The fur abruptly flies out with a flick of my wrist, and I clutch the letter to my heart. Below is another sheet of paper, much older and—admittedly—more intriguing than either of the note parchments. I slip it out of the box; it feels as though it will crumble at my touch. I open it cautiously, and I almost can't read the ink inside. It's Elvish. Common tongue laces the top, a description of what appears to be an incantation.

"Blessing of the Galadriel – Desire through Dreams".

I can't read anything beyond that; it's all Elvish syllables. I silently curse myself for never being more studious in Middle Earth. I flip the document over, and it's another scribbled note from Gandalf. My eyes widen.

"This is the spell I used to bring you here. You may experience lightheadedness, illness, perhaps death, if you choose to attempt. It will have results regardless of circumstance if you repeat the syllables correctly, but I suggest utilizing the spell five or six times before even trying to search for Frodo, assuming you find yourself dying or incapacitated the first time. He is convinced you will do something else, but I know you; you'll come looking for him." Following that was a rather detailed description of Frodo's dwelling in Valinor, as well as the pronunciation on the front; apparently it was such a complex and old form of Elvish that even the Elves of the Undying Lands didn't recognize it.

He concluded his long explanation with this: "He is not happy here. I've done what I can, even made him the height of the Elves in the hopes of finding him a companion that way, but I'm afraid you've influenced him too much. To be honest with you, Minah, you did more for him than any hobbit lass Bilbo or I could have found. Keep him safe. All due respect, Gandalf."

I sink into my couch, staring at the note. I wonder if I should take Frodo back to Bag End, live there like we always wanted to, until I realize it's my spell: we'll have to come back here. I hope he'll be all right.

In the spell's instructions, Gandalf expressed that the incantation could be repeated at any time; for me, the spell would be no dream. It would be Frodo's. But he did mention practice, and to be honest, I would do anything to get Frodo back.

I step into my bedroom, stare at the spell until I could bore holes through the words. I mutter occasional syllables to myself to prevent from being sucked in before I'm ready. I swallow and pace; I'm so nervous. I know what I'll do with Frodo the moment he's here, but I don't know if he'll be any different, if he wants anything different.

Well, he'd tried to marry me back in the Shire, so I only assumed he would want to do it now.

My palms grow slick at the thought. I can't wait another minute, but I can't possibly face that branch of the future. So I gather I ought to practice now, so that when the time coems that I can accept the future I'll be able to do it when I feel it.

So I recite the incantation, one of my eyes squeezed shut. He did mention I could die, although that didn't sound likely . . . or so I try to assure myself.

The world sucks out of my vision through a tunnel, and I fall. I try to cry out, but something sucks my breath away. I quickly clamp my mouth shut, and after a few seconds I can breathe again. I've been gently lowered from darkness into a white field, not substantial by any means, but on a different plane entirely. Bubbles float around me, bubbles of places I know. I nearly reach out to touch them—as Alaska, Italy, France, England, New York City, and others float by—but I decide that's not a good idea. I might go there, and then I wouldn't know how to get myself back out.

Finally I stop to think about what Gandalf told me, finding Frodo and Valinor. I start remembering details, although I'm a little dizzy, and constructing what his home might look like. A bubble appears before me, swelling from the size of my fingernail to the size of the others, a little larger than my head while I figure out what it looks like. The colors are off of what I imagined them, far more stark than any I've seen in Middle Earth. It appears to be overlooking a grand, flesh beach, on a small cliffside, probably the most ideal location the Elves could come up with for him. I concentrate on the front door, and I step inside.

My feet virtually glide across the floor until I solidify in place. I didn't realize how tall the door was for a hobbit until I look back and realize Frodo would be half the size of that space. Odd, I think, until I turn back the other way and see Frodo, inches taller than I, leaning over a stone-guarded fireplace. My eyes widen, and I'm confused.

Then I remember: Gandalf made Frodo the height of the Elves in the hopes that he could make him happy.

I ease up close to him. I shake, trying to blame my nausea on my travel, but it's not true and I know it. I wonder if I simply wasn't magical enough to be affected by the spell, or just too normal to experience anything. I reach up to touch his shoulder, trembling with every shift.

"Frodo?" I whisper. He doesn't respond. My fingers fall right through him, and I scramble back. But Gandalf had told me this would work; now I'm immensely confused. Perhaps I missed part of it? I unfold the parchment from where I'd placed it in my pocket, but I see nothing. I repeated everything.

