed fingertips. "The next step would be to call upon the witnesses that you had sign it, to testify to its original content."

Bilbo got up to fetch the teakettle and scooped some tea into the hot water. He replaced the lid, and set it on the table to steep. "And, just bear with me now, for no doubt you will also think this idea highly irregular as you say, what if the witnesses were kept from testifying in some way?"

Egnog took a neat bite, then added more butter. "By illness, or inclement weather you mean?"

"Or even by intimidation, perhaps?"

Egnog's brow furrowed anew and he paused in chewing. He pursed his lips with distaste at the thought of such a thing but then swallowed and reluctantly answered. "If there were no copies, and no witnesses, and it came under contest, the default, that is, the next in line to inherit would be re-engaged."

"You mean it could kick back in, in spite of everything that was done before?"

"It would be an uphill battle, but it is possible if those contesting it..."

"The next of kin, you mean."

"Well, yes. If they were to prove the witnesses faulty in some way... I really don't understand this line of questioning, Mr. Baggins. I assure you that..."

"...Nothing like that would ever happen in the Shire. I know. But it is not outside the realm of possibility, and that is what I want to find out."

Mr. Banks sighed slightly. "I concur, it is not outside the realm of, ehm, possibility as you say. But you had several witnesses..."

"Yes. I did." Bilbo waved his hand impatiently. "Now - another question for you. Let's assume the Will is fine, everything is sailing along like a duck on an spring day. Let's say I'm gone, and Frodo is living here. But then some...accident happens. Something that creates a situation in which he cannot care for Bag End, and has to... leave or something." Bilbo poured out the tea.

"I don't think..."

"Please humor me, Mr. Banks. I know you find this unlikely, but what would happen?"

The lawyer shifted in his chair uncomfortably and sipped the steaming tea as he thought. "If he were completely unable to make use of the inheritance, it would revert to the default descendants."

"My next-of-kin?"

"Er, yes."

"So," said Bilbo clanking the lid back onto the teapot. "What would fix that? Isn't there any way to make it so no matter what, the inheritance does not go to them?" He sat back and crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. He simply would not accept there was no way to keep it permanently away from them. There had to be one...

"Ahem. Erm." said Mr. Banks, nibbling at his roll. He tapped his fingers on the table, then ran them over his lapel, tugging it straight. "The only stipulation I can think of, Mr. Baggins, would be if there were another descendant. A legitimate heir that is closer in relation to yourself, closer than Mr. Otho Sackville-Baggins and his family are. Perhaps," and here the lawyer offered a rare jesting smile, "you ought to take a wife."

Bilbo shook his head. "I know you mean that in jest, sir, but I am quite serious. If I had a proper descendant, a child then, that's the only way around it?" He bit his lip thoughtfully for a moment. "Would it have to be a son?"

Egnog's eyebrows raised up, scrunching his forehead into several lines. "Well, eh, er, yes, a son would come first. But please don't think that I was really suggesting...."

Bilbo interrupted him, again impatiently waving the apology away. "And if something happened to that... son?" He felt his insides clenching up at the thought. "What then?"

"If a son were, erm, disabled, it would er, go to the son's heir."

"The son's heir? Not my heir?"

"Well, yes - it would by necessity begin following a, ehm, different branch of your family tree, if you will..."

Bilbo pounced on it . "Then that's the way out!"

"Eh?" The lawyer was so startled he fumbled his half-eaten roll into his lap.

"I am too old to take a wife, even if I wanted to, which I most certainly don't. I have no children. What next? How can I procure a child without it being my own natural descendant?"

Egnog looked at him as one might a raving sleepwalker they didn't want to wake. "Well," he said, then started again. "Well, if it is not too forward to suggest it, there is legal adoption... Yes, legal adoption of a child. But they would have to have no family of their own, of course..."

Bilbo spoke carefully and clearly, leaning forward for emphasis. "So, if I were to choose a child who was in need of a home, who had no parents of his own, and legally adopted him as a son, he would be considered my descendant?"

"Inasmuch as inheritances go, yes. I cannot say how others might see it..."

"Their opinions don't matter. Mine does. How old would the child need to be?" Bilbo hadn't realized how intense he was getting, or that he was now half over the table, all but poking the lawyer's lapel with a forefinger. Inwardly he was scrambling about, his thoughts in a whirl. If he could find a suitable child, he could make Frodo the legal warden of the child, and then Frodo could live in Bag End, he would have to to raise his ward, but that would take several years....

Egnog frowned slightly at the pointing finger and unobtrusively leaned away. "The law doesn't specify an age, though they are usually quite young of course."

"No age is specified?"

"No, Mr. Baggins."

Bilbo's hands fell to his side and then lifted to rumple and tug at his own hair. He felt as if a lamp had been lit, an idea seen clearly for the first time. Why have Frodo raise the child, if he could be the "child"?

"Could the child be any age at all then, even older? Any age at all, a grown hobbit?"

The lawyer chuckled at this. "I suppose so. Yes you could even adopt a grown hobbit if you wanted to, though it is usual to want your children to at least be younger than yourself, haha..." He sobered slightly realizing that Bilbo was dead serious about it. "But younger is recommended, so they will live enough longer than you to make it worth your while."

"Younger than myself." said Bilbo, more to himself than his guest.

"Then the health of the heir, or the location of the Will would not be as much a factor - an adopted child, or, ehm, grown hobbit, would inherit the worldly estate no matter what."

Bilbo was still slightly overwhelmed by his own thoughts. "How about a tween?"

"Certainly," said the lawyer, enunciating very carefully. "Any age. I take it you have someone in mind?"

"Well, yes. Yes, of course, the lad we drew up the Will for in the first place. But I assume the 'child' has to give permission. They can't be adopted against their will can they?"

Egnog relaxed, and picked up his forgotten roll, once more on familiar ground. He gestured with it. "When they are very young, their nearest relative gives permission. If they haven't any they are taken into the care of the head of their Farthing. I would think a tween would certainly be old enough to choose for himself."

"Yes..."

"It would mean changing his family name to be the same as yours, though. Perhaps he wouldn't want to do that...".

Bilbo just smiled and took a drink of his tea.

"There would need to be more papers drawn up, of course. There are a few fees, and more witnesses..." The lawyer trailed off with an unspoken question.

Bilbo nodded. "No matter what the cost, or the number of papers. I just need to find some way to make this secure. I engage your most competent and useful services once more, Mr. Banks, if you accept. It appears I am going to have a child, and at my age that is quite a bit of news, eh? " He grinned suddenly. "Let me top off that mug for you. I suddenly feel like a celebration should be in order! Tell me what needs to be done."


The rolls were gone and the tea-pot empty before he was able to see his visitor to the door. Lawmaking was harder work than he had first thought, and he waved a grateful farewell to the lawyer as he went his way.

He shut the door and then leaned back upon it with a great breath of relief.

Adoption.

Frodo being seen as his child? It was a strange thought, and he still couldn't quite wrap his thoughts around it. Would he be considered Frodo's father then? He rejected it outright. No. Himself as a father - no, that simply would not do. He wasn't anyone's father, in fact he did not consider himself to be fatherly at all. Maybe more like an uncle, an uncle for his young cousin. A very old uncle. Yes, he knew how to be an uncle, if an eccentric one. Perhaps that would be all right. It suited him a little better, he shrugged his shoulders self-consciously as if feeling the fit of a jacket. A friend, a mentor, an uncle.

Yes, that he could do.

Chapter 64: Berries and Apples

It was two days before Bilbo remembered he had stashed the Will over at the Cotton's farm, or rather that he remembered at a time when visiting would be acceptable. It was an ongoing problem he had, thinking of things that needed to be tended only in the middle of the night or some other time when it was impossible to take care of them.

Bag End was neater than it had been in a long while, thanks to his hours of work cleaning up his trickery with Lotho and company. With early September just feeling its way toward Autumn, the weather had turned overcast and a little chill in the mornings and he had found it necessary to stoke his fireplaces, all the windows being opened to air out the sulphuric stench; he was glad to see it clearing up outside this day. He pulled on a light coat and tucked an apple into one of the pockets. The Cottons would most likely be working in their orchard, it being the beginning of their apple-and-cider season, so he headed down the sidepath to cut towards the back of their land instead of taking the road to the farmhouse itself.

The fields were still damp-feeling and the grasses were filled with life, mice gathering grains against the coming colder days, rabbits burrowing deeper into the earth. Birds were only just beginning to flock together, flying from tree to tree in groups that would grow ever-larger over the next month or so until the days when they would all suddenly rise into the air by some unspoken sign and fly away, ragged clouds blown before the winds of the winter. It was hard to think of winter right now, he thought, with the harvest and the sunlight still laying so amiable and mild about the land.

Picking his way past the remains of a small hay-shed that had long since been overgrown with wild blackberries, he could see the last of the berries were still fat and full on their brambles, up out of easy reach. Deep inside the thorny briers were many more, still plumply shining, temptingly purple-ebony under their brown whiskers. All around them hung the shriveling remains of the earlier bunches that had likewise tempted pickers the month before, stuck here and there with wayward thistle-down. It would take a very determined hobbit to find a way to those inner clusters, so of course they appeared to be the most sweet. He wondered how many poeple really would take the time, and the scratches, to reach them... Most would simply resign themselves to it being out of reach, convince themselves that they were probably sour anyway. He wondered if Frodo would walk away or burrow in towards them, given a chance.

Tugging himself loose from a bramble that had snaked its way out from the rest and hidden in the tall grasses, he paused to blow on his scratches, examining the small damage to his cuff. The cuff having become adorned with a trio of minuscule lemon-white spiders, he flicked them away and then brushed at it briskly as if to remove even the memory of their passing from the fabric. True, they were no larger than a freckle, but he never had cared much for spiders...

Behind him the bramble became suddenly alive with with a small flock of tiny grey-drab birds, landing upon it all at once, hopping about and twittering. They had no troubles reaching those berries, none at all. He recalled what his mother had called such berries now, any berry that was unreachable or even (to Hobbits) inedible, no matter its color or size:

'What are those called?' he would ask, and her answer would always be the same.
'Birdberries. Those are just birdberries.'

He had wondered greatly, in his youth, that birdberries grew on so many different kinds of plants... he watched the birds for a moment. What a difference it was, he thought. Those who must steal their treasures have to work and suffer so...and those to whom it rightfully belongs just jump right in past the thorns and gather it up. He snorted lightly and continued on. Birdberries....

The Cotton's orchard was on a well-tended swell of land, deep brown and mossy right beside the deep golden of their hard-wheat harvest. The scent of the moist loam rose up to meet him as he entered the shade of the gnarled apple and pear trees, the tang of overripe windfalls and the hum of wasps settling upon them to drink of the sweet juices all around. It was cool and soft underfoot and very peaceful and orderly. Up towards the end he could see them working, the ladders leaning akimbo, crates and boxes for eating and cider apples standing here and there. Several of the Cotton's relatives were there, lifting and picking and sorting, lending a hand in exchange for a share of the cider from the cider-press. Farmer Cotton noticed his neighbor approaching through the trees and came to meet Bilbo, wiping apple-juice from his hands as he came.

"Mr Baggins! Good day - what can I do for you?" he asked.

Bilbo smiled and gave a polite nod. "A good day to you also, and to your family - and I see you have more than usual of them with you here today too. I don't want to interrupt your work, just needed to see if I might be able to retrieve that jar that I had left in your safekeeping recently. I can take it off our hands now, with my thanks."

"Oh yes! Hi! Tom! Come here for a moment." he hailed his young son, who was picking up the sounder windfalls for the cider bins. Grateful for a reprieve, as children always are, the lad left his bucket behind and stuffed the two apples he had in his hands into his pockets as he came.

"Here now, Mr. Baggins left a jar with your Mum, and he needs to get it back now. She'll know which one it is. You run back home and bring it back here right quick..." Tom began to skip off. "Hey now! ...but you be careful! It's not to be dropped, understand?"

"Yessir!" said Tom and skipped away, his apple-bulging pockets bouncing as he went.

