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mithenTitle: Of Frodo and his Cousins
Chapter Summary: From Frodo's childhood to his young adulthood, his cousins Thorin and Bilbo were always a part of his life.
Relationship/Characters: Thorin/Bilbo; Frodo
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5000
Summary: Excerpts from the Red Book of Westmarch, in which can be found the tales of various characters from Clarity of Purpose: their histories, their lives, and their passing.
For Frodo Baggins, son of Primula and Drogo Baggins, there was never a time when Cousin Bilbo and Cousin Thorin were not in his life. From when he was just a tiny baby, his mother would tell the story of how they had saved Bag End for them. “And then Lobelia swept in like a dragon,” his mother would say with an appropriate whooshing gesture, “and tried to snap it up! But we were there, yes we were, and we said…” It was like a tale from an old book, and he never grew tired of hearing it.
Once he was old enough, he would walk to Thorin’s forge just to watch him work, wide-eyed at the clatter and heat of the forge, breathless at the way his cousin could coax metal to do his bidding. “You’re like a wizard,” he said once, and Thorin had laughed.
“I’m much better than a wizard,” Thorin had said. “I’m a dwarf.” When Frodo was a little older the old man Bilbo called Gandalf came to visit, and when Frodo found out he was a wizard, he was inclined to agree with Thorin that a dwarf seemed vastly superior.
Sometimes Frodo would lie on the floor of Bilbo’s study and read one of his books, feeling the paper under his fingers and the staring at the pictures. Bilbo would write in his own book, but whenever Frodo asked to see it Bilbo would just laugh and close it, saying “Not until I finish it, lad.”
Frodo wondered sometimes about the contents of that book, which Bilbo kept in a locked chest. It was one of the few mysteries about Cousin Frodo and Cousin Thorin, who otherwise were such simple, easy-going folk. He wondered if it was connected to the other mystery about his cousins: the mystery of their trips up north.
For every year in the spring, Thorin and Bilbo would pack up a small case and bid the Shire farewell, and travel north for a week. “Just to visit some old friends,” they would say with a smile, but the Shire never tired of gossiping about who these “old friends” could be. Blackguards and mercenaries, some people thought. Dwarves from the Blue Mountains, others argued. Most agreed that there must be something a trifle unsavory going on--there was no other good reason to travel north, after all, when all that was necessary in life could be found in the Shire or Bree. But no one had any proof, so it remained idle chatter.
But Frodo found himself thinking about it, and dwelling on it, and when he was still very small he resolved to solve this mystery once and for all.
The year he turned ten, he stowed away in the wagon that was taking his cousins north. Hiding under a tarp, jolted back and forth as the wagon bumped along the rutted road, he felt his heart hammering as he realized that he was leaving the Shire for the first time in his life.
“I wish Estel would get this road fixed,” he heard Bilbo complain from the front of the wagon.
“He promised not to interfere in Shire business,” Thorin said. “Besides, so few people but us take this road.”
Who was this mysterious “Estel,” and why had he promised not to interfere in the Shire? Frodo wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in anticipation--maybe Estel was a bandit king, and Thorin and Bilbo were secretly his agents in the Shire! Frodo whiled away the long trip by imagining that the wicked Estel was planning to break his promise and attack the Shire. Thorin would break his vow of fealty to the brigand and defend the Shire, and Estel would try to stab him, but Frodo would throw himself before the blade, sacrificing himself for his cousins! His eyes welled up with tears as he imagined Bilbo gathering him in his arms, stricken with grief at the pure heroism of his innocent cousin. Thorin would cut his hair short in mourning, and they would bury him beneath the beech tree and give the most beautiful speeches…
He was still imagining them when he drifted off to sleep.
He woke up with a start and realized that the wagon wasn’t moving anymore. All was quiet, the wagon empty, and Frodo felt a brief stab of panic. Scrambling out from under his tarp, he peeked out of the wagon--and stared in wonder.
A huge lake, bigger than anything he had ever seen, glinted in the light of the setting sun, and at its verge were great marble columns and arches, most of them broken and desolate, overgrown with ivy and interspersed with willows. But there were also tents set up among the ruins, silken tents of cerise and azure and violet, with gold and silver banners trailing from them. Frodo could hear music and laughter coming from the largest tent; blinking and nervous, he tiptoed toward it, and under cover of a server carrying a platter, slipped inside.
And there a sight met his eyes that made him blink in wonder and amazement.
At a long table, draped with pure white linen and set with crystal and silver, sat a host of people, each more astonishing than the last. There were men, and dwarves, and--Frodo caught his breath--those must be elves as well. All of them were clad in bright raiment, adorned with gems that sparkled in the light of the lamps.
And at the center of the table were seated his cousins.
His cousins, his simple kind cousins, dressed in velvets and silks, with jeweled diadems on their brows, laughing and talking with these grand people as if they were friends, as if they were legends themselves.
Frodo felt rooted in place, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe as one of the men--a tall, dark-haired man with keen gray eyes--stood and lifted his goblet and addressed the company:
“Comrades! Once again we come from the far corners of the world to pay homage to the Ringbearers, may their memory never fade and their valor never be forgotten.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Denethor,” said Bilbo, “I’m never letting you make this toast again; you’re always so very pompous about it.”
Denethor smiled fondly at Bilbo, and Frodo felt his heart thump against his ribs as he realized that everyone had lifted their glasses and was looking at Thorin and Bilbo. As if this toast--to these grand and glorious Ringbearers--was to Frodo’s cousins!
“Very well,” said Denethor. “I shall keep it simple, for your sake. To the Ringbearers, then. To the King Under the Mountain and his consort. To Thorin and Bilbo.”
Everyone lifted their glasses and drank as Frodo gaped in wonder.
Denethor went on: “We drink also to our friends who could not be here this year, as they shall drink to us in another. We drink to Bachai and Pallando, and we drink to Théoden, king of Rohan, who has stayed at Edoras to await the birth of his firstborn.”
Everyone lifted their cups and repeated the names, then drank.
“And if I may indulge in some news of my own,” Denethor said, “I am unlikely to be here next year, for I have recently learned that my own dear Finduilas is to bear our first child by the close of the year.”
