Mirimë walked along the sea-strand, enjoying the feel of the cool sand between her bare toes, the wind playing through her curls, the scents of the sea-breeze. 

She had nearly forgotten just how much more real the world seemed when she wore the hröa of a hobbit.  Colours were sharper, sounds clearer, the smell, taste and feel of things far richer when she was clothed thus.  Even when she wore the guise of an Elven-maid, the world did not have the same immediacy that it did when she was in this form.  As a hobbit, she felt a part of Arda, of the very earth she walked upon.  How glad she was to have the freedom to walk this way once more! 

It had been several days since she had visited Frodo and Bilbo.  She had been sorry to realize that her story had distressed Frodo, but Bilbo assured her Frodo would come to understand soon enough.

The questions he had asked, though she understood what prompted them, had not occurred to her before.  Of course such a delightful, yet defenseless race as hobbits deserved to be guarded from danger and protected from those who were larger and more dangerous. 

And yet, now that she thought about it, his questions were only natural.  She knew there was far more to it than Frodo seemed to understand.  But for all his experiences, and all of his wisdom, he was young yet. 

As if her very thoughts of him had brought him (and she was not foolish enough to believe that, charming as the notion was) she sensed his approach.

She turned to see him, clad in loose white breeches and a shirt of finest lawn, windblown and wistful.  He did look so very young!

“Mirimë—Adamanta—I owe you an apology.”

Frodo stood there, hands in his pockets.  He was reminded vividly of a day long past, when he had let out all of his anger and frustration at his Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda, only to feel foolish afterwards when he discovered that what had triggered his fury was all a misunderstanding on his part.  He hoped Mirimë would be as understanding of his rudeness as they had been.

She turned to him, her expression surprised.  “Apologise?”

“For being so abrupt with you the other day; it wasn’t your fault that I had so many questions.”

Mirimë’s laughter went straight to his heart.  She sounded so much like his mother.  “Questions are your heritage.  You would not be the long-son of my Tûk if you were not filled with questions!  But some of them I cannot answer, for I was not there to see all that transpired for my children.”

Frodo nodded.  “I realise that now.” 

The wind freshened, bringing to them the sound of seagulls, and they looked up to see the seabirds dancing upon the breeze.  They stood companionably and watched the antics of the gulls.  Frodo cast a sideways look at her, seeing the delight on her face.  He tried to reconcile this appearance, a matronly hobbit in her later years—plump, strands of silver in her dark hair, lines of laughter about her lips and eyes—with what she really was. 

She turned a fond smile on him, and something in her expression reminded him of Gandalf.  It broke upon him like the dawn, the realization that she was very like Gandalf—that they were akin in ways he could not fathom, but that there was one way in which he could understand.

“You really do like being a hobbit, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

Gandalf leaned back with a certain amount of satisfaction. In all their long years of acquaintance, he did not believe that he had ever before seen such an expression of open astonishment on the face of his host. The closest was when he had given Elrond the news that Bilbo had outwitted Smaug, seen to the dragon’s destruction (if not personally), and forged an alliance between Men, Elves and Dwarves. And even then it was but a shadow of the amazement that had now briefly rendered his old friend speechless.

Finally Elrond shook his head, and gave a rueful chuckle. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that the mother of the hobbit race is also…” his voice trailed off.

Gandalf took a sip of his wine, and smiled smugly. “Indeed, I suppose you could say that she was the mother of the hobbit race, given the number of her progeny.” He frowned slightly. “Perhaps there might be some few who bear little or none of her blood, but given the number of generations involved, I find it doubtful. But yes, Melian was not the only one of my race to wed with one of the Children, though the only one to wed one of the Eldar. Yet so far as I know, Mirimë was the only one who wed one of the Secondborn.”

“A hobbit.” Elrond sighed. “So much for the pride of the peredhil.” He laughed. “And none knew this until now?”

“My Lady Nienna, my Lady Yavanna, and He who made us all,” said Gandalf, solemn once more. “I was told, yet I remembered it not, until I returned West of the Sea. But there is no reason now to keep it secret.”

“I would meet with her.”

“There is no reason why you should not.”

It had seemed a harmless enough idea. Why should she not speak to those over whom she watched? Why should she not learn about those whom she protected? Surely it would make her a better guardian? The answers seemed self-evident to her that of course she should get to know the hobbits better.

Now she could see that her questions had little to do with duty, and more to do with her wish to become better acquainted with, not hobbits, but one hobbit.

But how? If she appeared as an Elf-maiden, she would overawe them. Yet there were not yet so many hobbits that the sudden appearance of an unknown would go unnoticed. Still, it seemed to her a risk worth taking.

It was near Midsummer’s Day when she watched Tûk going forth on his own, down the hills and over the downs. This was her first, best,
opportunity.

Near a copse in a meadow, she waited, clothed in the form of a hobbit-maiden. She wore the sort of garb she had seen on Tûk’s sisters and cousins’ scarlet flowers bound her dark hair. She sat beside a streamlet.

The sensations of scent and sound and sight nearly overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes against the brightness of Anor’s light, turning her face to her sister’s warmth, feeling the heat and the cooling sensation of the breeze mingle against her skin. The scent of trees and grass, the music of birdsong and of the flowing water was sharp in her ears. Her bare feet, with their covering of dark curls felt the tickle of soft grass and the living earth beneath them. She sat upon a rock and simply enjoyed being! She had nearly forgotten her purpose in taking this form.

Until a voice startled her. “What have we here?”

Mirimë looked up into a pair of intelligent brown eyes, twinkling with curiosity and good humor, at a loss as to how to respond. For some reason she had not planned ahead of time what story to tell him.

As she stared, his gaze turned to one of concern. “Are you well? What Is a lass such as you doing out here” he waved a hand about him, “in the middle of nowhere?”

She was embarrassed to confess she meant to waylay him. The sensation of embarrassment was a new one, and it took her an instant to understand what she was feeling. And underneath the embarrassment was another feeling altogether—a desire that this hobbit think well of her. If only she knew what to say!

He bent, taking both her hands, raising her to her feet. “You are as beautiful as a precious jewel, and as silent. I wish that you would speak to me!”

Jewel? That put an idea into her head. “You may call me Adamanta,” she said, finally finding her voice.

“Adamanta? Yes, that’s fitting. Your eyes sparkle like diamonds.” He gazed into her face, his eyes locked on hers, and he kept her hands. “You are no ordinary hobbit lass. Why are you here alone? Who is your family?”

Adamanta, for she was determined to think of herself in that way, shook her head sadly. “I cannot say. I do not think that I have a family.”

“Come with me,” he said, “and I shall give you my family.” He laughed. “I would apologise for being so bold on a first meeting, but I do not feel at all sorry! I have not even told you my own name: it is Tûk of the Fallohides.”

“I will come with you, Tûk of the Fallohides.”
_______________

A/N: The title to this chapter is from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Bilbo was pleased when Frodo told him of his talks with Gandalf and Adamanta. Frodo’s doubts and fears were eased.

From the time they had come in view of the Blessed Isle, Bilbo noticed the changes in Frodo. He smiled with his eyes as well as his lips, and for more than a brief instant. He now realised his failure to resist the Ring at the end did not mean he failed in his mission. Yet Bilbo had not understood some of Frodo’s other doubts until he had seen Frodo react to Mirimë’s story.

This morning as Bilbo prepared elevenses, Frodo was on the terrace feeding the birds.

Bilbo was happy with their home. It reminded him of his rooms Rivendell, though larger, meant for two hobbits. They had their own exit, own terrace, a small patch of garden for their own use. Yet it was part of Elrond’s home as well. With Frodo for company, Bilbo spent less time among the Elves than before. Still, they were free to join their Elven friends in the dining hall, make free of Elrond’s library, and walk in Elrond’s grounds.

Gandalf made himself at home here, and while Elrond’s household was smaller, it was lightened by the presence of his wife Celebrian. She had become a friend to Frodo, understanding that which made it impossible for him to remain in Middle-earth. And Galadriel lingered here for a while, glad to be reunited with her daughter, in no hurry to pass further West until she was rejoined with her Lord, who had remained behind for Arwen’s sake.

The two hobbits were sitting down to tea and seedcakes, when there was a knock upon their door. It was Elrond himself.

“My friends, I came to ask if you would join us today for luncheon?”

Tûk had been as good as his word, and immediately began to lead her back the way he had come. When he took her by the hand, a warm delightful sensation filled her being. Who knew that simply having one's hand enveloped by another could be so delightful?

