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The morning came upon the Shire as many mornings did, with pale gold sunlight stretching over the hills where the faint dew lingered upon the soft grass. The Party Tree stood in the center of Hobbiton, breaking the rays of the sun through its large canopy of leaves. Smoke rose from chimneys as respectable folk yet slept, or stirred faintly beneath warm blankets, unwilling to part from dreams before the hour required it. Yet in Bag End there had been movement enough for three mornings, or so it seemed to Frodo Baggins.

He had not intended to rise so early. Nor, if he were honest, did he intend to rise at all until the sun hung high and the garden grew ripe and prosperous for harvest. But Bilbo, who had woken before sunrise with such enthusiasm unnatural for his age, had apparently decided that noise and tea were necessary if important matters were at hand.

Thus, Frodo found himself seated at the kitchen table, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, attempting not to topple over. At the same time, Bilbo moved busily to and fro with energy that suggested excitement or concern, and Frodo had known his uncle long enough to suspect that it was both.

The table, which typically bore seasoning, jam, and perhaps freshly baked seed cakes, had been transformed into something most alarming. There stood tea enough for a gathering, thick slices of bread from the oven, butter, honey, sausages, apples polished to a shine, and most troubling of all, three bundles lay tied and set aside.

Frodo rubbed his eyes once more before blinking into awareness.

“Bilbo… What is all of this?” He questioned, his brow furrowing slightly.

Bilbo stopped in his movements and turned to face him, his hands resting on the back of a chair. “One must be prepared.”

“For… what?”

Bilbo smiled deeply, a grin that concerned Frodo. He had never seen Bilbo so joyous.

“For the day.”

“That much food for one day?” Frodo questioned.

Now Bilbo looked at him as though the answer ought to have been perfectly obvious.

“My dear boy,” he said, “you cannot expect to endure such a thing upon only breakfast alone.”

Frodo frowned, sitting up straight in the chair.

“Endure what?”

But Bilbo had turned away once more, muttering to himself as he inspected the contents of a satchel. He ignored Frodo, who watched him for some time in suspicion and concern. Though Bilbo had spoken cheerfully enough these past weeks, there had been beneath it all a strange gravity, a sort of carefulness that did not altogether escape notice. There had been talks, many of them spoken beside the fire after supper or over tea in the garden, wherein Bilbo had offered advice without always explaining the meaning. Frodo had been taught to be patient and seldom take words as they presented themselves.

Patience had been spoken of, among other things, such as courtesy, endurance, and the burden of enduring difficult endeavors.

Frodo had at first assumed it was merely one of Bilbo’s wandering moods, for he had always possessed a tendency toward mysterious wisdom, whether he changed or grew thoughtful in quiet moments. Yet in this moment, there seemed purpose in it, and that purpose was a thing Bilbo never dismissed lightly.

“You are making me nervous,” Frodo said at length.

Bilbo huffed with amusement.

“As well you might be.”

“A poor attempt at comfort.” Frodo scoffed uncomfortably before stilling himself.

“I suppose.”

He came at last to sit opposite Frodo, folding his hands upon the table. For a brief while, he said nothing, and Frodo noticed then that his face began to soften. In its place remained something older; something that belonged more properly to stories beside hearthfires, or in armchairs when lamps burned on the pages of a weathered book.

“There are burdens in this world, Frodo,” Bilbo said quietly. “Some grand, perhaps. Others smaller. Yet one ought not think them lesser merely because they appear ordinary.”

Frodo straightened in his seat, and his gaze held Bilbo intently, as if trying to extract the meaning of his words.

“That sounds ominous.”

“Practical.” Bilbo corrected, leaning back. “You will find, I think, that many things are asked of you. Some folk will be kind. Others impatient. A few may prove entirely unreasonable.”

Frodo blinked.

“What sort of people?”

Bilbo’s expression grew distant, as though memory had wandered into dangerous lands.

“Big Folk perhaps, Dwarves, Elves… ” he said carefully, “The sort who ask foolish questions and become cross when sensible answers are given.”

Frodo’s eyes widened at the word of Big Folk, and he frowned. “That seems unfair.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said at once. “It often is.”

“You make it sound dreadful.”

“There will be moments.” Bilbo hesitated. “And should others speak sharply, do not take it to heart; most grievances belong not to you.”

“Who exactly is speaking sharply?”

Bilbo waved vaguely.

“People.”

“The Big Folk?” Frodo said, his expression frightened.

“The public.” 

Frodo stared in confusion.

“The public?”

Bilbo nodded gravely, as though he named some ancient enemy. “And remember,” he added, leaning forward slightly, “there are rules.”

“Rules?”

“Some spoken,” he said at length. “Others… simply understood.”

Frodo opened his mouth to inquire further, but Bilbo merely lifted a finger to silence him.

“You shall understand soon enough.” Then he stood up with purpose and crossed the room. Frodo watched in alarm as Bilbo took up the satchel and pressed firmly into his arms.

“What is all of this?” Frodo said, adjusting the weight.

“Essentials… Snacks.”

“Snacks?”

“ONE break for luncheon,” Bilbo muttered darkly, shaking his head. “Barbaric.”

“One what?”

But Bilbo had already gone to fetch his coat; the matter apparently settled. Moments later, they stood in the entryway of Bag End, where the morning air had greeted them. Bilbo adjusted his scarf, checked his pockets for reasons known only to himself, and looked altogether… pleased.

Frodo, meanwhile, had the unmistakable feeling that events had somehow moved beyond his understanding.

“Bilbo,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I ought to ask again where exactly we are going.”

Bilbo turned to him and smiled.

“To work.”

“Work?”

“Yes!”

“What sort of work?”

“You will do wonderfully,” Bilbo said, clapping Frodo on the back, failing to answer the question.

