Five additional years had passed. It was at the dawn of the Mid-December; it was before the Winter Solstice. Harvest had ended and the bellies of children were growing as wide as the moon. That is except for Frodo Baggins, the newest heir of Bag End. There was an abundance of food for Frodo; Bilbo was never one to run short of the most delightful sweets. However, only adopted weeks before, Frodo wasn’t quite accustomed to eating everything he was offered. So, for about a year or so, he’d continue eating small portions, just to be sure that his newly named uncle would not grow hungry.
It was dinner on this bustling night. Bilbo, so wrapped up in his own imaginative world that was too brilliant for worries, did not bother preparing for the Winter. So consequently when the cold front breezed through the Shire, Bilbo became quite a mess. Off the hobbit went, rushing to and fro across the halls in order to prepare for the blistering, chilling nights to come. Meanwhile leaving Frodo to stare at the dinner the both had made together. He sat, waiting patiently for his uncle to return to the table. This patience could have lasted an eternity because of the boy’s manners, but his uncle finally arrived in under a hour.
Hastily, Bilbo walked into the dining room. Along with him, he carried a quill and miscellaneous papers. Frodo glanced up, his bright blue eyes growing in excitement. However,  he remained silent as Bilbo sat down.
“My boy, you’ve been here this entire time?” asked Bilbo, “How long?”
“Not long.” Frodo replied, with a bit of an uneasy undertone tied into his voice. His lie was completely blatant, but Bilbo didn’t seem to mind. He smiled then tried the soup by dipping a piece of bread into it. As he tasted, his eyebrows went up and he began to chuckle.
“Not long, eh?” He asked, then took a napkin to wipe the crumbs from off his lips. Frodo, puzzled, took a bite from the soup. This once creamy, warm soup grew bitter and cold, with a cool cheese layer hardening on the top. He shivered at the taste.
Bilbo rose from his chair.  “I’ll warm it up for the both of us,” He said as he took Frodo’s bowl with him.
His nephew tried to insist, “No, I will.”
But, Bilbo placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder to prevent him from standing. “Please, you’ve been waiting long enough, I will do it.” Then, he began to walk to the kitchen to heat the soup once more. Meanwhile, Frodo grew rather curious and picked up one of the books. The largest one, in particular, had been one that Bilbo worked on every night. He would spend hours on the book, reposing every emotion he could pour out into his writing. Sometimes, Frodo could overhear Bilbo mutter, laugh or even cry as he wrote.
Frodo opened the cover. In a quiet voice, he read the title aloud, “There and Back-”
His reading was cut short by the voice of Bilbo.
The stern voice came from the doorway, “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Immediately, Frodo glanced up and closed the cover of the book. With his hands on his hips, Bilbo stormed in.
In a frightened, timid voice, Frodo began to say, “I’m so sorry, Bilbo, I was-”
His uncle interrupted, “Looking through my personal works, none of which have your inscription on it yet, no?” Bilbo reopened the cover and stated it, “There and Back Again: A Hobbits Tale by Bilbo Baggins. Perhaps when you are older, you will create your own story, but as for now, this is mine.” He closed the cover and took the book away. Frodo looked up, trying to find the perfect apology (none of which sounded good enough). Meanwhile, Bilbo himself tried to find an apology for his hasty attitude. Before Bilbo had the chance to say anything, Frodo got up to get the soup from the kitchen.
It took a while for him to return to the table, because he was honestly frightened. His uncle was rather quiet, but in this single incident, Frodo realized the edginess inside of Bilbo. When at the table, the both of them sat in silence. Neither of them knew if they should apologize or not.
As soon as Bilbo took a sip of the soup, a knock echoed from their door. He glared towards the entrance. Visitors of any kind seemed to displease Bilbo at this age. Before he could raise from his chair, Frodo popped up and said, “I will answer it.” And so he did. Yet, unlike his uncle, Frodo did not check the windows to see who this unwelcomed visitor was.
The visit took only a few moments. When a woman’s voice stuck out as Lobelia’s, Bilbo immediately walked into his bedroom, refusing to hear the rest of her story. She had been annoying him since they both were children, only getting worse after Bilbo adopted Frodo.
The conversation contained three voices, one of which Bilbo could not place. As soon as the door closed, Bilbo made his way back into the kitchen. When Frodo had entered the kitchen once more, everything about the boy changed drastically. The blue in his eyes grew grey, his smile slipped and he stared absentmindedly, rather similar to the same look he had at his parents’ funeral. Bilbo stood from where he sat.
