22 September, 1401 SR , The Party Field, Hobbiton

I am 33 years old today. Being 33 means many things. It means I am of age--today I am supposed to take up the serious business of living. It means that I am come into my inheritance--the money my father and mother had, before they died, and much more if Bilbo goes through with his plan. It means that, if my aunts have their way, I can pick any one of a dozen pretty lasses for a wife. Mostly, to me, it means saying goodbye.

I see Bilbo over there, laughing with Paladin and Eglantine Took. (Peregrin has disappeared, but I have my suspicions--I saw him casting covetous looks at Gandalf's fireworks, and no doubt he is, at this moment, bewitching some hapless group of 11-year-olds into making a raid on the store.) Bilbo looks happy, but there is more than happiness in his sparkling eyes, in the stories he tells to the children, in his grand gestures and cheerful voice.

There is escape, too, and I cannot grudge him that. He has been here a long time, writing his poetry and translating his stories and going his queer, wild, solitary way--just as I plan to go mine, though it won't do to tell the aunties that, at least not straight out. No, they will just have to discover the hopelessness of their plans through Time.

Merry Brandybuck is on the dance floor with a lass a few years older than him; he is barely on the proper side of innocence, these days, looking so handsome they swoon over him, but still blissfully unaware of it. One day soon he will become (blissfully, no doubt) aware of it, and Buckland's fathers will have to be on the alert. I have the cheering prospect of his company for the next week, as his parents have given their permission that he might stay at Bag End for so long.

Sam Gamgee is out there as well, all too aware of the lasses but unsure of his own appeal (not that he needs to be, he is a fine figure of a hobbit and there are plenty of lasses who seem to agree with my assessment). He dances well, and is happy. He knows Bilbo is leaving--we could not have kept it from him--and he will miss the old fellow, but as long as there is a Baggins at Bag End he will have a place, and friendship besides, and he also knows that, I am sure.

Bilbo handed out birthday presents early in the day, standing at the white gate to the Party Field for quite a long time as the enormous stack of gifts slowly dwindled. Late-comers weren't left out--Bilbo posted one of the Grubb solicitors at the gate, to hand out gifts to the tardy and guard the few remaining treasures. I gave my gifts this afternoon, to those who know me well or are closely related, a much smaller group, thankfully. After tonight I suppose it won't matter, but my coin was quite depleted just in buying gifts for the 30 or so people who expected them.

I left Bilbo's gift inside that battered red book he writes in: a letter, a thank-you for all his time, and love, and wisdom, and patience. I owe him so much, so much, and the letter is the last try--I threw away so many versions, and then had so little time left that I scrawled down the only words that came to me, and slipped it in there. I also gave him a pipe, a sturdy one of teak, that I hope may be useful on the road; but that I gave to him yesterday.

He gave me a leather-bound book like his own, full of creamy blank pages. "For your writing, my lad," he said, and pressed a dry, firm kiss on my brow. The book lies on the table by my bed now, waiting. I shy away from that thought for now.

I am 33 years old today, and torn between happy and sad, melancholy and glad. I am glad, for my own majority and for Bilbo's impending escape, but to be alone again will be hard. I have so much more now than I did then, when I was first left alone, and Bilbo to thank for it all. Solitude fits me well, I think, too--I am comfortable in my hole, with my books and my ink and my thoughts, or outside rambling through the woods. Or in the garden, for that matter, sitting on the grass and reading, while Sam cuts the grass nearby.

I suppose loneliness is all relative, come to think of it. I have Sam, after all, and always will--he is the most faithful of friends, servant or no, and he will still be within hale of my voice. And Merry will come visiting, and Freddy Bolger and Folco Boffin will pop by constantly--to visit the Bag End cellars, if not me. Young Pippin is shaping up to be a hardy lad, and he shall be ready to tramp through the woods soon, too--probably wearing Merry and me to the bone, if early patterns hold true. There is The Green Dragon when I want to go out, and Sam to trade tales with when I want to stay in (my stories all of Elves and dragons, his of rumor and gossip, and both of us satisfied by the exchange). I don't suppose I will be given much time to become lonely, now I think of it.

This is a cheering thought, and leads me direct to a new one: I am 33 years old tonight, so why am I sitting here turning a mug of ale in my hands? This is, after all, my party as well as Bilbo's, and I may as well get a bit out of it. I have no plans to marry, but I am not averse to dancing, and perhaps Merry and Sam need a bit of competition out there on the floor, in the Handsome Young Hobbit category.

A partner is easily found--my cousin Pearl, Pippin's oldest sister, is sitting nearby, and I grab her hand and whirl her into the dance. The music is cheerful and there is time, yet, to enjoy myself before mourning the loss of an old friend--to celebrate the gain of my own grown-up self.

* * * * *

It is much later now, and the guests are gone at last. My joy in the evening vanished along with Bilbo (though I did enjoy his little magic trick, and also Gandalf's quick-thinking addition to it), and when I saw the wizard in Bag End, he seemed as solemn as I felt. After he went to bed, I stood at the door and smiled and smiled and saw people off; Merry came in and stumbled to his room, and now I am in mine. I suppose at some point I will take Bilbo's room--it is far the nicest, and he told me specifically that I should--but at this moment I am so glad to be in this little, comfortable room, with my familiar things around me and the lamp glowing on the table by the bed--

--the table. There is an envelope on the table, atop the book Bilbo gave me for his birthday.

I sit on the bed and open the letter.

My dear Frodo--

I tried to write this a dozen times, but the words just won't come for me. So now I am on my way out the door, and I must say something, for some things must be said. What a sad mess I am making of this, but really all I want to say is, thank you. Thank you for coming to live with me and making these years the happiest I have known. Whatever path you choose for your life, I know it will be a good one. Take care of our beloved Bag End, take care of our family and friends, and most of all, take care of yourself. I look forward to the day when we will talk with one another again. Write everything down, Frodo, and we will pore over your tales and my scribbles, and bridge the years that came between.

Namárië, my dear, dear lad.
Bilbo

I fold the letter carefully and reach for the book Bilbo left. The letter goes inside the back cover, and then I reach for the inkwell and quill (they are always nearby, everywhere in Bag End). I turn to the first page of the book.

22 September 1401 (SR)

I am 33 years old today. Being 33 means many things. It means I am of age--today I am supposed to take up the serious business of living. It means that I am come into my inheritance--the money my father and mother had, before they died, and much more if Bilbo goes through with his plan. It means that, if my aunts have their way, I can pick any one of a dozen pretty lasses for a wife. Mostly, to me, it means saying goodbye.