Frodo had changed over the years, becoming more solitary and serious, his slow drift from others having started long before the quest. When he returned, he'd grown even more that way: unfailingly polite but distant, a sunken, sullen look in his eyes that would put most hobbits off.
Sam had told her that Frodo was tired. She did not see him much during his tenure as Deputy Mayor of Michel Delving, so she didn't realize just how tired.
It took a good minute for her knock to be answered, and the hobbit that opened the door looked older than the one who left — older even than the one who had returned. His face was sallow and his eyes were dark rimmed.
"Good morning, Marigold."
Beyond the door, she felt the closeness of the air. It was nearly noon, but it was dim, for the shutters had not been opened.
"So good of you to come," Frodo said, an effort at warmth in his eyes.
His voice was the same, just quieter and slower. Voices never really changed past a certain age, unless the hobbit indulged in too much pipeweed.
"Not at all, Mr. Frodo," Marigold nodded. "We've all been busy, but it's been much too long."
She looked at him bravely, putting all the milk of hobbit kindness into the apples of her cheeks and the curve of her smile. But as they entered the parlor, her words blocked her throat like an underdone potato.
"I am sorry, Mari." Frodo sighed. "It's probably more than you expected."
The furnishings were far more sparse than before, though that was not surprising, since the looting had left many a smial bare.
But the heavy wooden table was heaped with papers, books, and inexplicably, laundry. Cold embers lay upon the fire, and the poker, shovel, brush and bellows had been allowed to fall where they may. A greasy plate and empty glass sat by the armchair on the floor, a fly circling the dregs of wine. The piles of books sitting in the corners were not per se new, but the large, half-unpacked trunks that lay about, seemingly abandoned and collecting dust, certainly were.
"Mr. Frodo—"
How in the Shire?!
Had he not told Sam the full extent of things? Had Sam not seen this? Perhaps Sam could be forgiven — with his recent marriage, Frodo had encouraged him to take a leave of absence from Bag End, and with the rebuilding of the Shire there was an endless stream of things to do, with everyone looking to the saviors of Hobbit-kind for guidance.
But wait, no. This was Sam. Sam would never stay away for long. More than likely he knew everything full well, and had simply wanted to spare her feelings. In which case, he had done a spectacularly poor job.
For the Frodo Baggins she knew, even in his slowly withdrawing days, had been if not fastidiously neat, then at least house-proud. He enjoyed a comfortable parlor and dinner table ready to serve food, his fire-grate was always clean and there was always a kettle on in the kitchen for master and visitors alike.
Frodo looked down and rubbed his fingers on his palm. His left palm. His right hand was hidden in his pocket.
"Mr. Frodo, begging your pardon, are you ill?"
"I… well…"
The words hung in the air.
"Forgive me," he finally said, stepping forward to take her bag, which she had slung over one shoulder. He moved more slowly than she recalled, more slowly than was even natural.
"I should have offered you something to eat and drink before you start your work, but I haven't been to the market yet, so I'm afraid I only have—" He trailed off. "Yes, Sam mentioned I've been looking a little ill."
His hand was still extended, but she found herself stepping away.
"Mr. Frodo, you look more than a little ill, if I may say so myself..."
She noticed a spasm in his eyes, which made her regret stepping back. She held out her bag for him to take, which he did, and she got a closer look at his right hand.
It did not look ruined, just uncanny. As if someone had tried to make a finger and then gave up.
The kitchen revealed a similar state of disuse as Frodo rummaged for the dishes and started a fire for the tea. Dust had gathered in the corners of the room. His movements were not smooth, or even steady, and had an air of some effort about them: it seemed he was working hard to move even at a normal pace. Marigold sat uncomfortably at the table, her bag beside her, and was torn between pity and sadness and both wanting and not wanting to ask.
In the end, the businesslike, erstwhile apprentice midwife won out.
"Mr. Frodo, you really needn't trouble yourself on account of my stomach," she said. "And if you don't have much to eat," — she paused, for only in recent months had this become, by dint of hard times, not an anathema for hobbits to utter — "then I can go to the market for us later."
Frodo turned around. Not smiling, but a bit of sad warmth in his eyes.
"No, Marigold, I couldn't possibly ask you to do that," he said. "That isn't in your job description."
"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows in mock-mirth. "Then we had best talk about what IS in my job descrip-shun, because Sam told me a very different thing."
She had succeeded.
The water in the kettle had begun to churn, just shy of boiling, and Frodo lifted it from its place, pouring her a cup. He then reached for the teapot, only to realize that the tea-leaves were, from the whiff that Marigold caught, at least a day old. He sighed, but also half-smiled. It was a perfunctory smile, but a victory nonetheless.
"Ah, yes. Sam. What did he tell you?"
"He told me that nothing is not in my job descrip-shun," she replied. "He told me that I am to do everything for you, even the things you don't ask me for, and even if you say it's too much." She hesitated, for Frodo now had his head down, quite consumed by the scooping of leaves from inside the pot. "Of course, Mr. Frodo, if you forbid me to do something, I am to respect that, but you wouldn't stop me from going to the market, would you?"
She was beginning to feel pleased with herself. She had allowed a bit of the friend's sister to come out, and seemed to have gained a foothold.
Frodo shrugged, still oddly interested in the flotsam in the pot. "I suppose not."
"Alright then," said Marigold, pulling her bag toward her. "Then we had better make a list right quick."
