March 12th

“I think I’ll turn in a bit early tonight, my boy.” The ancient hobbit carefully slid out of his chair and patted Frodo on the shoulder. “Thank you for the excellent help on my new limerick. I expect to unveil it sometime tomorrow after dinner. That is, if Glorfindel is not afraid to submit to further torment.”

Frodo chuckled at the great elf-lord’s misery as they sat about the roaring fireplace, sipping mulled wine and chatting about the journey from Bree. The hobbits had arrived a couple of days prior and were settling into the slow, rather timeless rhythm of Rivendell. The month spent traveling from Bree to Rivendell was tiring, especially for Iris and poor, long-suffering Bill the Pony. But the sight of the vast Elvish city set in the midst of melting waterfalls and late-season snow-clad pine trees was one none of them would ever forget.

They had barely finished crossing the Fords of Bruin when a thunderous avalanche of ice flows broke, sending a torrent of icy water downstream. It effectively wiped out any hope of using the Fords until after the main Spring ice melt finished. An advanced party greeted them on the Eastern banks of the Ford. Iris was grateful for the excuse of injury in order to cling to Frodo upon meeting Lord Elrond and Glorfindel at the crossing. Imposing and regal and ageless and wise and beautiful and dangerous and terrible and … well … she had run out of adjectives.

Meeting the legendary Bilbo Baggins that afternoon was equally unnerving. But Frodo’s apparent ease among the Elves and happiness at being reunited with his beloved Uncle put her troubled mind to rest. Bilbo treated her like a long-lost granddaughter.

“I do have until the 15th to come up with my response,” Glorfindel huffed back at Bilbo. “This contest is becoming annoying.”

“Only because you have not mastered it yet,” Bilbo smiled.

“Good night, Bilbo.” Iris rose and kissed her senior on the cheek.

He took her fair young hand in his trembling gnarled one and gave her a hug. “See you in the morning, my dear, if you are not already deep into study with my Lord Elrond, the Master of Medical Madness. You keep her far too much to yourself, Elrond.” Bilbo shook an arthritic finger at his host.

“Is no one immune from your teasing?” the Master of Rivendell asked as he simultaneously raised his wine goblet in a long-standing goodnight ritual to the hobbit. “Good night, Master Baggins. May Varda guard your dreams.” The hobbit waved goodbye and hobbled down the hallway, leaning heavily on his carved cane; disappearing into the evening shadows. “And you, my young student, should also be off to bed.” Elrond turned his attention to Iris. The two had become quite informal in the past two days. Each recognized a healer in the other.

“I feel fine, thanks to your ministrations,” she protested. “Almost as good as new.” She flexed her left arm to prove her point.

“Yes, but you must rest after such intensive therapy,” Elrond said. “Tomorrow we delve into the joined spirits meditation, and I want you with all your wits about you.”

“It has never worked with a mortal,” the Lady Galadriel said from the shadows. “Except, of course, with the Ringbearer while he carried the One Ring.”

“Even if it does not work, the exercise in mind control will bring benefits,” the Elf-lord calmly replied. “I have never had such an apt pupil, especially in one of the Edain.” Iris blushed at the public praise. “Rest now, Miss Proudfoot, and join me at breakfast.”

Iris bowed to the Lord and Lady, then turned to leave the great antechamber’s warmth for her own accommodations. Frodo stood and took Iris’s arm to escort his fiancé to her sleeping chamber. “And you, young Master Baggins,” Elrond continued. “You also should go to bed early. Tomorrow is the 13th.”

Frodo paused before replying. “I need no reminder, my lord, but thank you for your concern. We shall see you in the morning.”

March 13th

The morning started out peaceful, clear and cool. Frodo was pleasantly surprised to awaken without the long-dreaded pain in his injured shoulder. He did feel a bit chilled, but the fire had gone out of the fireplace overnight and the beautiful dark amber tile floor was distinctly cold in the pale morning sun. He felt much refreshed after taking a nice, long, hot bath. Bilbo was already at breakfast when Frodo padded down to the kitchen.

