I don't own anything, and shouldn't claim ownership of this thing, either. 
Nevertheless, the shame is all mine, and I make no money off of it. 

***

“Would you like to see what I have so far, Frodo?” Carefully, Galel turned his 
easel and showed Frodo what he’d been working on for so many days. 

Frodo stared at it, shocked. The man had captured his likeness perfectly so far, 
partially enswathed in the blue velvet. The figure stared at Frodo from the 
painting with a tiny smile on his lips, and Frodo had to bow to Galel’s 
talent---though the hobbit suspected the lips were a tad redder in the painting, 
and the cheeks a bit rosier, than the model’s. 

“It’s . . . uncanny,” Frodo remarked, “and I’m flattered to be portrayed so. But 
I don’t think I look so . . . ethereal in real life as you have captured there.”

“Ah, but you are wrong, Frodo,” Galel said. “I’ve done nothing to embellish.”

“I’m so . . . so nude there.” In truth, though it was done tastefully, the idea 
of himself and his private parts exposed forever on canvas was a bit . . . 
unnerving. Frodo couldn’t imagine who would wish to have such a painting.

Every day for the past week Frodo had gone down to Galel’s to sit for the 
painting, and after a while, he no longer felt quite so uncomfortable posing as 
bare as the day he was born. Galel was kind to him, keeping apples and cheese 
and cool white wine on hand to subdue hobbity appetites, and as an additional 
bonus, Frodo rarely saw Thistleback of late. For one thing, Frodo was gone most 
of the day, but for another, Thistleback seemed suddenly preoccupied with 
personal business---business that Frodo figured, from the whispers about the 
kitchens and the hurried comings and goings of strangers, was probably rather 
shady if not altogether against the law.

“Will someone actually buy this painting?” Frodo asked now, causing Galel to 
laugh hard. 

“Oh yes, Frodo.” The painter had just picked up his pallet, muttering something 
about “carnelian red,” when a loud rap sounded at the door. 

“Now who can that be?” Galel huffed as he stalked out of the room. Frodo pulled 
the velvet he sat on around him to hide his nudity, cocking a pointed ear toward 
the direction of the door as he tried to hear the faint voices outside. 

“. . . would like to ask you some questions, Mr. Pruneleaf, regarding some 
recent business dealings of Thistleback’s . . .”

“. . . am rather busy, presently engaged in my art . . .”

“ . . . will not take much of your time, but I must know . . .”

“. . . very sorry, but I cannot help you . . . come back in the morning.”

The stranger’s voice was vaguely familiar . . . smooth and a bit menacing. Yes, 
Frodo had heard it before somewhere. The voices continued for a while, then the 
the door slammed and Galel returned, flustered. “One of those pesky rangers, 
always asking questions. Ah, well, no harm done.” Wiping his hands on his apron, 
Galel smiled at Frodo. “You may get dressed and go on, Frodo. I’ve a customer 
coming at any moment. I will see you tomorrow, same time.”

Frodo nodded, sliding off the stool, and not a moment later someone was at the 
door a second time. Galel promptly went to get it and returned with a tall, 
swarthy man with beady brown eyes and thin lips, who eyed the painting with an 
open mouth and then stared at Frodo, his eyes lingering on the hobbit much too 
long for Frodo’s comfort. 

“Eh, quite the model you have here, Galel,” the man laughed. “Are you sure he’s 
a halfling? Looks to be more changeling to me . . . are his services for sell?”

“Not this one, Wulf---he’s Thistleback’s. And Thistleback takes better care of 
him than to see him used by men the likes of you and gotten with child and 
thrown on the street. This one’s precious to him. Now, let’s go out back and 
attend to our business. Good night, Frodo.” 

The two men left to go to the back room as Frodo made his way to the corner 
where his clothes lay, looking forward to going home and possibly taking a hot 
bath after Wulf’s lascivious gaze. Apparently the man was no good, at least not 
to hobbits. Gotten with child? Frodo had heard of such a thing happening to 
males, but it was rare, he knew. Certainly no male hobbit in the Shire had been 
in that condition that Frodo knew of, but he’d certainly seen a few in Bree so 
far. Perhaps it was a human’s seed that did it, he supposed. 

