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Having fled the great ruckus inside Merethrond, Frodo stood alone on the far side of the Court of the Fountain. This feat had been managed only through the unwitting aid of Merry and Pippin, whose persistence in having a 'dance worthy the Green Dragon’ had finally been too much for dear old steadfast Samwise to resist. Frodo had smiled at him as he’d been dragged away, reassuring him that he’d be fine.
And then he’d slipped away.
A wind blew from the west, bringing a chill from the snow-clad peaks at his back, and Frodo wrapped his cloak tighter about his shoulders.
It was, perhaps, not a kind thing to do. The escaping, that is. Especially not to a hobbit whose unmeasurable kindness he’d never be able to repay in full. Only… only perhaps it was kind, because while Sam might worry for the duration of his absence, perhaps the respite would be enough for Frodo to gather himself enough to keep… keep seeming alright.
The last streaks of pink had faded from the sky, the very air appearing to take on a blueish tint. It was not yet dark enough, though, to obscure the Pelennor Fields below. He could see the cut of Anduin through the land, and some tall silhouettes near the water that he thought must be Osgiliath. A few early stars were already glittering above Mordor. … Or whatever the land may now be called, that the bringer of the darkness had been banished from the confines of the world.
Frodo’s eyes were then drawn towards the shadows between the distant peaks, where he knew Minas Morgul stood. Would the tower shed its ill-omened name, too? Along with its sister, perhaps, because no Tirith, no watch, would be needed. A return to the glory of old; the towers of the moon and sun once more.
He wanted to find joy in the thought, but… His shoulder ached. It was a distracting sensation.
“You bear a grim expression, young hobbit,” a voice said at his back, “for an evening of such joy.”
Frodo turned, finding Legolas standing at Gimli’s side. He had only seen the pair from afar this night, seated on the other side of Aragorn and Arwen, arrayed in finery that looked foreign to Frodo’s eyes.
He expected to see them dressed for battle, still.
He made the corners of his mouth turn up and nodded to them in greeting. “I merely had need to rest my ears a bit. I am grown unused to the sound of so many people, I’ve found.”
Legolas smiled back at him, a kind and knowing thing, and stepped up to stand beside him by the wall.
“There is healing in quiet,” he said, looking out across the land. “I am sorry we have come to disturb it.”
“Some quiet is better disturbed,” Gimli countered, and his keen eyes were still on Frodo. “Be amongst friends though, my lad. You can drop your pretenses.”
Frodo shook his head ruefully but found his smile lingering quite on its own. “Then I shall welcome the company, I think.”
Despite Gimli’s words, though, the pair let the silence lie. The Dwarf pulled a pipe from his robes and lit it, glowing red embers to match the stars. It was Longbottom Leaf, as clear to any Shire-nose as the call of one’s own name. It smelled of home. Of Bag End. Would there still be pipe-weed grown, when he returned? Or would the lingering smell of it burning, not in a pipe but in the fields, be all that was there to meet him?
Suddenly he felt Legolas’ eyes heavy on him and realized his hand had come up to grasp emptily by the collar of his shirt. For a moment, there was a flash of fear and anger. Then it swept away, leaving shame and weariness. He sighed.
“I do not miss it,” he told the elf. “But I find myself… unbalanced. It is as though it left a hole, and I can’t seem to figure out how to put myself together around it.”
“You bore that burden long,” Legolas said gravely. “That it would leave its mark was always as inevitable as it is unfair. Much was asked of you.”
“Of all of us,” Frodo countered, brushing his hands down his shirtfront as though he could brush off his mood, giving Legolas a half-smile.
“Much, yes,” Gimli said, gravity in his tone and face. “But the burden was still unequal. Our load cannot be compared to yours, and you carried yours alone.”
Frodo faltered and found he had little to say in reply to this. He knew the words to be truth, but it was an uncomfortable thing; honor ill-fitting and isolating.