“Huzzah!” cried Bilbo, lifting his glass.
Denethor beamed for a moment, then coughed and looked solemn, although there was a glint of laughter in his eyes. He turned to address the elf and man sitting close together in matching dark green robes, saying, “If that rustic horse-lord were here, I am certain he would say something that implied the two of us had proven our vigor and prowess and the world was now waiting on such proof from its high king.”
Hoots of groaning laughter; Bilbo cupped his hands around his mouth and booed.
“But as he is not here,” Denethor said quickly, “Nothing so uncouth will mar our refined and esteemed gathering.”
“Hear hear,” the dark-haired elf-maiden said gravely, her eyes sparkling. “Thank you for your restraint, my lord.”
Denethor bowed and sat back down, and the conversations and music started once more. Frodo felt nearly dizzy: never in his wildest dreams had he imagined a scene like this. The crystal and lights seemed to spin around him and he felt an awe that was close to terror grip him--he had to get away without anyone noticing him, he knew suddenly. He felt small and grubby and overwhelmed, and he couldn’t bear the thought of all these grand people staring at him, laughing at the little Shire lad with his dirty feet and rumpled curls, so far from home, so ignorant.
He turned to slip away from it all, to hide in the darkness--and ran into a server carrying a heavy tray heaped with dishes.
Silver and crystal crashed to the ground, shattering around Frodo, who covered his head with his hands, quailing. The music stopped, the conversations halted, and Frodo stood trembling with his eyes shut tight in the awful silence.
“Why, Frodo,” he heard someone say at last. “What are you doing here, lad?” It was Bilbo’s voice, warm and homely and full of puzzled affection and no anger at all, and that undid Frodo completely. He sobbed something wordless and turned toward Bilbo and Thorin, then fell senseless on the silken floor.
Someone was carrying him, he realized, someone was holding him in his arms. He blinked and focused to see Thorin’s face above him, dear and familiar even beneath the heavy jeweled diadem.
“You gave us a start, child,” said Thorin.
“But whatever are you doing here?” Bilbo said. “How did you--”
“--I just wanted to know!” cried Frodo, struggling to sit up in Thorin’s arms. “Everyone said terrible things about where you went to the north and I wanted to know--you couldn’t be meeting with robbers and thieves, like they said--”
“Oh dear,” said Bilbo, and there was a smile in his voice.
“But now I find out you’re--” Frodo’s voice caught. “--You’re kings.”
“I am merely a former king,” said Thorin gravely.
“And I never was a bit of one, how ridiculous,” said Bilbo. “I only wear these gewgaws because everyone else is and I don’t want to make you all uncomfortable, you know.”
A warm ripple of laughter chased around the table.
“Though I must admit,” Bilbo went on, “That there is a daunting amount of nobility at the table. But they’re not all that impressive once you get to know them--” There was an indignant snort that seemed to come from Denethor, but Bilbo ignored it. “--So sit up, lad, and let us make some proper introductions.”
Frodo sat up, still a bit shaky but comforted by having Thorin’s arms around him. Cousin Thorin would never let anything bad happen to him.
Bilbo put one hand behind his back and bowed to the assemblage, then cleared his throat. “Everyone, this is Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo Baggins and Primula Baggins, who was once a Brandybuck. He is my cousin--well, second cousin, but cousin is much simpler. Now, let’s see. Frodo, I suppose propriety requires that I start with Estel--that is to say, Aragorn son of Arathorn, High King of Gondor and Arnor.”
Estel--who was clearly not a bandit at all--nodded gravely, smiling at Frodo.
“And his lady is Arwen Evenstar, High Queen of Gondor and Arnor, daughter of the Lord of Rivendell.”
The dark-haired elf beside Estel smiled at Frodo, and Frodo--who had lost his heart to her the moment he saw her--blushed and tried not to hang his head.
Frodo tried to remember everyone’s names, but each person seemed more majestic and amazing than the one before, from “Dís Mithril-lock, slayer of the Witch-King of Angmar and Queen Mother of Erebor” to “Denethor, ruler of Pelargir,” to “Legolas and Gimli, Lords of Barad-dur.”
“Huasum, please,” said the red-haired dwarf with a wince.
“That’s Nurnian for ‘gift,’” said the elf who must be Legolas. “New names for fresh times.”
“Ah, very well,” said Bilbo. “It’s a much prettier name, certainly.”
“You have yet to come and visit us,” Legolas said with a small smile. “I believe you would enjoy the gardens that grow there now. Come and bring young Frodo with you sometime,” he added.
Frodo gasped at the thought. “Oh, please! Is it farther than Bree?” he burst out, and everyone laughed, but somehow Frodo no longer feared their laughter.
“It’s a bit farther,” said Bilbo. “But perhaps some day.” He smiled at Thorin, a smile that was affectionate yet melancholy at the same time, in ways Frodo sensed but could not understand. “It would be pleasant to see those lands again, free of the shadow, grown more soft and gentle.”
Thorin looked at Bilbo in that way that always made Frodo feel awkward and happy at the same time to see. “It would indeed.”
Gandalf was the only figure there that Frodo didn’t feel intimidated by, for he had met the old wizard before. He looked out of place in his gray robes and battered hat among all the splendor, but when he winked at Frodo somehow Frodo felt better.
They feasted through the night and Frodo watched the revelries with wide eyes and drank in the conversations all around him. It seemed that Lady Dís’s elder son had just been re-elected to some important position, and that her grandson was growing up healthy and strong. Something called “Ents” were still living near Erebor, but were growing restless to move on--“Although,” Dís said, laughing, “it took them two years to even decide to start debating it!” Denethor had recently traveled to someplace called Saynshar and met with its ruler to discuss trade treaties, and had visited something called “Wainriders” and returned with a cat as a gift for his wife. “Bachai insisted on it,” he said. “She said it would be a valuable companion to my first-born son--and here is a wonder, for Finduilas was not yet expecting a child at the time.” He grimaced. “I mislike prophecy and cats both, but it is unwise to turn down a gift from a wizard.”
“You are learning wisdom, Denethor!” said Gandalf from around the stem of his pipe.