His father watched him run and then gave Bilbo a crooked smile. "He'll fetch it, he's a good lad, don't you fear. I can see you're a worritin' about your jar being skipped along like that. It'll be fine. Now, you said once the need for its safekeeping was over and done with, you'd tell me a little about all this." He pushed his hat back and stuck his hands in his pockets expectantly.

Bilbo was quiet for a moment, listening to the conversations between the workers, the caws of a trio of crows, flapping away from the very accurate stones being whisked at them as they dipped down for a taste of the ripened wheat. His companion waited patiently. Farmer Cotton was nothing if not a patient hobbit, and he had a bit of an inkling what it might be about anyway. Bilbo, realizing that if he could overhear the workers they would be just as able to hear him, hesitated.

"Come, walk with me a bit. I'll show you round the orchard." said Farmer Cotton. "Some little pitchers have big ears, after all."

Bilbo smiled. It was always pleasant to be understood. "I'd be glad to see your orchard. Tell me a bit about the apple harvest, and I'll share a little news of my own as we go." He followed his neighbor's ambling walk through the neat rows of trees, away from the workers.

It was a pleasing enough ramble, and the better part of a half-hour went by before they slowly made their way around the bend of the trees and back towards the barn. Farmer Cotton had related a little about his harvest, as requested, and Bilbo returned it with an earful and more about his own familial situations and choices, ending at last with his recent decision to amend his papers for an adoption. Tolman Cotton's eyes crinkled up in the corners as he smiled.

"Ay-yup. It's right. It's the right thing to do, Mr. Baggins. Sounds like you've had a time and a half with the other relations, more than your share. Not meaning any disrespect by it, of course, but there's other Hobbits in the Shire that would give their eye-teeth to be able to have a chance at that Hill of yours, and you've done right to get it all legal and proper. No one will be nay-saying your lad, once they settle down on the idea. You wait and see."

"I do hope you're right. Of course I would like to keep it under our hats, so to speak, until I have a chance to tell Frodo about it..."

The sun-weathered head bobbed in agreement. "Good seed makes a good strong crop, as long as you can keep the weeds at bay. Poor seed no good for anything but animal feed. 'Tis a shame. But no one can say it's the family entire, why look at yourself and your young fellow, Frodo. Plenty of good folks too. Family tree just needed a little pruning, or at least a bit of a spray to keep down the codling moths."

"Coddling moths?" he was vague on this, though it sounded familiar. Something the Gaffer had spoken of, perhaps.

"Right nuisances they are for apple trees, always gettin' in the fruit, hide in the bark, they do. And speaking of moths, that reminds me. You know, we had a bit of news about that lass that Lotho had taken up with this summer past, the one who kept on a-flittin' around him." He waved one hand in the air with a flutter. "Mrs. Goodbody was here just a couple days past, helping my Missus with the preserves you know. Seems that lass of hers, Ivy, has taken up with some sausage-master clear off in Deep Hallow, guess they have some relatives there that she's been staying with, along with her brother. They've set a date for the following Spring, they have, so she shan't be returning to Hobbiton long, but is going to be a sausage-mistress instead."

Bilbo tilted his head thoughtfully. "If I understood right, her brother was apprenticed to that sausage-master. Doesn't that put her in charge of him?"

Tolman chuckled. "Come to think of it, you're right. Well, they'll hash it out - family's always do."

This brought a slight grimace to Bilbo's face as he thought of the legal tangle he'd just had to wade through. "Generally. I suppose my own is a bit out of the ordinary." He kicked at a wayward windfall.

His companion gave him a look that he usually reserved for children in need of a lecture. "Now Mr. Baggins -You got a right good family. And a hand-picked one at that. No one can say you haven't got a right good eye for quality, and always pick the best. Eh? You got the finest home, and the finest clothes, and the finest manners in all the Shire. Wasn't no thorn-bush nor crabapple what sprouted your tree."

Bilbo had to smile at that, though he felt somewhat abashed at having to be lectured on his familial pride by his own neighbor. "I apologize, Mr. Cotton. You're right, I have much to be thankful for and much to be proud of. Having a fine neighbor such as yourself among them, for I do not consider your family to have come from crabapples nor thorns either."

"'Course not. We've sprouted up from cotton plants." came the reply, without missing a beat. Farmer Cotton gave him a grin. They both watched as Tom came to them over the gentle swells of the tree-roots, pushing a small goat-cart in front of him. It seemed to be laden with more than just the jar Bilbo had requested and as the lad came closer they could see it carried a large and generous basket of lunch from Mrs. Cotton as well.

Tom tugged the cart to a stop, puffing. "Mum said to bring along your luncheon, Da. She said to tell you it's a.....a..." he scrunched his brows, remembering. "A cryin' shame that you'd keep Mr. Baggins standing out in the orchard instead of inviting him in."

"She did, did she? Well, how do you like that, Mr. Baggins? You've been invited to luncheon, if you'd like."

Bilbo shook his head. "While I appreciate the thought, I really ought to be heading back to my own home. Next time you see your mother, give her my sincere regrets young Tom." He lifted his sealed jar from among the cushioning picnic-blanket that was folded around it. "And I'm most grateful for this. Thank you."

Farmer Cotton was peeking inside the large woven hamper of food. "This can't all be for just me, or even me and you. Tom! This must be a bit of a bite for everyone - tug it over thataways. I'll be there soon. Go on."

Young Tom reluctantly grasped the handles of the goat-cart and headed for the busyness of the ladders and crates nearby.

The elder Tolman lowered his voice and gave a nod to Bilbo. "Well, I thankee for the news about this willing and adopting and such. I'll let my missus know about it, to pass it on to the Goodbodys later, after the young Mr. Baggins is settled in. You know, I gave a hand to moving young Offal's goods down to Deep Hallow and I think he'll be right pleased to hear all is well, seeing as he spoke well of your lad all during our drive."

Bilbo nodded in return. "That would be fine. Thank you, for so many things. I'll be putting in an order for some of that incomparable cider of yours, so be sure to save some for me."

Farmer Cotton waved back over his shoulder as he turned to amble back to his work. "I've no lack of apples, that's a fact, but with all these cider-hogging relations, I'll have to move right quick won't I? Good day, now." He laughed lightly and continued on.

"Good-day!" returned Bilbo, and turned back towards his home, cradling the jar with the Will safely under his arm.


A little after tea, the Gaffer arrived at his back door with a crate of apples, Bilbo's own apples from his own trees.

He lowered the crate inside the doorway and then straightened his back. "Here y' go, Mr. Baggins, sir. 'Fraid we don't have too many this year, the trees bein' not at their best and all the saplings too young to bear, but the ones we have are good an' sound." He pulled a sack that he had looped over one arm to the fore and fished around in it. "And this here's the last of the good cucumbers, vines nearly done for the year with these cooler nights comin' on, the rest won't be good for naught but a pickle. Just as well the garden work is windin' down soon, seein' as we'll be needing to do a few re-pairs around the Hill. Everythin' fallin' apart an' all."

Bilbo winced inwardly. That broken windowbox. He knew as well as the Gaffer what was being referred to. He had given thought to just telling him the whole truth of the events, but finally decided against it. Not that he was a gossip, but the fewer that knew, the better when it came down to it, and it was something of a family matter.

He kept his eyes on the apples and his voice slightly distant. "Yes, I suppose there might be. Always one thing or another needing a little work, and you do it all so well. Thank you, Gaffer."

Gaffer Gamgee paused, clearing his throat slightly. "I was a-thinkin' on doing a little woodwork. Maybe tighten up the rest of the windowboxes."

"Yes, yes, that sounds like a fine idea. Go right ahead." Bilbo paused, then glanced over to him trying to not appear awkward. "While you're at it... you know, I've been thinking on those flowers that you mentioned a bit ago. How about a new set of flowers for the windowboxes? Some mums, perhaps, a bit of phlox and asters...? Anything you would like to plant would be fine. Anything at all. I completely trust your judgment."

As he had hoped, this guilt-gift of free rein in the gardens was taken up like a stack of hotcakes after a fast and all was forgiven. "Yessir! Yessir. I've some bright mums, and you might even like a spot of kale, that creamy-coloured lot. They'd look right nice with the colors. I'll be puttin' in some cabbages, cauliflowers and broccoli in the garden, and bringing in the onions. The hollyhocks need a bit of propping up..."

He continued on with enthusiasm. Both he and Bilbo knew this offer, for him, was a generous one. The Master of Bag End loved his flowers, and didn't often allow anyone else to have say over what was planted, at least not unconditionally. He and the Gaffer usually carried through in a sort of dance each year, proposing and suggesting, considering and approving.

He accepted the small stack of cucumbers and gave the Gaffer a nod. "Thank you, Gaffer. I'll take care of these. Why don't you go ahead with those flowerbeds then?"

"Yessir - thank you sir." His gardener went back towards the garden with a spring in his step that hadn't been there for a while. Bilbo smiled and closed the door, taking the cucumbers to his kitchen where he heaped them in the sink to wash and slice up later. Outside his window the cannas, lilies and dahlias were blooming among the slanted lines of drooping hollyhocks. A small decorative bush whose name he no longer recalled had the last of its summer blooms plumping up into waxy white berries that would cling through the winter. Birdberries. He propped his elbows on the sill and simply enjoyed the colors for a while, surrounded by the scent of apples and thoughts of his own recently grafted family tree.

Chapter 65: Letters

With the legal matters being settled, Bilbo found a fine, almost sweet anticipation in this coming birthday that he hadn't felt for many a year. The days seemed to stretch out before him, and the 22nd seemed very far away. After so many birthdays, he thought, the novelty of it all does wear off a bit. But this one will be a birthday to remember, for the good of it, I hope.

Mulling upon it while he ran his errands and entertained his visitors, he found it hard to concentrate on the topics of conversation at hand, his mind kept drifting to all he wanted to do to get Frodo's room ready for him, to wondering if Lotho would ever dare to try any shenanigans again, even to whether or not the Gaffer would mind having another hobbit's worth of vegetables to have to tend in the garden. But, he happily realized that that was all it was now, just mulling. All the fretting and worrying were gone, or nearly so. There was no more threat of himself or his worldly goods being parted from his chosen heir until he was good and ready for it to happen. He liked being in control... it was comforting.

It was still only the first week of September, though he felt that time really ought to be moving faster after the way the summer had flown by. He inventoried his pantries to see what he needed to have them ready for two hobbits instead of one, and rationalized indulging in several treats that he wouldn't normally have kept, just because he fancied Frodo might like them. He knew parents were expected to have restraint in stocking treats for their children, lest they spoil them, but he was no parent. He was an uncle. And uncles spoiled nephews all they liked, didn't they? He remembered Frodo had a fondness for apples, and was glad for the new saplings that had been planted. There would be plenty and to spare.

The hardest part of it was trying to decide whether to tell Frodo of this certain shift in their relationship in a letter, or to save it for when he came back for their birthday. He felt positively bursting with the news at times, and yet also strangely reluctant; he wasn't sure why - his best guess was that he was still trying to get used to the idea himself. He finally decided he would only send a small note, and save the rest for when he could speak to his...nephew...face to face.

Even with this decision made, he sat at his writing desk for the better part of an hour, indecisively putting it off before he could make himself pick up the pen and try to write something out.


My dear Frodo,

I take pen in hand to write to you, not because there has been any change in events worth noting here but because I find the days are longer than I first anticipated they would be. Nothing of note has really happened here excepting one tale regarding a certain tween relative of ours that you might find amusing. Remind me to tell you about it when you come. I am quite looking forward to your pleasant company by the fireside this winter.

I do hope you won't mind too much, but I fear I've given young Samwise permission to bake our birthday cake - a moment of lapsed judgment, perhaps, but we'll have to take our chances. If that is the only adventure the two of us share it will be a wonder. I hope all of your preparations have been going smoothly, and that your travels will likewise be untroubled.

Enclosed you will find additional travel monies, trusting they will not find their way into the wayward hands of the Brandy Hall youth this time.

With fondest regards, your.....

Bilbo paused and tapped the quill on the edge of the inkwell a few times. Your...

Your...