“Where is Iris?” Frodo asked.

“She and Elrond are in his study, discussing healing techniques and such,” Bilbo replied. “I never imagined he would take on an apprentice this late in his time here, but he seems quite taken by Miss Proudfoot’s tenacity. She keeps asking so many questions I’m beginning to think she is a Took instead of a Proudfoot. Anyway …. They had breakfast earlier. It is quite unusual for Lord Elrond to spend so much of his energy on a non-Elf, but she seems to have taken his fancy. Two of a kind, you might say. Both very much concerned with healing. Miss Proudfoot is concerned with healing people. Elrond is concerned with healing all of Middle Earth, which occasionally includes people. He confided to me last night that he is impressed with your lass’s herb lore. He has consented to try to teach her some Elvish spells of one sort or another. Neither he nor Galadriel are sure a hobbit will be able to make the spells work, much less on another hobbit. But if Elrond is willing to try, far be it from me to dissuade him. But enough about them. How are you doing today, my boy?”

“All right,” Frodo smiled. “I must admit to being a bit nervous about the day though.”

Bilbo was momentarily distracted by a fresh dish of fruit jams and marmalades being brought to the table, adding to the fresh-baked scones. He loaded his plate and turned to Frodo, “Eh? Didn’t quite catch that.”

“Oh, nothing,” Frodo shrugged, sipping his tea and helping himself to a scone. He smiled a polite ‘thank you’ to the lovely young elf-maiden who was acting as their server. She returned an enigmatic smile as she carried off the remains of the earlier breakfast and left the two hobbits to their repast. Frodo knew she was probably well over a thousand years old, but could not help but think of her as being in her early twenties.

“Now, now, Frodo,” Bilbo admonished, “you can’t hide things from your Uncle Bilbo. Just like you can’t hide the fact that you’re hair is finally beginning to turn grey. Something is bothering you. Come right out and say it. It’s just us two here.”

“Well, I usually fall ill on this day, if you must know,” Frodo admitted. “That is one of the reasons Iris and I are here. To see if Lord Elrond can teach her new treatments for my illness.”

“You’re ill?” Bilbo stopped eating. “Goodness gracious me. You don’t appear ill. What is the illness from?”

“I had a rather nasty spider sting while on my journeys,” Frodo said, not wanting to upset his elderly uncle with too many details. Bilbo frequently forgot things at his advanced age, and Frodo did not want to cause him undue worry. “It sometimes bothers me.” He took another bite out of the scone. The lemon curd marmalade was wonderful.

“Spider bites?” Bilbo questioned. “You should be over them, unless you mean one of those horrible big wood spiders like the ones I ran into in Mirkwood. Now, there’s a nasty bite for you. When were you in Mirkwood? I didn’t think you went to Mirkwood.” Bilbo sipped his tea.

“It was not in Mirkwood, Bilbo,” Frodo calmly stated, “but it was one of those large horrible spiders, like in your adventure. I seem to be fine today though. I was hoping to show you my additions to your book. If you have the time? I brought it all the way from Bag End.”

The change of subject brightened up Bilbo’s crinkled face. “Ah, my book. Do you have it with you? I do hope you’ve done some work on it. I’m afraid I left it in a jumbled mess when I gave it to you last time. Yes, yes. Let’s go into my study and take a look at your work. So glad you brought it with you, my lad. Come on .…Grab a couple extra biscuits and the tea service, will you? That’s my boy.”

The ancient hobbit grunted down out of the chair and grabbed his cane to hobble off towards his quarters. Frodo found a tray and brought the tea service and breakfast as he was bid. They wandered past gracefully curving corridors and hallways leading into parts of Rivendell unknown to Frodo. Soon they arrived at Bilbo’s private rooms. The Elves had scaled down the furniture and railings to accommodate the hobbit’s diminutive stature. They had done so out of the great respect and love they maintained for Bilbo. A comfortably small writing desk and chair situated along the North wall of Bilbo’s study gave access to the light streaming through the glazed window. A cheery fire burned in the fireplace and a second chair and extra blankets had been added to the room. Bilbo never noticed, but someone always maintained his rooms for him whenever he went down to the communal kitchens and dining rooms. It was a little service the Elves did for the former Ringbearer, to which he was completely unaware.