I think about what had happened when Gandalf came to bring me to the Council of Elrond: I hadn't seen him pop out of the woodwork. I'd been asleep.

I rub the ridge of my nose; how could I have forgotten? Looking outside, I still have a few hours before night sets in. I suppose I could just stay, be with him without actually being there. Theoretically sleep should bring him to where I can touch him, take him home with me. Assuming that's what he truly wants. But based on that note Gandalf sent me from him, he probably wants to come with me. I sit down at a marble table some five feet to his left to wait.

Doubts fade from my mind as I watch him. He looks so forlorn . . . older. His eyes tiredly flicker with the fire; he never moves, not as the sun crosses the sky over the course of three hours and blazes through the western window. It illuminates his whole face; he's so pale, but I can't imagine he's skipped eating for too long: he still looks—I cough to myself—very nice.

Wishing I could touch him, hold him as I've always done, I stand from the table and sit on the stone hearth before the fire. I reach up, trying to finger away the folds of his shirt and find the Morgul stab. But I can't get to it. I can apparently touch inanimate objects, as I'm able to sit down, so I persist harder, and finally the shirt gives a little to my effort; it appears as though I have the touch capacity of a breeze.

Before I can touch his Morgul stab as habit drives me to do, Frodo shudders and folds his arms around himself. He sits down almost on top of me, right before the fire. I sidle up close to him, almost able to fall right through.

His head leans back to rest on the stone alcove above the fire, and he starts singing. He sounds mournful, his voice low and soft. Within minutes—as a consequence of the magic, I'm sure, as I wouldn't understand any other way—his Elvish fades into the common tongue.

I bite my lip. He's singing about how paradise has become blackness. He's blaming himself for his trouble, as though his difficulties with the Ring or the Nazgul were his own to control; his ability to hold against that blame only lasts so long. Soon his voice cracks, and he stops to stare at the floor. His eyes ease shut.

"Minah, come back," he whispers. He rubs his fingertips over his black wound.

"I'm here!" I insist. "I'm right here, right in front of you!" I know he can't hear me, but it's almost like that touch; I feel like if I'm loud enough he can pick up something. I wrap my arms around him, unable to squeeze and caress like I want. Pain of distance again sweeps over me. "Frodo, I'm here for you. I never wanted to go."

He shudders harder and pulls into himself. I'm only making him colder.

I reach up and brush his curls back. To my surprise, they move, and he responds. His head lifts, and he looks around, probably for an open window at all this touching I've been doing. I'm undoubtedly just making him colder.

"I'll let you alone," I say at last. He looks around, completely perplexed and calculating. I shake my head; I shouldn't have even tried after that first attempt. I lean in and touch my mouth to his cheek, but of course I cannot feel it, and neither can he. I turn back to the marble table.

An hour after sunset, Frodo shoots to his feet. I turn to the back door as Gandalf marches in.

"Did you send it?" Frodo asks. My mind does a flip of uncertainty: they're around the same height now, Gandalf only eight inches taller than Frodo. I decide that's actually a huge gap, but it's significantly smaller than it used to be.

Gandalf nods, exhausted. "Perhaps you would not wish her back if you went to the trouble I did to get that through."

"Gandalf, I would do anything," Frodo challenges. "Is there any chance she'll come back?"

"Soon enough," Gandalf says. "It will probably take her a few weeks to master the spell I sent, if she does indeed manage to find it; it is under everything else."

Frodo nods and sits beside the fire again.

The wizard's shoulders slump, and he takes the place by Frodo. The hobbit doesn't look at him.

"Frodo, I know how hurt you are," Gandalf says. I bark a sour laugh when he—unlike me—manages to finger aside Frodo's shirt and expose the black skin. Gandalf's head shoots up, but he quickly relaxes. "How cold you are, even here. But you cannot let the past consume you; there is another path of healing."

"We have already tried." Frodo shakes his head. "The Elves' medicine does nothing; I told you, I took the dosage they required, and then I doubled it. For a month. I had few results. Nothing is like real touch and affection, Gandalf."

"There is always the option of having the skin removed," Gandalf says. "You have decisions."