He paused and considered, then carefully penned:

"Uncle" Bilbo


He looked at it for a moment, then blew on the ink gently to dry it. It felt odd, assigning himself that title. No, he just wasn't quite used to it. The quotes around the title helped, a small cushioning for him, just in case it was taken poorly he could always feign it wasn't serious... not that he really thought it would be taken that way. Now that he thought about it, he was more afraid he wouldn't take it well than Frodo wouldn't.

He folded the money carefully into the paper, sealed the letter and meticulously addressed it. Looking at the Brandy Hall address, he weighed the packet in his hand and wondered if it would be the last time he wrote to the Brandybuck's bustling rabbit-warren of a smial. Well, at least the last time he wrote to Frodo there... after trying to imagine what life was like for his...nephew...there, he had been looking at it with different eyes than he used to. He had found himself renewing some old acquaintances out that way by correspondence. Making it his business to keep in touch with the leaders of the various Farthings, he had deliberately placed himself in the position of being able to go just about anywhere he liked without ever being considered a stranger to those whose lands he crossed. Besides, the hospitality of the well-off was always better, if it could be had.

Renewing those old ties was a good thing, especially if he was going to be tramping around the Shire with another hobbit in tow. He would have to be sure that Frodo remained well-connected to the Master, and the Thain also. Too bad their children were so much younger than Frodo - maybe as they grew older, that difference would matter less and he could forge some sort of connection for his heir that way.


"It isn't as if anything has really changed," he told his flowers after he had posted the letter and gone out to make use of the remaining sunshine of the day. "Really, everything is exactly the same as it was before."

The flowers nodded their heads in agreement as the breeze ruffled their petals.

"So, I've no reason to be feeling out of sorts about it. In fact, it's all precisely as it should be." he continued, patting down the soil around their stems and pinching back a few spent blooms. "There. How's that? You look just fine, much better than I do in this old coat. I'll have to give some thought to a new one, something bright for the party..."

He heard the bell at his door and turned from his amiably attentive flowers. Leaving them nodding agreeably to no one, he went round the bushes, brushing away the dirt from his hands and knees. Down the slope, the post-lad was skipping his way out the front gate and a letter lay just within the open front door.

He reached for it eagerly, a small flutter in his heart that it might be from Buckland, just as quickly flattened as his hands turned it to find the all too familiar seal of Dora. He sighed.

Carrying it inside he tossed it onto the table and went to get a drink first, then stood by the table sipping at his drink while he contemplated the waiting envelope. Considering a moment, he decided to get it over with. He set down the cup and cracked the envelope open, tapping the paper into his hand.


Greetings to you, Bilbo, from your most concerned Dora,

I cannot begin to express to you the worries and fret that tidings of your doings have brought. I was so surprised I had my best hat knocked clean off my head and then nearly stepped on, can you believe. If something like it happens again, I shall have to pin my hat on before hearing the news. Especially with hats costing so much these days. Your great-uncle Largo always sent me a new hat for his birthday, and how I miss them.

Your second-cousin, twice-removed, Peabo, you remember him, was visiting this week and said all of Hobbiton was positively in an uproar over you and our somewhat distant relations being estranged, though I do approve of your taking in my nephew. The apple never falls far from the tree, so I do hope you realize that all relatives are still relatives, and we're all eating slices from the same pie.

I fully expect you to properly introduce me to him, I've never had the pleasure of meeting this (by all words) neglected, destitute son of our poor dearly departed Drogo, what with him living so terribly far away. Why Drogo had to go and drown himself way off in Buckland of all places is beyond me. You would think he could have at least moved back to Hobbiton first if he was planning on being so careless, not to speak ill of our dearly departed, of course. I recall he always was quite enormous. If the son is anything like his father, I do hope you've well stocked your kitchens. Now I must run, your cousin-twice-removed Dingo is showing those dogs of his at the dog-and-pony show this afternoon and I'm running the bake sale. You needn't worry, I'll write again soon and tell you how it went.

Yours with concern for yours and that young Frodo's welfare, with greatly affectionate sincerity,

Dora

p.s. Second-cousin Peabo is to be wed to Gladiolus Hardtoe this winter, can you believe it? That family has enough daughters to run a quilting bee all by themselves. What will happen next? - D.

pps. Third-cousin Sweetpea will be having a tea party and 'coming of age' party in March. Don't forget it. She's the one with the aunt off in Frogmorton, the second of those sisters. You know the ones. Bongo will be leading the music, so I hope you will attend. - D.

ppps. Great-uncle Gumbo's annual cook-off will be in the South pasture this year, since the North one was purchased by those goat-herding Sandyhills and the goats about destroyed his onion patch. Young Rumbo's wine-cake mustn't be missed. You really ought to attend one of these years, Bilbo. Your neglect of your family duties is quite shocking at times. - D.

pppps. Also, you really ought to catch up on your correspondence. I haven't heard from you in ages. It's a good thing you have me to keep you up on your social necessities! - D.


He shook his head over it. What sort of aunt was she, that she had never even taken the time to meet her own very-true nephew, when Bilbo had to go to such lengths to be an uncle? And then to chide him about family duties. He rolled his eyes, and tossed it into the wastebasket. If she took the time to meet Frodo herself, then she would get a bit more respect in his eyes. He would wait to see if she did.

Going back out, he found Sam raking the edge of the yard with his wooden rake, gathering up all the flower trimmings that Bilbo had left into a neat pile. He was softly singing a simple tune as he contentedly worked. The Gaffer was hauling mulch to the more delicate plants nearby.

"Sam."

The lad stopped singing and looked up at him. "Yessir?"

Bilbo smiled at him. "I'm sorry... I interrupted your song."

Sam blinked at him. "That's all right sir. I can sing it again anytime you like, sir."

"True. I suppose you can. Sam... you have some aunts, don't you? And uncles?"

"Yessir. I have...lots of 'em. Cousins too. Doesn't everyone?"

"No, some hobbits don't have many at all."

"Really?"

"Really." Bilbo stooped a bit, to be closer to Sam's height. "I like to learn new things, and you know what? I don't really know how to be a good uncle for someone. I thought maybe you would like to teach me. Tell me, do you see them often? What do they do with you when they visit you?"

Sam leaned his chin on his rake and thought about it very seriously. "Well, a couple of 'em live kinda far away, so I don't see 'em as much. But the others I do. I don't like it when they squish my face, or pull my foothair to see how long it is. But I like the cakes they bring, and sometimes we get to play games, if there's cousins. My aunts bring cakes. But you wouldn't be an aunt, Mr. Baggins. Aunts are girls."

Bilbo raised his brows and feigned surprise at this news. "Ah, you don't say! And what about your uncles, then?"

Sam grew more animated. "My uncle Andy is my fav'rite! He knows all kinds of tricks, and he's really fun. I like my uncle Andy. He takes me on walks sometimes, and knows how to make ropes out of just about anything." He illustrated, weaving his hands around in the air and dropping his rake. "Even cornhusks, and dandelion stems, he twisted them up at a picnic for me. He can do tricks with ropes, even walk on one! Or that's what he says, I haven't really seen him do it yet."

"And your other uncles?"

"Well, they aren't as fun. They mostly just talk to my Gaffer and smoke their pipes. I wish I had more uncles like my uncle Andy. I wrote him my name, just like you taught me, and he kept it. He folded it up real small, and put it in his shirt pocket, 'cause he said it was Sam over his heart that way. I liked that."

"So if I wanted to learn what it was like to be a good uncle, I should learn some tricks?"

Sam smiled at him. "I think you already have lots of good tricks, and stories too. You would make a good uncle, I think. And you're a boy. Uncles are boys."

"Well," said Bilbo nodding wisely, "in that case I'll take your word for it. Thank you for your assistance, young Samwise. Now you better pick up that rake before you step on it and smack yourself in the face."

"Oop." He bent down and retrieved his tool. "You're welcome, sir." He looked up past Bilbo. "Looks like you got a letter, sir." he said, gesturing.

Bilbo was surprised. Another letter? Whoever would it be from? "Thank you, Sam," he said and went to take it from the hand of the breathless post-lad who politely waited by his gate, seeing him there in the yard.

He knew what it was the moment he laid eyes on it, and had a hard time getting the coin out of his pocket and into the lad's hand, so jolted he was by the sight of that familiar flowing handwriting.

How could it be? How was it possible? He had only just posted his own letter that morning, there was no way it could be a reply. Their letters must have passed one another on the road, thinking of one another at the same time...

He took it to the front bench and sat down, cracking the seal and unfolding the single sheet very quickly. It was small and smooth and fluttered slightly in his hands.


My dearest Bilbo,

I know that it is only three short weeks until I shall be seeing you again, but I find I have missed your wit and humor, your ready company each day. Still, I believe it was right for me to come back to Buckland when I did. It has given me a chance to say a proper farewell to my old haunts as well as to a few friends here. I truly feel I am able to look forward to my upcoming shift to Hobbiton with a lighter heart than I would have otherwise.

I am still planning on being there in time for our birthday and will be bringing my belongings, such as they are, if you will still have me.

I don't know if you recall it, but I neglected saying farewell to young Samwise before I left and I do hope he wasn't too disappointed. He is a dear, stout-hearted lad, isn't he? If you don't mind, I would like to include him in our birthday this year to sort of make up for it. I'm sure we can think of something he could do.

The Mistress and Masters, both the younger and the older, send their greetings to you. Or rather, the first two, the Elder Master having fallen asleep before answering when I inquired. I am sure he would greet you also if he were waking.

I eagerly anticipate seeing you once again,

Your Frodo


Bilbo read it over two more times, then went inside to carefully note the date for Frodo's arrival in his appointment book, decorating it with a few small doodles to make it appear festive.

He considered the letter again, then ever so carefully folded it small and buttoned it into the pocket on the breast of his weskit. Safely over his heart.

Chapter 66: Gifts

It had taken nearly a week, Bilbo reflected as he closed the drawer on his writing desk, and September was moving on apace but it had been time well spent.

At last he had the final witnessing signatures he needed for the adoption papers - and he was very pleased with himself that he had managed to go about it so quietly, as if it were simply one more thing that was needed for the original Will. After all, there'd been more than enough stir about all this business already, and the legal difference would mean little to most Hobbits, even if it were their business which it was not. He considered it sufficient that he would begin referring to Frodo as his nephew, and they would become used to it in time. Only one remained to be added and, as before, it was Frodo's.

The time was going by so quickly, there was so much to be done. He had spent a fair bit of time setting up his household with two hobbits in mind; opening up and freshening Frodo's room in what he hoped was a welcoming way, rearranging the furniture so there were two overstuffed chairs conveniently near the hearth instead of one and so on. His pantries were well stocked and he had even cleared away some of the assorted whatnot from the coat racks to be sure there would be two clear places, right at the end nearest the door. He found he was getting rather excited about it all, it felt like planning a party.

Over the intervening days he had considered what sort of celebration he ought to have. One thought had been throwing an 'adoption party,' but he wasn't sure Frodo would appreciate that much attention to it, at least not when it was so new to them both. Better to just have a 'birthday' party together, a regular birthday, really together. But perhaps a nice big party was still called for. A cheery, busy birthday party, one with plenty of hobbits, and music, plenty of food and presents for all! After all, Frodo was important to him and he saw no reason to hide that. What better way than a rousing social, with cakes and wine and...? He imagined the mirth and good cheer that a hillfull of Hobbits could create and nodded in agreement with himself, muffling that small part of himself that objected to all the crowding. A birthday party wouldn't have anything to do with the adoption, after all.

Just the prospect of a party was pleasant to think upon. And it being his birthday too, he needed to give thought to presents. The other hobbits didn't worry him, but he would have to think of a good birthday present for his new nephew. Something suitable for someone living at Bag End.... Styles were slightly different in Hobbiton than in Buckland, and the farmer's clothing that Frodo had been accustomed to wearing would really be somewhat...unsuitable for his new station. Not that he was ill-looking in them...

Bilbo looked at the newly cleaned row of hooks in the entry. An umbrella, a nice coat, or a hat? No, those things would be needed, of course, but they weren't exactly stylish. Much too mundane for a present. Too practical.

