10. Culmination

Evening of September 2, 1390.

Frodo Baggins tried to open his eyes as wide as he could, wanting to take in as much of the night sky as possible with one look.  The sun had set hours ago, and countless stars now reflected in the upturned azure eyes.  Frodo did not know many constellations yet, but he was sure he recognized the Beef Stew Ladle, and its smaller brother over yonder, the Gravy Ladle.

A gentle breeze came up then, causing the tall grass on the hill to rustle and tickle Frodo’s bare feet.  Frodo sat up with a yawn.  It was quite late, certainly after ten o’clock.  Frodo knew he was supposed to be in bed by eight thirty, but he also knew his Aunt Esmeralda would not come to check on him for another hour or two, on her way to bed.  Frodo idly wondered what it would feel like to have someone notice whether he got to bed on time or not.  He supposed it would be irritating to have someone monitoring him so closely and preventing him from coming and going as he pleased, and yet...  Frodo could also imagine that such attention might bring comfort.

Frodo settled back in the grass, shaking off such pointless thoughts.  A little longer wouldn’t hurt.  He loved watching the stars.  He would have preferred to do it from the vantage point of a tall tree, but he was a little hesitant about climbing trees in the dark now.  Over two years had passed since Frodo had broken his arm falling out of a tree; the arm had fully mended, but the young hobbit had learned his lesson.

Aside from that, little Merry frowned upon the climbing of trees now.  Frodo smiled, remembering his cousin’s eighth birthday back in April.  Merry had given Frodo a tiny glass sculpture to commemorate the occasion.  The sculpture depicted a stately birch tree in miniature, and it had come with a solemn request from the little birthday-boy: ‘Cousin Fwodo, put this twee on your night table, and let it remind you not to go climbing any more in the dark!’

The little glass ‘twee’ stood proudly on Frodo’s night table at this very moment, but the warning it represented was scarcely necessary.  Frodo was not a reckless lad, and although his relatives would hardly suspect it, he did in fact have a fair bit of hobbit-sense.

At this moment, that hobbit-sense was telling Frodo he should have gone in a long time ago.  It was so difficult to contemplate sleep when tomorrow would bring his dear Uncle Bilbo, and yet sleep would make the next day arrive all the faster.  Frodo sighed and got to his feet.  He was quite far from Brandy Hall, almost at the South Gate.  Bilbo usually came by the North Gate, and that was where Frodo planned to wait all day tomorrow, if he could.

Frodo had come to the base of his star-gazing hill, but he found that he couldn’t bear to head home just yet.  The dark-haired lad sat down with his back against a nearby tree, frustrated with himself.  What was the matter with him?  Why was he so restless?  Frodo did not often wish for his parents to miraculously come back anymore, as he had often done years ago, but he couldn’t seem to help doing so now.  Their deaths had left an ache deep inside him that refused to go away.  The ache had dulled over the years, but it was always there.  Some things made it almost vanish, like time spent with dear Bilbo. 

Frodo realized his eyes had filled with tears, and he allowed himself to cry freely.  He knew his relatives often said he was a melancholy child, and he had long ago ceased to wonder why that was so.  He didn’t often feel the need to cry anymore, but he sometimes indulged if he was alone, as he was at present.  At times, in Brandy Hall, Frodo felt so invisible that he wasn’t sure if he truly existed; the frustration could build up until he wanted to burst.

After crying for a few minutes, Frodo felt slightly better.  He sat up and rubbed his face with the sleeve of his shirt, rebuking himself for leaving his warm brown cloak at home on an unseasonably cold September evening.  Just when Frodo was ready to return to Brandy Hall, his sensitive ears detected a noise that was most out of place among the chirping crickets and other nighttime noises of Brandy Hill.  It sounded like... singing!  Frodo held perfectly still and listened carefully.

          “Upon the hearth the fire is red,

          Beneath the roof there is a bed;

          But not yet weary are our feet,

          Still round the corner we may meet

          A sudden tree or standing stone

          That none have seen but we alone.”

The voice was very familiar, and instantly brought a rush of joy to the listening child.  “Bilbo!” Frodo whispered.  He got up silently and crept closer to the path.

*          *          *

          “Tree and flower, leaf and grass,

          Let them pass!  Let them pass!

          Hill and water under sky,

          Pass them by!  Pass them by!”

Bilbo finished the chorus and looked around.  If he wasn’t mistaken, he should be at Brandy Hall in just a few minutes.  Bilbo smiled and picked up the pace.  He hadn’t planned to arrive until tomorrow, but he’d passed through Tookborough on his way here, which was why he was currently approaching the South Gate instead of his usual route.  It was a brief but pleasant visit with his Took cousins in the Great Smials, and Bilbo had wanted to see Paladin’s new little one, but he had decided to press on a day early.  He was eager to see Frodo again.    

