DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of Tolkien's characters or the world he created. The only character of mine (Jorryn) has decided to take a holiday in Tolkien's Middle-earth. No copyright infringement on any of J. R. R. Tolkien's works is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: ArwenAria18, I hope this chapter will satisfy you. ;) This is for everyone who has asked for it! Let me know what you think by e-mailing me (hobbyjobby@hotmail.com) or by submitting a review! Thanks to Katrine Lila Loamsdown-Fitzgerald for the suggesting the snippet of a song Jo sings in this chapter. :)

ANNOUNCEMENT, 13 January 2002: Whoever posted the review that said, "Haven't read it... yet... but I thought you may want to know that your fanfic was featured in the National Post (Newspaper in Canada)! Congratulations!" on January 13, thank you so much for alerting me! I was able to locate the article at the National Post website and paste the address to view.

WOW! I am thrilled! Thank you so much!

10

When the weather cleared up a bit, and autumn was moving into the Shire, Frodo took to reading outside. I wasn't sure if my invitation to read with him was still valid when he disappeared to seek some obvious seclusion. Bilbo was frantic with the Party drawing so near, and I couldn't help with anything except when occasionally a group of adventurous hobbit-boys would sneak onto Bagshot Row and into the Bagginses' smial, looking for the Bagginses' renowned treasure. They were easily frightened off by a hideous and menacing monster named Jo.

On some evenings Bilbo managed to free himself from his work, Frodo could come out of hiding, and we three would sit on the porch before the round green door of Bag End in the twilight to watch Bilbo blow smoke-rings. I would laugh out loud and turn my face into the breeze, simply because they were hobbits and I was with them. At my spontaneous and fanatical laughter, Bilbo would knock me lightly over the head with the end of his wooden pipe, chuckling, "Silly girl."

I had started to keep a journal. I wanted to remember as much as possible from my adventures here (yes — peaceful, unending days in the subdued Shire were considered adventures to me) and I eventually picked up on the hobbits' talent for remembering details. I would write things like "Sam looks the cutest when he is angry or confused," and "Pippin seems to think that every time we meet, he has to engage in a contest with me in which he stares at me for an hour until I break into giggles," and "Frodo's favorite book is the one Bilbo is writing, There and Back Again; I would love to read the first version of the tale I called The Hobbit," and "Merry tried to teach me how to smoke the other day, but I really can't stand the thought of breathing in that stuff." I scribbled smiley faces and doodles along the sides of my entries, sometimes able to convey more emotion in a simple squiggle than I could in words.

It was quite a while before I discovered Frodo's hiding place. As I wandered the grounds above Bag End one day, humming snippets of songs that happened to flit into my mind, avoiding the grazing cows and groups of children playing in the woods, I sat at the foot of a tree. Hobbit children really were the cutest things imaginable, to my mind. I caught many glimpses of them darting through the trees, their short legs carrying them far and fast, their large tipped ears seeming to outgrow their heads. I laughed quietly at their clumsy games, unaware of the occupied branch over my head where another watched me.

With the approaching fall season, more storms like the ones of past days were following. The distant mountain peaks were hidden in a curtain of low mist and rain. The air held a chill, one that was crisp but still pleasant.

Relaxing, I closed my eyes, leaning back against the tree that folded great roots about me like cradling arms. Words of a song I had memorized, long before my strange passage to this time, came to my mind, and I sang softly. "Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun… If the sun don't come, you get a tan from standing in the English rain…" The lyrics faded on my lips, and I smirked, wondering if any walruses even lived in Middle-earth. The words about rain were most likely stirred up from my memory by the murky thunderheads resting far away on the Mountains.

I sighed heavily and plopped my arms onto my knees, wishing that this adventure would last forever, when suddenly I heard a choked sneeze come from above. I twisted around — and there was Frodo Baggins, one belated hand covering his mouth, his legs straddling a large bough of his tree. "Bless you," I said in surprise. "How long have you been spying on me?"

The hobbit sniffed and itched his little nose. "I was here first," he pointed out, waving his reading-book as evidence, "but you looked so peaceful that I hated to disturb you. You seem to have people bursting in on you all the time."

It was true. "That was very kind of you, Mr. Baggins." I pushed myself out of the tree roots and leaned back to look up at him. "Shall I come up, or are you coming down? Or would you rather be alone?"

"You can come up," he said, and as I struggled up the tree he made room for me on his branch. He offered me a small smile, and for the first time ever I noticed a very narrow gap between his two front teeth. The extremely small (but still charming) imperfection made me think of how real a person he was — this was the actual Frodo Baggins. The sight of him still excited my every nerve and sped up the flow of tingling blood in my veins.