“My boy, are you alright?” asked Bilbo.
Frodo smiled. “Of course,” was his lie as he went back to eating.
However, all of this perplexed Bilbo. He could tell that Frodo was lying, and Frodo certainly made it obvious for him to notice. It was one thing to lie to your own cousin, but to desperately shove the lie at them was another story. Yet, filled with worries further than a white lie, Bilbo passed the situation. Frodo was nearing his adulthood, the beautiful age of thirty-three. Therefore, Bilbo knew quite well that he could handle his own problems.

In spite of Bilbo’s previous assumptions, his nephew did not change. A month to the day passed, and the boy never seemed to gain his same sense of happiness he had before. Bilbo, who was worried that the child was sick, was almost going to march right up to Lobelia’s doorstep and demand for an explanation. Yet,  the mutual hatred between the both of them would get in their way of speaking rather than yelling.
This day, in order for his cousin to at least socialize, Bilbo sent Frodo out to the other boys. The ages of these boys ranged from the newborn Peregrin Took to the thirty-two year old hobbits that Frodo did not know by name. Bilbo felt rather relieved to see that Frodo was gone for the entire day, hoping that he would be happier when he came back for dinner.
The door opened with a creak. Small pellets from the sky were splattering across the stone staircase, making a soft pitter-patter as they hit. As they began to soak into the grass, the sound of a roaring beast was heard from above the skies. Yet, it was a friendly giant, for it did not strike anyone. But while it did not striking, its rumbling, combined the chirping of the birds from afar, caused an eerie feeling to this dying night.
The door was closed. The pattering halted, yet the rumbling from the sky could still be heard. Small, padded feet were rushing down the hall. The little toes squeaked due to the moist rain puddles it splashed in. Bilbo chuckled to himself and warned, “My boy, please try not to get mud all over the floors.”
The footsteps stopped. The sound was then replaced by unsettle laughter, followed by a clap of furious thunder. In response, Bilbo glanced up and looked outside. The weather was certainly not getting any better. In fact, lightning shined across the sky far more than the sun did.
“And to think I was going to get perishables tonight.” Bilbo hastily mumbled to himself, then turned from out of the kitchen and into the hallway. From where Bilbo stood, he could only see the entrance. But, as the hallway continued in a semicircle, it would lead to the smoking room, dining room and different storage rooms. He walked down the fine wooden flooring, passing different collectibles he had from centuries ago. Before going into the storage rooms, he turned back and went down the main hallway that lead from the entrance.
“Frodo?” He asked as he entered into the living room. Deciding that Frodo must have already went to bed, Bilbo himself began to leave for his bedroom. Yet, just before he could, Bilbo saw his younger cousin sitting in a chair, just before the fire. Frodo’s eyes were set upon the flames, the blue deeply contrasting the red. These flames of light illuminated his face, revealing a rather startling discovery.  A small ring of purple surrounded his bright blue eyes, as well as few shades of black flourished onto his cheeks. If it were not for the fire, the condition of Frodo would have never been noticed by Bilbo.
“Dear Heavens!” shouted Bilbo. Frodo glanced up, his eyes widening. He quickly raised his hand to cover his nose, then tried to cover his eye with the other hand. Bilbo quickly paced down the room, next to Frodo. His voice grew rather angered, “If I were just guessing, I would say you had been attacked by a legion of orcs!”
To this, Frodo had no response but a sigh. Then, he tried to find the best way to explain his condition, but could not.
Bilbo folded his arms and replied with a distasteful spite, “You have nothing to say, do you not?”
And that he did not.
“Let me see it, at least,” said Bilbo, taking a hold of Frodo’s wrist and removing the hand from his nose.
The blood that Frodo had cupped him his hand now was released. Consequently, part of the blood began to drip onto the rug. The blood had now stained the family rug, that Bilbo received from centuries before. It had been in the family for a millennium, to that very year in fact, and not once had anything ever stained it. That was, until this moment.
Yet, in a quite the collected voice, Bilbo assured kindly, “It will come out, don’t fret.” From  how angry he was before, the blush on his cheeks still burned red. Yet, his eyes relaxed from its straining; the hazel flourished back into his dark, bottomless irises.
He turned back into the kitchen; and from the cabinet, reached for a piece of cloth and dipped into a pail of warm water. Waiting for the rag to soak, he remained in silence. It wasn’t until Frodo whispered, “You aren’t mad, are you?” before he realized that his cousin had followed him.
