57.  Frodo’s Folly

Late January, 1399

Frodo went for a solitary walk after supper one evening, and found himself at the gate where he had awaited Bilbo’s visits to Brandy Hall, more times than he could count.  He ran a hand lightly over the post where he had often perched; he was much to big to sit there now.

Frodo swallowed past the lump in his throat.  Would he ever know what had happened to Bilbo?  For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine his beloved uncle on the path in front of him, walking toward the gate in the twilight.  He would be singing a walking song, perhaps.  Grasping a stout stick, which would thump the ground in time with Bilbo’s singing.

“Frodo, my lad!” he’d call, upon catching sight of his favourite nephew.  “What are you doing out here alone, so late?” 

Frodo’s heart clenched a little at the concern he heard in Bilbo’s voice.  He slid to the ground, resting his back against the post and pulling his cloak tighter against the chill air.  He couldn’t go any further, even in his own imagination.  His mouth twisted with scorn at his own folly.  He allowed the image to fade from his mind’s eye, and gazed instead at the dark path, now illuminated only by starlight.

“Wasn’t I worth coming back for?” Frodo whispered.  But in his heart he already knew the answer.  He had never fit into Bilbo’s life, and he had been foolish to try.  He would have done better to stay with Saradoc and Esmeralda, all those years ago.  He had been too young to understand the risk he was taking, becoming fond of someone like Bilbo.

Still, the foolish part of him that wouldn’t listen to reason still wished for Bilbo’s return.  Just to know he was safe, even.

Frodo awoke from his stupor when he glimpsed a patch of paler darkness against the dark night, in the exact spot his imaginary Bilbo had been a moment ago.  A slow, shuffling gait reached his ears.  Frodo wondered dully who would be coming in so late.  Some old farmer, perhaps.

But the form solidified into a familiar shape.  Frodo was certain he had taken leave of his senses, for the apparition before him looked exactly like Bilbo.

Frodo didn’t move as the old hobbit approached.

“What in the name of—” Bilbo halted in astonishment.  “Is that you, Frodo?  I very nearly trod on you!”

Frodo rose slowly to his feet, his mind grappling with this impossible reality.  “Bilbo?”

“Well, you are indeed a welcome sight, my boy.”  Bilbo groped for him in the darkness and found Frodo’s shoulder, which he gripped tightly.

The warm solidity of Bilbo’s grasp finally woke Frodo from his shock, and he reached across to place his hand over Bilbo’s.

The rest of that night passed in a daze.  Bilbo’s arrival in Brandy Hall created quite a stir, and it was very late before any of them went to bed.

“But where have you been all this time, Bilbo?” Frodo asked desperately, whenever he could get a word in around the chattering Brandybucks.  But each time, Bilbo would look into Frodo’s pale, vulnerable face and say firmly, “It’s a long story, Frodo-lad, and I can’t abide telling it tonight.”

Eventually Frodo fell silent, telling himself not to be so insistent.  And he could understand that Bilbo might simply be exhausted; the old hobbit was pale and drawn, and leaned heavily on his walking stick.  In fact, Frodo decided the next day when he saw Bilbo walking in the garden, his uncle had quite a pronounced limp.  All he could do for the moment was watch, however; every time he saw Bilbo over the next fortnight, he was surrounded by hobbits asking for the latest news from Bree, which he had passed through on his way back to the Shire, or by crowds of excited children.  Ten years ago, Frodo supposed, he would have been one of those children, clamouring for the attention of wonderful old Mad Baggins, who told the best stories and played the most delightful games.

Had nothing changed after all?  Was Frodo nothing more to Bilbo than any of these?

One day, Frodo was sitting in an isolated alcove of the kitchen, having a quiet cup of tea.  He was surprised when Bilbo joined him, with no hangers-on for once.

“There you are,” Bilbo began.

“Have you been looking for me?” 

Bilbo looked up at the edge in Frodo’s voice, and Frodo cursed himself for sounding like a petulant child.

