| Home is a Warm Hobbit |
"Well, Frodo, it's done. This is your home now."
The Master of Bag End mopped at his sweaty forehead with a limp kerchief and collapsed onto
his favorite bench with a sigh of relief. He could still taste the dust that had choked the road
from Michel Delving, and his back ached, a pointed reminder that he was no longer as young as
he seemed to be. The smial door stood invitingly open, and he glanced into its cool depths
longingly, but he stayed where he was. It was impulse that had led him to choose the heat of
the day over the comfort of his hole, an impulse that was somehow bound up in the tweenager
hovering at his side. He had come to rely on instinct in his dealings with the lad, and he wasn't
about to disregard it now. Not today, of all days.
It was unusually warm for a late Halimath afternoon, one of those days that seemed to have
wandered over from summer by mistake. The air tingled with the smell of fresh-watered earth
and a golden haze muted the blazing colors of the fields and hillsides for as far as the eye could
see.
Bilbo squinted into the sunlight and winced. At least it was cool enough under the shade of the
honeysuckle vines, and the warm scent of the late roses was a positive balm to his aching head.
He accepted the proffered dipperful of water with a grateful smile and drank thirstily.
"Don't loom over me, lad. Sit, sit." He patted the smooth wood and watched his newly minted
heir sprawl beside him, all knees and elbows and coltish grace. They sat in companionable
silence as he drank his fill, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught the inquisitive glance
directed at the scroll on his lap.
"You can read it if you like," he said easily. "It does concern you after all."
Frodo nodded shyly and scrubbed his hands on his shirt, a gesture that brought a smile of
approval to the old hobbit's face. The lad showed proper respect for the written word, right
enough. It was all of a piece with his love for it.
The Writ of Adoption was of a respectable length, for Bilbo had added to it a codicil to his will.
The creamy vellum gleamed richly in the sunshine, and the close-written words were penned in
black ink. A wash of scarlet adorned the bottom of the scroll, and it was to this that Frodo first
cast his eye, curiosity writ large upon his face.
"Cousin Saradoc was there?"
"Aye, and Paladin as well. And before you ask, no - he didn't have that young scamp Meriadoc
with him. You'd have had him underfoot all morning if he had. That lad worships you, Frodo."
"Mmmm." The tweenager didn't look up, but a faint flush mounted the smooth skin of his
cheek. "I love him too," he said softly. And he added, as if responding to the unspoken caution
in his cousin's voice, "I take good care of him, Bilbo."
"I know you do." Bilbo studied the lad's face as he perused the scroll. It was still too pale and
thin for his liking, although the faint dusting of golden freckles across the bridge of the straight
nose gave him a healthier glow. The small-boned slimness and dark cloud of wayward curls
betrayed the Fallohide strain of Frodo's Tookish heritage, and Bilbo felt his heart twinge. So
very like his dead mother, he was. So very like.
He hadn't taken much notice of the child Frodo had been, counting him vaguely as one of the
mischievous horde enlivening Brandy Hall during his infrequent visits to Buckland. He had
already done his duty as close kin, ensuring that Drogo and Primula's only child would lack for
nothing, and had left it at that. He had assumed, and rightly so, that the familiar confines of
the Brandybuck warren would do more to ease the pain of loss than the sharing of his quiet
bachelor existence. And he had never had cause to regret his decision.
Then Frodo had grown old enough to join in more adult festivities, and by the Valar, Bilbo had
noticed him then - a quiet lad, tall for his age, with wide, speaking eyes that had forcibly
reminded the old hobbit of the sapphires that had studded the gold of Smaug's hoard. He
marked the breathless way the young hobbit hung upon his every word, the keen intelligence
and the dreamy glaze over those eyes as he absorbed the tales of Bilbo's adventuring, and for
the first time in years, the confident Master of Bag End felt a pang of disquiet. He looked about
the crowded hall - at work-worn hands and sturdy, simple hobbit-folk, and considered the lad's
future. He belongs here as a nightingale does in a flock of rooks, he thought uneasily. Did I do
wrong, after all?
