The Haunting of Bag End

Credit goes to misscoconi

Summary:

Frodo Baggins is not in the habit of talking to spirits. Doing so makes people whisper about him, and whispers spread quicker than dandelion seeds in the Shire. Luckily for him, the dead are easy to ignore: they are wispy, dull-minded and stuck in their own fixed routines, and they hardly ever notice Frodo's passing glances.

The spirit that visits Mr. Bilbo every Wednesday without fail is none of those things.

Compared to the hustle and bustle of Brandy Hall, Frodo thinks life in Bag End is very much like finding the perfect spot in hide and seek. It is the relieved exhale after the seeker walks right by you. The moment you know you're safe and won't be found for hours and hours on end.

Except, of course, Bag End isn't a game and Frodo isn't hiding and nobody will yell at him to come out and leave. At least that's what Uncle Bilbo has promised him, repeatedly and at length, every day since he took him in less than a week ago.

Frodo wants to believe his uncle. He would like to stay here quite a lot. Bag End is big and peaceful and warm, Frodo has a spacious room of his own, he's allowed to eat as much as he'd like — They've left you scrawnier than a willow twig! How's luncheon and a snack sound, my lad? — and Mr. Bilbo is so, so kind. He doesn't look at Frodo with wariness or pity, and all he asks of Frodo is the occasional errand and that he doesn't disrupt him when he's writing. Even if Frodo is still hesitant around him, it's hard not to smile when Mr. Bilbo hides from Aunt Lobelia's visits, pressing a finger against his lips and winking at Frodo as if they were both in on something together.

Perhaps that's why people whisper behind Mr. Bilbo's back, too. Perhaps it is true that both of them are odd — two misshapen peas in a sun-withered pod.

The more time Frodo spends in Bag End, the more he learns about his uncle's little quirks and habits. For Mr. Bilbo, Wednesdays such as today are simply perfect for seed cake and tea after supper, so he sends Frodo to the market in search of caraway seeds and nutmeg. Frodo is happy to comply. Winter is slowly giving way to spring, and the very first hints of bluebells and daffodils can be seen all over Hobbiton in tiny specks of color. The air is crisp, but not stinging cold: ideal weather to run outside and wiggle your toes into the mud, watch the frost recede from ponds and creeks.

It is so lovely outside, in fact, that Frodo loses track of time wandering the market, nabbing a mushroom or two from Farmer Maggot's wheelbarrow (without getting caught!), and skipping stones with other fauntlings. By the time he returns to Bag End it is long past teatime, and he's extra careful to wipe his dirty feet on the doormat before padding over to Mr. Bilbo to apologize for his tardiness.

When he peeks into Mr. Bilbo's study, however, his uncle is not alone. There is someone peering over his shoulder as he writes, which is such an oddity that Frodo's apology dies in his throat. Uncle Bilbo doesn't allow anyone to look at his manuscripts, not even Frodo. Whoever this stranger is, he must be special.

And he certainly looks the part: this stranger is unlike any hobbit Frodo's ever met! He's incredibly tall and burly, with long dark hair streaked with silver and a thick beard under his beaky nose. He's dressed in furs and mail that look far too heavy to be comfortable, and his poor feet are imprisoned in strange contraptions made of leather and metal — boots, he recalls they're called.

Frodo winces at the sight. Maybe his feet are ugly and malformed? Hairless? What a most unlucky fellow if so! Frodo is quite proud of the bushy fur on his feet, and would weep bitterly if he woke one day to find it gone.

Though curiosity gnaws at him he couldn't possibly ask the stranger, nor would he dare interrupt such an important meeting (why, Frodo is hardly more than a guest himself!). So Frodo takes a careful step back then another, quiet as a mouse, and he retreats to the kitchen to put away the groceries. Perhaps Uncle Bilbo will tell him about his visitor as they bake the seed cakes, or over their late-night tea.

But when Mr. Bilbo comes out of his study nearly an hour later to prepare dinner, he makes no mention of the strange guest, and Frodo doesn't ask.

Frodo has almost forgotten about the unusual visitor by the time another Wednesday rolls around. By then he has helped in the kitchen enough to earn some trust around an open flame, so he's tasked with watching the oven while Mr. Bilbo rushes to his study to chase a fickle fit of inspiration. Frodo sits at the table and watches the clock like a hawk, fighting the urge to check the cakes prematurely and have them go poof. He leafs through one of Mr. Bilbo's recipe books, mumbling the letters he recognizes to pass the time.

It is teatime proper when the seed cakes come out, golden and fluffy and piping hot. Frodo's mouth waters. Certainly Mr. Bilbo won't mind sharing a couple of these now, will he? They're best when they're fresh after all. Writing must be hungry work!

Such thoughts bring him tiptoeing to Mr. Bilbo's study and, lo and behold, there's that odd stranger again! Even though Frodo didn't hear him come in! He's hovering close, his beard almost touching Mr. Bilbo's curls as he looks down, and this time Frodo gets a better look at him. There are braids and ornate beads on his hair and beard, and the deep furrows in his brow give him an air of severity that is almost frightening, but that isn't what gives Frodo pause.

It's the eyes: narrow and piercing blue like the sky after it rains. There is a fondness in them that reminds Frodo of his parents, of gentle chiding and hands clasped over the tablecloth, and once again Frodo is filled with the deep-bone certainty that he must not intrude. That this is Mr. Bilbo's business and his alone.

