Uncle Bilbo

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, they belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

I had to write this down before I forgot it. It came to me at 0300 and as I sit here, the words are leaving me.

After his journey was completed, all Frodo wanted to do was to see his Uncle Bilbo. Feelings that he had pent up inside were bursting at the seams as he closed the distance between himself and Rivendell. Leaping from his mount with the ease of a tweenager, his feet navigated the familiar walking trails that led to his uncle's room. Thoughts flew through his mind as to what to tell first. The mad Baggins loved adventures, and this one would fill a book. Frodo wanted familiarity and nothing more than to be consoled that everything would be all right. Bilbo had that magic quality of putting things into perspective, and the new master of Bag End only hoped the Ring had no part of manipulating his Uncle's mind as it finally accomplished its task of this Ring-bearer. Arriving at his destination, the smile on Frodo's face faded as he entered the room only to find a considerably aged hobbit than the one he left almost a year earlier curled up on his bed, sleeping. Bilbo's nephew gazed at the gnarled hands fisted under the wrinkled face, reaching out to smooth back the white hair that had fallen in his custodian's lidded eyes. Slowly, the older Baggins' eyes opened, a little bit of sparkle still left as his caught his ward's blue depths. Holding his breath, Frodo promised himself he would not cry in front of the hobbit whom he had considered a father figure, but tears threatened anyway.

"Oh, my dear boy," Bilbo's soft voiced cracked, sympathetic to his nephew's needs as he opened stiff arms.

Shrugging off his cloak, Frodo crawled into the welcoming arms; the tears falling as he sobbed into Bilbo's familiar pipe weed scented shirt. There the two Ring-bearers lay finding comfort in each other without a word being exchanged.