So he had unashamedly extended his welcome and prowled the Hall, keeping his eyes keen and
his ears open. Frodo held his own in the rough and tumble of his peers, and the younger lads
clearly adored him - the young Brandybuck heir in particular claiming his lap at every
opportunity. The spirit that had earned him the reputation of being the nimblest
mushroom-thief in the Shire still blazed, a gleam quickly veiled by a downward sweep of dark
lashes and an innocent face. He had learned discretion, it seemed, and Bilbo approved heartily.
But there also came to the old hobbit's ears the casual gossip of the older folk - for the lad's
inordinate bookishness and his un-hobbit-like looks discomfited them. They never forgot the
manner of his parents' death, and held his heritage tainted because of it. No one ever said so
to his face, but such whispers had a way of coming to ears not meant for them, to lodge in the
heart and fester. Bilbo saw the shine fade, replaced by a sullen glare and trembling lip, saw the
slumping of the thin shoulders, and grieved. The more fool they, he thought, and a certain
resolve hardened within him. We shall see what we shall see.
And so now it had come to this.
Bilbo sighed, glad that he hadn't given in to his first impulse and taken Frodo with him to
Michel Delving. The rumor mill had ground well, and Lobelia and Otho had sailed in on a tide of
bitterness and bile, ready to do battle for what they perceived as their rights. Only the presence
of the Master and the Thain had stayed their fury, and Bilbo had never been so glad of their
support at his back.
"A body's got no call to count the chicks until they've hatched, Missus." Old Ferdibrand Bolger
had shaken his cane under the beldame's nose, and the other witnesses had nodded in
agreement.
"And you had best keep a civil tongue in your head," Saradoc had added grimly, "for I'll not have
Frodo troubled by your poison."
Bilbo frowned. It was his fault, he supposed - he had avoided Lobelia and Otho's company so
well that he had never had the chance to disabuse them of their hopes. Still, there was no call
for the vile insinuations they had made. Upstart Brandybuck changeling was the least of what
they had called the poor lad. And to suggest that Bilbo had more than a fatherly interest in his
heir... He gritted his teeth. Confounded relations, he thought angrily. Hanging over his
doorstep like a pair of frowsty carrion birds. He would have to keep a sharp eye on Lobelia, he
knew. She had a long memory, and wasn't likely to forget the insult. No, not likely to at all.
"Why do they use so many words, Bilbo?" Frodo's voice jostled the old hobbit from his uneasy
reverie, and he blinked at the lad bemusedly. "All these 'inasmuches' and 'heretofores' are so
hard to make sense of."
"Well, Frodo, you know what words do, don't you? They tie an idea down, and give it shape and
substance." Bilbo took the scroll back and inserted it carefully into its case. "The more
important the idea is, the more words are needed to anchor it, so that the shape of it doesn't
fade or alter in any way." Bilbo supposed that Frodo had a point, though. The plain-spoken
hobbits seemed to go hog-wild when it came to the drawing up of legal documents, and they so
loved curlicues and long-windedness and colour. Bilbo smiled as he tucked the dangling
ribbons of the scarlet mayoral seal into the case and capped it.
"You are going to need more lessons, my boy." The old hobbit reached out to ruffle the dark
curls, and then thought better of it, resting his hand on the backrest of the bench instead. He
regretted that he found it so hard to show his affection for the lad; he knew Frodo trusted him
now, but the tweenager was so self-contained, so close with his emotions, and so wary around
grown hobbits. He was like the shy deer that came to drink at the forest pools; they stared at
you with startled eyes and shied away at the slightest movement.
"You write as neat a hand as I could wish," he continued gamely, "but your figuring would make
a cat laugh." Frodo grimaced at that, and Bilbo nodded decidedly. "You'll need a head for
numbers, you know. I'll have to teach you how to do the household accounts, how much to store
for the winter and what yield to expect from the fields."
"If you say so, Bilbo," Frodo sighed, sounding much put upon. "Although I would rather study
the Elvish, if you please. Numbers are so uninteresting."
"Don't you worry, lad." The Master of Bag End leaned back and stretched his legs out into the
sunlight. "We have time and enough to spare for the lessons you enjoy. You should learn some
things as soon as possible, though. You need to become familiar with the steadings that look
to us, and oh yes - the laws and rules that govern the owning of property hereabouts. I shall
take you around the Shire and make you known to our folk. You will meet some of them on our
birthday, but you'll need to see how they live, so that you can tell how best to care for them.
