Chapter Text
Frodo sighed as he regarded the clothing strewn across his bedroom. The chair from his small writing desk had almost completely disappeared beneath a mountain of fabric, and the bed was rapidly following suit.
He had outgrown all but a handful of shirts, and only three pairs of trousers now fell to a respectable length below his knees. His many relations would make better use of the hand-me-downs than he, especially since a great number of articles were so gently used they could be considered new. In the four years he had lived in Bag End, Frodo had never gone more than three months without something unexpected appearing in his closet...usually several somethings at once. Bilbo himself had an entire room dedicated to fine clothing, and was put out that Frodo did not share his enthusiasm, no matter how many silk waistcoats he was presented with.
Nevertheless, the annual clearing out of his perfectly average-sized closet was a necessity: his last growth spurt had pushed him above three-foot-two. If previous years were anything to go by, an order had been placed with Bilbo’s tailor for speedy replacements already.
It was not the prospect of giving away his old clothing that had Frodo feeling morose. He was, in fact, rather pleased to gift them to his less-well-off relatives. It was the knowledge that this tradition always preceded him spending the entire Yule season in Buckland, while Bilbo disappeared to parts unknown.
For nine years after the death of his parents, Frodo had rattled around Brandy Hall, never feeling quite settled in that maze of a smial, constantly tripping over toys, knick-knacks, and endless Brandybuck cousins. Though he was never treated unkindly, it was quite a lot for a boy of twelve to be the only child of loving parents one day, then orphaned the next. While he was never made to feel unwelcome, many nights were still spent smothering angry tears into his pillow.
The Bilbo of Frodo’s youth had been a distant, somewhat eccentric cousin who travelled too often and missed far too many parties to ever be considered proper. But while the grown-ups whispered over their teacups about his queer habits, every faunt knew who to go to for a sweet, a magic trick, or a story that could be retold in hushed whispers after the candles had been blown out for bedtime.
Even though they seemed too fantastical to be true, it was those tales Frodo clung to when the smothering discomfort of his new life made him feel like he was going to burst out of his skin. His older cousin’s pinches became the branches of trees in a dark forest, snagging his curls and clothes in their gnarled grips; the oppressive warmth of a summer day spent indoors watching baby Merry while the other children played was the pulsating heat of dragon-warmed gold in a distant mountain.
Each time Bilbo’s wanderings brought him East of Hobbiton, it was Frodo who greeted him most happily; it was Frodo pleading for just one more story after all the younger children had grown bored and left; it was Frodo who walked with Bilbo to the very edge of the Old Forest, seeing his relation off with sad eyes. And every time he visited, it seemed Bilbo started thinking of new tales to tell, new reasons to stay for another night, and eventually, a new reluctance to travel great distances before returning home.
The day Frodo was told he was going to live at Bag End with his favorite relative was the best of his life thus far. It had taken time for both of them to adjust, and the reality of their cohabitation did not always match up with Frodo’s imagination. Bilbo’s moods were mercurial, his temper short, and his experience with younger hobbits limited. Nevertheless, they both came to appreciate their quiet life together, and Frodo loved his uncle dearly. He also liked to think that his presence had calmed something in Bilbo, who now restricted his travels to one-or-two-day jaunts, and one longer trip every year in the winter.
It was this journey that Frodo was dreading. While he no longer feared that he was being left at Brandy Hall permanently for some unknown offence, he still did not enjoy being forced to leave Bag End while his uncle gallivanted off to...wherever he went. Frodo knew that he was too young to be left entirely on his own, but he wished that he could stay closer to Hobbiton if he couldn’t travel with Bilbo. Maybe the Gamgees could be convinced to let him stay with them?
Which reminded him…
He dug around in the piles of clothes for a soft, cream-colored shirt that had been cut too large in the shoulders. It hung strangely on Frodo’s lean frame, but Samwise would probably fill it out perfectly...ah! He held it up in front of him, admiring the fine cotton and the subtle carnations stitched in palest green on the collar, only to be startled by the sight of Bilbo standing in the doorway, watching him with keen eyes.
“I’m sorry, uncle!” he said as he hastily placed the shirt back on the bed. “I didn’t see you standing there.” It sometimes seemed that Bilbo had the ability to become completely invisible when he wanted to!
“It’s fine, my boy, just fine,” Bilbo replied, regarding the chaos of the room with bemusement. “But if you have a moment, supper is ready. And there is something I wished to speak to you about. But wash up, wash up! Goodness knows how much dust some of this has been collecting.”
As always, Bilbo’s tone was a bit hard to parse, but Frodo thought he detected the faintest hint of petulance beneath the ever-present fondness.