Bilbo, however, tactfully ignored Frodo’s tone.  “Saradoc told me what happened,” he said, leaning forward.  “And I don’t want you to worry about a thing.  We’ll set out for Hobbiton in a few days and put things to rights.  I am more sorry than I can say for what you endured at the hands of that dreadful woman.”

Frodo looked at Bilbo’s earnest expression and tried not to feel hurt that his uncle had gotten the story from Saradoc, rather than asking Frodo himself.  “What about what you endured, Bilbo?” Frodo burst out.  “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

Bilbo’s lips thinned.  “It is not a tale I wish to tell at present,” was all he said, and made to leave.

“Your will!” Frodo said quickly.  He was more desperate to make him stay than to know the answer, but he went on doggedly.  “Where did you hide the third copy of your will?  Was it in Bag End at all?”

Bilbo sighed and looked away.  “It was hidden in my mattress, I’m afraid.  Lobelia probably found it the first time she changed the sheets.”

Frodo closed his eyes, letting it sink in.

“I am terribly sorry,” Bilbo said hurriedly.  “I ought to have told you where it was.  But I never imagined—the other copies—but that’s no excuse—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Frodo said thickly.  “It’s over now.”

Bilbo nodded uncomfortably.  “Well... well, I’ll let you get back to your... tea,” and the old hobbit took his leave.

And so it went for the rest of that day, and the next.  Bilbo was unflinchingly cheerful most of the time, even going so far as to participate in the boisterous social goings-on at Brandy Hall, much to the amazement of Frodo and anyone else who remembered the old hobbit’s reclusive tendencies.

The next morning, Bilbo surprised Frodo in his room.  Merry had just gone off to wash his hands before second breakfast, and Frodo was putting away the toys he had been amusing his young cousin with.

Bilbo hesitated in the doorway until Frodo looked up.

“Time we were away, eh, Frodo-lad?” he said with a wink.  “Are you ready to go home?”

Frodo said nothing, for although he’d been waiting to hear those words, actually hearing them had inexplicably set his stomach churning.

Bilbo cleared his throat when the pause dragged on.  “Is—ah—is anything the matter, Frodo?”

“No,” he replied.

“Well... good, then.  Excellent.”  He looked around at the books that littered the room, and empty teacups, and some of Pippin’s toys in the corner.  “I guess I’ll leave you to your packing, then.  We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow, so you’d best get started.”

“Bilbo?”  Frodo’s query stopped the old hobbit’s hasty exit.  “Where were you, all this time?  What happened to you?”

Bilbo cleared his throat.  “I came back as soon as I could, Frodo,” he said a little defensively.

“That isn’t an answer,” Frodo insisted.  “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

“If you can’t trust my word on the matter, then nothing I tell you can help, Frodo,” Bilbo said stiffly.  “How could you know every word wasn’t a lie?”  The old hobbit turned and left the room abruptly, face like a storm cloud.

“I didn’t mean—”  Frodo was speaking to an empty room.  He sat down on the bed, stung by Bilbo’s words.  He hadn’t meant to question his uncle’s word.  Of course he could trust that Bilbo had returned as soon as he could.  But Frodo felt a prickle of conscience even as the thought crossed his mind; he remembered all the times he’d told himself that Bilbo didn’t want to come back at all.

But it could still be true.  Bilbo’s sense of honour surely wouldn’t allow him to abandon the heir he’d legally adopted, but his behaviour since his return only confirmed Frodo’s suspicions that Bilbo had realized his life held no place for Frodo.  The old hobbit just didn’t think anything could respectably be done about it.

Frodo looked around at all the belongings he needed to pack, and went outside instead.

Frodo managed to avoid Bilbo until just before dinner, when the old hobbit caught him by the elbow on the way into the dining hall.

“Frodo, I went by your room earlier.  Why ever haven’t you started packing yet?” Bilbo said.

“I’m not going back with you.”

Bilbo stared at him, heedless of the crowd swirling past on their way to supper.  “What did you say?”

“I’m not going back,” Frodo repeated firmly.  “I’ve trespassed on your kindness long enough.”