Frodo goes back to the kitchen in silence and watches steam waft off the cakes on the windowsill, rising to meet the roots of the oak tree on the roof. He nibbles on a few crumbs and hears a bird peck insistently on the bark, tack-tack, tack-tack, like a hammer on a nail.

A couple weeks come and go, and Frodo's life in Bag End settles into a comfortable routine. Every morning from breakfast until second breakfast, Uncle Bilbo teaches him how to read and write Westron properly, and Frodo takes a liking to it instantly. After that, they cook and garden. They dust and they sweep. Mr. Bilbo chases birds off the property and Frodo gets the mail. They go to the market together. On rare occasions, visitors come over for tea or dinner, and Frodo is more than welcome to sit at the table and entertain alongside. Sometimes Mr. Bilbo is in the mood to accept invitations, and he brings Frodo along with an encouraging smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Other times Mr. Bilbo is in his study all day and Frodo plays outside, and he always makes sure to bring his uncle something from his little adventures.

Through it all, Wednesdays remain the same: seed cakes and writing and the quaint visitor at four sharp. Frodo never hears him come in or leave, so he figures he must have his own set of keys or that Mr. Bilbo leaves the door unlocked for him. The two of them must speak in hushed tones, too, for Frodo never hears a peep no matter how much he strains his ears. It's all so mysterious! Frodo itches to ask, but how could he? What if Mr. Bilbo takes offense like his other relatives so easily do?

Instead, Frodo opts to make himself scarce when teatime comes around every Wednesday lest he give in to his curiosity if he stays indoors. There's plenty to keep him distracted outside, after all: spring has arrived in full breathtaking bloom, and fauntlings like Frodo have taken to weaving flower crowns with the most colorful and fragrant blossoms they can find. (And if those sometimes happen to come from someone's precious garden, well, avoiding capture is simply part of the fun.)

Frodo spends many hours practicing and perfecting his own: primrose and lavender and pansies woven into a circlet that is too big for his head, but hopefully perfect for Mr. Bilbo's — a thank you gift long overdue. It takes him three lopsided attempts to end up with a crown that won't break and looks the part. As soon as it's done, Frodo takes off running back to the smial, all but forgetting about the time and day in his excitement—

—and when he throws the front door open with a cheerful 'Mr. Bilbo, look!', he almost crashes into none other than the stranger himself. Frodo comes to a skidding halt a hair's breadth away from the visitor's waist. He hurriedly stumbles back.

"Oh, I'm so sorry sir! I didn't mean to!" Frodo squeaks, craning his neck to look the quaint hobbit in the eye. The stranger flinches and blinks owlishly back at him. My, is he tall! "Please, don't let me keep you! You must've been on your way, yes? Good afternoon and goodbye! Do come again!"

Frodo steps aside and holds the door open for him, fixing a pleasant smile on his face as he tries to keep his giddiness in check. He's finally talking to the stranger! Certainly Uncle Bilbo will introduce them next time he comes around, right? It is only polite and proper.

Except the stranger hasn't moved an inch, and he's gaping at Frodo as if he were the most bewildering thing he's ever seen. Frodo fidgets under the weight of his gaze, his grin slipping. Have the rumors reached him, too? Could he think ill of Frodo?

The stranger swallows thickly. "You—"

"Frodo-lad? Is there someone at the door?" Frodo hears more than sees Mr. Bilbo trot their way, half hidden by the hulking visitor in the middle of the foyer. The stranger's lips purse. Frodo opens his mouth to explain—

—and the wind is knocked out of him when Mr. Bilbo walks through the stranger like he's mist. As if he weren't there at all! Mr. Bilbo squeezes Frodo's shoulder and peers outside curiously, unaware that their visitor is already there, inches behind him, rubbing a hand over his chest where Mr. Bilbo's head just so casually phased through.

The stranger's eyes never once leave Frodo's, pinning him in place.

"You can see me." His voice is a deep rumble, hoarse with disbelief. Then the corners of his mouth quiver and suddenly Frodo can't bear the sight, can't bear the budding hope in the old fellow's features. Frodo's breath quickens. The flower crown slips from his limp fingers. He feels cold, cold, so dreadfully cold, like the waters of Brandywine River and what they dragged to their depths...

"Frodo?" The grip on Frodo's shoulder tightens. "Frodo-lad, are you unwell?"

Mr. Bilbo's voice is miles away. Muffled. Drowned. Frodo claws his way back to the surface, clinging to that warm hand like a lifeline. Don't let Uncle Bilbo see. This isn't happening. Not again.

"No, Mr. Bilbo. I... I'm fine." Frodo's throat aches. His ears ring. He sees the stranger open his mouth and reach towards him, and he pointedly jerks his gaze away. This isn't happening. "Must be hearing things in the wind, I— I'll be right back."

He hears Mr. Bilbo call after him, but Frodo can't stay. He runs with all his might across the Shire, until his legs burn and his chest heaves and he's all alone, curled up between the roots of an old gnarled tree. Only then does he clasp a hand over his mouth and let the merciless tide claim him, safe from the living and the dead alike.

Frodo Baggins is no stranger to spirits. He's been able to see them since he was little, since before he could put a name to the eerie silhouettes in the corners of his vision. Since before he understood where they come from. What death entails.

But awareness is one thing and disclosing it a completely different quagmire. The only person who ever believed Frodo without question was his mother. She'd sit with Frodo as he stared at seemingly empty air, asking him about the dead: what they did and what they looked like. If they were aware of Frodo at all. She'd call Frodo's sight a gift from the Valar — something precious and worth cherishing.

Frodo's father would ruffle his hair and tut about his wild imagination, but he never judged him for it or told him to keep it under wraps.