He wandered down the hallway after the older hobbit, deftly weaving around stacks of books and papers with ease born of long practice. Though it was only the two of them, and their pantry currently consisted of mostly preserved goods for the coming winter, Bilbo had laid out a spread that contained a suspicious number of Frodo’s favorites: maple-glazed carrots, potatoes sliced thin and layered with creamy mushroom sauce, cornbread and honey, a bit of sweet-glazed ham from breakfast that morning, savory bread pudding studded with sausage and sage, and a pear tart for dessert. Frodo suspected that he was being fed into complacency, but that didn’t stop him from taking second and third helpings of Bilbo’s excellent cooking. Conversation was limited to Frodo’s sincere appreciation and Bilbo’s distracted (but pleased) responses.
After the last crumb had been polished off, the leftovers stored away safely, and the kitchen returned to its orderly state, Bilbo cleared his throat. Frodo felt a prickle of apprehension, though he couldn’t say why. It was likely that this was simply Bilbo’s announcement of the date of his departure, and Frodo’s yearly exile. Still...the memory of of those first anxious Yules back in Buckland made him feel like the last bite of tart was still stuck in his throat.
“I was wondering, Frodo, if you would join me at the table? There is something I wish to discuss with you,” Bilbo began, unaware of Frodo’s inner turmoil.
“Of course, Uncle. Is there anything I can get for you while I’m still up? A glass of wine, perhaps?” Frodo was already walking in the direction of the cellar.
“Oh, go on, then,” Bilbo said. “And a small glass for yourself, as well. If I'm to corrupt you and tear asunder all traces of respectability that your parents managed to instill in you, as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins likes to say, I shall do the thing properly.”
Frodo couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the idea of Bilbo corrupting anyone, and he felt a little tension leave him as he filled one glass with Bilbo’s favorite red wine, and a snifter of sweet white for himself. Whatever Bilbo wanted to speak to him about, it would not change the fact that this was his home now, Bilbo wanted him there, and this is where he’d return regardless of where he spent the winter.
With liquid fortification sorted out and Frodo’s nerves more settled, Bilbo cleared his throat again. “It’s nearly Yule, my boy, and I imagine you’re not eager about the prospect of spending the month at Brandy Hall. You are twenty-six now, certainly old enough to make the decision of where to spend your time.” Bilbo paused to take a sip of his wine, and Frodo’s heart pounded.
“I was wondering if you might like to accompany me this year instead. You are free to say no, of course. You could stay in Hobbiton with one of your friends, perhaps. Or…”
“No! I want to come with you, Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo interrupted, excitement making him forget his manners.The very thing he had not dared hope for! No exile to Buckland, no babysitting his cousins! Instead, he would have an adventure all his own, with Bilbo by his side! Truly, it felt like a second birthday and Yule rolled into one.
“Now, Frodo, there’s no need to shout,” Bilbo chided, though the twitch at the corner of his lips belied how pleased he was. “It’s only a short journey. Two weeks of travel either way. Nothing to fuss over. And before you agree, I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”
Bilbo’s demeanor became less amused all of a sudden. He hummed nervously while patting his waistcoat with a heavy hand, fingers twitching toward his pocket before he realized what he was doing and wrapped them firmly around the stem of his wineglass instead. Frodo did not understand the sudden tension, but he sat up straighter regardless. Whatever Bilbo seemed so reluctant to tell him, it must be important.
“I’m sure it can’t be too terrible,” Frodo ventured, taking a tiny sip of wine and savoring the sweet burn. This was a guess on his part; he had no idea if it was true. But he trusted Bilbo, and that faith had yet to steer him wrong.
“No, no, nothing terrible, indeed!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I simply have no idea where I should begin!” He finished this declaration with another hearty draught of wine. His glass now half-empty.
“Well…” Frodo hesitated, “Perhaps you could start with where we will be traveling?”
“You are right, my boy. As usual,” Bilbo said, and Frodo glowed at the compliment.
“We will be traveling to Ered Luin. The Blue Mountains, as Shirefolk call them”.
Frodo was a little surprised, truth be told. He had assumed they might travel East, as Bilbo had often headed that direction in the years before taking Frodo in. There were fantastic lands filled with important people to the East. Some of them had featured in the fabled Quest for Erebor. But on Bilbo’s maps, the roads West led only to mountains and the sea. He couldn’t recall any settlements of note.
“Will we be visiting someone who lives there?” Frodo asked. He finished off the rest of his wine in one gulp.
“Yes, of course! Several someones, in fact. It’s been a long time since I visited. I’m sure they will be more than happy to host us for a good long while. Dís has been eager to meet you ever since I shared my intention to make you my heir. If her hands weren’t full keeping the mountain running, she would likely have come knocking years ago!” Bilbo laughed.
“Ah, but I get ahead of myself. Ered Luin is home to the dwarves. There are a few elves scattered here and there, but they largely keep to themselves.”
“Oh! Are we going to meet some of the dwarves from your adventure?” Frodo asked excitedly.
