Bilbo in Rivendell
by Daughter of Kings
Bilbo woke suddenly
in the dark of the night. Rising, he pulled on a warm robe and padded
out onto the balcony. The night was clear and crisp, and bright with
starlight. Low in the southern sky, Menelvagor made his nightly journey
into the west. Southward Bilbo turned his eyes. Southward, where dear
Frodo had gone, with Aragorn and the others. Southward, where the Ring
had gone. Southward, where his own heart and mind sometimes wished to
go, although his body would not allow it. Did the Ring call to him
still? Or was it the lure of a new adventure, the opportunity to tread
new paths, to see sights unseen before? Was he jealous that Frodo now
bore the Ring, or that the lad now traveled roads on which his own feet
would never take him? What was it that wrenched at his heart, that had
him standing out here each night since the Fellowship had departed?
A cool breeze drifted down from the Misty Mountains, and the ache in
his heart slowly gave way to the chill in his bones. Of what matter was
it, what drew him to stand out here? None at all, he told himself, for
what held him back was more powerful. Inside, a warm fire and cozy bed
waited for him. Inside were his book and his songs, the stories he had
heard and those he had told, his memories of what had been, and the
Elves with whom he shared them. Inside were warmth, and laughter, and
friends. One last wistful glance beyond the bounds of Rivendell, and
then he turned and went back inside.