He went along the hall to his own wardrobe and opened the doors, seeking inspiration. Scanning along the neatly folded stacks of shirts and breeches, his gaze glanced past his nightshirts and housecoats to his collection of weskits. Sage green, daffodil yellow, deep brown, plum...Ah...

He reached in and lifted two daily-wear tweedy weskits out of the way. With a slight tug, he pulled from the stack his very favourite special-occasions weskit; the deep red-burgundy one that shone in the window's light as he laid it out on his bed. He unfolded the wrapping that kept it from dust and fingered the bright brass buttons. Smoothing the collar, he considered it thoughtfully, trying to picture Frodo wearing something so grand. Yes. That would do nicely. But not too close of a match, no, no - he would need something that was just for him. Like it, but unlike. And the tailor would need time to finish it properly, before the 22nd!

It was off to the tailor then! He took up the weskit, as an example and leaving the forgotten wardrobe doors hanging open, went out.


By tea-time he had his order underway. Thanks to the tailor being at home and happily ready to drop his other work in favor of a lucrative special project - for though he assured him it would be ready in plenty of time, Bilbo offered a bonus on delivery to assure that it was. His own burgundy weskit provided a sort of pattern to start with, and the two of them had spent nigh on three hours fingering over the very best fabrics that could be found anywhere in the local area. When Bilbo finally settled on an elaborately stitched and shining brocade that had been brought in clear from the borders out towards Tuckborough, both of them felt it an accomplishment. It was almost a paisley, reminding him of leaves or flowers, gold, maroon, a bit of deep blue. He had some fine brass buttons in a box somewhere in his guest room, if he could find them. They would go most nicely with it. Very stylish at any party.

Yes, his lad was going to cut a fine figure for their birthday.


Still musing over the festivities, he walked home. The white gate swung under his hand with a creak and he looked at it critically, noticing for the first time that it really needed a new coat of paint. The tidy yard was passable to inspection, but when he opened his door, the clutter and piles that spilled out from the edges of each room seemed to jump out at him.

If he were to have a party, the old hole could stand with a little cleaning up, he had to admit. He turned around and went back out again.

Down the Hill at Number Three he found Bell Gamgee out in her yard, propped up in the sun with a few pillows, stitching a bit of embroidery along the hem of an apron. Some sort of flower, he didn't really look close enough to see.

He gave a polite tap at the unlatched gate and entered the small yard. "Mrs. Gamgee! Good day to you. I've good news to tell. I've decided I'm going to have a nice, big party to celebrate my own and Frodo's birthday when he arrives - we're on the same date, you know. The only problem is my hole is in need of a bit of cleaning up and I'm looking to hire some helping hands. Is Daisy available?"

Bell raised her brows at him, and looked thoughtfully quizzical. "Daisy will be back soon, she's just down the lane. I'm sure she could lend a hand, Mr. Baggins. She'd be glad of it. But are you so sure a big party is really what you want to have? Begging your pardon, if I'm interfering..."

"Of course!" he blurted, then backtracked. "Not of course to your interfering, I mean. Of course to my planning a party..." he paused, for Bilbo respected that quiet reserve of motherly wisdom that Bell Gamgee always seemed to hold within her frail frame. In spite of his initial reaction to any kind of questioning of his actions, he did want to know why she would have reservations. "...but, please tell me. Why wouldn't I?"

Bell looked up at him and lowered her embroidery into her lap. She went straight to the point. "I don't think your young Master Baggins would like it." She held up a hand to still Bilbo's reaction and continued softly and patiently "He's still just finding his way, Mr. Baggins. Keep it quiet this year, and let him settle in a bit. You should have many a year ahead of you where you can have something larger, when he won't feel like he's an outsider in his own home. Or, as my Hamfast would say, plants need a bit of time after being put in the ground - you can't just go stepping all over them right away."

"But..." he wondered now if his half-formed plans were so definite after all. "I want him to know that he's worth it - he's important to me...that he deserves a nice, big party..." he was having difficulty framing his thoughts now that he had to say them out loud.

She pushed back a wayward strand of hair from her face and neatly tucked it behind her ear. "Begging your pardon, but that's tomfoolery. He'll know that he's worth it without any such fuss. And worth far more to you, Mr. Baggins." She gestured at him with her threaded needle for emphasis. "Because you've taken him in and befriended him! A friend doesn't need lavish gifts to know they are loved. Why, if money is what makes them love you, or feel like you love them, why that's no love at all." She gave him a significant sidelong look.

Bilbo blinked, feeling slightly embarrassed. "And if anyone should know that it should be me, is that what you're saying?"

Bell relaxed and sat back against her pillows. Lifting up her embroidery again, she smoothed the fabric with her thin hands and tugged the thread snug. "I think you are his gift and he's yours, that's all. And I wouldn't presume to tell you how to do anything, Mr. Baggins, it wouldn't be my place." she said it mildly and he saw the twinkle in her eye.

"But you will anyway, won't you? And I'm most grateful to you for doing so, Mrs. Gamgee." He nodded. "I'll think on it, but I do believe you have the right view - I've so little experience with this sort of thing but I'm willing to learn. And no, I don't want that to be how we start off at all, quite the opposite, and I hadn't really thought that it might seem that way to him or to others, the money and all..."

"So..." Under her hands the smooth and tiny petals of a pansy began to take shape. She ran the yellow thread through the muslin. "Will you still be needing your home cleaned? Just so I can tell Daisy..."

"Just so you can tell Daisy? Nay, Mrs. Gamgee. So you can know if I'm being a good child who will listen to you or if I'm going to go stick my hand on the oven to see if it's really hot." he gave a light chuckle. "Yes, I will still want Daisy, but only for a bit of repair on some torn clothing I think. Not for the cleaning."

She kept her eyes on her work, shaking her head. "Torn clothing again? There is more of a young Hobbit in you than one expects, Mr. Baggins. One would think you've never outgrown bramble-forts and burrowing under hedges the way your clothing is so often needing repair. Your young lad is a fine match for you. You need someone older than yourself to keep you in line."

Bilbo had to laugh at that, and gave her a little bow. "You're feeling quite cheeky today, aren't you?"

Her eyes closed as she turned her face to the sky. "It must be the sunshine. Doesn't it feel nice? Now off with you, young scamp. I'll send Daisy up for the mending when she returns."

"Young scamp?" he snorted with a false bluster. "Well! Next thing you know you'll be telling me to act my age."

"Oh no, don't ever do that," she smiled, and waved him away.


In the late afternoon, the still day began to pick up a soft breeze; the sun slowly made its way down toward its Western nest of gold. He stood out on his front steps and contemplated the newly repaired windowboxes, neat and trim and filled to overflowing with new flowers chosen for their autumnal blooms.

Lightly puffing on his pipe, he found he was at peace with Bell's advice. He reveled in the simple pleasure of the rich scented smoke, the flowers ruffling and the leaf-shadows beginning to dance across the mossy flagstones. Between the stones near his feet, tiny flowers dotted the pillowing thyme and baby-tears spread their minuscule droplets of green out in a soft wave. Beside the bench, the variegated peppermint lifted up in cream and green, only beginning to die back with the colder nights, red stems like a miniature forest that begged to be explored by an idle imagination.

There is so much life in the Shire... he thought, and much to explore even here.

Down below him, fields lay green and golden or shorn brown with harvest. The Water shone among the trees in the distance and above him, the very first touches of color had begun to show on the edges of the leaves.

And I don't have to explore it alone...

He puffed on his pipe again, contentment surrounding him even as the soft smoke. He still delighted in the a fine present he could give to Frodo, the weskit that was being made up... And he was the other gift... He reconsidered that other part of what Mrs. Gamgee had said, and turned it over is his mind. It was difficult to think of himself being a gift to anyone, though he could easily see Frodo being a gift... Still only fair it should work both ways.

If he wasn't to hold a large, boisterous sort of party then, what should he have? Now that he really thought about it, there wasn't enough time to do up a large gathering properly anyway. Why, the writing of the invitations alone would take much too long.

If he ever did have the fabulously large party he imagined, he would probably have to start planning for it a good year or more ahead. For he could imagine quite a lot; food, music, dancing, toys, yes, maybe some sort of fancy toys from outside the Shire even. Such a gathering wouldn't even fit in Bag End! Someday, yes someday, he would have a right proper party for himself and Frodo. Something the whole Shire would be talking about for months.

But for now?

'Let him settle in,' she'd said. And she was right. He had just been transplanted, after all. He nudged a bit of mulch that had fallen from a windowbox off the flagstones with his toe. Repotted. After all, if he had a party, who would be there that Frodo knew well? Almost no one. It would really have been his party, not both of theirs. Something small then. A few relatives and friends... or just the two of them, even? He wished Frodo were there so he could ask him what he thought.

He hadn't originally planned on giving away many birthday presents that year, mostly small gifts of sharp cheeses, a few bottles of wine. All of it would only improve with age and could be given away the following September instead. No loss there.

And this year... again, she was right. This year it was best to concentrate on just Frodo. This year was just for them, the mutual gift of each other's company and sharing a plate or two of cake perhaps. Without thinking of it, he found himself feeling for the button on his breast pocket. He opened it and withdrew the folded bit of paper that he kept there. Unfolding it once more he scanned over the brief letter.

... I am still planning on being there in time for our birthday... if you will still have me....

It was time for a most magnificent gift, if Frodo would have it. It was a perfect match for that magnificent gift of his own.

Chapter 67: September 21st

The morning of September 20th crept in from the East in a grey sort of way, heavy with clouds that threatened rain. Bilbo watched them slowly scudding across the distant sky as he ate his breakfast and hoped that Frodo had remembered to dress for wet traveling.
He waited and watched as the long morning hours passed, but no cart appeared. The clouds rolled on past, dispersing into the southeast and gradually the sun began to come out in fits and starts. Tea time was spent alone, though he had an extra cup and saucer set out just in case. In silence he ate both pieces of pie he had set out.

A windy afternoon rustled by uneventfully; the light faded off into an early twilight and still he waited. As it began to grow dark, he placed a candle in the front window and built up the fire slightly, listening for any sound from the road outside. There was none.

He said he would be here in time for our birthday. He said he would. It's only two days now... has something happened? Did he change his mind? What if the cart lost a wheel? What if the pony bolted, and there was no one around to help him... What if...?

He shook himself. "You're an old fool, Bilbo Baggins," he reprimanded himself out loud. "He's quite able to care for himself, and he's on a road that has plenty of other folk around, here in the Shire. He's fine. Listen to yourself, fretting like some crotchety hen over an egg. Wherever he is... he's fine. He's fine."

But still, he fretted. He read by the fire, startling at every small everyday noise he heard outside, every dog bark, every loud creak of the tree branches. The hour grew late, the small candle burned down into a soft, warm pool and he was still alone. He finally had to reluctantly retire to his bed where he flumped onto his pillow and stared up at the ceiling for a while, disappointed and unhappy.


The following morning was brighter, though the breezes still blew slightly chill. He couldn't help checking Frodo's room before he went to the kitchen get some breakfast, hoping beyond hope the lad had perhaps come in during the night and not woken him up. The room was empty, just as he had left it. He sighed, and went to start some tea and eggs....for one.

The morning slowly crept past, slower than the previous day if it were possible. He checked his calendar to be sure it really was September 21st. It was. Tomorrow was their birthday...and Frodo had not come. The morning became noon, the breeze stopped and the sun came out with a vengeance as if to make up for the chill earlier on. Bilbo changed from his warm coat to his light one and tried to find things to do to pass the time, lest he merely pace. But Tea-time found him once again sitting at a table with two settings, eating both portions himself. He glumly stirred the sugar in his tea and listened to the clock on the mantle tick. Tomorrow was their birthday. He had promised... hadn't he? Had he been afraid Bilbo had changed his mind? Had he decided to stay in Buckland after all? Bilbo drank the last of his cup, and poured the rest of the now lukewarm tea-kettle out on the plants in front. The road was empty.

He went back in, pried the last of the candle stump from the previous night off of the candlestick and placed a fresh taper in it hoping he wouldn't have to light it. He unhappily set it back in its place in the window. He noticed the vase of flowers he had put out in the hall the day before had gone completely limp; picking it up rewarded him with a shower of petals littering the floor. Into the kitchen with it then. He carried it in, dropping the spent blooms into the compost bucket then rinsed the vase and filled it with fresh water.

