Bilbo had begun to make a habit of spending his mornings in Elrond’s rather splendid and extensive library, and, with his host’s kind permission would occasionally borrow a tome or two to take back to his own little apartment to read and to copy, which was how he usually spent his afternoons. He would usually have tea by himself, making it in his own little kitchen, which was well furnished with hobbit-sized dishes and saucepans and pots. Once in a while he could prevail on Master Elrond or one of the other Elves to join him. 

Supper was mostly taken in the feast hall, where he was also given dishes and spoons just his size, and he marveled at how thorough Master Elrond had been in having all these delightful things made for his comfort. Bilbo had always prided himself on his own hospitality when he still lived in Bag End, but the Last Homely House put his own small efforts to shame.

After nights spent in the Hall of Fire listening to the Elven music, he would return to his chambers in a daze of pleasant exhaustion, to fall sleepily into his small bed, in the bedroom with the round door.

Autumn was giving way to the crisper air of winter, though Bilbo had been assured that winters in Rivendell were never bitter. One morning Bilbo went into the library to discover a fire had been laid in the hearth there, and the windows, which usually stood open were closed, and the Sun shone in dusty motes through the panes.

The day before, Bilbo had found an area of shelves on which most of the books were written in Westron, rather than the more usual Sindarin or the occasional Quenyan. A brief examination showed him that they seemed to be the records of the Northern Kingdoms, and he looked forward to perusing them.

Most of them were bound in grey leather, and were rather large, with the year of the Age on the spine. But as he examined them, he espied a smaller volume, bound in dark brown leather. It had no lettering on spine or cover, and he drew it forth curiously.

He carefully opened it to the first page. “Oh my stars!” he exclaimed.

In a very Shire-like hand, the first page read: The Memoirs of Hildifons Took, also Known as Trotter: His Adventures Beyond the Bounds of the Shire. Then he noticed the date, just beneath: The Year 2938, of the Third Age, being 1338 of the Shire Reckoning.

Bilbo felt his heart pounding with excitement. Hildifons Took, his long-lost uncle, had been here in Rivendell at some point in time! Was he finally going to learn his uncle’s fate?

Closing the small tome, he took a deep breath. He had questions. Some of the answers might be in this book, but he had a feeling the Lord of the House could answer more…

Elrond looked up in surprise at the tap upon his study door. It was rather tentative, and came from lower down upon the door--it must be Bilbo. Elrond was puzzled; the hobbit had never seen need to interrupt him during the day before. He wondered was aught amiss. “Please enter, Bilbo,” he said.

The door swung open, and the elderly hobbit padded quietly across the floor, and placed a small brown volume upon Elrond’s desk. Elrond smiled to see it. Bilbo looked at him expectantly.

“Ah! I see you have found out about your predecessor.”

There was a hint of both anger and hurt in the hobbit’s eyes as he looked at his host. “This apparently came to be here only a few years before I came here myself for the first time! Why was I never told?”

Elrond looked at him, and there was a twinkle of fondness in the ancient eyes, though his face remained solemn. “Because your uncle asked that we keep his secret, and we respected his wish. Although I am not certain that Gandalf did not confide in your grandfather. But he had severed all his ties with the Shire. He died shortly after writing out these memories.” Elrond leaned back, and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “I can see no harm in your knowing now, however. You are his kin; consider the book a gift and an inheritance. I hope that you will understand more after reading it.”

Bilbo stood thoughtfully for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, much mollified by his host’s attitude. “But I do have a question.”

Elrond chuckled. “You are very like your uncle. Ask me.”

“The rooms I have now--those were his, were they not?”

“Yes, Bilbo, they were. You were not the first hobbit to live a well-deserved retirement within these walls. Go now, and read what he has to say, and perhaps you will understand.”

After returning to his rooms, he looked at them with new eyes. Now that he came to think of it, it was clear that the little kitchen and the small bedroom with its round door were not something new, built within the last few months, but had been there for a number of years. He prepared himself a light luncheon, and took it to his sitting room. Settling in next to the hearth, he began to read…