The chapter title was inspired by shirebound.

Frodo walked over the fields of Hobbiton, listening to the impenetrable, peaceful silence that blanketed everything. This was the first real thick, heavy snow in a long time, so he had left Bag End about an hour ago to wander outside. He was beginning to feel the cold, so he began to head back towards the Hill. His cousins, Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took, had most likely arrived- they were coming to visit for the Yule, and that was part of the reason he had decided to turn back from his wanderings. He was very eager to see them.

Frodo listened to the crunching of snow beneath his feet; the white, damp powder came up to the middle of his calves, and the cuffs of his trousers were soaked. Snowflakes fell thick and fast; he had so much snow on his head, coat, and scarf that he looked as though he'd been rolling in the snow instead of walking in it. The bare tree branches were wearing mantles of snow as they reached their limbs to the grey sky, while the pine trees stooped beneath their heavy loads.

Frodo loved winter- he really did. There was nothing more appealing to him than waking up to see a coat of snow over everything, roaming around for a while, then coming home where Bilbo was waiting for him with a hot meal and a warm study with a fire blazing on the hearth, where he was free to peruse any of the books he wanted to. Nothing more appealing, save perhaps knowing that there would be welcome visitors there in addition.

Reaching the foot of the Hill, Frodo began to walk up the path leading to Bag End. He passed Sam and the Gaffer, shoveling away the snow on the lane and waved. Sam waved back, and the Gaffer responded with a nod before continuing to shovel. Puffing on his icy fingers, he reached the front gate of Bag End when a piercing cry rent the air.

"GET HIM!"

Frodo found himself being pelted with snowballs. Laughing, he ducked behind the fence and waited for his assailants to run out of ammunition and become tired of waiting. As a few more stray snowballs flew over his head, he heard a piping voice: "Merry, where did Frodo go?"

"I don't know," a second voice said, saturated with the utmost of seriousness. "Maybe your last volley was too enthusiastic- perhaps you've killed him?"

"I didn't kill Frodo!" the first voice exclaimed, although there was the slightest hint of worry to it.

"Well, maybe not- maybe he's just been stunned by the amazing force of your Tookish throwing abilities."

"Maybe," the first voice said doubtfully. "Do you think we should go and see if he's dead?"

"If you want to- but it wouldn't be a very pretty sight, I can imagine."

Frodo heard the sound of somebody crunching through the snow. He quickly sprawled himself out on the ground, eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open. The hinges on the gate creaked open, and there was a shriek.

"Merry! Merry! I've killed Frodo!"

Frodo forced himself to keep perfectly still, although he was fighting a dreadful twitch around the corners of his mouth. The sound of footsteps rang through the silent winter air once more. Frodo felt a small hobbit foot nudge his shoulder.

"Frodo?" a little voice whispered. The gate creaked open once more.

"Hmm, this is serious. Do you see what's wrong with him? He's got Frigiditis."

Frodo could nearly feel the confusion radiating off of the smaller assailant.

"…What?"

"Frigiditis. It's a terrible illness that is brought about by being hit with snowballs thrown by a Took. Frodo isn't dead- he's just passing through the first stage of the sickness. It's lucky we found him when we did, because he can only be cured now." As the second voice spoke, Frodo heard him pacing about his body, stopping near his head.

"What can we do?"

"This!" A freezing cold snowball was shoved down the front of Frodo's shirt. Frodo yelped, springing up from the ground and desperately trying to remove the snow. He scooped it out and flung it at the grinning face of the perpetrator, Meriadoc Brandybuck, who ducked it.

"I'm glad to see you too, Frodo," Merry said. Little Pippin Took threw himself into Frodo's arms in a fierce hug.

"Frodo! You're better!" Pippin beamed up at him. "You have a lot of snow in your hair, did you know?"

"Now, we can't have that!" Merry exclaimed, and he reached up and began to brush the snow out of Frodo's hair.

"It'd be easier if we took him inside and let the snow melt off instead," Pippin said wisely.

"If we're not careful, he might melt away entirely when set by the fire-side, like a snow-hobbit on a warm day," Merry cautioned. Frodo could see a mischievous glint in his eye. Pippin, only eight and altogether too trusting of his cousin, looked horrified at the very idea.

"I don't think I'll melt, Pip," Frodo said. He unwrapped Pippin's arms from around his waist and took him by the hand. "We can risk going inside." Pippin still looked unsure, but then Frodo encouraged him. "We've got lots of food being made for the Yule." The lad's eyes brightened and he seized Merry's hand as well and began to pull the both of them towards the round green door. Frodo and Merry laughed.

Frodo certainly liked winter the best.