"I'm aware. But if she's received your note, I should at least give her some time," Frodo insists. He and Gandalf stare at each other for a long moment before the wizard finally nods and steps out. I gaze after the wizard, and as though he can feel my gaze he turns around. His eye catches mine, and he squints. I breathe harder, as though that will make me more obvious. It doesn't help, but after a minute of squinting a smile creeps over his face that he quickly sweeps away.

He looks to Frodo. "It is late, Frodo Baggins," he says. "You should get to bed." Then he gives me another glance. "This is goodbye for now, and I wish you the greatest of dreams tonight, perhaps such that we shall not see each other for a long time."

Frodo gives Gandalf a strange look, and that look grows even stranger when Gandalf embraces him fondly. Frodo's eyebrow shoots up, but he does embrace the wizard back.

"Good night, then, Gandalf," Frodo says. He turns away, and his shoulders slump again as he slips through his bedroom door. Gandalf turns away from him and stares me up and down.

A smile spreads on his face once more. "It is good to see you," he says. I stand up to bow or shake his hand or something, but he holds up a hand. "I would not be able to feel you. It is exertion enough on your part to be here . . . save that I forget you have a great deal of magical exposure for a mortal, including former transportation on part of this spell, so I apologize for what must have been a frightening warning. I wondered at your mastery so soon."

"I would hardly call it mastery, Gandalf," I say. "It was all too simple."

For once, he looks flattered by my words, and he nods. "I did try to make it legible for you, and it appears I was successful." He nods to Frodo's room. "I do not know Frodo's habits, save that whenever I come in here—as I try to leave him alone—he is always before the fire, usually in a great deal of pain or very cold. I hope he falls asleep quickly, as seeing you will benefit him." He turns back to me. "Take care of him. Bilbo passed away some five months ago, and Frodo has had nothing to remain for. He's been asking after you."

I nod. "Thank you, Gandalf, for letting me come here. Will you ever see him again?"

Gandalf shakes his head. "And I need not. I am at peace here, save for Frodo's troubles, and to have him taken care of is all I need to forget my worries." He nods to me. "Good night, Minah."

"To you as well, Master Gandalf."

He steps out into the night, which appears to be comparable to one on a Hawaiian shore: it is not cold out there, but a gentle breeze shakes the inland trees. I peer outside; Frodo truly is in what most would consider paradise, but I've always been one more for colder, wetter places myself. Perhaps he will like Ireland; if not, I'll take him somewhere else.

I wait for him to fall asleep, and consider where I must take him when I get home: I must take him to meet my family. Christmas will surely take care of that. If we travel until we are able to be married, I can rent separate rooms, I'm sure. If not, I'll work something out.

But now it's been enough time that I think he's asleep. I wander towards his bedroom door . . . and then it's though space itself has dropped me. My feet clack against the floor, and I suddenly am no longer weightless. I feel substantially placed in this home, and I have to resist laughing to myself with delight: it worked. And I can bet he's either asleep or dreaming right now.

I knock gently on the white door to his quarters, just off of the main room where the fireplace was. I hear no response, so I walk in. He has a hand braced over his Morgul stab; he's tensing and relaxing persistently.

"Frodo," I whisper. I lean over him and brush the curls out of his face, then shiver: I can touch him. "Frodo, it's me; it's Minah. I've come back for you." I don't know how to keep him dreaming without waking him up.

So I do as any separated woman in love would do. I lean over his still form and seal my lips against his relaxedly closed mouth. I stay there for a long moment, and I move to pull back until he responds. His lips shift, suddenly caressing mine, and a soft moan opens up in his chest. He reaches up, cupping my shoulders initially, and holds me close . . . half-heartedly, as though he expects this to be a dream. Which it is.

I ease away from him, and he sighs.

"Minah, come back," he mutters.

I chuckle. "I am back, Frodo. It's me; I'm here to take you home."

His eyes flicker open, then shut. They shoot wide open again, and he sits up suddenly. His jaw drops. "Minah!" He wraps his arms solidly around me, crushing me against his chest. Soft, dizzying kisses dot my face, starting at my forehead and going down. Finally he cups my jaw.

"Minah, you're here."

I nod, stifling a laugh of triumph and overall elation. "Yes! Yes, I'm here. I'm here for you; I want you to come home with me."

He holds me hard to his heart again, whispering thanks, I'm guessing to Gandalf as he was the one that brought me here.

"Come," I say, standing. "Let us be off to home."