After several uncertain moments, Frodo followed Bilbo down the path. At the gate, Bilbo stopped and reached into his pocket for his ring and nodded.

“Come along now,” he said brightly.

Then, upon the ring hung many fobs and chains, one of which was a key.

“Get in the car, my boy.”

***

Frodo had imagined many things during the journey, though Bilbo had offered little explanation beyond remarks of deeply unsettling nature often concerning “difficult mornings,” and the importance of “burdens carried through endurance,” Frodo had nonetheless attempted to picture what manner of place might await him. A bookstore, perhaps, or some establishment with warm tea and kind faces served softly before respectable folk.

He had not imagined this.

When Bilbo pulled into the lot, Frodo was met with a large building of alarming size, broad and rectangular with sharp edges, fashioned chiefly from brick and glass and bearing upon a banner on top marked “Eriador Market.”

Frodo stared. Many strange wheeled baskets stood gathered before long rows of shining metal, and figures of all kinds passed to and fro through doors that opened without a keeper, hissing like small snakes Frodo would find in the garden.

He blinked, once, then again, as Bilbo took his hand and began to lead him forth.

“Bilbo,” he said carefully, resisting his pull. “What is that?”

Bilbo turned to him, stopping his movements and placing his key ring back into his pocket with a pat. Then he smiled with entirely too much cheerfulness.

“Your place of employment!”

“My what?” Frodo said, taking a step back, only to be met by resistance.

“Work, my boy!” Bilbo said brightly, his grasp tightening on Frodo’s arm, yet it was not force; it was the gentle guide of a guardian. “Come along now. No sense in lingering.”

Frodo did linger, his eyes upon the large sign and cruel rectangular tower that loomed before him. Frodo found himself staring upward more often than he cared to admit, and even though he resisted, his feet carried him forth. Everything seemed constructed for the Big Folk and nobody else.

Bilbo, meanwhile, walked with a bounce in his step, the confidence of one returning to familiar lands.

At the entrance, however, he stopped so suddenly that Frodo nearly walked directly into him. 

“Ah!” Bilbo said, snapping his fingers and reaching to his back where a satchel slung across his body. “Nearly forgot.” Out of the bag, seemingly too large to fit, he produced a pair of shoes.

Frodo stared at them, then at Bilbo, then at the shoes once more. “No,” he said at once, his eyes widening at the horror.

Bilbo tisked and lifted them higher again, waving them before Frodo.

“Store policy, I’m afraid.”

“My feet are perfectly acceptable.” Frodo wiggled his toes.

Bilbo pointed at the glass entrance, upon which a sign was fixed.

NO SHIRT. NO SHOES. NO SERVICE. 

Beneath the words, for reasons Frodo found deeply personal, was a drawing unmistakably resembling a Hobbit’s feet with a great red cross around it.

Frodo stared at it in horror, his nose twitching as he frowned deeply. “This feels targeted.”

“It is unfortunate indeed,” Bilbo admitted. “But unavoidable.”

“Hobbits are not meant to wear shoes; we have perfectly fine, sturdy feet meant to endure… And we have for generations.” Frodo said with pride, then his gaze fell to the shoes once more, and his expression saddened.

“And today,” Bilbo said firmly, pressing them into his arms, “Tradition shall suffer.” Bilbo remained unmoved, and after much resistance, Frodo found himself forced into the offending things.

He hated them immediately; the fabric pressed cruelly against his feet, constricting in ways that felt unnatural and vaguely insulting. He took three steps and merely stumbled over himself, then he shot a glance at Bilbo.

“You walk strangely,” Bilbo said, a smile forming on his face.

“How entirely unexpected,” Frodo said sarcastically, looking down at the culprit of his pain.

“You shall grow accustomed to suffering.”

Thus burdened, Frodo followed him inside. 

At once came a rush of strange sounds: metal clashing and rattling over floors, voices mingling together, distant beeping noises of unknown origin, and above all, a brightness that seemed unnecessary for a respectable indoor establishment. The ceilings were impossibly high, the shelves towered like walls. Everything, Frodo thought, was far too large.

Bilbo, meanwhile, nodded to passing workers.

“Morning, Bilbo!”

“There and back again? I thought you retired!”

“Retirement,” Bilbo replied grandly, “I think I am quite ready for another adventure.” He shifted his gaze to Frodo, who stood folded in on himself anxiously.

“You know everyone?”

Bilbo looked scandalized.

“My dear boy, I practically built this place.”

Before Frodo could inquire further, a great voice rang suddenly through the front entrance.

“YOU CANNOT PASS!”

Frodo nearly leapt from his skin, and he stumbled on his feet.

Ahead of them stood an old man clothed in store colors, though not with much discipline, for his attire seemed arranged according to no rule that Frodo could perceive. In one hand, he held a receipt marked by yellow ink, and in the other, he held a great staff. Before him stood a deeply irritated customer clutching a cart.

“I already paid,” The Man said.

“So the receipt suggests,” the old fellow said gravely, his voice lowered. His eyes narrowed, Then with no haste, he knelt using the stick for balance and withdrew a small pack of soda from the bottom of the cart. He held up the receipt, looked at the soda, and looked back at the receipt.
The silence was palpable.

“This,” he said, “is not accounted for.”

“Curious,” the customer said

“Curious indeed,” said the old man darkly.

“I forgot to scan it.”

The old man drew himself up.

“You forgot to scan it?” The old man said gravely. “And until every single item in your cart is accounted for… do you know what this means?”

“I–uh,” the customer said, drawing back slightly at the tone.

“YOU… SHALL NOT… PASS!”

Frodo watched in complete astonishment as the old man extended one arm dramatically across the exit like some kind of guardian… He held his staff up and brought it to the ground in a crack that echoed throughout the establishment. To which the customer lost his balance and toppled backward onto the tile floor.

