Author's Note:

This story was previously posted at Nindaiwe and at The Barrow-downs as "Remembrance". I have changed the title because it was too similar to the titles of two other stories I have seen here. (I know authors don't own titles, but it still bothered me enough that I decided to change it. I'm funny that way.)

Anyway, this is another piece about Bilbo and Frodo, set the day after Frodo comes to live at Bag End. It does not necessarily tie in with "A Star Shines", though it could.

"The Gift" is inspired by the fact that in Tolkien's original drafts of LOTR, Frodo (then named Bingo) was Bilbo's son. The premise is only a "what if", a flight of fancy on my part if you will. If the idea of Bilbo and Frodo possibly being rather more closely related than they actually are in the books and movies, or the idea of incest between first cousins, not to mention marital infidelity, are bothersome to you, turn back now. (There is a semi-flashback to a one-night tryst, but no description of actual sex, hence the PG-13.)

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

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The Gift

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Bacon. That was what it was. Bilbo Baggins inhaled deeply of the warm, salty tang, and yawned, stretching carefully before settling back down into the softness of his bed. By the angle of the sunlight slanting into his room, he had slept later than he had intended. But then, the cart ride from Buckland yesterday had been quite long and tiring.

He lay there for a while listening to the occasional clink of pots and utensils that drifted in from the kitchen along with the smells. The person using them was obviously doing his utter best to be quiet about it, and Bilbo smiled against the pillow. How long had it been since anyone besides himself had cooked breakfast in Bag End? Not since his mother's death, he realized.

At last he rose and dressed. He had just finished, and slipped his golden ring into his trouser pocket, sighing at its slight, reassuring weight, when he frowned. The bacon smell had turned acrid, and he heard a sudden, sharp yelp.

Bilbo hurried down the hall to the kitchen. Frodo was there, coughing and fanning the smoky air with a cloth. When he saw Bilbo, his expressive features twisted into a rueful grimace.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Bilbo," he managed between coughs. "I thought I'd fix us both breakfast, my first morning living here, but -- " He hissed softly through his teeth and brought his forearm to his mouth.

"Let me see," Bilbo ordered gently, taking the arm and peering closely at the burn there. Frodo had the type of fair skin that tended to make any injury look worse than it was, but Bilbo was able to ascertain that the burn was only a slight one. He tsked a bit and fetched some ointment, spreading it on and briskly wrapping a cloth around the arm. "I can understand your being hungry after the trip from Buckland, my lad, but surely you could have waited until I was up?"

The lad flushed a bit, his eyes downcast. "It's just that, well, you've done so much for me, and I wanted to -- I don't know -- do something in return, and now I've ruined your bacon. The pan too, maybe." He gestured helplessly toward the pan, which was now sitting in the sink.

"Don't trouble yourself about it." Bilbo patted the uninjured arm, feeling a little awkward. He wasn't used to having anyone in his care, let alone a youth as sensitive as Frodo. "Your heart was in the right place. Perhaps tonight I will endeavor to teach you one of my favorite dishes. In the meantime, we have enough cheese and fruit to make a fine breakfast of it. Then later we can go walking. How does that sound?"

Frodo finally looked at him again, and Bilbo was relieved to see that there was a slight smile on his face. "It sounds splendid, Uncle."

He seemed to recover his spirits quickly as they ate, and while he was helping to clear the table, he even joked about whether Bilbo ought to be trusting him to handle the plates without dropping them. The washing-up, however, proceeded without incident, and the frying pan was salvaged. By the time they were finished, most of the smoke had drifted out the kitchen window. Frodo went to his room to put away his belongings (since he had been so exhausted when they had arrived last night that he had simply collapsed onto his bed without even eating). Bilbo sat in the parlor, puffing his pipe and thinking.

He had known it would be different, having another person sharing his home, permanently. Strange -- until just recently, he hadn't been aware of wanting anybody there with him. He had been perfectly content living alone, odd though that had seemed to everybody else. No one to answer to, no one to worry about, plenty of time for his writing and his thinking.

Frodo had changed all that, quite without knowing that he was doing so. Since coming to know his young orphaned cousin, Bilbo had slowly become aware of a desire that had slept deeply inside him: the desire for someone to share his good fortune with, to benefit from his wisdom, or what he sometimes liked to flatter himself was wisdom. Not to mention someone to inherit whatever he would leave behind when he was gone: someone who wasn't named Sackville-Baggins, at any rate. And Frodo was the only relative Bilbo had with whom he actually felt he had anything in common.

All in all, Bilbo was rather pleased with himself. This arrangement would benefit both of them. He had needed an heir, and Frodo had needed a home -- for though the lad had been treated kindly by his mother's family, he wasn't really suited for life in a huge, boisterously busy place like Brandy Hall, and everyone there had known it, including Frodo.