Frodo excused himself after helping Bilbo into his easy chair by the fire and wrapping his legs in the fine woolen blanket nearby. Bilbo was already nodding off by the time Frodo softly closed the door and finished setting up the tea service. The hallway felt rather chilly to him, but he passed that feeling off as owning to walking on the cold tile floors. Frodo’s own quarters were nearby, so he was quick about locating the book and returning to Bilbo’s study. He found his Uncle lightly snoring. Frodo closed the door and added another log to the fire. It felt wonderfully warm in the room, and the sunshine streaming in through the window lighted up dust motes drifting along in an unseen air current. The smell of the fresh scones and lemon curd lingered in the air. It was altogether lovely and soothing. Frodo placed the book onto the desk, then sat down in the other chair, sipping his tea. He would wait for Bilbo to awaken. There was no rush. The day was early. The room was warm. He was full of tea and crumpets and slightly mushy thoughts about his upcoming wedding.

After about an hour, Bilbo awoke. Frodo was simply sitting in the chair, staring into the fire’s low embers.

“Oh, um, didn’t mean to drop off like that,” Bilbo cleared his throat and sat up a little in the easy chair. Frodo did not answer. He was rubbing his left arm and looked rather sad. “Frodo? Is something bothering you, lad?”

Frodo moved his gaze from the fire to his Uncle’s face. “Well, to tell the truth, yes, there is. I was just thinking, Bilbo. You left the Shire so suddenly. You left me so suddenly. That night of our birthday party. I knew you were up to something, but you never said anything to me about leaving and coming to live with the Elves. It has always bothered me.” Frodo’s keen blue eyes stabbed into Bilbo’s soft brown ones. “It has always bothered me. Why did you leave so suddenly? Why didn’t you ever tell me your plans? I would have kept your secret. Why confide in Gandalf and not me?”

Bilbo sighed. “Fix me some tea, will you lad? This may take awhile.” Frodo removed the tea pot from its place on the warm hearth, poured a fresh cup single-handedly, and brought the cup over to Bilbo. He resumed his seat, absentmindedly rubbing his left arm. His shoulder was beginning to ache, as well as the back of his neck, but he did not want to interrupt his uncle.

“For quite a few years after you came to live with me, I had no thoughts about ever leaving the Shire,” Bilbo softly began. To Frodo’s ears it sounded like a confession Bilbo had been rehearsing for many years. “The responsibilities of raising a young and rather strong-willed tweenaged hobbit outweighed any adventuresome tendencies I might have had in the past.” Bilbo chuckled and sipped his tea.

“I hope I was not too much trouble, Uncle,” Frodo smiled sadly, thinking of the past. He was aware that Bilbo had given up much in order to adopt him and raise him at Bag End. Frodo always felt a strong debt of gratitude towards his Uncle, and loved him as much as he could love anyone.

“Well, no more and no less than any other young hobbit,” Bilbo laughed. “Frodo, my lad, I would not change a second for all the dragon’s gold in Middle Earth.” He leaned forward and placed a gnarled hand upon Frodo’s knee. “You are my delight and joy. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, my boy. Nothing. I love you more than life itself.” Bilbo wiped a tear from his eye. “I must be getting sentimental in my dotage,” he murmured, reaching into his pocket and producing an embroidered cream-colored silken handkerchief.

Frodo blushed at such praise. Bilbo rarely complimented him in the past, being a rather reserved and strict gentlehobbit of the old ways. “And I love you too, Bilbo,” he whispered. A lump caught in his throat, and his jaw suddenly hurt fiercely. He ignored the pain and patted Bilbo’s hand.

“As much as I loved you and wanted to be there for you, I knew in my heart of hearts that I must eventually leave the Shire,” Bilbo settled back into his chair and continued. “I could not place my finger on it, but something did not feel right to me. Something was …. was…. oh, how shall I say it? Something was unsettled. Like I had to do something. Something important, or I would loose you and everything I loved.” Bilbo took another sip and smiled.

