You're My Light in the Dark

Chapter 9: Homesick

One of the biggest differences Lauren and I face with our new life is the culture. Before, I never really thought twice about how our modern society shaped us. I don't think anyone really ever does. Too busy with living your life, with people who believe and think the same as you, so used to doing things a certain way — I guess some things inadvertently get taken for granted. But it's becoming more and more apparent as time wears on, that we dearly miss being part of society, so unlike the observers and pretenders we've become. Our patience for the strange looks at our way of speaking and our behavior is growing thin.

All too well, I know the importance of learning to act like a hobbit. I know.

But I'm homesick. So sue me.

December's drawing to a close, and as the days tick by, more and more hobbits are starting to bubble with excitement over their holiday: Yule. I know this is their world, that this is how they do things here. But it feels wrong, somehow. Christmas-time without tinsel and Santa? Without a tree, eggnog, the shopping rush, and corny songs — however obnoxious they may or may not be? It's been hard trying to wrap my mind around it.

We'd never done a prolonged celebration or anything. Our sports (read: our mother) never allowed it. But we were given Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, at least. And being surrounded by everyone else getting ready and excited for the Christmas holiday? Well, it had been enough.

This, though? Being surrounded by people who have absolutely no idea what Christmas even is? It not even existing? It's a little surreal.

So I when I came home from the market, I was surprised to find that Bag End smelled oh-so-familiar — of nutmeg and cooked sugar, from eggnog no doubt — and Lauren making a sloppy wreath. She had taken up residence on the floor of the den, using the coffee table as a workspace. Bits of moss and twigs were littered everywhere, like a garden bomb had gone off. But the Bagginses didn't seem to give it much mind, as both Bilbo and Frodo were seated on the couch watching her progress with interest, glasses of eggnog in hand.

As I hung up my coat in the front hall, I overheard Bilbo ask, "Why do you put trees in your house?"

"Because it's pretty!" Lauren replied happily, if not a little drunk. Which is the only reason I could think of why she'd gone all Christmasy traditions on the Bagginses despite our agreement not to. The eggnog recipe Jill's mother taught her involved quite a bit of rum, after all. "And it's fun decorating it. All shiny and candy and light. Except for cleaning it. Clean up sucks. I don't know why else, though. Like how it started. Probably something religious, though, to make the Jesus freaks happy. Fuck religion. Most people are only in it for the pretty and the presents. Don't know why you guys don't do Christmas trees. No, Yule trees. It seems like it'd be right up your ally, you nature enthusiasts."

And there are the drunken rambles. Yep, definitely drunk.

As I came into the room, Frodo flashed me a highly amused glance, all gleaming eyes and grins over the rim of his eggnog. He looked to be in his glory, with a spark of understanding, as if listening to her rambles was filling in some missing pieces of the puzzle our quirkiness no doubt presented.

"Kaaaaaat," she turned to me with a whine, "Why don't hobbits do Yule trees?"

I gave a resigned sigh, not quite believing I was even having this conversation. "Because to bring it indoors you have to cut it down. They wouldn't kill it."

"Aw," she pouted. But her disappointment lasted just for a moment because in the next breath her eyes flew wide with a gasp as a new possibility came to mind. "But what about outside? We can do it outside, right? Can you imagine, a lit up Christmas tree in the snow! It'd be gorgeous."

"We don't have LED lights, Laur."

"So?"

"I'm not letting you anywhere near a tree with a lit candle. Never mind multiple, and absolutely not drunk," I said sternly, feeling more like a parent than a sibling.

She crossed her arms with another pout. "You're no fun."

I could only shake my head. "Unbelievable," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose in irritation.

"She does have a point, Kate-lass," Bilbo said gently, and I couldn't help turning to him in surprise. "You should do some of your own traditions. It's not good to deny who you are, or where you're from." Those caring eyes, that concern lacing his words. He's right, of course. I know that. But it's so hard knowing what's the right thing to do — or not do — when things are just so impossible.

Seeing my nod of reluctant agreement, Bilbo then held up his eggnog in my direction, like a toast. "Especially don't deny it if it involves wonderful drinks like this. What's this called again?"

"Eggnog," Lauren supplied, bouncing in her seat with a giggle. "Wonder why it's called that, though? Is that what it is, nogging eggs? Ooh, that's a funny word! NOG."

Oh, she is gone. Absolutely shit-faced. This could go to hell fast if we're not careful. Loose lips sink ships. That's the saying, right? But she's not going to cooperate. Hell, Lauren barely cooperates on a good day, never mind while off-her-ass drunk. Trying to get her to stop will likely only make matters worse, with that temper of hers, she'd probably start yelling all sorts of things she shouldn't and start ranting with something like: to the hell with that stupid evil Ring and fuck that Sauron guy! Sentiments that will only lead to bad things if said in front of the Bagginses.

