Chapter Eight

Bilbo returned a half hour later. He was glad to see that Boromir still asleep and thought nothing had changed and Frodo was still safe. No, something had changed, the ancient hobbit realized. His heartson was sleeping. One hand was wrapped around the man’s, but the other was clutching the gem that Arwen had given him and there was just the hint of tears already nearly dry. What had happened? Fears tumbled over each other in Bilbo’s imagination and his heart quickened its pace. But it was not just fretful wondering that caused such. Something else caught his attention and left the fears unnoticed. The elder Baggins breath caught at the sight of the light quietly shining from his beautiful lad. For several long moments, he simply soaked that in and it calmed him.

It was not long after that Frodo stirred, perhaps aware of his uncle’s loving stare. He came to full wakefulness and tried to smile but after an instant it disappeared again. The pain that emanated from him was nearly sharp enough to cut, but still Bilbo wished he could reach out and take it all within himself, to embrace it so it would no longer smother his lad’s joy and life. What had happened to sap the joy that had been so present before?

“What has happened, my boy?” Bilbo asked softly, almost fearfully.

“Nothing for you to fret over, Uncle. Boromir woke briefly. I told him that the war was won and that Aragorn was king. He still does not know that he is no longer in Middle-earth.”

“And that reminded you that you were no longer either.”

Frodo looked up silently at his beloved uncle’s astute observation. He held Boromir’s hand a little tighter as an anchor to hold him to one part that was from there. The other clutched the queen’s gift with white knuckles.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Bilbo said. He came to his lad’s side and embraced him.

Frodo let go of Boromir’s hand to clutch his uncle tightly. He buried his head in that dear chest and wept bitterly. Bilbo held his heartson just as tightly, as he felt if either of them let go they would be both washed away in the storm of pain that flooded out from Frodo. They would still see each other and could call to each other for aid, but both would be helpless and after a period of floundering in the waves, they would drown within sight of the other. No, the old hobbit promised himself as he wept silently and held on harder, that would not happen to either of them. They would hold on, they would endure the storm and live to see its ending. Bilbo stroked his lad’s curls, rocked him gently and murmured what comforts he could. He remembered doing that when Frodo was much younger and still grieving the death of his parents. He remembered doing it in Rivendell after the Quest and the times he had longed to do it during his long vigil before the Quest had been taken up. As Frodo fell back into exhausted sleep in his uncle’s arms, Bilbo vowed he would hold him as many times as he needed to do it until his lad healed.