Epilogue 1: Cold Comfort

"He needs more red!"

Frodo paused in his work and looked up quizzically at the elder hobbit hovering just behind him. "Are you certain? Remember, Uncle Bilbo, this is watercolor…once I put it in, it can’t be changed."

"I’m positive, lad…that eagle’s feathers had a decidedly reddish cast. I had an incomparable view of them as I was transported hundreds of feet above the earth, far too terrified to look anywhere but at the feathers I was clutching so desperately. Do you know, that bird had the audacity to suggest that I resembled a rabbit?! But I was in no position to take offense! I’m sorry I never learned his name, but then I had other things on my mind at the time." Bilbo wandered over to the hearth as he talked, and poured himself a cup of tea.

"All right, then." Frodo dipped his brush in a tiny pot of vermilion pigment, swirled it on his palette with umber and a touch of black, and carefully applied it to the page in front of him. "Still, it must have been splendid, flying with an eagle," he mused dreamily. "I wish I might do it someday!"

"Be careful what you wish for, lad! Some adventures are better in the telling than in the doing. And more pleasing on the page than in the flesh…" Bilbo now came back over to the drafting table to check on Frodo’s progress. "Ah, that’s more like it…you’ve captured him perfectly now!" He beamed at his cousin. "This is wonderful, my boy—I’d always dreamed of the day when you could turn your talent to the illustration of my book, even leaving blank pages as I wrote for just that purpose. But until you came here to live, there was never any practical way to manage it. I should have suggested this years ago!"

Frodo smiled. Since his arrival at Bag End six months earlier, Bilbo had done everything in his power to make him feel at home, and he suspected that the book project was part of that scheme. In any event, he was grateful to be kept so busy; it left him little time to think about other things.

Best of all, Bilbo seemed to be in great good spirits, saying nothing about dark urges or troubled dreams. Perhaps all that was behind him now…

There was a rap at the open front door of the smial. "Come in!" called Bilbo, and moments later a sturdy young lad with soft brown eyes and sandy curls appeared in the study doorway.

"Master Samwise!" cried Bilbo jovially. "What a pleasant surprise to see you twice in one morning! What brings you back up the Hill—the smell of the blackberry scones I just took out of the oven?"

"No, Mr. Bilbo," said Sam, ducking his head shyly. "I’ve got a letter for you, sir!"

"Oho! What’s your game, lad?" teased Bilbo. "Holding back some of the morning mail in hopes of snagging another copper from me?"

Sam blushed, not realizing Bilbo was in jest. "N–No sir! This one only just came, by special post, it did!"

"Special post, eh? Well let’s have a look at it then…" He reached in his pocket and gave Sam two coppers, then examined the envelope with interest. "This is for both of us, my boy," he called over his shoulder to Frodo, then read aloud: "To Mister Bilbo Baggins and Master Frodo Baggins."

"Mmm." Concentrating on a difficult spot in the picture, Frodo was only half listening.

While Bilbo opened the letter, Sam edged up to Frodo and peered curiously over his shoulder.

Frodo didn’t look away from his delicate task of coloring in a small figure of Bilbo in the eagle’s eyrie, but smiled a greeting as he worked. "Hullo again, Sam."

"Hullo, Master Frodo." Sam’s eyes widened as he gazed at the image. "Mountains!" he breathed in awe. "The Misty Mountains as Mr. Bilbo is always telling of!"

"Very good, Sam! If you can guess that much, I must be doing—"

"It’s a wedding invitation!" announced Bilbo excitedly. "What fun—I haven’t been to a good party in ages! Let’s see, who’s the happy couple? Mr. and Mrs. Hamilcar Hornblower request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter Hyacinth to Coronel T—"

"Bollocks!"

"Frodo!" said Bilbo, shocked. "Not in front of the faunt!"

"I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo, but I dripped some paint, and now the picture’s ruined!"

"There there, lad, surely it can’t be as bad as all that! Now, where was I? Ah yes: …to Coronel Took of the Great Smials on Highday, the twenty-first of Astron, thirteen-ninety, at four o’ clock in the afternoon, Hornblower Estates, Longbottom, Southfarthing, The Shire. Coronel Took, married! I never thought that young scoundrel would meet a hook he couldn’t wriggle off! And the one who finally landed him was Hyacinth Hornblower, as I live and breathe! Odd, that…I seem to recall Miss Hornblower won’t be of age for a few years yet." Bilbo chuckled. "Well, there must have been a need for haste, if you take my meaning!" He was about to say more, but noticed Sam’s puzzled expression and quickly broke off.

Frodo was gripping the edge of the table, staring down at the page with a stricken look.

Sam hesitated, then reached up and patted his arm with a small brown hand. "Don’t be sad, Master Frodo," he said gently. "It’s still a right fine picture, even with that spot."

"What’s that?" Bilbo glanced up from the invitation. "Frodo-lad, you’re not still fretting over that little mishap, are you?" He came over to take a closer look. "Hmm, right on my foot, I see. What a pity!"

"I can start over," said Frodo softly, eyes still fixed on the illustration, though he seemed to be looking through it, not at it.