"You'll need your own study now..." he droned on, and Frodo's mind began to wander. From his
vantage point, he could see the gravelled road that circled the foot of the Hill, and the fields
that stretched out beyond it in a patchwork of color - all the way to where the forest began. The
winding lane of Bagshot Row meandered to the right far below, and the Widow Rumble's snowy
cap bobbed along the picket fence as she hung her washing out to dry. He could hear the
Gaffer's deep voice and Sam's piping treble from around the curve of the Hill, as they worked
among the bean-poles in the kitchen garden.
"Look, Da! A beetle! Oooh - it's pretty; can I show it to Frodo, Da? Can I?"
"Naw, naw. Tend to your chores, boy. You can show it to Master Frodo when you're done."
"But Da - why'd you root them beans out? They got pods still, see?"
"Them's spent, Samwise. Their time is past." Frodo could imagine the work-worn hands petting
the boy's sun-kissed hair, and he could hear the patience in the old gardener's voice. "To
everything there is a season, lad, and them pods will birth new plants come spring. It comes
around, Samwise, it comes around."
The voices receded, and Frodo stared unseeingly into the sunlit garden.
How long would this last, he wondered; how long before it was taken away from him, like
everything that he ever loved slipped from his desperate grasp? To have a place to belong to,
to have a refuge to really call home - to be Frodo of Bag End, and not merely 'that poor
orphaned Baggins lad.' How long?
"...and perhaps, one day, we shall see a mistress at Bag End. You will not lack for opportunity,
my boy; in fact, you'll likely have to beat the lasses off with the Gaffer's broom."
Bilbo's words caught up with Frodo's wandering ear, and he looked up at his cousin with
something like alarm.
"I won't have to think about that yet, will I? I mean... I don't..."
"Oh no -" Bilbo linked his hands comfortably over his ample belly and smiled. "Not for a long
while yet. Not until you come of age, certainly." His brows creased in a tiny frown as he
considered his words. "And even then," he added hastily, "only if you want to, my boy."
Frodo nodded slowly and looked away. The sun had crept into their shady nook, and the old
hobbit began to think longingly of a hot cup of tea and the comfortable coolness of the Smial.
"Bilbo?" Frodo didn't look up, and his fingers pulled at the worn fabric of his breeches
restlessly. The silence stretched like pulled candy, thick and cloying.
"Why me, Bilbo? Why are you so good to me?" The words came in a reluctant whispered rush,
and Bilbo caught his breath. Valar bless me, he thought ruefully. Trust the lad to be different
than those his age. No - he corrected himself - trust him to be more. He didn't take life for
granted, like other tweeners did. Bilbo knew with a sudden clarity that he had to choose his
words carefully. The intelligence that shone in the clear blue eyes would see through every
word, into the meaning beneath it.
He leaned back on the bench, his eyes half-shut. "I recall," he said thoughtfully,"A market day
last Wedmath, when Gammer Twofoot tripped and hurt her knee, and a certain hobbit-lad
helped her up, gathered all the goods she dropped, and drove her to her door as well." Bilbo
glanced at the boy beside him. Frodo stared at him, his eyes wide and questioning.
"That lad had a kind heart, didn't he? He didn't stand on ceremony, for all that he was a
gentle-hobbit born and bred. And there was that carter whose pony went lame down the road a
bit, wasn't there? That same hobbit-lad berated him soundly for beating the poor beast, and
made him carry the load himself. That was a sight to watch, it was. It told me that the lad knew
how to use his station, and when to do it too, in a proper way.
"I am very fond of you, although I've been solitary for so long, and I may not show it readily. I
needed an heir who would care for my people and love the land as much as I did, Frodo. And I
do believe I've found him.
"There has always been a Baggins under the Hill, here at Bag End. And now, there always will
be."
It was quiet under the honeysuckle vines, and the honey-scent of the tiny yellow flowers
permeated the still air. The sunlight that filtered through the leaves traced russet patterns onto
Frodo's dark hair, and Bilbo stared, struck anew at the boy's unusual beauty. Then suddenly,
Frodo was in his lap, thin arms wound around his neck, his face buried in the old hobbit's
shoulder.
"I'll make you proud of me, Bilbo. See if I don't," he whispered.
And Bilbo felt sudden tears start to his eyes - tears of relief and breathless joy.