He was just about to drop his velvet covering and reach for his breeches when a 
shadow played across the floor in the light of the setting sun---the shadow of a 
man. Stifling a yelp, Frodo turned hastily, to see a tall cloaked figure, 
partially concealed by layers of dark clothing, standing in the hallway, one 
hand on the hilt of a very, very, long sword. 

“What do you want?” Frodo tried to control the trembling of his voice as he 
pulled the velvet covering over himself more tightly. It appeared to be the same 
man whom Frodo had seen when he’d been ill with the green tobacco sickness. 

“Just to ask you a few questions,” the stranger said, stepping closer. “Galel, 
as I believe he is called, would not let me in a moment ago.”

A ranger, then. Frodo gulped, instinctively looking down at himself to make sure 
he was properly covered. And just nearby, the painting sat, but the man seemed 
unfazed by that or Frodo’s state of undress as he came forward, throwing back 
his hood to reveal a striking, if scruffy, face. 

“The people of Bree call me Strider,” he said, kneeling in front of Frodo 
without further preamble. “You work for Thistleback?”

“Yes, I . . . I worked in the fields.” Frodo wondered what this man could 
possibly want with him. “I kept the books before that.”

"But you obviously do not work in the fields now.” Strider raised an eyebrow and 
nodded toward the painting. “Galel says you live in the house with Thistleback?”

Frodo blushed hotly. "I live in the servants' quarters, of course." He glared at 
Strider briefly, his voice rising. “We don't share a bed, if that's what you 
think!”

"Mmm-hmm." Strider looked impatient. "Let me get to the point, Mr. Banks. I have 
reason to suspect your employer is engaged in something quite dangerous to the 
townsfolk about here, and I must know if you have noticed any strange comings 
and goings to and from the house, particularly at odd hours of the night. Any 
conversations you have overheard---anything at all that you remember."

After thinking hard for a moment, Frodo shook his head. "No . . . I don't like 
Thistleback, but I cannot lie---I haven't seen anything. But then, I'm usually 
in my room, asleep, during the nighttime hours."

Strider raised his other brow, looking so disbelieving of this that Frodo wanted 
to slug him. Only the long sword at the man's hip kept the hobbit's mouth shut. 
After a moment of that intense gaze, Frodo looked down, shuffling one furry 
foot. The man sighed, realizing, Frodo supposed, that the questioning was over, 
and rose. 

"Very well, Mr. Banks.” Strider turned, his dark mud-stained cloak brushing 
Frodo's leg. "I will likely be back to question you further. And . . . take a 
ranger's advice. If I were you, I would look for another employer and gain some 
honest work."

He strode out, while Frodo's face stung with fury at that last remark. Did the 
rangers not realize how difficult it was to be a hobbit in the world of men?

****

Two days later, Frodo had donned his cloak and was heading out the door to 
Galel’s when Thistleback stopped him. Frodo was in a good mood, as Claudia had 
made him a lovely breakfast that morning, and his stomach was full of fresh eggs 
and fried potatoes and several strips of fresh, unsalted bacon. For a hobbit, 
that was enough to put a nice spin on the entire day. 

Unfortunately, that good mood disappeared when he saw Thistleback and the fried 
potatoes sat like little balls of steel in his stomach. He stopped in the main 
foyer of the house as the man flagged him down.

“You’re not going to Galel’s today, Frodo,” Thistelback said, his eyebrows 
drawing together menacingly. “In fact, you’re not going there anymore. He’s 
coming here from now on.”

“Wh--what? I don’t understand---why can’t I go to Galel's? I’m a free hobbit.”

“Come, Frodo.” Putting a hand on Frodo’s back, the man led him to a small sofa 
and sat down, drawing Frodo down with him. “It seems that another wealthy 
landowner has purchased the painting of you, Frodo, and that it has caused, 
shall we say, a bit of a stir. Quite frankly, you are too valuable a commodity 
to me now to simply walk the streets of Bree by yourself to go to Galel's, where 
you may be accosted. And I don't completely trust him . . . if there’s any money 
to be had out of you, I will see to it it’s under my roof. After all, I’m the 
one who found you, as it were.”