It was past eleven o’clock by now, so Frodo would undoubtedly be in bed.  Bilbo hadn’t counted on getting such a late start two mornings ago, but no matter.  It was late, and it was dark, but he was almost there.  Bilbo had a lantern packed in his bag, but he hadn’t bothered getting it out; the stars were so bright tonight.  He would soon be at Brandy Hall, and he would see his little cousin in the morning.

Bilbo was therefore quite shocked to hear a cry of “Uncle Bilbo!” just before a small figure darted onto the path immediately before him.

“Frodo-lad!” Bilbo exclaimed, too surprised to speak as he returned the child’s hug.

“We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow, Uncle!” Frodo said excitedly, tugging on Bilbo’s hand in his impatience to get to Brandy Hall.  “And you always come through the North Gate, never the South Gate!”

“Now hold on, my boy,” said Bilbo, recovering himself.  “Do you know what the hour is?  What in Elbereth’s name are you doing out here?”

“Oh,” said Frodo in a small voice.  He had quite forgotten that he was supposed to be in bed, and it hadn’t occurred to him that Bilbo would object.  “I just wanted... to be by myself.”  Truthfully, Frodo didn’t know why he was out here, but that seemed a reasonable answer.

Bilbo’s brow furrowed.  A child of twenty-one had no business being up this late.  Did no one keep a proper eye on the boy?  He would have to take this up with Saradoc or Esmeralda; he recalled something similar happening during another visit some years ago, and he had taken for granted that it would not happen again.

Looking more closely at his young cousin, Bilbo noticed that the cerulean blue eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the dim glow cast by the stars.  Had the child been crying?

Frodo looked down abruptly.  “I... I’m sorry I’ve upset you, Uncle,” Frodo murmured softly.  His voice sounded slightly choked.

“Now then, dear boy, none of that,” Bilbo said, concerned.  He pulled Frodo back into a hug, and was alarmed to find that the boy was trembling.  “I’m not upset with you, only worried about you.”

Frodo’s heart lifted at these words, but suddenly he was so tired.  He found himself sagging against Bilbo, and then sturdy arms were lifting him up, and his uncle’s worn travel cloak was being wrapped snugly around him.

“Let’s get you to bed, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo said with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel.  He carried Frodo the rest of the way to Brandy Hall.

*          *          *

As Bilbo approached the door to Frodo’s bedroom, he saw Esmeralda coming from the opposite direction.  She stopped in her tracks when she saw him.

“Bilbo!” she exclaimed in surprise, but Bilbo pressed a finger to his lips, motioning to the small hobbit fast asleep in his arms.  Esmeralda nodded.  She opened the door to Frodo’s room as softly as she could, and together they changed Frodo into his nightclothes and tucked him into bed.

Out in the hall again, Esmeralda motioned for Bilbo to accompany her.

“I was just on my way to check on him,” she said.  “Where was he?”

“He was outside, near the South Gate,” Bilbo replied stiffly.

Esmeralda gasped.  “Oh, dear!”

“From his demeanor, I would guess that he does this on a fairly regular basis,” Bilbo continued.

“He’s always been in bed when I go to check on him,” Esmeralda said, bewildered.

Bilbo sighed and shook his head.

When they arrived at the rooms shared by Esmeralda, Saradoc, and Merry, they opened the round door and went in.  Saradoc was sitting in the small parlor, but stood quickly when he saw the visitor.

“Why, Bilbo!” he said.  “You’ve come a day early!”

Esmeralda interrupted the greeting to explain what had happened with Frodo.  Saradoc exchanged a glance with his wife, then sat down again, running a hand through his light brown curls.

“Bilbo,” he said.  “There is something we need to discuss, and we might as well do it now.”

*         *          *

Early the next morning, Bilbo was sitting in the kitchen, having a strong cup of tea.  He couldn’t believe what Esmeralda and Saradoc had asked of him.  How could he adopt Frodo?  He was ninety-nine years old, nearly one hundred.  He knew he didn’t look it, but that was his age, and he had no experience whatsoever of raising children.  How could he ask Frodo to leave everything that was familiar and move to Bag End, a place he had not visited since his parents were able to bring him, by wagon, on a journey that was too far for a child to walk?