"I know you will, my boy. I know you will."
END
The Master of Bag End mopped at his sweaty forehead with a limp kerchief and collapsed onto
his favorite bench with a sigh of relief. He could still taste the dust that had choked the road
from Michel Delving, and his back ached, a pointed reminder that he was no longer as young as
he seemed to be. The smial door stood invitingly open, and he glanced into its cool depths
longingly, but he stayed where he was. It was impulse that had led him to choose the heat of
the day over the comfort of his hole, an impulse that was somehow bound up in the tweenager
hovering at his side. He had come to rely on instinct in his dealings with the lad, and he wasn't
about to disregard it now. Not today, of all days.
It was unusually warm for a late Halimath afternoon, one of those days that seemed to have
wandered over from summer by mistake. The air tingled with the smell of fresh-watered earth
and a golden haze muted the blazing colors of the fields and hillsides for as far as the eye could
see.
Bilbo squinted into the sunlight and winced. At least it was cool enough under the shade of the
honeysuckle vines, and the warm scent of the late roses was a positive balm to his aching head.
He accepted the proffered dipperful of water with a grateful smile and drank thirstily.
"Don't loom over me, lad. Sit, sit." He patted the smooth wood and watched his newly minted
heir sprawl beside him, all knees and elbows and coltish grace. They sat in companionable
silence as he drank his fill, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught the inquisitive glance
directed at the scroll on his lap.
"You can read it if you like," he said easily. "It does concern you after all."
Frodo nodded shyly and scrubbed his hands on his shirt, a gesture that brought a smile of
approval to the old hobbit's face. The lad showed proper respect for the written word, right
enough. It was all of a piece with his love for it.
The Writ of Adoption was of a respectable length, for Bilbo had added to it a codicil to his will.
The creamy vellum gleamed richly in the sunshine, and the close-written words were penned in
black ink. A wash of scarlet adorned the bottom of the scroll, and it was to this that Frodo first
cast his eye, curiosity writ large upon his face.
"Cousin Saradoc was there?"
"Aye, and Paladin as well. And before you ask, no - he didn't have that young scamp Meriadoc
with him. You'd have had him underfoot all morning if he had. That lad worships you, Frodo."
"Mmmm." The tweenager didn't look up, but a faint flush mounted the smooth skin of his
cheek. "I love him too," he said softly. And he added, as if responding to the unspoken caution
in his cousin's voice, "I take good care of him, Bilbo."
"I know you do." Bilbo studied the lad's face as he perused the scroll. It was still too pale and
thin for his liking, although the faint dusting of golden freckles across the bridge of the straight
nose gave him a healthier glow. The small-boned slimness and dark cloud of wayward curls
betrayed the Fallohide strain of Frodo's Tookish heritage, and Bilbo felt his heart twinge. So
very like his dead mother, he was. So very like.
He hadn't taken much notice of the child Frodo had been, counting him vaguely as one of the
mischievous horde enlivening Brandy Hall during his infrequent visits to Buckland. He had
already done his duty as close kin, ensuring that Drogo and Primula's only child would lack for
nothing, and had left it at that. He had assumed, and rightly so, that the familiar confines of
the Brandybuck warren would do more to ease the pain of loss than the sharing of his quiet
bachelor existence. And he had never had cause to regret his decision.
Then Frodo had grown old enough to join in more adult festivities, and by the Valar, Bilbo had
noticed him then - a quiet lad, tall for his age, with wide, speaking eyes that had forcibly
reminded the old hobbit of the sapphires that had studded the gold of Smaug's hoard. He
marked the breathless way the young hobbit hung upon his every word, the keen intelligence
and the dreamy glaze over those eyes as he absorbed the tales of Bilbo's adventuring, and for
the first time in years, the confident Master of Bag End felt a pang of disquiet. He looked about
the crowded hall - at work-worn hands and sturdy, simple hobbit-folk, and considered the lad's
future. He belongs here as a nightingale does in a flock of rooks, he thought uneasily. Did I do
wrong, after all?
So he had unashamedly extended his welcome and prowled the Hall, keeping his eyes keen and
his ears open. Frodo held his own in the rough and tumble of his peers, and the younger lads
clearly adored him - the young Brandybuck heir in particular claiming his lap at every
opportunity. The spirit that had earned him the reputation of being the nimblest
mushroom-thief in the Shire still blazed, a gleam quickly veiled by a downward sweep of dark
lashes and an innocent face. He had learned discretion, it seemed, and Bilbo approved heartily.