"Nonsense, my boy! Why, it’s nearly finished. I should hate for all your fine work to go to waste." He too stared down at the image, thinking. "You know, it almost looks like a boot…"

Sam giggled.

"Don’t laugh, Sam," Bilbo chided, "there’s some in the Shire, down in the Eastfarthing, that do wear boots against the muddiness in winter and spring—as Frodo here can confirm, eh lad?"

Frodo nodded glumly.

Bilbo glanced at him with a perplexed frown, then continued, "So here’s my thought: if you just extend that blot a bit, and give it a little more shape, then add a like one to my other foot, why then it will simply look like I’m wearing a pair of boots!"

This sufficiently roused Frodo from his funk to protest, "But Uncle Bilbo! It wouldn’t be true…and no one would believe it, anyway!"

"Now then, Frodo, who’s to say that the good dwarves, concerned for my health and welfare as we struggled through the frigid mountain passes, didn’t press a spare set of boots on me, eh? In point of fact, Balin did try to do exactly that! And if they hadn’t been much too large, I just might have taken him up on it. So you see, it’s not as far-fetched as you might think. It could have happened that way…even if it didn’t."

Frodo thought for a moment, brow furrowed. "But—then I’d have to put you in boots in the other pictures, too."

"Ah! I hadn’t considered that, but you’re quite right. What tangled webs we weave indeed! Well, there’s nothing else for it…add the boots everywhere; it’s the best solution I can devise and a far sight better than having you start over. I ask just one thing: if you draw me in Bag End, leave me bootless here at least! Even the most hardened traveler must return to his old ways at last…"

"As you wish, Uncle," said Frodo, though he still sounded dubious.

"Capital! That’s settled, then. Now, about that wedding," said Bilbo, bustling over to his desk and starting to pull out maps. "I wonder which is the best route between here and Longbottom?"

Frodo winced. He could tell his cousin the way down to the last detail…and several alternate routes as well.

Bilbo had unrolled a large map and was now studying it carefully. "Let’s see…the post-road down to Gamwich might be prudent at this time of year," he mused. "It’s not the most direct route, but the smaller roads could still get washed out by rain next month. I’ll make arrangements for us to stay at the Pig & Whistle on the first night, then we can take our time and still arrive early in the afternoon on the twentieth…how does that sound, eh?

"I’m not going," said Frodo.

Startled, Bilbo looked up from his map. "What? Why ever not?"

Frodo was unable to meet his cousin’s eyes. "I don’t like weddings," he muttered.

"But that’s ridiculous! Why, there is no better time to be had than at a wedding, especially when it’s being given by one of the wealthiest families in the Shire. And just imagine, Frodo—every pretty lass for miles around will be there! I know that might not be of much interest to you—you’re young yet, but—"

"I said, I’m not going!" Frodo repeated. Though he spoke quietly, there was something in his voice that stilled Bilbo’s further protests, and he gazed silently at his cousin for a long moment. Sam still stood by Frodo’s side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking exceedingly uncomfortable.

"Very well, Frodo," sighed Bilbo at last. "I’ll not force you. I shall attend the wedding alone, and send you to stay with Dora while I’m away. She doesn’t like weddings, either."

Aunt Dora! No Elvish…no second breakfasts…daily doses of fish oil…
"I’ll be fine on my own, Uncle Bilbo!" said Frodo quickly. "I’m old enough, now."

"Are you indeed? I wonder…" he fell silent again, but then looked up with determined cheer. "Well, we’ll say no more about it at present. If my stomach’s not mistaken—and it never is—it must be high time for elevenses. Leave off there, Frodo; I think you need a break. Samwise, before you cut along home, you must join us in the kitchen to help eat those blackberry scones…they won’t get any better with age! In fact, in the unlikely event any are left over, you must take them down to your mother."

"Yes sir!" said Sam happily.

* * *

The wedding was not mentioned again that day, and after supper Frodo excused himself early and retired to his room. It was a spacious, well-appointed chamber with west-facing windows, considerably more opulent than his snug little nook at Brandy Hall. Frodo had done his best to make it his own by scattering books, garments, and papers over every available surface.

Kneeling now by his bed, he pulled from under it an old, cherished possession: his wooden box. This, more than anything, made the room feel like home, though certainly there was no longer any need to hide it from little rummaging hands. And instead of piling its contents on the bed or balancing them precariously in his lap, he could now carry them over to his very own writing desk. There he spread out parchment, ink, and pens…and stared at them, feeling suddenly unsure.

With these simple tools he had always sought, and found, comfort when needed. But what comfort now remained to him? Journal, poetry, drawings…no longer did they share the secrets of his grieving soul. But there was another, as yet untried way by which his pain might be eased. Setting nib in holder, he dipped it in the inkpot and began to write.

* * *

It was close to midnight when Bilbo rapped on the door, then cracked it open. He was in his dressing gown and nightcap, candle in hand. "Frodo, it’s getting late, shouldn’t you—why, what have you got there, lad?"

