The Canons of Narrative Art
LotR; Bilbo & Frodo; g; 1,010 words
"It shan't make a good tale, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense!" Bilbo replied bracingly. "You just have to know how to tell it."

Read it on AO3.

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The Canons of Narrative Art

"I warned you about the Road, now, didn't I," Bilbo said, rousing Frodo from his reverie by the fire.

"Indeed, you did," said Frodo, finding his mouth curving into a grin under Bilbo's regard despite his melancholy thoughts. His road had not been so jolly as any of Bilbo's stories made his out to be, but it was hard to remain glum in the old hobbit's presence. "I tried to follow in your footsteps," he said. He didn't say, I tried to make you proud, but somehow he was sure Bilbo heard it.

"Oh, I should hope not!" Bilbo replied. "As your departure was meticulously planned, surely you packed a spare handkerchief and some hearty snacks, instead of rushing away all in a tizzy as I did."

"We did have some fine snacks and meals," Frodo allowed, thinking fondly of Farmer Maggot's mushrooms, "and we sang one of your bath songs when we came to Crickhollow at last, though I'm afraid Pippin made a mess with all his splishing and splashing."

Bilbo laughed, just as Frodo had meant him to. "I'm sure he did. You will have to tell me all the details so I can begin writing your section of the book!"

Frodo deflated, all thoughts of levity leaving him. "It shan't make a good tale, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense!" Bilbo replied bracingly. "You just have to know how to tell it. I will take a crack at it in the morning. Doesn't seem quite the thing for bedtime."

"Definitely not," Frodo said. "The tale requires the brightness of the morning sun." His thoughts returning to shadowy world he'd glimpsed in the barrow and again on Weathertop. The wound in his shoulder ached fiercely for a moment. He forced himself to buck up, thinking instead of old Tom Bombadil, the songs he'd sung and the fine meals he had shared with the hobbits in his house. "It wasn't all doom and gloom, I suppose."

"I'm sure it wasn't," Bilbo replied, "not with Merry and Pippin along to liven things up."

Frodo smiled at that. He would miss them when he left on his journey and they returned to the Shire. At least they would have a good tale to tell. Perhaps he would be remembered as fondly as Bilbo was, after many tellings.

He slept dreamlessly that night, woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains, and took heart. After a leisurely breakfast taken in a cheery nook overlooking the garden, Bilbo once again insisted they repair to his study to work on the book.

Despite his homesickness, it was easier than Frodo expected to make light of leaving Bag End, though Bilbo tutted and murmured, "I do wish you hadn't sold it to the Sackville-Bagginses, but I suppose it can't be helped," at that part of the story. He laughed when Frodo told him they'd left the washing up from their farewell party for Lobelia, and that he'd taken the best of the wine cellar with him.

"I hope Fatty is enjoying it," he said with a small grin, thinking of the friend he'd left behind.

"Well-earned, I'd say," Bilbo replied. "I am glad your friends didn't let you leave alone. It is ever so much easier to be stalwart and true when one has staunch companions."

Frodo would recall and reflect on Bilbo's words many times over the course of his long quest, especially when he felt himself in danger of despair. It was harder to spiral into desperate thoughts with Sam at his side, though he was afraid he would succumb eventually. He was of an altogether more solemn mien than Bilbo had ever been, even before the ring had come to him, and his travels would only increase his melancholy. Sam called it Elvishness, but Sam always saw silver linings where Frodo saw grey skies.

Now, he said, "I'm afraid," and then he stopped. He'd meant to say he was afraid it wasn't true for him, that he'd quailed in terror of the Black Riders, that the long road ahead filled him with ice-cold dread, despite his resolve to see the great task through.

"Yes," said Bilbo, impatience creeping into his tone, "of course. Did you think I wasn't afraid when I matched wits with a dragon, or rode a barrel down the river? I feared for my life and my companions many times on my adventure, you know."

"Of course," Frodo repeated, though there was no conviction in it. "But you always sounded so brave and intrepid when you told the tale."

"In the telling, yes, and so shall you when we are done. In the doing, well, that's a different kettle of fish indeed." There was a mischievous glint in Bilbo's eye that Frodo had missed. "You just tell me what happened and leave the narrative flourishes to me."

Many months later, when the Company returned to Rivendell, Frodo found it more difficult to make light of his adventures. The un-hobbit-like melancholy of his nature had matured into deep grief and unspeakable sorrow over his own perceived failings, as though he hadn't known from the start that the task laid before him was impossible, suicidal (though no one, least of all himself, had ever said as much aloud, at least not to his face), and he had done as well as—nay, better than, in the words of Gandalf—anyone had ever expected him to.

All the hobbits spoke long of their adventures, though Frodo said little without prompting, and Bilbo slept through much of it. Upon his departure from Rivendell, Bilbo gave Frodo his books and notes, and Frodo agreed to finish the work, or as much as he could before he too went away West.

It was hard work, but cleansing, as much of the work in the Shire was after the Battle of Bywater, but it eased Frodo's spirit to write, as if a boil on his spirit were lanced and the infection drained away.

He left the last pages blank for Sam, and knew that a proper ending would be made.

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Note: In 1958, responding to a proposed screenplay of The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien wrote: "The canons of narrative art in any medium cannot be wholly different; and the failure of poor films is often precisely in exaggeration, and in the intrusion of unwarranted matter owing to not perceiving where the core of the original lies."

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