As they walked, he told her of his family, parents, sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles. She knew who they were. She had been watching and observing hobbits for four generations-- but it was altogether different to hear of them in his voice, filtered through his love and his humour and his exasperation. She laughed when he laughed, and smiled when he smiled, simply because she could not help herself.

When he halted, pointing some sight: a colourful butterfly, two birds in playful flight, a hare shooting through the grass, each seemed some thing never considered before, a special thing because she was seeing it in his company.

Suddenly she was stopped in her tracks by something else new: a feeling of hollowness and the sound of rumbling coming from within her. She blinked in surprise. Was something wrong with her?

Tûk looked at her in dismay. "I'm sorry! You are hungry.”

She blinked at him. Hungry? Of course. She had noticed that hobbits seemed perpetually hungry. But she had never wondered what it felt like to be so.

He dropped the satchel he carried slung over his shoulder, bending to rummage in it. He drew forth some apples and handed one of them to her. He took the other and bit into it.

She bit into hers; the sweetness and crispness was a revelation...

“Mirimë?"

She jumped, startled out of her reverie.

"Yes, Olórin?" she asked, wondering what had brought him to her.

"I bear an invitation for you from Elrond Peredhil."

Elrond’s home had been prepared by Celebrian his wife, as she awaited his arrival in the West. It was somewhat like the Last Homely House of Imladris, and yet also quite different. Rather than a feasting hall within the house, the dining hall was on a wide veranda leading out to a series of terraces. It had a magnificent view of the strand, the sea, and of the shores of Aman beyond.

Galadriel stood by the wide columns, gazing not to sea, but to the door through which others were arriving: there was Mithrandir (for so she still thought of him), and at his side the beloved figures of Frodo and Bilbo—and with them what appeared to be an elderly hobbit matron. Mithrandir led her to be introduced.

Galadriel saw clearly through the hröa to the remarkable fëa within. She had been told. And yet she had not understood. Mirimë was Mirimë, and yet she was wholly Adamanta as well. As Olórin had done when he had taken the guise of an Istari, and become in truth the Grey Pilgrim, an old man subject to all of the ails of Men, Mirimë was fully Adamanta, and seemed even more tightly bound to her hröa than he.

She returned Galadriel's scrutiny with aplomb. "It is good to see you again, Artanis," she said. "You have both remained the same and yet changed a great deal since last we met."

The Lady nodded, an amused smile on her face. "You have changed a good deal," she said, “and are not at all the same.”

Adamanta laughed at this, which drew both Bilbo and Frodo-- who had been conversing with Elrond-- to her side. She turned to them with a smile, and then back to Galadriel. "Of course, you know my great-grandsons."

Frodo found himself rather abruptly drawn into the circle of conversation between the Lady Galadriel and Adamanta. And she was being very much Adamanta at this point in time. Right at the moment she reminded him more than anyone else of his Aunt Dora at her best.

Lady Galadriel smiled and said, "I do indeed know Frodo and Bilbo; they are good friends. I was more than a little surprised to learn of your relationship to them, however."

"I was surprised myself," said Adamanta. "I had no idea that I should ever have the opportunity to meet the descendants of Tûk and myself after all this time. I must say, however, that I am unsurprised to learn of the great deeds which they accomplished."

Frodo found himself blushing, but his embarrassment was only the normal embarrassment of one praised in public, and not the shameful feeling that he was an imposter who never did what he'd been extolled for. It was a pleasant and warm feeling to realise that, yes, he had accomplished something worthwhile even though he had not done it in the way he had imagined it ought to be done.

He glanced over and met the gazes of both ladies, and found in them warm approval, mild amusement, fondness and pride. He blushed a second time, and for an instant he remembered his mother.

"Mama! See what I made!" He'd thrust the drawing at her eagerly, and she'd plucked it from his nine-year-old hands.

The drawing, done in charcoal and coloured chalks had been more than a little smudged, but there was no mistaking the pride in his mother's voice.

"Oh Frodo! It's primulas! How lovely! Thank you, my chicklet!" She had gathered him into her arms.

Frodo blinked. He'd not thought of that memory in years.

Adamanta noticed Frodo seemed lost in thought, and wondered what had made him so pensive. But the arrival of the servants bringing the food drew everyone's attention away from conversation.

A long table was placed to one side of the veranda next to a low wall on which the guests could seat themselves. One section of the wall was higher and built like a set of steps, and it was there that the places had been set for Frodo, Bilbo and Adamanta. They could sit on the top step and be comfortable, without their toes dangling.

The food was varied and delicious; there were soups of clear broths, salads of young vegetables, cheeses, stuffed eggs, and yeasty smelling breads of many shapes and hues and in honor of the hobbit guests, a huge platter of mushrooms, all of it served with a pale golden mead that tasted of heather. Frodo and Bilbo were in earnest conversation with their hostess Celebrian, who sat to their other side, and Adamanta found she was speaking once more with Galadriel.

"I am glad you were able to help Frodo and the others in their time of great need. It seems to me that without your help all would have been lost."

"I did little enough; I would that I could have done more."

Adamanta shook her head, "I think what you did was just what was needed. He told me how desperately he wished for light in the Dark Land; you granted him that."

"Light is always needed when times are dark. But I think he also owed much of his success to you, now that I know of your part in his heritage."

"Me?" Adamanta laughed. "There are more generations between myself and Frodo than even the most eager of hobbits could count."

"And yet the hobbits bear much of your heritage about them still; not only Frodo, but the others who were with him, his cousins Meriadoc and Peregrin and his friend Samwise. I put them to the test. Their hearts were true. The Ring might in time have overwhelmed them, as it finally did Frodo in its place of greatest strength, but it never could have succeeded in seducing any of them. None of them had any greater ambition than to find peace and safety for those whom they loved."

"I do not know that could be attributed to me. For Tûk was true and brave long before I met him, and it there was always something special about him. Our children owed far more of their heritage to their father than to me."

"I believe you omitted a few 'greats' when you spoke of us, Adamanta," said Bilbo, raising his eyebrow.

Adamanta laughed and said "I have no idea how many 'greats' I omitted, but it comes down to the same thing in the end."

"Does it?" asked Galadriel.

"They are my children all the same," was the reply. "I am more than glad to know that Tûk's blood still runs strong among the hobbits."

"It does," said Bilbo. "The Tooks are the pre-eminent family of the Shire, and there are Tookish connexions among all of the Shire's Great Families, and I daresay some among the Lesser Families on the Roll as well."

"Tell us about your children," Frodo asked. Indeed, it was something he had wished to ask for some time.

"It would take some time to tell you of them all," Adamanta said with a smile, "though I am not at all averse to talking about them. What proud mother does not delight in speaking of her children?"

The three hobbits (for so Adamanta was) and the Ladies Galadriel and Celebrian slipped away from the table. Bilbo dropped a handful of grapes into his pocket for the filling up of corners.

Celebrian led them from the terrace into an enclosed garden. Espaliered fruit trees grew against the stone walls, and beds of herbs and roses formed patterns in the green sward.

Galadriel indicated a nearby marble bench-- there was room for all of them to be seated without discomfort, and they could see the sea. As they sat, she waved over a servant who was carrying a tray of wine goblets. Soon all were served, and Bilbo and Frodo turned to Adamanta with expectant faces.

"Tell us of your children, Mirimë," said Lady Celebrian, her tone warm and encouraging.

Adamanta took a sip of the wine, and smiled. "My firstborn was a daughter. I had no idea that the travail of giving birth would be so difficult, and swore I would never do it again. But once I held her in my arms, I knew it was worth it all. We named her Briar Rose, after Tûk's mother. Her eyes were blue, an unusual thing among the brown-eyed hobbits, her hair as dark as Tûk's own. She was a delight to us, smiling and gurgling far more often than she cried. As she grew old enough to toddle about, she followed her father everywhere she could. And he never went away even the shortest distance, without returning with some small token for her: a pretty feather, a shiny stone, sometimes a wild fruit or mushroom just for her. She learned to speak early, but she was not talkative-- she much preferred to listen, but would often ask me questions later about the things she had heard others saying."

"When Briar Rose was three and entering into faunthood, her first brother was born. Raz was also a happy babe, but as he grew older, he was much more difficult to manage.

He was often into mischief and had frequent mishaps caused by his insatiable curiousity. He would pepper his father with questions that he was hard put to answer. His grandmother found this quite amusing, for she said she was being revenged for Tûk's own childhood.

Tûk's mother spoiled her grandchildren, but though she loved them all the same, little Raz could shamelessly wheedle her out of anything with the pleading expression of his green eyes, something his older sister had never been given to doing.

