A/N:  I’m planning one more chapter after this one, but that will be epilogue-ish in nature.  If you’ve made it this far, you’ve read over 150,000 words of story, and kept up with updates that often came months apart (as much as 6 months sometimes, I think?).  I am, frankly, amazed anyone is still managing to follow this.  :P  I salute you!  And I thank you for reading.

60.  Burying the Past

1368

Gorbadoc Brandybuck raised a bushy eyebrow as he refilled Bilbo’s glass.

“You’re looking remarkably well,” he observed sharply.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, well accustomed by now to his youthful appearance.

“And what brings you to my humble Hall at this time of year?  You’re off to see the elves, or somesuch, I’ll wager.”

“Or somesuch,” Bilbo agreed pleasantly, sipping at his wine.

Gorbadoc made a harsh choking sound that might have been a laugh.  Or a cough.  Bilbo never could tell.

“Well, I haven’t much news for you, I’m afraid,” Gorbadoc went on.  “But did you hear I have a new grandson?  Primula’s first little one.”

“Oh yes?” Bilbo said in a tone of polite interest.

“A Baggins, as a matter of fact.  Prim threw in her lot with your folk, you know.  Married Drogo Baggins.”

”Well then, here’s to the new Baggins,” Bilbo said gallantly, raising his glass.

“You share a birthday with him!” Gorbadoc exclaimed suddenly, snapping his fingers.  He chuckled hoarsely.  “Fancy that.”

“How peculiar,” said Bilbo.  “Perhaps I should introduce myself while I’m here.”  He wasn’t particularly fond of screaming infants, and rather the reverse, but he didn’t like to offend the Master of Buckland if he could help it.

1380

“Frodo, darling, sit down and eat your breakfast.”

“I’m too excited, Mama!  I want to go to the spring feast!”

Primula laughed.  “That’s not for hours yet, love.  You must learn to be patient.” 

“Do I have to wear my blue waistcoat, Mama?”

“Yes, darling.”

“But it itches!”  Frodo squirmed as she kissed him.

“We all have our burdens to bear,” Primula said, smiling fondly.

“Can I stay up with the big children and hear Uncle Bilbo’s stories?” he asked.

Primula thought.  “You may stay up until ten o’clock,” she decided.

“Hooray!” he cried, finally accepting the toast that Primula pressed into his hand.

1368

“Why, Bilbo Baggins!” Drogo said.  “Haven’t seen you in an age, it seems.”

“Drogo, my good fellow,” Bilbo said.  He didn’t know Drogo well, and had sometimes thought him a bit simple, but he was a good-enough-natured hobbit who wasn’t as bothered by Bilbo’s oddities as certain other members of the family.  Bilbo felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t visited sooner.   “I was in the area and thought I should like to meet the new Baggins I’ve heard so much about, who had the good fortune to be born on my birthday.”

Drogo laughed.  “Well, come in and meet him, then!” he said cheerfully.

Bilbo followed his cousin to the parlour, where the new mother was singing a wordless lullaby as she sat knitting.

Bilbo greeted her softly and went to the cradle, relieved that the child was asleep.  At least he wouldn’t have to endure any screaming.

He peered at the infant with detached curiosity.  Little Frodo was cute as a button, as they usually were at this age, he supposed.  On his head was a patch of downy dark hair, already starting to curl.  His skin was fair and his cheeks rosy. 

The tiny rosebud of a mouth opened in a yawn, and the dark lashes fluttered.  Bilbo meant to draw back, but something held him in place.  He caught his breath when he realized the infant was looking at him, sapphire eyes regarding him gravely.

But Frodo didn’t scream.  He blinked up at Bilbo, and then favoured him with a wide, toothless grin.  Bilbo couldn’t help smiling back.

1380

"Make haste, my dear," Primula said shortly.

"Primula, darling, I said I was sorry!" Drogo replied in exasperation, setting down the tater he'd been peeling for an impromptu supper.

"You had plenty of time to hire the pony and wagon, Drogo," Primula snapped. "There's really no excuse I can give my family!"

"I haven't made any excuses!" Drogo protested. "All I can offer is an alternative."

Primula stood slowly from where she had been unbuttoning Frodo's best waistcoat. "We haven’t the time to walk. You're speaking of the boat," she said severely. She hurried Frodo into his room and shut the door so he wouldn't hear the argument, but the eleven-year-old pressed his ear to the knothole no one else knew about.

