“I think you’ve had enough wine, young Master Baggins.”

There seemed to be a lapse of time before that curly-haired head showed its other side to me. No, perhaps not fully to me yet, since what faced me most were still locks of soft hair. I reached low and tipped at the chin, tilting it up. Now the face met mine justly though to my dismay, his eyes still had not. Never mind.

“Frodo? Do you hear me?”

Was it that heavy to roll those eyeballs up? Apparently so for this slightly drunk halfling. To be honest, I did not like what I was seeing in those eyes. I had often seen drunken ruffians and their wild and often violent gaze. It was normal, none the less, to have that sort of tone after stuffing yourself up with alcohol.

… and not abundance of passivity like what I discerned in this lad’s eyes. He looked too sober for someone who had had too much drink.

“I haven’t--”

“Oh, you never think you want to fool a wizard, do you? I saw you.”

Those eyes drooped; I could clearly see they turned glassy.

Sighing, I offered, “My dear boy, burden can be a burden no more once you share it with someone.”

Frodo threw himself down to a stool, slumping, sagging. Despairing.

“It’s been five years now and I still can’t seem to forget them. I thought if I drunk myself enough, I could enjoy Yuletide this year.”

“I was wrong.”