With concern, Bilbo said, “Of course not. I did not seem that way, did I?” To this, Frodo did not reply. Bilbo, realizing his earlier actions, shook his head. He quickly handed the rag to Frodo and glanced off in embarrassment of his anger.
“Now,” said Bilbo, “I wasn’t mad, my boy. I was just frightened that you had gotten yourself in trouble. You know what Gandalf had once told me.”
Frodo nodded solemnly and responded,  “We’re just a couple of little fellows in a wide world, after all.”
“Precisely,” was the response of Bilbo.
An era of silence passed, accompanied by the pitter-patter of the rain. Twiddling with his thumbs, Frodo stared at the ground. Finally, and quite slowly, he gained enough courage to say, “You have every right to be mad, though.”
“And why should I be?” Expecting that it was a simple accident, Bilbo laughed and began to rise. Before he had the chance to leave, a break in Frodo’s voice caused the entire smile to vanish.
“I tried,” Frodo said, in a higher, silvery voice, “I really tried, but I just can’t seem to get them to like me.”
It hadn’t been a conscious thought to Bilbo that Frodo had been in a fight. But from the bruises he had, the thought now seemed too realistic. Bilbo shook his head and asked in a sputter, “Who did this? The other boys? W-what were their names, why did they-”
Frodo nodded and stopped him, “It was all my fault, Bilbo. They didn’t mean to, honestly. But, if they just hadn’t been there for-” He made a pause before he could explain any further.
“No, it’s not your fault. I just can’t imagine why someone would try to hurt you.”
“No, they didn’t hurt me on purpose,” Then, Frodo laughed rather uncomfortably, “It’s quite a long story.”
He began to rise from his seat, expecting that his older cousin would leave him alone as he did often. Yet, Bilbo placed a hand onto Frodo’s shoulders and said, “I have time. You know that I am not getting any older, let alone any younger.” And while Frodo took this as sarcasm from his cousin, Bilbo couldn't help but laugh. The laughter slowly died off as Frodo stared in confusion.
"Then go on, my boy." Bilbo said comfortingly, and then sat down for the story to begin.
Frodo stood before the window, looking out at the dreary clouds, which brewed across the landscape. His eyes studied each of the raindrops for quite sometime. 
Quietly, as he watched one raindrop slowly fall down the window, he whispered, "I was alone, reading as I most often do. Merry had  promised to adventure beside me, yet-” Frodo then tilted his head, as if he couldn’t remember what happened next. Then, abruptly, he changed the subject to, “when I was walking home, it began to rain. So I stopped at the town square, to keep warm, of course. I can’t think of one hobbit that didn’t insist that I stayed in the shops. Some of them even offered me tea, but I just remained under the canopy for the time being. But while I was there, I heard yelling. Well, arguing, really. Curious, I followed the “yelling”. But when I finally got close enough to see the fight take place,” Frodo paused, then re-enacted what took place next.
“One of the boys hit my head,” He pretended to do so, then continued with reassurance,  “It was on accident, of course. I think he was merely a bystander, who must’ve thrown his hands up right when I walked passed him,” Frodo then pointed to his nose. In a rather happier tone, Frodo said, “That’s from another boy, who ran into me with a basket of buttons. It was most likely the tailor’s son.”
“The tailor’s son!” exclaimed Bilbo, as he paced across the room, “Why, I ought to have a talk with his father immediately!”
“It was an accident, I know they didn’t mean to.”
Sharply, Bilbo demanded, “Do you know who the other was, that did this?”
“What does it matter anyways? It was an accident, I promise you.”
“Did they apologize, at least?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“And why not?”
Frodo couldn’t help but smile, “Merry was there, in the middle of the fight, of course. And since I knew he’d fight in my defense, I pulled him out of there before he could march up to the boys five times his age.”
Seeing Frodo’s character growing so quickly, Bilbo nodded in pride. “You both are quite protective of one another. That is a good thing for a future adventurer to have: a friend. I know certainly that I couldn’t have lived without mine. But, I must ask, what was Merry and the others arguing about?”
“Oh,” There was a long break between what Frodo was saying, “... nothing important.”
And Bilbo would have asked for Frodo to specify if it were not for his previous assumption: Frodo was old enough to handle his own problems. Perhaps it was the Brandybucks that transformed Frodo into a dependent, vulnerable child. It certainly was Drogo’s fault, for no cousin of Bilbo’s could ever be so frightened of the world.
