Chapter Eleven: The Letter

The possibility of keeping one’s actions private and unremarked-upon at Brandy Hall was so remote that any attempt to do so would have been deemed a fool’s effort by its residents. By the time Frodo returned to the Hall, his indiscretion with Hyacinth had already been discussed at length thrice over. Despite the scandalized clucking of his aunts, the prevailing opinion was that the tweens’ behavior need not be taken too seriously, due to Frodo’s tender age—as he was thoroughly offended to learn.

He was in the kitchen wolfing down a bowl of mutton stew that Elsie had dispensed along with a laconic "So, worked up an appetite, have we?" when a maidservant came in to announce smirkingly, "The Master wants to see you in his chambers right away!"

Frodo sighed. His uncle never tarried in calling him to account.

* * *

Frodo entered the Master’s small private study to find both Rory and Sara awaiting him, looking very serious but not, he noted with relief, angry. He went to stand before them, as was usual for his dressing-downs, but surprisingly Rory said, "Have a seat, lad," motioning him to an empty chair.

He decided the best approach was a confident one. "If this is to be the talk about where baby birds come from…I already know," he said with studied nonchalance.

"I daresay you do," Rory snorted, "from the way I hear you were carrying on this morning. Let’s just hope you know as much about how to keep those baby birds in their shells!"

Frodo’s worldly air vanished in a flash as his face went crimson to the roots of his hair.

Saradoc cleared his throat loudly and nudged his father in the ribs.

"All right, all right," grunted Rory. "I’m getting to it!" He turned back to Frodo. "As it happens, that’s not why we called you in here…since there’s plainly nothing we could tell you on that subject anyway," he added, unable to resist one last dig.

"Yesterday," he continued, "I received a letter from Cousin Bilbo…Sara?" On cue, his son produced a folded-up document from his waistcoat pocket. "Tell Frodo what it says."

Glancing down at the missive to refresh his memory, Sara recounted, "Well, after extending his fond greetings to the family and his sincere wishes that all is well at Brandy Hall, he writes of the high regard he has for Father and Mother, and for Ezzie and me, and for you, and of what a fine job he thinks we’ve done of raising you over the years, and what a fine upstanding young hobbit you’re becoming, and how impressed he was with you on your last visit to Hobbiton, and—"

"Yes yes," cut in Rory impatiently, as Frodo listened in bewilderment. "He goes on like that for quite a while, but the long and short of it is, lad, that Bilbo has made a formal proposal to adopt you. Do you know what that means, Frodo? Not just to make you his legal ward…but to make you his heir!"

Frodo stared at them, dumbfounded. "Why would he want to do that?" he managed at last.

"I can think of plenty of reasons, lad, and most of ‘em are named Sackville-Baggins. A hobbit gets to a certain point in his life, he starts thinking about his legacy and such. And despite all appearances to the contrary, there’s no denying old Bilbo’s passed that point and then some!"

Frodo had not the slightest idea of what Rory was talking about. He appealed to Saradoc. "But Uncle Sara, I thought you adopted me when…" He swallowed hard, then tried again. "When my…" Why was it still so hard to say it?

"Not exactly, Frodo," said Saradoc gently. "I became your guardian, responsible for your care and well being." He paused, looking rather embarrassed—Sara never found it easy to speak of his feelings—then continued with an effort, "My dear boy, I truly do care for you like a son. But I could never offer you what Bilbo can. All of my properties and possessions will pass to Merry—as they must, since he is successor to the title of Master."

Frodo was still trying to take it all in. "Do—do you mean that Uncle Bilbo wants me to live with him?"

"Confound it Frodo," burst out Rory. "What do you think we’ve been talking about all this time? And why do you look so flabbergasted, anyhow? Bilbo said he explained everything in his letter to you!"

"His letter…" repeated Frodo blankly.

"Yes," Sara said with some surprise. "Bilbo said he was writing to you separately, surely you must have received his letter by now? This one came yesterday afternoon."