To everyone else and his relatives in particular, Frodo is a lost cause. Cracked. A pot of water boiling over. The Baggins like to sniff and say it came from that "awful Brandybuck in him", while the Brandybucks think the crazy comes from the Baggins side. Frodo didn't mind it much when he was smaller, when his parents were there to protect him. Perhaps he didn't notice.

Then Primula and Drogo hopped on a boat and they died and they lingered for a time, and that is something Frodo doesn't like to remember. It wasn't a pretty sight: they were stuck and disfigured and so very hurt, and none of Frodo's pleas ever got through to their drifting minds. Whenever Frodo cried about it, his relatives at Brandy Hall thought him mad and turned a blind eye, leaving Frodo to fend for himself.

Frodo's parents only left for good once Mr. Bilbo took him in. He thinks he saw them smile before they faded (or perhaps he just wants to believe he did).

So no, Frodo Baggins is not in the habit of talking to spirits or acknowledging their existence. Doing so makes people whisper about him, and whispers spread quicker than dandelion seeds in the Shire. Luckily for him, the dead are easy to ignore: they are wispy, dull-minded and stuck in their own fixed routines, and they hardly ever notice Frodo's passing glances. They feel very much like traces of a dream upon waking: scattered and just out of reach.

Mr. Bilbo's visitor is none of those things. He looks so solid and lifelike! Enough to trick Frodo for weeks into thinking he was alive! As the waves of grief recede and leave Frodo spent and haggard in his little nook in the woods, he realizes that the signs were always there — Mr. Bilbo would never fail to offer a guest a seat! Of course! — but how could he have known when not even his parents had... had...

No, Frodo drags a sleeve across his tear-stained face. As Mr. Bilbo would say, that's quite enough of that, thank you very much!

Frodo takes a shuddering breath and sits up straight. He ponders. The stranger is the first spirit to ever speak to him clearly and lucidly. It is terrifying, but he can't help but be incredibly curious. Who was he in life? Perhaps a Baggins Frodo never met? Frodo's hair and eyes are similar to his so it isn't that far-fetched, is it? Were he and Bilbo close? Why does he linger?

But this changes nothing: Frodo can't be talking to spirits around Mr. Bilbo. What if he thinks Frodo's lost his mind? He'd send him back, no doubt! He has enough rumors to deal with on his own. No, Frodo must appear normal if he wants to stay in Bag End with him. He must be good and dutiful and polite, and talking to (what appears to be) thin air is anything but.

So Frodo makes up his mind: for the sake of keeping his uncle, he can smother his curiosity and ignore the guest's presence henceforth. He must — he will — no matter what.

"I'm sorry I'm late."

The sun is sinking into the treetops by the time Frodo returns to Bag End. By then, the stranger is long gone, and the smell of roasted pork and hash wafting from the kitchen makes Frodo's stomach rumble. Frodo's feet ache and his throat is parched, and he does his damnedest not to look Mr. Bilbo in the eye — while he did wash his face thoroughly in a nearby pond, he knows he must look terrible. That it's obvious he's been crying.

Frodo clenches his fists. He doesn't want Mr. Bilbo to fret or, worse, ask questions he cannot answer.

But then warmth envelops him gently, clutching him to a steady heartbeat and clothes that smell like spices and pipeweed and home. A hand cups the back of his head and holds him still, and Frodo finds himself returning his uncle's embrace, burying his face into Mr. Bilbo's shoulder to stop a new wave of tears from spilling. It hurts, it hurts so bad, but he doesn't want to let go; doesn't want Mr. Bilbo to see.

Mr. Bilbo shushes him and hums under his breath, making no move to let go until Frodo reluctantly does. Frodo doesn't cry but it's a close thing, especially when Mr. Bilbo presses his forehead to his with the kindest of smiles.

"There's nothing to apologize for, my dear lad." He says, taking Frodo's hand in his. "Come, help me set the table."

Frodo nods and follows, eager to eat his first meal after an early luncheon. The table is already half set, and Frodo gasps when he notices a familiar flower crown set as a decorative centerpiece.

"Ah! I hope you don't mind I picked it up and set it here. It's too pretty a thing to have it languish somewhere out of sight. Made it yourself, didn't you?" Mr. Bilbo pipes in, handing over the cutlery. "Treasures like these ought to be displayed!"

Frodo flushes. "Not at all, Mr. Bilbo, I made it for you!"

"That so? Why, thank you kindly!" He ruffles Frodo's hair, then wiggles his nose in that thoughtful way of his. "I say we have something special for dessert to celebrate such a fine gift, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, yes, please!"

They load up their dishes and have a most pleasant meal, with Frodo telling Mr. Bilbo everything about the flowers he carefully picked and the other fauntlings' crowns. Mr. Bilbo hangs on to Frodo's every word with plenty of nods and appreciative comments, and when the time comes for dessert he brings out one of Frodo's favorites: a blackberry tart with fresh whipped cream that has Frodo drooling on the tablecloth, much to Mr. Bilbo's fond exasperation.

When Frodo takes a bite, he feels the last of that horrible cold of earlier recede, if only for one evening.

Frodo volunteers to do the dishes and Mr. Bilbo doesn't fight him. They stand side by side in comfortable silence, Frodo washing and Mr. Bilbo drying, until the sun fully sets and a few fireflies begin to wander into the garden. Frodo tries and fails to count them through the open window, wondering what it is that makes them glow.

"Sometimes I hear it too, you know?" Mr. Bilbo suddenly says in a low voice. Frodo makes a questioning sound. "Knocking at the door when nobody is there."