Gimli and Legolas described the great hanging gardens they had built in some place which apparently had once been named “Mordor.” “Such wonders of construction,” said Gimli, waving his hands. “The people of Nurn are nearly as skilled in such things as the dwarves, and Legolas has made them bloom with flowers of all kinds, like, uh--marigoroses? Snap-peonies? Lilacilies? I can never remember the names,” he muttered, blushing.
“Suffice to say there is beauty where once there was only wasteland,” said Legolas with a smile. “We grow fruits and vegetables aplenty as well, and the children of Nurn wax strong and healthy.”
Everyone cheered, and Dís wiped tears from her eyes.
The first rays of sunlight were peeking into the tent when Bilbo rose. “And now I’m afraid we must return to the Shire.”
Sounds of disappointment from all around. “So soon?” said Arwen. “You just arrived.”
“Poor Primula and Drogo will be out of their minds with worry,” Bilbo said, patting Frodo on the head. “We must get this lad back home.”
“I’m sorry,” said Frodo, tears welling up in his eyes again. “You have to leave your friends so soon, and it’s all my fault.”
“Never you mind,” said Bilbo. “We’ll be coming back next year, after all. And perhaps next time you can come along as an invited guest, eh?”
“Oh! Yes!” Frodo squeaked, blushing to the tips of his ears. Everyone bid them farewell, and Arwen kissed his forehead, which made him blush even hotter.
He fell asleep on the ride home, resting in Cousin Thorin’s strong arms.
After that he grew even closer to his cousins, though for long years he never told a soul about what he had seen, and sometimes he could almost feel it had all been a dream. But he went back with them to the ruined city on the lake called Annúminas the following spring, and this time met Théoden, who taught him how to properly hold a sword despite Thorin’s protests, and quickly became Frodo’s favorite. It was still strange to see the High King gravely discussing plans for rebuilding the city with Thorin and Bilbo, but it wasn’t as overwhelming this time. And Frodo was looking forward to his third trip north when the world fell apart around him and all thought of joy departed for a time.
Dazed in the wake of tragedy, he was hardly aware of the world around him and entirely forgot about the planned trip. Bilbo quietly made space for himself on the sofa in Frodo’s house, Thorin came over every day to help sort through things, and only later did Frodo realize that they must have canceled their annual journey to care for him.
It was only much, much later that he found out that Thorin and Bilbo had argued over what was to be done with their orphaned cousin. Bilbo later admitted that he had felt Frodo should go to live in Brandy Hall, “where you could be with other young folk and not cooped up with two old fuddy-duddies.” But Thorin had argued that Frodo needed a more stable and quiet base, and that his friends could come visit him, and it was his voice that carried the day.
“And I do not know if it was better for you that it worked out this way,” Bilbo said to Frodo once, many years later, “But I freely admit it was better for us to have you around. Added years to my life, it did.”
Frodo was sixteen years old when he and his cousins went on the first of what they came to call their Great Rambles. By now Frodo had studied the maps in the Bag End library carefully and was aware of how wide the world was beyond Bree, but he still was not prepared for all the wonders he saw in that journey. They went to Khazad-dûm, where yet another king greeted Bilbo and Thorin as equals and showed them the great monument being built to people called Dwalin and Galadriel, on the border between dwarf-territory and the most amazing forest Frodo had ever seen. They visited a place called the Greenwood, whose ruler was notably less friendly to them, but gave them food and hospitality and hurried them on their way. And they came at last to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, and Frodo loved it from the moment he saw it rising above the waters of the lake, crowned with clouds.
Dís was there to greet them and introduce Frodo to her sons and her grandchildren, who stared at Frodo with large, solemn eyes and then invited him to go goat-racing on the slopes of the mountain. They stayed for two weeks in Erebor, and Frodo was treated like a prince indeed and draped with gems and silver by all and sundry, much to Thorin’s disapproval.
“It will go to his head,” Thorin grumbled, plucking a diamond-encrusted circlet from Frodo’s curls and glaring at it.
“Stuff and nonsense,” Bilbo laughed. “Frodo is a sensible hobbit, after all.”
As it turned out, Frodo gave back all the gifts but one before he left--a cleverly made penknife that concealed a variety of tools within its filigreed case, given to him by Kíli. “I told you so,” smirked Bilbo as they lifted their packs once more.
They had the most astonishing traveling companions Frodo had ever imagined as they turned south--what seemed like walking, talking trees, a whole forest of them, led by someone called “Wandlimb.” Frodo spent days perched on her shoulder, watching the leagues being eaten up by her long, steady stride, marveling at the wideness and beauty of the world.
They came at last to the borders of a forest greater and darker than any Frodo had ever even imagined, and Wandlimb put him down carefully. “And now for our reunion!” she said, gazing into the forest with her deep bright eyes, and the leaves in her hair rustled as if she were trembling. She looked at Bilbo, and Frodo was shocked to see a desperate anxiety there. “What if they do not wish to see us?” she whispered. “What if they say it is too late?”
Bilbo reached out and took Wandlimb’s huge bark-skinned hand in his small pale one and patted it reassuringly. “It’s never too late if you love truly,” he said.
Wandlimb looked at the ents behind her, swaying and creaking with nervous longing. She threw back her gnarled shoulders and nodded. “Peace and health be with you, small ones,” she said. “And thank you.”
Then she and the other ents moved into the forest, and the shadows slowly swallowed them up, and Frodo could hear them singing one of their low, long songs as they went. It was full of sorrow and hope, and for a time that was all Frodo could hear.
And then there was an answering call, deeper and gruffer, a clarion of surprise and joy. There was a great rustling, and Frodo sensed huge shadows deep in the wood hurrying--hurrying!--to where Wandlimb and her people were. The two songs came together, melody and harmony, and both were resonant with apology and forgiveness that gave way to delight.
The sun disappeared behind the hills to the east; the last rays of its light pierced Fangorn Wood, and Frodo thought for just a moment he saw two figures deep within the wood, their branches entwined. Then the light was gone, and Bilbo sighed and turned away from the forest. “It’s never too late,” he said, and Thorin put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him close.
