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Seeing Stars  by Citrine


Bilbo sat up and heard his back creak. He had been buried in his study for most of the morning after elevensies, only pausing occasionally for a cup of tea. Though the birthdays weren’t for another whole month, he had been thinking long and hard about what to give Frodo. He had wanted it to be something very fine and precious, because Frodo was a very deserving lad and had made him very happy, but he also had wanted it to be something one of a kind, something no one else could give him, and after some hurried letters to and from Master Elrond in Rivendell, he had hit upon the perfect thing. If it had been any other kind of gift, he would have kept it a surprise, but this particular gift wouldn't wait, and the sooner he told Frodo the better.

Bilbo pushed back his chair, rubbing his hands eagerly. "Frodo!" His voice echoed in the empty room, but there was no answering call or sound of footsteps. Where had he got to now? Ah well, it was his own fault, really. He tended to lose track of things when he was deeply interested in something, and unfortunately his young nephew was no exception.

After meandering through several different rooms, Bilbo heard the faint sound of voices and followed them to the front parlor. Bilbo's face softened as he looked out the window. Frodo was on his hands and knees beside the gardener's boy, Samwise, talking away with his hands in the soil. The bright summer sun beat down on their close-set heads, one dark golden-brown, the other the rich, dark color of well-tilled Shire earth. He must have been telling some interesting tale: Sam's mouth was hanging open, intent on his every word and his hands empty, the marigolds he was supposed to be planting forgotten. Frodo never put on airs, or considered himself above anyone else, (though he had every right to do so, Bilbo thought with a touch of pride, considering that he was a Baggins by birth, and was kin to the future Master of Buckland,) and he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, unlike some unpleasant relatives that Bilbo would rather not mention. Lucky for Sam old Hamfast was nowhere in sight-he would have objected strenuously, to put it mildly, at the sight of his son idling while his Master worked. Well, best call Frodo away now, before the gardener's lad got in hot water.

The window was open, and Bilbo leaned out over the deep windowsill. "Frodo! Frodo-lad, are you busy there?"

Frodo and Sam both jumped, and Sam blushed a guilty shade of red. "No, Uncle, I was just giving Sam a hand with these marigolds."

"Could you come in then? Come to my study, I wish to tell you something."

Frodo stood up quickly, dusted his hands and his hopelessly filthy waistcoat, and then leaned down to whisper something to Sam before scurrying out of sight. Sam nodded and went back to work. Bilbo was afraid he had sounded rather breathless and perhaps short-tempered, but that couldn't be helped: His well-rounded stomach had been pressed uncomfortably against the high windowsill, squashing all his inwards into his chest cavity, and it had quickly become a case of keep it short and sharp or risk suffocation.

Bilbo winced and rubbed his bruised stomach, then hurried away to the study. It was a chaotic mess of maps, and books, and untidy piles of paper. Quills were scattered over the floor where he had spilled them while whittling nibs, and his penknife was open and sitting in the saucer after he had absent-mindedly used it to stir his tea. The teaspoon was in the inkwell and there were crumbs of cheese all over the desk. Bilbo sighed and brushed helplessly at the debris. If he had made a mess like this anywhere else in the hole, good Bell Gamgee would have scolded him no end.

There was a polite tap on the doorframe, and Frodo peeked in. "Ah, there you are, my boy!" Bilbo said, rushing to him and ushering him in. He swept some papers off a chair and Frodo sat down. Frodo looked around curiously. He hadn't had much opportunity to be in Bilbo's study, but he was sure it wasn't such a mess the last time he had looked in. Perhaps Bilbo had something on his mind.

"I've had something on my mind..." Bilbo began.

Frodo felt a speech coming on, but Bilbo merely looked at him fondly and absently, two fingers fiddling with something in his waistcoat pocket. Ah, Frodo was a fine boy, an eminently satisfactory boy! Bilbo had lived alone for so long and become so set in the ways of an old bachelor, he had wondered if he could adjust to having a young one underfoot. He had forgotten how pleasant it could be to see a smiling face in the morning (other than his own in his looking glass,) how good it was to have someone listen seriously when he talked about his book, to hear a voice answer when he said goodnight.

"Uncle?" Frodo said expectantly.

