EPILOGUE

The post came late that day, nearing sundown. Frodo had made it his business to meet the posthobbit on his bi-weekly rounds and, despite tardiness, today was no exception.

Bilbo went on about his business in the kitchen, preparing dinner. He took the roast from the oven, tested it with first a fork then his teeth, had another bite just to make sure that the first taste had been accurate.

It was done to a turn, tender and—yes, another bite still—delicious.

He puttered about, letting the meat sit as he put plates and cutlery on the table. Young greens, potatoes still in their jackets, caramelised onions and the roast in the middle position of honour…

Yet still Frodo hadn't come in.

Frowning, Bilbo went to the parlour window, looked out.

Frodo sat perched on the stone wall, feet curling against the stones beneath him, several envelopes stuffed in his trousers' pocket rather haphazardly and one, opened, in his hands. His eyes flitted speedily over the words, his lips quivering; suddenly he lifted his head and looked West. The setting sun turned his narrowed eyes to glints of crystalline, there was a spot of colour to his cheek that had nothing to do with wind, and that wind fluttered at the letter, tossed his dark-blue shirt, lifted the hair that he still refused to cut and tossed it, all copper-dark in the waxing dusk.

The sight gave Bilbo the oddest pain in his chest. And he wondered, not for the first time, how such an odd and mercurial little chap had so sidled into his existence. Already it was all but impossible to imagine Bag End without him.

He padded over to the front door and outward, coming to a stop beside the wall Frodo was occupying. "Dinner's ready, lad."

Frodo didn't stop looking toward the horizon. Bilbo craned his neck—surreptitiously, to be sure—to see if he could discern either postmark or handwriting upon the letter in Frodo's fingers. No such luck.

Of course, he was fairly sure who it was from, anyway.

"Merimac has written me since I came, did you know?"

Well, Bilbo'd have to be dull as a rock to not know that—all right, so he hadn't known at first; after all, who'd've thought the old river-rat would be such a faithful correspondent, not to mention the fact that Frodo's frequent visits to Great Smials over the past months should have rendered any missives quite unnecessary—but did the boy really think he hadn't twigged by now that the main reason Frodo haunted the post was to pounce upon said letters and, often, to send his own?

"But this one's different," Frodo continued. "The splints are finally off and he's on his way back to Gillyflower." Frodo slanted his eyes towards Bilbo. "He plans on dropping by Bag End on his way."

Full stop. And "Well," was, irritatingly, all Bilbo could voice.

Frodo kept looking at him, and the sideways gaze had such a sudden and captious perception in it that Bilbo felt even more discombobulated

"Well," he said again, then, even more coherently, "Hum."

Still peering at him, Frodo waited. And waited. The silent, shrewd… expectancy drew itself out, and Bilbo wondered if the boy could wait forever, just look at him…

Bilbo gave it up. "I see. I'd best fortify the larder, then. And…" he paused, then took the ox by the tail and plunged ahead, "I suppose… erm… I'm guessing that it won't be… um… of any use to ask Daisy to… ah… make up a guestsmial?"

"No," Frodo said, a quirk to one side of his mouth and a definite glint sparking those impossible eyes. "You know how Daisy is when her work's proven unnecessary."

"Yes," Bilbo acknowledged. "I know how Daisy is." In fact, Daisy's present and unaltered state of being had lost Daddy Twofoot five chickens and had liberated from the Gaffer—though Bilbo wasn't supposed to have cottoned that particular wager—a goodly pouch of Longbottom Leaf. Those two had been so sure Frodo would have to return the corn mommet to the earth instead of hanging it proudly above his hearth; sure That Brandybuck was just that much too ornery, and would certainly be making a bairn instead of barley.

As to That Brandybuck, he had returned his attention to the letter in his hand, and by the Valar and all their minions but the soppiest, most nauseating look appeared on the lad's face, as if he was reading some absent lover's letter.

Well. He was, wasn't he? And Bilbo Baggins would just have to get used to it, chew it raw and swallow, wouldn't he?

It had, after all, been one of the Conditions…

"I think I'm going to end up being truly thankful," Bilbo dryly ventured, "that your bedsmial is completely on the other side of Bag End from mine."

Frodo started, turned with wide eyes—and the surprise in them was bloody well satisfying, after those piercing and all-too-observant looks!—to stare at Bilbo. But the uncertainty within that expression niggled at Bilbo's conscience; it was too akin to the wary, thin boy who had stepped over his doorsill last autumn.

Then uncertainty fled, pursued by the sudden sound of Frodo's laugh. "Perhaps you should," he conceded.

Smug little sod. For moments it got Bilbo's back up, enough to consider playing further the small contest of wills, but Frodo had already turned back to the letter. And dinner was getting colder by the moment. Bilbo gave a small chuckle, let it go.

"Come eat, boy."

Frodo mumbled something that sounded assenting; Bilbo took another glance at him, saw the downcast eyes and pinked cheeks and found himself wondering exactly what it was Merimac had penned that could so easily turn Frodo into something more resembling butter left in the sun than the self-possessed young hobbit that he was…

Or was he?

But bugger-all if it wasn't going to be interesting, finding out.