One day when he was about four, he toddled into the kitchen where his grandmother was baking sweet biscuits on the hearth. He saw the treats there, and I suppose the smell of them was too enticing. When his gammer's back was turned, he tried to reach for them. His shrieks caught her attention at once. She snatched him away from the fire and quickly ministered to his poor little burned fingers.

By the time I discovered what happened—for I had been busy with his older sister—she had consoled him for his mishap with as many biscuits as he could eat. That evening, he had not only the injuries to his fingers to deal with, but an upset tummy as well!

Yet he remained a cheerful and affectionate child, in spite of the spoiling. He never failed to share with his siblings, often without even having to be asked. And as soon as he was old enough, he followed his father everywhere—in fact, many of our friends and kin began to call him 'Little Tûk' instead of his given name."

It was two years after Raz's birth that I bore another daughter. Her father named her after me— but she was called 'Addie'. Tûk never shortened my name; I always was Adamanta among them.

Addie was a less compliant babe than her sister. She cried throughout the night for the first several months of her life. Her sister was thrilled with having another maid-child in the family, keeping by my side whenever I attended to Addie. Young as she was, Briar Rose loved to feed her little sister and change her nappies.

Once Addie entered faunthood, her disposition improved. She soon learned to talk and sing. Even as a tiny child, she hummed melodies, and made up nonsense songs. As she grew older, she made sense of them; at festivals and parties her singing was much in demand.

When she was ten, a Wood-elf came to our village. They were rare visitors since Tûk first encountered them. Galasgil was his name, and hearing Addie sing one of her songs, he was charmed, and made her shepherd's pipes which he taught her to play.

He also decided to teach her letters. Writing of any kind was unknown among hobbits at that time. Her grandparents thought no good could come of learning such an Elvish skill. Tûk overruled them. She learned quickly, and her brothers and sisters joined her lessons. Galasgil stayed among us a year and a half-- a brief time for him, but long enough to became a familiar sight. When he left many of the children, and not a few of the adults had learned to read and write.

Addie was heartbroken when he left, though I know he was dismayed at how quickly the children grew older. But Addie had pleasure ever after in writing down her songs.

It was less than two years later that I quickened once more. This time Tûk and I were blessed with twins: two healthy lads, Kali and Ban...

I thought having three young ones already, two more would be simple. But it was quite different having two lads who were the exact same age! They were hungry at the same time, needed their nappies changed at the same time, teethed at the same time. Yet they were different as well.

Kali talked first, but Ban crawled and walked first. I learned that Ban was the quieter; he thought carefully before he spoke. Most thought he was the more clever of the two, but they were wrong. Kali was as clever, and often came up with plots and plans. Most of the time, his twin was perfectly happy to go along with him, but if Ban thought it was a bad idea, he said so. And Kali could not move him. After a few occasions when Kali went ahead with a scheme which Ban said was a bad idea, and it was a disaster, he learned to listen to his brother.

They adored Raz, and followed everywhere. Many of Kali's plans involved following Raz when he preferred not to be encumbered with younger brothers. But it was hard to stay angry with them when they so clearly adored him.

I learned that younger brothers could drive their sisters to distraction. Briar Rose was firm and she knew how to distract them from their mischief. But I soon learned to dread it when Addie would call "Mother!" in a certain tone of voice-- I knew that meant the twins had done something else to vex her.

But they also loved their sisters, and often begged Briar Rose for stories or Addie for songs.

It was four years before Buttercup joined the family. Her disposition was as bright and sunny as her nameflower. She became the pet of the family. Kali and Ban were too young to try to carry her about, but they tried anyway, and frequently hung over her cradle making silly faces and watching her laugh.

Briar Rose was now old enough to be a real help to me. She watched the baby for me when I needed to be about other tasks. And Addie would make up lullabies for Buttercup, and sing them for hours. Her grandfather and grandmother doted upon her, and when her father was at home, I scarcely had a chance to hold her.

You might think with so much attention she would become spoiled, but she never did. Instead she absorbed it all and gave it back. I never had to teach her the lessons of sharing as I had with the older children. As she grew, she expected everyone to like her, and she liked everyone.

This included Great-aunt Gerda, Tûk's aunt on his mother's side. She was a spinster with a sour disposition and an exaggerated notion of her own importance. She had never cared much for me-- considering me still a stranger, in spite of how long I had been wed to her nephew. She had shown disdain for all his children, until Buttercup.

Buttercup would go to her with a smile, holding out her little arms to be picked up and coddled, with every expectation that she would be. The first time it happened you could actually see the sour expression fade to be replaced by surprise and a shy smile. That opened the gate to the garden, and as time passed, Gerda became a much more pleasant person to be around.

The day Buttercup became a faunt was the day I realised I was with child again. It was another lad-- we named him Bûk, after his grandfather. Perhaps that was why he and his grandfather got on particularly well.

Compared to his brothers and sisters, Bûk was a silent child. In fact, he did not speak until he was nearly three-- but when he did speak, he spoke clearly and in complete phrases. He never babbled as a babe; he pronounced his words well. The only time he ever lisped was when he began to lose his baby teeth. Like Ban he learned early to crawl and walk. He did not seek us out to be cuddled, yet he was very content to be so, if any of us called him to us. Tûk used to jest that he was as independent as a cat.

His favourite pastime was to go to the village pond with his grandfather and fish. By the time he was twelve, he was quite an accomplished little angler, and frequently brought home perch or trout for the family's supper. He was about that age when he made friends with a lad of his age, a child whose father was a Stoor who had married one of Tûk's cousins. He spent a good deal of time with them, and we were all shocked when it came out that his friend had taught him to swim!

When he was almost twenty, he persuaded us to allow him to apprentice with his "Uncle" Gamba, who was actually Tûk's first cousin on his mother's side. He was an accomplished smial builder, and Bûk soon learned all Gamba could teach him. He went on to surpass him, and was much in demand among all the clans as a hole builder.

I was quite surprised to learn that twin daughters were different than twin sons. Aster and Rowan were born only a year and a half after Bûk. And while some things were the same-- they did cry and hunger and need to be changed at the same time-- some things were different. They were much more alike in disposition than their older brothers. As babies, when they were happy they would spend hours gurgling at one another in a strange tongue that was theirs alone. Yet they had times when one would strike out at the other-- sometimes it was Aster, sometimes Rowan, and we had to separate them. Then they would mourn until they could be together once more.

As they grew older most of the time they were content with one another, yet sometimes quarreled harshly over what seemed to me to be the most trivial of things, not speaking to one another for hours on end. Yet they could not sleep apart from one another, no matter how they had fought during the day.
This came to a head when they reached their tweens. For once they did not do things at the same time-- Rowan was the first to discover lads, and Aster did not understand. Yet Aster first attracted a lad-- a youth from a Harfoot village who had come to visit our village. His name was Herugar. It was he whom Aster eventually wed.

Rowan was dreadfully jealous of their courtship, and for a while Tûk and I feared the breach between them could not be healed. It was not until the day of the wedding that Rowan came to her senses, as she realised her sister was about to move away for good. There was weeping and embracing then, and all was well.

Bildad came two years, almost to the day, after his twin sisters-- he was born the day before their birthday! For the first time since I had begun to bear Tûk's children I was ill. He was born nearly a month early, and I labored long with him. I remember little of those early days after his birth, but I was told afterwards that at one point Tûk feared he would lose us both. He was the first of my children whom I did not nurse. I was far too sick to do so. I had never ever experienced sickness since I had taken my hobbit form. I still do not know why it happened or how, though I wonder if it did not happen because I had begun to forget myself, to forget who I was, to lose sight of my nature, to think I truly was a hobbit in all ways.

One night, when they feared that Bildad would die, they brought him and placed him in my arms. I was at first scarcely aware of him. Only Tûk sat by me. Yet as I began to realise this was my babe and that he might leave me before I could know him, my heart and mind reached out to my innermost self. I drew upon my powers, and called upon my Lady. I felt a warmth move through me, and through my child. Tûk told me we were both filled with a great light. The next day, both of us were as well as if we had never been ill.

Bildad was as loving as Buttercup, as curious as Raz, as fond of songs and tales as Addie, as adventurous as Kali and Ban. And, perhaps because they had come so close to losing him, he was the pet of the family.

Tûk was at first determined that we would not have another child. Ten, he said, were enough for anyone. I knew that he feared what had happened with Bildad would happen again, and that he would lose me and our child. I knew that would not happen again-- I had found that part of myself I had nearly forgotten after years of living in the hröa of a hobbit, that part of my spirit that would not allow me to come to harm.

