Ch. 2

Bright light poured into Bag End through its multitude of little round windows, and bounced from wall to wall. The paint was yellow and green, with curved ceilings and cozy wooden molding. Of the two that entered, only one was aware that the home was almost completely as Bilbo originally designed. Bag End was inarguably sheer perfection and only a fool would have altered much.

Frodo stood by a kettle of water in the fireplace, waiting for it to boil. At the table, Wilibald was apprehensively examining a plate of biscuits.

"They will not bite you, you know," he said, as he watched the younger hobbit finally pick one up, turning it over and over in his small hands.

Wilibald's neck snapped to Frodo in attention. "I know. It's just . . . "

With a thick cloth, Frodo removed the kettle of boiling water from the fire and carefully carried it to the table. "Could you get that for me?" he asked, nodding towards a blue teapot. Wilibald immediately plucked off the lip and moved it to the end of the table where Frodo could easily pour. The boy was so eager to please, that it couldn't help but amuse him. "'It's just . . . ' what?"

"It's just that . . . you aren't at all how I imagined."

Frodo chuckled and put the pot away. "And what did you expect?"

Wilibald hesitated yet again as he struggled to find the right words. "I didn't picture you as being quite so . . . domestic."

At this remark, Frodo burst into laughter. "But aren't most hobbits?"

"Not me," Wilibald curtly replied, and then seemed to shrink away. "Not really."

Frodo hummed and poured his guest a cup of tea. He had learned a good deal on the walk to Bag End. Wilibald, in spite of his youthful traits, claimed to be over forty. Furthermore, the legend of the Ring, which had traveled so far, was based mostly in truth, with very little embellishment, if any at all. However, Wilibald had persistently refused to tell Frodo where, exactly, he was from. And Frodo could not help but notice that, in The Shire of all places, Wilibald had held the hilt of his sword tightly-no, protectively-with his hand and glanced nervously all around him.

"It is a beautiful house, though," Wilibald stated and Frodo thanked him. "Is that you?" he asked, pointing to a picture on the far side of the room.

Frodo hummed again and twisted around to see what Wilibald was pointing to. It was a painting resting against the wall that Frodo had yet to put up. "Oh, yes. That's me. My friend's wife made it. Rosie, her name is."

"May I see it?" he asked. "I'm something of an artist."

"Of course," Frodo replied, getting up and retrieving the painting. He handed it to Wilibald and stood waiting for it to be returned: carefully, though not impatiently, because it was not quite dry. Wilibald seemed to recognize this, as he gingerly took the painting. Even his eyes took it in with controlled movements. Every so often, he would look up at Frodo, comparing his face to that in the picture.

And, as Wilibald studied Frodo, Frodo took the opportunity to study Wilibald. He had decided that there was something very odd about his features; there was a strangeness that lingered about the hollows. His face was a little too thin, his eyes a bit sunken. He was not unhandsome, but it was as if the boy was not all there. And yet, if he made the effort to fill in the blank spaces, the completed image was still... unsettling.

There was a knock on the door. Wilibald jumped in his seat. Even Frodo was startled. He excused himself and went to answer it. He pulled back the large green door and revealed a very urgent looking hobbit. And beyond, in the path at the bottom of the hill, was a cluster of armored men and dwarves: a most unexpected and disconcerting sight.

"Hello, Sam." He greeted his dear friend with what he hoped was a warm smile, but truly his eyes felt as though they might pop.

"Frodo," he began and then paused. "There are some people who'd like to speak to you."

Sam currently was, and had been for some time, the Mayor. And even though the title came with little power, the job was not entirely ceremonial. The expression on his face was serious. Frodo took another step outside, narrowing the opening of the door behind him. "Who are they?"

"Say they're from Omminah, but I've never heard of it." He paused, briefly, but effectively. "They're looking for someone."

Frodo lowered his brow. At once, his heartbeat was much more noticeable within his chest. "Then I will come with you and have a word with them." He did not, however, depart immediately, and poking his head back into the house, announced, "I will be right back." Considering the circumstances, it was little more than a harsh whisper.

