Chapter Text
“I've made up my mind.”
“But Bilbo-”
“Don't you but Bilbo me, Lobelia. It's decided.”
The floorboards creak under the boy's cautious step, but fortunately, the conversation behind the door that serves as his hiding place and listening spot both, carries on.
“Well, I suppose I should have known, shouldn't I. You just don't handle grief very well at all, I'm sorry to say. We all saw it back when your parents died-”
“Don't you bring my parents into this,” Bilbo sounds angry for a second, “besides, this has nothing to do with my grief. I sincerely believe that the lad could use a change of scenery, and some fresh air in his lungs.”
“It's the sea, Bilbo. How fresh can the air get?!”
“It's very healthy. You should read up on it. Certainly better than the city, I think we can both agree.”
“Now you're just being ridiculous! You would take the boy away from his home-”
“He doesn't have a home anymore, Lobelia! He doesn't have a school to go to next year, either, or anything tying him down to this place but dreadful memories, do you understand that?”
Silence reigns for a moment, and the boy holds his breath in, for fear of but a single gasp betraying his presence.
“Still,” Aunt Lobelia is quieter now, but no less bitter it seems, “you are being reckless. If it were up to me...-”
“Fortunately, it is not up to you anymore,” Bilbo retorts resolutely, “and you have no say in this matter whatsoever, is that clear?”
“I always knew you were a selfish one, Bilbo Baggins,” Aunt Lobelia refuses to give up, and something worrisome flutters in the boy's chest at the venom in her voice, “we've offered you both shelter and food, clothed the boy and provided for him, given you all the time and space in the world to get on with your life, and this is how you repay us?!”
He hears Bilbo's sigh like the rustling of old paper, and then a strangely cheery: “Believe what you will. This is happening.”, and before he knows it, his Uncle is opening the door right into his face, looking rightly bewildered, before he recognizes what's going on, shuts the door with a click and a sigh, and reaches to ruffle his hair.
“It doesn't do to listen in on other people's conversations, you know,” he scolds, but isn't really angry, not like he was with Aunt Lobelia just now, the boy knows.
“Are we really going to the sea?” he asks, and Bilbo looks at him silently for a moment, his eyes a bit odd and shiny, before smiling, thumb stroking his cheek.
“Yes, Frodo, my lad, I believe we are.”
-
The sea roars. It is the first thing that catches his attention – just how loud it is, getting louder and louder as their motor car rattles up the crooked, narrow road and closer to the cliffs. Even all the way over here, the air smells of it, damp but fresh, salt and wind, and Frodo and him gasp in unison when they finally see it, the sheer mass of it below them – a wild, deep grey-blue speckled with the bright white of foam, it sways and sings, waves breaking against dark rocks, their jagged edges making them resemble some slumbering creatures, biding their time on the shore, their talons digging into the sand.
They hear the cry of a seagull, and then another, and another one, and raise their heads reverently to follow their flight, quick silver darts against the blue sky, cackling and squabbling so loud they overpower the crashing of the waves deep, deep down below them.
“To the left,” the driver announces, “there it is.”
“Frodo, look,” Bilbo nudges the boy, patting his hand gently, and he tears his eyes away from the sky and looks where Bilbo is pointing – Bilbo's delighted to see at least some spark of excitement in his nephew's eyes, though he says nothing.
The road winds down a grassy hill and indeed to the left, away from the somewhat menacing display of the rocks and the cliffs, and follows the line of the shore more or less neatly. They see sheep grazing on the grass, and to the right there is the beach, way ahead and downhill, and the only way down to it, to the golden sand and the scattered cypresses, is from the house.
It stands overlooking the entire cove, guarded by yet more cliffs on one side, and half-sunken in overgrown greenery. And yet, it shines like some long-forgotten jewel, its bleached white walls and the high afternoon sun reflecting in its windows, and though Bilbo is perfectly ready to discover much less exciting details up close, he is already quite charmed by it.
“Oak Cottage,” the driver announces, as if it pains him to even say those words out loud – his name is Alfrid Lickspittle, an employee of the real estate agency through which Bilbo has been setting up their new home, and he is quite the cheery fellow, if a bit... greasy. Or was, until Bilbo expressed interest in this particular house.