“Valuable a commodity? But I told you, I’m completely broke!” Frustrated, Frodo 
wrung his hands together, trying to figure Thistleback out. “What do I have that 
you could you possibly want from me?”

Thistleback did not smile. “Of course you have no money, just that pretty gold 
Ring. But you also have *that*”---and here his gaze swept Frodo from head to 
toe---“which all the men seem to want.” He leaned forward until Frodo could 
smell the scent of whisky on his breath. “These men will pay great prices for 
these paintings of you, Frodo, great sums of money. But they will pay even more 
for a night spent with the real thing. Look, you don’t even have to let them 
touch you . . . just *talk* to them. These men are lonely . . . so lonely.”

“Are you joking, Mr. Thistleback? No, I will not do it. I won’t!”

Thistleback exhaled heavily. “You have no say in the matter, Frodo. At any rate, 
you’re not coming out with a bad deal . . . room, board, a new wardrobe . . . 
moving out of the servant’s quarters to a luxurious room if you do things right 
. . . and I’ll give you a small allowance.”

“I want to go home. I want to go back to the Shire.”

The words seemed to put a fury into Thistleback and he jumped from the sofa, 
grabbing Frodo by the shirt collar and dragging the hobbit bodily up the stairs, 
cursing. “You will do it, or you’ll get beaten to within an inch of your life 
and I'll take that pretty gold thing from around your neck. What's more, if you 
make enough, Henry gets a raise . . . if you fail to do this and he loses his 
job. And I'll see to it he never finds another around Bree. Three kids, 
starving, got that?”

“No, I don’t want to---”

Frodo tried to fight back but realized it was useless---the man would only 
overpower him. Staggering, he sagged as Thistleback shoved him into an upstairs 
bedroom. “This is your room from now on . . . have the maids bring your scanty 
stuff up here. There is a bath drawn, and you’ll find some new clothes in the 
closet and some robes that will fit. Now get busy and make yourself 
presentable.” He left, slamming the door, and Frodo cringed as he heard an 
outside lock click.

Once alone, Frodo looked around the room, unable to stifle a sigh at the feeling 
of plush rugs underneath his toes. The bed looked heavenly---tall and wide and 
furnished with a thick silky comforter and plump pillows. The entire room was 
sumptuous, furnished in a light jade green, with large paintings on the walls 
and one huge window that looked out over the pipe-weed fields. Looking out of 
it, Frodo could just see the sweat-soaked workers staggering off, as they wiped 
their brows, to go to their meager homes. 

Perhaps it wasn't so bad, he thought to himself, to not have to worry about 
being so hungry all the time and sick from the pipe-weed picking . . . and if 
all he really needed to do was keep the men company, well, perhaps he could live 
with that.

After all, some men weren't too terrible, once you got to know them. 

The bed looked inviting, and Frodo wanted nothing more at the moment than to 
crawl upon it and sleep . . . sleep peacefully, pretending he was back at Bag 
End just waking up to the morning while Bilbo fried eggs in the kitchen. Yes, he 
would take a bath and get comfortable and settle in for a nice sleep in a soft 
bed, instead of his little hard mattress in the servant’s quarters. There was 
time to worry about what he would do to get out of this mess tomorrow. 

Going into the private washroom, he found a tub filled with warm water waiting, 
and plenty of herbal-scented soap. He soaked a long while, nearly falling 
asleep, before rising and ruffling through the hobbit-length robes he found in 
the closet. 

He didn't want to know why they were there, or why their former owner had not 
taken them. 

Just as he reached for the most drab-colored robe he could see---a silky light 
beige with small white squares dotting it---something on the floor in the 
corner, nearly hidden under an old splayed-open trunk, caught his eye. Stifling 
a cry, Frodo poked at it with one of the wooden hangers, finding it naught but a 
pile of aged yellowed linen, streaked with rust-colored splotches of old dried 
blood. There was no telling how long it had been there, or what it was from, but 
Frodo pushed it to the back of the closet and resolved to get rid of it later.

Donning the robe, he climbed up on the soft bed and curled up, not even waking 
when a maid entered and set a tray and two wineglasses on the nightstand.


To be continued