Suddenly Frodo remembered the letter lying on his bed when he’d come in after the fight…the letter he’d tossed aside and promptly forgotten.

When he did not reply, Rory pushed on relentlessly. "Well, letter or no letter, the fact of the matter is that aye, Bilbo Baggins is asking you to go and live with him in Hobbiton. And now what do you say to that, eh?"

"But…Brandy Hall is my home!" A note of panic was creeping into Frodo’s voice.

"Of course it is, lad," Sara reassured him, "and we hope you’ll always think of it that way. But now Bilbo’s invited you to make Bag End your new home! Isn’t that wonderful?"

Was it? Frodo was silent as a jumble of brief but vivid images flashed through his mind.

His home…The Buck Hill shrouded in drifting fog on an early spring morning, mysterious and majestic. The warm glow of Brandy Hall at dusk, the light from its many windows dancing in the rippling water below. Fishing with his father on the banks of the Brandywine, and the proud thrill of his first catch. Lazy summer afternoons swimming with his mother in the placid River—and the raging, deadly fury of that same River as it taunted him one dark November day. The peace and solitude of his parent’s graveside. Serious, kindly Saradoc, always trying to shield him from Rory’s wrath and, less successfully, to discipline him. Dear Ezzie, knowing she could never replace his mother but gamely trying nonetheless. Merry’s small, frightened face at his bedside, then the creak of the mattress and the rustle of the bedclothes as he crept in to snuggle up to his cousin. And, further back, furthest of all, the sound of a beloved voice and the touch of a gentle hand that put his own night terrors to rest. For most of his life and memory, this had been home.

And now he recalled another talk with Sara long ago…a talk that left him feeling there was no place he belonged, and no one in his life that he could rely upon except himself. All the doubts and fears of a lost, angry fifteen-year-old came rushing back. "No!" he blurted out. "It isn’t wonderful, and I won’t go, I tell you!"

Rory’s patience, never his strong suit, suddenly gave way. "Can’t you see you’d be better off there, you stubborn whelp!" he snapped.

Dead silence followed these words. A look of pain flickered across Frodo’s face, then was as quickly gone again. Rising from his chair he looked down at his uncle, eyes smoldering. "Yes, I can see all right," he said bitterly. "I can see that you’ve wanted to be rid of me ever since my parents died. And now at last you have your chance!"

Rory climbed slowly to his feet and Sara instinctively started to move between them, but there was no need. After staring at his nephew with a peculiar expression Frodo did not recognize, Rory abruptly turned and left, banging the door behind him.

"Frodo," said Sara quietly after he’d gone. "You’re wrong about Father…you know that, don’t you?"

"I don’t know anything!" retorted Frodo, but he felt secretly ashamed of himself.

Sara sighed. "Let me try to explain this one more time. We were as surprised as you by Bilbo’s offer, and at first I was inclined to regard it as a mere whim, the passing fancy of an eccentric old hobbit, if you’ll forgive my saying so. But adoption is not something one proposes lightly, or without long and careful deliberation. It is a very complex legal proceeding requiring lengthy documents, multiple witnesses…and as Bilbo is head of his family, this will have implications for the entire Baggins clan. Rory’s right, the Sackville-Bagginses will be furious!"

The thought of causing such a stir made Frodo cringe. "Uncle Sara, you know that Bilbo’s very dear to me, but…I’m happy with things as they are—living here, and visiting there. Why should any of that have to change?"

Saradoc smiled a little at his plaintive question. "It’s the way of things to change, lad, whether we wish it or not. But this change would be much to your benefit. As I said before, Bilbo can give you advantages we never could…wealth, property, a position in society. Don’t you see? As his heir—with all the titles, rights and privileges of such—you would be very rich someday…and you would be Master of Bag End!"

"What do I care for that?" shrugged Frodo.

"You may not now lad, but one day you’ll be thinking of marrying and starting a family. Your parents didn’t have much to leave you, and as an orphan with no prospects, what could you could offer a lass?" Sara said gently.

Frodo made no reply; his cousin’s words had hit an unexpected mark.

