Disclaimer: Most of the characters and settings in this tale belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. Most of the rest belong
to me. Anything else belongs to somebody else, and I'll give credit when I come to those parts of the story.

Author's Notes:  This is a WIP, but there are a few more chapters coming soon.  I'm still trying to figure this thing out.

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Frodo? May I come in?" Bilbo asked timorously from outside his cousin's bedroom door.

There was a moment's pause, then Frodo appeared at the door in his nightshirt. "What is it, Uncle Bilbo? I
thought you'd gone to bed hours ago."

Bilbo looked down at his hands in apprehension. "Well, I tried, but there's something I need to tell you --
it's been weighing on my mind for days. I need to get it over with."

"Well, come in, then," Frodo said, eyeing Bilbo curiously.

Stepping into the room, Bilbo sat down in the chair at the desk and watched Frodo as he made his way back
across the paneled room and seated himself on the edge of the bed.

"Now, Bilbo, what is it?" Frodo asked, watching with concern as his uncle wrung his hands in silent
agitation.

"Oh, Frodo, I don't know what to do. No, that's not it -- I know what to do, but I don't know how to go
about it." He sighed, almost imperceptibly, moving his gaze beyond his nephew to stare impassively out the
window. "How," he mused, more to himself than Frodo, "do you go about telling something that makes you
so happy…and will make the hearer so sad?"

Frodo, watching his dear uncle's face, bit his lip in resignation. It was as he'd feared, so he had better get it
over with. "Well, Uncle, perhaps I can help by telling you some of it myself."

Bilbo broke out of his reverie and looked up, perplexed.

"It's like this. You have decided," Frodo paused and heaved a shuddering sigh, "you have decided that the
time has come for you to die. And you're afraid to tell me."

The aged hobbit's jaw dropped as Frodo spoke, and it took him several tense moments to regain his voice.
When, at length, it came back, he spoke almost hesitantly. "How in the world did you know?"

"Oh, Bilbo, it wasn't difficult. All those close talks with Gandalf, and of late you've been full of
recollections about your adventures, and reminisces of the Shire. I know you so well, it was hardly difficult
to piece it together." Frodo sighed again and looked out the low, round window into the cool, calm night of
Tol Eressëa. A fog covered the land, obscuring the brilliant stars, visible only as faint splotches of light.
"And Bilbo," he added, his back still turned, " I understand. I'm happy for you -- really. But it will be lonely
here all alone...a lonely hobbit on the Lonely Isle." He turned back to face his long-time companion, a
small, ironic smile on his face.

Bilbo was watching him closely. "Do you mean that, as obvious as I've been, you don't know the rest of it?"

"There's more?"

"Well, Frodo, you said that you'd be lonely here alone -- the only hobbit?"

Frodo cocked his head curiously, wondering what his uncle was getting at. "Yesss.."

"Then I have something to ask you -- I might as well be plain. Frodo, if you could go back to the Shire,
would you?"

Frodo paused a moment, rather shocked, thinking about the improbable question. "But Bilbo," he faltered,
"why even ask? That's not possible!"

"I know," Bilbo said, his eyes brimming with a strange combination of joy and sorrow. "But if you want to,
Frodo, you can. The Valar have given their permission." Bilbo abruptly rose from his chair, pacing partway
across the floor before turning back to face the forlorn-looking figure seated on the bed. "Gandalf asked,
the last time he was in Valimar, and they have agreed that if you wish, you can go back to Middle Earth.
Gandalf doesn't understand it any more than I do; for that matter, he said that he wan't sure Manwë
understood it. But there it is. There was only one condition -- that once you had gone, if you so chose, you
could not come back again. So whatever decision you make, you must be sure it's the right one."

Frodo gaped at his uncle, astounded. After several moments of opening and closing his mouth, trying to
speak, he gave up and buried his head in his shaking hands. Bilbo hurried over to the bed, laying a hand on
his nephew's shoulder. "Oh, Frodo. I wish I didn't have to do this to you. I know how you feel about this
whole idea. But, my boy, this is a decision you have to make."

Looking up sorrowfully, Frodo asked "How could you know how I feel about this?"

"My boy, you've told me."

"But telling can't do it justice," he murmured plaintively, "nothing really could."

"Well, then, I feel it. I couldn't quite explain it, but I do understand how you feel. You've been fairly happy
here, because you knew -- or thought you knew -- that you could never leave. But you have been happier
before: I've seen it. I only want you to regain the happiness you had...well...before everything."

