On the Sixth of October, the air is chill and I pull my cloak tighter around me to keep the cold at bay as I make the three mile journey to Bag End. I live on the farthest outskirts of Hobbiton, in a hill all by itself, buried deep in the thick woods where my tea-herbs can thrive. Trying to make the most of the long walk, I study the frost and frozen dewdrops on the leaves of the hedges along the well-worn road into dew freezing is a telltale sign that the first blizzard of the year is nigh - and that, this year, it will come unexpectedly early.
I always dislike making my journey into town, because of all of the strange stares that I receive. I suppose that I am a strange-looking character, often wearing tunics or even men's button downs tucked neatly into trousers instead of the dresses that most of the hobbit ladies wear. And of course, I always wear my glinting circlet, which most definitely turns heads wherever I go. So I keep to myself and most people keep their distance, unless of course they need to buy my tea herbs. Then they talk. Hobbits are a confusing folk.
My train of thought is paused as I approach the round, dark-green, wooden front door of Bag End. Rapping the knocker against the wood, I wait patiently for an answer. My mind wanders to Mr. Baggins. All through the time we talked a few days ago, I could not pry my focus away from his beautiful blue eyes and vaguely Elvish features. He is so handsome….
At this time, the front door swings open slowly, revealing an exceptionally pale Mr. Baggins. He looks as if standing is a great effort and is breathing hard as if he has just run to my hole and back. "Ah, Miss Lisette. Do come in." His voice is strained. I step inside and he quickly shuts the door. "I trust that you have brought the athelas."
"Why, yes, of course I have it," I say, producing a small packet of dry leaves from my satchel. I study Mr. Baggins' exhausted face. "Mr. Baggins, sir, you look very tired. I will make the tea for you. Go and sit down."
He lets out a breath that he had seemed to be holding in for a long time. "The kettle is on the stove. Thank you," he says quickly and disappears into the parlor. What a strange fellow, I think to myself as I brew the tea, adding a generous amount of honey to counteract the pungence of the athelas, I hope that he is alright, though.
I enter the lavishly decorated parlor. Maps of Middle Earth hang on the walls, and they fascinate me. I wish to study every one of them in detail but know that now is not the time.
I find Mr. Baggins in a chair, very close to the fire. He stares distantly into the flames. "I brought you your tea, sir," I say gently. He does not move or speak. "Mr. Baggins?" I ask.
His gaze shifts to me lethargically. "I was wounded," he says slowly, "and it will never really heal."
I am confused. "What do you mean?"
"It is so cold. So very cold." He clutches at his shoulder in what I assume to be a sudden bout of pain. His teeth are clenched.
"Would you like a blanket, sir?" His delirium breaks long enough for him to nod. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, massaging his shoulder again. I scan the room for a closet door or a place to look and spot a blanket chest behind the sofa. Retrieving a thick quilt, I wrap it around Mr. Baggins as he sits, trembling, in the armchair. He looks so frail and in pain, so I banish all thoughts of returning home to prepare herbs for the market from my mind. I glance at his shoulder. "May I see it?" Lifting his cold, limp hand from it and pulling the fabric of his shirt aside, I scan his shoulder. I only find a small white scar. I run my finger along it, and Mr. Baggins flinches. "Is there something internal?" I wonder aloud. Perplexed, I sit down on the sofa, wishing that Mr. Baggins would be able to tell me what happened. Going over the possibilities in my head as only a healer might, I eventually drift off to sleep.
When I awaken, it is dark in the parlor. The fire is only embers. Mr. Baggins is asleep now, his teacup half-empty. He is shivering and still clutching at his shoulder for dear life. Striking the tinderbox, I start a steady blaze again. I look out the window to find it pitch dark outside and that frost has collected on the glass.
Startled by the light of the fire, Mr. Baggins' eyes flick open. He breathes a calm sigh and releases his death grip on his shoulder. He is still breathing hard as if he had been fighting some internal battle all day. But now he looks relieved and very at peace. "So it is all over for now," he mutters to himself. I sit patiently on the sofa, unsure if I should speak. I adjust my circlet, which had fallen to one side - in my sleep, I suppose.
He rises from his chair, stretching, rolling his shoulder forward and back. "Still a bit stiff," he says softly. Then he notices me. "Why, Miss Lisette, I thought you left as soon as you dropped off the leaves. I did not realize that you stayed here."
"You seemed ill and in pain, sir, and I did not want to leave you in case anything were to happen," I say.
"Thank you, miss. But enough of this 'sir' business, Miss Lisette. Please just call me Frodo. I don't need any fancy addendums to my name. Just Frodo will do. And I am very sorry, Miss Lisette, for my iciness towards you earlier. I was feeling poorly and did not know what I was saying or how I was acting. For that I am so very sorry."
"No harm done, Mr. Frodo, er, Frodo," I stammered. "But. Not to pry, but I am very curious. Why does such a small scar cause you so much pain?"
"Oh." He sounds uncomfortable. "So you have seen it then. How should I say this?" His gaze flicks to the ceiling in thought. "Well, you are a friend of Elves, and that assures me that I can trust you with this." He shifts his feet then begins to pace across the the parlor rug. At long last, he sighs and says, "To be brief, Miss Lisette, I was pierced by a Morgul blade, which is no ordinary knife. I almost joined the wraiths in their domain, but was saved - at least mostly - by the Elves of Rivendell. Sometimes the wound comes back to haunt me, especially on this day, the day that - one year ago - I was stabbed." I don't want to probe, but I still wonder why he had been dealing with the wraiths in the first place. I think that maybe he will continue speaking, but instead he grows silent and almost seems embarrassed to have shared even as much as he did with me.
"Well, it is late, and I do not expect you to walk home alone in the dark and the cold, so you are certainly welcome to stay here for the night," Frodo says abruptly, breaking the stiff, almost tangible silence. "Having slept all afternoon, I will be up and about for awhile longer, but you are welcome to my spare bedroom at any time."
Despite having slept for much of the afternoon asleep myself, I graciously accept his offer and he shows me to the spare room. I steal one last look at Frodo's heart-melting, intense blue eyes. Once inside and alone, I untuck my button down and remove my hair from its thick braid. I neatly place my circlet on the end table. I am so confused about the events of the day that I can hardly process them all. Frodo was so guarded about everything once he awoke from his delirious state, though he seemed to want to share whatever his story is. I have only known him for a couple of days, but I feel as if we have known each other for many years. It seems that he feels the same, but his emotions are hard to gauge. Still confused and finding little to no resolve for myself, I give in to a deep sleep.