The silence lingered, until Gimli broke it again, speaking tentatively. “Your uncle… he bore the ring, too. Did you ever speak of it?”
Frodo noted Legolas cutting Gimli a sharp glance, but did not know what to make of it.
“We haven’t yet,” Frodo said, a little hesitant as he glanced between them. “My uncle did not know the true nature of the ring until Gandalf’s arrival in Rivendell and, at that point, I had had little experience with it. We might speak of it when I return, but… it is not a comfortable topic.”
“Of course,” Gimli said. “I am sorry to have brought it up.”
Again there was silence, only this time it seemed somehow tense. A thread overburdened, ready to snap.
Indeed:
“Do you and your uncle otherwise speak of many things?” Gimli asked.
“I-…” Frodo looked at the dwarf, frowning slightly. “I am not quite certain what you mean?”
“You share your thoughts with one another?” Gimli elaborated, looking a bit flustered. “You keep each other in confidence, and tell each other about things that are on your mind?”
“He is like a father to me,” Frodo said, now wary. “Does that answer your question?”
Gimli made a humming sound, vague and noncommittal, and puffed suddenly quite vigorously on his pipe.
Legolas sighed. “My dear friend, state your purpose clearly, and the matter shall be settled with far more ease.”
Frodo frowned up at the elf, then looked back at Gimli as the dwarf sighed.
“I have wished to speak with you regarding your uncle,” Gimli said, to Frodo’s great surprise.
“About Bilbo?” he asked. Then fear closed an icy fist around his heart. “Is something the matter? Have you had word from Rivendell?”
“No, no, no trouble of that sort!” Gimli reassured, his beard bouncing back and forth as he shook his head to emphasize the point.
“But trouble of some sort?” Frodo pressed.
“No trouble, per se…” Gimli said.
Then his eyes fell to the collar of Frodo’s shirt.
“Is it about the ring?” Frodo asked, a pit of dread opening in his stomach.
“No, no, I- ach, I’ve done this all wrong!” Gimli exclaimed and began to pace.
“Speak plain, my friend, and put it right,” Legolas urged once more.
“I do not know where to begin!” the dwarf said, throwing his arms out as though gesturing to some enormous thing.
Legolas sighed, and then he turned to Frodo. “Your uncle has told you his tale of his travel with the thirteen dwarfs, I presume?”
Frodo, for all his disquiet, almost laughed. “My uncle has always been fond of the of telling tales and, above all others, he holds that one dear. I have heard it many times, yes.”
“And of the leader of that company,” Legolas asked, “of the one they call Thorin Oakenshield, what do you know of him?”
“He is part of the tale,” Frodo said, a little haltingly, for now he felt uncertain again. Glancing between elf and dwarf, he sensed that there was meaning to the questions he could not yet glean. “Last of his line, along with his nephews. A stoic character, kingly, with a tragic end.”
“Not just a character, and not just kingly,” Gimli rumbled. “He was a dwarf in Durin’s image, one like few before him, and he was our king.”
“Of course,” Frodo hurried to say. “I meant no disrespect.”
“And none was taken,” Gimli assured him, though he seemed now subdued. He looked out over the Fields, but did not seem to see them. “You have answered my question, I believe, even though I haven’t yet stated it plain.”
“Please,” Frodo asked, “would you do so? I fear I don’t understand.”
Gimli sighed and looked back at him. Merely looked, for a moment.
Then he asked, almost as Legolas had done, and yet different: “Did your uncle ever speak of him? Not as the leader of the company, not as the king, but of the dwarf?”
Frodo frowned at the strange question
“Seldom, to my memory,” he replied, even as he tried his best to recall. “He spoke of other members of the company sometimes. Fili and Kili most often, or of Bombur and his cooking. But… rarely Oakenshield, though I daren’t go so far as to say never. I always got the impression that he was a bit… aloof, though my uncle never said so outright. Concerned with the quest at large, and such.”
Again, Legolas and Gimli shared a look.