Even after Bilbo welcomed Frodo into his home, Frodo remained quite timid to even the smallest problems. Bilbo knew that Frodo’s tween years would soon fade and he’d be on his own. And like he would have prepared his own son, he slowly released Frodo’s hand and let him deal with his own problems.

Yet, in spite of Bilbo’s previous assumptions, his nephew did not change. Two months from the Winter Solstice passed. The children from all across the Shire grew ever so restless from the cold, restricting weather. Their parents tried to keep these little hobbits indoors, to keep them from growing ill. Yet, as the winds would turn warmer ever so lightly, these children would storm out from their homes and out to the cool pastures and hills of the Shire. That being mentioned, the young Frodo Baggins and his cousin Merry were frequently ill. Even the littlest of them, Pippin, caught quite the cold when Merry brought him out for a midwinter’s stroll.
Slowly trying to understand Frodo, Bilbo suspected that his nephew was unhappy because he was tired from staying inside so often. So, Bilbo tried again and again to let Frodo stay out as long as he wanted to. However, the child would often come back as quickly as he left.
So, on a warmer day, a day that Bilbo had promised to adventure with Frodo, Bilbo offered another promise to his cousin, “Perhaps we can adventure another time, my boy. As for now, I must ask that you spend time with your other cousins.”
“Why?” asked the young Frodo, “Have you caught an illness?”
“No,” Bilbo replied, rather stiffly, “I have not.”
“Or perhaps you do not care about the adventure we had planned?”
Bilbo took quite of an offense to this. “Frodo, my lad, why would you even think such a thing? Adventuring beside you makes me feel 50 years younger.”
“Well... are you sure you aren’t feeling ill?”
“I am fine. Why do you persist with not going outside when the weather is nothing but beautiful?” Bilbo then moved his chair next to Frodo’s and sat. “I am just quite busy, my boy, I do hope that you can understand.”
Frodo briefly smiled, rising from his chair, “Of course. Do you need anything from the town, perchance?”
Bilbo slowly began to reach into his pocket. “Ah, you are too kind, my lad, but-” He stopped. In his hands were six silver coins and a prized possession of his. Quickly, he released this object back into his pocket and clutched onto the rest of the coins. He then brought out his fist and emptied it into Frodo’s hands. He looked straight into Frodo’s eyes and said quite quickly, “Take this, my boy. Perhaps you can do something with this better than I can.”
The second these words were spoken, Bilbo glanced at Frodo’s hand. A ring, shining among the coins, had appeared into Frodo’s hand, and with it, a stinging anger inside Bilbo. Without any warning, Bilbo swept the ring out of Frodo’s hand into his own fist. Immediately, he stuffed it into his pocket. As soon as it was released, the anger stopped. 
Frodo looked at Bilbo’s coat pocket, which he had continually wondered what was inside, but spoke nothing of it.
“T-thank you.” He whispered before taking off.
As soon as the door closed, Bilbo took out the ring and clutched onto it. The stronger he held it, the less he felt the odd, yet never ceasing, lust he had for this shimmering gold. What this lust was for was never known by Bilbo, yet the emptiness and longing for it never seemed to fade since he first held the ring.
For hours, he must’ve stared at it. The time had passed second breakfast, elevenses and luncheon, but Bilbo’s eyes simply could not release the hold he had on the ring. It wasn’t until a knock at the door that shook Bilbo from his catatonic state of mind.
“Coming!” was his response as soon as he slipped the ring back into his pocket. He then began to mumble, “Don’t let me stop you from barging into my own household. Please, make yourself at home! The indecency of people sometimes!” After grumbling a bit, Bilbo reached the entrance. Angered by any visitor, he did not bother checking the window because the visitor was unwelcomed not matter who they were. He took the knob of the door and braced himself for perhaps a dozen dwarves or even a wizard to come in. As he opened it, this visitor was certainly neither a dwarf or wizard, but unexpected nonetheless.
“Meriadoc?” asked Bilbo, stepping out from the door he hid behind. The young Meriadoc Brandybuck, only standing just below Bilbo’s waist, stared at Bilbo with a fearful glaze. In a shaking, yet seemingly mature voice, the child asked, “Is Frodo home yet?”
“Yet? No, my boy, he’s not. I thought he was with you?” The initial fear did not strike Bilbo as it would with any other parent, but slowly built up as Merry white in fear.
The boy’s eyes grew wildly large, as if the news itself was deadly. His quiet voice piped up, “Are you positive he is not inside?”
Bilbo then froze, the realization of the entire possibility of Frodo being hurt struck him. Slowly, he crept closer towards Merry and leaned closer towards him. With a concerned voice, he asked, “No, why do you ask? What is wrong- has anything bad happened to him?”
