Work Text:
"I continue to write these letters knowing that I shall never send them to you."
Bilbo had long grown past a letter starting with "Dear," "My Dearest," Or even a simple "To.." The letters he consistently wrote were now accumulating into something that could be better described as a diary, or maybe a pity fest. He'd never send them, he couldn't, and he would definitely never show them to his dear son. Perhaps writing gave him a peace of mind, an outlet of his own sadness that he couldn't share with anyone else.
"Frodo has finally begun to lose his milk teeth! The first occurrence of this was today. He'd been eating an apple in the back garden with little Merry, when I suddenly heard him yelling. My did my heart leap a great deal when I saw the blood that dribbled past his chin, the small pearly white in his hand....I'm rather glad that he didn't swallow it, I certainly am not one to rely on when a person is choking."
Bilbo chuckled slightly as he wrote that part, then he smiled as he contiuned to write.
"Now, I am not one to cry,"
Bilbo's hands seemed to falter for just a moment as he wrote that line. Was it alright to lie if the letter itself was just between you and a passed recipient?
"I do cry. I cry very often, though I do not cry in front of Frodo.
But if I may change the subject back to its original state, the crying in this situation was of sheer panic. This is my first time as a parent you see, and I had no clue what to expect when it came to certain things that were often undermined in the child care books. I went to Bell next door, and she laughed when she saw me blubbering. It wasn't funny, and I believe she understood that I was in a genuine panic, as she scooped me up into a hug and said that she too cried with each first fallen milk tooth. I stood there a bit astonished, with six children you'd think it would become sort of routine, but not to dear Bell. This gave me a good sense of comfort, I no longer felt so...stupid."
Bilbo tapped his foot as he contemplated where he would go next with this, how he could phrase his feelings that his body couldn't process, let alone his brain.
"I wish I had gotten to learn a bit more about dwarvish culture in our time together. You dwarrow, just as humans are to us hobbit, are utter mysteries, though I suppose the races must feel the same way about us halflings. Our practices are even more closed off and secret."
When Bilbo had joined the company, he had found that his fellow members truly knew fuck all about Hobbits and such, which of course led to many situations that ranged from a learning moment, to deadly, to down right embarrassing. Yet there was comfort there as well, knowing that they cared enough about him to learn more about his kind.
The dwarrow were kindly folk, ones that were ready to adjust and understand things that they previously hadn't known about the ones they care for, which contradicted many of the old Elvish tales of dwarves being stubborn creatures incapable of change (though it was very true that they could be stuck in their ways).
"I wish to believe that losing your first milk tooth is a great honor and cause for celebration to you just as it is to me. I wonder Thorin, you helped your sister Dis raise the boys, yes? Did you celebrate when Fili lost his first tooth? When Kili? I imagine them when they were young, the same grins I had known them to have, albeit just a bit smaller, covering the near entire surface of their faces. They must have looked even cuter, revealing the small hole in their mouth where the tooth should be."
Fili and Kili had very different faces. Kili looked like Dis, softer features, while Fili looked like Thorin. Bilbo was glad to have seen what Dis looked like, thanks to Balin, though he never got to properly meet her. He mourned with her, although he could never go through the pain of a mother that lost her child. Bilbo looks to his dear Frodo, where he lies snuggled up in Bilbo's bed, and the dreaded thought of harm reaching Frodo made him feel sick, it made him light headed. To lose him forever, as well as to lose his brother...no, Bilbo wouldn't be able to take it. He admired a woman like Dis, who contiuned on for her people.
"Frodo looks too young for any defined features yet. His face is all chub and he's pouting whenever he can't stay outside running along the tall grass. But! A face such as his is all just a ruse, I think he took on quite a lot of burglar tactics; yes, that boy can get anything he wants. Or I may just be bad at saying no....
He has your eyes, the same color, though the last I saw yours, they had grown murky, while Frodo's are of upmost vibrancy. I wish I could freeze some of our moments together, where your eyes still had life, and you were still beside me. I wish you could meet our dear Frodo..."
Bilbo's hands shook, moving the delicate paper he wrote upon. His eyes grew watery, that awful sting that came when you tried to withhold the release of tears.
"I think of what we could've had, I imagine it each might I lay my head on my pillow. I cannot speak to the others in the Shire, and frankly, I do not wish to. But I wish someone would understand me, yet it seems the only one who could (YOU) has already taken leave.
I cannot show my face in Erebor, or Mirkwood or Rivendell, yet I feel out of place in Bag End. I have many homes, but no home at all.
Home, I think I've decided, is with Frodo. Home is with what I love, with those that I love, and I...love you Thorin Oakenshield..."
His hands stalled on the page and his mouth felt a bit dry, like all the moisture had been sucked up and sent to his eyes to cry out.
Cry is what he did, and he was not as quiet as he believed he was, because he suddenly jumped at the feeling of something small and paw-like grasping the flesh on his thigh.
Bilbo jumped and whipped his head around, only to be met with a small body pressing against him and reaching his small hands up, begging to be held.
Little Frodo had woken up, and he pouted softly, sleep still drawn in his drowsy little expression.
Bilbo scooped the small boy up with easy hands, cradling Frodo on his lap and brushing the wild and uncombed black hair that desperately needed a hair cut. Frodo sighed as he curled up, his small blue blanket in his hands, and he gazed at Bilbo, his father, the center of his very small universe.
Those eyes.
"You cryin'?" Frodo frowned, pressing one of his small and cold hands against Bilbo's face.
"Oh no...no I wasn't. The pollen from the wildflowers is getting worse...it's allergies."
Bilbo tried to explain, although keep in mind, he had a croaky voice and a trembling lip as he spoke. He wasn't all that good at convincing.
Frodo frowned and shook his head.
"Its okay to cry papa..." Frodo yawned. "Come to bed I'm soooo sleepy...." He squirmed.
Bilbo looked down at his boy, his small faunt who carried the features of his One, a boy that existed purely because Bilbo and Thorin loved eachother so greatly. Perhaps magic wasn't just for wizards and elves and magical rings, perhaps the feeling that magic gives can come from far more simple things.
"Yes..let's head to bed." Bilbo said, brushing hair from Frodo's face and kissing the top of his head. Frodo didn't react or move, he had fallen right back asleep.
And the letter lay there on the desk unfinished, untouched, although not forgotten. It was stuffed away and a new was started.