“Why is it called that, anyway?” Bilbo wonders, “I see no oak anywhere.”
“No idea,” Alfrid sighs, “there is quite a dreadful-looking monkey puzzle tree growing out by the garden, but I suppose that wouldn't have made for a very good name.”
“Monkey puzzle,” Bilbo repeats those words to Frodo, “quite a silly name for a tree, don't you think?”
A distant smile dances on the boy's lips, but he remains quiet otherwise. He's always quiet.
The tree in question turns out to be particularly ugly, some exotic thing the previous owner had brought from abroad apparently, and it casts a shadow over the entire house, that much is obvious from where they're standing by the picket fence and the small gate, which turns out to be broken – only the first of many things, as it happens.
The stone steps they ascend carefully are cracked and long-unused, covered by some sort of moss or lichen, and the railing by them is mostly just rotting away. The front of the house seems in solid enough shape, if a bit... forlorn, and Frodo squeezes Bilbo's hands tight as they look up at its two stories, his eyes large, fright mixed with excitement.
“Well well,” Bilbo smiles at him, squeezing back to reassure him, “what do you say we take a peek inside?”
Frodo nods, and to Bilbo's surprise, lets go of his hand and trots up to the front door, the old wood of the veranda creaking softly under his step, and Bilbo hurries to follow him – only after they try in vain to see past the curtains draped over the tall windows do they notice that their guide isn't with them.
“What's the matter?” Bilbo asks, the man lingering behind and looking rather gloomy, “did you forget the keys?”
“No, no, no such thing, it's just that... Well, I told you back at the agency, and you didn't believe me, but you can see it now for yourself, this house is utterly unsuited to your needs. It's much too large for just two people, and...”
“Is there a problem with the house, Mister Lickspittle?” Bilbo tilts his head, “is the plumbing faulty? Or perhaps the gas?”
“What – of course not!” the man puffs up, all professional pride, “we at Laketown Realtors make sure that all our houses are in top notch condition at all times!”
“Well then I see no reason why we shouldn't see the inside,” Bilbo says kindly, but firmly, and Mister Lickspittle glares at him silently for a moment, as if he expects him to change his mind still, but then he deflates, and rummages through his belongings for the keys, muttering something incomprehensible, all the while looking more and more miserable.
A sudden loud knock startles Bilbo, but he quickly realizes it's just Frodo trying the front door with unexpected vigor.
“I don't think anyone's home, lad,” Bilbo chuckles, laying a hand on his shoulder and gently steering him out of the way, so that Alfrid may approach and unlock the door, “how long did you say the house has been abandoned for?”
“Five years now,” the realtor sighs, “though abandoned is not the word I'd use.”
Bilbo doesn't have any time to ask what he means by that, though, because the door swings open entirely silently (where he'd somehow expected it to creak all ominously), and Mister Lickspittle lets them inside. The foyer is sunken in utter darkness, and because Alfrid doesn't seem to want to move from the doorway, Bilbo takes it upon himself to draw the curtains open and let some light in.
“Oh my,” he sighs, “well that's quite lovely, don't you think, Frodo?”
The boy says nothing yet again, simply hurries to emulate his Uncle, struggling to draw the heavy curtains off the tall arched windows, and eventually, they succeed together – once uncovered, the windows provide enough light to travel all the way inside, past the alcove next to the front door itself, revealing that the floorboards aren't in fact in the least moldy or some dreadful dark color like Bilbo had feared, but a pleasant honey brown, if a bit dusty, just like everything else. Above their heads sways a chandelier that seems rather unsuited for a place like this, and Bilbo already accounts for the amount of time it would take to clean all of its tinkling glass parts, dear god. The stairway directly in front of them is a tad narrow, but all in all, Bilbo can't wait to walk up it and see the second floor, and has to stop Frodo from doing the same.
“Don't wander off, now,” he reminds him, and the boy clutches onto his hand dutifully.
“This way,” Mister Lickspittle announces a tad tensely, and leads them to the left, where the kitchen turns out to be – the air is much colder here, the smell of stale, long-unused furbishing somewhat stronger, but Bilbo doesn't let that discourage him in the slightest. Yet another window is uncovered, casting light on a beautiful stove and the cupboards above it, an old solid workbench and a stone floor... With some dusting, Bilbo can see this spot cozying up and filling with warmth in no time.