“Though I know that my uncle was greatly saddened by his death,” Frodo hastened to add, not wanting to cast Bilbo in a callous light. “As well as the deaths of Fili and Kili, of course. And he seemed to bitterly regret the row regarding the Arkenstone.”
“Your uncle acted honorably,” Gimli said, “and in accordance with the terms of his agreement. Thorin was not in right mind, and Bilbo’s actions spared him greater consequences of his gold-sickness.”
“I believe my uncle has never doubted that his actions were both just and necessary,” Frodo agreed, “but I do not think that that the knowing has spared his conscience the burden of having hurt a friend.”
For the third time, Gimli and Legolas looked at each other.
“Please,” Frodo begged, “would you not now tell me the purpose of all these questions? What matter is this you keep hinting at, that concerns my uncle?”
“Forgive me,” Gimli said. “I am unpracticed in these matters. I never meant to cause you worry.”
“Ask him, Gimli,” Legolas said, kind but firm. “And then you both may know.”
Gimli sighed.
Frodo found himself holding his breath.
“Your mithril coat,” Gimli said. “You said it was given to your uncle by Thorin?”
Yet another bewildering question, where Frodo had expected answers.
“Yes,” he agreed, nevertheless.
“And you are sure that it was a gift, and not part of the plunder of the troll horde?”
“Completely sure,” Frodo answered. “He seldom spoke of it, and showed it to me even more rarely, but always named it as a gift when he did. I was surprised that he was willing to part with it. Is… is that of some significance?”
Frodo added the last question as Gimli’s expression clouded further, some deep thought seeming to plague him that Frodo could not guess at.
“There is significance, yes,” the dwarf rumbled, tugging absently at a braid in his beard.
“Would you explain it to me?” Frodo asked him, growing steadily more impatient and doing his best to not let it show.
Gimli took a deep drag from his pipe, then let the smoke bellow out from beneath his mustache in a measured exhale. Then he spoke:
“When a dwarf gives metal to another, it… it carries meaning,” Gimli said, seeming to labor heavily with finding the right words. “Perhaps hobbits have something similar? Your people are fond of plants, no? Perhaps a daisy plucked from the field has a different meaning than a rose cut from the bush?”
“Yes,” Frodo said, lips turning up in a slight smile, “and a hobbit lass might box your ears if you get the color of your rose wrong.”
“Such traditions are held by all peoples of Arda," Legolas said, stepping in. “Intent communicated with gifts given, in the place of words. The kindreds of the Eldar are as hobbits, and use things that grow for this purpose. We chose that which is important to us. Our peoples value the flowers and the trees, just as the dwarfs value that which they toil for; that which is brought forth from the earth, just as they once were.”
Gimli’s gaze was heavy on Frodo’s, eyes catching the smolder of his pipe.
“And for nothing did we toil harder than mithril.”
The coat, worn even now beneath his feasting garb, felt suddenly clammy against his skin.
“Has there been insult made in my taking possession of it?” Frodo asked. “I assure you, neither I nor my uncle meant any disrespect, and he would not have-“
“No, no, my lad,” Gimli cut in. “For you having worn it during this perilous journey, I feel only gratitude, but no slight would have been perceived even had it not been so. It was a gift given, and your uncle passing the mail to you, his heir, is suiting to our custom.”
“But there was meaning in the gifting,” Fordo surmised. “Meaning that you feel that I must know.”
Gimli shook his head. “Nay, not so; yours are merely the ears available to me, when a letter seems to me too callous a delivery.”
“Callous?” Frodo wondered, uneasy. “I must then guess that you fear that my uncle never understood the meaning behind the custom, just as I do not. What insult a gift can deliver, however, that my uncle needs shielding from with Thorin in a grave, I cannot fathom.”
Gimli, plucking the pipe from his lips, sighed deeply.
“No insult,” he said. “And the only shielding he needs is that of kind company lessening the hurt of the unveiling of old secrets, or of old sorrow deepened and renewed.”