"I haven't seen much of you recently." Frodo flipped through his book and opened it back to his place, spreading it onto his chest, propping the backbone of it on his drawn-up legs.

"You haven't seen much of me?" I repeated, laughing. "Shouldn't it be the other way around? Bilbo and I would like to see more of you." I loved the simple fact that I could say Bilbo and I and not sound crazy.

Frodo only shrugged, looking down to his reading, "I'm only a hindrance amid all his work."

I persisted, not thinking anything of it, "But don't you want to spend more time with him before the Party? I mean, he is your uncle, and he's leaving after — " Although I caught myself far too late, I clamped my jaw down on my tongue anyway. "I mean, uh — you and he — "

Frodo frowned up at my reddening face and betraying expression, "You know about…?"

"I'm sorry," I tried to quickly cover, "I won't tell anyone. I shouldn't know, I realize that."

"No," said Frodo comfortingly, his frown fading, "you've been in Bag End long enough; it's difficult to not notice all the ambiguous comments Bilbo makes about his Party Joke."

He went back to the thin pages flapping in his book, concentrating intently. He was immediately caught up in his reading, so much that he didn't even notice that I continued to watch him, unable to wrench my gaze away. I kept thinking that I shouldn't stare, and that any minute Frodo would glance up and catch the look on my face, but I couldn't help it.

He had smooth cheeks kissed gently with sun, and long black eyelashes that formed small, feathery shadows when his eyes were downturned. But whenever he happened to be looking up, at me, his irises were the clearest shade of blue surrounded by a darker ring of color — probing, pure, and mesmerizing. His hair (as usual, tousled and wavy) curled around pointed ears and a defined jawbone. The loose white tunic and patterned blue vest he wore covered the suspenders that held up his breeches. Soft, graceful hands turned the pages of his book. I knew what it was like to hold one of those hands, but the touch I remembered so well had not told me anything of the hobbit's emotions. Which were probably nonexistent anyway.

His hobbitish feet were right next to my fingers, tapping to some rhythm in Frodo's head. I nearly giggled aloud. They were unbelievably soiled and hairy, yet in their own way they managed to still be adorable. Frodo finally lifted his attention to me, and thankfully my eyes were not on his face but on his toes. I could tell he was smirking amusedly at the obvious interest I had in his feet.

"You — " he started to say, and I met his gaze expectantly, my heart suddenly, reflexively, jumping to my throat. We were locked together in a long silent moment, both wondering what the other was thinking. Anyone could have guessed what was running through my head. "… I wonder how Merry is doing," he coughed at last, turning his head away, giving me a view of his defined profile. "He told me he had a bit of a cold."

I felt I could have burst into tears right then and there. What a cruel thing to do; he was looking at me like that and then he went on worrying about Merry! "Oh, does he?" I strangled out, ready to kick him. I was in a good position to do so.

"I — " the hobbit began again, but then thought better of it, again. "I still think of how you rescued the troublesome Brandybuck," he revised, grinning at me shakily. Why was he making the conversation so difficult?

"It was no problem," I replied, the words revealing my growing frustration.

Frodo drew a hasty breath, as if he was readying himself for a sinister blow. "I sometimes think," he said quickly, "that hobbits would be throwing themselves off bridges daily if it would mean getting rescued by a Lady like you."

He had finally spit it out. I sat in the tree with Frodo Baggins, completely flabbergasted and dumbstruck. Hobbit children's lighthearted laughter, now farther off, danced innocently through the forest, carried by the leaf-scented wind. Frodo was trying ineptly to light a pipe he pulled from a pocket, and while he tried he became ten times cuter than before. Here he was, the fearless Ring-bearer-to-be, reduced to a self-conscious, fumbling, underage hobbit in the wake of an attempted romantic comment. My hands twitched in an effort to reach out to the hobbit and hug him; I wisely held them clasped in my lap lest I do more than just hugging.

"Frodo Baggins!" I finally burst, covering one side of my beaming, beet-red face. The hobbit started and dropped his pipe to the roots and shrubs below. I could only smile and blush until my cheeks were sore and burning, and my bottom lip was suffering under the bite of my upper teeth. Finally, I looked down and patted his toes, ignorant of their grubbiness, unable to meet his eye, and whispered, "Thank you." Inwardly, I added, Thank you so much, you adorable, sweet little hobbit. The unspoken comment seemed to hang tellingly in the air between us, and Frodo smiled.