Frodo's hands go still. He steals a sidelong peek at Mr. Bilbo, but his uncle isn't looking at him — Mr. Bilbo's gaze is aglow with firefly light and a thousand miles away, somewhere Frodo's never been. Somewhere nice.

Somewhere lost.

"Sometimes it's a rustle by my side or footsteps behind me. Or I'll see—" Mr. Bilbo clutches the drying rag tightly, then his lips twitch and the grip eases. He blinks rapidly. "It becomes... less frequent as years go by, that much is good and true, but it never truly leaves. Not entirely."

Frodo can't swallow around the lump in his throat. For once, the dear memory of his parents' faces is eclipsed by that of the stranger with forlorn eyes, always hovering close to Mr. Bilbo. Every Wednesday without fail, come rain or shine.

Carefully, Frodo reaches out and touches the crook of Mr. Bilbo's arm. His mouth opens of its own accord. "Have you lost someone, too, Mr. Bilbo?"

Just like that, the light in Mr. Bilbo's gaze is snuffed out: his shoulders stiffen, and he looks away from the garden with a minute shake of his head. "Aye—yes, you could say that. But that's neither here nor there, is it, lad?" He closes the window and bumps Frodo's hip with his leg, gently but firmly shooing him away from the sink. "Now be a dear and fetch us your books while I finish this up, if you please. It does a troubled mind wonders to learn something new! I'll get the kettle going."

Frodo hesitates, but he doesn't pry. It's the least he can do: Mr. Bilbo had done him the same kindness earlier, and Frodo understands all too well not wanting to talk about things that seem too big to be spoken. Things that'll stick to your throat and choke you if you let them.

What Frodo does do is throw his arms around Mr. Bilbo's middle, even if his hands are still wet and soapy against his uncle's nice clothes. Just this once, he thinks he won't mind.

"Yes, Mr. Bilbo!"

Mr. Bilbo chuckles softly. "That's a lad! Off you go!"

Frodo gives him one last squeeze and hurries away.

"Oh, and Frodo?" Frodo turns to find Mr. Bilbo wiping his vest with a fond shake of his head. "Won't you drop the 'Mr.' already?"

Though the rest of the week is peaceful and pleasant as can be, Frodo spends most of it dreading the next Wednesday. He tells himself he's being silly: all he has to do is stay out of sight like he always does, then the spirit will be on his merry way before dinner. All ghosts abide by routines, and this one has been no exception so far. He should soon forget about Frodo. It'll be fine.

When Wednesday does inevitably come, Frodo figures it'll be safe enough to stay in the garden during the stranger's visit. Mr. Gamgee hasn't been able to tend to it as much since he has a new child to look after, so there's plenty of weeding to be done and a few seedlings that need a little care. Frodo would like to help Mr. Gamgee if he can — he's been nothing but kind to Frodo since he came to live in Bag End, and he often invites him and Bilbo over for dinner with his family. His children play with Frodo quite a lot; they're a rowdy, cheerful bunch.

Bilbo is stoked at Frodo's sudden interest in gardening. He leaves him a pitcher of fresh lemonade and a few highly specific pointers, and he promises to join him in "just a moment", though Frodo knows by now just how inaccurate that statement can be. Once Bilbo is in his study, Frodo rolls his sleeves and gets to work, losing himself in the repetitive motions and the soft rustling of leaves.

Until...

"We meet again."

Frodo's gardening fork slips from his hand. He recognizes that deep voice and the heavy boots standing near, leaving no footprints. Ah, he should've known things wouldn't be quite so simple.

Gritting his teeth, Frodo continues stirring the damp soil, and he doesn't look up.

"I know you can hear me, lad."

Frodo doesn't grace that with a reply either. He hears the stranger mutter something in harsh syllables that don't sound like Westron — how curious — before he tries again, sounding more desperate.

"Little one, please. I mean you and your uncle no harm. Won't you hear me out?"

Frodo doesn't budge. He keeps his eyes trained on the pea seedlings even though he's almost finished tending to them. Maybe the carrots need watering?

Then the stranger crouches before him and Frodo goes rigid, shooting him the briefest glance imaginable. The spirit is close enough to touch, but there is no warmth radiating off of him, no scent, no breeze stirring his furs.

"Won't you at least tell me which plants those are? They all look the same to me."

Frodo bristles. Oh, what a truly baffling thing to say! Any hobbit worth their name knows no two plants are one and the same! Frodo can't help the indignant huff that escapes him, and he bites his tongue, chastising himself under his breath.

The stranger's shoulders shake slightly. Is he... laughing?

"You hobbits and your plants. Bi— Mr. Baggins would already be regaling me with a long spiel on fruits and vegetables to rectify my ignorance." Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo sees him trace a tomato leaf with a finger. It phases through. "I'm afraid we dwarves have no green thumb to speak of. Our talents lie elsewhere."

Dwarves? This time Frodo catches himself before he starts running his mouth. His uncle has mentioned there are all sorts of people out there in the wide world beyond the confines of the Shire. Men and wizards and elves and, yes, dwarves. Frodo doesn't know much about them just yet: only that they're fierce warriors and that, where hobbits favor plants and mushrooms, dwarves are devoted to—

"Aye, that's more like it."

Frodo starts. He realizes he's been scraping his fork against a large slab of stone he dug up earlier, and that the dwarf's hand is hovering over it. A large hand, scarred and covered with intricate rings the likes of which Frodo's never seen before. Oh, Frodo wants so desperately to just give in and talk to him! To learn his name and who he is and why he's here. To ask him about dwarves. About Bilbo. About the dead.

