The Shadow Walker

20. Bilbo's Legacy

I trained with Elladan every morning for almost a week. Slowly, and painfully, my muscles grew until I could begin to pull the bowstring back on my own. I found myself happy to wait for Gandalf this way, but perhaps not content. For Elladan had kept our relationship strictly teacher-student and showed no interest in progressing.

But what I lacked in romance, I gained in the companionship I found with Bilbo. The Hobbit would spend long hours in Rivendell's gardens, seated on a bench with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, his book resting in his lap. Sometimes he would write, and sometimes he would illustrate, but other times he would merely read back over what he'd already written.

I often joined him, quietly lying on another bench, basking in the sunlight and enjoying the comfortable silence. It was on one such afternoon that Bilbo handed me his book and said, "Read this, if you like. I skipped a lot of details when I told you the story—and you fell asleep before the end." He smiled, the wrinkled lining his face deepening.

"Thank you," I whispered, my fingers skimming over the cover. There and Back Again: A Hobbit's Tale, by Bilbo Baggins.

"Make sure you return it," he said with a fatherly chuckle. "I wrote it for Frodo. I never told him the whole truth about my adventure."

"Of course," I replied, reaching down to hug the old Hobbit. He patted my back affectionately, then we pulled apart.

"Well," he said, tugging the corners of his blanket a little tighter around his shoulders, "I think I'll return to my room and go to sleep early tonight."

"Are you feeling alright?" I asked, helping him rearrange the blanket.

"Yes, yes," he said in a dismissive tone. "Just feeling a bit tired. You enjoy the book, now," he said, and slowly waddled away.

I frowned after him, concern poking at my mind. But, some extra sleep was probably the best thing for him, whether he was sick or not. So, tucking the thick book under my arm, I turned and headed for my own room.

When I got there, I immediately deposited the book on my bedside table and drew myself a bath. As I washed myself, I sent frequent dreading glances at Bilbo's written account. Doubtless, he would ask my opinion of the story, and want to know my favorite part. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the gesture, him letting me read the book before he gave it to his nephew. I simply was not much of a reader.

I took my time in the bath, and when I got out, I dressed in a baggy shirt and loose trousers—just in case someone burst into my room and tried to kill me again. Then, reluctantly, I picked up Bilbo's book and opened it.

The first pages were illustrated with intricate and detailed maps of the Shire, Rivendell, and the northwest territories surrounding Erebor—Dale, Lake-Town, Mirkwood, and the LonelyMountain itself. I turned the page again, bringing me to the first chapter, and on the opposite page was a beautiful sketch of Bag End. Smiling a little, I delved into the story.

I smiled at Gandalf's role, and laughed aloud at the Dwarves' antics in a young Bilbo's life. I read on in awe as Bilbo chased after the Dwarves with a signed contract, and frowned sympathetically at his discomfort away from home.

And before I knew it, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, afraid for Thorin's company as it was captured by trolls. Smiling as Gandalf gave Bilbo the little sword—Sting. Worried sick as orcs chased the company into Rivendell. I smiled broadly at the way Bilbo recorded Lord Elrond's attitude and disgust toward Dwarves.

I couldn't tell when it happened, or how—but suddenly the words on pages were no longer words on pages, but vivid pictures that played out in my mind.

At some point, darkness fell, and I absentmindedly lit a candle to keep reading. Time was no longer any concern of mine, nor was anything aside from the book in my hands.

It only seemed like minutes later, that my candle flickered out. In sudden darkness, I scowled at it, and my eyebrows shot up to see it had already burned all the way down and guttered out in its own wax. I had no other candles, but going to sleep was not an option. Perhaps at the end of the chapter. So with that thought in my mind, I left my room and sat down on a bench out in the open, where moonlight would reach the pages.

I had reached the part where Bilbo was trying to find a way to help the Dwarves escape Thranduil's dungeon, when I turned the page. A small gasp escaped my lips. A breathtaking sketch depicted a dark-haired Dwarf reaching between the bars of prison cell, toward an elleth twice his height. Her long fingers were inclined toward his, but didn't quite touch. My eyes skimmed the drawing for a long moment, then returned to reading, eager to find out what happened next.

When at last I turned the final page, tears and snot were streaming down my face in equal amounts, and I had to wipe my chin on my shirt to keep the fluids from marring the hand-written page. I reluctantly closed the book and stared at the plain back cover. I suppose I would have to change my opinion of reading.

When I looked up, I gasped. Sunlight was already filling the sky, and I hadn't even noticed. Elladan would be waiting for me soon. I got up and ran to my room to get changed.

When I was finally on my way to the training arena several minutes later, I was intercepted by none other than Lord Elrond. He was standing on the walkway, glaring out at the waterfall as though it had wronged him horribly. His hands were buried in his wrinkled robes, his hair was a flyaway mess, and his face held a stormy expression. Without even looking at me, he said, "I have told you to stay away from my son. Repeatedly." He turned and looked me square in the eye. "What must I do to earn your obedience?"

I meant to say, 'Obedience? What's that?', but all that came out was, "Uhh..."

Elrond spun on his heel and strode down the walkway. "Follow me."