Chapter Text
Frodo spent most of the voyage standing on the deck, staring out to the distant West. He had told Bilbo, when he had first returned from the quest that had claimed the largest part of him, some years ago, that his sight had changed somewhat, as he’d carried his burden.
(The burden which Bilbo had put on him. According to Gandalf, they would live out the rest of their days in the Undying Lands, and those days would not be numbered. Privately, Bilbo thought that should they live a million or more days, there still would not be enough time to forgive himself for giving the Ring to Frodo.)
Maybe Frodo had more gifts than mere sight, and maybe telepathy was among them, for he always turned to Bilbo when these thoughts tormented him. “Are you comfortable, Uncle?” he asked. What a good boy. So kind, when Bilbo had ruined his life. No need to trouble him further.
“I was thinking,” said Bilbo, frowning and looking for what he had been thinking. “Oh, I think I made a mistake in my book. I changed a word or two in chapter five, and I’m afraid it affected the meaning of the whole passage. I wish I hadn’t done it.”
Gandalf, who was never far, let out a chuckle. “I’m afraid it’s too late now to turn back and change it again, my friend.”
“I know,” grumbled Bilbo, who enjoyed being ridiculous quite a bit. “I know that. But all the same, I can’t put it out of my head. if I could, I’d make many changes.”
“I think I see something,” said Frodo, pointing at the horizon.
Bilbo straightened up in his chair, or at least tried to, as much as his sore back would let him. He could not help feeling a minute pang of regret over the young body the Ring had allowed him to keep over the years, however uncomfortable it had been for his soul then. He had grown so terribly old, so terribly quickly, after leaving Bag-End. He hadn’t noticed it on the road to Erebor, chalking up his fatigue and sore muscles to the expense of travel, but he hadn’t been able to deny it upon his return to Rivendell, and especially after the Ring had been destroyed. Some nights, he had watched in wonder as the skin of his hand thinned and stretched over his bones and tendons. Finally, it matched. Finally, he looked as brittle as he felt.
Of course, that satisfaction of being in the correct shape was marred by the fact that absolutely everything hurt when he moved now. But no matter; had he been less foolish, the ageing process would have happened gradually and he may have had time to get used to it; he could only blame himself.
Gandalf offered him his hand, and he and Bilbo went to look at the seascape. Bilbo, of course, could not see anything; given his aged vision, however, it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. These days, he could only barely see Frodo even if he was right in front of him. Of course, even that didn’t mean much; Frodo had been fading even before Bilbo’s ability to see.
(Elrond had told him that it would be a great shock, but Bilbo had insisted on seeing him anyway. It was a great shock. Frodo was barely there, a tiny, shadowy thing amid endless white sheets.
“I should have given you the mithril shirt,” Bilbo murmured when the Elves were gone. “I don’t know why I didn’t, really, except that I didn’t think I could part with it. But it’s just a token; it’s not him, and he would be disappointed that I failed to protect you. I should have given it to you. I’ll give it to you now, if you wake up.”
Gandalf told him, later, that the shirt had saved Frodo’s life in Moria, and surely after. “This”, thought Bilbo, clutching his oldest friend’s hands with his own, withered and shaky, “this is the best thing I have ever done.”)
“Ah,” said Gandalf after a moment of contemplation. “I believe you’re right, Frodo. It’s too distant to be certain, but your eyes are keener than mine.” He took a deep breath and hummed contentedly. “Yes, I think I remember this.”
“What do you remember?” asked Frodo.
“The scent of home,” said Gandalf with a smile.
The two Hobbits sniffed for a little bit. It took a moment before he noticed anything besides the omnipresent smell of salt, and even longer before it resolved into separate things he could identify. It was such a strange mix of scents that it barely made sense; warm and comforting like baking bread, and subtle and earthy like trees and flowers, with a faint, bitter undercurrent that he couldn’t place. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I understand what you mean.”
“I don’t smell anything,” said Frodo. “Except… It’s foolish, but I think… strawberries? I might just be hungry.”