He waited for an answer, but none came. Lifting a finger, he signaled for Sam to stay momentarily, and re-entered the house. He crossed the hall and stepped into the kitchen. Wilibald was sitting in his chair, very pale, gripping Frodo's portrait so tightly that his knuckles had turned white as the canvas. Frodo called him again, and Wilibald jumped in his seat.

"I'll be right back. I have some quick business to tend to."

Wilibald nodded meekly. Frodo lingered a few moments, unsure if he was more worried for his guest or about his guest, and finally rejoined Samwise at the door.

"Is someone over?" Sam asked, once they were outside.

"A distant relative," he lied, and in the process, his mouth went dry.

"Sure, sure."

"Well," Frodo started over and looked down at his feet, as they wound down the hill. "No. Not exactly. I think... in fact, I am quite sure that this boy I've met today... "

Sam gasped, but had the mind to keep his voice low. "Is the one these people are looking for?"

Frodo nodded. "Yes, but I... I would be reluctant to turn him over to anyone."

"All right, sir. I take your meaning and I won't say anything that you won't."

"It's just a gut feeling..." The cluster of soldiers, six of them in all, were not only men and dwarves, but hobbits, too. Stoors, it seemed. How very strange. "Did you give them my name?"

"No," Sam replied. "I know you don't like me to. I only said that you were someone they should speak with."

They came to the gate at the end of the path. And instead of opening it, Frodo placated his hands on the posts and chose to keep some distance. One of the men was on horseback and he regarded Frodo with cold, stony eyes. It was a gaze no one could have responded to well, and yet his words did little to make up for it. When he spoke, it was with a nasal and effected tone.

"Yes... We're searching for Lassilane Wink, a thief. We know that she passed through this area."

Lassilane... Frodo could not help but flinch, and hoped that it wasn't as noticeable as it felt. In the back of his mind, a door flew open and light flooded every nook and cranny. "Could you describe her?"

To further the oddity of the solider's plea, or lack thereof, he shrugged. Shrugged, of all things. "She's a hobbittess. Yellow hair, plump, green eyes... What's important is that she has a ceremonial sword with her, with a gold handle."

Frodo held his breath, for his inclination was to cough. He fought against the tickle in his throat till his jaw ached. "A sword, you say?"

"Yes, exactly what he said," one of the dwarf soldiers barked.

"A hobbittess with a sword..."

"Have you seen her, or have you not?"

He took in a deep breath and shook his head. "No, I haven't met anyone with that description."

The dwarf glowered at Frodo beneath black brows that covered most of his forehead.

"I certainly would have remembered something so remarkable."

The man on the horse huffed. "Pff... remarkable."

"But, I'll be sure to send word if I do. Where shall I send it?"

The dwarf snorted. "You may send your word to Bree. We will arrive there by the end of the week."

There was much clanking of armor as they trotted off. Even the horse seemed to have an effected gait.

Frodo and Sam watched them leave in silence. Frodo knitted his brows together and sharply released his breath.

"Well, that puts and end to that. " Sam rubbed his hands together, as if cleaning them of dust, just as Frodo was turning to leave. "They said they're looking for a lady and that rules out your guest."

"No, Sam. My guest is a lady..."

"But I was sure you said it was a boy."

Frodo nodded his head, too distracted to have heard Samwise. "I should like to have a few words with her," he excused himself and jogged back up the road. Sam, ever curious, followed him with a steady pace.

Frodo arrived at Bag End and pushed open the door. Without bothering to close it, he marched right into the kitchen, but stopped in the doorway. The room looked as though a storm had passed through, and his guest was nowhere to be seen. The chair that she had been sitting on was on its side, lying several feet from where it belonged, as if it had been tossed. His back door was open and must have been so for some time, for a bird had entered the room and was flying about the ceiling.

Then, something else caught Frodo's eye and his heart froze. His portrait was on the table, stained horribly by a spilled cup of tea. The brown liquid had soaked through the canvas and turned all the colors into mud. Frodo reached for it and picked it up. A few loose drops of tea rolled down the front and onto the floor.