It was over the sound of the water that he thought he heard something else - a shuffling sound, out in the hall. He chalked it up to his imagination, but just to be sure it wouldn't hurt to check. He remembered Lotho's sneaking in, and had the strange sensation of a huge chasm, of hoping for the best and fearing the worst at the same time. Teetering on the bridge over that chasm, he peered around the corner, but saw nothing out of place. But still... his heart pounded slightly faster. He held the vase close and quietly walked to the parlour, then the den. Nothing. His shoulders slumped. He sighed and turned back to the hall table, sweeping the rest of the petals off onto the floor where they wouldn't be as noticeable once they were spread around on the rug. The vase needed fresh flowers. He would need something to trim some new flowers with....

Swinging round the corner into the kitchen to fetch a knife, he ran smack into Frodo. There was something like an explosion, both of vase-water and emotion as he threw up his hands in utter astonishment and delight. The wet vase shot out of his hand and bounced off of Frodo's hand as he tried to catch it. Water flew everywhere and all of the sudden Frodo was laughing and embracing him, water dripping from both of their curls, dampening their sleeves and running down the wall beside them. The vase clattered into the compost bucket, tipping the tangle of wet stems and petals out onto the floor.

He gasped in amazement. "Frodo! How did you...when did you..."

That beloved, familiar laugh came again. "I've only just arrived. I thought I would surprise you."

"Well, you did!" he spluttered. "Hand me that dishtowel, will you?"

Frodo grabbed it off the counter and wiped his own face before handing it over. "If I had known you would be armed, I might have been more careful," he grinned. "It's so good to see you!"

Bilbo wiped his face, swiped the towel across his hair and set to mopping up the pool at his feet. He found himself grinning in return. Frodo took up a second towel and knelt with him, scooping the contents of the bucket back where they belonged. He handed Bilbo the vase.

Bilbo turned it in the light. "It's not even chipped." he observed.

"Now there's a wonder, the way you shot it right at me." Frodo said, "Really, just ask me to step aside next time instead of pitching crockery..."

Bilbo cracked the wet dishtowel towards him, making them both laugh as an arc of water smacked Frodo right across the face. He held up a hand in surrender.

"I give up! I give up!" he laughed, wiping his eyes. "Have you any idea how good this water feels after that drive? I thought I would never get here..."

"Likewise. I was getting afraid that you would miss our Birthday after all..."

Frodo stood and offered him a hand up. "I'm sorry it was so close, dear Bilbo - but unless my calendar is different from yours I am still in good time aren't I? I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"I believe you," Bilbo smiled. "And now that you're here, all that waiting seems like nothing at all. I'm just so glad to see you!"

"And I too!" Frodo said, giving him another brief embrace. He took the towels and quickly wrung them over the sink, hanging them near the stove to dry. "I can't believe it hasn't been longer than a month..."

"The time has been moving slowly here."

"It was a long month in Buckland as well." Frodo said, and gave him a look that went to his heart.

There was a pause, and something gave way. Suddenly, there was simply no more words needed; any lingering doubts he had were laid to rest. It had been a long month in Buckland as well...

"Well, then." he said after a pause. "There's warm water in the kettle. Why don't you go wash up."


While Frodo washed away the dust and weariness of the road, Bilbo saw to the unpacking of the cart and stabling of the pony that he found eating some of his flowers while it waited nearby. He had been prepared to call in help to carry in Frodo's luggage, but found they were few indeed: a satchel, a small trunk and a crate were all he found in the back. It was hard for him to remember what it was like to have so few things - but really, it was not unlike traveling. He knew, and what hobbit better, how little a person could truly get along with.

"Nothing wrong with a few basic comforts, though," he grunted to himself as he set the trunk down in the guest room...no, not guest room. Frodo's room, he corrected himself. He plumped up the pillow on the bed. "We'll have to be sure he has a good set of clean pocket-handkerchiefs at the very least. With all these downs and ups, I feel as wrung out as a pocket handkerchief hanging on the line myself."

"What about pockets?" came Frodo's voice behind him. Pillow still in hand, he turned to find a towel being vigourously ruffled around. A flash of blue peered at him from under darkly dampened curls. Frodo pushed his bangs back out of his eyes. "Oh, you didn't have to carry that in - I would have gotten it."

"It's all right. I'm not so old I can't carry a box or two. And I was just talking to myself."

"About your pockets?" Frodo slung the damp towel around his neck to free his hands and began tucking in his shirt. He smiled at the elder hobbit. "What have you got in your pocket?"

Bilbo gave a slight start at the phrase, given out so innocently. It struck the chord of a memory whether he liked it or no. Automatically his hand traced the light chain that went to the circle of gold he nearly always carried with him, but with a small effort he redirected it to his breast pocket instead.

"Ehm. If you must inquire, I do have something in my pocket. A letter from a certain lad that I know. Perhaps you met him on the road?" He pulled out the slightly rumpled, folded letter.

Frodo laughed. He dropped the towel to the floor and, reaching his hand into his own pocket, pulled out a similar bit of folded paper. He held it up.

"I don't know if I've met him, but I believe I may have a letter from a certain friend of his. His uncle in fact."

Bilbo went very still. "His uncle, you say?"

"Yes, that's what he signed it as." Frodo observed, unfolding it for evidence. He gave Bilbo a half-smile and raised one brow quizzically.

"Well, now, isn't that odd?" said Bilbo, dissembling. "Why do you think he would do that?"

Frodo's eyes scanned the paper once more. He folded it back up and leaned against the edge of the doorway. "I was wondering that myself. Not that the lad minds, in fact I think he rather likes the idea."

"He does?"

"It suits him."

"It does?"

"Yes. Even when he's just standing there in the middle of a room with a blank look on his face and a pillow under his arm. For two such cousins, with one so much older than the other it seems a very proper title for him to use."

"It does?" Bilbo repeated, feeling a bit silly.

Frodo leaned down and scooped up the wet towel. "And I suppose if that were the case, that would make this certain lad his nephew, then, wouldn't it?"

"I... eh...Frodo... it..."

Frodo folded the towel over his arm and carefully met Bilbo's eyes. "Even though they're cousins. The lad hopes... that he will be allowed to use that title? To call him Uncle, now and then?"

"Uncle."

"Yes. Uncle...Bilbo."

Bilbo had to turn away and place the pillow on the bed, blinking to clear his eyes. Why did it have such an effect on him, hearing it said like that? It wouldn't do, no it wouldn't, if the lad found he could have such an effect upon him with the speaking of a simple word. He was supposed to be a good example. He needed to regain his composure. He fluffed the pillow again, and straightened the blanket for good measure. Only then could he turn back to the young hobbit waiting behind him.

He lifted his chin. "And what if it were true?"

Frodo's brow furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

"What if... there had been a slight change.. a change in the matter of a certain Will..."

"A change?" Frodo looked worried.

"...one that truly made those cousins an Uncle and Nephew?"

"What do you mean?" Frodo repeated, his brow furrowing further in puzzlement. "Can they do such a thing?"

Bilbo's cleared his throat a bit nervously. "Yes, they can. Legally. It's called an... ad...adoption."

"Adoption?" Now it was Frodo's turn to stare blankly.

"Ad-option." Bilbo repeated firmly. It came out easier the second time.

"Adoption?" asked Frodo again, as if he didn't understand the word.

His eyes are as wide as an owls, thought Bilbo. "It makes them...related. More closely than cousins. It makes the... Nephew the Uncle's heir, in all ways. No matter what. An...adoption does that. But only if..."

"Only if?"

Bilbo's voice faded to a whisper. "Only if the nephew says yes."

There was a space of heartbeats where neither of them moved, broken in a sudden movement as Frodo leapt forward and embraced him; a rush of mutual words.

"Bilbo! Oh, is it true? Would you really do this - for me? I don't deserve it, I really don't, I just... I..."

"I wasn't sure what you would..."

"...when you signed that letter that way I was..."

"...but I hoped that maybe you might..."

"...I didn't realize how lost I had felt until..."

"...understand, and besides, we both...."

"...you've already been so generous to me..."

"...need to call one another something." Bilbo returned the embrace and patted the damp, dark curls comfortingly. "Oh, my lad, my dear, dear lad. I was going to save it for a surprise, for our birthday, but now you've gone and made me spill it all out already." He released Frodo and straightened his shoulders. "Now, see, both of us are in need of a good, clean pocket handkerchief. That's why I was just saying that you will be in need of some."

Frodo's eyes were very bright, and he sniffled slightly, but he was smiling. "Yes, I will. To both."


Bilbo added another log to the parlour fire and dusted the bits of wood off his hands as went back to the table where the papers lay. Tilting the adoption papers near his eyes he checked to be sure the ink was dry on Frodo's signature, and seeing no reflection from the fire, began carefully rolling them back up. The ribbon was tied neatly. He tapped the scroll of paper in his hands with thought as he walked to the den.

Behind him, the sound of the supper dishes being washed up in the kitchen was a comforting clatter and muted splash. Frodo had insisted on doing them himself, and had all but shooed Bilbo out of the kitchen. He probably needed a couple moments to just think, all by himself too - just as Bilbo did. The scroll slipped back into its drawer and the smooth wood shut over it. It was such a feeling of... of what? Finality. And grateful wonderment, he thought. Grateful wonderment that he had someone who understood him so well.
Well. Now for it then; it's done. Now we find out if we have done the right thing or not, and only time will tell us. Now for another adventure.

He returned to the parlour to find Frodo swinging the kettle of water over the fire to heat for after-supper tea. He had a paper in his other hand, and looked up at Bilbo as he poked the fire and added one more log. "Thanks for getting the fire going. It's getting chilly, with the sky so clear now."

"I noticed that too - the stars are coming out already; the days are getting shorter again. It always seems to happen so fast." Bilbo sat in his chair and gestured towards the paper in Frodo's hand. "What have you there?"

"Just your letter. I was looking at what you said about having Sam bake us a cake."

Bilbo smiled and pulled out the letter that he carried too. He leaned forward and ran his finger over a phrase in it. "I'm glad you mentioned Sam also. I really can't make any guarantees about the edibility of the cake, but his first one wasn't too bad..."

Frodo chuckled. "But it was so perfect that you'd already arranged for him to bake it. I can just picture it." He stood and took two mugs off the sideboard, setting them out with a waiting scoop of tea. That done, he pulled the second chair a bit closer to the fire and settled into it. "But really, was he very upset?"

"No, no not at all! He was just excited - he wanted to bake it..."

"No, not about the cake. I meant was he very upset that... I didn't say goodbye to him, when I left?"

Bilbo pursed his lips with thought, remembering. "Well, yes. Yes he was, a bit. I'm sure he's well over it by now. I recall he wanted to run after the cart: he was going to go right down the road, he so wanted you to have that cake of his..."

"Did he really?"

Bilbo nodded. "He's a good lad."

"Yes, he is." said Frodo more softly. "I haven't many friends here yet, so I count Samwise among the number I do have, in spite of his youth. He is a good lad. And I hope he will still be when he's older too." He smiled a bit wistfully, then took a breath and brightened again. "Well. What time do we need to be ready tomorrow?"

Bilbo raised his brows questioningly. "Ready?"

Frodo raised his in return. "Aren't we having any sort of gathering? A party?"

Bilbo snorted. "Bother parties."

"What?"

"Too many hobbits at a party. Too much noise, too much cooking, too much cleaning up to do. I thought it might be nicer if we could just have a pleasant day to ourselves."

"Are you jesting, or are you serious? I can't tell."

"Can't you?" Bilbo said, and folded up his letter, tucking it back in his pocket. "Ah, Frodo. There have been times I thought you were seeing right through me, clear down to my bones. It's nice to know that I can still pull a little wool over your eyes."

Frodo looked genuinely confused. "What are you talking about?"

"You and I have much in common."

"Well, yes. We do seem to..."

"Have you ever felt that I might know what you are thinking, or what you are going to do before you do it?"