They traveled back West from there, though Frodo wept to not see Rohan and Gondor and Saynshar. “We’ll see them on another trip,” Bilbo reassured him, though he was wiping at his own eyes. “There’ll be more,” he promised. And Frodo did in time drink mead in Edoras, and play at being rangers with the sons of Denethor as the sea-birds of Pelargir called overhead, and walked the shores of the Sea of Nurn, and many other things besides. But in this year they had to return to the Shire, and so they did.
They stopped once more at Khazad-dûm, where its king gave them an invitation written in gold leaf on the finest vellum to be delivered to Belba Bolger, to see if she were willing to pass some time with her old friend Balin. (Auntie Belba was packed and in a caravan heading east within a week of receiving the invitation). And they stopped in Bree to do some shopping and rest before the final push back to Bag End.
“It’s strange,” Frodo said to Bilbo, looking around at the wooden shops and colored banners of Bree. “I would have expected that after all I’ve seen, Bree would seem smaller and shabbier in comparison. But it doesn’t. It just seems...different. A piece of something bigger.”
Bilbo clapped him on the back. “You’re wiser than I was at your age, lad,” he said. “But then, you’ve had Thorin for a teacher, and that will widen anyone’s horizons.”
“And I had you for a teacher in turn,” said Thorin with a smile, “And so it all comes full circle.”
That was only the first of their Great Rambles together. In later years Frodo would bring some of his friends along as well, and Bilbo would grumble about being a chaperone to a bunch of rowdy fauntlings at his age, and Thorin would lecture them all about history until their eyes glazed over, and they were some of the finest times of Frodo’s life. They traveled north and south and east and saw many great wonders and made many fast friends. But all that was still in the future the day Thorin and Bilbo asked Frodo to accompany them west, to see a place they called Mithlond. Frodo and Bilbo were on ponies, and Thorin was mounted on his trusty Petunia, who pranced happily to be out on the road again. Bilbo was in a cheerful mood, but Frodo couldn’t help but notice that Thorin seemed uneasy and tense, lost in unsmiling thought as they rode west.
The Grey Havens were not as grand or glorious as other places Frodo had seen, but there was an achingly sweet beauty to the sweeping buildings that caught the light of the setting sun. Frodo stared in wonder at the great grey sea, stretching out to the horizon in unbroken waves topped with white foam, and almost didn’t notice when a tall figure emerged from the gate of the city and bowed deeply Bilbo and Thorin. “Ringbearers,” he said, straightening, “Thank you for coming to the Grey Havens.”
Thorin and Bilbo startled Frodo by bowing even more deeply in return; Thorin put a gentle hand on Frodo’s back and Frodo bowed as well, though he couldn’t resist peeking up, and saw the elf smiling down at him. “My Lord Círdan,” said Bilbo. “We thank you for the invitation.”
“Is this Frodo? Arwen had much to say about him when last we spoke,” said Círdan, which reduced Frodo to a blushing wreck for some time. He turned to Frodo’s cousins and said, “Elrond wrote me about your...situation.” Bilbo and Thorin shared a glance that Frodo couldn’t interpret. “Walk with me.”
Together they walked along a pathway made of crushed seashells, pearly-grey and white, lined with fragrant herbs and flowers, into the heart of a city both beautiful and oddly sad. It was a city of farewells, Frodo found himself thinking, and wasn’t sure what that meant. Elves bowed to them as they walked past, or murmured salutations--everyone seemed to know who Bilbo and Thorin were, although Bilbo had said they’d never been to the Grey Havens before.
They came at last to the shore, and Frodo could see a great many ships moored in the harbor, bobbing gently in the waves as the sea-birds milled around them. The ships were all beautiful, but when Frodo saw the framework high on the beach, among the sea-grasses, he caught his breath in wonder.
A small ship was being built there--so far just the bare beams of the hull, curving like the ribs of a strange and lovely animal. The beams were of a silvery wood that almost seemed to glow in the gentle sunlight, and there was a sweeping grace to its form that somehow brought tears to Frodo’s eyes.
As they drew closer, Frodo heard a sudden rustle of great wings, and to his shock a huge eagle plummeted from the sky and landed on the skeletal prow of the ship. It was large enough that it could pick up Frodo like a rabbit and carry him off, and for a moment Frodo felt his heart thump in panic. But then eagle tilted its head and regarded him, and Frodo realized its eyes were a pure, deep blue, like no bird’s he had ever seen before. At the touch of that gaze, all fear left him, turned to a calm awe. The eagle turned its look to Bilbo and Thorin and for long moment of silence regarded them impassively. Frodo felt Thorin draw a long, slow breath and realized that he was trembling--Cousin Thorin, trembling! Frodo felt utterly cast adrift and waited in silence until the eagle spread its wings wide and called out once, a sharp, almost triumphant shriek. Then it clapped its wings and soared upward into the sky until it was lost to sight among the vast blue.
Círdan turned to Bilbo and Thorin and bowed again. “It is decided. This is your ship,” he said. “And one day it will bear you to the uttermost west, where you will receive healing for your soul and joy for your heart, until the day that you pass beyond this world to the fate that awaits the Secondborn.”
“And by ‘you,’” Bilbo said sharply, his voice harsher than Frodo had ever heard it, “you mean…”
Círdan smiled. “I mean both of you together, Master Bilbo. You and Thorin Oakenshield will not be parted, in life or in death. So it has been decreed, from the highest authority in all of Arda.”
Frodo heard a hoarse sound next to him and realized, to his complete and final shock, that Thorin had bowed his head and was sobbing, his shoulders shaking. Bilbo stood on tiptoe to put his arm around his shoulder and kiss the side of his head.
“I wouldn’t have let them separate us anyway,” Bilbo said placidly.
Thorin laughed through his tears, and Círdan nodded gravely. “I have no doubt of it at all,” he said.
They stayed at the Grey Havens for three days, though Thorin--his good humor restored--complained constantly about cold, damp elvish cities. The elves of Mithlond sang songs about the sea outside his window to tease him, and made necklaces of shells for Frodo, and taught Bilbo how to cook fish crusted in salt. And then the three of them came home, following the road back through the Tower Hills into the Shire once more. It rained much of the way, but Thorin’s eyes sought out Bilbo’s often and often as they traveled, and he sang almost all of the way home.
Frodo caught, here and there in his songs, the Khuzdul words for “the sea,” and “the West,” and “love.”