Instead, Frodo scrambles to stand and bolts without a word. He hears the dwarf curse and call out, his voice trailing close behind him, but Frodo will not be dissuaded: he jumps over the garden fence and he runs and he doesn't stop until he realizes the dwarf has switched to shouting from a distance. That he's stopped following.

Warily, Frodo looks back at Bag End. It is the same beloved sight as ever, except for the forlorn shape of an old dwarf standing at the edge of the property, pushing against an invisible force that seems to keep him in. He stares at Frodo with weary, pleading eyes.

"Please, lad."

Frodo turns and runs away, feeling more and more wretched with each step.

After that incident, Frodo feels as though he's declared war on some great lord from one of Bilbo's bedtime stories. The spirit quits abiding by his own rules and starts showing up every day, at any time at all, following Frodo around Bag End like a second shadow — one that broods and pleads and mutters unintelligible oaths when ignored. The dwarf is stubborn to a fault. If it weren't for the fact he somehow can't follow Frodo past Bag End's fence, Frodo would've further fed the rumors and lost his wits in no time. Can't he see that Frodo wants nothing to do with him?!

(The dwarf doesn't need to know just how close Frodo grows to giving in with each passing day.)

As is, it doesn't take long for Frodo to spend most of his days away from home, blaming the warm weather whenever Bilbo inquires about his sudden change in behavior. The last thing Frodo needs is for his uncle to think he's avoiding him or that he dislikes his smial! That couldn't be farther from the truth!

But even wars have their truces. The dwarf will talk Frodo's ear off when he's alone, but never in Bilbo's company or around guests. He never follows Frodo into his room when it's time for bed and, oddly enough, he seems to have a hobbitish respect for meals: whenever Bilbo and Frodo sit at the table he keeps to the parlor, humming a low, somber tune that carries through the smial like the beating of a heart.

Frodo's end of the unspoken bargain remains the same: whenever the dwarf grows weary of Frodo's indifference and seeks Bilbo's company, Frodo swallows his guilt and grants them their privacy.

Only once does Frodo allow himself a little indulgence.

"Uncle Bilbo, could you tell me about dwarves?"

They're in the parlor after supper one night, shortly before Frodo's bedtime. Bilbo is reading an elvish poem to him, a beautiful ode to forests and ancient trees that leaves Frodo content and pleasantly drowsy as he sips on his chamomile tea. The dwarf is nowhere in sight, though Frodo thinks he still lingers.

His suspicion is confirmed when he sees the stranger appear at Bilbo's side in a flash, as if beckoned by Frodo's words.

Bilbo blinks at Frodo and clears his throat. "Whatever for, my lad?"

"No reason, I just—" Frodo stares at his cup, ignoring the spirit's burning gaze. "You've read me some elvish stories and told me a little about orcs and wizards and men, but there isn't much you've said about dwarves. What... what are they like?"

For a moment, Frodo thinks Bilbo won't answer; that he'll send him off to bed with some vague promise to talk about it at a different time. But then Bilbo sighs and closes his book, leaning back on his armchair.

"Dwarves are made to endure great hardship. Stone-hard, stubborn... bull-headed, the lot of them are!" Bilbo chuckles, and the spirit's gaze is drawn to him at once. "They're fast in friendship and in enmity. Proud of their beards and their craft and their secret language none other than a dwarf, and mayhaps a dwarf-friend, may learn."

"Dwarf-friend..." Frodo murmurs. "Are you a dwarf-friend?"

Bilbo pauses. His fingers absently crease the hem of his shirt, then twitch and let go. "...I'd like to think so, yes. Put up with their nonsense well enough, that's for certain! Although I don't know if... if they still..."

He stares languidly at the entrance hall, a resigned droop to his shoulders. Frodo doesn't know what to make of it, doesn't dare ask who 'they' are in case the shutters come back down and Frodo is left out again.

The spirit has no such reservations. He crouches before Bilbo and lifts a hand to the hobbit's face, close yet eons away.

"You're that and so much more," he says, along with yet another unfamiliar word. He utters it so tenderly Frodo squirms, feeling like an intruder. "For as long as our forges burn, to those that remain and us in the Halls." He glances at Frodo. "You and your kin."

Bilbo, of course, hears none of it. He shakes himself and carries on. "They belong to the mountains and their deep caverns. To the stone that sings to them as they carve and shape it anew. And oh, their songs!" He heaves a contented sigh. "Beware the music of the dwarves, my lad. One song is all it takes to wish you could follow them to the very ends of the world!"

The spirit draws back, eyebrows raised. His mouth opens again, but Bilbo beats him to it.

"They live longer than us hobbits, but not forever like the elves." Bilbo's gaze grows dull and distant. "Some of them leave sooner... far too soon."

Frodo's pulse is loud in his ears. The dwarf's presence becomes palpable, stifling, as if the parlor's walls were slowly closing in. He throws caution to the wind. "Is it dwarves you hear at the door, Uncle Bilbo?"

Bilbo's lips stretch into a tight smile, and with it the shutters rattle and snap close as if they'd never opened.

"Oh goodness, would you look at the time! I'm afraid we'll have to cut our storytime short, my lad. Little ones like you should be in bed!" He pats his thighs and stands up. Frodo would maybe believe Bilbo's nonchalance if it weren't for the clear tremor in his hands. "Off you go now, dear! Goodnight!"