"Even if it means that I have to make a choice between a place…a place that doesn't belong to me anymore,
and a place that never has? I know I don't belong here, but it's peaceful here. I can try to forget. If I were to
go back, I'd have to face...I'd have to face all the memories head-on."

"Are you sure, my lad, that facing memories head-on isn't exactly what you need?" Bilbo asked gently.

"Oh, I don't know anymore. I haven't known for a long time," he said, brushing away a tear and looking up
at the worried face of his beloved cousin. "Uncle Bilbo, you're the closest thing I have to a father, the only
father I've known for years. What do you think?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Frodo. You'll have to make this decision for yourself." Bilbo rose calmly from
his seat beside his nephew, and, having said all that he could, bent down and kissed the tangled hair atop
Frodo's head. "I wish I didn't have to leave you alone like this, but there's a lot of thinking you need to be
doing, and I'll just get in the way." As he stepped out the door, he turned back. "I won't wish you a good
night -- I doubt you'll have one --, but I can say this: I love you, my boy. I've cared for you since you were a
reckless young tween, and I've always tried to do what's best for you. Do you think I would intentionally
ask you to do something that I didn't believe had the slightest chance of good?"

As the door clicked shut, Frodo turned again to the window next to his bed. Gazing blankly out, he realized
that the fog had lifted and the stars were so brilliant that the trees cast shadows on the ground. Closing his
eyes and falling back on the pillow, he tried to think rationally. But, still perplexed by the suddenness of the
choice he was faced with, his thoughts were nothing more than a confused jumbling of memories and
dreams. Rising, Frodo padded across the room, muttering about going to get fresh air. He tugged his grey
elven-cloak from its hook on the wall next to the wardrobe and, pulling it over his shoulders, slipped softly
down the hall and outside.

As the door closed with a soft 'snick' behind him, Frodo wandered over to the rock bench he had built in
their garden, wiggling his toes in the cool, clean grass. Sitting down, he gazed up at the stars, scintillating
in the sky above him, looking so close that he almost believed he could reach up and pluck one down. "I
love the stars here," he mused, "and the grass looks so green, even in starlight. How could I ever expect the
Shire to tempt me again after I've seen the beauty here, so close to the Blessed Realm?" As he pondered,
Frodo did not realise he was no longer alone until the voice spoke.

"When a place is home, it is always tempting, despite its imperfections." Strangely, the voice did not
frighten Frodo. Rather, it comforted him, reminding him of a warm spring breeze rustling the tender petals
of new flowers, or of birds singing in exultation at a golden morning. Turning slowly, looking for the
source of the voice, he found behind him two magnificent elven ladies, one dark and clear as the cool night
that still lay over the land, the other golden, her face full of the light of a thousand spring mornings. "The
stars above the Shire and the stars that you see here are the same," the golden one continued(for it was her
voice that had spoken at first), "And I can tell you, Frodo Baggins, that if you were in the Shire at this
moment, they would look as bright. I know -- I asked their maker."

The other lady smiled, and added, her voice light and sparkling as the stars overhead, "And the grass in the
Shire was created and nurtured with the same loving care as the grass that graces the slopes of Taniquetil. I
know -- I asked its maker."

They smiled at each other, almost mischievously, and the golden lady said "Also, Frodo, you forget that
you had the Lady Galadriel's help in restoring the Shire after you returned. If she has not forgotten
everything I taught her, it will be more beautiful than it ever was. And it always was beautiful. One of my
masterpieces, made especially with hobbits in mind."

Finally finding his voice, Frodo stammered, "Your masterpiece? Bu-but..that would mean you're..no.."

"Yes. Frodo Baggins, it is an honor to meet you. I am Yavanna. But my friends call me Kementári," she
added with a smile that very nearly lit up the night. "And this is Varda. Elentári. My sister."

Joining Yavanna in crouching at eye level with Frodo, she said, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baggins.
I am sorry we could not get to know you sooner, but if we had allowed you into Aman, you would have
died, and we did not want that, after all you have done for Middle Earth. We cannot stay long, for the same
reason. But my spouse, Manwë, asked me to give you a message. He bids you choose wisely, and you will
find peace. And, Frodo, I bid joy return."

"And I the same."

His eyes tearing up suddenly, Frodo blinked, and when he opened them again, the Valier were gone.
Feeling calmer than he had in years, he sat thinking a few minutes more, and then rose and went into the
hobbit-hole to bed.