“Gandalf must have suspected something, for he started appearing at Bag End more and more regularly. He kept commenting on how ‘well-preserved’ I looked and other such rubbish. At least, back then I thought it was rubbish. Now I know he was very concerned about me. Of course, he knew I had a magic ring, but we didn’t know exactly what it was back then, now did we?” Bilbo suddenly got quiet and rather sad. “If I had known what it was I picked up in Gollum’s cave I would have thrown the blasted thing back into the depths and run out of there, taking my chances with the goblins.”

Frodo sighed and pulled a blanket around his own legs. He was getting chilled again. His illness had returned. But he wanted to hear Bilbo out. Frodo thought he could ride the pain until he had heard Bilbo out. He settled back into the chair.

Bilbo continued. “About three months before your coming-of-age, Gandalf and I planned out the events. I even drew up my will and had Mayor Whitfoot sign it as a precaution. I was restless and knew I had to leave the Shire. Don’t ask me how I knew it, I just did. I simply HAD to get away, and I used your coming-of-age as a convenient excuse to shed myself of Bag End and all my belongings and responsibilities. Then I would be free again. Free to join up with the dwarves and travel. I’m sorry lad, but that’s the truth.” Bilbo sighed. “Not terribly noble of me. I wanted to get out and see the world again. See mountains. The woods. The Elves. Go traveling with dwarves. I had the wanderlust upon me and I could not deny it.” He winked at Frodo. “You have it too, you know. You get it from your father. Did I ever tell you of the time he and I snuck off and traveled all the way to the Grey Havens? I’ve seen the White Towers. No? Lovely place. Very much like Hobbiton, you know. Little hills and dales, but with the sandy soil of the sea. Not very good for digging smials. But very, very lovely all the same. Oh well, some other time.” He stopped and took another sip of tea.

“The night of our birthday, Gandalf and I got into an argument over my blasted Ring.” Bilbo looked up at Frodo. “Um .… That silly old wizard said you had it. Do you still have it?”

“No, Bilbo,” Frodo gently said. “I lost it some time ago. I am sorry.”

“Oh,” Bilbo murmured, “Pity. Such a lovely thing. Anyway..… Gandalf said I should leave it to you and not take it with me on my adventures. Don’t know why he was so insistent on that. Didn’t ask me to do anything else. When it came right down to it, I didn’t want to leave it behind. But he convinced me, and I am glad he did. It was always a bother.” Bilbo became introspective. “Always demanding things. Wanting me to do things. Talking to me. Singing to me. Whispering to me in the dark. Disturbing my sleep. Trying to get me to leave you behind and take it South somewhere. Quite a bothersome thing, really. But I did like it. So beautiful. So perfect.” He looked sideways at Frodo.

“Do you still have it? I would very much like to see it.”

“No, Bilbo,” Frodo gently said again. “I lost it some time ago. I am sorry.”

“Well, no matter,” Bilbo began again. “I left the Shire so that you might grow. I had to leave the Ring. I could not stay. I don’t know if you understand, but the Shire had become anathema to me.” Bilbo gestured with a tea cup towards Frodo. “You, my dearest boy, my love, my heir, had also become unbearable for me to tolerate.”

Frodo’s pain in his shoulder worsened. “Me? Whatever do you mean?”

Bilbo blushed slightly. “I hate to say this, but it’s the truth. I could no longer bear to look upon you, Frodo. You were everything I was not and wanted to be.” Bilbo looked down into his teacup, embarrassed. “You were young. You were beautiful. You were intelligent and inquisitive and thoughtful and everything I could have hoped for in an heir. You were an old hobbit’s fondest wish. And you were so innocent. You broke my heart with your beauty and innocence.” A tear coursed down Bilbo’s lined face. He brushed it aside. “I could not stay and corrupt you, my love, my boy. The Ring was telling me to do terrible things, and I could not bear that you would be part of it.” Bilbo looked down into his teacup again. “I left so that I would not endanger you. I am just sorry I let Gandalf talk me into leaving you the Ring as well. If I had known what it was, I would have never done so.” The ancient Ringbearer’s mouth quivered with emotion. “I am so sorry, Frodo. Sorry for everything. It’s all my fault.” He broke down and cried.

