Introducing the Fellowship:

Tea with Frodo Baggins

By Shayalyn

On any day, the Shire is a
beautiful haven. It’s clear that the inhabitants of this lush land, all
hobbits, love it and tend it with care. Flower gardens flourish, and
fruitful farm fields blanket the rolling hills. The hobbits’ homes
nestle into the hillsides. They are not the cold bunkers you might
think of when you hear the term “hobbit holes,” but inviting and
well-kept abodes the hobbits call smials.



But today isn’t just any day. Today is the day I am to meet with Frodo
Baggins--ring-bearer, Elf-friend, and hero. The sky above me is a
flawless blue, and the cool clean air is buzzing softly with the sounds
of nature. I follow the path to Bag End, and rap on the round wooden
door.



As the door opens, a pleasant face greets me. “A good day to you,” says
Frodo. Although his voice is cheerful as he welcomes me into his home,
I can’t fail to notice something solemn about his demeanor as I duck to
enter the little hobbit house. We take a seat before the fireplace.
Frodo crosses his legs and leans back comfortably.



“I’m honored to meet you,” I say--and I truly am. After all, not only
has Frodo been the deputy mayor of Michel Delving, and not only is he a
highly respected citizen of Middle-earth, but he was the hobbit
responsible for transporting the One Ring on its long journey from the
Shire to the fires of Mount Doom.



“And I am honored as well,” says Frodo. He offers me refreshments, and
I accept a cup of tea. The pie looks and smells tempting, but I
decline.



“You had questions?” asks Frodo.



I’m surprised at how the hobbit cuts to the chase, and so I stammer,
“How did you resist the power of the One Ring?”



Frodo seems equally surprised by my question. He rubs his chin slowly.
“I didn’t, exactly,” he says, and I see a shadow pass over his face.
“Not in the end.”



I quickly change the topic, feeling a sudden embarrassment at having
asked about a subject that has burdened the little hobbit since he
first carried the Ring.



“Well, let’s talk about your youth, then,” I say. “Tell me about
yourself as a child.”



Frodo taps his pipe against his palm for a moment and gazes upward,
seeming to inspect a crack in the ceiling (which is completely without
cracks, I’ve noticed). A smile curls the corners of his lips, and it’s
a smile so infectious that I find myself smiling back. “I was a bit of
a scoundrel when I was very young,” says Frodo. “I’m afraid I wasn’t
always on my best behavior. I was caught more than once stealing
mushrooms from farmer Maggot.”



“But you mended your ways...”



“I did, indeed.” Frodo’s face grows somber again, and I am victim to
the whims of his moods. Sadness falls over us like a blanket when Frodo
says, “The death of my parents was a sobering experience.”



“They drowned,” I say quietly. I’ve heard this story. Frodo was 12
years old when his parents, Drogo Baggins and Primula Brandybuck,
perished, leaving him alone with no siblings.



“Yes,” Frodo nods. “They were swept away in a boating accident on the
Brandywine River. I stayed alone in my family’s home, Brandy Hall, in
Buckland, for a time.” He smiles softly again, as if remembering
something. “And then my cousin, Bilbo, came to fetch me and bring me
here to Bag End.”



“You’re Bilbo’s heir, then,” I say.



“That’s right. Bilbo left the Shire on the eve of his eleventy-first
birthday,” Frodo pauses and looks up at me, “that’s his one hundred and
eleventh birthday, in hobbit tradition. Everyone was in fine spirits
that evening, celebrating Bilbo’s good fortune. It was later that he
told me he was leaving, and that Bag End and all of Bilbo’s possessions
were mine.”



“Including the Ring,” I say.



The hobbit turns to gaze into the fire. “Yes, including the ring,” he
says quietly.



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hspace="2" vspace="4">It strikes me that Frodo is unusually
pensive for a hobbit, and for his 52 young years, he looks tired and
worn. I’m reminded that carrying the Ring drained his spirit and caused
him physical and emotional wounds. Again, I find myself changing the
subject away from the Ring of Power.



“You’ve written a book,” I say.



Frodo brightens, if only a little. “It’s recently completed,” he tells
me. “My accounting of the War of the Ring and the Quest of Mount Doom
is contained in the Red Book of Westmarch.”



“You are great friends with Gandalf,” I continue. “I understand you
once wrote a song about him. Would you sing a bit?”



Frodo smiles at the thought of his wise friend. He closes his eyes, and
in a sweet voice begins to sing:



A deadly sword, a healing hand,
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a back that bent beneath its load;
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a trumpet-voice, a burning brand,
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a weary pilgrim on the road.
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A lord of wisdom throned he sat,
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swift in anger, quick to laugh;
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an old man in a battered hat
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who leaned upon a thorny staff.



I listen raptly as the hobbit sings for me a story of the legendary
Gandalf. As his song ends, Frodo cups his chin in his hand and gazes
thoughtfully into the distance. “I thank you for coming to chat and
share drink with me,” he says gently. “It’s time I should be going,
now.”



“Going?” I ask incredulously. I’ve come to Frodo’s house, so where in
Middle-earth could he be going? I’m suddenly struck with the feeling
that the hobbit is dismissing me--trying to get rid of me! Given that
hobbits are known for their hospitality, I’m surprised. We haven’t even
begin to discuss Frodo’s friendship with the elves, his gift for
languages (I’ve heard he speaks Sindarin fluently), the Fellowship, or
how Frodo aided in evicting Sauruman, the defeated wizard, from the
Shire after the War of the Ring. I’m beginning to feel offended by this
sudden bum’s rush.



“I set sail today from the Grey Havens,” the hobbit says with a smile.
He seems to sense my indignation. “I will leave my belongings to
Samwise Gamgee, my good friend, and make my way West with Gandalf and
Bilbo, among others.”



“What will you find there?” I ask. Now finally settled back in his
comfortable home, how could Frodo wish to leave?



“Peace,” says Frodo softly.



I take Frodo’s hand and hold it in mine for a moment. I realize then
that the hobbit is minus one finger, and recall the story, now legend,
in which Gollum bit off Frodo’s finger in his attempt to seize the One
Ring during the struggle at Mount Doom.



“May you find your peace then,” I say to him. I realize that although
he seems secure in his hobbit hole, Frodo’s trials have never really
ended for him. It is only through going to a place of rest that he will
ever find contentment. “And may peace find its way to you.”



Frodo tamps out his pipe and stands, brushing himself off. As we walk
to the door, my stomach gives an audible grumble, and I realize that I
should have accepted the pie. Perceptive as always, the hobbit
wordlessly gathers up the pie plate and offers it to me. “For the
journey,” he says with a smile.



I embrace Frodo quickly, then step back and smile down at him.



“For the journey,” I say.