"Not yet!" Frodo insists. He stands, framing my waist with both hands. His eyes search my face, bright blue and enticing. "I haven't officially greeted you yet," he whispers. His fingers trace the curls back from my face, and his hand cups the back of my neck. Warmth echoes over my face as his mouth nears mine.

Tingles echo over my lips when he kisses them softly, and my heart trickles into nonsense as he gathers me close, offering previously caged affection to me, from his lips to mine. Suddenly we are one, belonging to each other with obligation to nothing else. My thoughts are lost to the warm, sweet kisses that continue, as my head tilts from one side to the other, not willing to miss a moment. Finally I break it off; he waits a breath away to continue, but it's time to be gone now.

"I missed you too," I say, breathless. I nod to the door with what little inner strength I have left. "Will you come home with me?"

Needless to say, he did. Necessary arrrangements were made all through the moment we arrived in Ireland to the day we could be alone, and today is one of those days. I'm taking him around my world; strangely enough he loves Italy and Paris most of everything I've showed him, for the thick city spirit and warmth. I was never one for either of those; I'm guessing we'll do a great deal of traveling later or will have to compromise.

He's already willing to let us live somewhere cold and wet as I would like, but I don't want to do that to him. We'll figure it out as time goes on. It's nothing to quarrel over, but as these past few months have progressed, I've discovered that anything to quarrel over is not worth as much as the marriage they threaten.

We're in a flat in Athens. I thought he would love Athens, but he doesn't: it doesn't have a "unique technology" thrill to it, or so he described it after I described such a phrase to him.

I asked him, the day I became Minah Baggins, if he wanted to go somewhere that reminded him of home. I admit I was only thinking that his big feet and curly hair—much less his standard of dress—would be most expected in New Zealand of all places. But he didn't love it too much when we went: he said it looked too much like the Shire. He didn't have good memories of home, not ones he was willing to express or recall.

Now he's out "hunting for food," as I put it. I've been sick all day, but only with a minor head cold. He insists I stay inside and not move; he knows how much I prefer to be alone or in isolated company, and he's decided that any illness is any excuse for me to stay at home, especially in a place where I don't speak the language. But he doesn't either, so I feel his argument is invalid. Besides, he looks distinct; I worry he'll be stopped often or perhaps ridiculed.

Thus far he's been fine. He tells me not to worry, then asks with all confidence if I'm accepting of his feet.

I like that he doesn't care what most people think of him.

I lay my head back on the soft couch behind me. We're only here for one more night before we go to Paris again; he liked Paris, and I told him we had to go back for his birthday, which is tomorrow. I'm sorry I'm sick. I won't be any help, much less entertainment, the whole time. Frodo says my fever makes me warmer, that it helps his Morgul wound. I asked him if he wanted to go to one of our doctors and see if he could get it healed. He said I've already helped him enough; now he wants to do something for me. And he said he can live with his wounds as long as I can be there with him.

I told him that was sweet. He turned red and told me now he had to think of something condescending and inconsiderate to say. He never got around to that.

I can't keep a grin from my face at the thought. Whenever I compliment him he turns red; poor thing must have had a rough time in Valinor.

The door opens, and my heart skips.

"Minah?"

I do my best not to leap up and run to him; I'm sick, and he would be exasperated if I got up. "I'm in here, Frodo," I call. "Resting like you said."

He slips inside; he doesn't have the food with him, so I have nothing to distract me from staring him up and down. There aren't any shoes big enough for him, and he insists leaving his feet bare. I sit up and pat my lap; he obliges and sits on the opposite side of the couch, leaving his feet within my reach. I pick up one foot and rest it on my lap. His soles are like tempered rubber, but with all the typing I do my fingers are used to friction and pressure. His head slacks back onto the couch.

"How was your walk in Athens?" I realize he doesn't understand how amazing that is—that most people where I come from don't have that opportunity—and I bite my lip.

"I recognize, Minah, that you don't appreciate the heat," he said, "but it was wonderful. A little lonely, but very sunny and beautiful." His eyes slip closed as I press into the tender arch; that's the only part of his foot that isn't hard, the only place where I have a tickling advantage. "Much as I appreciate Greece, I'm ready to find a home."

I blow a raspberry. "Home? You're a born traveler; what home?"