“Secrets and sorrow,” Frodo echoed, brow furrowing. “Is there some part of his that Bilbo has failed to uphold, agreed to in the accepting of the gift?”
Gimli shook his head. “Thorin is returned to the stone. All troths plighted have been dissolved.”
“But he would have been bound,” Frodo surmised, feeling some affront for his uncle. “It does not seem to me a pledge made justly, with only one party aware at all that an agreement was being made.”
“Your ire on behalf of your uncle is not unfounded,” Legolas said. “Be it done by neglect or with intent to entrap, if Thorin did indeed forgo explaining the meaning behind his gift, it was an ill deed. However, I will remind you that he was not of right mind at the time. The gold fever had him; anything he desired, it inflamed him with need to possess.”
“Posses?” Frodo echoed, frown deepening. “Then this relates to the arkenstone?”
Legolas looked to Gimli, and Frodo turned to him as well.
The dwarf chewed on his pipe and then, almost laboriously, said: “Mithril is given as a royal betrothal gift.”
Frodo did not understand. “Then why did he give it to Bilbo?”
“Lad,” Gimli said patiently. “He meant to wed him.”
Frodo stared, still uncomprehending. “That cannot be right.”
“I assure you,” Gimli said, “While your uncle might not have known the meaning of the gesture, Thorin would have been entirely familiar with the custom. There is no other meaning.”
“There were armies at the gate!” Frodo protested, astonished that the dwarf could not see the preposterousness of what he was suggesting. “The meaning might have been nothing but to protect!”
Gimli made a disparaging huff, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand.
“I am not the dwarf for this sort of talk,” he said, frustration plain, self-directed. He sighed. “You do not know the history of mithril, Frodo, or you would not think to question what I tell you.”
“So explain it to him,” Legolas urged, “that he may understand.”
Gimli grumbled slightly under his breath and sucked on his pipe but, perhaps taking in Frodo’s startled and still quite contrary expression, he seemed to take the point. For another little while he pondered, though, before he finally started to speak:
“Mithril you named it for its silvery light, but among the people of Mahal it was first Zâbad Kunzek: the King Stone. Found only in the depths of Kazad-dûm, it seemed placed for Durin the Deathless himself; the stars of Kheled-zâram truly sunk into the earth, as he perceived in those dark waters so long ago. We gathered only morsels, in the beginning, and each was hallowed. None could own it, it was decreed, save the realm and the royal line; the descendants of Durin and those from whom he might still be reborn. Slowly the wealth of it gathered, and long was it kept and worn solely by the Zâbad Khazaddûmu, the Lords of Moria. Each bore it, for as the heir of Durin’s line was to be married, a single item of mithril would be gifted to the chosen dwarrow, to signify their inclusion and elevation.
“As we delved deeper and our knowledge grew, steadily so did our hoard of mithril. Eventually, enough had been gathered that the decree was broken, Eregion established, and the metal traded even with the elves. The tradition and significance of a royal gift of mithril had been well established, however, and none was wed without it. Thorin would have been the first of our kings since the beginning of the second age to break the tradition, had Erebor not been retaken. But the mountain became ours again, and Mahal willed it that Zâbad Kunzek come into his possession once more.”
“… and straight away he gave it to Bilbo…” Frodo said, shaken by the tale he had been told, the depth of understanding it had brought.
“He did indeed,” Gimli said, letting out a heavy exhale.
Frodo shook his head in disbelief.
“I see now why you are convinced of the matter,” he said. “But I-… Still, I cannot see the sense in it. What purpose would there be for Thorin Oakenshield to marry a hobbit from the shire? He was a king, a dwarf, and-... and no king has ever even been heard of in the Shire! What thing could he have been driven to possess, that wedding Bilbo might grant him?"
“Purpose?” Legolas questioned and smiled slightly. "If it is cold logic you seek, I suspect you will not find it."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I believe that he loved him," Legolas said, "and the only thing he strived to possess was Bilbo himself."
