49. Helping Old Friends

Gróin, son of King Náin II, sank into the cushioned chair with a grunt. His young companion was looking around with undisguised interest.

“This is a Hobbit hole?” Rorin said.

Gróin knew what Rorin was thinking. Neither had much experience with the hole-dwellers, and hadn’t envisioned something quite this refined. “You just mind your manners, if you want to be of any use to your father.”

“Fear not,” Rorin said dryly. “It has been many a year since I have needed such warning.”

Gróin chuckled, despite the grimness of their errand. A rough, raspy sound he made. He was quite old. Too old for such adventures, really. But Rorin had organized everything, and others would be going, at Gróin’s insistence. Rorin could be as impetuous as his father, it seemed. Gróin had been surprised the boy wanted him along, in fact. He was forever forgetting that his great-nephew was an intelligent and capable adult, a lapse which irritated Rorin exceedingly.

But when you got right down to it, Gróin was glad Rorin had asked him to come. Dwalin had always been his favourite nephew; bright and dazzling as mithril, he could be. And he exhibited about as much sense at times, too. And of course, there was a more personal reason for Gróin to desire the safe return of Dwalin’s party.

A hobbit entered the parlour at that moment. “I am Bilbo Baggins,” he said politely. “Welcome to Bag End.” Gróin studied him from beneath bushy grey brows. This small, portly fellow had fought bravely beside Dwalin, Balin, Glóin, and all the others? He didn’t look quite old enough to have gone on the famed Quest of Erebor, but he was certainly a likelier candidate than the child who had answered the door.

“Thank you,” said Rorin after the two Dwarves had introduced themselves once more. “We come in search of aid. My father, Dwalin, is in peril. I understand you were friends?”

“Yes, yes, oh dear!” Bilbo exclaimed, his expression turning from polite bewilderment to concern. “I’ll do anything I can to help, of course. What has happened?”

“My nephew has gone on a most ill advised mission,” Gróin explained, resting his hands on the tiny arms of his chair. “He can be a stubborn fool, especially where his brother is concerned.  We caught up with him in Mirkwood, but he would not abandon his plan.  We want to go after him again, you see, and bring him back.  Rorin thinks, and I agree, that you have the best chance of making Dwalin listen to reason.”

“My father always spoke so highly of his companions on the Quest of Erebor, you see, and there are so few of you left... We hoped you would help us.” Rorin added.

“I see,” the hobbit said, eyeing them keenly. “I harbour great loyalty for the thirteen, of course, and I will certainly help you if I can. But I sense there is more than you are telling me. For one thing, you mentioned Dwalin’s brother. If you are referring to Balin, what has he to do with all of this? And where exactly did they set off to, and why?”

Gróin smiled grimly. The hobbit was sharp indeed. But before he could begin to explain further, they were interrupted by the entrance of the younger hobbit, holding a food-laden tray.

“I do apologize,” Bilbo said at once. “Where are my manners? You must be exhausted and hungry after your long journey. Questions and answers can wait for later. You must have some refreshment, and we will make up beds for you to spend the night. You can’t be thinking of leaving sooner than tomorrow, surely?”

Both dwarves inclined their heads as Bilbo helped Frodo to set the tray on the table between them.

“Thank you, that is most kind,” Gróin said. “We will stay until tomorrow, but no later.  They are forced to move slowly by all that they carry with them, but we will have to move quickly to head them off.”

Bilbo nodded, then hesitated, looking at the younger hobbit. Frodo, Gróin recalled. “Very well. I will hear the rest of your story tonight, and then decide what to do.”

Gróin studied Frodo again. He was quite young... He did not know how hobbits reckoned their years, but Frodo looked to be not past mid-adolescence. He supposed Bilbo was hesitant to leave him on his own for an undetermined length of time, or needed time to make arrangements for the boy.

“That is acceptable,” Gróin said. He could sympathize, but he hoped the hobbit would not let his responsibilities prevent him from coming to his old friends’ aid.

Frodo sat quietly eating his sandwich and listening. He was every bit as interested as Bilbo looked, but he refrained from speaking in case it drew Bilbo’s attention. Bilbo hadn’t said he couldn’t listen, but Frodo suspected this was a conversation he was not meant to be party to.

He knew as much Dwarfish history as Bilbo could teach him, and he recognized the place they kept mentioning. Moria. Originally Khazad-dûm, ancestral home of the dwarves, going back to Durin the Deathless before the First Age. Deserted a thousand years ago, by all accounts.

But no longer, according to Gróin and Rorin. Ten years ago, they reported, Bilbo’s old companion Balin had gone forth to recolonize the ancient city. Reports of his success made their way back to Erebor every year or two. But the last report had been received five years ago, and there was no word since.

“This summer, my father decided he could wait no longer,” Rorin was saying. “The messenger sent out from Erebor never returned, and he decided to go himself. We all told him it was too dangerous, but he always was close to Uncle Balin.”

“And so you want to try and bring him back,” Bilbo said.

“I have a personal stake in this as well,” Gróin admitted slowly. “Glóin, my own son, was one of Dwalin’s party. I do not wish to lose two sons.”

“Two?” Frodo questioned, forgetting that he had meant to keep quiet.

Gróin fixed his gaze on the tweenager. “Aye, two,” he said somberly.

“My cousin Óin went with the first party, with Balin,” Rorin explained.