In the next moment, she started teaching Frodo Jingle Bells, and I thought my head was going to explode. Caught between panic, stress, and wanting to throttle her, I scurried from the room and down the hall, wanting nothing more than to have this all be a bad dream.

Reaching the long back hallway that housed the bedrooms, I couldn't get myself to actually go inside. Our bedroom would be too claustrophobic. So I paced the length of the hall once, twice, counting my breaths and trying to slow down my breathing. But then I distantly heard shrieking fake laughs: HA HA HA, from Lauren singing the song poorly, as always, and any semblance of calm I might have collected went spiraling out of control again.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I'd ended up leaning against the wall and banged my head backward on it with every curse. The pain blossoming at the back of my skull helped a bit. It gave me something else to think about besides how everything was now royally fucked. Should've known that it would never work; that we'd mess it up. She was right. Mum was right. We can't do anything right.

So caught up in my thoughts, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt gentle hands cupping my cheeks. Eyes flying open, I was suddenly face-to-face with Bilbo, whose gaze was sad and whose mouth was set in a grim, determined line. "Don't be hurting yourself like that, lass," he admonished softly, "You've had enough injuries as of late."

He meant my hands, of course. Still bandaged, still healing. But they weren't so bad anymore.

The old hobbit was so close. Just inches away. I could smell the alcohol on his breath, and that faint smell of ink that seemed to follow him everywhere. His hands were warm, slightly sweaty, and still that sadness in his expression. All in all, there was a familiarity in the way he was acting — as if he'd known me for years rather than weeks… as if he'd done this a million times before.

He released the hold on my cheeks, glanced down at my hands as he grasped them and lifted them up between us, palms up. The bandages were crinkled and dirty from my activities of the day. The warmth of his hands cradling mine was strangely comforting, as was the way he folded his thumbs across the bandages on my palms, running a back and forth motion from my fingers to my wrists. "Not all injuries can be seen, like this," Bilbo commented, gesturing to my ripped hands. "Some lurk in the dark corners of the mind and whisper bad things to us."

My eyes shot to his, and from the way he was looking at me — filled with empathy — it was all too clear that he spoke from experience. "When bad things happen, we get so used to acting a certain way. Doing things a certain way. We get so used to it, that the quiet of normal life — the way it should be — is too quiet. It's difficult to go back to the way things used to be."

I breathed a sigh at his words. Try as he might, he just doesn't get it. But in all fairness, how could he possibly? I know that between the bizarre way Lauren and I act and how we're stressed about the new changes in our lives, it must seem that we're not well. Mentally, that is. That something happened to us. Something bad. After all, isn't that what happened to Bilbo? People saw he went off on an adventure and he hasn't quite been the same since. I shook my head. "We love being here, don't get me wrong. But nothing about our life right now is like how it was before. Life can never be the same for us."

"I know you've lost your home, lass," he said, and I couldn't help the sharp intake of breath at that. Had Lauren said something before I got back? What did she say? But then he continued, "I've known quite a few people like you. That same melancholy of having lost what's known to them. Of not quite having a place in the world anymore. The dwarves acted much the same on our journey, especially when they spoke of the Lonely Mountain."

Oh, of course. The dwarves. Thank God. The tightness in my chest released ever so slightly. "How did they cope with their loss?"

"It got easier with time, I think. Of course, I didn't meet them until well after they lost their home, not until they went to go reclaim it from the dragon," Bilbo admitted. "But I do know they weren't afraid to be themselves. They were very proud of their heritage." It was all too easy to hear the advice in his words: don't shun your own culture, embrace it, and do what you'd normally do.

I gave a shrug. "It's not that easy for us. It's not a matter of shame. It's more…" but I trailed off as words failed me. Because how could I possibly explain that this was supposed to be a fictional world? That he and everyone he knew were supposed to be fictional characters? That I just might be out of my damn mind? "I just… I don't know," I finished lamely.

"My nephew has been worried about you," Bilbo said, giving my hands a squeeze. "You two have grown close, aye? Perhaps a friend's ear won't go amiss. I know he'd love for you to speak with him about it."

"I don't know if I can," I said, in all honesty.

"What could it hurt, lass?" he murmured.

Everything. Absolutely everything.

"It's often the most difficult things in life that are the most rewarding," Bilbo said cryptically.

I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't respond. Instead, when he suggested I retire early, I took it up gladly. As I headed toward the bedroom I shared with Lauren, I couldn't help but ponder the old hobbit's words, wondering if maybe he was right. Maybe I should talk to Frodo about it. Maybe it's all these secrets that are killing me.