“I apologize, truly!” He begged, entirely humiliated.

Before further argument could arise, a tall figure silently approached. He was fair-haired, impossibly fair in truth. He moved with alarming haste, appearing so suddenly that Frodo could not say for certain which direction he had come.

The Elf glanced once at the cart, and the old man handed him the highlighted receipt. Then his gaze drifted to the customer gravely.

“You forgot the aluminum foil as well, and the dog food,” he said calmly.

The customer paled.

“How do you know?”

“I saw you.”

Then the Elf nodded once and stepped in front of him before turning back to meet him. “Come.”

And they departed, the customer following in defeat.

Frodo stared after them.

“Who was that?”

“The old man?” said Bilbo.

“The observant Elf.”

“Ah!” Bilbo brightened at once. “Legolas.”

“Legolas Thranduilion? As in the Legolas?”

“The very same.”

“Why does he work here?”

Bilbo considered this.

“No one has yet discovered the answer.”

The old man had now approached them, muttering to himself and marking something on the receipt with a yellow pen.

“Bilbo?” he said suddenly, brightening.

“Gandalf!” Bilbo said warmly.

“Gandalf?” Frodo’s face lit at once; he had heard stories of the great Gandalf the Grey, and yet he found it curious that he worked here as well.

“This must be young Frodo,” Gandalf said, looking down upon him with interest. 

Bilbo placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder 

“My successor.”

Gandalf’s brows rose, and he lowered himself slightly to meet the Hobbits more fully.

“A Baggins?”

“Naturally.”

“He will be bagging?”

Bilbo straightened at once. “Of course he shall.”

Frodo frowned. “Bagging?”

“As in groceries," Gandalf clarified. 

Frodo turned toward Bilbo slowly. “You hired me to put things into bags?”

Bilbo gasped softly as though deeply wounded. “My dear boy.” He drew himself upright with dignity. “You speak as though it were some trifling matter.”

“It is bagging.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes

“We baggers were very highly thought of,” he said gravely, “before certain influences arrived.” He turned meaningfully toward Gandalf.

Gandalf sighed.

“Oh, not this again.”

“You never fail to ruin everything.”

“I merely suggested self-checkout as a more efficient option.”

“A dark day indeed,” Bilbo muttered.

Before further grievances concerning self-checkout could be voiced, a figure approached from deeper within the store, and Frodo became aware at once that some of those who worked here possessed the particular look of one who had not rested in many years. This Man was tall, even among Big Folk; he carried himself with purpose, though his shoulders bore the heaviness of someone long accustomed to burdens. Dark hair framed his weathered face, and one hand carried a cup of coffee of such an alarming size that Frodo could not help but stare. Upon his belt rested a small device with distant murmurs and beeps of matters Frodo could not comprehend.

“Bilbo,” the Man said.

“Aragorn!” Bilbo brightened immediately, all thoughts of the bagging dispute forgotten. “Still alive, I see.”

“Barely,” Aragorn replied.

Frodo blinked. There followed a strange pause wherein Aragorn looked first at Bilbo, then at Frodo, then at the shoes upon Frodo’s feet. His expression changed in subtle ways, difficult to explain, though Frodo recognized concern marked upon his brow.

“Poor Hobbit,” Aragorn said at last, recognizing the stance Frodo had taken to avoid the pain of shoes.

Bilbo waved dismissively. “He shall grow into it.”

“I am fifty,” Frodo muttered.

Aragorn smiled faintly, though whether in amusement or pity, Frodo could not say.
“So,” Aragorn said, holding the cup in his other hand, “This is your replacement.”

At this, Frodo turned sharply toward Bilbo.

“My what?”

Bilbo cleared his throat with sudden interest in absolutely everything except Frodo.

“Well,” he gestured vaguely. “Semi-replacement.”

Gandalf, who had apparently returned to his post at the exit, had taken to highlighting receipts like an ancient scholar annotating sacred texts, glanced over without looking particularly surprised.

“He says he’s retiring every year,” Gandalf remarked.

Bilbo frowned deeply, “You cannot be speaking, Gandalf, no one is certain if you are still on payroll or you just do this for fun.”

Frodo looked between them with alarm.

“Are you retiring?” Frodo asked quietly.

Bilbo softened then, the humor fading from his expression. “Well,” he said at length, placing a hand gently upon Frodo’s shoulder. “One cannot carry such burdens forever, my dear boy.”

Frodo frowned. “You make as though you are departing for the Grey Havens.”

“In fairness,” Gandalf said, “retail is worse.”

Aragorn closed his eyes and stepped inward to intercept them. “Please,” he said quietly, “do not frighten him before orientation.”

“Orientation?” Frodo repeated weakly.

Then, before another inquiry could be made, the strange device upon Aragorn’s belt beeped violently.

“Aragorn, we have a problem.”

Aragorn unclipped the small device from his belt, pressed a small button, and spoke into it. “What now, Thorin?”

For a while, only faint crackles from the device could be heard.

“Pippin climbed the pallets again.”

Aragorn shut his eyes and placed a hand to the bridge of his nose.

Gandalf stepped forward, overhearing the conversation. “FOOL OF A TOOK!”

Aragorn inhaled once, a long and slow breath in the manner of someone making peace with inevitable suffering.

“Merry says he can get higher, and they won’t stop climbing.”

“Tell them,” he said carefully, “that if either of them falls and breaks something.”

“The pallet or the Hobbits?” Thorin shot back over the device.

“The answer should be obvious.”

Frodo stood very still. “Merry and Pippin work here?”

“Unfortunately,” Aragorn replied, “Denethor, our hiring manager, apparently sees potential in them.”

At length, Aragorn looked down at him, and to Frodo’s surprise, there came something gentle in his expression, as though he remembered that the small, frightened creatures ought not be introduced too quickly to madness.