And what is Frodo to do? He gives his uncle a hug and his goodnight, then retreats to his room with his heart heavier than ever. He wishes he could do something, anything for Bilbo. Anything that wouldn't put his life in Bag End at risk.

Sleep has almost claimed Frodo by the time he realizes the stranger had vanished without him noticing.

Later that night, Frodo wakes to moonlight on his face and a familiar tune rumbling through the walls, calling in the air. Before he's aware of even moving, Frodo pads to his window and cracks it open, letting the cool breeze chase his drowsiness away. The voice becomes clearer, richer, and Frodo realizes with a gasp that there are now words to the mysterious hum he's heard so many times.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,

While hammers fell like ringing bells

In places deep, where dark things sleep,

In hollow halls beneath the fells.

Frodo doesn't think: he scrambles onto the windowsill and slips one foot out then the other, following the voice with his heart beating wildly inside his chest.

He finds the dwarf under the great oak tree, standing tall with a hand pressed against the bark. His eyes flicker to Frodo's briefly before closing, his song burrowing ever deeper into the earth, into Frodo's ribcage, his very soul.

On silver necklaces they strung

The flowering stars, on crowns they hung

The dragon-fire, in twisted wire

They meshed the light of moon and sun.

Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away, ere break of day,

To claim our long-forgotten gold.

The more the dwarf sings, the more Frodo is filled with a love he's never known — a love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic. A fierce and a jealous love, one not even the merciless throes of death could ever hope to snuff out. He feels as if he were beholding the very heart of dwarvenkind, immovable and unyielding as the earth itself.

And as tears begin to brim in his eyes, Frodo thinks he understands his uncle's warning, the peril behind such music, the reason why the dwarf won't, couldn't possibly leave Bag End.

It feels as though many hours have passed by the time the song meets its end with one final, cavernous hum. Frodo sucks in a breath as if waking from a trance, the cries of owls and the hissing of wind through leaves only now reaching his ears. He finds himself sitting on a thick root, close to the dwarf. The dwarf is smiling at him.

"You're more like Mr. Baggins than you realize," he tells Frodo warmly, and whatever fight is left in Frodo leaves him in a rush.

"He's dear to you." Frodo whispers. "You love him."

The dwarf's eyes squeeze shut. "Aye."

Frodo's little heart gives a sharp pang.

"Who... who are you, sir? How are you here so far from your people?" Now that Frodo has allowed himself to talk there's no keeping his questions at bay: he reaches for the dwarf's sleeve and his fingers close around harsh emptiness. "Why do you look so—"

Alive.

"—so different from other spirits?"

"My name and its significance aren't mine to share, little one. Mr. Baggins must tell you himself, if he wills." The dwarf stares at his hand, turning it under the dappled moonlight. "When I'm not here, I'm with my felled kind in the Halls of my ancestors, where our Maker greets us and forges us anew so we can keep vigil until the renewal of all things. I stand before you as I was in life. As your uncle knew me."

Then the spirit touches the tree once more, pressing his palm flat against the bark. Frodo gasps as realization dawns: the hand doesn't phase through. "It is this tree that brought me here. Mr. Baggins planted it after our travels, after carrying its acorn for many treacherous miles. It appears I'm bound to it, to your uncle, for as long as it lives."

"The fence..." Frodo says, stunned. His eyes follow the tree's thick roots to where they embrace the smial and sink into the earth, resurfacing here and there just short of the property's edge. "You can't go beyond its roots."

"Aye. It isn't so bad now that it's grown into a tree proper, but your discovery certainly tested the limits of my patience, lad."

Frodo shifts uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."

The dwarf shakes his head. "Don't be. Yours is a heavy burden to carry, especially for one so young."

Frodo shudders. His vision has been called many things over the years — gift, plaything, madness — but not once has anyone seen it for what it truly is. Not until now. The dwarf's words wrap around Frodo like a mantle, its weight alien and grounding all the same.

There are still many questions Frodo aches to ask, and the impulse to flee hasn't quite gone away, but right now there is one thing he wants to do more than any other. Something he owes.

"We started off on the wrong foot, didn't we?" Frodo says, offering his hand with a watery smile. "It's... nice to meet you, Master Dwarf whose name I shan't ask. My name is Frodo Baggins."

The dwarf is stunned for a moment before he huffs a laugh. Then he mirrors Frodo in their almost-handshake, his expression earnest and strangely fond. "Likewise, lad. At your service."

And so, with a song and a new acquaintance, Frodo's life in Bag End begins to change. The dwarf's visits go from daily to a few a week — My kin were beginning to worry I wouldn't find my way back to the Halls! — and Frodo no longer avoids him. He welcomes the spirit's steadfast presence as he goes on about his chores and games, and they exchange a few quiet words here and there when nobody is listening; when the dwarf isn't by Bilbo's side.

Wednesdays remain largely the same, except for one detail: now that Frodo knows he isn't disrupting some secret rendezvous, he makes a point to always bring some buttered scones and honey tea to Bilbo's study. The scones because writing is indeed hungry work (if learning how to do it is anything to go by), and tea because Master Dwarf had let it slip that Bilbo often gets a dry throat when he's working (but is of course far too immersed to do anything about it). Every time he does, Bilbo ruffles his hair and the dwarf nods his gratitude, and Frodo takes his leave feeling a little lighter.

Sometimes Frodo is roused at night by the dwarf's orotund singing, and he sneaks outside to listen and have a little chat. He learns new songs and asks about the dwarf's language, arguing (quite eloquently, if he may say so himself) that he's earned the right to learn a few words. The dwarf acquiesces to a degree, but whenever Frodo asks about the words he uses for Bilbo he is quick to usher him back to bed. As if Frodo didn't know the first thing about endearments!