Sam finally arrived at Frodo's home and let himself in. He walked into the kitchen and stood behind his friend. Immediately he saw the ruined picture and choked. "Rosie's painting! What happened?"

Frodo handed the painting to Sam, who gaped at it in disbelief. He looked as though he was about to cry.

Now, very few things angered Frodo, but Sam's distraught face struck a nerve. Frodo clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists. He stomped out of the kitchen and into the field in the back of his house. He walked up a short hill and squinted into the distance, straining to see Lassilane's figure, but he could not find her.

She had enough time to run, he realized, and almost a kilometer away by now.

Frodo let out a short breath and looked back into his kitchen. Through the door, he could see Sam sitting with his elbow on the table and his hand over his mouth, looking despondently at the ruined work of art. Determination renewed, Frodo clenched his fists and ran as fast as he could into the field. His feet pounded the ground for a good ten minutes before he felt the need to stop and catch his breath. He bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping. For a moment, he became aware of his age, which was over sixty. Even if that was only middle-age for a hobbit, Frodo still knew that his body wasn't what it used to be and he experienced a tinge of melancholy.

A rustle of leaves suddenly broke through his self-criticism and he looked up in time to see the figure of a hobbit run through the trees ahead. Frodo took in a deep breath, steeled himself and ran full force after the shadow, knowing in his heart that it was Lassilane. However, he had not had proper time to rest and, although he was catching up to her, Frodo knew he wouldn't last very long. He called to Lassilane, telling her to stop, but she would not comply.

The small forest they were running through began to thicken, and Frodo was having a rough time hopping over the roots, which seemed to be like fingers grabbing at his ankles. Lassilane however, seemed to effortlessly glide through the trunks and hover over the underbrush.

"Stop!" he pleaded. "I'm not going to hurt you. Please stop!"

Frodo cried out as his foot became tangled in a curved root. It threw him forward. He tumbled onto his back and lay there with his eyes tightly shut, almost positive that he had been killed. His senses came to him a second later. Frodo opened his eyes and was greeted by the canopy. He listened to the silence as he lay spread-eagled on the ground.

Silence . . .

Lassilane had stopped running! He knew that even if Lassilane were fifty meters off, he would still be able to hear her crunching the leaves with her feet.

Frodo continued to listen to the forest and finally heard Lassilane's footsteps as she slowly made her way back to him. Quickly determining a course of action, he took in deep breath, held it, and closed his eyes. It wasn't long before he felt Lassilane's presence as she knelt down beside him. He listened to her movements in the grass, while she examined him. Then he felt her gentle, hesitant touch against his neck and he surmised that she was feeling for a pulse.

Frodo seized the opportunity and snatched Lassilane's wrist with his left hand. There was a split-second of surprise on her face, before she fiercely pulled away from him. Frodo struggled to keep his grasp, which became even more difficult when she started to swat at him with her free hand. She ordered him to let her go. Frodo took a lucky swing at her other wrist and twisted it just enough to subdue her. To his surprise, Lassilane halted immediately, but she did not relax. She was in tears from the struggle and Frodo hoped he hadn't hurt her.

"Please, let me go," she begged.

"It's all right," he said. "You don't have to worry. I sent them away."

Lassilane stopped moving. She even seemed to stop breathing. "Y-you sent them away?"

"I sent them away."

Lassilane stared blankly; he could tell that she didn't understand why he had not turned her in. Tears began to flow down her face and he found himself searching for his handkerchief. At once, she threw her arms around his neck. And Frodo allowed her to remain and wet his shoulder with happy tears.

"You're welcome," he said quietly and she slowly released her embrace. "Now, why don't we go back to the house and you can tell me what I need to know, all right."

Lassilane nodded respectfully and they both stood up. For a second, he caught a glimpse of her eyes and was nearly overwhelmed with the unbridled adoration in them. Together, they returned to Bag End.