"If we leave right now, we'll be at Brandy Hall in plenty of time for the feast," Drogo persisted.

1372

“Oh no, this is too precious for such a little one,” Drogo protested.  “He’ll surely break it, Bilbo!”

“No he won’t, will you, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo said fondly.

The faunt shook his head vigorously, holding the little wooden oliphaunt as carefully as though it were made of precious gems.

Primula laughed.  “You may keep it, darling, if you promise to be careful.  Now what do you say to your Cousin Bilbo?”

“Thank you, Uncle!” Frodo cried.

They all laughed.  “We really ought to correct him,” Primula said doubtfully.

“Nonsense.  I think it’s charming,” Bilbo said.

1380

Frodo shivered. The day was overcast and the river was high, and he hated it when his parents fought. Perhaps it seemed all the worse for it happened so rarely.

Drogo lifted his son into the boat, but Primula ignored his proffered hand and climbed in without assistance. Drogo sighed and cast off.

As they began to move with the current, Drogo took the tiller. The rushing river, swelled with rains, sped the little boat along quickly, but there was no impassable debris in sight, so Primula's fears proved unfounded.

Frodo leaned over to watch the muddy water eddying round the prow.  He couldn’t wait to get to Brandy Hall for the spring feast. When he looked up he found Drogo smiling at him slightly.

"Don't get seasick, do you, Frodo-lad?" he asked with a wink.

"No, Papa," Frodo replied, and Primula smiled too, reluctantly it seemed, and reached out to pull him into her lap—

1378

Bilbo looked out over the crowd of little upturned faces and tried not to smile.  The snow had been falling for hours outside, but here in Brandy Hall all was snug and warm.

“And that was the end of Smaug!” he finished.

His audience gasped.  Some of the older children cheered and applauded before ambling off to see what was left on the Yule banquet tables.  The youngest Bucklanders were yawning, and some had fallen asleep where they sat.  But not the littlest one of all; Frodo still watched him with wide, shining eyes.

“And then what happened, Uncle Bilbo?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Why, nothing happened!  That’s the end of the story, dear boy,” Bilbo said patiently.  He had grown fond of this little sprout, despite (or more likely because of) his rather un-hobbitlike curiosity.

Frodo came forward as the other children dispersed.  “But what happened to Bard?” he pressed, placing one little hand on Bilbo’s knee.  “After he shot Smaug?  What happened to him?”

Bilbo smiled at the minute nine-year-old.  “He re-founded the township of Dale.”

Frodo nodded as though that was exactly what he thought ought to happen.  “And he lived happily ever after?”

“To the end of his days,” Bilbo confirmed. 

“There you are, Frodo!  It’s time you were abed, young hobbit.”

The two of them looked up at Primula.

“Can’t I stay up, Mama?” Frodo pleaded.  “I have more questions!”

Primula shook her head.  “We must be up early, darling, for Yule is ended and we are going back to Crickhollow.  Now say good night to your Uncle Bilbo,” Primula ordered sternly, but the corners of her mouth were twitching. 

Bilbo never knew quite what to make of Primula; she was his first cousin, but she did not invite close acquaintance with many, and sometimes she seemed rather severe.  But those who paid close enough attention perceived a warm heart and impish sense of humour.  

“Good night, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo said solemnly.

“Good night, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo replied.  “And farewell, for I am going myself tomorrow, back to Hobbiton.”  He watched the little one stagger sleepily off with his mother, hand in hand.  It had been a pleasant visit.  Quiet, but pleasant.

1380

—the little boat entered the rapids then, while Primula reached for him, and a sudden impact jarred Frodo to the deck.

“Drogo, what—”

“We’re taking on water!”

“Frodo!  Stay right where you are, darling, and hold on tight.  Here’s the bailer, Drogo.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late, the hull…”

“Frodo!  Hold on to Mama…”

“We’re breaking up, hurry!”

“I can’t get free, my leg—”

“Oh, my love!”

“Quick, take Frodo.”

“I won’t leave you!”

“Drogo, my love, hurry!”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know, but I forgive you.”

“I can save you both, I swear.  Here, Frodo, come to Papa.  We’ll get you to safety first…”

Frodo’s legs were kicking frantically in chill water, even as he clung, terrified, to the railing.  The boat swung madly, veering now toward the riverbank and now toward the rocky center.  The shiny yellow hull was coming apart in great chunks.