By the time Bildad became a faunt, my arms were aching again for the joy of holding a new babe. One day in the spring of the year that he turned three, Tûk and I took an afternoon alone, wandering the fields together with a basket of food. It was not hard to overcome his reluctance that day, and I quickened.

Beryl was born at the turning of the year, in the dead of a cold winter. The snow was swirling against the windows of the smial when she was placed into my arms.

If Addie had loved singing, Beryl loved to dance. She barely went through the crawling stage, quickly learning to run and to skip and to dance with a grace that was nearly Elven. Her sisters and brothers encouraged her, and as she grew older she was in demand at festivals as a dancer. As a youngster she loved the sprightly circle dances which were nearly games, and when she grew older, the lads vied for her attention when it came time for those dances that were done in pairs.

It came as no surprise then, to any of our family, when she celebrated her thirtieth birthday by announcing her betrothal to the lad who was the second finest dancer in the village.

For ten years, we thought our family complete; our oldest children were courting and we thought ourselves ready to be content as grandparents. Briar Rose wed at thirty-two, and the whole village celebrated the wedding. The feasting and merriment went on far into the night and nigh to morning.

Tûk and I retired after seeing the bridal couple to their new home, a smial built into our hill by her Uncle Gamba and her brother Bûk.

That night I dreamt my Lady Yavanna spoke to me: "Little mother, the time has come for you and your beloved to bring forth one more child. Do not regret the loss of your freedom, but rejoice in the blessing it will bring to all."

I wakened Tûk gently. That night I quickened for the last time. A son.

He was born in the autumn at dawn. He had such a wise look in his infant eyes that we named him Maura. Fair of skin with dark chestnut hair like his oldest brother Raz, he resembled his father greatly. His eyes were deep blue when he was born, but settled into a calm blue-grey.

Like Buttercup and Bildad, he had a generous and loving spirit, but he was more solemn than they, often moved to tears by the plight of others. And he loved learning greatly; he could never get enough of stories and songs and lore.

He was twenty-one when Galasgil returned. They became fast friends. When the Elf decided after a time to return to the Greenwood, Maura asked to go with him. We agreed, on the condition he return before he came of age.

And so he did, learned and wise beyond the ken of most hobbits; but he was greatly respected and became his father's greatest councilor in time.

A silence fell as Adamanta finished. Her expression was distant, glowing with the memories of her beloved children. Tears had gathered in the corners of her eyes, but they did not fall.

Frodo turned to gaze at her, concern on his face. Bilbo had taken her hand and was patting it absently, but she did not seem to notice. Frodo breathed in deeply, and said "It must have hurt very much to leave them."

She startled, and looked at him in surprise, as if she had forgotten that he was there. "No, not when I left. At the time I was hurting far too much from the loss of their father. And they were no longer young; I was already a great-grandmother. Yet after I came here, the loss of my children hit me as well. I grieved that I had left them without word or care for their own grief. And I grieved that I would never see them again, nor know what came of their families."

The Lady Celebrian came and knelt before Adamanta. "I too left my family behind. I was fleeing the pain and grief of Ennor. And I, too, came to regret leaving my children behind once it was too late to change my mind. While I hope that I may yet see my sons, I know that I will never see my daughter again in all the long years of Arda. Arwen is lost to me."

Adamanta looked at her. "Yes, I think that you understand. Yet you know that your daughter has found her happiness, and you may yet have word of her life-- as I, beyond all expectation have finally had word of how well my own children fared." She placed her other hand atop Bilbo's and turned to smile at Frodo.

Frodo and Bilbo found a quiet and pleasant rhythm to their new life in the West. For Bilbo it was much like the life he'd led in Rivendell, living under the roof of Elrond Half-elven; he spent his days at home in his quarters for the most part, and his evenings in the Hall of Fire. But it had changed in other ways. Elrond's household was quite different now that he had been reunited with Lady Celebrian, and Bilbo was delighted to see how his old friend's whole mien had become brighter since his reunion with his beloved. Also Bilbo had more correspondence than he had in Rivendell. A few who had met him had found it delightful to exchange letters with him, and he was pleased to increase his knowledge of Arda's history while satisfying their curiosity about his life as a mortal in Middle-earth.

Frodo, too, found the time for scholarly pursuits and writing; he was surprised to discover that he had his uncle's gift for poetry after all. Most mornings though, and some afternoons, he spent walking by the Sea. It fascinated him, and the music of the waves soothed him like nothing else. He loved to find shells and other things washed up on the shore, and occasionally even went to swim in the salty waves, an experience that was nothing like swimming in the rivers or ponds of the Shire. Sometimes afterwards he imagined he still felt the motion of the waves when he would lay down at night to his rest.

Adamanta and the Lady Celebrian often joined him in his walks, sometimes one or the other, sometimes both. He enjoyed his talks with Adamanta, especially, but when both the women walked with him, he preferred to listen to their speech to one another.

It had become commonplace for Adamanta to join Bilbo and Frodo for tea three or four times a week, sometimes alone or sometimes accompanying Gandalf, as well as her walks on the beach with Frodo every two or three days.

So when she missed coming around for several days, both hobbits missed her. Yet they were reluctant to question the reason she was not coming.

"We should ask Gandalf," Frodo said one morning. "I am sure he would know."

"Perhaps he would," said Bilbo, "but would he tell us?"

And they put the subject aside. Truthfully, each secretly feared that they had in some way offended her; or worse, that she had tired of them and decided to put off her hobbit form once more. These were things they did not wish to speak aloud even to one another, for fear they might be true. They resigned themselves to her absence, and pretended they did not really miss her.

So they were very surprised one afternoon at teatime to find her at their doorstep, after she had been absent for a good two weeks, smiling and bearing a basket that smelled of cinnamon and honey.

They had her cakes with their tea; she asked them about what they had been doing since she had seen them last. They patiently answered, suppressing their own questions.

"You must have wondered about my absence," she said.

Both hobbits blushed, and Frodo ducked his head. "We did," said Frodo, "but we didn't think we ought to pry."

She smiled at them in a way that implied she knew exactly why they hadn't asked, saying "I was quite busy making plans for a new venture."

"What venture is that?" asked Frodo.

"I have made plans to have my own smial built on the island."

"Would you like to see where it will be?" she asked them, as she sipped her tea.

And so after tea, they found themselves riding south of Avallónë. Elrond had provided both hobbits with sturdy ponies for the times when they might need to journey further than feet could conveniently carry them. Bilbo had ridden his only once since they arrived, but Frodo had taken a few rides on his. Somehow Adamanta had also acquired a pony, a lovely dappled mare.

In the late afternoon, they rode beyond the edges of the city, and over a grassy down for about a league.

Frodo stared at the vista that greeted him as they came over the crest of a hill. The country before them reminded him achingly of the Shire. He could tell by Bilbo's gasp that the old hobbit saw the resemblance as well.

A small river ran through a pleasant valley. There were several copses of trees scattered about that ran down to the banks of the water. And just on the other side rose a hill. It reminded Frodo so strongly of The Hill that it seemed strange not to see Bag End there, with all Hobbiton laid out before it. But the land was pristine and uninhabited.

"This must have been much like the Shire looked before it was settled," said Bilbo quietly.

Adamanta looked at them. "Do you really think so? I think it is like the Vale-- which is what we called the place where our village was beyond the Anduin." She pointed at the hill. "I have been granted that spot to make a smial of my own. Lord Elrond has kindly offered me the services of his household to do the building. And I was hoping for your advice about it as well."

  I'm sorry I forgot to update on Tuesday!

For several months Adamanta's visits were scarce as she oversaw the building of her hole.

Frodo made frequent rides out to see her progress, but Bilbo had found riding was a little more difficult for his old bones than it used to be. He was surprised by Elrond one day with a little pony-trap to make the visits easier for him, and after that he came more often.

Still, as the hole neared completion, Adamanta asked them not to come, as she wanted to surprise them with the final result.

One day she came to tell them she had finished. "I will be having a party tomorrow to celebrate! Of course you are invited!"

The party that rode out to the Vale (for she had decided to name the new home after her old one) was a merry one: Frodo and Bilbo in the pony-trap, Gandalf on Shadowfax, Elrond and his household on horses with bells on their headstalls. The Elves sang merrily as they rode.

Once more they crested the hill that led down to the Vale, and Frodo laughed in sheer delight to behold in the distance familiar round doors and windows and a chimney pot, surrounded by flowers, and topped by an ancient oiolairë that made a perfect rooftree.

