The summer sheets rustled against his skin, light and cool despite the unmoving air.
He was afraid.
He could hear Rosie bustling in the kitchen, the muted clank of kitchenware. Distant shouts of the children rushing out to the fields drifted in through the open window.
The fear settled, curling up in a tiny ball with the weight of a kitten snoozing on his chest.
He rubbed the rest of sleep from his eyes, kicking aside the covers. Shouldn't dally, he chided out loud.
Rosie was doing the dishes as he got downstairs. He munched slowly on some bacon, grinding each crunch methodically.
I'll be heading out today, he announced. Rosie nodded, Down to the market as usual then? He crammed the rest of his breakfast into his mouth and grunted with mild affirmation.
It was midsummer so there was barely any wind. The grass stood at attention, quiet in their green contemplation of the day. He climbed the hill steadily, staring down at the neat weaving path.
He stopped by a gate, struggled with it, and finally fumbled after a key at the front door, digging into the depths of his many pockets. The motions were familiar; turn and click. He stepped in.
He trailed a finger along the windowsill, the pink of his skin sliding over the whisper of grey on oak. The hinges creaked as he pressed against the frame, swinging the heavy window open.
Blue filled his vision, sunlight skimming across his eyes in one quiet breath. The clouds were still in the soft sky, melting into shades of the river.
He leaned out, tried to name the withered flowers beneath the window. Their names escaped him, wisps of meaningless sounds at the back of his throat.
He licked his lips.
He wandered through the rooms, dust motes winking in the shuttered light filtering through the curtains. Curtains that he himself had made, patched up. They were heavy, thick with neglect and the tired weight of the room.
He swung open the back gate, dry grass crunching beneath his feet. He couldn't even hear a bird chirp.
Left behind, forgotten.
His head tipped back, heat gathering in a steady pressure behind his eyes. What was he afraid of?
He was getting old now; he knew it, could feel the ache in his arms and legs, the rasp of his voice, the grey in his once-golden hair. The eyes that stared back at him every morning grew duller and duller, unpolished stones set above sunken cheeks.
He had left something here. He retreated, heading back into the rooms. They revealed nothing but negligence and silence, walls muting any noise from outside.
There was a book in the study, bound with red leather. His fingertips sunk easily into the soft cover, pages crinkling like glass as he cracked it open.
The Big Book.
There and Back Again.
He looked out the window where the clouds were sinking, gathering the evening darkness. Where did all the time go, he wondered. The palm of his hand felt rough and clumsy resting against fragile yellowed parchment. He remembered a single light of a lamp flickering through the window, the scratch of quill in the quiet night, the rise and fall of a titillating voice vibrating against his ear. He closed his eyes and listened. The tales he had listened to – how much harder he would have listened if only he knew.
Floorboards creaked behind him but he didn't turn around.
A hand rested on his shoulder, warm and gentle, soothing. He wanted to reach up and grab it, squeeze it, breathe and live again.
He didn't.
Fear.
"Frodo?" His voice cracked and the word sounded ungainly even to his own ears.
He looked up. Dark curls framing a pale elegant face, high cheekbones, glowing blue eyes that burned into him and took away all the fear and sadness and emptiness and filled it again with the sky and the names of the trees and plants and flowers amongst the taste of food again and the sound of the river in the spring with laughter deep in his chest and.
"Da?"
A tanned face peeked at him from behind golden curls.
Don't cry, he told himself.
"Da? I came looking for you. Reckon we should head back soon. Ma's probably got dinner out by now."
He nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and tried to rein in the lumbering words choking him. "You best run along now Frodo m'lad I'll catch up with you."
His son shrugged. "Alright then." He spun about and clattered his way out the door, leaving it ajar behind him.
"I'll catch up with you." He repeated to the empty room.
His vision blurred and he turned from the Book, shutting it with a rise of protesting dust.
Don't cry.