“I won’t let you fall in.”

Strong hands grasped Frodo under the arms and lifted him bodily into the air.

“Tuck your head in, there’s a good lad,” Papa whispered, and then Frodo was flying through the air.

Frodo thought that if it was strange for a hobbit to swim like a fish, it was even stranger for one to fly like a bird.  Then he collided with the mossy riverbank and lay there with the wind knocked out of him.

After awhile, he sat up.

“Papa?  Mama?” he called.

Only the roaring of the river filled his ears.

1380

“Such a tragedy.  We found him wandering near Crickhollow, poor little thing.  He must have gone looking for Drogo and Prim when they didn’t come home.  They were on their way to the feast, it seems, although we don’t know why they left him behind.  Under the weather, maybe.  We’re trying to find out who was supposed to look after him.”

“Where is he, Esmeralda?” asked Bilbo.  “I didn’t see him at the funeral.”

“Still confined to his bed.  The healer couldn’t find any injuries, but Frodo’s clothes were soaked right through from the rain and he has a touch of fever.  And he won’t say a word, poor thing.  Hasn’t spoken since it happened.”

“What is to become of him?” Bilbo asked, aghast.

“Saradoc and I will take responsibility,” Esmeralda said.  “We have no children of our own yet, after all.  He’ll live here in the Hall, where he has plenty of relations, too.”

“Yes… yes, of course,” Bilbo murmured.  “I suppose that’s best.”

1380

Frodo had long since been changed out of his wet clothes, and he was tucked warmly in the little bed he used when he visited Brandy Hall.  But he was still cold, deep inside where the blankets didn’t touch him.

“Frodo?  Cook tells me you haven’t eaten all day.  Will you take a little broth?”

He looked emptily at his aunt, but he didn’t know how to tell her about the coldness, so he said nothing.

Esmeralda sighed and looked back at him sadly.

1380

“Frodo?”

The pale little figure in the bed gave no indication of hearing him.  Bilbo cleared his throat and tried again.  “Frodo-lad, do you remember me?  I’m your Uncle Bilbo.  I last saw you over a year ago, at Yule.”

Bilbo sighed and went to gaze out the window.  He didn’t know why he felt such a connection to, and responsibility for, this child.  He did not know in what way their fates could be intertwined, but he couldn’t ignore the promptings of his heart.

“Do you remember my last visit, Frodo?  I told you the tale of Smaug.  You liked it so much, you kept asking questions, long after the other children lost interest.”  Bilbo chuckled lightly at the memory.  “Wanted to know every detail, you did.  Upon my word, your curiosity grows with every passing year.  You kept asking questions right up until your mother came to put you to bed.”  Bilbo froze, wondering if he shouldn’t have mentioned the boy’s mother.  He wasn’t cut out for such situations, he really ought to leave before he added any more to the lad’s grief.

“Uncle Bilbo?”

Bilbo turned in surprise at the soft voice.  Haunted sapphire eyes watched him from a ghostly pale face.

“What is it, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked kindly.

No further words were forthcoming, but Frodo stretched out his arms in silent supplication.

Bilbo awkwardly picked up his little cousin.  He didn’t hold small children very often, if he could help it, and the solid weight in his arms felt strange at first.  Then two small arms slipped trustingly around Bilbo’s neck, and a dark curly head came to rest on his shoulder.

Bilbo held the child close and lowered himself into the bedside chair.  He felt an unaccustomed surge of protectiveness as he looked down at the warm hobbitling in his lap.

1382

“Frodo, where are you?  Time to come inside, lad!”

Frodo heard Saradoc calling, but he didn’t reply.  Not yet.  Uncle Bilbo was due tonight, and Frodo didn’t want to be tucked in bed when he arrived.  If he could delay for just another few minutes, perhaps it would be long enough.

Frodo yawned, head nodding.  On the other hand, waking up in the morning to find Bilbo there was exciting, too.

1385

Bilbo looked up from the book he’d borrowed from the Brandy Hall library and studied the bent head thoughtfully.  “You don’t play much with the other lads, do you, Frodo?”

The teenager looked up from his slate.  “I suppose not,” he replied.

Bilbo shifted position to allow a scullery maid to pass by him.  Frodo always did his schoolwork in the kitchens, for some reason.  “Whyever not?”

Frodo shrugged his shoulders.

“Did you enjoy the book I brought you last time?”  Bilbo decided to change tack.