“See, everything in perfect order,” Mister Lickspittle announces somewhat sourly when he manages to get the lights working, and Bilbo can only wonder why he keeps looking around his shoulder as if he thinks there might be someone else in the room with them.
“What is it, Frodo?” he asks when the boy's tugging at the hem of his overcoat becomes incessant – his nephew says nothing, simply points back into the foyer, an urgency to his eyes that Bilbo can't quite understand.
“Don't worry, we'll go see the rest in no time,” he reassures him, “or did you want to wait outside? Do you not want to see the other rooms?”
Frodo begins to shake his head in disapproval, but then his gaze unfocuses, and he tilts his head, as if he's listening to... well, to something only he can hear.
“What is it, lad?” Bilbo asks more curiously now, and pays no mind to their guide, who disappears into the adjacent room, nattering on about ships and the sea and whatnot.
Frodo makes to dash off, but is at the same time reluctant to let go of Bilbo, looking up at him, blue eyes worried.
“Do you hear something?” Bilbo wonders, and when the lad nods fervently, he ruffles his hair and promises, “we'll go exploring that in a bit, alright? Let's go see the next room now.”
Frodo follows him a bit reluctantly, and keeps looking over his shoulder all the way to what happens to be a rather lovely dining room. Bilbo understands all the sailor talk now – there are at least four different paintings of ships and seascapes on the walls, as well as a collection of other paraphernalia, shells displayed next to tea sets in a glass case by the far wall and even what seems to be a whaling spear, if Bilbo can be any judge of that, hoisted above the large round table itself.
But all of that be damned, he's more interested in the garden that is revealed to be practically growing into the room through the back porch when they uncover the windows here, too. It's a right wilderness, the lawn unkempt and the bushes left untrimmed for years, and certainly no flowerbeds to speak of, but oh, there's potential, of course there is.
“Lovely,” he exhales, letting go of Frodo's hand as he struggles to open the door that leads onto the back porch, and Mister Lickspittle looks at him in disbelief.
“The only thing that might help this forest is a carefully controlled fire, if you ask me,” he grumbles, and Bilbo laughs, inhaling fresh air once again, the door having swung open much more easily than anticipated, as if someone's been keeping all the joints and handles oiled all this time.
“Don't be ridiculous, it's beautiful. Or will be again, with a bit of work,” he decides, “was the previous owner big on gardening, then?”
“Of course not, he was a sailor,” Alfrid sighs, as if merely mentioning the previous mystery inhabitant of Oak Cottage might get him into trouble, “it was his sister who kept the house for him when he was away, I believe she was the one behind all this.”
“I see,” Bilbo smiles, “well, she certainly had a taste for plants, look at those beautiful roses there! With a bit of trimming, of course... Hmm, yes. I can't imagine she was too happy about the addition of that dreadful tree in the front, but that we can get rid of that easily enough, don't you think, Frodo... Frodo?”
Far too late does Bilbo realize that his nephew isn't with him – he looks around, realizing with some dread that he doesn't remember where he saw him last, and hurries back into the dining room.
“Frodo?” he calls, “lad, where are you?”
He hears some scuttling from way back into the house, and tries to find his way back through the kitchen, followed by the awfully antsy Mister Lickspittle.
“Frodo? Where have you disappeared off to? Sir, are there any rooms off limits in here? Any place one might get lost in?”
“No, of course not. All the rooms are unlocked, except for the attic, but that's simply because we've never been quite able to find a fitting key, and the lock keeps protesting despite our best attempts to...-”
They hear it then, a frightened squeal, and Bilbo's heart performs a nasty leap.
“Frodo?!” he calls out, dashing back into the foyer.
The boy stands in the winged door half ajar, leading to yet another room, turned away from them and staring intently at something, and Bilbo hurries to him.
“Frodo, are you alright?! What happened – oh mother of-”
A half swallowed curse escapes him when he meets with the glare of the most piercing pair of eyes he's ever seen – it takes him embarrassingly long to realize that he's not looking at a real person, but rather a painting, hung in such a way that it faces the doorway directly. He can't blame Frodo for getting frightened by that – the light from the foyer illuminates it so that the man appears very much alive, and a small part of Bilbo is very glad it isn't so anymore, because imagining meeting someone so ominous-looking in real life gives him goosebumps.