“Only two of them, I’m afraid. If we’re lucky! The rest have settled in Erebor. One passed to the halls of his fathers, may he rest in peace. A few were undertaking an expedition to Moria, but it has been quite some time since I heard from them last.” He paused for a moment, perturbed. Very few people had lapsed in their correspondence with Bilbo without receiving a sharply-worded missive for their inattention.
“Nevertheless,” he continued, “Thorin and Dís will be more than happy to receive us.”
“Thorin?” Now, this was a name that drew Frodo’s attention sharply, even through the warm haze of wine.
“Yes, Thorin. Is that a problem?” Bilbo replied, a bit too innocently.
“No, no. Not at all. It’s just...in your stories, uncle, wasn’t Thorin...dead?”
“Ah. Well, that is certainly the more interesting tale, isn’t it? Very heroic. But no, Frodo, Thorin is very much alive. Approaching his 249th birthday, in fact!”
“But...why would you say he’s dead when he isn’t?”
“Oh, many reasons. Mostly he prefers it that way, so I indulge him. I don’t think it matters much, in this corner of the world. But there are those who still might seek to do him harm, and he has had enough of that for a lifetime.”
Frodo thought about this for a moment. “It sounds like you care about him a great deal, Uncle.”
“I do. He is...well. He’s quite extraordinary. And he certainly deserved a better hand than Fate dealt him! At least in my silly stories, he can achieve some small measure of what he fought so hard for. The lord of silver fountains, come into his own." Bilbo's lips twisted bitterly at this. "The reality, I'm afraid, is a bit more complicated. He abdicated in favor of his cousin Dáin, who rules there even now. And he returned home, to the life he lived before the quest.”
There was more of a story there, Frodo realized, than Bilbo was sharing. Curiosity almost drove him to ask, but he was loath to interrupt when his uncle was revealing so much about himself in one conversation, heavily edited as it was. Frodo wondered if anyone in the Shire had ever heard what he was being told right now. He thought not, because surely they would never have talked of anything else ever again! Frodo felt important, special, to be granted this piece of Bilbo.
“I arrived back in The Shire a few weeks before he did. He spent months recovering from his injuries...even a week or two in the care of Lord Elrond, which he’s been sour about ever since. My taste for adventure was awakened just as his was extinguished. But still, he stayed with me. We wed in the manner of dwarves...oh, that would have been some forty-odd years ago. But when our old bones needed a rest...”
“Wed?!” Frodo burst out. “Uncle, are you telling me that you are married? To a Dwarven king?!” Truly, this was more difficult to believe than dragons, trolls, and stone giants! His uncle, eternal bachelor of Bag End, who had crushed the hopes of every ambitious young lass and their mothers in the Westfarthing, married? To royalty?! His head was spinning, and not a bit of it was from the wine.
“Heavens no, Frodo, haven’t you been listening?” Bilbo scoffed. “He renounced his claim. He is as any other dwarf now. A Lord, at best. But only so because his sister, the Lady Dís, has ruled in Ered Luin for many years. His title, such as it is, is largely through her.”
“Still...married!” He paused, uncertain. “Why do you not live together? Surely there is enough room for him in Bag End? Or for you in his mountains?”
“Well, as I was saying...we did eventually stop traveling. I missed the Shire. I wanted soft grass between my toes, familiar faces at the market, my father’s books on the shelves. But Thorin craved more peace and quiet than Hobbiton could offer. All those gossiping neighbors sticking their noses in our business. I can hardly blame him! He felt ill-at-ease at the idea of being so far from his kin, and the only dwarf for miles, besides. We argued for weeks about where we should live that would not leave both of us bitter for the rest of our lives. Then tragedy struck, and that made the decision for us. He went to Ered Luin to be with his family, and there he has remained. We write each other, of course, and see one another as often as we can. No husband of mine is going to disappear into the wild and forget who he’s married to!” Bilbo finished with an offended sniff.
Frodo’s mind was reeling. So much made sense now! Bilbo’s travels; the long scrolls tucked out of sight as soon as Frodo entered his study; the loneliness that clung to him like a shadow; the way he always stared off into the distance when he thought no one was looking. Bilbo hadn’t been missing his adventures...he had been missing his husband.
“Well, that’s the whole of it, Frodo,” Bilbo said, throwing back the last of his wine. “Or at least, as much of it as I can tell you right now. Are you certain you still wish to travel with me?”
Frodo looked at Bilbo. Really looked. Under the forced casualness, Frodo could clearly see the strain beneath. His uncle’s eyes were uncertain, his mouth downturned, his hands unconsciously playing with his empty wineglass. Bilbo was afraid, he realized. Afraid that Frodo would say no, would reject this new information and Bilbo along with it.
Frodo pushed his chair out and came to Bilbo’s side, wrapping the older hobbit in a careful hug. Beneath his hands, he noticed Bilbo’s thin shoulders for the first time. His uncle has always been so bombastic, so larger-than-life, that this reality of fragile bones and an equally fragile heart was almost unbearable.
“When do we leave?”