"Hm?" Bilbo came back from wherever he had gone. "Oh. Right. Well, I brought you in here to talk about the present I am going to give you for my birthday. We'll be having a grand party, of course, and you may invite whomever you like from Brandy Hall-I know it was a dreadful wrench for you to leave everyone you knew there, Sara's little lad Meriadoc, in particular." Bilbo realized he was beginning to deviate from the point he was trying to get to. "But about the present-" (Frodo grinned and his eyes lit on Bilbo's waistcoat pocket.) "Ho ho, my lad! It's not in my pocket! It's far too big for that!" He drew his hands out of his pockets and put them behind his back, business-like. "I realize our birthdays aren't for another whole month, but this present won't wait till September. I have thought long and hard about this gift, I wanted it to be special and though it's slightly unusual, I hope it will please you. You are special, my boy, and you deserve much more than I can ever give you. You have made me very happy by agreeing to come live at Bag End and be my heir..."

Words were failing him. Bilbo turned to the window, feeling a tad emotional and unsteady. He could stand before hundreds of hobbits and give a speech, he could converse with Elves, or Men, or Dwarves-or even dragons-quite comfortably, about any subject under the sun, and yet he could not tell this one young lad all that was in his heart.

Frodo was confused. He felt warmed by his uncle's kind words, but Bilbo had already given him everything a hobbit could need: Lots of good food, a fine home, a soft bed, more books than he had ever dreamed of, and best of all, affection. And someday, too far away to imagine, he would be Master of Bag End, and every grand thing that went with it! What more could he possibly have that dear old Bilbo had not already handed to him? But now Bilbo looked sad, and his shoulders were rounded. Frodo went to Bilbo and put his arm around him. Perhaps he was still a little upset about seeing him meddling about with Sam. He had thought things were different at Bag End than they were at Brandy Hall, where there were so many servants one could scarcely keep track of them or know more than their given names, much less be friendly with them, but perhaps he had been wrong. Frodo's eyes welled up with tears. He enjoyed Sam's company, but if it upset Bilbo he would have less to do with him. He wouldn't have hurt Bilbo for anything in the world.

Bilbo must have read his thoughts. He bent a little and pressed a kiss into Frodo's hair. "No, no, no, heavens no! You haven't done anything at all wrong, and I am not the least bit angry." Bilbo sighed. "I'm just a scatter-brained, old fool of a hobbit that can't put two good words together, that's all. Run along now, there's a good lad."

~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo wandered off, deep in thought. Sam's mother, Bell, was in the kitchen surrounded by a veritable storm cloud of flour, and Frodo's nose tickled at the good smells of chicken and herbs. It was hot, and the lace ribbons of her cap were fairly melted to her head. "Hello, young Master! I'm just whippin up a nice chicken pie for you and Mr. Bilbo before I nip off and tend to my own. Are you hungry, pet?"

Frodo liked the easy way she called him 'pet', just as if he were one of her own children. Yes, things were different at Bag End-and he rather liked it that way. It brought back sweet (if slightly faded,) memories of his own mother. "Yes please, thank you, Bell."

Bell handed Frodo a large apple tart, which he began to devour in huge bites. Bell's round face beamed with happiness-how she loved to see a hobbit child eat! Nothing wrong with this one's appetite, though he was a trifle reedy. She'd soon see to that-she could stuff the lad with good things until he popped, now that he was officially adopted and in her clutches. Humming happily, Bell carefully flipped the piecrust over the chunks of chicken and vegetables in the pan. There was a heavy jug, half-filled with cold water, next to her elbow, and she dipped her fingers in and began to crimp the crust.

Frodo watched her work and felt the glimmerings of an idea. If Bilbo could give him an early birthday present (and it was something magnificent, Frodo was sure, even though he hadn't found out what it was yet,) he could return the favor. "May I have that?"

Bell looked baffled. Was eating raw pie some queer Brandybuck habit young Mr. Frodo had picked up? Well, he wouldn't be gobbling any raw dough in Hobbiton, that was certain. "You may to be sure, young Master, when it's cooked."

Frodo tried not to laugh. "Not the pie, the jug. I want to pick my uncle some flowers and put them on his desk." It was a small thing, but the best he could come up with on short notice.