Merry tried his best to explain, but what came out was a soft whimper. The boy, most likely just as frightened of Bilbo as Frodo once was, quietly asked, “Can  I come in?”
Both out of concern and custom, Bilbo welcomed Merry inside. The child looked around the hall, intensely looking at the weapons mounted on the walls. His mischievous grin rose, but was quickly hidden with, “Frodo is fine.” Merry then turned from the mystical weaponry, part of him imagining what type of warrior once held those swords. “I mean, he could have been hurt if it weren’t for that gardener boy.”
“Samwise Gamgee, I presume?”
“Who else?” responded Merry with a light-hearted giggle, “He was there. Sam and Frodo are barely seen without each other, you know. And since the festival is tonight, Sam insisted on helping.”
“Festival? My boy, you are getting too ahead of yourself! What festival are you talking about? I do not remember of any birthdays, or deaths, or new arrivals,  weddings, proposals or any of the sort among our families. Who is this party for this time?” Before young Meriadoc could respond, Bilbo clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Yes, I remember now! The young Peregrin Took hasn’t had his first party, has he?”
“No sir, he’s had two already,” Merry, rather quickly, began to realize something that Bilbo hadn’t began to think about. His voice broke, and very slowly, he stuttered a bit before saying, “I-it’s the Parents’ Day Celebration. A-are you not able to come?”
There was a pause. While part of Bilbo was stunningly quick at understanding algorithms and seemingly impossible codes, the seemingly blatant things that laid in front of him always went unnoticed.
“A Parents’ Day Celebration? Meriadoc, I don’t believe I have a clue about what you’re speaking about.”
The boy bit his lip and spoke softly, “He didn’t give you the invitation, did he?”
Bilbo stared at Merry in complete consternation. Had this been the reason why Frodo had become so timid and so distant? In the beginning, Bilbo contributed this isolation to Frodo’s adulthood personality. But it was in this single moment, where the child went so far to lie about some meaningless party, that Bilbo knew that his previous assumptions were far from the truth.
“I can’t believe it. Why wouldn’t he wish for me to go? After all, I am his-.” Cousin. To Frodo, Bilbo was not even his uncle. He was a distant cousin of his who had enough room to take him in. Nothing more and nothing less. The word “father” or the word “parent” was one that Bilbo could never be for Frodo. While Frodo might have accidentally called him “father”, the truth stayed the same: he was nothing more than a cousin.
“Is that what you boys have been planning for month?”
Merry nodded.
“And he... he did not seem upset about it at all?”
Merry took time to pause, then responded rather boldly, “He’s been acting odd lately, but I never took notice until today.”
“What exactly happened?”
The little boy turned to look over his shoulder, but when he saw no one, he spoke in a somber voice, “He hit one of the boys.”
Bilbo was taken back a bit. Unsure how to respond, and still trying to unravel the entire ordeal, Bilbo asked, “Why, though? Did they say anything or-.”
Footsteps broke his sentence, slowly pounding against the stone path from the outside. Merry’s eyes flickered with urgency, and rather abruptly, the child ran to the back door. The garden was a gateway for Merry to escape. Quickly, he flung the door open as the footsteps drew closer and closer.
Before leaving, Merry spoke hastily, “It was something about his parents. It’s always something about his parents, Mr. Bilbo; although no one speaks of it directly, they all disregard him as much as they do to Sam because Frodo is an orphan. But this time, when one of the boys started to mention you, Frodo immediately hit them.”
To Merry’s surprise, Bilbo frown turned into quite the smile. He asked,  “Very intentionally?”
Merry paused in shock. “V-very, I suppose. But they all blamed Sam.”
Bilbo’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a rather infuriated frown, “And Frodo... allowed for Samwise to take the blame rather than taking it himself?”
Merry nodded, “I plan to tell Samwise’s parents of what happened.”
“That is very kind of you, Merry. You must hurry then.” Once saying this, the front door had creaked open. Merry nodded and then quickly slipped out of the back door. As quickly as his feet could carry him, Merry ran down the path beside the primrose beds and into the street.

Bilbo waved and closed the door. Quietly, he stepped into the kitchen where he found Frodo. The boy, looking out the window, looked quite normal  from what Bilbo could see.
“My boy, you’re home early.”