Chapter Summary: From Frodo's childhood to his young adulthood, his cousins Thorin and Bilbo were always a part of his life.
Relationship/Characters: Thorin/Bilbo; Frodo
Fandom: Hobbit/Lord of the Rings.
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5000
Summary: Excerpts from the Red Book of Westmarch, in which can be found the tales of various characters from Clarity of Purpose: their histories, their lives, and their passing.
For Frodo Baggins, son of Primula and Drogo Baggins, there was never a time when Cousin Bilbo and Cousin Thorin were not in his life. From when he was just a tiny baby, his mother would tell the story of how they had saved Bag End for them. “And then Lobelia swept in like a dragon,” his mother would say with an appropriate whooshing gesture, “and tried to snap it up! But we were there, yes we were, and we said…” It was like a tale from an old book, and he never grew tired of hearing it.
Once he was old enough, he would walk to Thorin’s forge just to watch him work, wide-eyed at the clatter and heat of the forge, breathless at the way his cousin could coax metal to do his bidding. “You’re like a wizard,” he said once, and Thorin had laughed.
“I’m much better than a wizard,” Thorin had said. “I’m a dwarf.” When Frodo was a little older the old man Bilbo called Gandalf came to visit, and when Frodo found out he was a wizard, he was inclined to agree with Thorin that a dwarf seemed vastly superior.
Sometimes Frodo would lie on the floor of Bilbo’s study and read one of his books, feeling the paper under his fingers and the staring at the pictures. Bilbo would write in his own book, but whenever Frodo asked to see it Bilbo would just laugh and close it, saying “Not until I finish it, lad.”
Frodo wondered sometimes about the contents of that book, which Bilbo kept in a locked chest. It was one of the few mysteries about Cousin Frodo and Cousin Thorin, who otherwise were such simple, easy-going folk. He wondered if it was connected to the other mystery about his cousins: the mystery of their trips up north.
For every year in the spring, Thorin and Bilbo would pack up a small case and bid the Shire farewell, and travel north for a week. “Just to visit some old friends,” they would say with a smile, but the Shire never tired of gossiping about who these “old friends” could be. Blackguards and mercenaries, some people thought. Dwarves from the Blue Mountains, others argued. Most agreed that there must be something a trifle unsavory going on--there was no other good reason to travel north, after all, when all that was necessary in life could be found in the Shire or Bree. But no one had any proof, so it remained idle chatter.
But Frodo found himself thinking about it, and dwelling on it, and when he was still very small he resolved to solve this mystery once and for all.
The year he turned ten, he stowed away in the wagon that was taking his cousins north. Hiding under a tarp, jolted back and forth as the wagon bumped along the rutted road, he felt his heart hammering as he realized that he was leaving the Shire for the first time in his life.
“I wish Estel would get this road fixed,” he heard Bilbo complain from the front of the wagon.
“He promised not to interfere in Shire business,” Thorin said. “Besides, so few people but us take this road.”
Who was this mysterious “Estel,” and why had he promised not to interfere in the Shire? Frodo wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in anticipation--maybe Estel was a bandit king, and Thorin and Bilbo were secretly his agents in the Shire! Frodo whiled away the long trip by imagining that the wicked Estel was planning to break his promise and attack the Shire. Thorin would break his vow of fealty to the brigand and defend the Shire, and Estel would try to stab him, but Frodo would throw himself before the blade, sacrificing himself for his cousins! His eyes welled up with tears as he imagined Bilbo gathering him in his arms, stricken with grief at the pure heroism of his innocent cousin. Thorin would cut his hair short in mourning, and they would bury him beneath the beech tree and give the most beautiful speeches…
He was still imagining them when he drifted off to sleep.
He woke up with a start and realized that the wagon wasn’t moving anymore. All was quiet, the wagon empty, and Frodo felt a brief stab of panic. Scrambling out from under his tarp, he peeked out of the wagon--and stared in wonder.
A huge lake, bigger than anything he had ever seen, glinted in the light of the setting sun, and at its verge were great marble columns and arches, most of them broken and desolate, overgrown with ivy and interspersed with willows. But there were also tents set up among the ruins, silken tents of cerise and azure and violet, with gold and silver banners trailing from them. Frodo could hear music and laughter coming from the largest tent; blinking and nervous, he tiptoed toward it, and under cover of a server carrying a platter, slipped inside.
And there a sight met his eyes that made him blink in wonder and amazement.
At a long table, draped with pure white linen and set with crystal and silver, sat a host of people, each more astonishing than the last. There were men, and dwarves, and--Frodo caught his breath--those must be elves as well. All of them were clad in bright raiment, adorned with gems that sparkled in the light of the lamps.
And at the center of the table were seated his cousins.
His cousins, his simple kind cousins, dressed in velvets and silks, with jeweled diadems on their brows, laughing and talking with these grand people as if they were friends, as if they were legends themselves.
Frodo felt rooted in place, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe as one of the men--a tall, dark-haired man with keen gray eyes--stood and lifted his goblet and addressed the company:
“Comrades! Once again we come from the far corners of the world to pay homage to the Ringbearers, may their memory never fade and their valor never be forgotten.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Denethor,” said Bilbo, “I’m never letting you make this toast again; you’re always so very pompous about it.”
Denethor smiled fondly at Bilbo, and Frodo felt his heart thump against his ribs as he realized that everyone had lifted their glasses and was looking at Thorin and Bilbo. As if this toast--to these grand and glorious Ringbearers--was to Frodo’s cousins!
“Very well,” said Denethor. “I shall keep it simple, for your sake. To the Ringbearers, then. To the King Under the Mountain and his consort. To Thorin and Bilbo.”
Everyone lifted their glasses and drank as Frodo gaped in wonder.
Denethor went on: “We drink also to our friends who could not be here this year, as they shall drink to us in another. We drink to Bachai and Pallando, and we drink to Théoden, king of Rohan, who has stayed at Edoras to await the birth of his firstborn.”
Everyone lifted their cups and repeated the names, then drank.
“And if I may indulge in some news of my own,” Denethor said, “I am unlikely to be here next year, for I have recently learned that my own dear Finduilas is to bear our first child by the close of the year.”