Bilbo looked stunned.  He collected himself after a moment and said, “I don’t know what you’re about, but this is no time for childish tantrums.  We’ll have an early start tomorrow, and—”

“I’m perfectly serious,” Frodo interrupted indignantly.  “You’ve more than done your duty by me and I thank you for it.  But I won’t burden you any longer.” 

“Frodo—”  Bilbo’s reply was lost as Frodo plunged back in among the throng of hobbits going to supper.  He found he had no appetite, but he bolted down a meager meal, imagining the food would strengthen his resolve if nothing else.  He kept a careful watch for Bilbo, but the old hobbit did not appear, for which he was grateful.  He didn’t think he could bear another encounter without crumbling. 

“It is for the best,” Frodo reminded himself firmly as he slipped back to his room later.  He didn’t belong in Bilbo’s life, and as the old hobbit’s honour wouldn’t allow him to admit the adoption had been a mistake, it fell to Frodo to take the decisive action.  Yes, this would be better all around.  Bilbo would be free to do as he pleased, and Frodo… would be content with that knowledge.

But Frodo’s evening was far from restful.  His mind would not be easy.  He paced in his room, half afraid that Bilbo would seek him out there, but no one disturbed him.  He thought briefly of going to say goodbye to Merry and Pippin, before recollecting that there was no need, as he wouldn’t be leaving the next day.

He undressed and went to bed early, but did not sleep.  He lay in the dark, wide awake, he knew not how long before he heard a quiet tapping on his door.  It was by now quite late; everyone else had retired hours before, and Frodo had heard nothing since then except the February wind rushing through the grasses overhead.

“Frodo?” Bilbo’s hushed voice carried well enough in the silent Hall.  “Are you yet awake?”

Frodo rolled onto his stomach and turned his face to the wall just in time, as Bilbo chose that moment to softly open the door.  “Frodo?”

The tween tried to keep his posture relaxed.  He knew it was childish to feign sleep, but he didn’t trust himself to speak to Bilbo just now.

But the old hobbit did not take the hint.  After hesitating a long moment in the doorway, Bilbo stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Frodo kept his breathing slow and even as Bilbo padded softly across the floor to his bedside.  He watched the flickering candlelight move across the wall before him and come to rest as Bilbo set his candle on Frodo’s nightstand.

Nothing happened for another long minute, and then Frodo was surprised to feel his bed shift slightly as Bilbo perched himself on the edge of the mattress.  He supposed Bilbo was studying him now.  He concentrated on the rhythm of his breathing.

“Very well,” Bilbo sighed quietly.  “I will speak, even if you will not listen.”

Frodo waited, curious to hear what his uncle could have to say, and dreading it at the same time.

Bilbo took a long while to gather his thoughts.  Finally, he said, “I have been wandering the fields since I saw you at supper.  I walked a good many hours, thinking.  And I think I may have been unfair to you.”

Here Bilbo paused again, and cleared his throat.  “When I thought you doubted me, I felt my failure keenly.  My failure to provide for you.  I could not refuse to go with Gróin and Rorin, but I’ll never forgive myself for what happened in my absence.  I did not bring it up with you because I assumed you wouldn’t wish to discuss your suffering with the one who caused it.”

Frodo started, but Bilbo didn’t notice as he rose at that moment and began pacing the small open space in Frodo’s room.

“Then, too, I wanted to protect you, but perhaps I tried much too hard.  I accused you of not trusting me, when I should have seen that I could trust you with the truth.”

Bilbo lapsed into silence, and Frodo simply listened to him pace.  The sound was uneven, as though his uncle was still limping.

Finally he felt the bed shift as Bilbo sat down again.  Frodo’s ruse was severely put to the test when a hand drifted lightly over his hair and came to rest on his back. 

Bilbo sighed.  “It is only, my dear Frodo, that I would wish to spare you the inglorious details of my latest adventure.  I would wish to spare you from all ills this world has to offer, in fact.  But I see that in my bumbling efforts I only wound up hurting you.”