“It's just a painting,” he reassures Frodo, small, cold fingers slipping into his grasp and clutching tight, “nothing to be afraid of.”
“The owner himself,” Mister Lickspittle announces like he has a personal grudge to settle with the man, “Captain Durin.”
Frodo still refuses to cross the threshold of that particular room, and so Bilbo stays with him while Alfrid goes about letting some light in, and the painting looks on – Captain Durin has a very stern, handsome face, all sharp regal angles, his beard trimmed short and neat, hair slicked back under his cap, the brass buttons of his uniform shining, and he looks very proud, and very, very displeased with something.
Inexplicably drawn to him and very much curious to find out how he'd died, Bilbo can't seem to look away for the longest time, until Frodo tugs at his hand once more and demands they explore this room at last. It's a beautiful sitting room, bookshelves lining the walls all but overflowing, a sofa in very good shape, if Bilbo is any judge of that, but he still can't quite concentrate on much else beyond the painting of the Captain – its eyes seem to follow him around the room, and he finds himself glancing back at it time and time again.
“Well, I think you've seen enough, haven't you?” Mister Lickspittle declares very tensely, looking fretfully out of the window, as if he's expecting someone else to come by, “there's a lovely property not far from here, Westfarthing Lodgings, you remember me telling you about it, don't you, Master Baggins? Somewhat pricier, but very comfortable...”
“I must say, Mister Lickspittle,” Bilbo measures him curiously, “you seem very adamant to keep me away from this particular house. What is it you're not telling me? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're worried it's haunted, or some such nonsense.”
The man looks a perfect picture of desperation then, glancing from Bilbo to Frodo, who now seems very interested in idly picking at the wooden frame of one of the windows.
“Well, I didn't mean to scare the boy,” Alfrid says quietly, as if even allowing himself to let out those words shames him deeply, “and of course that we at Laketown Realtors don't believe in such nonsense, we live in a modern world after all...”
“But?” Bilbo nudges gently.
“But... You see, some of the locals seem to think that the house is... in fact...”
“Haunted?” Bilbo finishes for him with a chuckle, “by whom? The late Captain, I expect?”
At that very moment, a great creak comes from somewhere above their heads, and the realtor jumps like a spooked mouse, while Frodo yelps in surprise and hurries back to hold onto Bilbo's sleeve.
“Well,” Alfrid shrugs, as if the wind playing in the rafters is explanation enough, and Bilbo quirks an eyebrow.
“How terribly exciting,” he grins, “I think we should like to see the upstairs now, wouldn't we, Frodo?”
Mister Lickspittle looks utterly defeated, but having presumably run out of arguments, he complies, leading the way out of the room – Bilbo casts the strange painting one last look, only to think of its pensive, piercing glare all the way up the creaking wooden stairs.
The second floor is comprised of one smaller bedroom, yet another sitting room, the aforementioned locked door to the attic (Mister Lickspittle acts with true horror when Bilbo gives it a tug, and seems on the verge of just turning on his heel and leaving when the rafters moan and creak again), and then the rather splendid master bedroom – Bilbo enters the room with awe, and Frodo slips from his grasp and patters ahead to admire the gorgeous brass telescope by the balcony, reaching out, fingertips fluttering just above the surface but never touching, as per Bilbo's suggestion.
“It's polished clean,” Bilbo marvels, “you've kept this place in surprisingly good shape, Mister Lickspittle, considering how reluctant you seem to be to rent it to anybody.”
“Oh, we've rented it many times in the past,” Alfrid confesses, all three of them now standing by the balcony door and gazing out to the sea, the view quite simply breathtaking.
“You have?” Bilbo frowns, ruffling Frodo's hair absentmindedly.
“We have,” the man confirms, and then adds very glumly, clearly exaggerating for more impact “none of the tenants lasted through the night.”
Bilbo has half a mind to burst into laughter, but then Mister Lickspittle does look so very unfortunate.
“You're serious.”
“Of course I'm serious,” he huffs, “why do you think a place this large and well situated is so cheap?”