After a pause Sara went on, "Well, I can see you have much to think about, so take all the time you need. No one is going to force this on you, Frodo. You’re old enough to make your own decisions now."

"Yes sir," Frodo said in a subdued voice, suddenly feeling very young indeed.

* * *

Frodo walked slowly back to his room, Sara’s words still echoing in his mind. An orphan with no prospects… He had never thought of it that way, but now he saw himself through the eyes of Hyacinth’s parents: a hobbit of so little consequence that Mrs. Hornblower could not be troubled to get his name right. Someone who would never be considered worthy of their daughter…at best a nobody and at worst a fortune hunter. But as Master of Bag End, they would have to take him seriously: a suitor to be reckoned with….a desirable match.

All this he quickly perceived—and just as quickly rejected. That he should choose to accept Bilbo’s generous offer for personal gain…that he should seek the Hornblowers’ approval on the strength of his title and possessions, not his character…the very idea repulsed him. And that Hyacinth herself could be swayed by such vulgar enticements—it was impossible, unthinkable!

If Hyacinth loved him as he did her—and surely she must, for she had kissed him!—then his wealth or the lack thereof would matter not a whit. She would stand up to her parents when the time came. But that time, when he was of age to propose marriage, was still so unbearably far off…

He found the letter lying on the chair by his bed, where he had tossed it the day before. Bilbo’s letters were never brief, but this one was even longer than usual: several pages filled with his cramped, spidery script. With some trepidation he began to read.

30 Wedmath

My dear Frodo,

I hope this letter finds you as well as when I saw you last …it seems but a short while ago that we sat at breakfast together, discussing plans for our birthday…and yet now that occasion is nearly upon us!

I know you thought me in jest at the time but, my dear boy, I assure you I have never been more serious in my life than when I asked you to come and live with me. Perhaps I sprang it on you too suddenly, but the idea had been forming in my mind for many months.

I have written to Rory and Sara as well, and undoubtedly they will recount to you—if they have not already done so—all the sound, practical reasons behind this proposal: that, seeing as I have no family of my own, it seemed desirable to name my own heir rather than see my beloved Bag End, and all the rest of my estate, pass into the hands of relations for whom I bear little love or respect. That, seeing as you were left by tragic circumstances without independent means, the arrangement would confer considerable benefit upon you as well. That, given my highly favorable opinion of your intellect and strength of character, you would make an excellent Master of Bag End and head of the Baggins family when the time comes.

I have every confidence that these arguments will persuade the goodhearted, sensible Brandybucks that letting you go is in your best interests, and so they will not oppose me in this—or hinder you, should you accept my offer.

However, dear lad, knowing you as well as I do, I am equally certain that these same arguments will make scant impression on you, for you are neither grasping nor greedy and care little for material wealth, being, like me, more interested in riches of the mind and imagination. But there are other reasons for this invitation, Frodo…reasons that do not appear in my letter to your kin. I hesitate to burden you with them; indeed I find it difficult to write of them at all, yet I would be remiss if I did not endeavor to do so—for it is only fair that you should know all before you make your decision.

As you know, I have lived alone here at Bag End for many years, ever since the death of my mother when I was just in my forties. Fate did not bring me to marriage or a family of my own, and I have had no great regret for this, for my path led elsewhere. Although it is unusual among hobbits, and has prompted much gossip and ridicule among the worthy locals, I have quite enjoyed my solitary life…being able to do just as I please, enjoying the company of guests when I choose, but always being just as glad when their visits end and I can get back to my comfortable bachelor life.

But of late I have begun to think that perhaps I’ve been alone too long. A feeling of dread and foreboding often troubles me by day, and my sleep is haunted by strange visions and dark dreams.