Out of surprise, Frodo jumped. As soon as he saw it was Bilbo, Frodo quickly tried to explain himself, “I am just getting something to eat, since I haven’t eaten since second breakfast.” Stutter after stutter, Frodo went on listing reasons why he had come back. Yet, since all were false, Bilbo simply ignored it and searched for an injury Frodo might have had. When finding none, Bilbo abruptly questioned, “Do you have any plans for tonight?”
Taken back, Frodo paused. “N-no,” was his response, “Why?”
“Excellent. Join me in the garden, my boy. There is far too much to do outside rather than inside.” As they both walked towards the garden, Bilbo hid his deep concern by reflecting, “I’m quite proud of you, Frodo. You do understand this, don’t you?”
Although he was quite surprised, Frodo nodded.
Bilbo then continued, “I couldn’t think of another better cousin to have. You remind me quite of myself when I was younger. Except, of course, you don’t mind the company of others as I simply loathe it. And, of course, you are quite braver than I am.”
“Braver?” Frodo laughed, and said, “You’ve been on an adventure that no hobbit could dream of. You’ve been far past the safety of the Shire, and have even faced a dragon.”
“But I was deathly afraid the entire way. Don’t mistake bravery for reflex, my boy. Those two are far from each other."
Frodo nodded once more. As he reached for the door, Bilbo quickly closed it before it could open.
In almost a whisper, Bilbo said before opening the door, "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out our door,” Then, he drew up his arm and pointed. Frodo looked to where he had pointed: the winding brook that lead to the main road. Bilbo continued, “You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
Frodo looked up at him, paused, and then said, “I’ll remember that.”
“Good,” replied Bilbo, then he opened the door. Stepping into the garden was quite dreary compared to the luscious Spring days ahead of them. The tulips laid withering, frostbitten from the Winter’s brutal clench against Mother Earth. The others, ranging from rose bushes to apple trees, laid dormant. Each of them were late bloomers compared to Bilbo’s prized daisies, who sprang earlier than usual. Taking pride in each leaf and petal, he walked down the stone path. Yet, as he turned to the bare spots of the garden, he was not upset.
“We will make something of this soil. A blueberry bush, perhaps.” He said, staring at the infertile, dried up soil that would eventually be one of the garden’s fine jewels. At last, he reached the gates of his garden. Turning to Frodo, he said, “I do hope our gardeners begin planting earlier this year. These ghosts of flowers’ pasts are quite dreary.”
Purposely mentioning Samwise’s family, Bilbo studied his younger cousin. When finding that Frodo had no reaction to it, he further pushed the hint, “Do you happen to know if Samwise has found a suitable teacher yet?”
The reaction of surprise overtook Frodo. He spoke in caution, “Why do you ask?”
“Why do you act like you’re hiding something? That’s my question.”
In that moment, the young heir knew. He knew that somehow, in some miraculous way, the news of the fight reached Bilbo before he could. However, hoping that the Parents’ Day Celebration was not asked of, Frodo did not give up hope. However, he did shake. Partly was from the fear of disappointing Bilbo and the other was from the winter-like breeze that pinched at his skin.
“He has. He begins in a week,” spoke Frodo, his voice trembling as Bilbo began to fold his arms.
“Do you think it is wise for him to start schooling so soon?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Bilbo paused and smiled. With his lips pursed, his voice bellowed,  “I think you do.”
The breeze suddenly halted.  The once lively garden for such a Winter grew darker and darker. The apple tree branches drooped over them, each dead leaf sailing rigidly against the bitter gust. Darker and darker  the garden went. Every thorn and bush seemed like a death trap now. Darker and darker the sky went above it. Slowly the clouds brought overcast over the sun. Rain was to come, only bringing further darker and darker characteristics to the garden. Darker and darker it was; sinking Frodo into it’s core with it’s manipulative ways as if a creature itself had taken his legs and pulled him under the infertile soil. At the speed it took for the world to collapse on him, Frodo suddenly could not breath. The darkness had prevailed him.
He gasped for air. None was delivered. He tried again. None. At last, Frodo closed his eyes. Replacing the darkness of the world with his own darkness, a darkness he could control, he could breath again. His eyes remained shut, sealing off any sort of demon. He had done this many times, to scare off what always pulled him down. And, like every time, this method ended his panic.
“Bilbo,” he said solemnly, “I am so sorry.”
“You ought to be, my boy!”
Frodo’s eyes cast down in embarrassment.
Bilbo then continued, “Now I suppose Samwise will be greatly punished.”
“He will?”
“Certainly. I can’t believe that you didn’t stop him, Frodo. As his friend, you have every obligation to protect him.”