“Oh, yes!”  Frodo exclaimed, smiling brightly.  “I meant to thank you again for that, Uncle.  Will you tell me more about Imladris before you go away again?  I have a good many questions…”

Bilbo laughed.  “Of course, my boy, of course.  You know you can ask me anything you like.”

Frodo went back to his schoolwork and Bilbo went back to his book, until Frodo spoke again, unexpectedly.

“The other lads my age don’t like Elves,” he said mournfully.

“No?”

“No.  Nor Dwarves, nor mountains, nor anything interesting.”

“Oh dear!” Bilbo said.

“They laugh at me sometimes,” Frodo added resentfully.  “They say I’m too old to listen to your ‘fairy stories’.”

“Good heavens, what a dreadfully dull bunch they sound,” Bilbo said, genuinely sympathetic.

“They are,” Frodo nodded.  “But they’ll see!  One day I’m going to be a part of your adventures, Uncle Bilbo.  I’m going to see things no hobbit has ever seen!”

Bilbo smiled at his spirited young cousin.  “I daresay you will, Frodo-lad.  I daresay you will.”

1390

Frodo held on tightly.  Uncle Bilbo was surely the kindest hobbit in middle-earth.

“You had better come and live with me, Frodo my lad,” said Bilbo, “and then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together.”*

Frodo lifted his damp face from Bilbo’s shoulder, and stared at his uncle in shock, as the meaning of those words sank in.  “Truly?” he said finally.  “You want me to live with you?”

“Of course, dear boy,” Bilbo answered.  “If you wish it, I mean.”

In answer, Frodo flung his arms around his uncle once more, and buried his face against Bilbo’s neck.

1391

Bilbo sat in the kitchen, waiting for his new heir to appear.  Frodo had only been living at Bag End a few weeks, but the lad seemed to be settling in to his new home well enough.  Had gotten rather quiet the last several days, though.  Bilbo was just going to ask young Samwise if he knew anything about it when they heard a step in the doorway.

“Frodo-lad! I thought a bit of a lie-in would do you good, but you look dreadful!” exclaimed Bilbo, dropping a piece of toast in surprise. “Whatever is the matter?”

The boy stared at him.  “N-nothing’s the matter, Uncle,” he stammered, to Bilbo’s consternation.

Samwise got to his feet and started to come forward. “Are them bruises still painin’ you, Mr. Frodo?” he asked anxiously, and then said “Oh!”

Bilbo looked at little Sam in confusion, before absorbing what he’d said.  He felt the blood drain from his face, as the pieces of the puzzle suddenly came together.

Frodo was guilty of nothing more then helping someone weaker than he, and that brute of a Sackville-Baggins had attacked him in vengeance.  How dare he touch Frodo?  How DARE he?

1391

Frodo shifted on the edge of the bed and looked at his uncle in wonder.

"Yes, I know why Lotho was angry with you. The Gaffer told me all about your coming to the aid of little Samwise." Bilbo’s fury seemed to have faded, and he rested his chin on the top of Frodo's head.

"I am so proud of you, my dear boy, and I wouldn't change you for all the riches in Middle Earth," the old hobbit whispered.

Frodo swallowed, and felt more tears rolling down his cheeks. He buried his face against Bilbo's chest and put his arms around his beloved uncle.

"And I certainly was not angry with you, Frodo-lad," Bilbo continued. "But regardless, there is nothing—do you hear me?—nothing that could make me regret adopting you."

Lifting his head slowly, Frodo peered up at Bilbo and saw such sympathy, love, and compassion in his uncle's face that he could hardly bear to look.

1395

“Why, Frodo, you’re trembling!” Bilbo said, frowning slightly as Frodo pulled away from the embrace.

“I’m afraid he had a rather nasty encounter,” Gandalf said. He explained quickly what had happened to Frodo, and Bilbo went pale as he heard of his young ward coming into contact with two such brutish Men.

“Here?” Bilbo whispered. “So close to our borders? Oh, dear...” He peered at Frodo in concern. “Are you all right, my boy?”

The tweenager nodded quickly.  “I was frightened, is all. They wanted me to lead them to the Shire.  They wanted to hurt me when I refused, but Gandalf came along just then.”

Gandalf and Bilbo both stared at him in the sudden silence that followed.

“When you refused... Oh, Frodo,” Bilbo murmured, pulling his nephew into another hug. “My brave lad!”