And here is the strangest part of all: figuring large in all of this is my magic ring. Sometimes I feel that it is like an eye, always watching me—even when hidden in my pocket. I find myself thinking on it overmuch, and sometimes these thoughts have frightened me. The last time Otho and Lobelia paid me an unwelcome visit I longed, as always, to put on the ring and elude them. But this time it didn’t stop there. I found myself wanting to play cruel tricks on them while invisible…to remove the spoons that I’d seen Lobelia slip into her bag and enjoy the look on her face as they rose mysteriously into the air! But I imagined doing more terrible things too…I wanted to strike that miserable Otho, to push him down the front steps of Bag End and watch him grovel in terror as I laughed unseen. And there were other, worse fantasies, but I can’t bring myself to write of them. I don’t know what possessed me to think such evil things, and it so frightened me that I became quite extraordinarily pleasant to the S-Bs for the remainder of their visit. But after they left I went to bed early and huddled shivering under my blankets, hiding from I know not what…myself, I suppose.

That night I had the dream for the first time. In it, I held out my ring to you, as I did on your visit last spring. And this time I let you take it, and you set it on your finger. But I could still see you, and it seemed rather that I was the invisible one, yet you looked at me and laughed… Since then I have dreamt this often.

I have pondered all of these things and what they might mean, but so far they remain a riddle I cannot solve. I have tried locking the ring away, but find that only makes me think about it all the more, and in the end, I always relent and return it to my pocket. I have puzzled endlessly over the dreams, but have yet to make any sense of them.

In the end, though no wiser, I am always left with the same longing: that you should come here to live with me. Perhaps I am afraid to be alone with my dreams and imaginings, with the dark and nameless terror that steals over me in the watches of the night. No doubt I sound quite mad to you, and I hope I haven’t frightened you off. But please know that, should you decide not to accept my offer, I will understand completely, and will not think any less of you for it.

As I look back over this letter—and you must forgive a long-winded old hobbit for going on at such length—I see that in all my ramblings I have not yet managed to say the most important thing of all: It is not fear only, nor the whispers of dreams, that prompt me to ask this of you. For you see, Frodo, of all those who have stayed at Bag End over the years, you are the only one whom I have ever felt sorry to see go…the smial seemed very empty after your last visit! You have a quick wit and an intelligent, curious mind rarely seen among hobbits—who else has ever shown an interest in, much less an aptitude for, learning Elvish? While some of your younger cousins enjoy my tales—I believe young Meriadoc is ready to set off on an adventure of his own tomorrow!—none but you is able to grasp their true significance.

The fact of the matter is, I have become very fond of you, dear boy. You’re growing up to be a fine young hobbit, and a credit to your parents…they would have been proud of you indeed. I see in you qualities that may not yet be apparent to most of those around you, or even to yourself. But I think you are destined for great things, Frodo Baggins, whatever path you should choose.

Your devoted uncle,

Bilbo

Frodo lowered the letter, feeling both deeply moved and greatly disturbed by what he had read. He did not understand most of it…the only thing about which he had no doubt was that his cousin was in some sort of trouble. The fact that Bilbo had not even tried to hide his desperation was especially alarming, coming from a hobbit who usually made light of problems. With a guilty start he recalled his concern over Bilbo’s strange words and behavior on his last visit. But poetry and passion had quite driven it from his mind—until now.

He sighed and closed his eyes, letting another wave of memories wash over him.

Bilbo’s twinkling eyes and kindly face, as familiar and unchanging as Bag End itself, lit by the fire’s dim, ruddy glow as he spun tales of magic and adventure deep into the night. The study filled with marvelous, exotic books, so unlike the dry tomes in Brandy Hall’s library, and the luxury of all the time he wished to read them without being accused of "loafing about." Long, pleasant rambles through the Water-valley and the Green Hill Country, where he would sometimes sketch the idyllic landscape and Bilbo would recite poetry, either his own whimsical rhymes or enchanting Elvish verse. Quiet, thoughtful conversation with just one other, a rare experience at the boisterous Hall.

The last image he saw was that of Bilbo’s face when he’d tried to touch the ring.

It’s the way of things to change…

Frodo felt torn in two. But Bilbo, it seemed, needed him. Could he honestly say the same of anyone at Brandy Hall? Only Merry, perhaps. But Merry had a large and doting family, whereas Bilbo had no one…

He suddenly realized that his decision was made.