On closer inspection, the new hole did not so much resemble Bag End, however. It seemed more rustic in many ways, and Frodo realised she must have patterned it after the holes of her old home. The doors and windows were much larger-- the better to convenience Elven guests; for the same reason the ceilings were higher. And the furnishings were a mixture of large and small. In many ways it reminded him of their own quarters at Elrond's home.

But it was, without a doubt, a smial.
__________________
(A/N: The oiolairë, according to Wikipedia list of Middle-earth plants, was a tree of Tol Eressëa; "It had "ever-green, glossy and fragrant" leaves and throve upon sea-air")

Now in addition to walks on the beach, rides to the Vale were added to Frodo's and Bilbo's routine. Frodo rode there on his pony about once a week; less often he and Bilbo would take the trap.

One morning Frodo rose before Bilbo (which happened more frequently than it used to) and went to prepare first breakfast. It was a lovely morning, so he set it out on the terrace. Bilbo woke to join him; the smell of breakfast cooking had roused him, as Frodo knew it would.

As the two of them tucked into their toast and eggs and fruit, accompanied by fragrant tea, Frodo said, "It's a nice day, Uncle Bilbo! Do you fancy a ride out to the Vale?"

"No, I don't think so, lad. I've a letter to write. But certainly go if you wish! I am sure you will enjoy the ride."

"Do you mind if I take the trap instead of my pony today?"

"Of course not, Frodo!"

After they had done the washing up after breakfast, he shoved some fruit and bread into a cloth sack, fetched his fishing gear, and harnessed the pony.

Frodo had come to think of the little river that ran through the Vale as "the Water", such as the one which ran through Hobbiton and Bywater, and now he wanted to try his luck. He arrived mid-morning, and choosing his flies carefully, he waded out to cast his line. He soon had a strike, and not long after that he had a nice string of brown trout. He had been so absorbed in his sport that he'd not realised he'd missed elevenses.

No matter. He took his gear back to the trap, and drove on up the Hill to Adamanta's smial. Fish for lunch sounded quite tasty.

Adamanta opened the door. "Frodo, how lovely! I have yet to prepare lunch though..."

"I promise to clean them for you, Adamanta."

"You wonderful lad! I will certainly cook them if you do!"

Frodo carried his catch to the well, and drew water to clean the fish. He filleted them deftly, then he buried the remains in the garden. He carried them to the kitchen, where Adamanta took them to the large worktable in the middle of the room. Frodo sat down and Adamanta offered him a goblet of perry. "A hole-warming gift from Celebrian and Elrond," she said.

Frodo sipped his perry, watching as she expertly battered the fillets for frying, and chopped up potatoes and onions for the skillet as well. She cooked on the wide hearth. The Elves would have provided her with a stove, but she remembered cooking on a hearth in her old home in the Vale. Soon, two steaming hot plates sat before them, and they busied themselves with enjoying fresh trout and fried potatoes. A bowl of fruit and a slab of creamy white cheese provided for the filling up of corners.

"This fish is every bit as good as Sam's, I think," said Frodo.

"Thank you," said Adamanta with a chuckle. "I am flattered, for I have heard you and Bilbo discussing Samwise's cooking. I think that would be a very high standard to live up to!"

"I think you've succeeded. You are a very good cook! My mouth still waters at the thought of your mushroom stew!"

She laughed again, this time heartily. "I think you would have been shocked at my first attempts at cooking!"

Frodo cocked his head and looked at her, trying for the same expression Pippin had once used when begging for stories. "Tell me about it."

I never made a secret of the fact that I was different than other hobbits, and that I had no family. Of course, I had no story, but I never contradicted assumptions. Tûk suspected there was more to my story than he imagined-- but he never questioned me. He accepted me as I was, and so his family did also. It helped that I knew much of hobbit life from observation, and so had an idea of how to behave. But
in one thing I was ignorant, yet did not even know it until I tried.

I could not cook.

I thought I could. I had, after all, been observing generations of hobbits. How hard could it be to imitate the way they prepared their food? But my confidence was shaken when I turned out ash cakes as hard as rocks and stew that was little more than lumps of meat and vegetables floating in a tasteless watery broth. I tried adding salt. That just made it worse. I could not face my new family with this failure of a meal. Tuk and his parents had been looking forward to trying my food. In my despair, I tried something I did only once, but never again. I cheated. I called upon my power to improve the appearance and smell and texture of the food.

With a sense of triumph I served it forth. It was edible, it was not bad. But it was not hobbit food. It lacked something, I could not say what-- just that it did not delight the senses in the way every meal I had among hobbits always had. No one said an unkind word, and I even had compliments on how light the ash cakes were. But I knew. I fled the room in tears.

Of course, Tûk had followed me to discover the source of my sorrow. He asked me nothing at first, merely held me while I wept and wailed upon his shoulder, offering me his kerchief when I began to sniffle. Finally the storm had passed, and for a while he rocked me back and forth in his embrace, and then he placed a kiss on my brow, and tilted my chin up to look into his eyes.

"Now, my heart, tell me why you were so upset."

He took the confession of my ignorance of cooking well. "For someone who has never cooked, but only observed, you did well. But cooking must be taught and you never had a teacher. I will be your teacher." He grinned. "It will be fun."

After that, at least twice a week and sometimes more often, the two of us would cook for the family. Only Tûk and I were in the kitchen, so no one knew what role I actually played in preparing the meal. At first, Tûk gave me simple tasks: cutting vegetables, paring potatoes, slicing bread, measuring out flour. But I also watched him as he explained what he was doing and why he was doing it; very gradually I began to take on the tasks which he had been doing one by one, until our roles were reversed and I was doing most of the cooking and he sat by cutting vegetables, paring potatoes, slicing bread and measuring out flour— talking as he worked, and passing on advice to me as I worked.

Soon I was able to cook meals on my own, and as the children arrived, was able to teach them in turn. But always my greatest delight was when the two of us could cook together once more.

Frodo smiled at her story. "Tûk sounds like an amazing hobbit. Learning to cook is so important to hobbits; I am glad he understood the best way to teach you."

She nodded. "He was amazing. His way of teaching was so patient. I tried to emulate his methods with my children, and mostly they worked. However, I had to let him teach Rowan and Aster! Their bickering nearly drove me to distraction."

Frodo laughed. "One of my earliest memories is of helping my mother cook. She used to let me turn the griddlecakes over. And I was barely out of faunthood when she taught me to scramble eggs." His smile grew distant. "Of course, there was the disaster when I spilled honey all over myself just as she was getting ready to take scones from the oven, and the distraction made her forget about them as she tried to clean me up. They were very sad looking charcoal lumps by the time she smelled them burning. We all three went down to the main dining room of Brandy Hall for our supper that night."

"You have such fond memories of your mother. You must have found much comfort in them."

"I'm afraid I found much pain in them. They were golden memories of something that had been torn from me untimely, and all I could feel was the loss; especially at first. I was a sore trial to Aunt Esmeralda and Uncle Saradoc, for I feared getting too close to them, afraid it would be disloyalty to my parents. I grew to love them very much, but never as much as they deserved."

"You find comfort in those memories now, though?"

"Yes," said Frodo, looking at her. "I do now. Do you know, your laugh reminds me of my mother?"

"Thank you, Frodo." Adamanta sat down next to him. "That was a lovely thing to hear."

"Sometimes I do feel as though you truly are my grandmother."

She smiled. "You miss your parents very much, even now."

He nodded. "They were wrenched from me so suddenly; and too," he shuddered, "I had the unfortunate experience of seeing them when they were raised from the River."

"Oh, my dear lad!" Her eyes sparked with tears.

"Can I tell you something I have never told anyone? Not even Gandalf; though he may have seen it in my thoughts when I was ill. But if he did, he never said anything about it."

"Of course you can!"

"When I left the Shire with the Ring," he hesitated briefly, and then said in surprise, "that's interesting!"

"Always before, when I spoke of the Ring, I felt as though I was worrying at a sore tooth. Now it feels like the sore tooth is gone!" He laughed. "Ah, well! That's good, I suppose. As I was saying when I first left the Shire, I was not especially aware of the Ring's 'voice'. A few times I felt an urge at odds with my own sense to put it on, but I wasn't sure I could blame that on the Ring. After we left the Barrow and Tom Bombadil, I thought I could detect a whispering, only I could not tell what it was trying to say. It faded in and out.

It was not until we met Strider, actually, it was the moment we read Bilbo's poem in the letter, that I heard it distinctly: 'NO'. I was startled to suddenly realise that it was the Ring's voice, and from that time on, I began to hear what it was saying to me more clearly."

