A low screech came from a door being opened and a head with dark-brown curly hair peeped in followed by the rest of its owner. His soundless steps led him down the hall through a cozy living room, a study that was combined with a library packed with dusty, leather-bound books, to a doorless kitchen.

“Frodo?” Another curly-haired head lifted up, revealing a gentle face. “Weren’t you supposed to be out with the other lads on the hills or down the river? Your uncle has been planning the excursion for so long, Frodo. A trip like that could really enrich your knowledge.”

The tween cleared his throat. “Well, aye, Aunt Esme,” he replied softly, though deep inside he felt sure that whatever the hobbits got from the excursion would not exceed the know-how he learned from all the books he had read from the library. “But I unintentionally went past Farmer Maggot’s place and he sent you this.”

Handing out a heavy basket laden with something, Frodo observed his aunt closely with his keen eyes.

“What’s in there?” asked Esmeralda, also with beaming eyes. Curiosity got the better of her and she set aside the lunch she had been busy preparing. Esme took the basket from Frodo and, grinning at its significant weight, she lifted the cloth covering the content of the basket and delightedly cheered, “Oh, raspberries! How beautiful and fresh! But—“

She squinted, her tone changing a bit.

“Did Farmer Maggot himself give them to you? You didn’t –“

Esme left her sentence hanging, knowing that Frodo knew exactly what she meant. Frodo’s face changed drastically from a smile at her aunt’s joy to a blush by her later inquiry. He swayed restlessly at the implied mention of his naughty deed when he was a younger lad. Frodo could not help choking when trying to answer.

“I didn’t, Aunty!” he exclaimed bitterly. His mind involuntarily went back to the picture of himself being chased by the farmer’s mean-looking dogs after he snooped into the field and loaded as many mushrooms as he could into his pockets. Sweaty and breathing raggedly, Frodo had finally escaped by jumping over the wooden fence erected around the field. It was not an easy task, given the height of the fence and the immense amount of energy required of the frightened youngster to climb it.

The experience was not without considerable cost, as Frodo suffered the trauma of it afterward. Never again could he stand still near a dog without breaking into a nervous sweat, and worse yet, there was a time when Frodo felt like vomiting every time he caught sight of mushrooms. It was so bad that Frodo found it completely out of the question that he might repeat the offense. His aunt knew that, so why did she question Frodo?

Bowing his head, Frodo softened his voice a bit when repeating his denial. He had vowed to himself not to do or say anything that would otherwise show his lack of appreciation toward the Brandybuck family.

“I promise you, Aunt Esme, that what I said is true.” His voice trembled in abundant effort to suppress his emotion. “Farmer Maggot did call me to go inside his smial when he saw me passing by. He asked me about the family’s well being and then shoved the basket into my hand. I had tried to refuse it but he was insistent. He---“

Esmeralda raised her hand to stop Frodo’s rambling despite herself.

“Ssh. There, there. It’s all right, Frodo. I trust you.” Did she really? Frodo’s eyes bored into his aunt’s, as he tried desperately to trust her words. It hurt him to think that his words were not worthy of his aunt’s trust.

“Really I do,” assured Esme, realizing what Frodo’s sharp gaze meant. She had come to realize the poor youngster must have thought he was valueless. Actually, Esmeralda never distrusted this orphaned nephew of hers. There was something in Frodo that made her fondness of the lad come easily. Yet Esme could not resist the urge to always question the explanations of young boys Frodo’s age. It was all part of the process of raising and educating youngsters.

She also felt rather uneasy about Frodo’s seemingly changed attitude. Instead of locking himself up in the library as usual, in the last three days, Frodo had become a somewhat more open person. He showed up for meals punctually, helped with the dishes afterward, or helped Saradoc scribble some business letters. Esme could not even begin to guess what might be behind all of this.

Gently, Esme took Frodo by his shoulders.

“I of course thank you for the raspberries, dear. With these we can make a big, delicious pudding for dessert,” smiled Esme. Frodo frowned at her words, but his icy demeanor melted away, and Frodo smiled back to his aunt weakly.

“But now,” Esme pushed Frodo tenderly out of the kitchen. “You really should go back to Saradoc and your cousins. You don’t want to miss the fun, do you Frodo?”

Frodo nodded stiffly. This was hard. He would not mind tending the gardens or doing the laundry – as long as he was allowed to do his tasks alone. Frodo still could not bring himself to get close to the other hobbits, may they be adults or tweens like him. Save perhaps Merry.

Merry.

Frodo sighed heavily, stepping out of the kitchen and tromping along the corridor with eyes downcast. This was already the third day that Frodo had not spoken to him. It was not that he did not want to. Actually, it was Merry who refused to talk to him. That cousin of his even purposely averted his gaze every time they ran into each other.