Frodo folded his hands together, puzzled, but thinking. He nodded. "Yes. There have been. You're the only one I've ever met who seemed that way to me, who seemed to..."

Bilbo returned the nod. "Yes. So, am I jesting or am I serious?"

"I can't tell!"

Bilbo smiled. "Then we'll get along just fine. What use is a friendship where you always know everything about each other? I'm pleased to add a little mystery."

"So -"

"Yes?"

"Are we having a party or not?"

Bilbo laughed. "No. No we're not."

Frodo got up briefly to add tea to the steaming kettle. "Are you serious?"

"Yes, I am. I thought about it, you know: about having quite a grand party for us this year. I wanted to have, oh, half the Shire! I wanted food and games and dancing and songs with all my friends and relatives and acquaintances besides - but whose friends would they be? Mine or yours?"

Frodo looked uncomfortable. "Yours?"

"Yes, mine. Now, whose birthday is it tomorrow?"

"Yours..."

"And?" he prompted.

"Mine."

"So. Why would you want a big party with a bunch of folk you don't know? What sort of birthday is that, eh? Tell you what - we will have a grand party someday, I promise. But only when you can invite as many hobbits as I can."

Frodo shook his head. "It might take me a long time to catch up!"

"But catch up you will, or you're no Baggins at all. I can wait."

"But what about Sam?"

"We'll eat his cake, of course. All by ourselves."

"I hope it's..."

"Edible? Me too. We better have a big breakfast just in case."

They sat in silence for a time, watching the fire. After a bit, Frodo took a towel and picked up the steaming kettle to pour out the tea. Bilbo accepted his mug from him and sipped and blew at it. It was fragrant and strong.

"Thank you." said Frodo, sipping at his own.

"Eh? For what?" Bilbo winced at the heat of the tea and blew on it again.

"For having it be only the two of us. I have to admit, I wasn't looking forward to a big party, but I didn't want to tell you that and have you be disappointed."

"I'm not disappointed. How could I be? I have you here, and that is enough."

Frodo looked down at his mug, swirling the bits of tea-leaf that floated in it. He didn't reply - but then, he didn't need to. They were both at peace. They finished the tea, allowing their talk to wander as it would, speaking of the small doings and weather, of Brandy Hall and Hobbiton and all the pleasant histories that so often make up hobbit conversation, and then to other topics outside the realm of the Shire. It was a balm to them both, that freedom to speak however the heart wandered, knowing that in the other there would be no condemnation or lack of understanding.

The fire-log burned down and was replaced by others and still they talked, though their pauses grew longer as the hour grew later. Bilbo's limbs began to feel very heavy, and he could see the shadows under Frodo's eyes. He had been traveling that day, after all. But still... he didn't want to end this.

The night was dark, studded with stars outside the window, flecks of white fire beyond the black silhouettes of the trees. Bright. But it was also bright inside, yes very bright. Bilbo felt as if no darkness could ever enter his life again, as if Bag End were a haven, even as the Shire was a haven from the outside world. He felt...whole. More than he had in a long time. As if he had been in a darkened room and only now come out into the sunlight. Though he had seen enough of the night world to know that as long as there were stars, it was never truly dark... even if the stars themselves weren't there, and all he carried was the memory of them.

"It's late." observed Frodo, breaking a long silence.

"Yes."

"What are you thinking about?"

"About... darkness; the way it is driven out by light... about... you and I, and stars..."

Frodo's voice was quiet. "I have missed the way you speak when you are tired, Bilbo..."

Bilbo looked over at the dark head, leaning on the side of the upholstered chair, the dark lashes closed against the warm firelight. It was soothing, somehow. He continued. "It's reminded me of a poem I once wrote. About a light that could be carried, so the darkness could never come near again..."

"Would you recite it for me?" asked Frodo, his voice soft with sleepiness.

Bilbo thought for a moment, trying to remember how it started. "For the darkness.. no, no that was the refrain of the piece. Just a moment...Hm. Yes, I've got it now..." he leaned forward on his elbows, gazing at the firelight as he settled into the piece. It had been a song, though now he spoke it more than sung it. The music he had imagined for it had never suited his own voice, at least not when there were others to hear besides himself.

The day is done, the night begun,
My lantern flickers o'er the path.
The path is long, my weary song
May falter midst the shadowed grass.

Though steps are slow, and wind may moan
I will not fear the flame being blown,
For in the night I'll find no flight;
By stars I walk, I'm not alone.

For the darkness cannot touch me,
The light is in my heart,
From memories of starlight,
My mind will never part.

Beyond my hand there lies a land,
And 'neath my feet a path to stay -
A darkened cloak for other folk
But to my heart it's clear and plain.

This light in hand is merely sand,
The wind and waves could sweep away
But here I start, with star in heart
And to my eyes 'tis always day.

For the darkness cannot touch me,
The light is in my heart,
From memories of starlight,
My mind will never part.

If I could hold, though it be bold,
A star within my frail grasp,
The night would flee away from me,
And never dare again to pass...

Bilbo paused. Judging by the even breathing, Frodo had fallen asleep. He slowly dropped down towards a whisper as he took up one of the generous lap throws that lay warmed and folded nearby and shook it out.

The sky ablaze, my face I raise
To diamonds fair in velvet sea,
And Middle-earth is but a berth
For starlit ships that come for me.

He gently laid it over his sleeping nephew and tucked the edges in. Frodo stirred slightly and curled into the blanket with a small breath like a sigh.

For the darkness cannot touch me,
The light is in my heart...

Bilbo settled back into his own chair, pulling the other throw up to his chin. He sat there for a while, watching the fire slowly burning down, the dying firelight playing over Frodo's curls. Of course the proper thing to do would be to have him move to his room, where he might be more comfortable. But when it came down to doing it, Bilbo found a lassitude taking him over. His arms felt like lead, and couldn't stir to do it.

Instead he slowly allowed himself to also drift into sleep in his chair.It wasn't the first time he'd slept there, and most likely wouldn't be the last. He shifted the blanket up over his shoulders and turned to be more comfortable. The fire crinkled and hissed softly, settling unheeded and untended as it's fading warmth and light comfortably washed over the two Baggins of Bag End, asleep in their chairs side by side.

Chapter 68: A Morning Walk

Morning's early light shyly peeked in the parlour window of Bag End, then quietly slipped over the casement to brighten the room with its pink-gold presence. Soft fingers of bright light teased along through the sleeping hobbits' rumpled curls, kept from their faces by the sides of the chairs. Foiled in waking them, it then petulantly faded off into a clouded daylight and they slept obliviously on.

Bilbo woke first, bobbing up from his own vague dreaming mostly because of an increasing pain in his neck. He shifted, then blearily opened his eyes to a moment of disorientation. His sleep-filled mind tried to understand why he was looking at the parlour fireplace instead of his own bedroom walls, and why at such an angle. To his right, a hobbit-foot that was not his own poked out from under a rumpled lap-throw. Frodo. The chairs in front of the fireplace. What was the time?

He rubbed his eyes and slowly unbent until he was sitting upright, absently catching at his own blanket that slid towards the floor. Turning his head, he squinted at the now grey, overcast sky outside the window, then considered the cold hearth. Frodo shifted slightly, but slept on.

Bilbo slowly knelt by the hearth and set about rekindling the fire as quietly as he could. When he finally had the beginnings of a reasonable flame going, he very carefully set to building a little arch of twigs over it to catch. In the silence their small shuffling and cracklings sounded very loud. One gave a loud pop. He glanced back to find the flame reflected in a pair of very bright eyes that were watching him from over the edge of a blanket.

"It's a bit nippy." he commented to the eyes, by way of apology for making noise.

The blanket lowered as Frodo briefly stretched and got up from the chair with a grace that Bilbo only dimly remembered from his own youth. Ah, to be so flexible. "Brr." he replied, reaching for the blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. "What's the time?"

"I don't know yet," Bilbo replied. He fed another bit of wood to the fire then glanced back up. "Happy birthday. How about some water for the tea?"

"Happy birthday yourself, " returned Frodo with a smile. He ran his fingers through his hair. "The kettle's already filled from last night, remember?"

"Is it? Oh, yes. Yes, well...Iah owoah ahwahn ow." he said, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"What?"

"I said 'I remember that now.' How did you sleep?"

"I don't remember, except there did seem to be someone snoring at some point."

"Hmph. Wonder who that could have been?"

Frodo tried to sound nonchalant, but the corners of his mouth were twitching into a smile. "Oh, I don't know. Someone. Let's just say I'm thankful I have my own room."

"Hmph." Bilbo repeated, adding a small log and stiffly standing up. He looked down at his rumpled clothing from the previous day and brushed his hands over the worst of the creases. "Well. I suppose we'll have to put on a bit of birthday finery after breakfast, but nothing wrong with being comfortable a bit longer." he rubbed his hands together. "What would you like first? Eggs? Pie? I have some apples I thought we might bake."

Frodo was looking toward the window. "Actually I was wondering if we might start off with a walk outside, if you've anything we can carry with us..."

"Carry? Of course I do. Here, I've some of those little cornmeal cakes in that basket over there, just under the napkins. You know, the little ones that hold together so well. They're better with honey of course, but not bad just in hand. Capital idea!"

With the kitchen oven beginning to warm and the tea ready to go, they stocked their pockets with their pre-breakfast walking snacks and ventured out into the morning. The light breeze smelled fresh, and in spite of the chill of the overcast sky it felt invigorating and cheerful, walking together through the wet grasses and along the road once again.

"Good thing we didn't have that party after all," Bilbo spoke after they had walked some distance, chewing on their cakes.

"Why is that?"

He gestured with his chin, keeping his hands warm in his coat pockets. "Look at those low clouds there. They're coming our way, and fairly quick. I think we would have ended up with everyone all crammed together in the parlour to get out of the rain."

"Mm. But it smells good, doesn't it?"

"It does."

The wind that swept over them in small gusts did have a certain fresh fragrance to it, a freshly-washed clean and wet rain-scent that made him think of spring, even though the damp autumn fields lay all around them. He breathed deeply of it, then popped his last bite of corncake in his mouth; it made a perfect seasoning. They left the Road behind and wandered up one of the footpaths that bordered the fields, occasionally speaking of memories of other times they had gone walking, together or alone or comparing their thoughts on the passing scenery. The morning seemed very quiet, though he couldn't place why at first. He finally realized what he was missing was birdsong. Well, it was getting late in the year...had they already gone south?

Wood and peat scented-smoke puffed and swirled from the distant chimneys, the only indication that someone's home lay anywhere nearby. They passed a handful of sheep that were clustered near their gate, waiting for someone to come let them through, made their way through the gaps in a well-used line of wood fencing and then across a tumbled field where the corn stood in its tall shocks among the irregular lumps of winter-squash, still slowly swelling on their slightly trampled vines.

The wet earth and musty-leaf scent of the corn sheaves lifted past them in the wind, mixing with the scent of the nearby trees. It was very refreshing, but also beginning to be a little chilly - Bilbo pulled his hat down and buried his hands in his pockets, hunching into his coat-collar. He glanced over at Frodo. The younger hobbit didn't seem to be bothered by it, so he didn't mention it aloud. As they neared the edge of the field, golden-brown leaves scattered past them more and more frequently, the wind lifting them from among the green ones on changing boughs and sweeping them into arcs in the air. The very beginning of fall....

The trees rustled and creaked. Bilbo paused, looking up at their swaying interlacing branches. "How far would you like to go? Looks like the wind is picking up a bit."

Frodo paused only slightly. "Just a little further? I've so missed just being able to go out like this - I guess I'm just not quite ready to be going back..."

Against his better judgment, Bilbo assented and let the lad lead the way. "As you wish! It's your birthday, after all."

"And yours," Frodo added over his shoulder as he picked his way through fallen branches. "So we can turn back if you want to."

"No, no.... just a little further, as you said. No problem at all..."

They rustled and crunched their way through the small copse of trees, following a path that wound among the trees and light brambles. A fork in the path gave them an option of straight or left, and Frodo turned left. Bilbo followed. They soon approached the growing light of the northern edge, where a tiny, ambling stream, shining dark with old leaves and grasses slipped along the tree-filled border of the fields. They jumped it with small effort and continued on to a neighboring field.