But Frodo is persistent and his questions ever-flowing. He inquires about the dwarf's family and the Halls, about smithing and jewels and steel. About that mysterious journey of his. About Bilbo. The dwarf's answers are often cryptic and unsatisfactory, but Frodo treasures every word, stowing them to slowly piece together the puzzle that is his new friend.

(And if the dwarf's replies are particularly vague, Frodo demands he be compensated with a round of hide and seek. Such games are, as a result, plentiful and frequent, with the dwarf always seeking lest he cheat by disappearing.)

Above all, Frodo makes it his utmost mission to learn the dwarf's name.

"I thought I was 'Master Dwarf whose name I shan't ask'," the spirit says with clear mirth, one warm night under the oak tree. "Your uncle—"

"Uncle Bilbo will never tell me! He withdraws when I bring up dwarves and I don't want to push him. It's not polite!" Frodo laments from his perch on a low branch, swinging his legs back and forth. He stifles a yawn. "And I couldn't possibly tell him about you! He'll think me mad and take me back from whence I came!"

"He would never, lad, he adores you. You comfort him more than you could ever imagine." The dwarf folds his arms and bows his head low. "I wouldn't blame him if he never wished to speak my name again. We... didn't part on the best of terms."

"Were you mean to him, Master Dwarf?"

"...Aye. I let my pride and my greed best me and paid the price dearly. Mr. Baggins bore witness to the worst of my folly, I was... hurtful. Dishonorable. Unfair." The dwarf's shoulders hunch, making him look awfully small. "He forgave me as I lay dying, but it was too late to make amends, much less the likes of which he deserves."

Frodo chews on the dwarf's words. They remind him of a particular spirit he sees often — a Cotton, most likely — who does nothing but sit atop his family's smial to repair a chimney that needs no mending, as if he'd left the chore unfinished when he passed. Once and only once had Frodo caved and offered him help, but the poor hobbit had simply muttered about lateness and elevenses and impending scoldings before carrying on with renewed urgency.

Now Master Dwarf may be far more cognizant than other spirits, but to Frodo his regrets seem just as stagnant. They're bog water, murky and foul — bad to drink, never to run free.

Frodo won't stand for such a thing this time around. "Well, he forgave you, didn't he?"

"He did, but—"

"Then that's that! Uncle Bilbo would've never said so if he didn't mean it!"

The dwarf shoots him a withering look. "I believe you hobbits have mastered the art of saying things you don't mean outright for the sake of propriety."

"Well, I certainly mean it!" Frodo pouts, folding his arms. "Whatever it is you did, I'm sure he's put it behind him. My father... he used to say holding grudges isn't good. It gives you heartburn!"

"Gives you heartburn..." The dwarf whispers. Frodo hears the ghost of a smile in his voice. "Aye, that's... I suppose there's a vein of truth in that."

"There certainly is!" Frodo nods sagely. "Uncle Bilbo just misses you."

"...And I him." The dwarf sighs. "I concede he might despite my actions, but there are others he cared for. The rest of my Company, they were always—" He cuts off abruptly, glancing up at Frodo with clear trepidation.

He groans when Frodo's face splits into a wide grin.

"So you and Uncle Bilbo did travel with many other dwarves! I knew it!" Frodo wastes no time dropping to the ground and bouncing on his toes, giving the dwarf his best pleading look. "Oh, won't you tell me about them, Master Dwarf? I only wish to know a little!"

"Mahal save me from hobbits!" The dwarf drags a hand down his face and beard, plopping down on a root with an air of defeat. Frodo giggles and sits in front of him, fidgeting with excitement. "Very well, lad. I'll tell you what I can."

It is only a matter of time before things come to a head after that. Frodo's puzzle is far from complete, merely just the edges of a gargantuan picture, but it's just enough for him to dare. To be brave.

"Frodo-lad? What are you—?"

Frodo hears Bilbo come in and stumble into a sudden halt, the sharp intake of breath that follows realization. He fights the immediate urge to apologize, to deflect, to pretend he isn't doing exactly what he's doing. He won't back down. Not this time.

Swallowing thickly, Frodo looks away from the old framed map in Bilbo's study and meets his uncle's wary gaze. He feels the dwarf's steady presence by his side, the ghost of his hand on his shoulder.

"Tread carefully, nidoyel." The dwarf says hoarsely, and it's all the encouragement Frodo needs to break the taut silence. His friend is counting on him.

"You've been here, haven't you, Uncle Bilbo?" Frodo's voice trembles. He points at a sharp peak depicted in black ink amidst strange notes and gnarled creatures: the Lonely Mountain. Erebor, the dwarf had called it. "You came here with a group of dwarves. You helped bring them home."

"How do you—?" Bilbo goes white as a sheet, and it's all Frodo can do not to flinch away from the fear and suspicion in his uncle's eyes.

This is it, Frodo thinks as Bilbo pats his vest pockets nervously, as something dark flashes over his features, as the dwarf's fingers phase through Frodo's shoulder in their futile grip. I better pack my things.

But then Bilbo lets out a trembling breath and the thick shutters guarding him fall apart like rotted wood. He slowly approaches his desk and, to Frodo's utter bafflement, he lifts the unfinished book no one but him may look at, cradling it to his chest.

"Perhaps it's time to tell you of my adventure." Bilbo says with a wan smile. "Come, lad."