Frodo still sat at his desk, his face cast in shadowed relief by the small oil lamp beside him. He finished blotting a sheet of parchment on which he had written:

ONCE ON A TIME

In Which Udo Is Shown to Be a Fool, and
Princess Hyacinth and Coronel Live Happily Ever After

"Nothing much," he said, adding the sheet to a stack of others and folding the document carefully into thirds. "Only a story I’ve just finished."

Bilbo’s face lit up. "A story?" he exclaimed eagerly, coming over and perching on the edge of the desk. "Why, that’s wonderful, Frodo…I didn’t know there were two authors in the family! And I hope it ends as all proper stories should?"

"How is that, Uncle?"

"And they all lived happily ever after to the end of their days."

Frodo didn’t answer at first, then looked up with a sad smile. "I don’t think it’s possible for every character in a story to have a happy ending."

Bilbo was taken aback. "Well, I suppose that’s true enough…for the evil characters, in any event. But surely the heroes should get the ending they deserve!"

"I don’t know that deserving has much to do with it," replied Frodo. "What brings happiness to one may mean sorrow for another."

Startled, Bilbo looked sharply at Frodo. The lad suddenly sounded far older than his years. "Well, I can’t say I think much of this story of yours from what I’ve heard so far! May I see it?"

"No," said Frodo, as he slipped the manuscript into an envelope and sealed it. He wrote a name on the front and handed it to Bilbo. "But you can deliver it for me when you go to the wedding."

Bilbo looked down at the envelope, his suspicion that they were discussing more than characters in a story now confirmed. "I see," he murmured. Everything was suddenly clear—from Frodo’s refusal to attend the wedding to his polite indifference to the giggling attentions of the local lasses. "I’m sorry, dear boy, for being such a blind old fool."

"The only fool here is me," Frodo whispered, looking down at the desk and seeming once more very much his age.

Bilbo moved to draw him into a hug but then stopped short, unsure. It was clear that the lad was trying hard to fight back tears, and he feared to loose the floodgates and rob him of his fragile dignity. Bilbo sighed. He was too old for this! What did he know about consoling a lovesick young hobbit? Finally deciding on a middle course, he reached out and awkwardly patted Frodo on the shoulder. "I know this will seem cold comfort to you just now, Frodo-lad, but one advantage of living as long as I have is that you start to see the pattern behind all that has happened to you."

"The pattern?" Frodo still sounded shaky, but nonetheless intrigued.

"Yes, my boy, I mean that you begin to understand that things happen as they’re meant to, though you might not realize it at the time. For example, when I was a young hobbit—not much older than you, in fact—I fell madly, hopelessly in love. But it all came to naught when the object of my affections made it clear that the feeling was not mutual, and it seemed then as if my world had ended in dark ruin. I cursed my unhappy fate and for a long time, life seemed a dreary burden.

"And yet, Frodo, if things had gone otherwise…if I had settled down in domestic bliss and filled Bag End with fauntlings, however could I have gone off adventuring with thirteen dwarves and a wizard that fine spring morning? Indeed, I doubt very much that Gandalf ever would have approached me under those circumstances—in which case my life would have turned out very differently! So in the end, you see, my disappointment in love turned out to be for the best…"

"Are you certain of that?" asked Frodo softly.

"Oh yes," Bilbo replied with swift conviction, a curious gleam in his eye. His hand strayed to his waistcoat pocket and fiddled with something inside it. "I have never doubted it for a minute…"

"Who was she?"

"Eh, who was who?" said Bilbo, his thoughts elsewhere.

"The one you fell in love with."

"It was—now see here, Frodo, never you mind who it was! No use dredging up ancient history, lad…I only mentioned it to make a point." Bilbo stood up suddenly. "Well as I said before, it’s getting late and—Ah!" he cried, clapping a hand to his forehead. "Now see what you’ve done—I came in here just now with a purpose, but all this talk of stories and fate has nearly driven it from my mind. I wanted to tell you that after giving it some thought, I’ve concluded that it would be highly unwise to let you stay here by yourself while I’m away in Longbottom."

"But, Uncle—"

Bilbo held up his hand. "Let me finish, lad! As I was saying, I don’t want to go off and leave you on your own. But, having duly noted your lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of Dora’s company, I’ve written to Ezzie and asked her to come for a visit…and to bring Merry with her."

Frodo stared at him, momentarily speechless.

"I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me, lad," Bilbo continued hesitantly, "and it’s not that I don’t trust you. You’re right: you are old enough now to look after yourself. It’s just that I—I didn’t want you to be alone, you see, not when you were so clearly upset about something…even if I was too thick-headed to see what it was."

"O Bilbo!" Frodo threw himself at the old hobbit, and now the tears came fast and free.

"There now, dear boy, just let it all out," Bilbo murmured, stroking his cousin’s hair. He smiled in relief, and blinked back a tear of his own. Perhaps he was getting the hang of this after all…

Next week
"All’s Fair" concludes with Epilogue Two: Happily Ever After

Author’s note:

I’ve always wondered why, contrary to his own description of hobbits, Tolkien depicted Bilbo wearing boots in all but one of his illustrations for The Hobbit. This is my explanation!