Late August, 1398

Frodo swallowed his bite of apple and looked up to smile at Bilbo.  “I feel quite well now, Uncle, truly.”

Bilbo nodded and sat down beside him on the garden bench.

“I’ve always been fond of sitting out here,” Bilbo remarked, looking at the well-maintained grounds with satisfaction.  “But the Gaffer has really outdone himself this year.”

Frodo laughed.  “That’s as may be, but don’t underestimate the contributions of the intrepid Samwise.  He’s quite enthusiastic about helping his dad, you know.”

Bilbo inclined his head in acknowledgement.

Frodo finished off his apple and studied the old hobbit surreptitiously.  Bilbo’s face in no way reflected his advanced years, but today his expression was unusually contemplative.

“Something on your mind, Bilbo?” Frodo asked lightly.

Bilbo started, then chuckled ruefully.  “I was just thinking… about the Free Fair.”

“Oh.”  They’d only arrived home from the Fair a few days ago.  Frodo had been dreadfully ill with heat stroke, but he was nearly recovered.

“I didn’t know you were such a good dancer,” Bilbo said with a sidelong glance.

Frodo looked at him, wondering why he was devoting such intense thought to his ward’s dancing skills.  “Neither did I,” he admitted truthfully.  There had been parties every night, giving Frodo ample opportunity to practice.

Bilbo laughed aloud.  “Oh, Frodo,” he said.  “I get the queerest notions sometimes… Do you ever feel as though we were meant to become dear to each other, as though our fates were intertwined?”

Frodo was accustomed to the odd things the old hobbit said sometimes.  He put his hand over Bilbo’s.  “Have you been over-sampling the Gaffer’s new batch of ale?”

“Perhaps.”  Bilbo squeezed Frodo’s hand.  “Perhaps.”

September 1, 1398

Bilbo squeezed the slender 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.

Bilbo stared at the door for a long time after Frodo left, hopefully for bed.  The smial was quiet; Gróin and Rorin had already retired for the night.  It was a fine idea; they had a long journey ahead, and they were starting early. 

But Bilbo was restless.  He fingered his magic ring, on its thin chain in his pocket.  He got up and paced about his bedroom.  He ought to feel excited—he did feel excited—but his anticipation was coloured by an anxiety he had never felt when setting out on any of his other journeys outside the Shire.  He knew what it was, of course: anxiety for Frodo.  Never had he left the Shire since he had taken Frodo in; never had he left behind someone who depended upon him, someone whom he loved...

There was no choice, of course.  Bilbo had to go and help if he could, or forsake all loyalty he felt for his old friends.  And with any luck, he would be back in a few weeks and life would go on.  But the anxiety did not leave him.

He pulled out the ring and looked at it.  Here was something that always drove away his worries.  He sat down and admired the candlelight’s reflection on the gleaming golden surface.  Now here was something he could do, something he could do to protect Frodo.

Bilbo slowly slipped the ring off its chain and went to his desk.  He opened the top drawer.

But what if he needed the ring, to get out of a tight spot, as he had needed it before?

Bilbo hesitated. He thought of Gollum, keeping the ring in a hole in a cave. 

No.  He dropped the ring in the drawer.  He would leave it here, for Frodo, for his protection.  He could not rest otherwise.  He could not imagine what need Frodo might have of it, here in the heart of the Shire, but he would feel better just knowing the lad had it.  If Bilbo was delayed, or if he did not return… Frodo would be well provided for; Bilbo had seen to it that his papers were in order, at least.  But that was not enough; he wanted to know that Frodo had the ring, to use if the need ever arose.

Bilbo realized then that the ring was back in his hand.  Why was it so confoundedly difficult?  No! he told himself firmly.  I am leaving the ring for Frodo! 

He dropped it in once again, and closed and locked the drawer. 

March 12, 1399

Bilbo finished off his afternoon tea and sat back with a sigh, gazing out the window. The garden looked dreary, for it had been raining on and off all day.  He felt restless and out of sorts.  All he seemed to do these days was mope about and dwell on the past.  Bag End was so quiet without Frodo, he just couldn’t get used to it.  Not that Frodo had made a great deal of noise when he had lived here, of course, but somehow his presence had made the place livelier. 