" 'YOU KNOW YOU CANNOT OVERCOME ME. YOU ARE WEAK; YOU CANNOT PROTECT YOURSELF. GIVE ME OVER TO THE MAN-- HE IS BIG AND STRONG...'

I tried to shut it out, but it did not go away; it kept on whispering at me. It offered me a chance to return home if I'd give it to Strider, it offered me all sorts of things."

"Then one night shortly before Weathertop, it offered to return my parents to me. I had never believed its promises before; I did not really believe this one-- yet it hurt. I could sense a feeling of triumph. I fell into an uneasy sleep. It kept whispering at me, and I didn't know if I was asleep or awake...'YOU KNOW THE POWER I HAVE; TAKE ME TO MY MASTER, AND I WILL BRING YOUR PARENTS BACK; I WILL TAKE YOU BACK TO THE CHILDHOOD YOU NEVER HAD; YOU WILL NEVER KNOW SORROW OR GRIEF...'

It was so painful. And then I heard a gentle voice, one I had not heard since I was twelve. She said 'Stop it. You have no such power.' And then I heard another voice, and he said 'You will not tell him that again. We know we can't quiet you for once and all, but you will never tell him that again.'

I looked at my parent's faces, and they smiled. My father placed a hand on my shoulder. 'Stay strong, son, hold fast.' My mother placed a kiss upon my brow, and I fell deeply asleep, dreaming of fishing with Merry along the Brandywine.

The Ring subsided for a day or two, then tried something new: it tried to whisper at Sam, Merry and Pippin. For the first time, I used my own will to wall it off from them."

  Chapter Fifty-nine: Watched Over

"I soon found I could focus my will enough to wall the Ring away from my friends. It took an effort, and the Ring did not like it. After a while it stopped trying to bother Merry, Pippin and Sam directly-- though it made all sorts of threats about what was going to happen to them when the Dark Lord finally got his hands on it. I learned to simply tell it firmly and sharply "No!" whenever it got too insistent; then it would subside to a muttering and mumbling whisper again.

I could tell sometimes that it was whispering at Strider as well, but he did not seem to react to it. I think he must have heard it though I never dared ask him if he did. But he held strong."

Then after Weathertop, just knowing that I could protect my cousins and Sam helped me to hold strong.

And the Ring never once repeated its temptation of pretending it could restore my parents."

Frodo looked at Adamanta. "Do you think it was truly them, watching over me?"

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "That is not a question I can answer with any certainty, but I have a feeling that it very well might have been. Or perhaps it was that Lorien was watching over your dreams that night. Yet somehow I do not believe that the Ring would have cowered from a mere dream."

"It's a nice thought, that they were watching over me."

"Yes, it is. And it wakened the strength you needed, I believe, to protect your friends and to continue your journey."

Frodo nodded. "I think so, too. They never came to me in the same way again. Yet sometimes when things were getting dark and difficult, I'd waken from a pleasant dream and feel they'd been with me."

Adamanta leaned over and embraced him for the first time, placing a kiss on top of his head.

Bilbo looked out from their terrace towards the beach below, watching Frodo and Adamanta walking arm-in-arm. There was a new ease in Frodo's manner he hadn't seen for a long time. To be truthful, it wasn't an ease he'd ever seen in his beloved cousin before. He smiled when Frodo looked down attentively at something Adamanta said, and then threw his head back and laughed. The sound carried on the breeze  to where Bilbo stood, and it lifted his heart and brought tears of joy to his eyes. His lad was healing, not only of the wounds that the Ring had inflicted on him, but of older and deeper wounds. Frodo's eyes now gleamed with joy, and though there was still wisdom in them and the memory of sorrow, there was no longer the pain that had always been hidden in their depths.

Bilbo credited Adamanta for much of the change; yes, the Blessed Isle, and the proximity of Aman made some difference. And he knew Gandalf's talks with Frodo had helped.

But it was clear that Frodo had found in Adamanta what she had wished to become to him: a mother, or a grandmother in truth. He should be jealous that she could draw Frodo out in a way he never had, but he couldn't. His relationship with Frodo was long-standing, and their old patterns of behaving with one another would never change. They'd spent too many years respecting one another's privacy to suddenly begin confessing to one another now. That was as it should be; he'd always been like a father to Frodo-- and a father's role was different.

Ah! They had turned on to the upward path. Time to put the kettle on for tea, and fetch out the seedcake he'd baked while they were walking.

Frodo sat with his sketchpad on his knee, his charcoal flying over the page as he drew rapidly the scene before him. It was some minutes before his subjects noticed his activity.

They were in the front garden of Adamanta's smial in the Vale. Frodo was beneath a tree, his back against the mighty trunk, as he did his best to capture the three of them: Bilbo, Adamanta and Gandalf, admiring a bed of riotous colors-- lilies in shades that Frodo had never seen back in the Shire: rich reds, glorious golden yellows and outrageous oranges. He wished he had some colours with him-- he knew his memory could never capture the scene so well. Still, perhaps one day when they visited, he could bring his paints and the easel one of Elrond's household had built for him. But he wasn't sure that the colours he had could capture those vibrant shades anyway.

Still, he could capture the expressions on the faces of the three whom he loved. Gandalf was looking at the two hobbits more than the flowers--his eyes twinkling, and a fond proud smile twitching at his lips. Bilbo was clearly enjoying the flowers--Frodo heard him invoke Sam's name and laugh. Frodo was sure he was wondering how Sam would react to these new flowers. Adamanta seemed very pleased with herself, and Frodo knew that she was glad she could tend her garden as a hobbit should, with toes in the grass and fingers in the soil.

But now they had spotted him, and turned.

"You can't draw the flowers from over there, Frodo!" Bilbo admonished him. "Why I know you cannot see them properly from there!"

Frodo laughed. "And what makes you think I am drawing the flowers, Bilbo? I have much more interesting subjects than flowers."

Frodo and Bilbo stared in astonishment at the sketch. Frodo placed a finger on Sam's picture. "Ban?"

Adamanta nodded. "You can see it around the eyes and the chin--and the ears."

Frodo grinned, chuckled, and laughed aloud. "Won't Sam be astonished to discover he's a Took as well! I think he always had a certain pride in the thought that he came of solid Harfoot stock--as I once heard the Gaffer say 'without a drop o' fancy or moonlight in the blood'."

Bilbo was also laughing. "Although it seems natural to me--Sam was always full of curiosity and questions."

Gandalf took a puff on his pipe. "I can probably explain that. As you know, I studied hobbit history, and though I never traced hobbits all the way back to Tûk and Adamanta," here he gave a polite nod to their hostess, "I do know that one family of Harfoots was descended from a Fallohide who left his own clan and never returned. They were among the earliest to migrate West, and it was several generations before they had contact with those whom they had left behind. I suspect that Fallohide was one of Ban's own
descendants--there was no fresh infusion of Fallohide blood among them as there was in those who remained in the East."

Adamanta nodded. "I can understand that. I had many grandchildren and great-grand-children by the time I left. Some moved away and married into other clans, seldom visiting. If their new clan moved far away, it would have been difficult--perhaps close to impossible--to keep in touch."

Frodo chuckled again. "I do so look forward to the look on Sam's face when he meets you, Adamanta! He'll probably be even more astonished to learn your identity than Bilbo and I were!"

Frodo began to write more, usually poetry, and Bilbo wrote less, often sleeping entire days away. Yet when awake, he was as sharp of mind as ever, though he preferred to talk more of his memories of the past. Frodo learned much of Bilbo's youth, stories his older cousin had never shared with him before.

One day, after Frodo had spoken of the news of Pippin's family, Bilbo said, "Pippin wed a healer, didn't he?"

"Yes, Uncle Bilbo. Her name is Diamond. She was distant kin, a North-took, and was apprenticed when Pippin met her. I met her a few times--they had just begun a courtship before I left. I know they were very much in love. Cousin Berilac also was courting a young healer at the time."

Bilbo sighed. "Things were different when I was young. I recall so well my regard for a young lass who became a healer. Back then it was nearly unheard of for a healer to wed, especially the young ones, and when I learned that she was apprenticed to become a healer, my heart was broken. I don't know if she even knew of my feelings towards her, or if it would have made any difference if she had. Our lives took very different paths."

Frodo was surprised. He had often wondered why his Uncle Bilbo never wed. "Who was she?"

"Her name was Pomona."

Conversations About the Past, Part 2

 "Pomona?" asked Frodo.