* * *

Frodo found Saradoc sitting alone in his chambers, wreathed in a cloud of pipeweed smoke and sunk deep in thought. At Frodo’s approach he lifted his head and looked searchingly into his cousin’s face. "Well Frodo, what have you decided?"

Returning his gaze soberly, Frodo replied, "I will go to Hobbiton, and make my home with Uncle Bilbo." It seemed to him that his words hung heavily in the air between them, like the pipeweed smoke.

He knew with a sudden, piercing clarity that he was setting in motion a course of events from which there was no turning back, was leaving behind his familiar and predictable—if imperfect—world for a fate that he could not foresee. For a moment he shrank inwardly from this realization, but then his resolve stiffened. Whatever path you should choose… He had set his feet on this path now, and would follow where it led.

Saradoc did not answer, but only took another draw on his pipe and sent a smoke ring drifting overhead.

Frodo, having expected the reassurance of his quick approval, looked at him anxiously. "Uncle Sara…?"

"I believe that you have chosen wisely, Frodo," said Saradoc at last, his eyes on the smoke ring as it slowly dissipated. "And yet…" He turned back to Frodo and smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. "It will be hard to see you go, lad. Hard for all of us, but for Merry in particular. I hate to think how he will take it…"

Merry! Frodo had not seen his little cousin since breakfast, and the day’s swiftly unfolding events had left no opportunity to seek him out and apologize for his harsh words of the night before. But with a sinking feeling, Frodo realized that what he must tell him now would hurt him far more… He was suddenly desperate to find Merry before he heard the news from someone else. "Where is Merry, Uncle?"

"He was sent to his room for his deplorable behavior at breakfast this morning," replied Sara. "But you may go in to see him now if you wish."

Before Saradoc had finished speaking Frodo was hurrying down the short passage to the family’s sleeping quarters. On reaching the nursery he rapped softly on the door, then cautiously opened it. "Merry dear," he began, but the words died on his lips. The room was empty.

* * *

Even with numerous relations and servants joining in the search, several hours later Merry still had not been found. Brandy Hall had countless hiding places for a small hobbit intent on evasion, and it was not known whether the faunt was still in the smial at all. Esmeralda was trying to hide her concern, saying it was just another of his pranks, but there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes…

Frodo was just leaving the Hall to search outside when he heard a voice that, even in the midst of his anxiety, made his heart sing with joy.

"Frodo!"

He spun about to see Hyacinth hastening toward him, and abruptly his delight was tempered with yet another worry. What would she think of his move to Hobbiton? As she reached his side he took a deep breath. "Hyacinth, there’s something I must tell you…"

"All right, but first there’s something I must show you!" She held out a small scrap of drawing paper, a strange look on her face.

Frodo stared down at it and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was a heavily smeared charcoal drawing, showing crude stick figures of two hobbits—a male and a female—facing each other and smiling. The male figure held out a bunch of flowers to the female, whose curly hair was long and dark. In an odd way it actually looked like Hyacinth. Scrawled across the bottom in ill-formed characters were the words:

To my Deer Hiysinth with Love frum yer Frodo.

Next week:
Chapter Twelve: Day of Reckoning

Author’s notes:

"And now he recalled another talk with Sara long ago…" refers to an incident in Chapter Two of my previous story, "The Terror of Buckland."

Regarding Frodo’s choice, I’ve always wondered about his motivation for moving to Bag End. At his age I don’t think the decision would have been forced on him, so in a sense it is the most important—and fateful—one he will make, as it sets in motion everything that happens to him afterwards. And yet I have not seen many fics exploring his feelings about this. Yes, there are some that depict him as very unhappy at Brandy Hall, in which case his motivation for leaving becomes pretty simple. But in this story, Frodo has a close, loving relationship with his guardians; moreover, the typical teen aversion to change is probably even more deeply ingrained in him due to the trauma of his parents’ deaths. So I wanted to show Bilbo’s offer as presenting him with a real decision…one in which he is truly "torn in two."