It wasn't until they stepped through the break in a low hedge and come out into the next field that they realized what a windbreak the trees had been. Bilbo's hat began to lift off of his head and he quickly clapped it back down even as his other hand reached to pull his billowing coat close and fumbled with the upper buttons. Ahead of him Frodo stopped, and he came up beside him.

"Whoo! Looks like we're in for a bit of blow," he said over the wind. "No wonder the birds were quiet, they've all the good sense to wait this one out."

"Birds?" Frodo's hair was lifting and whipping in his eyes and he hugged himself to keep warm in the sudden chill.

"I couldn't hear any - I thought they'd all just gone south already but they were holing up from this storm, that's what they were doing. They've good sense. I'd say we head back and hole up too."

Frodo was quiet for a moment, turning away from Bilbo and facing into the wind. Bilbo wondered if he was thinking of continuing on in spite of the weather, reluctant to give up their walk so easily. The lad suddenly held so still... he worried he had offended somehow.

He wrestled with himself inside, warring between wanting to encourage that adventurous streak in his new nephew, and wanting a nice warm kitchen with a hot kettle and a warm shawl for his shoulders. Steeling himself for the answer that he didn't really want to hear, he opened his mouth to ask if they should go on -

Frodo turned back to him, wide-eyed. "Did you hear that?"

"W - b...Hear what?" Bilbo's tongue stumbled as he shifted gears.

Frodo didn't reply, but looked past Bilbo's shoulder and his eyes went even wider. "Run!" he said and grabbed Bilbo's arm, yanking him along after him as he ran back towards the hedge.

Alarmed, confused and staggering to keep his balance as he was towed along faster than he normally could go, Bilbo ran after. They burst through the bush but Frodo didn't even slow down. He thankfully lost his grip on Bilbo's sleeve before the older hobbit ended up going face-first into the ground, but continued at a breakneck speed straight through the fronds and brambles. Bilbo tried to keep up; he was rapidly falling behind and still had no idea what was behind them that could inspire such terror so close to home. Whatever it was it appeared he would be the one caught, so he hoped it wouldn't be too painful.

He crashed out of the wooded copse back into the cornfield. The wind and rain hit him anew and he gasped for breath, looking for Frodo. The youth was nearly to one of the largest corn shocks when he glanced back, and turned, dashing back towards his uncle. He still looked frantic. They met about halfway to the corn shock.

"Hurry!" cried Frodo, all but pulling him along again.

"What....are we....running...from?" gasped Bilbo as he was bodily flung around the corner of the shock. He found himself in a sudden pocket of calm as the wind was blocked, the two of them pressing back into a little alcove among the corn stalks. Frodo began to speak but was cut off by a sound both of them heard all too well.

"Grrr...Arrrrooooo! Rah! rah! raroof! rah!" It was rapidly drawing closer.

Don't run from dogs, he told his body firmly. Don't run. It only makes them chase you. Don't....

His legs took off for home.

I hate dogs! he lamented as he was carried away by his sprinting legs. They always do this to me...

Frodo made a wordless sound of dismay behind him, and he frantically overrode his own self-preservation to turn back. The dog was crossing the field behind them, gaining at what seemed an impossible speed. He could hear it growling, excited by the chase and intent on its prey. Frodo slipped in the soft tilled earth and it was closing in too quickly - Bilbo knew if they could somehow get beyond this field it would probably turn back, but it was too far...

Without thinking, Bilbo ran back towards them, shouting something - he couldn't even remember what. He stooped as he ran, seeking a rock to throw, but there weren't any to be found in this neatly kept field. Bits of corn sheaves rattled uselessly past in the rising wind. His hand closed over a wad of dirt and he flung it with all his strength at the dog's face.

It fell short, but served to distract the animal from Frodo long enough for him to recover his footing. The dog hesitated, unsure which target to chase, then dashed for Frodo again. Temporarily forgetting his own fear, Bilbo grabbed up handfuls of clods and a small, mottled squash and began flinging them with hobbit-accuracy at the creature's slavering head. The squash smacked it on the side of the nose with a spattering of stringy pulp, making it yelp and snarl.

Angry, it turned towards its tormentor and lunged for him instead. He ran for the boundary fence again, trying to grab up more dirt to throw as he went, desperately wishing he had brought his walking stick with him. He grabbed a stray cornstalk for lack of anything else and kept going. His breath felt cold and ragged in his breast, and his blood beat in his ears. The dog stopped barking and settled into a low growl behind him which was far more frightening.

Something brushed his pantleg, breathed on his ankle. He frantically lashed out with the cornstalk, hitting the animal across the ears and gaining another yard of space. Where was Frodo? Across the fence, he hoped. He was nearly there. It was so close...

There was a low growl; he staggered and nearly fell as the dog laid its teeth into the hem of his coat. He lashed out with the cornstalk again, but it snapped off in his hand. Blindly he kicked at the dog in an utter panic, still struggling to reach the nearby fence.

"Eeeyah!" said Frodo someplace behind him.

There was a wet thump and a muffled yelp; his coat came free. Not sure what had happened but grateful it had, he reached the fence and forced himself between the boards. Falling to the grass on the other side, he rolled over and fought back to his feet to see what had happened. His hat blew off.

The dog was still there on the other side but its head was an almost unrecognizable mass of mud. Frodo was just pushing through the boards a few yards down, his hands, arms and shirtfront bearing witness to his part in the mud-flinging.

Why, he must have pulled up a chunk of dirt the size of a watermelon! Bilbo thought with admiration. Well done! He wanted to drop back to his knees, so glad that it was over, but stiffened his legs lest he alarm his young charge. He gathered his hat and stuck it, wet and dripping, back on his head.

They went to one another, and gripped each other's forearms with a long look, then assured of both being well, looked back at the dog. It pawed at its head, whining and snorting under the coating of mud, still stunned.

"So" said Bilbo, still trying to catch his breath, "that was a bit of an adventure." He appraised the muddied condition of his nephew.

"Only a bit?" said Frodo, bending to wipe his hands off in the wet grass. He looked up at Bilbo apologetically, squinting in the rain. "That was some throw, you did..."

"You too! How you lifted that dirt..."

Frodo laughed breathlessly. "I don't know. I was... just so afraid it... was going to hurt you..."

"So was I, if I say so myself..."

"I guess we shouldn't have run... it..."

"...Makes them...chase you. Yes. But..."

"I'm terrified of... big dogs. I'm sorry, Bilbo..."

"So am I. Terrified that is."

He reached to help Frodo back up. Together they turned towards home again, wiping at the mud on their clothes. The bedraggled dog barked after them a few times from his side of the fence but made no effort to follow any further. Still, just the sound of its voice was sufficient to move them along at a very quick walk. Bilbo realized he was still clutching a small piece of the cornstalk in his own muddied hand, as if it were a talisman that would protect him from further canine assaults - He dropped it, and shivered in the wet cold.

He wasn't even sure which he was trying to get away from more, the faint growling voice of the dog behind them or the cold, pelting fist of the oncoming storm. The wind pushed at his back, then knocked into him sideways, as if determined to sweep him off his feet. The dog's barking faded away but still they moved quickly. Coming over the rise to cross the lower field the wind suddenly hit them both with such force Bilbo had to grab his much-abused hat off and ram it into his pocket quickly lest he lose it entirely. Gritting his teeth at the cold, icy rain now pelting down his neck he clutched his coat-collar closed and tried to face it head-on.

Frodo had gone slightly ahead of him but now dropped back, a hand pressed to his side and his steps slowing for a moment. Wordlessly, they linked arms to face the force of the wind and rain together, leaning into it as the packed earth of the path beneath their feet began to turn to slick mud and rippling puddles.

They were just turning onto the Road when the wind-driven rain became an out-and-out icy downpour. They both began to run again; bits of twigs and leaves whirling past them as they dashed up the steps and burst through the welcoming door of Bag End.

The door closed behind them with a thump and the quiet, mild warmth of the smial felt as hot as summer after the chill. Unable to follow them any further, the frustrated wind smacked a parting handful of cold rain against the windows with a small spattering sound and hissed its disappointment.

Bilbo leaned his head against the wall and gasped, looking down at the water trickling off of the hem of his breeches and down into his already soaked and matted foothair. Beside him, Frodo was drawing great ragged breaths. He flopped down on the floor and leaned his back against the wall, looking up at Bilbo. He looked as elated as someone who is completely out of breath, chilled and soaked to the skin could look.

"We...did it! We're....safe." he said with a note of triumph.

"That....we....did...." managed Bilbo. "But next....time....you want.... a walk.... I won't listen..."

Frodo shook his wet hair out of his eyes and would have laughed if he could. He leaned over and propped himself on the side of a bench, closing his eyes to give more attention to regaining his breath.

Bilbo slowly slid down and sat beside him. His face felt like it was tingling between the sudden warmth and he felt lightheaded after the running. He glanced over at Frodo, whose face was already beginning to flush pink, then closed his eyes also.

There is companionship between those who face dangers, he mused. A camaraderie that goes deeper, delving into concern for one another's very life. Strangers facing great danger come from it closely bonded, bound together by a mutual fear and mutual survival; he knew how even those of other races, strangers separated by looks and customs and language could become fast friends after they had run for their lives from a mutual enemy. For some reason, what came to mind was Ori's nose sticking out of a mass of spider-webbing. Maybe because it had made him so breathless, even after he was out...

He opened his eyes and pulled a jacket that had fallen from the coat-hooks a bit closer. He wiped his face with it.

"Breakfast." said Frodo.

"Eh?" Bilbo handed him the dampened jacket, which he took and swiped over his own face and hair.

"We haven't had breakfast. No wonder we're feeling faint." He levered himself up off the floor and nabbed a pair of apples from the basket on the hall table. Polishing them briefly on his wet shirt, he tossed one to Bilbo and sat back down beside him again.

Bilbo wondered how Frodo had known he was feeling a bit faint. I must look worse than I think I do, he thought. He accepted the fruit gratefully and took a large, crunching bite. It was juicy and sweet and perfect, and he felt better almost immediately. Beside him, Frodo was already a third through his, his cheeks bulging with apple.

Now freeing dwarves - that had been dangerous. This wasn't true danger at all. A dog and a rainstorm were hardly life-threatening, but to a young hobbit with little experience in the world perhaps it could seem so...perhaps it was a good thing... Not that he and Frodo didn't already have much in common...even their...

"Happy birthday." he said. Frodo rolled his eyes, said something unintelligible and took another bite.

Bilbo took another bite also, then climbed to his feet. "I'll get the fire built up, then we can change into dry clothes. We've a grand breakfast still to make, after all."


Their breakfast was grand, as grand as Bilbo could contrive with a little help from Frodo's willing hands. Warmed and dried, they were soon so hot from the oven's heat in the kitchen that they cracked open one window to the dying storm to cool it off. The table was spread with a fresh cloth and clean plates heated at the warming shelf were set upon it.

They eagerly spooned up hot coddled eggs with thick slices of buttered toast as they waited for some of the apples, all stuffed with spices, ground nuts and raisins to bake. A frothy batch of pancake batter yielded huge, golden pancakes as big as they could make them in the pan, generously drizzled with strawberry syrup and sprinkled with hazelnuts, or spread with swirled honey and butter.

After the eggs and pancakes were gone, the baked apples came from the oven all steaming under their topping of clotted cream, smelling intensely of rich sweet fruit and spices. Slices of soft white butter melted into the filling and dripped with the juices from their forks. The apples in turn were followed with small slices of sweet squash pie and more cream, then rose and pansy petals set in sugar and hot tea.

Finally full as only hobbits can be full, they sat contentedly filling up the corners with tiny pancake droplets they had made from the last of the batter, dipping them in soft butter and the sugared flower petals.

"Ah." Bilbo said. "This is more like it."

"Like what?" asked Frodo, sipping his second cup of tea.

"Like a birthday ought to be." He lifted his tea mug. "A toast."

"A toast!" said Frodo obediently lifting his mug also. "To what?"

"To nephews and uncles. And giant dirt-clods."