“Come,” Aragorn said at last. “Before anything else happens, we ought to get you and your things upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” Frodo replied weakly.

“Yes, yes. Break room first.”

Aragorn and Bilbo led the way to the small elevator built into the wall and pressed the small button, watching it flicker orange.

“And whatever you do…”

Frodo looked up.

“Do not sit in the chair.”

The elevator beeped, and the door opened.

“The chair?”

But Bilbo merely boarded the elevator, gesturing to Frodo to follow. And Frodo, burdened by a rapidly growing sense of dread, found himself with little choice but to follow.

***

The elevator climbed for what seemed to be an unreasonable amount of time, accompanied by a humming sound Frodo distrusted deeply. It moved not by visible effort nor by rope. But by means, Frodo suspected, belonged to none other than a wizard. The small enclosed space did little to settle him. Bilbo stood beside him with an arm around him, rubbing his shoulder slightly, and Aragorn stared at the wall to the back of the elevator where schedules hung, and he flipped through them.

Frodo drifted on his feet, the movement making him unsteady. The shoes squeaked, and he frowned deeply. The shoes, already cruel beyond measure, had now apparently taken to mocking him.

“Who owns the chair?” Frodo asked at length, breaking the silence.

Bilbo adjusted his scarf, and Aragorn sighed.

“Well,” Aragorn said at last, rubbing a hand across his brow, “Technically speaking.” He hesitated. “...Thranduil.”

Frodo blinked and looked up at Aragorn.

“Thranduil? The Elvenking?”

Aragorn nodded deeply.

“The Elvenking works in a grocery establishment?”

“Floral,” Aragorn corrected.

“He takes seasonal arrangements very seriously.”

The elevator stilled and gave a small, cheerful ding entirely inappropriate to the mood, and the doors slid open. Before Frodo stretched a hallway with doors, and flickering lights lined the ceiling that reminded him unpleasantly of interrogation. Somewhere, distant laughter rang and the unmistakable sound of someone shouting.

“THAT COUNTS AS FALLING!”

“SINCE WHEN?!”

Aragorn closed his eyes. “I assume,” he said quietly, “that Merry and Pippin have survived.”

Bilbo hummed. “For now.”

At length, they came to a broad room wherein tables had been scattered, bags left forgotten on the floor, and chairs and the table tops had crumbs lying spread, forgotten. Strange devices were attached to the wall by large black rods and hummed with power that startled Frodo. Yet among these things there stood a chair near the far window, a chair unlike the others…

It was large, tall, and ornate, made from twisted and polished wood with a deep velvet cushion. It possessed authority, and thus no one sat near it. Instead, an invisible boundary lay around it, as though the room itself had signed some kind of agreement.

Frodo looked toward it, then back to Aragorn.

“Is that the chair?”

“Yes, that is the chair,” Aragorn confirmed gravely.

And scarcely had the words left his mouth when the doors burst open with enough force to shake the walls.

“MERRY, YOU ABSOLUTELY FELL!”

“DID NOT!”

Two Hobbits came barreling into the room at alarming speed, carrying with them all the chaos of three grocery stores. Merry stumbled first, flushed with triumph, while Pippin followed close behind, carrying what was undoubtedly unpaid snacks.

They halted abruptly, their eyes widening.

“FRODO!”

Before Frodo could so much as greet them, he found himself engulfed by two overenthusiastic cousins. 

“You are working here!”

“Bilbo actually did it!”

“Wait till he sees the snack aisle.”

“No, wait till he sees Legolas!”

“No, wait till he finds out about…”

Merry stopped suddenly, and Pippin's gaze followed his slowly toward the chair. There followed a deep silence of such significance that Aragorn appeared unwilling to interrupt. Pippin brightened.

“Hey Frodo…” Pippin started, bracing an arm around him and pointing at the chair. “You should sit in the chair.”

Bilbo inhaled sharply, and Aragorn murmured something beneath his breath.

“Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Merry said quickly.

“It’s suuuuper comfortable.” He trailed off. “Maybe the most comfortable!”

“Reserved for perhaps the most important of Hobbits,” Merry said.

He looked at the chair, then back again. “You bunch are behaving strangely.”

“Is that something you have just discovered?” Merry pointed out.

This was regrettably true.

“Well, if you won’t sit in it…” Pippin said, marching toward the chair.

“Do not,” Gandalf’s voice came suddenly from the doorway.

Too late, Pippin slowly sat into the plush velvet cushion, leaning back with the ease of a comfortable Hobbit. 

“FOOL OF–” Gandalf started.

“I WAS BARELY SITTING,” Pippin responded, leaping from the chair.

But it was far too late, the doorway darkened, and a tall silver-haired figure entered. Adorned in a meticulously arranged flower crown atop his head. Though clad in store colors, there remained something regal about him still. His shirt was pinned back to hug his form tightly, and instead of pants, he wore a long, flowing draping that tied around his waist.

Thranduil paused, the silence deepening, and his gaze moved across the room. To Merry, to Pippin, to Aragorn, and then at last, to his chair. Slowly, he crossed the room.

Frodo watched in alarm as the Elvenking rested a hand on the arm of the chair and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

“A Hobbit,” he said at last, turning to the three Hobbits that were standing at attention before him. “Recently sat upon my chair.”

Merry whispered to Pippin, “How does he always know?” before Thranduil coughed, and the three of them stood straight as an arrow.

Thranduil’s gaze came to rest upon Frodo at last, and there came a pause.

Then Bilbo brightened immediately. “Ah! Perfect timing! Thranduil, this is Frodo!”

Frodo straightened instinctively. The Elvenking regarded him with such severe scrutiny that it was as if he were on trial before his court. At length, he extended a hand, reluctantly.