And yet... and yet!  How could he refuse?  Esmeralda had told him that Frodo was not happy here, that the boy lived for Bilbo’s brief visits.  That Frodo was quiet and withdrawn much of the time, and the only friend he had was little Merry.  Bilbo could not ignore his cousin’s plight.  Of course, if Frodo came to live with him, he would have to give up his longer trips until the boy was old enough to come along if he wanted, but Bilbo felt certain it would be well worth the sacrifice, if it meant helping his dear cousin.  Bilbo also had to admit to himself that he enjoyed Frodo’s company, and the boy would undoubtedly be a welcome addition to Bag End.

Bilbo sighed in frustration.  The problem was complex, and he couldn’t seem to stop going around in circles. 

“Master Baggins, sir?” asked a voice, interrupting his reverie.  “Can I bring you another cup of tea?”

“What?  Oh, yes, thank you.”

The scullery maid was soon back with another steaming cup, which she set before Bilbo.

“Thank you, my dear,” Bilbo said automatically, and looked up.  “Miss Poppy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered.  She was a stout hobbit with sandy-brown curls, and Bilbo judged her age to be about fifty-four. 

“Well, won’t you sit down and have a cup with me?” Bilbo asked.  Miss Poppy looked a little surprised, so he added hastily, “Please.  I’m weary of being alone with my thoughts this morning.”

Poppy nodded agreeably and poured herself a cup of tea.  She settled in the seat across from Bilbo and gazed at him expectantly.  “You’ve come to see Mr. Frodo, haven’t you, sir?” Poppy asked suddenly, hoping she wasn’t being too forward.

“That’s right,” Bilbo said, recalling suddenly that this was the maid Frodo was so fond of.  Poppy didn’t seem inclined to say anything further, but Bilbo wondered if perhaps she had any insights that would help him make this decision.  “Why do you ask?” he said finally.

“I’m just glad, is all sir,” Poppy replied.  “He’s been real sad of late.”

“You know him well, do you?”

“Mr. Frodo spends much of his time in here with me, sir.  I reckon I know him pretty well by now.”

Bilbo gave Poppy a measuring look.  “May I ask your opinion on something, Miss Poppy?  It concerns Frodo.”

“Of course, sir!”  Poppy said.  “I’ll help any way I can.”

Bilbo sighed and paused to gather his thoughts, then decided to get right to the point.  “I’m considering adopting Frodo and taking him to live with me in Hobbiton.”

“Indeed?” exclaimed Poppy.  “Well, that’s wonderful news, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir!”

“Is it?” Bilbo asked.  “How do you think Frodo would feel?  Being taken away from familiar surroundings, to be raised by an old hobbit like me who doesn’t know the first thing about raising children?”

Poppy smiled at him gently.  “Well, sir, if you’re asking me, I ought to tell you I don’t believe Mr. Frodo would feel that way at all.  First of all, you already know a far sight more than the first thing about parenting, sir; I’ve seen you with the lad, and you’re wonderful with him.”  Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but Poppy continued without giving him a chance.  “As for familiar surroundings, sir?  Don’t give it a thought.  Brandy Hall is familiar all right, but it ain’t doing the lad any good, begging your pardon.”

“Indeed?” Bilbo said.  “Then you really think Frodo would want to come to Bag End?”

“If it’s you as is taking him away, sir, I think he’d go just about anywhere, if you take my meaning.”  Poppy finished her tea and stood to get back to work.  “In my opinion, sir, anywhere you are is the best place for Mr. Frodo.”

“Thank you, Miss Poppy,” Bilbo said, feeling a little overwhelmed.  “You’ve been most helpful.”

*          *          *

That evening after supper, Bilbo was sitting with Frodo in the library.  They had been having a fine bit of quiet time, talking about anything and everything.  Soon the conversation turned to presents.  Frodo was telling Bilbo about Merry’s glass ‘twee,’ and Bilbo suddenly recalled that it would be his birthday, his and Frodo’s, in just twenty days.

“Is something planned for your birthday, my boy?” Bilbo asked.

“Oh, yes,” Frodo replied.  “Aunt Esmeralda will have a party for me.  It’ll be just her, Merry, and Uncle Saradoc, which is all I want.  Well, except for you of course, Uncle!”

“I wish I could be there, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo smiled.  The plan for his birthday this year had been well underway before he’d decided to make the trip to Buckland.

“And you, Uncle Bilbo?  Will you have a good birthday?”  Ever since he had learned that he shared a birthday with Bilbo, Frodo had wanted to go to Bag End to share the celebration.  He knew his parents had taken him there several times, but Frodo could hardly remember the experience.  Frodo’s Buckland relatives rarely went to Hobbiton, even though they were invited every year to Bilbo’s party.  It was a great distance, and a complex endeavor to transport such a large extended family.

