Title: Dear
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd/Febobe)
E-mail:
Characters: Frodo, Sam, others by reference/mention
Rating: PG/K+
Pairing: N/A (None)
Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming.
Story Notes/Announcements: No sex, no slash, no profanity intended, implied, or included therein. WARNING: SPOILERS for book and movie RotK included.
Summary: As the remaining members of the Fellowship move into their little house in Minas Tirith following the War of the Ring, Sam muses on his master's needs. . .and the lingering aftermath of the Quest.

DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and, while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom. Absolutely no slash or sexual connotations are intended or implied.

In those days the Companions of the Ring dwelt together in a fair house with Gandalf, and they went to and fro as they wished.
-J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Steward and the King," The Lord of the Rings

What I love about cooking is that after a hard day, there is something comforting about the fact that if you melt butter and add flour and then hot stock, it will get thick! It's a sure thing! It's a sure thing in a world where nothing is sure.
-Nora Ephron

Home.

The others are already calling it that, though I don't suppose I ever could, being that it's not, and Mr. Frodo feels the same. But it's beautiful, no mistake about that, and we're both right happy as can be about moving in here. Where we've been's all fine and good, but it's too noisy for Mr. Frodo by a long shot, and he can't get enough sleep, not to mention how many stairs there are to climb and hallways to get lost in. . .almost like them mines, Moria, but with light, if you ask me. This is a sight better: a real house, and much smaller, but still more than big enough. Everybody with a bedroom of his own, even me, and that's plenty big, in my opinion.

Oh, but the kitchen! The kitchen's glorious, for it's not more'n a few steps from Mr. Frodo's bedroom, which is on the first floor, the biggest one in the house, which brings on some teasing, seeing as how Mr. Frodo's the smallest, what with Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin all tall now and - well, I'm a sight stronger and heavier than poor Mr. Frodo was even before all this, and a sight stronger and heavier'n he'll ever be again, to judge from the way he's been eating lately. But it's wonderful being able to be in the kitchen cooking and look in on him while he takes a nap, or to go ask him about something, or bring him a taste of some dish I'm working on or get his tray for him. Legolas fixed up this wind-chime like back in his home, something he says goes back to when it was the Greenwood and not Mirkwood, and that seems to soothe Mr. Frodo a bit. It's a right pretty little thing, that. Like little bells.

They've not been feeding Mr. Frodo proper, though, not at all. I reckon here in Minas Tirith it's some great honour to have all kinds of food that's mostly entertainment, but back home - and plenty o'other places, from what I've seen - we don't do nothing like that till a body's had plenty to fill his stomach. 'Round here it starts out with a bunch o'foolishness and just gets worse.

Mr. Frodo, o'course, is too proper and well-bred to say anything about it.

Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin seem well enough used to it.

Me, I'm not above saying something, though o'course I don't do it in public, making big scenes and all. Strider's busy these days, but he's kind as ever, and Gandalf's even better, though what's queerest of all is my best ally.

Captain Faramir.

Who'd 'a thought it? Back that first day he found us, I mean, not after, when he was right nice. Strider's told him to make sure we four don't want for nothing, and he even came to me about Mr. Frodo, which I appreciated. I suppose in a way Faramir looks after Strider now the way I do Mr. Frodo, only bigger matters, not to mention Captain Faramir's of a sight different star than I was born under, not that he acts it. Anyhow, he understood about Mr. Frodo needing extra warmth now, always feeling so cold, and had special sheets wove for him, made out of baby lambs' wool, and brought some beautiful stuff that was his when him and Boromir were lads. There's a down comforter that Mr. Frodo just curls right up in to take his naps. . .he drops right off to sleep in it, like it was made out of starlight to keep him safe.

And maybe it was. I don't know much about Captain Faramir's mum, 'cept that she died when he was a lad, and was very beautiful, to look at her portrait in the Stewards' Hall. Something almost elvish about her.

But we all four of us have seen so much now.

And this ain't home.

Not by a long way, it's not.

So I get good fresh stuff and work in our own kitchen, by myself. I chop herbs fine - sage and rosemary and parsley and basil and thyme - and peel and slice taters and carrots and turnips and shell green peas. And I make good home-cooked dishes - vegetable soup with beef stock. . .fried ham and crisp bacon with thick slices o'toasted bread, made from scratch, Shire-style. . .apple stack cake. . .mushrooms fried up tender and stirred in with fried taters or scrambled eggs. . .fluffy rolls to go with sweet butter - the way Mr. Frodo likes 'em, to try and tempt him into eating plenty.

And fish.

I can't help thinking of that Stinker every time I fix it.

But I fix it a lot, seeing as how it's so easy to get here, and all kinds, too. Captain Faramir introduced me to the best fishmonger in the whole city, and they bring the best of the catch up for Mr. Frodo when he's in the mood for it, or feeling poorly, if we but let 'em know.

Mr. Frodo says it makes him think of that Gollum, too, though, the way they serve it at feasts, with its head still on and all, the way that Stinker used to eat it. Makes him fair sick, it does. I fix it nice, fried with chips, or creamed real delicate with mushrooms, or poached all flaky till it's ready to fall apart at the touch of a fork, and I air the house good while I'm cooking. Mr. Frodo's that fragile these days, that sometimes strong smells make him too sick to leave his bed.

He says that without Gollum, it would'a been all in vain.

I don't know.

I don't want to believe that, but my Master says so.

And I've never known Master Frodo to go wrong.

Even from the start, he knew we weren't coming back. It was only he was too kind to tell me. And it was true. . .we were saved by nothing short of a miracle.

All the same, I don't like thinking about it too much.

So I make the right sort of stuff to try and plump him up proper for a hobbit, even though he doesn't seem to put on weight right no more, as if he can't even when he does eat. Dishes that make the whole house smell like a good day back home, by the fire in the old kitchen at Bagshot Row, or Mr. Frodo's fine kitchen up in Bag End. And we all gather 'round the table, or in Mr. Frodo's room when he feels more like resting in bed.

And sometimes, I reckon, we can almost forget all the bad parts of it.

Almost.

-the end-