 "Pomona Goldworthy. She was Pippin's great-aunt, sister of his grandmother Periwinkle. I met her at Adalgrim's wedding when I was a young tween. She wore a scarlet ribbon around her ankle and we danced at the party." He sighed. "I harboured all sorts of fantasies about her--we were only young tweens at the time. I'd made up my mind to court her when we were of the proper age to do so, but just as I'd gathered the courage to speak, I learned of her apprenticeship. Afterwards, no other lass ever took my fancy in the same way, and after several years on my own, I became content with my bachelorhood. If I'd had a wife, I'd certainly never had any adventures. I don't know if that was a good thing or a bad."

"I've always wondered, Bilbo, if it was the Ring that kept me from ever finding a wife. Certainly it was jealous enough once it awakened. Do you think the Ring kept you from looking for someone else?"

Bilbo was silent for a moment, thinking and blowing smoke-rings. Then he answered, "No, I don't. I've no idea if Pomona would ever have returned my regard, but she was the one for me. As to yourself, ask yourself these questions, my lad: first, was there ever a lass who made you think of settling down before the Ring came to you? and second, were you happy enough without a wife? I mean, of course, before you knew what the Ring was."

Now Frodo was silent. Finally he shook his head. "No, there were lasses whose company I found pleasant enough, but none who stole my heart. And yes, I enjoyed being on my own most of the time. Still, I suppose we'll never know for certain."

Author's Note: I tell more about Bilbo's feelings for Pomona Goldworthy in my story "Eleventy-one Years: Too Short a Time".

The soft swishing of the waves and the cries of the gulls punctuated the morning as Frodo and the Lady Celebrian strolled upon the sand. Both of them were barefoot, and the hem of her gown and the cuffs of his breeches were soaked with the salt water. The breezes played with her pale tresses and his dark curls, and the tang of the ocean was in the air.

The two often walked without speaking, but Celebrian knew her small friend's moods. "What troubles you, Frodo?"

"It's Bilbo. I'm worried. He sleeps so much now, but when he is awake, he is not truly present." 

"He is very ancient for one of your kind, my friend."

"He was that before we arrived here, and has lived far longer now than any hobbit in history. I think he is longing now for that last and most mysterious of adventures." 

"That grieves you."

"I'll miss him dreadfully. But I have no doubt that we'll be reunited. I fear that he only lingers for my sake. I don't wish to tie him down, yet I don't know what to say." Frodo stopped walking and gazed out over the sea. "We parted once before, long ago, and I still remember my heartache as I saw him vanish. Yet I knew it was what was best for him and I found the strength to let him go with my blessing. But this is different, it's no mere jaunt. How can I possibly tell him that it is all right with me if he dies? The words seem wrong for what I feel." 

"Do not fear to speak to him. He knows your heart better than anyone else. He will not mistake your blessing for callousness."

Frodo drew a deep breath. "You are right, my lady."

Gandalf sat in the corner watching as Elrond sat next to Bilbo and placed his fingers upon the pulse at the old hobbit's wrist, then taking from his robes a small vial. Bilbo obediently opened his mouth for three drops of the elixir. He swallowed and sighed, looking up at his Elven friend he said, "Gandalf shouldn't have bothered you with my small trouble." 

Elrond shook his head. "It is never a bother to attend to you, my old friend. I am very glad that Mithrandir summoned me when you had such a turn."

"I'm old, Elrond. Gandalf knows exactly how old, even if I don't. It's no surprise that I have a turn once in a while. It's going to be time soon, to let go and move on."

"You are ready to accept the Gift of Ilúvatar?" Elrond felt his own heart constrict at the thought of losing this dear friend.

"Once I told Gandalf that I felt like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. But now I feel like the bread, rather than the butter, if you see what I mean." 

Gandalf chuckled, and Elrond patted the hobbit's hand fondly. "What holds you back, mellon nin? I know you better than to think it is fear of what awaits you."

"No, I don't fear what's to be. But I dread abandoning my lad once more. I did that once before, and hurt him far more than I intended."

Gandalf rose and went over to him. "Frodo has grown far wiser and stronger than the youth you left in charge of Bag End." 

Bilbo nodded. "Yes, he is. I will talk to him" His eyelids drooped as he drifted into slumber.

Elrond's eyes filled. "Not yet, but very soon." 

"We shall mourn him," Gandalf whispered.

Frodo returned to the hobbits' quarters as Gandalf and Elrond were leaving. They bid him farewell rather gravely as he passed into the parlour. Bilbo was ensconced in his armchair by the hearth with a blanket over his lap, dozing and snoring softly, but he opened his eyes with a smile for Frodo.

"Hullo, Frodo! Did you have a pleasant walk?" he asked. 

"Yes, Uncle. I brought you a mathom." Frodo reached in his pocket and drew forth the tiny dried form of a starfish, and held it out for inspection.

"Ah! A star of the Sea!" Bilbo gazed at it on his palm, and together the two of them marvelled over it much as they had when Frodo as a small child had shared such treasures. 

"We need to talk," said Frodo. "Why don't I bring us some lunch?"

He brought a tray with tea, a light broth, some toast and a bowl of grapes, and together they shared the light repast. Then they looked at one another, a strange shyness between them, for neither wished to speak first. 

Finally Bilbo said, "You know Frodo, while I have never called myself your father, I have always thought of you as the son of my heart. I could not be prouder of you if I tried. You brought so much delight and joy to my life."

"Oh, Uncle!" Frodo's eyes filled with tears. "I was lost without a place in the world until you brought me to Bag End." He reached forward and took Bilbo's hands between his own. "I know what is coming. I cannot be so selfish as to beg you to stay when your heart is ready to go." 

"Never doubt that we will be together again. And wait for Sam before you join me."

"Yes, Uncle."

Gandalf smiled at the scene: Adamanta in her hobbit form looked quite incongruous in the company she now sat among. There on the terrace overlooking the Sea were Elrond, the Lady Celebrian and the Lady Galadriel and one Maia still clad as an Istari. She did not look in the least abashed, for she was, after all, not only a hobbit, but one of the Maiar herself. She sipped from the small goblet of wine she held, and looked up to catch Gandalf's eye. They were much alike: both of them clung to their forms out of love for their friends. Gandalf held his own goblet up in a silent toast, and she nodded and took another sip.

"Yes," said Elrond, in answer to a question from the Lady Galadriel, "it is quite evident that Bilbo will accept the Gift very soon. He worries, of course, about the grief he will cause Frodo."

"Frodo is strong," said Galadriel. "He has borne much, and he can bear this. But I fear for his loneliness after. Even on his difficult Quest he had with him always at least one of his own kind."

Adamanta looked up sharply, but before she could speak, Celebrian did so. "Do not think he will be without one of his own kind even after Bilbo departs. After all, for what other reason was Adamanta sent among us?"

Galadriel looked at Adamanta, who smiled with one eyebrow raised. "I know, Artanis, that you still think of me as Mirimё. And so I am. But I am also truly Adamanta, and I am a hobbit now. And Frodo is one of my children, however many 'greats' fall between. He will grieve, and he will be lonely for Bilbo. But he will not lack for another hobbit to comfort him.

For a few days Bilbo dwelt in a calm and cheerful lassitude, eating little but tea and toast, mostly sleeping. Frodo spent most of that time sitting by his beloved cousin's bedside, studying Bilbo's face, holding his hand, and remembering the times they'd had together.

When visitors arrived, Bilbo would rouse, sending Frodo away to spend time closeted alone with Adamanta, or Elrond, or Celebrian or Galadriel, but most of all Gandalf. Frodo suspected he was the subject of conversation and that in spite of their talk, that Bilbo still worried about what would come of him once he was alone. Truthfully, Frodo knew it would be difficult.

When Bilbo sent him off, he would wander down to the shore and stare out over the changing Sea. More than any time since his earliest habitation on the Blessed Isle, he missed the Shire. Most of all he missed his friends, and longed for Merry's stout protectiveness, Pippin's indomitable optimism, Rose's gentle care, Elanor's bright smile--and most of all, for Sam's loyal and sturdy understanding.

He returned one day to find all their closest friends gathered. "How old am I, Gandalf?" Bilbo whispered.

"It was exactly one-hundred years ago today that you ran out of Bag End's door without so much as a handkerchief." Gandalf's smile was sad.

Frodo went over and clambered onto the bed at Bilbo's side, and put his arm around the frail shoulders, and drew him into his embrace.

Bilbo looked into Frodo's face. "I'm uncommonly proud of you, my child," he whispered. He closed his eyes, and leaned against Frodo. Frodo brushed back the wispy white curls from his brow.