Frodo, uncertain what proper etiquette existed for grocery royalty, met his and shook it.

“Welcome,” Thranduil said. Then, without another word, he turned and calmly walked toward the sink and began washing his hands with such determination.

“Did I offend him?” Frodo said, bowing slightly in apology.

“No,” Aragorn said, “he does that with everyone.” He paused, “except Elrond.” Aragorn took a long sip of coffee. “Some say they are divorced, though none recall them ever being married.”

Thranduil stopped at once, the tips of his ears growing pink. “I heard that.”

“I assumed you would.”

***

For a while, Frodo remained uncertain whether he had truly understood what had just transpired in the break room. Eventually, he was guided next door to a large desk. Galadriel, who oversaw matters of hiring and ran the desk like a ruler dispensing fate, studied him for a long while without speaking. She fetched uniforms from a large cabinet under her desk and laid them out before Frodo, instructing him to try them on in the employee bathrooms at the end of the hallway.

When he returned, the uniform sat upon him with all the grace of an ill-conceived tent. The shirt, though tucked, billowed strangely about his middle, and his sleeves had been folded back no fewer than four times. The trousers dragged upon the floor despite Frodo’s efforts to pin them up and tuck them into his shoes. 

“We do not possess your size.”

Frodo had not known whether to apologize. Several uniforms had been produced regardless, each larger than the last. One swallowed him entirely. Another reached nearly to his ankles, and the third, according to Galadriel, apparently “met company standards.” At least it did with a few safety pins and a few tucks.

Bilbo stood behind him, hands on his waist, looking like the proud uncle he was. “You’ll grow into it.”

To which Frodo had replied, “I remain fifty.”

Now, at last clothed in what passed for employment, Frodo found himself once more in the break room while Bilbo regarded him with pride. “Well, you look respectable.”

Frodo looked down at himself, looking profoundly uncertain. The shoes still hurt him, the clothes made his middle look exceedingly more plush than it in truth was. And downstairs, he could hear Gandalf stop “accidental” shoplifters with such conviction it was alarming.

“Now then,” Bilbo said suddenly, clapping his hands at once. “Before we begin proper training, you ought to familiarize yourself with the place.”

Frodo blinked. “Alone?”

“Of course!”

“I know no one.” 

“Excellent opportunity then.”

“Bilbo.”

“You shall be fine.”

Frodo looked helplessly toward Aragorn, who had now resumed examining schedules, and he merely glanced at Frodo once and shrugged. 

“Perhaps a little wandering will do no harm.”

“Exactly! He must learn naturally. He is a Baggins after all, we love a little adventure.”

And the matter was settled.

He took the stairs on the eastern side of the store, avoiding the elevator. And when he pushed open the great door, the establishment stretched farther than seemed reasonable. Hallways gave way to towering shelves, distant voices, and strange humming machines whose purpose Frodo could not determine. Workers passed with purpose, carrying boxes, speaking into small devices attached to their collars, or vanishing through swinging doors.

Everything was far too large.

Frodo wandered uncertainly for some time before, quite unexpectedly, he came upon a young Man sweeping quietly near a corner where several displays had fallen into disorder. Unlike the others Frodo had encountered, there seemed to be nothing alarming about him; indeed, he looked rather kind.

Dark-haired and soft-spoken, he moved with care, sweeping not hurriedly but thoughtfully, as though such work required patience. He noticed Frodo at once and smiled.

“Oh,” he said softly, pausing his sweeping. “You must be the new hire.”

Frodo nearly sighed in relief

“Yes,” he admitted, “Painfully so.”

The Man's gaze drifted downward to the shoes. Understanding entered his expression immediately.

“It is a shame they require the Hobbits to wear shoes. I understand how painful they can be to your kind.”

There came such kindness in his face that Frodo found himself relaxing despite himself.

“I am Faramir,” he said, resting lightly upon the broom. “Maintenance, technically.” He pointed to his name tag where his name was written.

“Frodo.”

“The new Baggins bagger?”

“How does everyone know?”

Faramir hesitated. “Bilbo speaks very well of you.”

“Though you should ask Eowyn for a name tag, you are well known among the staff, and yet customers still need to know your name.”

Faramir noticed how Frodo stood strangely, and at once he took a feather duster and a paper towel roll from a small black crate upon his cleaning cart, and turned it upside down.

“You may sit if you like.”

Frodo accepted at once, and the moment he sat, he swiftly removed the shoes from his feet.

“I am sorry.” Frodo apologized, his feet bared.

“Do not apologize, I believe the rules are unfair to the halflings who work here. I have spoken to HR about it, and they are just far too distant for ‘trivial problems’, but know you can take your shoes off around me any time.”

Frodo nodded thankfully and began to rub his feet slowly with his hands. “This store seems very large,” Frodo admitted after some time.

“It is,” Faramir agreed kindly. “Though after a while one learns to belong.”

For a while, Frodo remained there seated, and Faramir leaned upon his broom, taking some pity for the small creature in the cruel workplace.

Then, a shadow fell across the floor, and Faramir straightened immediately, returning to sweeping as if he had never stopped.

Frodo turned, confusion marring his brow.

An older man approached with an expression of perpetual disapproval of the existence of others. His corporate uniform was a dark grey, and long scraps hung from it. He was disheveled, yet his face remained grave. His gaze fell first to Faramir.

“You are still here,” the Man said.

“Yes, father.”

The older man looked at the floor, then at the broom in his hands, then back to Faramir. “Hm...”

Frodo disliked him immediately.

At length, the Man sighed. “Boromir could sweep these floors better.”

Faramir lowered his gaze. “I understand, Father, I will do better.”

“And who is this?” the Man said, turning to Frodo, who had attempted to get his shoes back on to no avail.

