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Trotter  by Dreamflower

 Interlude: Dark Memories

Bilbo closed the book and drew a deep shuddering breath, as he thought of his long ago, and never known, Uncle Hildifons.  He remembered hearing his mother, aunts and uncles occasionally speak of their brother “Hilfy”, always in quiet, hushed tones.  He had gone away and never come back, unlike Uncle Isengar, who had not only come back, but had lively stories of far-off places for his nephews and nieces. 

The assumption had always been that Hildifons had perished in the Wild somewhere, devoured by wolves or lost in the Old Forest, or as Uncle Isembold often speculated, had simply fallen into a hole somewhere between Tookland and the North-farthing.  He had once heard his parents speaking of how Uncle Isembold blamed himself because he had not accompanied his brother on his journey to Long Cleeve. 

But no one had ever voiced the idea that Hildifons had lived to a ripe old age somewhere beyond the bounds of the Shire.  That was something else he and his uncle had in common then, for Bilbo was sure that of all the hobbits in the Shire, only Frodo would believe that he was still alive in a year or so.

And both of them had experienced some not-so-pleasant things.   Bilbo pushed away some unwelcome memories that tried to force themselves into his mind.  He went into his little kitchen and made a cup of chamomile tea.  Perhaps he’d go to bed early tonight…

Hours later, he woke suddenly, his heart pounding, his breath coming in gasps.  How long had it been since he’d had nightmares of being captured by goblins?  Years, he thought, though in the months  just before leaving the Shire he had been tormented by increasing nightmares of Gollum.  But those had disappeared altogether since he had left the Shire behind.  His sleep since he had come to stay at the Last Homely House had been remarkably untroubled.

Now his mind was filled with the memories of his terror as he was driven through the caverns along with the Dwarves, by the whips and coarse voices of the goblins.  Taking a deep breath, he sat up, and took a drink from the little tumbler of water he kept on the bedside table.  Then he stood up, put on his dressing-gown, and went to stand by his little window, which he threw open.

He leaned out, and felt the brisk breeze on his face, and looked up at the glittering stars, and let the peace of Imladris fill his heart.  This was all due to reading that journal, he was sure.

But tomorrow he would read further.  Things had to turn out for Uncle Hildifons, after all, or he‘d not have been able to write his story out.





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