But there also came to the old hobbit's ears the casual gossip of the older folk - for the lad's
inordinate bookishness and his un-hobbit-like looks discomfited them. They never forgot the
manner of his parents' death, and held his heritage tainted because of it. No one ever said so
to his face, but such whispers had a way of coming to ears not meant for them, to lodge in the
heart and fester. Bilbo saw the shine fade, replaced by a sullen glare and trembling lip, saw the
slumping of the thin shoulders, and grieved. The more fool they, he thought, and a certain
resolve hardened within him. We shall see what we shall see.
And so now it had come to this.
Bilbo sighed, glad that he hadn't given in to his first impulse and taken Frodo with him to
Michel Delving. The rumor mill had ground well, and Lobelia and Otho had sailed in on a tide of
bitterness and bile, ready to do battle for what they perceived as their rights. Only the presence
of the Master and the Thain had stayed their fury, and Bilbo had never been so glad of their
support at his back.
"A body's got no call to count the chicks until they've hatched, Missus." Old Ferdibrand Bolger
had shaken his cane under the beldame's nose, and the other witnesses had nodded in
agreement.
"And you had best keep a civil tongue in your head," Saradoc had added grimly, "for I'll not have
Frodo troubled by your poison."
Bilbo frowned. It was his fault, he supposed - he had avoided Lobelia and Otho's company so
well that he had never had the chance to disabuse them of their hopes. Still, there was no call
for the vile insinuations they had made. Upstart Brandybuck changeling was the least of what
they had called the poor lad. And to suggest that Bilbo had more than a fatherly interest in his
heir... He gritted his teeth. Confounded relations, he thought angrily. Hanging over his
doorstep like a pair of frowsty carrion birds. He would have to keep a sharp eye on Lobelia, he
knew. She had a long memory, and wasn't likely to forget the insult. No, not likely to at all.
"Why do they use so many words, Bilbo?" Frodo's voice jostled the old hobbit from his uneasy
reverie, and he blinked at the lad bemusedly. "All these 'inasmuches' and 'heretofores' are so
hard to make sense of."
"Well, Frodo, you know what words do, don't you? They tie an idea down, and give it shape and
substance." Bilbo took the scroll back and inserted it carefully into its case. "The more
important the idea is, the more words are needed to anchor it, so that the shape of it doesn't
fade or alter in any way." Bilbo supposed that Frodo had a point, though. The plain-spoken
hobbits seemed to go hog-wild when it came to the drawing up of legal documents, and they so
loved curlicues and long-windedness and colour. Bilbo smiled as he tucked the dangling
ribbons of the scarlet mayoral seal into the case and capped it.
"You are going to need more lessons, my boy." The old hobbit reached out to ruffle the dark
curls, and then thought better of it, resting his hand on the backrest of the bench instead. He
regretted that he found it so hard to show his affection for the lad; he knew Frodo trusted him
now, but the tweenager was so self-contained, so close with his emotions, and so wary around
grown hobbits. He was like the shy deer that came to drink at the forest pools; they stared at
you with startled eyes and shied away at the slightest movement.
"You write as neat a hand as I could wish," he continued gamely, "but your figuring would make
a cat laugh." Frodo grimaced at that, and Bilbo nodded decidedly. "You'll need a head for
numbers, you know. I'll have to teach you how to do the household accounts, how much to store
for the winter and what yield to expect from the fields."
"If you say so, Bilbo," Frodo sighed, sounding much put upon. "Although I would rather study
the Elvish, if you please. Numbers are so uninteresting."
"Don't you worry, lad." The Master of Bag End leaned back and stretched his legs out into the
sunlight. "We have time and enough to spare for the lessons you enjoy. You should learn some
things as soon as possible, though. You need to become familiar with the steadings that look
to us, and oh yes - the laws and rules that govern the owning of property hereabouts. I shall
take you around the Shire and make you known to our folk. You will meet some of them on our
birthday, but you'll need to see how they live, so that you can tell how best to care for them.