“The new hire?” Faramir said sofly. “You hired him, Father, shouldn’t you know?”

The man turned sharply back to Faramir and advanced upon him a few steps, scaring him back. “Boromir would not talk back to me like this; learn when to stay quiet.”

“Yes, Father,” Faramir said, closing his eyes.

Then the Man turned back to Frodo. “A Hobbit.”

Frodo, who had now managed to get his shoes on most of the way, yet his heels still jutted from the back, stood up straight.

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

Then, without another word, the Man turned and departed with the misery of an approaching storm cloud. Frodo waited until he was out of earshot before turning to Faramir. “I think the floors look very nice.”

Faramir looked startled, then he smiled.

“Thank you.”

The man had gone swiftly, yet the heaviness of his presence remained. Faramir returned to sweeping, and though he smiled still, there remained about him a sadness that was difficult to ignore.

“You ought not mind him much,” Faramir said after some time, as though sensing Frodo’s concern before it could be spoken. “Denethor II, my father, means well, in his own way.”

Frodo frowned. “He does not seem to be particularly pleasant.”

At this, Faramir laughed softly beneath his breath. “No,” he admitted. “I suppose he is not.”

The sound lightened something in the air, and for a brief while, Frodo forgot his aching feet and oversized clothes. Yet at length he remembered Bilbo’s tantalizingly vague and entirely unhelpful instructions, and he rose reluctantly from the crate, overturning it and placing the feather duster and paper towel back into it.

“Well,” Frodo said at last, adjusting the shirt that sat on him like a window drapery. “I suppose I ought to continue my wandering.”

Faramir nodded kindly.

“If you become lost, avoid the stockrooms unless you know where you are going.”

“Why?”

Faramir paused, seemingly uncertain. “I simply… would.”

Frodo nodded wearily and departed once more, though not without thanks. The market stretched farther than good sense ought to allow. Aisles rose impossibly high around him, towering shelves lined with goods Frodo did not recognize while strange signs hung overhead marking distant lands of frozen foods, canned goods, and produce. The latter of which brought some familiarity. Workers and customers passed by him, scarcely noticing him save to offer distracted greetings.

Yet the further he wandered, the quieter the store had become, and he did not realize when the sounds of customers faded. The brightness overhead dimmed somewhat. Large shelves stood taller here, stacked with unopened boxes that rose toward the ceiling like small fortresses. There came the faint hum of machinery somewhere within the walls, accompanied by the distant rolling sound of carts being pushed over tiled floors.

Frodo slowed; he disliked it immediately. Everything felt hidden here, secretive; there existed too many crannies and corners, too many shadows between shelves. And the lighting above seemed not to have been replaced for a considerable amount of time, in the way it dimmed and flickered.

And though Frodo could not have explained why, he found himself increasingly aware that he was very small. He turned once, intending perhaps to retrace his steps, when a voice sounded suddenly close beside him.

“Lost... are we?”

Frodo startled so violently that he stumbled back on the tile floor, barely catching himself. A man stood there, perhaps stood was too ordinary a word, for Frodo could not say precisely when he had arrived. One moment, the aisle had been empty, and the next, he lingered there as though he had belonged between the shadows of shelves.

He was tall and thin in a manner that unsettled rather than comforted. Dark hair hung like strings around his face, and his uniform sat wrinkled over his hunched body. Yet it was his expression that Frodo disliked most: a smile too knowing, too familiar for someone entirely unknown.

His name tag read:

Gríma 

Frodo took a cautious step backward. "Perhaps I should be going.” He began to turn before he replied.

“You are Bilbo’s nephew, aren’t you?” His voice was dark and laced with venom. “You have been wandering.” Gríma continued.

Frodo still felt uncomfortable. “Yes.” He said too quickly.

“Mmm.” 

The Man leaned one shoulder lazily against the shelving. “Easy thing,” he said softly, "getting turned around here.”

Frodo became aware of his size, his oversized clothes, and his painful shoes. How terribly out of place he appeared.

“Small thing, aren’t you?” Gríma murmured.

Frodo swallowed. Hobbits did not often mind remarks regarding height; indeed, among the Big Folk, it was expected. Yet something in the manner of it unsettled him deeply.

“I should probably go,” Frodo said politely.

But Gríma stepped forward, a long, slender hand coming lightly around his arm. “Oh, no hurry.”

Frodo stilled, testing the grasp upon his wrist. He tried pulling forward, but the hand remained. He winced as his long, dingy fingernails began to bite into his skin.

“You know,” Gríma said softly, moving nearer still, his slimy black hair grazing Frodo’s shoulder in a way that made him almost gag. “If you ever need help finding quiet places…”

Frodo stepped forward, his small hand slipping from his grasp as he began to move down the hallway. “I am quite all right,” he said quickly.

Gríma’s gaze lingered upon him, and he began to follow him down the hallways. “You needn’t be frightened, little one.”

He had met strange folk already this day, stern folk, overwhelming folk, dramatic folk with entirely too much sass and flowers. And yet, none of them made the back of his neck prickle in warning. He suddenly wished for Bag End now more than when he first put on the shoes, more than the elevator, more than Bilbo being conspicuous about the entire ordeal… He wished to be home; he wished for at least something familiar.

Then came another voice.

“Mr. Gríma!”

Gríma stilled, and Frodo’s eyes widened as a Hobbit stood at the end of the aisle. Not tall, though broader in shoulder and stomach, and earth lingered faintly upon his sleeves as though he had recently come from the garden. He was pushing a small cart that bore on its surface an assortment of apples and plums. There was nothing grand about him, nothing intimidating.

The Hobbit looked toward Gríma and to Frodo only briefly before stepping between them. “I believe Mr. Frodo here was heading toward Produce.”