Frodo’s neck and shoulder was aching terribly, but he went to his beloved Uncle’s side and gathered the elderly hobbit into his arms. “Shush, now, Bilbo. Shush. Everything worked out all right. The Ring is gone and I am still here and you are still here. It was not your fault. Shush.”

Bilbo sobbed. “That’s why I had to leave the Shire, my boy. Because of you. You were too close a reminder of what I once was. What I could never be again. The Ring had started to consume me and I had to give it up. I had to get away from it. I am sorry I left it with you. If I had known of its evil back then, I would have taken it with me to Rivendell and we might not be here today with you so sick. I am sorry, my dear boy. I love you more than anything.” Bilbo sobbed into Frodo’s aching shoulder. The tears seemed to help lessen the pain.

“Bilbo,” Frodo whispered into his uncle’s ear, “I love you. You are the father and mother I never really knew. You have done so much more for me than I can ever repay.” He let his distressed uncle finish crying, then kissed Bilbo on the cheek, stood and slowly gathered up the tea service.

“I brought the book,” he said, indicating the large loosely-bound volume on the desk. “I shall leave you to it, if you do not mind being alone for awhile?” Frodo was giving Bilbo a chance to recover from his emotional outburst.

Bilbo wiped his damp eyes with the handkerchief and sniffled, “I’ll be fine, my dear boy. Go on now. I shall see you at lunch.” Frodo had a little trouble controlling his left hand, but Bilbo did not notice, and Frodo managed to leave without arousing his uncle’s suspicions. Once outside the door, he sagged and sat heavily onto the tile floor, setting the tea service down with a slight clatter just outside the doorway.

‘I have to find Iris,’ he vaguely thought, struggling to stand and staggering to his bedroom. Once inside he managed to add a couple of logs onto the fire before climbing into bed fully-clothed with an extra blanket atop the sheets. Frodo drifted into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of chilly nights at Bag End with his Uncle hovering over him, the Ring glinting blood-red in the firelight and dangling from a silver chain just out of his reach.

In the dream, Bilbo taunted him. “It’s mine,” he hissed through strangely pointed and decaying teeth. “My own. My precious. You’ll die if I give it to you. Better leave before they come for it. You know of what I speak. You’ve tasted its lust too. It should never have been given to you. It doesn’t belong to you! It’s mine!”

Bilbo’s beloved face transformed into the hideous blankness of a Ringwraith. A great black shroud-enwrapped wraith mounted upon a tremendous black beast with naked leather wings. Frodo could see the pale green inner light inside the void where the King’s face should have been. The sickly green light inside the hood coalesced into a twisted parody of a familiar face. Aragorn! The Pale King was Aragorn! Perhaps Aragorn would save him!

But this Aragorn was no longer human. His rugged features were twisted and sunken in decay. He drew Narsil from a rotten black leather scabbard strapped to his side. The sword also transformed itself. Instead of the gleaming bright shard of Elendil, the blade smoked and hissed into the familiar acid-eaten poisoned sword! Too late! He could not run! His feet were immobilized in something foul and stinking. He could not hide from this twisted parody of Aragorn. The Wraith King laughed and threw back his hood, revealing his silver crown. But the sea bird’s wings were broken, and a trail of blood dripped from the shattered feathers, cascading down Aragorn’s countenance as if he were crowned with thorns and anointed in the blood of Numenor.

A golden ring somehow slipped about Frodo’s torso, pinning his arms to his sides. It started squeezing the breath from his body. Each time he exhaled the Ring tightened its grip about his waist. With a look of utter satisfaction, the Pale King banked his black winged steed and swooped in for the kill. He plunged his sword deep into Frodo’s shoulder, then twisted it to further prolong the torment. Frodo cried aloud, writhing to free his trapped arms, then the vision went dark, and Frodo remembered no more.