"Loved him?" Frodo echoed, stunned.
"Is that so hard to believe?" Legolas asked, gently, but nevertheless causing Frodo to feel chided.
"No, of course, I-... I know my uncle's many great qualities better than most, I only..." Frodo faltered, feeling suddenly like a very young hobbit. "Only I never would have guessed. He never spoke of him. If there was love between them, would he not speak of it?”
“Lad,” Gimli said, his voice now the deepest and weariest yet. “Little will be spoken of that which is little known.”
Frodo frowned and shook his head. “I do not understand. What do you mean?”
“Twelve dwarfs saw the mithril accepted and worn, beyond Thorin, and would have recognized its meaning. Ten lived beyond the Battle of Five Armies and could have carried the tale. Should have, as betrothal is enough that Bilbo’s name be recorded as a royal consort, have a place in the stone at Thorin’s side. Yet they did not, and the secret was kept well. I know their honor well and do not doubt it, and so their purpose must have been in accordance with it.”
“You cannot mean…” Frodo said, looking between Gimli and Legolas. “You believe that any feeling had been unacted upon until that moment? That Bilbo was not only unaware of the meaning behind the mithril, but also Thorin’s regard for him entirely?”
“Aye,” Gimli confirmed. “Thorin’s wounds were grave, but he had time to say farewells. He would have had long enough to give such instruction.”
Frodo was in disbelief. "He would ask for marriage before ever mentioning his interest?"
"He was addled by the gold sickness," Legolas reminded him once more. "He would not have been acting rationally."
"Then how much might have been the sickness? Could it not have caused him to act as he did without regard being present beforehand?"
"You know the Ring better than any being that remains on this earth," Legolas said. "What does it make you want?"
Frodo frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"The gold sickness came into Durin’s line so strongly by the same ill force that made the Ring, and many of the mechanisms are the same. So I ask: what does the Ring make you want?"
Frodo looked up at the elf, then turned his eyes away to think on what he had said.
"You want that which you already want," he answered finally. "Save more. More, in the most destructive of ways."
Legolas nodded.
"I believe that he loved him," he said, once more. “We are uncertain whether the feelings were reciprocated.”
Frodo stared out towards the jagged shapes of the Ephel Dúath against the darkening sky, towards that hateful place, and felt the truth of the tale sink into his heart. His dear uncle, robbed so thoroughly, and Frodo had never known. Never seen. He’d seen him alone, yes, where most others were paired up, but he had never perceived him as lonely. Frodo had always thought that it was an eclipsing love for his book and languages and learning that had kept him, and had never felt the least bit sorry for him in his solitude; never perceived that his uncle felt any lacking.
But perhaps his heart had been taken and buried, long before Frodo came into his life?
“Reciprocated, known, or felt,” Frodo said, turning back to the pair, and sighed, “these are indeed heavy news, and I fear no option will bring my uncle happiness. I do not know which option is worse to consider; love lost, opportunities missed, or a dear friend inadvertently misled.”
“Still, he has a right to know, if he does not already,” Legolas said. “And if there was love, and he remains unknowing, there might be joy in knowing it was returned.”
Frodo shook his head, though not in disagreement with Legolas’ words. Rather, the matter was so sad for him to comprehend that he felt he could do little else.
“You are right, of course,” he said, to elf and dwarf both. “And of course I shall tell him, be it news or not. Only I wish I knew how much was already known to him, so that I say neither too much nor too little; I fear I’ve laid bare a secret he wished kept, by carelessly revealing what he has kept hidden so long.”
“Aye,” Gimli agreed. “And for the very same reasons, I have debated long in telling you. I hope you will both forgive me for the seeking out of a sounder mind, in my struggle to find the right way.”
He nodded towards Legolas.
Frodo dismissed the apology with a shake of his head. “You have both been very kind in the telling, and I do not doubt your care for my uncle. Neither will he.”