Gríma sighed softly. “Was he?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, Gríma said nothing, and then at last he stepped away down the hallway. “Very well.” Without another word, he disappeared between the shelves, just as he arrived.

“Sam?” Frodo’s eyes brightened at once. “Oh, Sam, you saved me.” His eyes began to water as he pressed himself into a great hug.

Sam startled visibly at the rudeness of the embrace, nearly tipping back into the cart.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Yet almost at once, understanding settled upon him, and he pushed the cart aside carefully and returned the embrace without hesitation, his hands resting against Frodo’s back.

“There now,” Sam said quietly. “What’s happened?”

For a brief moment, Frodo could not altogether explain it. The day had become too large somehow, too bright, too strange, too full of unfamiliar rules and towering shelves and dreadful shoes. There had been strange Elves, old retired but not retired wizards preventing passage, cousins climbing dangerously where they should not, and broken, sad Men.

And now there had been Gríma.

“I think,” Frodo admitted weakly, his voice muffled slightly against Sam’s shoulder, “That I may dislike employment.”

Sam huffed softly, and though amusement touched his face, there was no mockery in it.

“Aye,” he said kindly. “That happens to most folk.”

Frodo drew back slightly, rubbing his eyes with embarrassment. “I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to.”

“No need for apologies,” Sam interrupted gently. “First days are awful.” He paused and looked toward the darkened aisles where Gríma had vanished. “Especially if he’s bothering you.”

Frodo blinked.

“You know him?” 

“Everyone knows Mr. Gríma," he said. “Best avoided when you can.” Sam’s gaze became dark, and his voice lowered. “Some say that he is," he paused. “On the list… If you are catching what I’m saying, Mr. Frodo.”

Then, as though sensing at once that Frodo stood entirely overwhelmed, Sam brightened suddenly. “Come along then,” he said, resting a reassuring hand upon Frodo’s shoulder. “Produce is this way.”

Sam led him away from the dim and unsettling corridors of stock with a confidence of one who had learned long ago every turn of the establishment, and though Frodo looked behind him more than he cared to admit, the presence of another Hobbit beside him had eased the discomfort that had settled upon his shoulders.

The produce section was large indeed. The moment they crossed beneath the hanging sign, named PRODUCE, Frodo felt a small and immediate loosening somewhere deep within himself. Here at last stood familiar things. Apples sat polished on great wooden displays, herbs rested in neat bundles, potatoes were stacked in a respectable quantity, and a fine mist drifted now over the greens.

“It smells like home here,” Frodo said quietly.

Sam looked at him with sympathy. “Aye,” he said kindly. “That is a reason I applied for the position of produce clerk… although,” he wandered a few steps and snagged a potato from the display. “Who can resist working with beautiful Po-tae-toes all the time?” He pressed the tater to his forehead and breathed in the earthy scent.

Frodo smiled deeper than he had in a while. “How long have you worked here?”

“A few years, though I will admit the first week I cried behind the onions, and unfortunately they remained unchopped, so I had no real excuse.”

Frodo chuckled out loud and stepped closer to Sam, his presence calming him. “And we only get one lunch break?”

“Well, technically yes, though I use many of my breaks to cram in extra meals.”

“That seems hardly legal… One real lunch break? Are they trying to starve their halfling employees?” Frodo placed a hand briefly over his chest.

“No,” Sam agreed. “But Mr. Aragorn says if we complain loudly, the great eye of corporate appears.” Yet before further horrors concerning luncheon could be discussed, Sam brightened suddenly.

“Oh!” he said. “You ought to meet Mr. Gimli, he’s about as nice as he could be, though I will say that sometimes he becomes quite enraged, and it’s hard to tell when he’s in one of those moods.” He gestured toward the section marked MEAT & SEAFOOD and a great counter that lay embedded within the wall. Many meats and fish were displayed through the glass panel.

Frodo hesitated.

“I do not know whether I wish to.”

“You do,” Sam assured him.

Sam led him to the counter, where the sound of machinery hummed. Beyond the counter hung cuts of meat arranged perfectly. And standing behind, beard net firmly secured around his face and a hair net around his head, stood a Dwarf. He was broad and powerfully built, sleeves rolled to the elbow, an apron tied about his middle, and in one hand rested a knife of considerable size.

He looked up, his face lighting up at once.

“A Hobbit!” he declared.

Frodo nearly jumped at the gruffness of his voice.

“Well now!” The Dwarf boomed warmly. “Ye’ must be the grandson! Bilbo’s replacement!”

“Nephew…” Frodo corrected. “I am Bilbo’s… Semi-replacement.”

“Ha!” The Dwarf barked. “Ye’ll fit in fine.”

Sam smiled.

“Mr. Frodo, this is Mr. Gimli.”

“Gimli, son of Glóin,” the Dwarf corrected proudly, thumping a fist against his chest. “Keeper of the meats.”

A figure stood working behind Gimli, thinly slicing meat. He had long red hair in a net; he was strikingly tall and elegant, one of the Eldar, no doubt.

“Oh,” Gimli said, stepping aside. “This is Maedhros, my precision slicer. He gets the meat ready for the deli.”

Maedhros turned from the counter and waved, except that upon his right wrist, he was missing his right hand.  

Frodo’s eyes opened at once.

“Do not worry, young Hobbit,” Maedhros said, his voice gentle. “This is not a workplace injury,” he chuckled before returning to slicing.

“You workin’ now?” Gimli said gravely. “Can’t survive this place on tea.” Before Frodo could answer, Gimli reached behind the counter and thrust a wrapped parcel into his hands. Jerky.

“For strength,” Gimli declared.

“Thank you?” 

“Eat it before noon or ye’ll perish,” Gimli warned. “Just don’t eat it on the floor; customers find it undignified.”

Sam nodded solemnly, “he’s right.”