Frodo laughed. "One of the oddest toasts I've ever heard. But I agree wholeheartedly. To us! And dirt-clods." He took a sip, then lowered his mug, his blue eyes laughing across the table. "And thank you for the walk, Uncle Bilbo. Happy birthday."

Chapter 69: Presents

Bilbo set the last plate in its place on the shelf with a small ringing of pottery. Beside him, his newly adopted nephew covered the butter with a clean cloth and put away the last of their birthday breakfast.

Nephew. Uncle. He turned the titles over in his head, some small part of him still not comprehending that it was a sealed bargain, so to speak. A done deal. This young hobbit working beside him as naturally as if he had always been there would remain beside him forever. Well, maybe not forever in the technical sense of the word... on the other hand, he being by far the older of the two made it possible, from his viewpoint. Forever for him, and perhaps a nice long time for Frodo. He hung the dishtowel up to dry by the stove and straightened it, considering the Dwarvish terminology for their various family relationships.

Fili and Kili had been nephews to Thorin. Would Frodo regard him as they had regarded their uncle, even dying to protect him? He glanced over at Frodo, whose dark head was bent over a pie-plate, trying to scrub off the last of the burnt-on sugar. It was a strange thought; he wasn't sure he would know what would be expected of him if faced with such devotion - he couldn't decide if it would flatter him or make him protest. Probably protest. He sincerely hoped it would never need to be found out. What was the Elven word for Nephew? Did they have one? They must... there was that one fellow, the one in that tale who had been... hm. He was the nephew of... he rummaged around in his memory and came up dry. Well, he could always look it up later.

He gave the towel one last tug. Yes, he had a nephew now. He did. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End had a nephew. It was a pleasant thought. And it was pleasant working together in the comfort of a warm kitchen after having such a large and satisfying breakfast too. They worked well together, conversing in words few, small and comfortable; simple things spoken out of contentment.


Both full and warm, they moved back to the parlour where their chairs awaited them by the fire. Tiny silver rivulets were still leaving a tracery of lines along the window-glass but the storm was beginning to blow itself out, trundling past them towards the distant and waiting Sea.

When one is not out in it, it is a very soothing sound, rain, he reflected. Without the wind so furiously tattering them, his mums, phlox, asters and snapdragons bobbed and waved with a gentle gratitude for the softer rains of a passing storm, their windowboxes streaming with an overflow of water. The sun was only beginning to show again, bringing the wet sky into sudden and intermittent brilliance with each break in the clouds, brightening the darkened wet leaves to green gemstones.

He settled comfortably into his chair in the parlour and put his feet up on a stool. Frodo soon joined him.

His nephew knelt by the fire for a moment, prodding the logs back to wakefulness and adding a new one. "Now," he said, looking back at Bilbo as he took his own seat. "Tell me all about this past month. What's been happening? You did say you had a few tales to tell me, when I came."

Bilbo gazed at the fire as it tasted the new log, licking with its small tongues of flame. "Did I? Oh yes. Now that I think about it, I'm not really sure it was worth mentioning..."

"What wasn't worth mentioning?"

Bilbo paused a moment. When he has alluded to the small adventure with Lotho and company in the letter, he had been fully intending to share it with Frodo. If there was anyone he could tell such a tale to, it would be him, wouldn't it? So why did he have such a hesitation now that it came to it? Why did he shy away? He considered the paths that faced him.

He didn't think the lad would gossip. No, and it wasn't a lack of trust... nor was it that he wanted it to be completely secret; why if anything he had been bursting with wanting to tell someone. He was proud of how well it had been pulled off and a little boasting on his own cleverness to an appreciative audience would have been a rare treat.

He dithered, his hand straying to his pocket for comfort and fingered the worn edge of the pocket-flap.

That was it. How could he explain it without having to tell about his Ring? How could Lotho and the others have possibly missed seeing him otherwise? It was part and parcel of how the tale had come about, or even been possible.

He hadn't intended to keep secrets from Frodo, he didn't want to. It felt odd, this strong reluctance to mention this one thing... He buttoned the pocket flap, then unbuttoned it. Well. It was his, and there really wasn't any reason anyone else had to know about it. What good would it do? And worse, what if it made Frodo curious about it, and then he wanted to try it on, or even share it?

A determination welled up in him, he didn't know from where. He would not share it. It was his. He furrowed his brow and frowned, both at his own reaction and the realization that he couldn't tell his tale then, not without having to seriously rework it... and that would take time. He glanced over at Frodo, then back at the fire.

Frodo waited a long moment in silence, then glanced down. His voice sounded slightly disappointed, but not as badly as Bilbo had been fearing. "You don't have to tell me. Maybe another day. We have plenty of those now, you know."

Bilbo relaxed, though still caught in a strange guilt, as if he'd suddenly been allowed to go free when he expected to be questioned for some offense. He turned his gaze back to the younger hobbit, though he didn't quite meet his eyes. That gaze, it was too intense sometimes.

"I apologize, Frodo. I truly do. I just... don't seem to be able to recall enough of it right now. As you said, another time." He smiled to lighten the mood that had so suddenly fallen upon them. "How about a song, or a bit of poetry? I recall you had a better voice than mine. We don't have to have a crowd to have a nice recitation or two. It will make it feel more like a proper party."

"I can't think of any right now," Frodo tentatively smiled back. He considered briefly. "Except working songs. That's all I heard during the harvest, even in the evenings. Do you have any about birthdays? Not that insipid child's rhyme, but something better?"

"About birthdays? Yes, that would suit the occasion, wouldn't it? Hm. Let me think... Oh! Yes, I might have one. It's more a general party-gathering sort of idea, not birthdays in particular but it fits one of your harvesting tunes too, the 'Heave the Hay, the Wagon's Nigh. You know it?"

"Oh, yes..." Frodo hummed then sang a couple lines obligingly:
"Heave the hay, the wagon's nigh,
Lift up the grasses, sun is in the sky..."

"Yes, yes. That one. Now let me try." Bilbo hummed, trying to warm up his throat.

Over the hills, drawn to the fire
Come all the lads, lasses fine attired;
See how they dance, stepping to the song,
Parties and cheer, here where they belong.

And the...

He paused. "Humm, humm... How does the middle part go? I seem to have lost it..."

Frodo sang the bridge,
"Summertime grows the grasses,
Harvest-time mows the grain..."

"Yes. Ah. Thank you. Sorry. Hummm..." He continued:

How the sun shines on the lasses,
The lads with bright eyes,
In their homes filled with cheer,
May their songs never die.

And now we go back to the main part of the song...

To every home, 'neath every tree,
For every season this will always be;
Families and friends in light of fire,
Loyal and true, hobbits of the Shire.

To tables filled, to the glasses too,
Lifting in toasts everyone they knew,
Hobbits of past, same as today,
Songs never change, never fade away.

How the sun shines on the lasses,
The lads with bright eyes,
In their homes filled with cheer,
May their songs never die .

Sorry, my voice really isn't what it once was, and even then I wasn't the best of singers..."

"I liked it. Well done!" said Frodo. "I've never heard those words. Where did you learn it?"

"I made it up myself, some time ago; it's simple enough to do when you have a tune all ready and at hand. They were singing that Wagon song here, when I was out walking a couple days ago and it brought it back to mind."

Frodo raised his brows. "You made it up, just like that? I wish I could do that."

"It's not so hard. And you know, it's brought something else to mind for me." He slapped his knees and got to his feet. "I have something I want to give you - no, don't get up. I'll be right back."

Bilbo got up and quickly went to fetch the birthday package from its hiding place in his room. He adjusted the silken wrapping concealing the bright cloth, still quite pleased about how it had turned out.

The brocade waistcoat, complete with the buttons that Bilbo had chosen for it, had been finished barely in time. The tailor had done his work well though he had wrung his hands enough while Bilbo was inspecting it one would wonder. It was no shoddy work and should hold up for many years if it were cared for. The smooth weight of the folded cloth felt pleasing in his hands.

He brought it back to the parlour where Frodo patiently waited.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking of later in the day but I simply cannot wait any longer. It's my birthday but it simply doesn't quite feel like it unless I've given out a present. Here - take it!" he smiled, handing it into Frodo's somewhat hesitantly extended hand.

His nephew took the package and laid it in his lap, waiting until Bilbo had regained his own seating by the fire. He smoothed the silken wrapping a couple times, then felt the heft of it. "What is it?"

"Open it and find out," replied Bilbo matter-of-factly. "It won't bite, nor can you bite it. That's the only clue you'll get from me."

"Can't bite it, eh?" Frodo smoothed it again, turned it over and shook it lightly. "Feels like something made of cloth." He carefully pulled the ribbon and unfolded the silk covering.

"Oh my. Bilbo!" He slowly unfolded the shining brocade waistcoat and held it up. "It has brass buttons!" he grinned.

"Well, put it on! The ties should let you adjust it, but I had to take a guess on your size. Put it on!"

Frodo just kept smiling. "It's too beautiful to put on. I may just hang it on the wall in my room." he teased.

"Bah. Here." Bilbo took it from his hands and opened the one button that was holding it closed at the top. He held it open. Frodo obligingly turned and slipped his arms through the armholes, then turned, running his hands over the buttons and buttonholes as he fastened them.

"Well, how's it look?" He held out his arms and turned around, then tried a thoughtful pose. With the fire beside him, the blues and greens shone from the maroon-rust background, all highlighted with gold. It looked high-class but not ostentatious. Perfect for him, thought Bilbo.

"A touch big, but we'll soon mend that. Now you look properly attired for a party. Finely attired indeed."

"It seems much too fine for me. It reminds me of that beautiful burgundy one you have..."

"I used it for the pattern, somewhat. Now we can match on our birthdays." He came around behind him and adjusted the ties. "It's fine quality, Frodo. If you care for it properly, it ought to last you many years unless you outgrow it, of course."

Frodo smiled self-consciously. "I should have to grow quite a lot. Maybe someday we can plan a party worthy of such a fine waistcoat. I really do feel a bit overdressed for the one we're at right now. It doesn't seem 'me.' "

"Nonsense. You're now a part of Bag End, Underhill, so you sometimes need to look the part. We will be entertaining visitors sometimes, important ones. You can choose some other things to go with it yourself - you've a good eye for colour; I've seen that in the work you've done on your maps. And we've very many places to visit around the Shire, for you'll be coming with me. You'll need clothing for all sorts of occasions, fine and common."

"But you aren't wearing your party weskit, it's only your tweed one." Frodo pointed out.

Bilbo looked down and patted his chest self-consciously. "Why so it is, but I can change that right enough. Back in a two bites of a biscuit."

He went to his room and got his party weskit out of its wrappings, wondering what the noises were he heard out in the hall as he did. It sounded like Frodo was rummaging for something in his room. He smiled, and buttoned up the weskit slowly, to give the lad time. Some sort of homemade birthday present, probably. He could hardly expect that Frodo wouldn't have wanted to give him something in return. He wondered what it was, and hoped he could like it and not have to pretend to. When he judged sufficient time had passed, he came back out.

He had carefully composed his face to be 'unsuspecting' of any surprise, but all pretense was scattered to the wind when he came back into the parlour.

Frodo was standing by his chair with a quiet but pleased smile on his face, and filling his chair was a large wooden crate of...

"Mushrooms!"

"I'm surprised you didn't smell them, when we carried it all in last night. I wrapped them twice over to try to keep them from being obvious, but the scent was still noticeable to me even out in the cart."

Bilbo was still gaping at the quantity of them. "My mind was... elsewhere at the time. I say, oh, they do smell heavenly now though." He peered into the crate, inhaling the rich, earthy fragrance. They were plump and fresh, heaped together with creamy white and brown caps, shyly displaying softly feathered undertops. "Do I have to share?"

Frodo blinked. "Well....no....of course not. You... you may have them all, dear Bilbo. Happy birthday."

It was very brave of him to say that, thought Bilbo. He wants them desperately, who wouldn't? He smiled. "We'll split them, then. Right down to the last cap. Oh, look at that one. It's huge! Of course we just ate..."

"But there's always room for mushrooms," said Frodo with impeccable hobbit logic.

"Agreed. There's always room for mushrooms. Where did you put the butter?"