"You still haven't sold your manor in Ireland," he points out. He's going to sit up, but I haven't gotten to the other foot yet. I open my mouth to protest, but Frodo sits quickly and slides over to my side, trapping me between him and the corner of the couch. His arm slips casually around my shoulders. "You have a home."

"And it's not your home?"

Frodo shakes his head, and his eyes grow fuzzy . . . sentimental, affectionate probably only because he was hardwired that way. He teasingly traces his lips across my cheek, drawing them back multiple times. But he's quiet about it, so if it weren't for the tingles lighting up my mind I wouldn't recognize what was happening. "You're my home," he mutters, more bashful and distracted than sappy.

"That's beautifully sentimental," I whisper back, brushing my own mouth against his skin, "but your opinion matters to me. Where do you want to go?"

He shrugs. "Paris."

I chuckle. "To live there?"

"I live everywhere!" Frodo exclaims. He lowers his hand to mine. "I told you, my home is here." He brings my knuckles to his lips; velvet touch sears shivers into my skin. "And here." He brushes his fingers against my neck. "And here . . ." He tilts my head towards him and pecks my nose. "Here most of all." His lips beckon to mine, skimming with warmth and caress just within my reach only to back away.

I lean forward to kiss him; I have need of it. But he tilts his head just out of the way. How he can practice such patience is beyond me. I'm not so conservative.

"Sneaky little hobbitses," I mutter. Before he can laugh or give me a confused look—whatever he intended to do—I wrap my hands in his collar. I don't pull (as I told him I considered the idea of tugging him down ridiculous), but he does it all: he comes in to kiss me this time. His lips meet mine gently at first, and then a fascinated mumble emanates from his neck. His arms sedately squeeze me closer, and his fingers travel from the middle of my back to one shoulder and right around my waist as his lips caress mine softly.

"How do you breathe like this?" I mutter against him.

He shrugs. "I forget about breathing."

"That sounds so nice."

Before he kisses me again, he moans and doubles over; his head collides with my shoulder, and I resist a yelp.

"Frodo!" I grab his shoulders and lift him as best I can, but he's twitching and almost unconscious. "Frodo, what's wrong?!"

He stares up at me, his eyes suddenly bloodshot. He manages a weak smile.

"Nothing unusual," he whispers. His eyes widen, and his jaw drops. I throw aside the inner folds of his shirt and shove my palm over his Morgul stab; at how cold and stiff his skin is, I'm surprised no frost has formed.

I grab his arm. "I'm sick?!" Then I pause. "Oh. I suppose kissing a sick girl doesn't help your wounds at all."

Frodo shakes his head. "It makes me feel better." He reaches up to kiss me again, but I push him off.

"You need rest, and it's sundown anyway. Come on; let's get you . . . and me, I suppose . . . to bed."

Frodo smiles up at me; unlike what I would have expected from any other man, he looks sincere and hopeful. Until, of course, his wounds crash against him again and he buckles.

"You are strong enough for this," I insist. "I believe in your ability to handle this, I promise."

Frodo laughs sourly. "That's not what I was concerned about." But I see his expression soften. I lay him down on the bed first, wrapping him solidly in two of the four blankets from the huge wooden cupboard beside the bedroom door. I lay the other two over us both, then pull him into my arms.

"You're not as small as you used to be," I say, slipping my hand over his wound. I press the cold out, occasionally kissing him to relieve any tension he might be feeling.

He remains silent, his eyes flickering open and shut. Soon he's resting peacefully, his head tucked against my collar. I lay my head on top of his, ready for another sweet and beautiful night with nothing but Frodo's company in the whole world.

I start to nod off, but before I can Frodo reaches out of the blankets and brushes his fingertips along the side of my face. My eyes flicker open.

"Before you do that," he mutters, already half asleep himself, "just one more."

I sigh, only intending to tease him: of course I want one more.

"I suppose all your heroism and sacrifices deserves one more kiss, doesn't it?" I reach over and ruffle his curls; his head slacks to the touch. "And all that suffering. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." I shudder when I think about what would have happened if everything had gone according to canon: I would never see him again, and he'd forget all about me. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," he whispers. He yawns. I comply and lower my head close to his.

I chuckle. "Good night, Frodo Baggins." I press my lips gently against his, and my head swims at his slow, indulgent response. "My Frodo Baggins. I may not be bigger than you are now, but I will always be your Baymax. I promise."

The chill upon his chest fades within minutes.