The morning sun seemed somehow brighter, and the sky bluer, when Frodo awoke, still feeling strangely
calm. He walked into the kitchen to find Bilbo preparing breakfast, looking worried. When he looked up
and saw Frodo smiling, immense relief flooded his features. "Well, my boy, it's certainly a beautiful
morning, and from the look on your face, I think it's going to be a good morning too."

Frodo sat down at the table. "You're right," he said, smiling steadily at his cousin, "it is a good morning."

"Then you've made your decision?"

"Yes, Bilbo. It's still impossible, and I still don't know why I'm doing it, but I will go back. I'll go home."

Bilbo's face lit up, and he stood straighter, as if he had been relieved of some heavy burden. "Then I have
something for you. Let me go get it before I forget." Rushing out of the room, he returned with a sealed
letter. "This is for you, Frodo, but you're not to open it until after the birth of your first child."

Jaw dropping, Frodo asked, "What child? I said I'd go back. I never said anything about children."
Suddenly he laughed, doubling over, head resting on the tabletop. "Me, with children!"

Bilbo watched placidly, eyes twinkling at the sight of the hobbit he loved as a son truly laughing for the
first time in years. "You never know, Frodo. It's just a feeling I have. How about this: you open it after the
birth of your first child, or on your sixty-fifth birthday, whichever comes first."

Wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, he nodded, taking the letter and tucking it in his waistcoat pocket.

"Well, Frodo, I don't know what happened to you last night, but whatever it was, it couldn't please an old
hobbit more. Now, let's eat breakfast before it gets cold."

Bilbo and Frodo spent the day talking, reminiscing, and laughing at happy memories. The next morning,
when Bilbo was not up and about when Frodo wakened late in the morning, he went to the old hobbit's
room to check on him and found him lying peacefully, for all appearances asleep. Walking up to the bed,
Frodo picked up his cool hand lying atop the covers and kissed him on the forehead. "Oh, Uncle Bilbo, I
didn't expect it to be so soon. I'll miss you, Bilbo. I love you." Setting down the wrinkled hand, he buried
his head in the covers and cried silently.

                                                                            ~*~*~*~*~*~

Frodo gulped as he looked down at his feet – one more step and he’d be back in Middle Earth. Taking a
deep breath and closing his eyes, he stepped onto the rough sand of the beach. It welled up between his toes
as he took a few steps away from the ship, looking about him at the waves lapping the small strip of beach.
Lifting his eyes higher, he saw the Tower Hills silhouetted against the rising sun. His first day home had
begun. The sight of the hazy, far-distant hills reminded Frodo of the arduous walk ahead of him as he made
his way back to the Shire. Feeling exhausted at the mere thought, he plopped down on a handy boulder,
doing his best to put off thoughts of the inevitable. As he watched the sunrise turn the dark clouds overhead
into a sheet of palest lavender, Frodo was reminded yet again of the visit of the Valier, and the calm that
had filled and enveloped him since. " ‘Choose wisely, and you will have peace,’" he muttered to himself,
his brow wrinkled in concentration. "I suppose I’m peaceful, but still, how will I ever be sure that I chose
wisely?" His musings were interrupted as he realized that Cirdan stood over him, waiting to catch his
attention. Frodo could tell from his eyes that the shipwright, who had become a friend over the course of
the journey, had heard what he’d been saying. "Are you leaving already, then?"

"We are." The kind eyes of the strong -- and very nearly stocky -- elf smiled down on Frodo. "Frodo, my
friend, you know as well as I that this whole journey was – is— an impossibility. Yet here we are. That, in
itself, says much about the wisdom of your choice. But I know your need for certainty – so why not ask for
one more thing -- something that is not an impossibility? Ask for a sign that you have made the right
choice. I am sure you will not fail to receive it." Cirdan bent and embraced the hobbit, then strode back to
his ship.

Frodo followed, and, standing by his small pack, watched as the elves set sail back to their home. As the
vessel neared the horizon, he murmured into the breeze, "Before I can have peace, I need to be sure. Please,
show me whether I’ve made the right choice." Picking up his pack, he turned to face the Tower Hills, now
gleaming white in the morning sunlight, -- and sucked in his breath in amazement.

While he had watched the ship, a rider had been approaching across the meadows separating Havens from
Hills. He drew nearer now, and upon seeing Frodo, kicked his pony to a gallop. At the same moment,
Frodo gasped upon recognizing the still-distant figure. "Sam!"