“I wondered,” Bilbo snickers, then turns to admire the bedroom once more, “ghosts, you say, hmm?”
Just the one.
That voice doesn't exactly sound like Mister Lickspittle, but before Bilbo can do anything but register the chilling tingle shooting up his spine, too many things happen at once – behind him, the wind busts the balcony window open, howling and biting with a sudden ferocity. It makes the rafters keen and creak as if the whole building is about to collapse, and before Bilbo can even start wondering how a storm has come so quickly and out of the blue, forth dashes his nephew, and the easily startled Mister Lickspittle at his heels.
“Frodo!” Bilbo calls, but the roar of the wind and the complaining of the house is deafening – his feet carry him forward quite unwittingly, out of the bedroom and onto the staircase, and it must have gotten very dark very fast, because he can barely see his way.
Neither his nephew or the realtor are anywhere to be seen, and he could have sworn that corner wasn't there! Or that door, for that matter... He stumbles down the stairs practically blindly, and it's as if the noise is gaining in volume every step he takes – the sea seems to be right outside, the waves crashing violently against the walls of the house itself, and there must be a whole flock of seagulls overhead, screeching with particular vigor... It must just be Bilbo's hearing deceiving him utterly and completely, but he catches something else in all that noise, something subtler, a melody, the plucking of strings... is that a guitar? A harp? He almost turns right back around, but it's as if some invisible force is quite virtually pushing him out of the house, and he stands on the patch of dried grass in front of the porch before he knows what's what, gasping for breath, blinded by the sun, and feeling slightly dizzy for some reason.
“Frodo!” he exclaims, and the boy turns to him, unperturbed, taking his hand obediently.
“Are you alright?!” Bilbo exhales, and Frodo smiles and shrugs, nothing more.
The heat is almost unbearable now, the warm dry wind tousling his hair, such a stark contrast with the inside of the house. Bilbo looks back at it, more than a little confused, and it looks back very innocently, peaceful and still, not a curtain fluttering.
“Well then,” he mutters to himself, “I could've sworn...”
He notices the realtor out of the corner of his eye then, practically jumping up and down from sheer nerves by the gate all the way down by the road, and waves at him feebly, nudging Frodo to come with.
“I told you!” Mister Lickspittle cries, “now do you see why the house is unsuited to your needs?!”
“Hmm, yes, well...”
“I really do think it's best we go back to town now, I'll take you to see Westfarthing Lodgings tomorrow, what do you say... Master Baggins?”
“Mmm, yes?” Bilbo gives him his full attention, having lost himself watching the waves wash the beach down below and paint soft, uneven patterns into the sand.
“You heard it too, don't tell me you didn't!” Mister Lickspittle all but pleads with him, “there is... something in that house!”
“It is a very old house, Mister Lickspittle,” Bilbo smiles indulgently, “I'm sure there is quite the number of exciting somethings hiding under that roof.”
“You were there!” Alfrid exclaims, “you...! The voice, and... the moaning! The Captain...”
“Mister Lickspittle,” Bilbo says firmly, but not without a hint of amusement, “I thought we'd agreed, we live in a modern world. There is no such thing as ghosts. I'm sure that what we heard was just a very old building adjusting to a bit of wind.”
“There is no wind!” the realtor cries so desperately Bilbo almost feels sorry for him – the nonexistent wind also picks up his sensible straw hat right off his head at that very moment and makes him squeal and almost trip over his own feet spinning around to catch it. Convinced now that there's no calming the man down, Bilbo concentrates on Frodo – Frodo, who is getting his second best stockings all muddy sitting on the ground just under the old stone stairs, drawing idle shapes into the dirt with a stick, looking oddly peaceful, considering he was the first one to dash out of the house just then.
“So what do you think?” Bilbo crouches to him, “do you like it here?”
Clear blue eyes glance at him briefly, and the boy shrugs again.
“Were you scared before, with the noises?”
The riot of dark brown curls bobs as Frodo shakes his head.
“Really? You ran before I could catch you,” Bilbo says softly, ignoring whatever property Mister Lickspittle might be suggesting they go see right now, in a very worried, high pitched voice at that.
