Chapter Text
Bilbo wasn’t quite sure what to do when he opened the door to his room and abruptly found his arms full of a shivering young hobbit.
“Frodo!” he exclaimed. “What is it, lad? You should be in the dormitory sleeping.”
“’m sorry,” Frodo mumbled, still shivering. “I was scared.”
Bilbo sighed, torn between sympathy and frustration. He had only known the boy a few weeks, somehow being the only living relative who could really provide for him, even if that just meant a place in the children’s chorus here at the Opera House in Dale.
Of course, his own uncertainty was hardly anything compared to what Frodo must be feeling, with the loss of his parents still so recent. Sympathy won out over frustration, and Bilbo drew Frodo inside his rooms, closing the door behind him.
“All right, lad. Tell me what has you so frightened, and we’ll get you settled.” Frodo would need to learn to sleep in the dormitory soon, but a night or two here until the grief and strangeness of a new place were not quite so close wouldn’t hurt anything.
“It was- It was the other children. They keep-” Frodo swallowed, following Bilbo to his bed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “They keep talking about the- the Opera Ghost.”
Bilbo’s heart tightened uncomfortably as it always did when that particular title was bandied about. He shoved the feeling aside, and focused on the young hobbit now curling up under the blankets.
“I see,” he said, proud that his voice stayed calm and level. “Well.”
He paused. He really shouldn’t...shouldn’t say anything at all. But the lad was going to hear stories, and maybe it would be easier for him to not be frightened if some were not told with the intent of scaring him half to death.
“How about I tell you some other stories that I know about the Opera Ghost?” the older hobbit offered, his voice still even. “I know a few that aren’t quite so scary.”
“Really?” Frodo sniffed, wide blue eyes peering up at him through the candlelight.
“Really,” Bilbo promised, seating himself comfortably at the edge of the bed. “But you must promise not to tell these stories to anyone else. They’ll be just for us, all right?” The little boy nodded solemnly. “Did you know that the Opera Ghost is an architect? He has built many amazing halls down below...”
--
“Bilbo?” Frodo asked one evening a year later as they stood in the small memorial room lighting a candle for his parents. “People used to say that a good Spirit must have smiled on our family, what with Papa playing the violin, and Mama and me singing.”
Bilbo smiled fondly. “Your parents were very gifted, weren’t they? And you have a fine voice yourself, my lad. Just keep working hard at training it.”
“I will!” the boy promised eagerly. “Is it okay, then, that the Spirit came and is teaching me?”
The older hobbit paused, frowning. “Spirit? What spirit, lad?”
“He said he was the Spirit of Music! He talks to me when I come here by myself, sometimes, and the other day he said that he would teach me to sing better. The exercises were difficult, but then chorus practice seemed a little easier this week, so I think that maybe it helped. Is it okay for me to take lessons with him?”
A terrible suspicion was growing in Bilbo’s mind, and he had to work to keep his voice steady. “What does he look like, Frodo, your new teacher?”
“Look like?” Frodo seemed puzzled, tilting his head and frowning up at the memorial candles. “I haven’t seen him. I just hear his voice. It’s a really nice voice, Bilbo, really deep!”
“I’m sure it is,” Bilbo managed, getting the words out without choking. He turned his own gaze blindly to the far wall, something pained and ugly and jealous coiling around his heart. So Th-
So he would speak to this child, to Bilbo’s ward, without so much as a by-your-leave, but not to Bilbo himself-
Not even after so many years, and would he never be forgiven? He had only been trying to help, only wanted to save-
No, Bilbo told himself then, firmly. No. It is done, it was done long ago, he made that more than clear. Just because you can’t let it go is no reason to feel such ill-will toward poor Frodo.
Frodo, who had committed no other crime than to be possessed of a very beautiful voice...one which might earn him a very steady and comfortable living one day if he had good training. And if it was him offering to teach Frodo, then the lad would be getting the very best lessons he possibly could.
“Bilbo?” Frodo was peering up at him now, worried. “Is it okay?”
While the pain did not ease much, Bilbo was able to let go of the ugly thing making his stomach feel leaden and cold. He would not let his own past and his own mistakes deprive Frodo of the chance to be the best singer he could possibly be, or the chance to support himself well when Bilbo was no longer able to look after him.
This will be for the best, he decided.
“It’s fine, my lad,” he said softly then, determined to mean it, “that’s just fine. Only you must promise to work very hard for your teacher.”
“I will!” promised the boy with breathless excitement, blue eyes lit up, “I definitely will!”