Frodo sighed again when he came to the library’s closed door. He would rather hide himself again behind the piles of books than face the aggravated eyes of his uncle or the leering faces of his cousins. Frodo felt somewhat tired of facing them all, tired of feeling hated, abandoned, and tired of feeling – alone.

Oh, how happy he would be should Bilbo truly keep the promise he had made in the letter. Judging from their relationship so far, Frodo was certain he would be much happier life at Bag End, even if it came at the great cost of his friendship with Merry. The thought of that happening saddened him, however, and he felt his positive mindset evaporating into thin air.

Frodo reached out to grasp at the doorknob, the chill of its surface piercing him like the coldness in his heart. He turned it to the right and it clicked open. Feeling a little better as he was about to enter a familiar, friendly place where he could read or daydream to his heart’s content, Frodo stepped in, and jumped in surprise as his eyes caught a sudden movement.

It was Merry! Merry was sitting behind the only desk in the library, busily scrawling something on one of the many sheets of paper scattered in front of him on the table. Merry suddenly started and gathered up the papers, crumpling them in his small fists. Frodo could sense a secretive air about his cousin as he stood still, clutching the doorknob.

“Oh, it’s you, Merry,” Frodo drew in his breath both in astonishment and relief. “Why, are you not out with your da?”

Merry flushed, at a loss for words in his amazement at Frodo’s presence. Strange though, Frodo could almost catch a glimpse guilt flashing across his cousin’s face. What had he been doing?

“Hi, Frodo,” Merry offered his brightest smile – a smile that undeniably fortified Frodo’s suspicion. If Merry were still angry with him, why would he smile? “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with those irritating herds, too, are you not?”

That was exactly what Frodo had asked of Merry, without getting an answer. Merry and the library just didn’t seem to add up. Merry was never a lad who was fond of doing anything academic such as reading and writing, not when there were more exciting things to do.

Then, as if realizing his strange behavior, Merry turned cold to Frodo again.

“Can you leave me alone?” Merry asked icily. That was more an order than a request. Frodo stared blankly in bewilderment at this change of behavior. He could only swallow whatever words had meanwhile reached the tip of his tongue.

“Merry, please,” Frodo breathed, bringing himself one step closer to his cousin. He really had not intended to hurt Merry’s feelings. Surely the younger lad had noticed in the last couple of days how Frodo tried to conceal his joy over the news from Bilbo? But instead of giving Frodo a chance to talk about it with him, Merry whipped his head away to gaze out the window. Frodo’s shoulders lifted visibly as the boy took a deep breath in despair. He had lost his only company in this big, soulless house. Frodo almost whished that the letter had never come to him.

***

Merry exhaled loudly when Frodo finally left the room. The hobbit gazed down at the crumpled papers he had been holding and keeping out of Frodo’s sight. Slowly Merry brought them back to the table and smoothed the wrinkles away as best as he could manage. One would never be flattened as the others though, as it had, besides being carelessly creased up, been torn down from the very beginning. Bilbo’s letter.

Merry was staring at it, dazed and stupefied, trying to justify his feeling and action. But finally able to brush aside his remorse, Merry reached for his quill pen. He had practiced this for the last three days and had finally felt satisfied with the result. Creasing his brow, Merry held the pen tightly and started to scribble down on a piece of paper, the very last piece he got that he had stolen from his father’s drawer. Merry was completely oblivious to the shouts and bangs accompanying the return of the young lads and lasses from their excursion.

***

Later on that day, when tea was served, a young hobbit came knocking on the front door of the Brandybuck’s smial. Nobody in the house heard him as the knock was completely overcome by the din of hobbity chats, forks and knives scraping against plates, or cheerful shouts from the youngsters. The hobbit outside knocked again. This time someone detected the faint thump and went to open the curved, wooden door. He took an envelope delivered by the messenger, knitted his brow a bit as he read the name printed on it, and shouted,

“Frodo Baggins! You’ve a message. Here, take it.”

The noise subsided a bit as a screeching sound of chairs being pulled and pushed was heard. A short moment later, a pale face with locks scattered on its forehead appeared from the hall.

“Yes uncle?” replied Frodo timidly. Without saying anything, Saradoc tossed the letter in Frodo’s palm and went back inside after thanking the messenger and shutting the door.

Bedazzled, Frodo stared at the envelope. His name and the house address were written there neatly. It looked like Bilbo’s handwriting. Why did his older cousin write him again, so soon after the previous letter?

Frodo tore open one end of the envelope and pulled out a small piece of paper from it. Small. And after glancing at it briefly, Frodo could see that the letter was short, much shorter than the first one.

Frodo read its content silently but the more his eyes swept through the sentences on that letter, the shorter his breaths became. And when he was through, Frodo was but a boy with his blue eyes unbelievably widening in utter disbelief and devastation. His knees shook hard and gave beneath him and Frodo helplessly slumped forward, falling unconsciously on the welcoming, hard, wooden floor. Silence. Complete silence followed as opposed to the roars still heard down in the dining room.

TBC