Gimli bowed his head. “Then all that remains is to give you the final piece of the puzzle, that you may do with it as you wish: dwarven wisdom holds that truth is written in stone. Upon being married, the one wedded into the house of Durin would engrave their name into the mithril. Your uncle might not have known, or wished, to do this, but it is possible that he has put his mark on the mail. Thus you might find the answers you seek.”
Frodo touched his hand to the center of his chest, to the mail beneath his shirt and coat, overcome with the thought that he might have born such with him all along.
Swallowing around a thickness in his throat, he asked: “Will you help me look?”
Gimli seemed startled at the question. “Are you sure of this, Frodo? Would your uncle-“
“Either we find nothing,” Frodo cut him off, pulling open the buttons of his coat, “and then we will neither be sure of if it is merely our eyes that have failed us nor, if the lacking is true, what the reason behind it might be.”
He let the coat fall to the ground and started pulling the shirt he wore underneath loose from his trousers.
“Or we do see his mark, in which case my uncle put his name to it with knowledge of what the action meant,” he looked up to them both, mithril now bared in the starlight. “With knowledge that it might be seen. Was the purpose of the carving not also that one stake their own claim to the one that they had wed?”
“Yes,” Gimli agreed quietly, looking with reverence upon the mail.
“Then you should see whether the mark is made, son of Glóin, so that you can bring that truth back to your people, should my uncle wish it.”
With that, Frodo tugged the mail over his head, leaving him in just his undershirt in the chilly night. He laid the metal to the stone floor, so that they all might see it. Gimli kneeled down by his side, but Legolas remained standing.
“Do you wish me to leave?” he asked.
“Your eyes are the keenest,” Frodo said, smiling up at him. “Help us look.”
And so Legolas kneeled, also, and the three of them poured over each link in the mail, turning it this way and that to be able to see it all. But the night was dim, the links finer than any Frodo had seen, and his hope started to wane.
He stood, shaking his head. “Perhaps we seek in vain.”
It saddened him to think so, despite what it would mean for Bilbo. The surety of it would have been a comfort, if nothing else, he reasoned.
“Dwarven eyes are keen, even without the sun,” Gimli said apologetically, rising too, holding the mail out for Frodo to take back, “but this darkness is too deep for me; I daren’t say what is there and what is not.”
Frodo reached out to take it from him, but Legolas was quicker.
“But in the starlight, never one of the Eldar shall strain for sight,” he said and took the mail into his palm, peering suddenly close.
Then he looked up to them, held it low for Frodo and Gimli to see, and pointed.
Upon the lower curve of a single delicate ring, right by the edge of the hem, an unevenness in the metal caught the pale light. Leaning forward, Frodo could only barely make out the scratchings.
*
In the late winter of TA 2951, the year 1351 by Shire-reckoning, with ten years passed since he’d returned from his adventure, his heart was still occasionally sore with loss. His mourning was done, though, and most days were contented and not filled with sorrow. He still made it his business to keep up with dwarven matters, however, and went out to the great roads to catch the companies traveling to and from Ered Luin in the warmer months. What fresh produce the season brought forth in his garden earned him fresh news and appreciation enough that they were willing to stop and trade on the roadside. He bought books and trinkets and other odds and ends they were willing to part with, but the news was always the greatest treasure he came away with: Each time the Lonely Mountain seemed to be prospering more fully, and it was bittersweet to hear Thorin’s dreams be fulfilled so thoroughly without him being there to be doing the fulfilling.
Once colder weather and snow came, the dwarven companies were few and far between. This lesson had been hard learned, that first year, but he now knew to savour the books lest the wait for spring feel too long. And so, it was a harsh winter evening, with darkness falling deep and early, that he sat by the hearth and read how dwarven kings would give mithril to those whom they meant to wed.
Bilbo wept, bitterly and long, heart torn asunder anew.
Come spring, he bought a needle-thin chisel, tipped with diamond, and books to teach him engraving.