Bell wasn't quite finished, but she handed over the jug gladly. Ah, that Mr. Frodo was a dear, sweet, thoughtful boy, sharp as a tack and sensible, for all that he had been growing up among Bucklanders. If Master Bilbo-and bless him, she did love him, for all his queer notions!-if he didn't fill his head with fluff, he'd be a fine master to her little Sam-lad someday.
~~~~~~~~~

Frodo wandered among his uncle's well-kept flowerbeds for a long time. He felt torn with indecision: There was an enormous variety, from the most humble nasturtium to the most exotic lily. But they were all so familiar-Bilbo could look at them anytime he wished. Frodo wanted something special. Casting his gaze around, Frodo spied a clump of purple flowers blossoming on the roof of Bag End, just over the door. He tucked the slippery jug under one arm and began to climb up.

They were a long-stemmed flower, ranging in color from deep violet to palest lavender, with many bunches of small blossoms that smelled sweet as sugar. They looked Elvish, somehow, and Frodo wondered what strange wind had wafted them to Hobbiton. It was rare to find such a thing blooming in the heart of the Shire in August, when all other spring flowers had long since faded, but the tree on Bag End's roof had shielded them from the hot sun. Frodo smiled. They were just what he was looking for! Certainly no other uncle in the Shire would have such a bouquet on his writing desk, and they would fill the whole study with their strong fragrance. Frodo began to pick them one by one, carefully pinching them off close to the ground.

Frodo was so absorbed in his work that he scarcely noticed a roly-poly figure come up the road and in through the gate. It was Freddy Bolger, one of Frodo's numerous cousins, and kin to him through Bilbo. He had followed his nose from his auntie's house to the doorstep of Bag End, drawn by the smell of apple tart and chicken pie. Freddy's fat face was red with exertion and dripping with perspiration. He stopped to wipe his forehead and saw Frodo on the roof. What mad thing was he up to now? He decided to dispense with polite introductions and made his slow, puffing, ascent up the hill. "Hullo, Frodo! My, it's hot! What are you doing there?" He plopped down in the grass and leaned over Frodo's shoulder for a closer look. Sweat dripped off the end of his button nose.

"Picking these flowers." Frodo's reply was short and to the point. Frodo was not inclined to be too chummy with Freddy, whom he considered to be spoiled (his family was very rich,) occasionally bossy (his family was very respectable,) and somewhat dull. The fact that 'Fatty' was one of the few lads in Hobbiton within his social station mattered to him not at all. Later in life Freddy would become quite a bit less spoiled, he and Frodo would become fast friends, and time and circumstances would reveal the wiry hero hidden behind his soft, well-fed exterior. But for now Freddy was only a very fat, very annoying hobbit-lad, sweating all over Uncle Bilbo's flowers. Frodo gave Freddy's midsection a poke with his elbow. "Do lean off, Freddy."

Freddy sat back. "What for?"

"For Bilbo's birthday."

"But that's not for another month!"

"Yes."

More answers were not forthcoming. Rosamunda Bolger had always told her son that a proper gentlehobbit did not barge in and demand food, he must wait politely for his host to offer it. But Frodo showed no signs of being hungry and Freddy (having narrowly escaped a plate of mashed turnips at his auntie's,) was perishing for the lack of apple tart. Perhaps if he hurried things along...

"Here, let's give it to him now!" He snatched the jug out of Frodo's hands.

Frodo snatched it back. "I'm not finished."

"But I want to help."

"I'm doing quite well on my own, thank you!"

Frodo had the jug tucked close to his bosom, like a mother shields her babe, but Freddy made one, last desperate grab and the slippery jug squirted through their hands like a piece of soap. It hit the incline and began to roll, then vanished over the edge of the roof. Frodo turned to Freddy with lightning flashing in his eyes and stormclouds on his brow, but there was no time to give him a good pounding, because down below there was a dull crash and the sound of something heavy striking the earth.

Freddy and Frodo crawled to the edge and peeked over. Bilbo was lying on the doorstep, as if struck by the sudden need for a nap, surrounded by shards of smashed crockery. Water dripped off the end of his nose. He was smiling gently, and pale violet petals were scattered over his face. Little Sam was standing there, horror-struck, with his hands clapped over his mouth, while his Dad knelt beside Bilbo. Bell chose that moment to open Bag End's round front door, then shrieked and threw her apron over her head.

"Oh dear," Freddy whispered.

*************

TBC

Here is where the sharp-eyed reader will see my tinkering with canon: I don't think Freddy was even out of the cradle when Bilbo adopted Frodo! I've always tried to adhere to canon as much as possible in my stories, but Freddy just kept butting his way in somehow. Darn that kid.





        

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