“Strawberries,” Gandalf echoed, his voice a deep rumble. He gave an amused laugh. “I’ll bring you something to eat, my dear Frodo. It’ll be a while yet until we reach our destination, even if we can already smell it.” He turned to stride off. As he left them, he added, “Enjoy the smell before enjoying the rest, my dear fellows. You are the first, and perhaps the last Hobbits to do so. Perhaps it will reveal something to you that it does not to the rest of us.”
Once he was gone, Frodo gently touched Bilbo’s shoulder. “Uncle?”
“Oh, would you be so kind and bring the chair over? I want to watch for these shores.”
Frodo dragged the chair over and helped Bilbo onto it. It was less comfortable than the armchair in his room in Rivendell, but sitting was always an improvement. He relaxed, and waited for Frodo, who kept giving him strange looks, to tell him what was on his mind. “Uncle?” he called again, after a long stretch of silence.
“Nephew?”
“You said you wanted to change your manuscript?”
It took Bilbo’s tired mind a minute to trace the conversation back to this. “Mmmh. Oh, yes. Well, you know, it took me long enough to complete it, and I’m glad that I did, but it means that it’s done, not that it’s perfect. I wish I’d fixed a few mistakes.”
“Which ones?”
Bilbo closed his eyes. He was constantly sleepy, in his old age, and the soft movements of the boat weren’t helping. Finally, right before dozing off, he mumbled, “I think the main thing is, I would change the ending.”
Bilbo woke up with a start when the boat stopped its gentle rocking. He lifted his hand to block the golden rays of the sun that blinded him; for a moment, he thought his vision had worsened, and that he would have to go through his undying days with faulty eyes, but when he adjusted to the light, he realised that it had not worsened as he had thought, but had gone completely bad. His hand… His hand. His hand, unmarred by years and adventures.
“What?” he asked, staring at it in awe. Its cleanness and its youth.
“I said, ‘Good morning’,” said Gandalf.
“Oh,” said Bilbo, and he looked around for the first time. The Undying Lands looked remarkably like the Shire. “Good morning. Have we been here long? That is, how long did I sleep?”
Gandalf… only, Gandalf wasn’t Gandalf. Well, he was; Gandalf had always been Gandalf, untouched by time since Bilbo had met him as a child. But his garb was different, and his hair had gone back to grey. Strange, but for all Bilbo knew, this was the power of this country. It would explain why his hand was not his hand. Perhaps they could change their appearance at will, though Bilbo wasn’t sure that he would choose to look younger. He had been stuck there long enough.
In any case, Gandalf the Previously White considered him gravely. “You were not asleep, Bilbo Baggins. Your mind drifted, but your eyes were open.”
This didn’t sound right, and not only because Gandalf’s tone was off. Then again, Bilbo was an old Hobbit, prompt to forgetting things. “I’m sorry, Gandalf,” he said. “I must have lost track of time. You know how it is. Where’s my boy?”
“Your boy,” repeated Gandalf, looking around him. It did look very, very much like the Shire. Was the Shire in Valinor? No, that made no sense. “What boy?”
Bilbo frowned at his hands. He supposed that Frodo was not a boy anymore, and least of all his.
“No matter,” said Gandalf. “I’m glad you recognized me, anyway. I have come here looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and you may have solved the difficulty of finding that someone.”
Bilbo peered up at him, startled out of his reverie. What game was Gandalf playing? “I beg your pardon?”
“And I will grant it to you. Now, I’ll go and tell the others, they’ll be pleased my search yielded such swift results. Well?”
Bilbo felt that his head would explode, and saw that he had dropped something. Looking down, he saw that it was his smoking pipe, which was impossible, since he’d given his last two to Merry and Pippin when they had stopped in Rivendell on their way back from the war. He leaned over to pick it up, and saw that it was even more impossible, because this was not one of the pipes the twins had made for him, but the one that had cracked in his rucksack when he’d fallen in the cave of the Misty Mountains. It was whole. Unbroken.
“What,” he said to Gandalf, considering his words with care, “What sort of adventure?”
Gandalf’s eyes twinkled under the brim of his hat.