He'd visited Bilbo once, before that memory of his mother's lips blue and ribbons clinging wet to the side of her face, come alone because he was a Big Boy Now, old enough that he didn't need parents. Didn't need parents to accompany him across the Shire, at least, for a visit to his favourite cousin's grand smial - all hidden tunnels and gardens you could have Adventures in. Uncle Bilbo talked a lot about Adventures, and he thought he might like to go on one of his own one day, to see the elves and dwarves and mountains, Frodo, mountains, which Bilbo seemed to think were awfully exciting, but Frodo didn't really see their appeal. Mountains. It was awfully hot that day he'd visited, though he recalled it had been snowing the night before, which didn't make sense, or maybe it was the month before because he seemed to remember his shouler being awfully cold; maybe it had been left poking out of the blankets one night and he hadn't noticed? His mothers lips were blue, she must have been awfully cold, but he couldn't remember her even drawing the blanket up over his face when he was that cold; though, they were adults, they knew what was best. Ribbon wet against her face, he wanted to peel it off and brush her hair back, in her mouth like that. He'd wanted to go on an adventure, find treasures of his own and Bilbo had smiled, too many teeth in his mouth, and Frodo reached for his breast because no, he couldn't... have it, it's--, Bilbo had smiled, and clasped a hand on his shoulder, warm, so warm, and said "Come on, my lad, I'll show you where you can find real treasures," and had led him out, with a finger to his lips (blue) and eyes sparkling (mine, you can't--) down the Hill, but not far, on that day it was so hot, and why was it so difficult to walk down hill? It never had been before, Frodo was sure of it, though perhaps they were going up... down the hill, but not far, to a smaller garden, smaller door, flowers black and red and black and sharp and (no, I-- can't, I--) Bilbo's hand, knocking lightly and echoing in Frodo's skull so that it hurt Bilbo's hand, knocking lightly until Ham Gamgee poked his head around from the back garden with a mouthful of surprised greetings; and then Frodo had mouthfuls of dust, and ashes and then Frodo had mouthfuls of sweet cakes, marmalade roll and pumpkin pie, and when his belly was full enough and something was was heavy, so heavy that -- and when his belly was full enough, a soft look from the Gammer and a wink from the Gaffer had led him into a small room, smaller, tinier than his own (such a little thing) even his own at Brandy Hall, smelling of warm milk and something else, something that got stronger as Bell Gamgee placed something small in his arms, (smoke) something small and wriggling, something that wrapped tiny fingers around his thumb and made a startlingly loud noise "He likes you, Master Frodo, see how he just told you?" and oh, he had never so much before wanted . . .
"I have come," he said. "But I do not choose now what I came to do. I will not do this deed. The Ring is mine!"
~