And perhaps having an energetic youngster about was just what Bilbo needed to remedy the peculiar weariness that he had begun to feel creeping into his soul.

"Uncle?"

Frodo was standing in the doorway, holding something: a small, delicately carved wooden box.

"I was putting away my clothes, and this was in the bottom drawer," Frodo said. His voice sounded odd, softer than usual, and cracking slightly. "Would you mind explaining -- ?"

"If you'll bring it here." Bilbo held out his hand. Frodo approached slowly, and Bilbo took the box. It looked familiar. He opened it. There was a piece of paper inside, and a silver lapis ring. His hand trembled as he unfolded the note and read silently.

"To my dearest cousin Bilbo: Please accept this poor attempt at an expression of my love and gratitude. You are in my thoughts. Primula Baggins, January 1368."

Bilbo had to swallow hard before looking back up into the searching blue eyes. "I'm sorry, my lad," he said quietly. "I had quite forgotten that that was there. It was a gift that your mother had given me, years ago."

Frodo sank heavily onto a nearby stool. "You never told me that you and she were that close."

"She was my first cousin, Frodo. I knew her as a girl, and later after she grew up. She was -- a lovely woman, and very dear to me, though we rarely saw each other after she married your father."

He gently put the note back into the box and gave it back to Frodo, who turned it over in his hands. "January thirteen sixty-eight," he said slowly. "The year I was born."

All Bilbo said was, "Yes." His throat seemed to close on the word, and he hoped desperately that Frodo didn't notice. Fortunately, the lad seemed preoccupied with the box, almost mesmerized, tracing the carving with a hesitant finger. Bilbo wondered how well Frodo really remembered Primula. He had never talked about her, or Drogo; at least not to his uncle.

Bilbo's own memories were vivid. Primula had been a lovely child with a delightful laugh. He had seen her often, when he had gone to visit his mother's sister in Buckland. Aunt Mirabella had married Gorbadoc Brandybuck, and Primula was the youngest of their seven children. Despite being the baby of the family, somehow she managed not to seem spoiled, but accepted what was given her with grace beyond her years. She seemed to adore her cousin Bilbo in particular.

Then he had gone away on his journey with Gandalf and the dwarves. Most of the Shire began to treat him oddly after that, as if they couldn't decide whether to shun him because of the taint of adventure, or hang on him because of his newfound wealth. Primula, then a tweenager, had been one of the few members of his family who behaved toward him exactly the same as before.

She had once suggested, shyly, as if fearing her words might be dismissed because of her age, that perhaps the reason others treated him differently was because *he* was different -- bigger, somehow, inside -- and they didn't know how to respond. Bilbo hadn't thought of that. He had hugged her, sincerely grateful for the new perspective she had given him, and from then on he had tried to be more understanding of his kin who had never left the Shire and had no conception of the dangers and wonders that he had seen.

He had seen her less often after she came of age and married his second cousin, Drogo Baggins. Bilbo did not know Drogo well, though he had heard it remarked that of all the male Bagginses, Drogo was the one who most closely resembled him in looks, particularly about the nose. Their personalities, though, were quite dissimilar. Drogo always struck Bilbo as being somewhat stodgy and serious, but he seemed to create quite a nice balance with his lively wife. She appeared to be content, and Bilbo was happy for her. They had settled in Buckland, near Primula's parents. Bilbo lost track of them.

Then one winter night, Primula showed up on his doorstep.

She was by herself, and wouldn't say why she had come so far without her husband. Only that Drogo didn't like to travel. She attempted to joke about it, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. There was something wrong, that much was obvious. He told her that she could stay as long as she liked, hoping that she would eventually tell him what was troubling her.

In the end, he was forced to take drastic measures, which consisted mainly of a bottle of Old Winyards. The result was something quite different than what he had bargained for.

Only when it was too late had he realized the danger in the ambivalence of his feelings for her. He had cursed himself afterwards. He was nearly eighty years old, for pity's sake! No matter that he looked no more than fifty. He was far past such impulses, or he ought to be. And she was his first cousin, and married! What had possessed him to sully her with his foolishness? How could he ever look poor Drogo in the eyes again?

Primula had looked at him, her blue eyes glimmering softly. She was one of those women who became more beautiful, not less so, as they approached middle age. "What's done is done, Bilbo," she had said quietly. "You were lonely, and I was lonely. For that moment, we were only two people giving each other solace. There may be pain and regrets later, and for that I am sorry, but I will never hold you to blame."

The next day Drogo had arrived, having finally tracked down his wife through relatives and inn-talk. They had shut themselves up in a room in Bag End for a long time together. Bilbo had quietly gone down to the Ivy Bush and not come back until the morning. When he did, they were gone. He never did find out why Primula had run from her husband. Two weeks later, her gift had arrived from Buckland. He had put it away without opening it.

