[Child of the 7th Age]

An elderly hobbit ambled towards the Sea, watching the morning sun reach out its golden rays to enfold the timeless shore of Tol Eressea. Endless white-capped waves lapped gently against the beach, while a long-legged seabird circled and dived from above, wading though the shallows and poking its beak into hidden crevices and cracks. The hobbit felt the warmth of the sun upon his face and back. He stopped a moment on the shore, scooping up a handful of white sand and letting it trickle down through his fingers.

Leaving all this behind wouldn't be easy. Yet, his time in the West was drawing to a close. Bilbo had lived longer than any hobbit had a right to expect, and enjoyed an abundance of riches which he felt to be greater than anything he deserved. His life had been one of comparative ease, and he'd known so many friends and kin, whose hearts had touched his own.

Things had not seemed so hopeful just eleven years before when he and Frodo first arrived on Cirdan's ship. His body had been weary, his mind confused, with the burden of age pressing on his head. Yet Bilbo had been surprised to see clarity and vigor return. Now, he took pleasure in a tiny interval of peace set within a land of great beauty.

His younger cousin Frodo, his adopted heir, had not found things so easy. There had been bad days and good days, with tears and talks and solitary rambles, as Frodo endeavored to sort out everything that had happened to him. Most of all there had been Bilbo's unwavering affection and the watchful presence of Gandalf and Galadriel, whose wisdom had helped Frodo comprehend much that at first seemed beyond the ken of a simple hobbit.

Bilbo could see that the burden of the Ring had left a mark on his cousin that not even the West could erase. There were finely etched lines and cracks evident in Frodo's face, mirrored deep within his eyes, as if a glass had been lifted up and shattered into a thousand pieces. Those pieces could never be made whole again, at least not within the boundaries of Arda.

Yet out of this struggle and near despair, Frodo had managed to inch his way back a little at a time, in some ways the same hobbit and in others quite different than what had gone before. Like Gandalf's foretelling in the Red Book, Frodo had become like a glass filled with clear light, a tiny reflection of Galadriel's phial. Each splintered fragment cast back its own ray, all the more beautiful for the pattern of brokeness which glittered underneath like a delicate crystal.

It was only now, when Bilbo felt assured of Frodo's healing, that he had begun to consider continuing on with his own journey. Yet there was still one question inside his head that begged for an answer.

Frodo had been special, but the lad was not the only hobbit whom Bilbo had befriended. For many years, he had reached out to the youngsters in the Shire, inviting them to Bag-end to listen to stories or share his love of Elves. Most were distant kin like Angelica Baggins, or Merri, or Pippin. A few were neighbors living in nearby Bagshot Row.

Those youngsters had looked up to Bilbo, and relied on him for many things. He had no intention of leaving until he was sure they had each found their niche in life.

Talking with Gandalf, Bilbo had been relieved to discover that his younger friends were quite happy with how their lives had turned out. That is, all except one. There was one name at the bottom of the list that still troubled him. He resolved to speak with Gandalf again to see if anything could be done.

[ February 15, 2003: Message edited by: Child of the 7th Age ]