Frodo nodded, and looked at Bilbo. He could tell even now that the old hobbit was eager to go, imagining the open road under his tough soles, aching to leave the Shire. Frodo himself found the prospect rather exciting, he had to admit. Bilbo had always spoken fondly of the things he had seen and done outside these familiar lands, but especially so these last few years. Frodo knew his uncle’s feet itched to go, and of course he had to go, if his old friends needed him. There was only one, more difficult, question to settle.

Later that night, the dwarves had gone to bed, and Bilbo was packing. He fingered the ring in his pocket, lost in thought for a moment. He was worried for his old friends, of course, and naturally he must go to their aid, but it felt queer to be leaving so abruptly, after all these years leading a relatively quiet life.

It wasn’t at all fair to Frodo, and yet the dear boy had been remarkably unflappable. Excited, even. Bilbo snorted softly to himself. Frodo probably harboured some youthful anticipation of Bilbo having new tales of new adventures to relate upon his return. He was too young to give much thought to the dangers Bilbo might face on this errand, of course, and Bilbo much preferred it that way. No sense in the lad worrying, after all.

And really, there was no reason for Bilbo to worry, either. Frodo had stayed plenty of times on his own for brief periods. He would be of age in a few years, for goodness sake, and certainly was responsible enough to look after himself. It went without saying that the Gamgees would keep an eye on the boy, of course, and if he was gone longer than expected, Frodo could always go and stay with his Buckland or Tookland relations.

As though Bilbo’s thoughts had summoned him, Frodo appeared at his side and set down several wrapped bundles.

“I’ve packed the food you wanted, Uncle,” the tween said. “It’s getting late—is there anything else I can do to help?”

Bilbo’s face creased into a smile and he patted Frodo lightly on the cheek. “Thank you, my boy. I’m almost finished. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“I will,” Frodo replied, but he made no move to leave Bilbo’s room.

Bilbo didn’t force the issue, and for several minutes they sat in companionable silence, Bilbo packing the last odds and ends into his traveling case, and Frodo watching from the bed.

“Bilbo?” Frodo’s soft voice broke into Bilbo’s thoughts.

“Yes, lad?” Bilbo said, but received no answer. After a moment he turned away from his packing to face his heir.

“Please, can’t I come with you?” the tween finally burst out.

“Frodo... dear boy, I would like nothing better, you must know that,” Bilbo said, startled, but thinking he should have anticipated this. “But it is simply out of the question.”

“I could be a help to you—I wouldn’t get in the way.” Frodo continued as though he hadn’t heard Bilbo, but he lowered his head as he spoke.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Bilbo said firmly, going to stand before Frodo. “And of course you would be a great help. But this isn’t some lark, you know. I don’t know where we are going or what we will face. I could be gone a fortnight or... or two months. I am responsible for you, boy! How could I in good conscience bring you into such uncertainty and potential danger?”

Sapphire eyes flashed briefly with irritation. “I know it isn’t a lark, Bilbo,” Frodo said, brows drawing together. “I didn’t want to come for the fun of it, you know.”

Bilbo sighed, and almost missed Frodo’s next words.

“I wanted to be there to make certain you come back,” the tween finished quietly, looking away.

“Frodo...” Bilbo sat on the edge of the bed next to his ward and squeezed his shoulder. Predicting how Frodo would feel or react was something Bilbo had often had difficulty with; there was too much going on in that russet-curled head for the lad’s own good. He groped for some way to reassure Frodo, but the fact was he couldn’t promise to be there for the lad always, however he might wish to. The world was a dangerous and unpredictable place.

And this boy had already lost far too much.

Bilbo sighed again, thinking that as much as he enjoyed Frodo’s wit and intelligence, there were times when he would have done better to take a simpleton as his heir.

Frodo’s expression was a mixture of frustration and resignation. Bilbo reached over to the young hands resting in Frodo’s lap, and took them gently in his own. He looked down at their clasped hands for a moment. Smooth, pale fingers, still slender with youth, intersected with broader, square-tipped fingers. Bilbo squeezed the smaller hands in his own, wishing he could protect their owner as easily.

“You should get some rest if you wish to be up early enough to see me off tomorrow,” Bilbo said finally.

Frodo nodded, already having known what Bilbo’s decision would be. “Good night, Uncle,” the tween said, finally favouring the old hobbit with a slight smile. He lifted Bilbo’s hand and placed a kiss on the back of it, and then he was gone.

The sun had barely started to rise the next morning when Bilbo, Gróin, and Rorin set out. Frodo stood, pale and exhausted, in the faint light and waved good-by. He hadn’t slept well, and was woken from a disquieting and vaguely familiar dream when Bilbo came to call him. He did not remember what happened in the dream, but the uneasiness clung to him for several minutes after he woke.

Once Bilbo was out of sight down the road, Frodo turned and went back inside. He still wished Bilbo had let him come, but he felt strangely relaxed now that it was done and Bilbo had gone. There was nothing he could do now but amuse himself for the next few weeks and look forward to the old hobbit’s return. Hopefully with success to report, and good stories to tell.

Frodo started to plan his day as he walked wearily back to his bedroom. He had stayed by himself a number of times, and still enjoyed the novelty of being his own master. The first order of business, of course, was to sleep at least until elevenses. Frodo was not accustomed to rising with the sun, and he was determined that he should follow a more civilized schedule in Bilbo’s absence, starting immediately.

Frodo’s next thought, occurring just as his exhausted head hit his pillow, was that he should go out with Folco and Fatty again this evening, and stay out much later than Bilbo normally permitted.