Suddenly, Bilbo opened his eyes and smiling, clearly said: "I think I'm ready for another adventure!" His breathing slowed, his eyes closed, and he was gone.

Bilbo had chosen, with her permission, to be laid beneath the rooftree of Adamanta's smial at The Vale, for he said it was quite the most Shire-like place on the island. Frodo and Adamanta stood at Gandalf's side. Nearly all the Elves of Elrond's household, and also Elves of the town who had come to know the hobbits over the time they had been there were in attendance.

Mourning: Frodo

It was quiet in Adamanta's smial, quiet, cool, and peaceful. His guest room reminded him of his old room at Brandy Hall in his youth. It was small, an inner room without windows, though not as lightless as his room there: it boasted a clever skylight over the bed with shutters operated by a cord, so that if he wished he could keep out the morning light. Frodo preferred to leave it open to the stars at night. He would lay there at night and gaze at the distant, familiar lights, not so different from the stars at home, though they seemed brighter and clearer here West of the Sundering Sea.

He missed Bilbo with a deep ache of longing; he missed sharing with his cousin the new things he discovered, the events of his day. He missed their frequent reminiscences of their long years together, their history of friendship and kinship that went as far back as Frodo could recall. And for the first time in a long time, he wished he could be back in the Shire, where Sam and Rose, Merry and Pippin would know what to say and do to assuage his grief.

Yet Adamanta was the kindest of hosts. She did not press him to do anything at all, but meals were always there, all six of them at appropriate intervals. As time passed he attended them more often than not. He would sometimes join her to work in her garden, or go fishing in the river below the hill.

And Gandalf was there, his own sorrow plain to see. Somehow knowing how deeply Gandalf missed Bilbo as well seemed to help. They could talk about him or not as the mood took them, and sometimes they could smile or even laugh at the memories.

Mourning: Gandalf

It always caught him by surprise by how different it was each time. Grief never hit the same way twice, for each person mourned was different, each loss unique. He had learned much of grief from the Lady Nienna, who had taught him compassion; it was after all, she who had first told him, "Do not fear to weep! Not all tears are an evil." Parting was painful, whether or not one was assured of eventual reunion, and joy postponed was...postponed.

Before he had been an Istar, before he had become, in every way save his life span, a very mortal old Man, he had known grief. He had mourned the downfall of Melkor, the marring of Arda, and all the pains the world had known because of that marring. He had been sad, but he knew now, he had never felt bereft, not in the way he had felt the first time he'd lost a mortal friend. The seeming he had sometimes worn before did not register joy or grief with the same sharpness and clarity: that sinking feeling in the gut, that twisting of the heart, that catching of the breath, that knowing that someone was gone, that needed a true body, real blood and bone, not illusion.

Hardest of all had been losing his hobbits. In his very first encounter with them he had one die in his arms. They were such a special people, kind and dignified and cheerful, and mindful of the true treasures of life. But a few had been very close friends, and among them Bilbo and Frodo had been his closest and best. Now Bilbo was gone; and yes, there would be a reunion, joyful beyond any imagining. But for him, that joy was...postponed and in the meanwhile he must endure the missing.

She missed Bilbo. They had become great friends in the years since they met. He had accepted her quickly as being who and what she claimed to be; had been delighted to discover a kinswoman on this side of the Sundering Sea. Unlike Frodo, he had not questioned the purpose of her existence but made her acquaintance swiftly into a family tie.

Yet they'd felt more like peers, cousins perhaps, rather than a distant many times great-grandmother and her descendant. That might have been due to the fact that they appeared to be the same age, at least at first, for by the time Bilbo left them he'd seemed far older. Now he was gone, and she felt much older than she now appeared. Grief, as she knew only too well, was draining.

She had never finished her grieving over Tûk;  even now, after the healing she'd found by being with hobbits again, she sometimes had sharp pangs of intense sorrow for her beloved. There was never a moment since she lost him that she did not know they were severed, that Tûk was gone.

But the absence of Bilbo was different, an ache in knowing he was gone. Sometimes she would forget it, think of something amusing that she wished to share, only to be brought up short by the fact that she'd not be able to do so.

She mourned for Frodo as well. He seemed so lost at times. How hard it must be for him to lose one who had been guardian, mentor and friend, a father truly, though Frodo never called him that.

She had promised Bilbo she would help Frodo, that she would be there for him in his grief. This would be a promise she would keep; after all, grandmothers are for comforting.

"I thought I would find you here," said Celebrian.

Elrond turned, waiting for her to join him as they strolled through the abandoned golf course. "I miss having hobbits about, my love. I wonder shall Frodo return, or will it be too painful for him to dwell here without another of his kind?"

"You do miss having hobbits about, but I think also you miss one particular hobbit. Bilbo had a special place in your heart."

"He did. He was a good friend. He had a generous and compassionate heart as well as that sturdy and steadfast courage that dwells deep within each hobbit breast. Do you know, Arwen loved him well? It was a grief to her that he could not come with us to her wedding. Even in his own sorrow and fear for his kin during the Quest to destroy Sauron's Ring, he did what he could to keep up her hopes and mine." Elrond stopped, espying a small object in the grass. He bent to pick it up, and showed it to his wife with a sad smile: it was a hand-carved wooden tee.

"I remember watching Mithrandir carving those with his own two hands."

Elrond nodded, putting his arm around her shoulders as they walked on. "At least Frodo has Adamanta," he said.

"He does, and he has Mithrandir as well. And I am sure, very sure, that he will return to us. When he does, he will have you and me, and my mother and all the others who have come to know and love him as we do. And he will be happy again before he too must accept the gift and leave us."

She sounded very sure. But, as Elrond knew, she was Galadriel's daughter and not lacking in her own foresight.

I'm dedicating this chapter to Fiondil. The last communication I had from him was a very kind and lovely review of this story.    

Frodo remained with Gandalf and Adamanta throughout the summer and beyond. He helped harvest the bounty of her garden, and visited the river below to fish. He listened to Adamanta's tales of Tuk and of her family as he worked by her side in the kitchen or the garden; he would sit by Gandalf as his old friend spun tales of days gone by. He spoke only to encourage the others to continue talking. The sounds of their voices were soothing, keeping his mind from straying to his loss. Sometimes he would soothe himself with his sketchbook, spending hours making meaningless, yet beautiful, patterns.

But at night in bed, as he stared at the stars through the skylight, he saw years of loneliness stretching ahead of him. Loneliness had been an old acquaintance since he lost his parents long ago.

One morning, he and Gandalf went to the Water, fishing poles in hand. Casting his line, Gandalf said, "Did you know that your birthday is next week?"

Frodo felt a sharp pang of grief. There had never been a birthday without Bilbo. "I can't," he said, the lump in his throat silencing him abruptly.

"It will happen, nonetheless. You will be seventy-three." He drew the lure through the water, eyeing the fly and noting the shadowy shapes of the trout moving below the surface. He said nothing more, but waited.

Frodo silently tried to think. Finally he said, "So, it's 1441 now?"

"It is. You have been gone for twenty years." There was a pull on his line. He pulled in a shiny brown trout, and held it up. "A bit young. Back you go!" He slipped the fish back into the water.

Frodo drew in a deep breath. "I think it's time for another glimpse of the Shire."

In between his times visiting the palantír, Frodo thought he'd grown used to the sensation of flying above the clouds and over the Sea. But every time he was as surprised and exhilarated as he'd been the first time. Below him were wheeling gulls, foamy waves, and the occasional splashes of great whales. Soon enough he saw the wharves of Mithlond, then the Towers, then the Downs.

As sometimes happened, he bypassed Bag End. Usually that meant Sam and his family were elsewhere. His vision continued West, so the Gamgees were not at the Great Smials now; perhaps they were visiting Buckland? He thought his guess was correct as he went lower, catching sight of a group of hobbits approaching the Stonebow Bridge. But what was going on there? For on the western bank were bright pavilions with banners, among them the great standard of the White Tree!

He saw now the small figures crossing the bridge were his Gamgees! There was Sam, astride a pony, with Rose riding likewise at his side, a babe in a sling across her breast. Frodo thought for a moment for the insight that sometimes visited him. Ah! They called this little one Robin. Elanor, who had grown into a lovely tween also rode a pony alongside her mother. A waggon followed, driven by his young namesake, and carrying the other little Gamgees.

The family rode across the bridge, and were met by Merry and Pippin, their own families ranged behind them. Then all turned to face the largest pavilion. Sam, Merry and Pippin stood side by side; as the King and Queen came out, all save those three bowed deeply, while the three of them simply gave an incline of their head. Frodo smiled, as he felt himself come to stand alongside them.