The next morning, after having taken care of both breakfasts, I was treating myself to some gingerbread cookies with my tea. I'm not much of a cook — Lauren's stuff usually comes out so much better — but I was proud of myself because my attempt at baking this time didn't come out half bad.

"You gave your cookies faces?" Frodo asked, amused, bracing a hip against the counter as he picked up a gingerbread man off the tray.

"And tuxedos," I said, then cringed as I realized a second too late that he'd have no idea what a tuxedo even is. "It's a kind of formalwear, where we're from."

"Is that why he's got a bow on his neck?" he asked, poking the still wet icing. Icing was left dabbed on his finger, and he sucked on it absently as I nodded in response.

"It's called a bow tie," I explained in-between sips of tea.

Lauren came staggering into the room then, face pale, blonde hair a massive case of bed head, and looking much like hell warmed over in the same rumpled clothes as last night. As she plopped into the seat across from me, I slid a cup of tea in her direction. She scrunched her nose with a slight groan of disappointment and pushed it back toward me looking a little green around the gills. "I miss coffee," she croaked in a woe-is-me sort of way as she leaned forward on the table, using her arms as a pillow. "And Advil. And Tylenol."

I pat her head, smoothing her crazy hair down a smidge. "Such is the life of an underage alcoholic."

"I hate you sometimes," she said, though her words lacked any real malice.

Frodo was still looking the cookie over with an appraising eye, tongue poking out from between his teeth like he didn't quite know what to make of it. "What is it, Frodo?" I prompted.

He turned toward me and shook his head slightly. "I'm finding it hard to actually eat it. As if that smile is saying: please don't eat me!"

"Yeah, they can do that to you," I said, smiling a bit at how the scenes from Shrek with the gingerbread man came to mind all too easily.

"Not the gumdrop buttons!" Lauren, still laying on her arms, said in a falsetto. It was reminiscent of the one used by the gingerbread character in Shrek.

The loud laugh that bubbled up at how her thoughts mirrored my own caught me by surprise. I found myself holding my hands to my mouth as if I could physically stop the laugh by doing so. Frodo was looking between the two of us, eyebrows raised in surprise, much like how he always does whenever we say or do things he doesn't quite understand — he knew all too well there was a joke somewhere in what she'd said, he just wasn't in on it.

Lauren sat up then and squinted at Frodo. She wasn't done messing with him yet. Still with that falsetto, she asked him with the most serious look she could muster, "Do you know the muffin man?"

He took the bait perfectly. "The muffin man?" he asked, sounding a little baffled.

"The muffin man!"

"The one who lives on Drury Lane?" I piped up.

Lauren turned to flash me a look of adoration, one that clearly said thanks for playing. Putting a finger to her nose, she pointed at me with her other hand as if to say that's the one.

Grabbing one of my gingerbread men, I broke off the head and popped it in my mouth — Lauren's falsetto comment of, "You're a monster!" started a new round of giggles — then I held the remaining cookie out to Frodo. He took it with an uncertain smile.

Oh, I guess I'll have to explain it to him — it's not right being left in the dark. The last thing I want is for him to think we're laughing at his expense. So I said, "You see, there's this fairytale told to children where we're from. Or is it a nursery rhyme? Doesn't matter, the story is really old, at any rate. It's about a magic cookie man that jumps out of the oven and runs away so he can't be eaten."

Finally feeling comfortable enough to eat the cookie, Frodo started nibbling at an arm. "Does he get away?"

"I don't remember," I said, giving a shrug. "All most people remember is the rhyme. Run, run, run as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!" Lauren joined in for the rhyme, the two of us reciting it together. She'd taken a cookie and bobbed it up and down across the table top as we'd said it, helping the gingerbread man do his 'run'.

The excitement in Frodo's face then, at the two of us, was spectacular. Grinning madly, all dimples, he was watching with new found appreciation as Lauren played with the cookie, as if truly seeing it — seeing us — for the first time. And I realized then he never thought we were having him on, or that he was ever the butt of a joke. No, instead he'd known there was a story to be told. And he'd gobbled it up right quick when we'd offered it.

Bilbo's words drifted across my thoughts then. "I know he'd love for you to speak with him about it." Even more than hearing a good story, Frodo's been intrigued about us and what makes us tick. That's been more than clear, with that ever-present curiosity and gentle prodding about our lives, not to mention the stolen glances I catch when he thinks I won't notice. Always those blue eyes, with the eagerness of wanting to know more etched so clearly in his expressions.

And he's been learning more, bit by bit. He even knows about Christmas now, Jingle Bells and all. And somehow the world hasn't ended. So maybe, just maybe, we can tell him about our home without ruining everything.

But still, even if we can tell him… Should we?