"You'll need your own study now..." he droned on, and Frodo's mind began to wander. From his
vantage point, he could see the gravelled road that circled the foot of the Hill, and the fields
that stretched out beyond it in a patchwork of color - all the way to where the forest began. The
winding lane of Bagshot Row meandered to the right far below, and the Widow Rumble's snowy
cap bobbed along the picket fence as she hung her washing out to dry. He could hear the
Gaffer's deep voice and Sam's piping treble from around the curve of the Hill, as they worked
among the bean-poles in the kitchen garden.
"Look, Da! A beetle! Oooh - it's pretty; can I show it to Frodo, Da? Can I?"
"Naw, naw. Tend to your chores, boy. You can show it to Master Frodo when you're done."
"But Da - why'd you root them beans out? They got pods still, see?"
"Them's spent, Samwise. Their time is past." Frodo could imagine the work-worn hands petting
the boy's sun-kissed hair, and he could hear the patience in the old gardener's voice. "To
everything there is a season, lad, and them pods will birth new plants come spring. It comes
around, Samwise, it comes around."
The voices receded, and Frodo stared unseeingly into the sunlit garden.
How long would this last, he wondered; how long before it was taken away from him, like
everything that he ever loved slipped from his desperate grasp? To have a place to belong to,
to have a refuge to really call home - to be Frodo of Bag End, and not merely 'that poor
orphaned Baggins lad.' How long?
"...and perhaps, one day, we shall see a mistress at Bag End. You will not lack for opportunity,
my boy; in fact, you'll likely have to beat the lasses off with the Gaffer's broom."
Bilbo's words caught up with Frodo's wandering ear, and he looked up at his cousin with
something like alarm.
"I won't have to think about that yet, will I? I mean... I don't..."
"Oh no -" Bilbo linked his hands comfortably over his ample belly and smiled. "Not for a long
while yet. Not until you come of age, certainly." His brows creased in a tiny frown as he
considered his words. "And even then," he added hastily, "only if you want to, my boy."
Frodo nodded slowly and looked away. The sun had crept into their shady nook, and the old
hobbit began to think longingly of a hot cup of tea and the comfortable coolness of the Smial.
"Bilbo?" Frodo didn't look up, and his fingers pulled at the worn fabric of his breeches
restlessly. The silence stretched like pulled candy, thick and cloying.
"Why me, Bilbo? Why are you so good to me?" The words came in a reluctant whispered rush,
and Bilbo caught his breath. Valar bless me, he thought ruefully. Trust the lad to be different
than those his age. No - he corrected himself - trust him to be more. He didn't take life for
granted, like other tweeners did. Bilbo knew with a sudden clarity that he had to choose his
words carefully. The intelligence that shone in the clear blue eyes would see through every
word, into the meaning beneath it.
He leaned back on the bench, his eyes half-shut. "I recall," he said thoughtfully,"A market day
last Wedmath, when Gammer Twofoot tripped and hurt her knee, and a certain hobbit-lad
helped her up, gathered all the goods she dropped, and drove her to her door as well." Bilbo
glanced at the boy beside him. Frodo stared at him, his eyes wide and questioning.
"That lad had a kind heart, didn't he? He didn't stand on ceremony, for all that he was a
gentle-hobbit born and bred. And there was that carter whose pony went lame down the road a
bit, wasn't there? That same hobbit-lad berated him soundly for beating the poor beast, and
made him carry the load himself. That was a sight to watch, it was. It told me that the lad knew
how to use his station, and when to do it too, in a proper way.
"I am very fond of you, although I've been solitary for so long, and I may not show it readily. I
needed an heir who would care for my people and love the land as much as I did, Frodo. And I
do believe I've found him.
"There has always been a Baggins under the Hill, here at Bag End. And now, there always will
be."
It was quiet under the honeysuckle vines, and the honey-scent of the tiny yellow flowers
permeated the still air. The sunlight that filtered through the leaves traced russet patterns onto
Frodo's dark hair, and Bilbo stared, struck anew at the boy's unusual beauty. Then suddenly,
Frodo was in his lap, thin arms wound around his neck, his face buried in the old hobbit's
shoulder.
"I'll make you proud of me, Bilbo. See if I don't," he whispered.
And Bilbo felt sudden tears start to his eyes - tears of relief and breathless joy.
"I know you will, my boy. I know you will."
END