Frodo glanced up and tilted his head. Wisely, he spoke allowed, “But Bilbo, you know that I-”
Bilbo interrupted rather slyly, “Should’ve stopped him from hitting the other boys. Yes, you certainly should have. But no worries, my dear boy. He’s probably being reprimanded by his parents as of now for his ridiculous actions.” As Bilbo turned to face the door, he folded his arms and awaited for Frodo to admit the truth. And, indeed, Bilbo was not disappointed.
“It was me, Bilbo. Not Sam, I swear to you.”
Rather proud he admitted to his own faults, Bilbo grinned. But it soon vanished into a frown he turned to Frodo. Quickly, his eyebrows went down and he stared crossly at his cousin. “You hit those boys? My lad, that’s quite primal of you, if I must say!”
“Y-you’re right, Bilbo. I had to reason to hit them,” Trying to escape from the conversation, Frodo quickly said, “If you don’t mind, I have to go. I cannot let Sam get the blame for how I acted.”
“Oh, they already know by now. The same hobbit that told me told Samwise’s parents as well. But an apology directly from you would suffice as well.”
“Who told you, anyhow?”
“Does it matter, my boy?”
Without skipping a beat, Frodo immediately guessed, “It was Merry, wasn’t?” When Bilbo didn’t respond with anything but a chuckle, Frodo at last had his turn to joke, “Or was it Lobelia?”
A disgusted glare immediately flared into Bilbo’s eyes. While he may have been quite old, he certainly had the same burning hatred for Lobelia as he always had. Rather spitefully, he scoffed back, “You would think that I’d let that women in my home? Let alone talk to me about my own kin! I’d rather have a fireplace chat with a couple of cave Trolls! Or perhaps afternoon tea with the late Smaug the Magnificent! Truly Frodo, you should take me out of my misery if I result to befriending that woman.”
Frodo giggled, as most of his stress had been released by the regular, but comforting sarcasm of his cousin. “I would never! But if it comforts you for me to say so, then I suppose I must,” Frodo then continued on his earlier thought, “But, you’re right. I ought to leave-”
“Of course, you must speak to our gardeners about today’s incident. But, I shall go as well.”
Abruptly, Frodo interrupted, “You really don’t have to.”
“Why?” Bilbo asked, “You don’t I’m too old to be walking across town, do you?”
Frodo quickly shook his head, with a warm smile. “Of course not, Bilbo.”
Bilbo, remembering how Frodo constantly questioned him earlier that morning, proceeded to do the same. “Or perhaps you wish to not be seen with me?
Frodo took quite of an offense to this. He said, quite reassuringly, “Your my favorite older cousin, Bilbo. And you rightfully know that.”
Bilbo chuckled, “Yes, I do. But perhaps you’re trying to hide something from me?” With his arms crossed, he stared deeply into Frodo’s eyes, unconsciously trying to make Frodo guilty. Bilbo convictively continued, “Perhaps there is something that is going on that I wasn’t invited to? Or, maybe I was invited, but my title to you didn’t fit the word “parent”, so you just... “forgot” to invite me. Was that it, Frodo?” It was then, almost driven into anger, that Bilbo had to look away from Frodo. A sudden force of anger was pressing inside him, and this time was one of the very few times that he had ever expressed it.
Bilbo, staring out to the distance, could only hear Frodo trying to form words. But each ended in a crackling noise, to which Bilbo could only hope that Frodo wasn’t crying. Quickly, Bilbo turned towards his cousin. Frodo’s smile was gone, a froze fear only appearing on his face. His tiny hands quickly tucked into his pockets, while his toes clenched together. A white sheet of paper covered his face, and even his bright blue eyes were now covered by a starling grey. Timidly, the child drew away from Bilbo. While not a tear was in sight, Frodo could not speak.
“Frodo, my dear boy,” began Bilbo quite softly, “all I ask is why you didn’t tell me?”
“I...” His voice broke, but rather quietly, he continued to speak, “didn’t want to go myself.”
“I am not upset that you didn’t invite me, by any means. Frankly, I would have gone either way. I am just wondering why you never told me?”
Frodo’s eyes casted away. “I... just thought you’d stop me from helping them. Of course, I knew that this celebration was all in spite of me, but they’re my friends. If they chose to celebrate the lives of their parents, then so be it.”
“You shouldn’t have to sacrifice your own happiness for their sakes, Frodo.”
“Haven’t you always done that?”