“It ought to be a fine party,” said Bilbo.  “Which reminds me!  I owe you a birthday present!  I’ll be right back, dear boy.”

As Bilbo went out to retrieve the present, Frodo smiled to himself and removed a small package from the drawer of the old bureau that was kept in the library.

“Here we are, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo said cheerfully, coming back into the library.  He handed Frodo a colourfully-wrapped package that was shaped suspiciously like a book.  Frodo opened the gift eagerly, and gasped when he saw what was inside.

“’Dragons: An Anthology, By Gandalf the Grey,’” Frodo read carefully off the cover.  It was a beautiful book, bound in green leather.

“You’ll find plenty of good stories in there, Frodo my boy!” Bilbo laughed.

“Oh!  Thank you, Uncle!” Frodo exclaimed, rushing to hug Bilbo.  “Now open yours!”

Bilbo accepted the small, grubby package as though it were made of mithril and opened it carefully.  “Well!” he exclaimed.  “I see you’ve been putting your studies to good use!  Very well done, but did you have any help?”  Bilbo knew perfectly well that no one at Brandy Hall could have helped Frodo with this particular gift, for it was a fabric book-mark with the letters B-I-L-B-O carefully stitched... in Elf-runes.

Frodo laughed.  “Miss Poppy showed me how to do the stitching, but I did the rest by myself, Uncle.”

Bilbo planted a kiss on Frodo’s curly head.  “I know you did, my boy.  I’m so proud of you.”

Frodo beamed, pleased with the success of both of their presents.

They spent the next hour reading to each other from the dragon book, and then Bilbo realized he could put off what he needed to discuss no longer.  The story was over, and Bilbo closed the book slowly.  Frodo watched him silently, aware that the mood had shifted, become more serious.

“Frodo-lad,” Bilbo began finally.  “I need to ask you about last night.” 

Frodo looked down.  So far today, no one had mentioned that Frodo had been caught out of bed so far past his bedtime.

“Yes, sir?”  Frodo asked apprehensively.  Was Bilbo still angry?

Bilbo tried to smile reassuringly at his young cousin.  “I need to know if this happens often, you roaming about when you’re supposed to be in bed.”

Frodo shrugged.  He couldn’t lie, but he was suddenly ashamed of his actions.  Bilbo must think he was quite wild and reckless, to be outside when any sensible hobbit would be home, tucked in bed.

Bilbo sighed.  “I thought so,” he said.  “Had anyone ever noticed before?”

Frodo shook his head, seemingly puzzled by the question.  Why would anyone notice?  He did his best not to make a nuisance of himself. 

Bilbo put his arm around Frodo and pulled him a little closer.  “I need you to tell me something, Frodo,” Bilbo said then.  “Do you ever feel sad?”

Frodo turned to face Bilbo, and his small face registered shock.  The ache of loneliness and neglect rose in him so suddenly that his cerulean blue eyes filled with tears, but he could see Bilbo’s expression change from surprise to concern, and finally to understanding.  The little hobbit found himself being pulled into a hug, even as he wondered at the intensity of his own reaction to a simple question.

Then he finally thought of something he could say.  “You make it hurt less,” Frodo whispered against Bilbo’s shoulder.

“What, lad?”  Bilbo rubbed the small back gently.

“Mama and Papa being gone.”

“Oh, my dear boy...” the old hobbit couldn’t continue.  He held the small, trembling form as tightly as he could.  His course was far clearer than he’d realized; he knew next to nothing about raising a child, but that hardly seemed to matter, when the child so obviously needed him.  They would manage, he and Frodo.

“You had better come and live with me, Frodo my lad,” said Bilbo when he had control of his voice again; “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?” the small hobbit 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 small arms around his uncle once more, and buried his face against Bilbo’s neck.  Bilbo smiled as he felt the curly head nodding vigorously in affirmation.

“Then it’s settled; I’ll get the old place ready for you as soon as I can, and then I’ll hire a wagon in Hobbiton and come back to collect you.”  Bilbo said. 

Frodo smiled and tightened his arms around Bilbo.

“It might be awhile before I can be ready,” Bilbo cautioned.  “Perhaps as much as a year.”

The child looked disappointed for a moment, but a bright smile soon washed it away.  “That’s all right, Uncle,” he whispered.  “I think I could bear just about anything, knowing I’m going to live with you.”

Bilbo’s song is from The Fellowship of the Ring, page 115.

* This is a slightly altered version of what Bilbo actually said when he invited Frodo to live with him, in The Fellowship of the Ring, page 44 in my edition.