Frodo had begun to suspect everyone here possessed a very unhealthy relationship with employment. At length, after promises of future luncheon discussions, Sam guided him onward.

“Come along,” he said. “I’ll show you the pharmacy.”

The market stretched wider still than Frodo had imagined possible, and as they wandered, Sam pointed out departments with all the seriousness of one giving military instruction.

“That is the bakery, our lead baker is Bombur, but do not linger too long, it is dangerous Mr. Frodo.”

“Dangerous?”

“You will spend all your wages.”

Frodo laughed again, now more tempted.

They had nearly rounded another aisle when Sam stopped so abruptly that Frodo nearly walked into him.

“Oh no,” Sam whispered.

“What?” Frodo said, confused.

But Sam had already reached backward, gently taking Frodo by the arm and steering him behind a shelf stacked with vitamins.

“Sam?”

“Quiet.”

“Why?”

For a while longer, Sam and Frodo remained concealed behind the shelf of vitamins, though “concealed” perhaps was a strong word, and suggested a degree of skill that neither of them possessed. Frodo’s curls remained visible behind boxes of vitamins, and Sam’s broad shoulder protruded occasionally into open sight whenever he leaned too far. Yet neither appeared especially concerned with strategy, for before them something unfolded far too fascinating to abandon. 

The two stood far closer than seemed necessary, and Thranduil practically leaned over the counter. “Elrond,” Thranduil said, his voice smooth despite obvious irritation. “You moved my seasonal display.”

“It blocked the emergency exit.”

“Come on, Elrond, it was beautiful, and besides, if a fire did come, we Elves would not need something as trivial as a ‘fire escape.’”

“Indeed, Thranduil, however, you must consider that not all beings in this establishment are Elves. Men are weak after all, and besides, the fire marshal disagreed.”

“The fire marshal?” Thranduil said coldly, “lacks artistic vision.”

Elrond smiled entirely too fondly.

“See?” he whispered urgently. “This is exactly what I was tellin’ you.”

“What precisely am I witnessing?” Frodo whispered back. 

Sam did not answer; he merely leaned in further, unwilling to miss a second of it unfolding. 

At length, Thranduil reached into the folds of his uniform, and between his elegant fingers rested a small flower, pale and delicate, freshly trimmed.

“Oh!” Sam said.

Thranduil lifted one hand toward Elrond’s face, brushing a loose strand of dark hair behind his ear with such ease that it suggested familiarity. Then, with all the care of something often repeated and yet seldom spoken of, he tucked the flower gently behind Elrond’s ear.

“You forgot this,” Thranduil said quietly. “It suits you.”

Elrond lowered his head, a crimson blush touching his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I- thank you.” He whispered.

“Aww,” Sam whispered fiercely. “Look at em’!”

Frodo, despite himself, found warmth creeping unexpectedly into his chest. “They seem…”

“Married?” Sam offered.

“They are not married.”

“Come on, you can’t tell me there is nothing there.”

“Perhaps.” Frodo nearly laughed aloud before covering his mouth.

Silence.

The kind that arrived when something had suddenly become aware. Thranduil stilled and tilted his head very slightly. His icy gaze met theirs from behind the shelves and boxes.

“You may emerge.”

Frodo and Sam froze, and their hearts sank at once. Several moments passed, then Thranduil sighed through his nose.

“I can hear you murmuring like I am unaware. Tell me, how much of that did you hear?”

Slowly, Sam stood upright from behind the shelf and stepped sideways into the hallway, plainly, dragging Frodo along with him.

“I have been dropping no eaves, sir,” Sam said quickly, hands raised in surrender. “Honest.”

Frodo closed his eyes and breathed out deeply.

Thranduil regarded them with an expression that said that he had many opinions formed.

“No?” he said, cooly.

“No, sir.” Sam repeated, “My lord? No, sir, my king majesty.”

Frodo slapped his face with his palm.

“Not intentionally.”

Elrond made an effort not to smile.

“And why,” Thranduil continued, “Were the two of you concealed behind the nutritional supplements?”

“Well,” he admitted, “You see here, Mr. Frodo here has had trouble… passin’ certain movements.”

Frodo’s eyes widened. “Sam–”

Sam nudged Frodo with his elbow.

“That is… correct, your Majesty,” Frodo said, gritting his teeth.

“And so we were lookin’ to see if anything would… soften it up, if you’re catching what I’m saying?”

Frodo made a small sound of suffering. Elrond laughed softly.

“Come, you are under no scrutiny here, and from what it sounds like, I may be able to help,” Elrond said gently, stepping out from around the counter.

The Hobbits breathed in relief as Thranduil began walking toward the flower department.

“You must be Frodo,” Elrond said, kneeling slightly to meet their height. His voice carried gentleness, absent of formality, although noble in bearing; there remained something approachable about him, like warm libraries and tea.

“You speak of trouble passing a movement? I may have something that can help you with that.” Elrond said kindly and without embarrassment. 

Frodo opened his mouth and closed it. 

Then opened it once more.

“I…”

Sam nodded solemnly, “It’s been difficult.”

Frodo turned to Sam sharply, his cheeks and ears turning the color of ripe tomatoes.

“FRODO! My boy!” Suddenly, Bilbo rounded the corner. “Wonderful, you’ve met everyone!”

“I, uh, yeah… I met everyone, so can you show me where I’m going to work?” Frodo made a face of urgency, and he began walking away from the counter.

“Eager to work, are we? That is wonderful! You will make our Baggins bagger ancestors proud.” Bilbo said, looking at him with awe.

“Yup, I’m ready to be a bagger, right now… at this moment,” Frodo said, feeling Elrond’s gaze upon him.

“Oh yes,” Bilbo chuckled at his enthusiasm. “Our checkout is right this way!” Bilbo said, guiding Frodo gently.