Bilbo couldn’t help but scoff. “I have learned over time that when you sacrifice your own happiness for someone, the only thing you get in return is them asking for more. You can never please someone, my lad. It’s the exact reason I never got married.”
Frodo couldn’t help but laugh, “I thought you said you never got married because you were far too old.”
“That too. But by any means, I didn’t get married, so here I am. And here you are, I suppose,” He then placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder and turned to him with a warming smile, “I do wish for you to know that  although I am not your father, by any means, I do care for you as any parent would. I intend to raise you as my own, including giving my land and-” Before Bilbo could continue, a dark pulse suffered his brain. Quickly, he clenched his eyes and said, rather abruptly, “my life, if necessary.” He then looked at Frodo, which immediately brought him back to reality.
Out of the unconscious, deceiving spell he faded into every once in a while, Bilbo always took back what he said. Yet, this time was different. Would he have laid down his life for his younger cousin? Especially after staring face to face with Death fifty years ago, Bilbo would have agreed strongly. But, as season after season passed, that courage faded. No longer could even Gandalf, a noble and honest friend to Bilbo, see the same hobbit that Bilbo once was. Bilbo had changed, quite drastically indeed. But perhaps it was Frodo that brought him to the realization that self-sacrificing was just part of society. It was seen most common all across The Shire. But as for dying for one another? Bilbo could only see himself doing such a thing for Frodo or Gandalf, if any situation called for such.
A silence crept over them. Frodo, understanding Bilbo was deep in thought, kept quiet. Bilbo then spoke, “But let us not worry about that. I just want you to realize that you and I don’t need to take part in some ridiculous party. After all, the word “parent” is far too formal.”
“And rather too specific,” giggled Frodo, “Does that mean that I could have my own type of celebration?”
“Since “father” is not a title I fit quite well, although that is quite a strong word nonetheless, you ought to create your own celebration. I will try to help in any way I can, but as for attending it... Well. Our yearly birthday party is far too social as it is, so perhaps you can have a celebration for you and your other friends. I suppose that Merry and Samwise will be attending?”
Frodo tilted his head. In rather a confused tone, he said, “I was only joking. There’s no need for a celebration.”
“Well, I wasn’t joking. And there most certainly is always a need for celebrating. Quickly now, my boy, go gather the others before I change my mind.” As soon as Bilbo said this, something immediately took hold of him. Rather urgently, Bilbo jumped. But, his fear diminished as he saw it was only  Frodo that had hugged him.
Releasing him, Frodo exclaimed, “I cannot repay you, Bilbo! Thank you!” Quickly, the child began to run down the path, “I’ll go get them now!”
“Be sure they know not to make a mess!” Bilbo laughed and warned him, “I’ve had far too many companies come into my home and destroy it. Don’t make me compare you to any of those dwarves.”
“We’ll do our best!” said Frodo just before he reached the gate. As he opened it, he waved one last time. Bilbo then waved back, then watched as Frodo began running down the roads towards the center of Hobbiton. As soon as the child vanished from Bilbo’s sight, he turned back towards the lonely hobbit hole.
It was then that Bilbo realized something. For all his life, he knew that he never wished for any wife, or child, or close companion of any sorts. He was sure that being alone was positively the most suitable way of life for a hobbit like himself. And it seemed that way for many years, especially since he lived in such luxury alone. Yet, it wasn’t until he was 50 years old that when he was far from home, far from luxury, that he realized the true basics of life did not rely on money. For money could only corrupt the minds of people, as it did to his closest friends. But he had learned that a friendship was something that no one deserved, but a special gift in life.
But after returning from there and back again, he resulted back into his solitude. Old habits slowly rose and no longer could he stand the sight of others besides Gandalf. Yet, it wasn’t until the one night that a young child by the name of Frodo Baggins knocked on his door. It wasn’t until then that he had found someone to have hope in.
It was, in Frodo, that he saw himself. And immediately, without a shadow of a doubt, did he take the boy in when he wished to run away. Immediately, after his parents died, Bilbo allowed Frodo to enter the house without any questions asked. And immediately, when adopting Frodo became an option, Bilbo seized the opportunity to open his home.
For nearly 80 years, the house remained filled with one occupant: himself. Yet, as he opened his home to this young heir, the entire atmosphere changed. Not only did the loudness and constant laughter change their home, but the emptiness inside was immediately swept out from Bilbo. For once in his life, Bilbo didn’t mind that this child accidentally called him “father”. To him, Frodo was perhaps the best “son” that any hobbit, man, elf or dwarf could ever ask for.