“I went to wait outside,” the boy murmurs quietly – Bilbo is always surprised by how soft his voice is; he gets to hear it so very little.
“Why? Wait for what?”
“I went to wait outside,” Frodo repeats, with more conviction now, “like he told me to.”
An odd tingle tickles the back of Bilbo's neck, like the feeling one gets when being watched, and the gust of wind tousling his hair is colder now, no longer smelling like the sea, but rather like old stone walls and wooden stairs, and dust that's lain undisturbed for years and years.
“Like who told you to – yes, Mister Lickspittle, we're coming, give us a moment, would you!”
“It will be dusk soon,” the realtor almost pleads, “if we're to finish our rounds at the office in time-”
“I don't think that'll be necessary,” Bilbo interrupts him clearly before his nattering can get out of hand again, and gets up, dusting off his trousers, “I think we'll be liking Oak Cottage well enough.”
“Oh, but Master Baggins, I implore you-”
“One thing you should know about me, Mister Lickspittle, I don't twice enjoy being implored to do anything,” Bilbo accompanies those words with a polite smile, but also no small amount of resolve.
He looks from the anguished man to the house itself, and it's as if it's taunting him – look away for but a second, and you might miss it. Miss what, Bilbo isn't entirely sure yet.
A glimmer of light from the master bedroom window catches his eye momentarily – now that he's been there, he knows it's just the lens of the telescope capturing sunlight, but he can't help but squint and... not quite see, but almost imagine, the shift of a curtain and the shadows rearranging so that it looks like, just for a blink of an eye, there's a figure standing there by the balcony door. He remembers the look of piercing eyes, off a painting that felt almost too alive, and hears the echo of a voice that didn't belong to anyone in that room...
He shakes his head, shakes it off, but as he moves to go worry about the worried realtor once more, he sees that Frodo is standing by his side, staring intently the same way. His knees are already muddy, and his hair a messy halo, and his cheeks a healthier rosy pink than Bilbo has seen in a while – he reaches to bump his nose gently with his thumb, and the boy's face scrunches up in a surprised scowl, but then he grins at Bilbo brightly, and that right there is the most exciting part of today's tour yet.
“Do you want to stay here?” Bilbo asks him plainly, and Frodo inclines his head, as if he's ruminating over that particularly hard, before offering one very decisive nod.
“That's decided, then,” Bilbo sighs contentedly.
“What's decided? Nothing is decided!” the ubiquitously annoying Mister Lickspittle trots up to them, though he seems to be reluctant to get anywhere too close to the house, “this is not a good idea, Master Baggins!”
“Now, I'm no expert in these matters,” Bilbo sighs, putting a reassuring hand on Frodo's shoulder, “but I'd say trying this vehemently not to strike a deal might be bad for business, don't you think? I wonder what your superiors at the esteemed Laketown Realtors might think were I to bring it up-”
“Oh, alright, alright, have it your way, if you're this stubborn,” Mister Lickspittle spits, throwing his hands up in the air, “but let it be known – and we will have this signed from you, yes we will – that I, or anyone else at Laketown Realtors, will not be responsible for any-” one baleful glare towards the house, “danger that may befall you.”
“That's understandable,” Bilbo almost snorts a laugh, “but I think we'll be just fine.”
The look the man casts him then is haunted and puzzled at the same time, as if he's already filed Bilbo as a lost cause, but can't quite understand why he insists on confirming it himself, time and time again.
“You are making a grave mistake,” the realtor tells him, plain and simple and, in Bilbo's amused opinion, very unprofessional indeed.
He never stops smiling, simply looks away from the man and to his nephew, who is still watching the house, that same distant look in his eyes he had when they were inside, listening to something only he can hear.
Behind them, the sea roars, and Bilbo knows nothing about the sea, or the weather by the sea; doesn't even quite know what the future holds if they do decide to stay here. But the air is warm and dry, and smells of salt water and rocks heated up by the sun, and there's nothing but endless blue on the horizon, water and sky melding into one, and he thinks he might be able to look at that forever.
“Oh, I don't know,” he smiles, inhaling deeply and ruffling Frodo's hair, the boy's face upturned and smiling, and a calm unlike anything he's felt in years settles somewhere deep within his chest at the sight, “I think it'll be quite the adventure.”