He shook his head and stretched his legs upon the footstool.  Frodo had made his decision, but it was proving most difficult to bear.  Bilbo had taken up his daily routine since returning home, and tried his best to think on it no further.  But think on it he did, sometimes with hurt, other times with anger.  How had things gone so wrong?  His regard for Frodo had grown so over the years, he had thought the filial bonds too strong to break.

“Well, I was wrong, that’s all,” Bilbo said aloud to the empty sitting room.  He cursed his own sentimentality.  He was an old fool to have thought he could make things right for Frodo. 

Bilbo fingered his magic ring on its thin chain.  He was glad to have that back where it belonged, at least, if he could not have Frodo.  He picked up his book and tried to read, but the pitter-patter of rain on the Hill soon began to lull him.

Bilbo awoke with a start.  He looked about and slowly relaxed again.  The rain was much louder; perhaps that was what had woken him.

He suddenly realized he could hear another sound through the rainfall; a knocking sound.

“Now who would be out in this downpour?” he asked himself, annoyed at the interruption.

He got out of his comfortable armchair and went to open the door.

When he saw who was standing on his front step he came wide awake.

“Frodo!” Bilbo breathed in shock.

Large blue eyes watched him anxiously.  “Uncle...” the boy said when Bilbo didn’t move.  He shifted his feet in the puddle on the front step.  “I didn’t mean it.  I didn’t mean it!  Please let me come home—” 

Frodo was cut off by Bilbo seizing him in a fierce hug.

“My dear boy,” he said huskily.  “My son!”

Frodo was crying, sobbing against his shoulder, and his sodden traveling clothes were transferring icy rainwater and mud onto Bilbo’s clean waistcoat, but Bilbo didn’t mind in the least.

An hour later they were in the sitting room.  Bilbo had lit a fire against the storm’s chill, and Frodo sat watching the flames, basking in warmth and peace.  For he had indeed made peace with the past, and a feeling of rightness was upon him. 

He was well wrapped in blankets, for he had been soaked to the skin, and Bilbo had insisted.  He looked over at Bilbo, sitting silently beside him.  The old hobbit still looked the same, and Frodo found that the sight of him eased the memory of the long walk from Buckland.

The rain had only started that very morning, but still the three days’ journey had seemed interminable.  Frodo had been hesitant on first setting out from Brandy Hall, but with every step that brought him closer to Hobbiton, he grew more certain that he was walking in the right direction, at long last. 

He had gone to his parents’ smial to think, as he sometimes did.  He had gone to think of his parents and to dwell on what he had lost, but instead found his mind clearing.  He was surprised to realize how prominently Bilbo figured in many of his memories; he had been a part of the old hobbit’s life, and Bilbo a part of Frodo’s, practically since Frodo’s birth.  He had lost his parents, but he had gained something no less wonderful.  He was Bilbo’s heir, and perhaps it was always meant to be so.

Once he’d set out, he found he couldn’t wait to see Bilbo again, although he also feared the old hobbit’s reaction.  But when he’d begged Bilbo’s forgiveness for his obstinacy, and his rudeness, Bilbo had waved him off.

That’s all in the past, dear boy, he’d said.  Leave it buried there.  I’m just so very delighted you’ve come back, I can’t tell you.

And indeed, Bilbo’s delight had been so obvious, and so clearly sincere, that Frodo was ashamed to have thought the old hobbit was better off without him.  Bilbo had not used the freedom Frodo had given him to go off on new adventures; he had clearly been here at Bag End all the time, disheartened and regretful, all alone, and wishing for Frodo to come home.

“I think I’ll start our supper,” Bilbo said presently.  “Are you warm enough, my boy?”

Frodo nodded, but Bilbo slid an arm about his shoulders anyway.  Frodo looked at him and thought about all the things Bilbo had done and seen in his long life, all the dangers he had overcome and fears he had confronted.

“What is it, lad?” Bilbo asked when he noticed Frodo’s scrutiny.

“I wish I was brave.  Like you, Uncle Bilbo.”  It felt good to use Bilbo’s incorrect title again.

“Oh, Frodo… I think you must be the bravest hobbit I know.”

Frodo looked at him seriously.

“It’s true, dear boy.”  Bilbo smiled and cupped Frodo’s cheek for a moment.  Then he tucked the blankets more closely around Frodo, and got up and went to the kitchen to start their meal.  Frodo sat still for a long moment, feeling the lingering warmth on his cheek, and was glad to be home.

*paraphrased from The Fellowship of the Ring, page 44 in my edition.