Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters you recognize within this story.

I

It had all started a month ago – a widespread epidemic of an assumed illness, stumping many healers. It began – or so it was rumored – with night terrors, then it progressively grew worse. The night terrors grew worse, awaking people with a scream that sent a chill up the spines of all who heard it. The person seemed feverish, face pale, drenched in sweat, yet shivering. After that, the person could not sleep, but instead took to prowling at unseemly hours, muttering what was regarded as nonsense. It was then that they knew it was “the terror.” They called a healer each time, but all he could do was suggest quarantine. Soon after, the hobbit was always found with the same horrified look. No one knew what was happening, and even if the hobbit was quarantined immediately at the first sign, it spread. Over a third of the Shire had already been claimed, and all were sore afraid.

The only place it had yet to strike was Bag End where a certain Frodo Baggins lived, secluded since before the terror had struck. All rumored he had not a clue what was going on around him, and others concluded that if he did, he no longer loved the Shire and the inhabitants. That, of course, was not true. In fact, he had sent for a post master the minute he had received news of it, but one had yet to show his face.

Frodo lifted back the curtain to see outside. The wind howled, and sent snow everywhere, like a wave. It was hard to see through the frosted window, but he had found a lone spot just big enough to see through that the bitter cold had yet to devour. The outside was bleak and gray, and rarely a passerby could be seen. Yule was approaching soon, providing an opportunity for the plan to work. He wanted to lift their spirtis, and he had an idea.

Frodo squinted and thought he spotted a black entity approaching slowly from the distance. At last, he put the curtain back down and wandered toward the fireplace where a kettle was boiling. Noting the fire was dying down, he poked the wood to start it up again. After he was satisfied with the size of the flames, he walked to his chair and pulled a blanket over him subsequent to turning up the light of the oil lamp and grabbing a book, content yet discontent, for he knew every moment the post master delayed his coming more hobbits were dying.

He just about jumped out of his chair with fear when he heard a loud rapping at his back door. Reluctant to leave the warmth, he pulled the blanket away slowly and put the book down. He approached the kitchen and the door quickly. “Who is it?” he asked loudly.

“Barley, the post master,” came the reply in a weak, raspy voice.

Quickly, Frodo unlatched the door and opened it. The sight before him frightened him, though he concealed it. Barley’s face was red and white frost covered his brow and mustache. Frodo quickly backed out of Barley’s way and let him in before shutting out the harsh, shrill-sounding wind. He pulled out a chair and let the hobbit sit and rushed to the other room to get the whistling kettle and back to the kitchen. He began a fire in the room after pouring the hot water and placing tea bags in the cups.

“Wh-what would you have me deliver, Master Baggins?” Barley asked.

“Nothing until you are warm and full, Barley, and then you may choose to deliver some invitations for me in a timely manner. May I offer you some food?’ Frodo’s face bore a compassionate look. He sympathized with him, for he too had experienced extreme cold temperatures on Caradhras.

“Aye, if it’s not too much trouble, sir. I’d like whatever you can give me.” Barley kneeled and rubbed his hands together over the warm fire.

“Right away,” Frodo said with a smile.

Barley sat before the fire. Now that he was growing warm, the frost on his clothes was melting and making them wet. He wondered what the invitations Frodo had were for and who he expected to come in this horrid weather, and with the terror being a constant threat. Barley reckoned no one in their right mind would come to Bag End in this weather – and, yes, he considered himself to be out of his right mind when he had grown numb on the long trek over. He only hoped he would not have to go all the way to Buckland or Tuckborough in this insane weather. He only feared it would be the case as nice as Frodo was being to him.

Just as Barley began to regain the feeling in his feet and hands, Frodo returned bearing stew, bread, and a steaming beverage. “Here you are,” Frodo said, while handing it over. “I hope it is to your liking.”

“Anything would taste good after being outside so long.”

Frodo laughed softly. “I would reckon so.” He sat on the ground across from the post master. “Do you need something to wear? Those clothes look very wet. I think I could find some clothes of Bilbo’s around here – I doubt you would fit mine.”

“Oh, that would be nice, but really it’s not necessary. I’ll be going back out there.”

“But, it will be better for you to have some warm clothes. Please, at least take them while your own dry – even if that means staying overnight. After all, you did travel quite a distance to get here. You may as well be rewarded for your troubles with a good night’s rest.” Frodo stood from his spot. “I’ll return soon. Enjoy your meal.”

Barley began to protest that it was too much trouble and not necessary, but Frodo silenced him with a wave of the hand. The post master sighed. So much was going on in the Shire, so much that caused unhospitality in the houses he visited. Everyone feared that visitors would bring the terror to kill their household, but amidst all that, there was one gentlehobbit still willing to risk the onslaught of the terror, still willing to accept visitors and be hospitable. It just did not make sense to him. The events of the past month stunned him beyond description, and his heart was heavy with grief for all the friends he had lost, and all his friends were losing. Yet, this one beam of hope, of former happiness, still existed for all to find if they but reached to touch it.

It had been a month since the young post master had seen a smile or heard laughter, yet he found it here. He longed to stay in hopes of finding happiness, but he knew he could not impose on Frodo’s hospitality, feeling he would soon be turned out. The hobbit who had borne so much, put his life on the line for the whole of Middle Earth, would surely not wish to do so again for one who had been in the outside world and could possibly be a carrier of the terror.

Frodo announced his presence with: “Barley, do these suit you?”

Barley looked up from his thoughts. “Aye, Master Baggins, and much moreso than I could have imagined. Are you sure you would not mind those going out in the snow?”

“I am sure. I’ll leave you to change.” And Frodo did as he had said.

“Thank you,” Barley said and began to change. He was much surprised at Frodo’s selection, but then he reckoned the Bagginses would have nothing short of fine clothing, silk, velvet, soft cotton. When he had finished dressing, he felt grand. The clothes felt much warmer than his own. He had only as a lad dreamed of ever wearing this kind of clothing, and now he was living his dream to some extent. He felt guilty for his happiness, as though he was betraying the hobbits outside of this seeming different world of Bag End where warmth, happiness, and hospitality was still found. He emerged from the room to let Frodo know he was finished. It was time he told Frodo of what was going on outside, but the burden was so heavy. He only wished he could find the words before he lost his nerve.

TBC…

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