The old hobbit stroked his back slowly, again lapsing into silence.  Frodo could feel the warmth of Bilbo’s hand through the fabric of his nightshirt.  It took all his control not to react in any way, for Bilbo was not normally given to such caresses, and Frodo was not used to receiving them.

Bilbo seemed to notice then that the blanket had pooled around Frodo’s waist, and reached over to pull it up to Frodo’s shoulders.

“If it will make any difference, I will tell you what happened,” said Bilbo, allowing his hand to come to rest on Frodo’s back once more.  “We did succeed in heading Dwalin off before he got to Moria, but we needn’t have hurried.  We found his party near the southern edge of Mirkwood.  They never progressed any further, and, unhappily, never found any sign of Balin.”

Frodo hardly dared breathe at the sadness he heard in Bilbo’s voice, and the old hobbit paused again to gather his thoughts.

“They were trapped, you see.  The area was swarming with trolls, trolls of a type I’d never seen before.  In appearance they were not too unusual, covered in horny scales, and tall, taller than Men.  But they carried hammers and bucklers in their claws, which as you know is peculiar, for trolls are not normally intelligent enough nor skilled enough to use such tools.  There were hundreds of them, thousands maybe, and they were not at all deterred by sunlight.

“It was all Dwalin’s party could do to stay concealed.  We hid with them in their cave, for months.  Finally, with our supplies nearly exhausted, the trolls moved further south.  We all went back to Erebor, where I was forced to remain many weeks to recover from a broken leg.”

Frodo couldn’t help stiffening in horrified surprise at this news.  How dreadfully like Bilbo to keep such information from those who cared for him most, and now to think it worth mentioning only off-handedly.  But Frodo was distracted from his heartache by Bilbo’s next words.

“Please come home with me tomorrow, Frodo-lad.  Saradoc told me you’ve said on several occasions that you didn’t think I wanted to come back, that I might have gone for good.” Bilbo sighed heavily.  “Oh, Frodo.  I can’t deny that I would like to leave the Shire one day.  Spend my last days with the elves, perhaps.  But to leave in such a manner?  To leave you, knowing you still had need of me?  Never!  I love you more than my own life, Frodo.  I know I don’t say such things often enough, but never doubt that I feel them.  Your remaining in Buckland won’t change anything; I certainly couldn’t leave now, not with this rift between us, whether you come home to Bag End or not!”

Bilbo scoffed.  “Not want to come back?  Do you know, dear Frodo, what got me through the gloomy months in that cave, day after day, nothing good to eat, nothing to do but listen for trolls and fear discovery?”

Frodo couldn’t bear to hear any more.  He sat up to face Bilbo, finally giving up the flimsy pretence of being asleep.  Neither of them said anything for a long moment.  Bilbo looked even more haggard by candlelight, reminding Frodo of his resolve at the moment when he needed it most.  How far had Bilbo walked, on a leg that was not fully healed, in his haste to return?  How many risks had he taken because of the responsibility he bore for Frodo?  The fact that Bilbo loved him, or thought he did, changed nothing, really, except for making what Frodo had to do more difficult. 

“Bilbo... please, just leave me be,” Frodo said woodenly.

There was a moment of silent shock on Bilbo’s part.  The awkward pause seemed to stretch on endlessly.  “Of... of course,” the old hobbit stammered at last.  “I beg your pardon.”

Frodo could see the hurt in Bilbo’s expression as he rose to his feet.  But he could think of nothing to say to say to soften his callous words, and so he stayed silent as Bilbo left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

He didn’t sleep a wink that night for the crushing shame he felt at hurting his uncle.  But Bilbo would be better off without him; he simply didn’t realize it yet.  And Frodo would have peace of mind, if nothing else. 

When he heard Old Rory, Merry's family, and some of the other denizens of Brandy Hall bidding farewell to Bilbo the next morning, he did not go out to say good-bye.  He could not face Bilbo again, not after last night.  Instead he watched from his window as the old hobbit slowly progressed toward the East Road, finally disappearing from view.  But it was for the best, Frodo told himself again.  Now Bilbo was free.