"Are you all right, Uncle?"

Bilbo came back to the present. The eyes he saw gazing at him in puzzled concern gave him a jolt. They were her eyes. He felt a hot tear etch its way down his cheek.

"Bilbo?" Frodo was beginning to look frightened. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, my boy." Bilbo summoned up what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I was...just remembering, that's all."

Frodo nodded somberly, his face clearing. Young as he was, he actually seemed to understand. He couldn't have guessed exactly what it was Bilbo was remembering, or at least Bilbo hoped not. But he knew grief.

"I remember too, sometimes," he said, thoughtfully. "Even though no one at Brandy Hall ever talked to me about her. I think perhaps they thought it would hurt me if they did. But it was the -- the not talking -- that hurt. It was as if she and my father never existed." His voice was low and sad, but steady, as if he had already done all his weeping long ago.

Bilbo reached over to tenderly cup his chin. "Dear, dear boy. I am so sorry that you had to go through that. But maybe they were afraid of bringing back the hurt for themselves, even more than for you. They loved her too, you know."

"I know," Frodo said with a sigh, looking down again at the box he still held in his hands.

The thought struck Bilbo at that moment, and his stomach lurched. It was all he could do to remain sitting in his chair, though he did come close to having a lapful of burning pipe-weed.

A boy born in September. Dear Elbereth, could it be true? How had it not occurred to him before? The only thing he could think of was that his memory had grown fuzzy as to the actual year that the dalliance had occurred, until her gift had resurfaced just now. Perhaps he had simply refused to permit himself to speculate, out of fear of what he might realize. But why had she not said anything to him?

Bilbo forced himself to relax. There was no need to jump to wild conclusions. No evidence except his memories. And he could no longer ask Primula, even if she would have told him.

He contemplated Frodo's features as the boy sat in silence, frowning at the box as if it ought to contain more than it did. No, there were no clues there. Frodo took so strongly after his mother that it was hard to see anyone else in him. His eyes, his hair, the curve of his lips, his build and skin tone, even the grace that had revived the old rumors of elf blood in the Took line -- all had come to him from Primula. The only thing Baggins about Frodo, besides the name, was the nose -- and that could just as easily have been Drogo's contribution.

Then again, though Primula had been quite intelligent, she could not have been the source of her son's eager curiosity and scholarly inclinations. She was too restless to stay inside reading for long. Drogo had thought books a waste of time, so it certainly didn't come from him. Nor had there been any other such influence in the boy's life, before or after he had gone to live at Brandy Hall. Only Bilbo. Yet by all accounts, Frodo had been a dreamer and a voracious reader long before Bilbo ever had any contact with him.

So...it was possible. That was the only thing he would ever be sure of.

And that was why, he decided, he must never tell Frodo what he suspected. Many other secrets he would share with him -- his books, his ring, everything he had learned in the wide world outside -- but not this. What purpose would it serve, and to whom besides himself? Primula was nine years gone; let her rest in peace, with no more of a blot on her memory than there already was for the unusual way she and Drogo had died. But it wasn't the reputation of a dead woman that was uppermost in Bilbo's mind. It was what was best for Frodo.

Certainly he would have been proud to have Frodo as his son. Who wouldn't? The lad was handsome, bright, and well-behaved (for the most part), with a gentle spirit and a perceptive heart. It simply wouldn't be fair to rob him of what equilibrium he had regained since the tragedy that had left him an orphan. Frodo had lost too much too early, but at least he still had his sense of who he was. The last thing he needed was to have that taken away from him too.

It's happened, Bilbo realized with a wistful smile. I'm thinking like a father. Putting aside my happiness for his.

He reached out again, softly caressing the dark curls. The eyes lifted, looked up at him questioningly. Bilbo smiled back, despite the lump in his throat.

"Care for that walk now?"

Frodo considered. "Yes, I think so, Uncle. But..." He hesitated. "I would rather go through the countryside than through the village, if you don't mind. I don't especially feel like running into anybody today."

"Neither do I," Bilbo admitted.

He rose, and walked briskly to the rack of walking sticks, passing one to Frodo as the lad followed him. Then, as he opened the round door, letting the summer morning sunshine spill inside, he turned and simply looked at Frodo for a moment.

The light was falling directly onto Frodo's face, making his skin and those blue eyes glow as if they were aflame. Whether or not he is my son, Bilbo thought fondly, he is going to be someone very remarkable.

"What is it?" Frodo asked, tilting his head quizzically at him.

"I was just thinking," Bilbo replied slowly, "how much you look like your mother."

Frodo smiled.

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- the end -