“Huzzah!” cried Bilbo, lifting his glass.
Denethor beamed for a moment, then coughed and looked solemn, although there was a glint of laughter in his eyes. He turned to address the elf and man sitting close together in matching dark green robes, saying, “If that rustic horse-lord were here, I am certain he would say something that implied the two of us had proven our vigor and prowess and the world was now waiting on such proof from its high king.”
Hoots of groaning laughter; Bilbo cupped his hands around his mouth and booed.
“But as he is not here,” Denethor said quickly, “Nothing so uncouth will mar our refined and esteemed gathering.”
“Hear hear,” the dark-haired elf-maiden said gravely, her eyes sparkling. “Thank you for your restraint, my lord.”
Denethor bowed and sat back down, and the conversations and music started once more. Frodo felt nearly dizzy: never in his wildest dreams had he imagined a scene like this. The crystal and lights seemed to spin around him and he felt an awe that was close to terror grip him--he had to get away without anyone noticing him, he knew suddenly. He felt small and grubby and overwhelmed, and he couldn’t bear the thought of all these grand people staring at him, laughing at the little Shire lad with his dirty feet and rumpled curls, so far from home, so ignorant.
He turned to slip away from it all, to hide in the darkness--and ran into a server carrying a heavy tray heaped with dishes.
Silver and crystal crashed to the ground, shattering around Frodo, who covered his head with his hands, quailing. The music stopped, the conversations halted, and Frodo stood trembling with his eyes shut tight in the awful silence.
“Why, Frodo,” he heard someone say at last. “What are you doing here, lad?” It was Bilbo’s voice, warm and homely and full of puzzled affection and no anger at all, and that undid Frodo completely. He sobbed something wordless and turned toward Bilbo and Thorin, then fell senseless on the silken floor.
Someone was carrying him, he realized, someone was holding him in his arms. He blinked and focused to see Thorin’s face above him, dear and familiar even beneath the heavy jeweled diadem.
“You gave us a start, child,” said Thorin.
“But whatever are you doing here?” Bilbo said. “How did you--”
“--I just wanted to know!” cried Frodo, struggling to sit up in Thorin’s arms. “Everyone said terrible things about where you went to the north and I wanted to know--you couldn’t be meeting with robbers and thieves, like they said--”
“Oh dear,” said Bilbo, and there was a smile in his voice.
“But now I find out you’re--” Frodo’s voice caught. “--You’re kings.”
“I am merely a former king,” said Thorin gravely.
“And I never was a bit of one, how ridiculous,” said Bilbo. “I only wear these gewgaws because everyone else is and I don’t want to make you all uncomfortable, you know.”
A warm ripple of laughter chased around the table.
“Though I must admit,” Bilbo went on, “That there is a daunting amount of nobility at the table. But they’re not all that impressive once you get to know them--” There was an indignant snort that seemed to come from Denethor, but Bilbo ignored it. “--So sit up, lad, and let us make some proper introductions.”
Frodo sat up, still a bit shaky but comforted by having Thorin’s arms around him. Cousin Thorin would never let anything bad happen to him.
Bilbo put one hand behind his back and bowed to the assemblage, then cleared his throat. “Everyone, this is Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo Baggins and Primula Baggins, who was once a Brandybuck. He is my cousin--well, second cousin, but cousin is much simpler. Now, let’s see. Frodo, I suppose propriety requires that I start with Estel--that is to say, Aragorn son of Arathorn, High King of Gondor and Arnor.”
Estel--who was clearly not a bandit at all--nodded gravely, smiling at Frodo.
“And his lady is Arwen Evenstar, High Queen of Gondor and Arnor, daughter of the Lord of Rivendell.”
The dark-haired elf beside Estel smiled at Frodo, and Frodo--who had lost his heart to her the moment he saw her--blushed and tried not to hang his head.
Frodo tried to remember everyone’s names, but each person seemed more majestic and amazing than the one before, from “Dís Mithril-lock, slayer of the Witch-King of Angmar and Queen Mother of Erebor” to “Denethor, ruler of Pelargir,” to “Legolas and Gimli, Lords of Barad-dur.”
“Huasum, please,” said the red-haired dwarf with a wince.
“That’s Nurnian for ‘gift,’” said the elf who must be Legolas. “New names for fresh times.”
“Ah, very well,” said Bilbo. “It’s a much prettier name, certainly.”
“You have yet to come and visit us,” Legolas said with a small smile. “I believe you would enjoy the gardens that grow there now. Come and bring young Frodo with you sometime,” he added.
Frodo gasped at the thought. “Oh, please! Is it farther than Bree?” he burst out, and everyone laughed, but somehow Frodo no longer feared their laughter.
“It’s a bit farther,” said Bilbo. “But perhaps some day.” He smiled at Thorin, a smile that was affectionate yet melancholy at the same time, in ways Frodo sensed but could not understand. “It would be pleasant to see those lands again, free of the shadow, grown more soft and gentle.”
Thorin looked at Bilbo in that way that always made Frodo feel awkward and happy at the same time to see. “It would indeed.”
Gandalf was the only figure there that Frodo didn’t feel intimidated by, for he had met the old wizard before. He looked out of place in his gray robes and battered hat among all the splendor, but when he winked at Frodo somehow Frodo felt better.
They feasted through the night and Frodo watched the revelries with wide eyes and drank in the conversations all around him. It seemed that Lady Dís’s elder son had just been re-elected to some important position, and that her grandson was growing up healthy and strong. Something called “Ents” were still living near Erebor, but were growing restless to move on--“Although,” Dís said, laughing, “it took them two years to even decide to start debating it!” Denethor had recently traveled to someplace called Saynshar and met with its ruler to discuss trade treaties, and had visited something called “Wainriders” and returned with a cat as a gift for his wife. “Bachai insisted on it,” he said. “She said it would be a valuable companion to my first-born son--and here is a wonder, for Finduilas was not yet expecting a child at the time.” He grimaced. “I mislike prophecy and cats both, but it is unwise to turn down a gift from a wizard.”
“You are learning wisdom, Denethor!” said Gandalf from around the stem of his pipe.