Frodo follows him in a stupor, exchanging bewildered glances with the dwarf. Bilbo guides him to the parlor and settles in his favorite armchair like he does every night, the book open on his lap. Frodo sits cross-legged on a cushion by his feet. He waits.

The dwarf moves to stand behind the armchair like a sentinel, pressed as close to Bilbo as he can without touching.

Bilbo runs his fingers over the pages. After a long moment, he says: "You may have heard the rumors: how Mad Baggins one day took off and left the Shire without warning and against all propriety. How everyone thought him dead until he came back roughly a year later."

Frodo nods.

"They speak the truth. On a good and sunny Wednesday many years before you were born, an old meddling wizard named Gandalf came to Bag End to rope me into the adventure of a lifetime."

The tale begins — one as vibrant as Bilbo's stories usually are. Bilbo speaks at length of the wizard's infuriating mind games and his own firm refusal. Of an odd sign scratched on his door. Of the bell ringing shrilly just before teatime and what it heralded.

"Before I knew it, my smial was full of ill-mannered dwarves raiding my larders and making a mighty mess!" Bilbo cries, throwing his arms into the air.

"We cleaned after ourselves," the dwarf huffs, visibly discomfited, "and there is little point to a full pantry if one intends to go on a long journey. We merely ensured it didn't go to waste."

Frodo giggles.

"Yes, laugh all you want, but I was most distressed, I assure you!" Bilbo sniffs. "Thirteen hungry dwarves are a force to be reckoned with!"

"Thirteen!" Frodo exclaims. The dwarf had admitted they were a big Company, but thirteen impromptu guests is any hobbit's worst nightmare. "Who were they, Uncle Bilbo?"

Bilbo's expression grows soft. He describes the dwarves one by one in careful detail, and soon Frodo feels as if they were all around him eating and making merry and singing the dwarven songs he's grown to cherish. Oh, he can picture them so clearly!

First comes Dwalin, the gruff warrior with a penchant for cookies, and his brother Balin, as kind and wise as his beard was white. Then Bombur, Bofur and Bifur, a rowdy family with a love of good food, bawdy songs, and toy-making (and oh, how Frodo yelps upon learning of the terrible axe embedded in Bifur's forehead!) Bilbo chuckles as he speaks of Bombur catching a hard-boiled egg with his teeth, and Frodo immediately decides to try that feat himself when his uncle isn't looking.

The brothers Dori, Nori and Ori come next — the elegant eldest, the cunning pickpocketer, and the budding scholar. Thick as thieves they were, yet always butting heads. (You and Ori would've gotten along swimmingly, lad. He was just as bright and curious as you.)

Óin and Gloin are not far behind: fierce in battle, short of temper, and the quickest to start a fire. If you suffered any ailment you came to Óin for help, and his bitter remedies and burning salves made you think perhaps the malady was preferable.

When Bilbo gets to Fíli and Kíli, however, his mood turns somber. These were the Company's youngest, two princes as prone to mischief as Frodo's ever been. Earnest and loyal to a fault. As Bilbo's words peter out, Frodo shoots his friend a puzzled look — why, he never said anything about royalty! — but the dwarf heeds it not. His face is inscrutable, pure granite, and Frodo realizes with a start he's already heard of twelve dwarves, none of whom match Master Dwarf's description.

Through the growing maelstrom in Frodo's mind, a single thought pierces through, stealing the breath from his lungs. If there were princes...

"If there were princes there ought to have been a king. Someone... someone to lead them, you, all of you." Frodo says dazedly, studying his uncle's face and the dwarf's in turn. "Uncle Bilbo, is that who the last dwarf was?"

The dwarf's every muscle goes taut. He has eyes for Bilbo and Bilbo only, hanging on to whatever comes out of his mouth next, and Bilbo—

Bilbo's smile is the very picture of wry resignation.

"You're too sharp for your own good, Frodo dear." Bilbo sighs. "Yes, this Company of dwarves was led by their king in hopes they would reclaim their home — the Lonely Mountain, as you pointed out — and his rightful throne." He inhales shakily, sits up straighter. "The king, he... he was the most stubborn of them all. Proud, disdainful and caustic and so utterly hopeless at negotiations... and oh yes, he had a rotten sense of direction to boot! Could you believe he lost his way twice on his way to Bag End? Twice! The confounded fool!"

Frodo doesn't dare move. He hears the dwarf make a choked, pitiful sound.

"But he was also courageous and determined, and he incited that same spark in others, even a simple Baggins like me. He bore an immense love for his people and always looked out for them, no matter the odds. His trust was rare and jealously guarded, but once earned? Oh, strong as mithril it became! He would put his life on the line without a moment's hesitation, and his blade always struck true." Bilbo throws his head back and closes his eyes, lost somewhere miles, decades away. "We... came to understand and trust one another eventually. He was... to me, he was—"

The dwarf drops to the floor and places his incorporeal hands on top of Bilbo's, gazing at him with the most desperate of hopes. Distantly, Frodo wonders when was the last time his uncle spoke of him; how long the dwarf waited as that acorn slowly grew into a sprout, a plant, a tree...

And as Frodo watches the king of dwarves kneel before an unassuming little hobbit, he is suddenly and irrevocably certain the dwarf would've waited longer — a forest's growth, Bilbo's whole life — for even the hint of a whisper in the shape of his name.

When Bilbo speaks again, it is almost as if he could see the king crouched before him. His eyes crinkle, bright beyond measure, filled with that same unyielding resolve that dwells in the hearts of dwarves.

"His name was Thorin Oakenshield, and he was my friend."