Gimli and Legolas described the great hanging gardens they had built in some place which apparently had once been named “Mordor.” “Such wonders of construction,” said Gimli, waving his hands. “The people of Nurn are nearly as skilled in such things as the dwarves, and Legolas has made them bloom with flowers of all kinds, like, uh--marigoroses? Snap-peonies? Lilacilies? I can never remember the names,” he muttered, blushing.
“Suffice to say there is beauty where once there was only wasteland,” said Legolas with a smile. “We grow fruits and vegetables aplenty as well, and the children of Nurn wax strong and healthy.”
Everyone cheered, and Dís wiped tears from her eyes.
The first rays of sunlight were peeking into the tent when Bilbo rose. “And now I’m afraid we must return to the Shire.”
Sounds of disappointment from all around. “So soon?” said Arwen. “You just arrived.”
“Poor Primula and Drogo will be out of their minds with worry,” Bilbo said, patting Frodo on the head. “We must get this lad back home.”
“I’m sorry,” said Frodo, tears welling up in his eyes again. “You have to leave your friends so soon, and it’s all my fault.”
“Never you mind,” said Bilbo. “We’ll be coming back next year, after all. And perhaps next time you can come along as an invited guest, eh?”
“Oh! Yes!” Frodo squeaked, blushing to the tips of his ears. Everyone bid them farewell, and Arwen kissed his forehead, which made him blush even hotter.
He fell asleep on the ride home, resting in Cousin Thorin’s strong arms.
After that he grew even closer to his cousins, though for long years he never told a soul about what he had seen, and sometimes he could almost feel it had all been a dream. But he went back with them to the ruined city on the lake called Annúminas the following spring, and this time met Théoden, who taught him how to properly hold a sword despite Thorin’s protests, and quickly became Frodo’s favorite. It was still strange to see the High King gravely discussing plans for rebuilding the city with Thorin and Bilbo, but it wasn’t as overwhelming this time. And Frodo was looking forward to his third trip north when the world fell apart around him and all thought of joy departed for a time.
Dazed in the wake of tragedy, he was hardly aware of the world around him and entirely forgot about the planned trip. Bilbo quietly made space for himself on the sofa in Frodo’s house, Thorin came over every day to help sort through things, and only later did Frodo realize that they must have canceled their annual journey to care for him.
It was only much, much later that he found out that Thorin and Bilbo had argued over what was to be done with their orphaned cousin. Bilbo later admitted that he had felt Frodo should go to live in Brandy Hall, “where you could be with other young folk and not cooped up with two old fuddy-duddies.” But Thorin had argued that Frodo needed a more stable and quiet base, and that his friends could come visit him, and it was his voice that carried the day.
“And I do not know if it was better for you that it worked out this way,” Bilbo said to Frodo once, many years later, “But I freely admit it was better for us to have you around. Added years to my life, it did.”
Frodo was sixteen years old when he and his cousins went on the first of what they came to call their Great Rambles. By now Frodo had studied the maps in the Bag End library carefully and was aware of how wide the world was beyond Bree, but he still was not prepared for all the wonders he saw in that journey. They went to Khazad-dûm, where yet another king greeted Bilbo and Thorin as equals and showed them the great monument being built to people called Dwalin and Galadriel, on the border between dwarf-territory and the most amazing forest Frodo had ever seen. They visited a place called the Greenwood, whose ruler was notably less friendly to them, but gave them food and hospitality and hurried them on their way. And they came at last to Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, and Frodo loved it from the moment he saw it rising above the waters of the lake, crowned with clouds.
Dís was there to greet them and introduce Frodo to her sons and her grandchildren, who stared at Frodo with large, solemn eyes and then invited him to go goat-racing on the slopes of the mountain. They stayed for two weeks in Erebor, and Frodo was treated like a prince indeed and draped with gems and silver by all and sundry, much to Thorin’s disapproval.
“It will go to his head,” Thorin grumbled, plucking a diamond-encrusted circlet from Frodo’s curls and glaring at it.
“Stuff and nonsense,” Bilbo laughed. “Frodo is a sensible hobbit, after all.”
As it turned out, Frodo gave back all the gifts but one before he left--a cleverly made penknife that concealed a variety of tools within its filigreed case, given to him by Kíli. “I told you so,” smirked Bilbo as they lifted their packs once more.
They had the most astonishing traveling companions Frodo had ever imagined as they turned south--what seemed like walking, talking trees, a whole forest of them, led by someone called “Wandlimb.” Frodo spent days perched on her shoulder, watching the leagues being eaten up by her long, steady stride, marveling at the wideness and beauty of the world.
They came at last to the borders of a forest greater and darker than any Frodo had ever even imagined, and Wandlimb put him down carefully. “And now for our reunion!” she said, gazing into the forest with her deep bright eyes, and the leaves in her hair rustled as if she were trembling. She looked at Bilbo, and Frodo was shocked to see a desperate anxiety there. “What if they do not wish to see us?” she whispered. “What if they say it is too late?”
Bilbo reached out and took Wandlimb’s huge bark-skinned hand in his small pale one and patted it reassuringly. “It’s never too late if you love truly,” he said.
Wandlimb looked at the ents behind her, swaying and creaking with nervous longing. She threw back her gnarled shoulders and nodded. “Peace and health be with you, small ones,” she said. “And thank you.”
Then she and the other ents moved into the forest, and the shadows slowly swallowed them up, and Frodo could hear them singing one of their low, long songs as they went. It was full of sorrow and hope, and for a time that was all Frodo could hear.
And then there was an answering call, deeper and gruffer, a clarion of surprise and joy. There was a great rustling, and Frodo sensed huge shadows deep in the wood hurrying--hurrying!--to where Wandlimb and her people were. The two songs came together, melody and harmony, and both were resonant with apology and forgiveness that gave way to delight.
The sun disappeared behind the hills to the east; the last rays of its light pierced Fangorn Wood, and Frodo thought for just a moment he saw two figures deep within the wood, their branches entwined. Then the light was gone, and Bilbo sighed and turned away from the forest. “It’s never too late,” he said, and Thorin put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him close.
They traveled back West from there, though Frodo wept to not see Rohan and Gondor and Saynshar. “We’ll see them on another trip,” Bilbo reassured him, though he was wiping at his own eyes. “There’ll be more,” he promised. And Frodo did in time drink mead in Edoras, and play at being rangers with the sons of Denethor as the sea-birds of Pelargir called overhead, and walked the shores of the Sea of Nurn, and many other things besides. But in this year they had to return to the Shire, and so they did.
They stopped once more at Khazad-dûm, where its king gave them an invitation written in gold leaf on the finest vellum to be delivered to Belba Bolger, to see if she were willing to pass some time with her old friend Balin. (Auntie Belba was packed and in a caravan heading east within a week of receiving the invitation). And they stopped in Bree to do some shopping and rest before the final push back to Bag End.
“It’s strange,” Frodo said to Bilbo, looking around at the wooden shops and colored banners of Bree. “I would have expected that after all I’ve seen, Bree would seem smaller and shabbier in comparison. But it doesn’t. It just seems...different. A piece of something bigger.”
Bilbo clapped him on the back. “You’re wiser than I was at your age, lad,” he said. “But then, you’ve had Thorin for a teacher, and that will widen anyone’s horizons.”
“And I had you for a teacher in turn,” said Thorin with a smile, “And so it all comes full circle.”
That was only the first of their Great Rambles together. In later years Frodo would bring some of his friends along as well, and Bilbo would grumble about being a chaperone to a bunch of rowdy fauntlings at his age, and Thorin would lecture them all about history until their eyes glazed over, and they were some of the finest times of Frodo’s life. They traveled north and south and east and saw many great wonders and made many fast friends. But all that was still in the future the day Thorin and Bilbo asked Frodo to accompany them west, to see a place they called Mithlond. Frodo and Bilbo were on ponies, and Thorin was mounted on his trusty Petunia, who pranced happily to be out on the road again. Bilbo was in a cheerful mood, but Frodo couldn’t help but notice that Thorin seemed uneasy and tense, lost in unsmiling thought as they rode west.
The Grey Havens were not as grand or glorious as other places Frodo had seen, but there was an achingly sweet beauty to the sweeping buildings that caught the light of the setting sun. Frodo stared in wonder at the great grey sea, stretching out to the horizon in unbroken waves topped with white foam, and almost didn’t notice when a tall figure emerged from the gate of the city and bowed deeply Bilbo and Thorin. “Ringbearers,” he said, straightening, “Thank you for coming to the Grey Havens.”
Thorin and Bilbo startled Frodo by bowing even more deeply in return; Thorin put a gentle hand on Frodo’s back and Frodo bowed as well, though he couldn’t resist peeking up, and saw the elf smiling down at him. “My Lord Círdan,” said Bilbo. “We thank you for the invitation.”
“Is this Frodo? Arwen had much to say about him when last we spoke,” said Círdan, which reduced Frodo to a blushing wreck for some time. He turned to Frodo’s cousins and said, “Elrond wrote me about your...situation.” Bilbo and Thorin shared a glance that Frodo couldn’t interpret. “Walk with me.”
Together they walked along a pathway made of crushed seashells, pearly-grey and white, lined with fragrant herbs and flowers, into the heart of a city both beautiful and oddly sad. It was a city of farewells, Frodo found himself thinking, and wasn’t sure what that meant. Elves bowed to them as they walked past, or murmured salutations--everyone seemed to know who Bilbo and Thorin were, although Bilbo had said they’d never been to the Grey Havens before.
They came at last to the shore, and Frodo could see a great many ships moored in the harbor, bobbing gently in the waves as the sea-birds milled around them. The ships were all beautiful, but when Frodo saw the framework high on the beach, among the sea-grasses, he caught his breath in wonder.
A small ship was being built there--so far just the bare beams of the hull, curving like the ribs of a strange and lovely animal. The beams were of a silvery wood that almost seemed to glow in the gentle sunlight, and there was a sweeping grace to its form that somehow brought tears to Frodo’s eyes.
As they drew closer, Frodo heard a sudden rustle of great wings, and to his shock a huge eagle plummeted from the sky and landed on the skeletal prow of the ship. It was large enough that it could pick up Frodo like a rabbit and carry him off, and for a moment Frodo felt his heart thump in panic. But then eagle tilted its head and regarded him, and Frodo realized its eyes were a pure, deep blue, like no bird’s he had ever seen before. At the touch of that gaze, all fear left him, turned to a calm awe. The eagle turned its look to Bilbo and Thorin and for long moment of silence regarded them impassively. Frodo felt Thorin draw a long, slow breath and realized that he was trembling--Cousin Thorin, trembling! Frodo felt utterly cast adrift and waited in silence until the eagle spread its wings wide and called out once, a sharp, almost triumphant shriek. Then it clapped its wings and soared upward into the sky until it was lost to sight among the vast blue.
Círdan turned to Bilbo and Thorin and bowed again. “It is decided. This is your ship,” he said. “And one day it will bear you to the uttermost west, where you will receive healing for your soul and joy for your heart, until the day that you pass beyond this world to the fate that awaits the Secondborn.”
“And by ‘you,’” Bilbo said sharply, his voice harsher than Frodo had ever heard it, “you mean…”
Círdan smiled. “I mean both of you together, Master Bilbo. You and Thorin Oakenshield will not be parted, in life or in death. So it has been decreed, from the highest authority in all of Arda.”
Frodo heard a hoarse sound next to him and realized, to his complete and final shock, that Thorin had bowed his head and was sobbing, his shoulders shaking. Bilbo stood on tiptoe to put his arm around his shoulder and kiss the side of his head.
“I wouldn’t have let them separate us anyway,” Bilbo said placidly.
Thorin laughed through his tears, and Círdan nodded gravely. “I have no doubt of it at all,” he said.
They stayed at the Grey Havens for three days, though Thorin--his good humor restored--complained constantly about cold, damp elvish cities. The elves of Mithlond sang songs about the sea outside his window to tease him, and made necklaces of shells for Frodo, and taught Bilbo how to cook fish crusted in salt. And then the three of them came home, following the road back through the Tower Hills into the Shire once more. It rained much of the way, but Thorin’s eyes sought out Bilbo’s often and often as they traveled, and he sang almost all of the way home.
Frodo caught, here and there in his songs, the Khuzdul words for “the sea,” and “the West,” and “love.”