This is the sequel to another story of mine, "What Could Possibly Happen?" and is currently in-progress. Please review and let me know what you think! :)

1. A Trip to Buckland

A cock crowed. The sun rose ever so slowly, it’s warm light melting away the night mists and bathing the rolling green hills of the Shire in a beautiful golden glow. Birds began to sing, announcing the arrival of Spring.

Inside Bag End, Frodo Baggins groaned and buried his face under his pillow, trying to block out the bright sunlight filtering through his window-curtains. Like most hobbits, Frodo did not especially enjoy getting up early in the morning, although he almost always woke up by seven-thirty – which was rather early by hobbit standards. Normally, he greeted the sun cheerfully, ready to begin the day, but recently, he’d been less inclined than usual to open his eyes.

It was only a little over one season since Bilbo had left, and although Frodo tried his best to hide it, his closest friends knew that he was still deeply saddened by the old hobbit’s sudden disappearance. He was not bitter about it, perhaps understanding, a little, that his dear Uncle needed to go; and he tried to carry on as best he could, as Bilbo would have wanted, although he still had days when he felt especially depressed.

Today was one of those days.

Outside, the cheerful voice of Sam Gamgee could be heard approaching, singing one of Bilbo’s favorite walking songs. This only made Frodo more agitated, and he burrowed deeper under the thick coverlet. He could hear the sound of the back door being opened (he always kept this door unlocked for Sam), and Sam coming up the hall, singing no longer, but still humming quietly to himself.

Sam Gamgee knew his master better than anyone -- save Merry Brandybuck, perhaps -- and ever since Bilbo had left, he’d developed the habit of pulling back the curtains of Bag End every morning, making breakfast, and seeing to it that Frodo’s spirits were kept up. He knew that Frodo appreciated his presence very much and needed someone to talk to (although he seldom shared his thoughts, even to faithful Sam), and Sam was more than happy to help in any way possible.

He headed down the hall, his humming fading into silence as he stopped at the closed door of Frodo’s room and listened. There was no sound, and Sam surmised that Frodo must still be asleep. He gave a soft sigh, and then putting on the most cheerful face he could muster, he opened the door and stepped inside.

All that Sam could see of his master was one slender, pale hand lying beside the pillow, but all the rest of him was buried under the blankets. He could see the coverlet rising and falling slightly with Frodo’s even breathing, but that was the only sign that his master was even alive under there.

“Rise and shine, Mr. Frodo!” said Sam brightly. “I’m about t’ begin breakfast: scrambled eggs, sausages and hotcakes! You don’t want to miss that.”

The lump of blankets shifted and Sam heard a muffled groan. Frodo stuck his head out just enough so that Sam could clearly hear him. “Twenty more minutes, Sam?” he asked sleepily, hoping against hope that Sam would just let him sleep today.

Sam chuckled. “Sorry, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “But I’m here later ’an usual as ’tis. Up you get!”

“Ten more minutes?” Frodo tried again.

“Nope, sorry.”

“Five more?”

Sam laughed again. “All right, Mr. Frodo, you’ve given me no choice.” He walked over to the window and threw back the curtains, letting in the bright sunshine. Then, he walked over to the bed and plucked the pillow off Frodo’s head. “I’m goin’ to go start breakfast,” he said cheerily. “You’ll want to be down by the time I’ve finished, or I’ll leave the food out to get cold.”

Frodo sighed, slowly opened his eyes, and rolled over onto his back, resigning himself to the fact that he’d get no more sleep. Sam, satisfied that his job was done, left the room and headed down the hall to go start breakfast.

“Perhaps when I finish breakfast, Sam will leave me alone for a while, and I can go back to sleep,” Frodo mused aloud to the ceiling.

As though he had heard Frodo’s hopeful wondering, Sam’s voice came ringing up the hall. “An’ don’t you even think about goin’ back to bed after breakfast, Mr. Frodo. ’Tis about time your sheets an’ coverlets was washed!”

Half-heartedly grumbling to himself, Frodo slowly got out of bed and washed his face. Then, after he’d dressed in his favorite white shirt, maroon-brown weskit and trousers of the same color, ran a comb through his unruly dark curls, and made his bed, he headed down the hall into the kitchen.

Sam turned, seeing him enter. “Good mornin’, Mr. Frodo,” he said cheerfully. “I’m just about finished with these here hotcakes, an’ the sausages an’ eggs should be done in just a minute.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo mumbled around a yawn, sitting down at the table. He didn’t know why he felt so dreadful today; perhaps he was getting ill? He reached up and put a hand to his aching head, closing his eyes.

Coming over with a plate full of fresh sausages, scrambled eggs and hotcakes a few moments later, Sam saw that his master looked as though he was not feeling well. “Mr. Frodo?” he asked, setting the plate down on the table. “Are you feelin’ all right?”

Frodo opened his eyes and raised his head, giving Sam a weak smile. “I’m fine, Sam, thank you,” he said. “Breakfast looks delicious. Aren’t you going to have some?”

Sam shook his head. “No, thank'ee, Mr. Frodo. I’ve got some plantin’ to do today, an’ I wanted to get an early start.”

“Well, then at least make a bit of toast for yourself, or something,” Frodo insisted.

Sam sighed resignedly. “Very well, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “If you want me to, I’ll take a slice o’ toast with me.”

After making his toast, Sam went outside to begin his gardening, leaving Frodo alone to finish breakfast. ‘One of these days, I’ll get up early and make Sam breakfast,’ Frodo thought as he took a bite of his hotcake. ‘He deserves it.’

Once he had finished breakfast and washed the dishes (which was a chore that Sam usually insisted on doing), Frodo felt much better. His headache was gone, and he had no inclination to go back to bed. Instead, he decided to go outside and see how Sam was doing with the gardening.

Frodo found Sam busily at work, planting some seeds – sunflower, by the looks of them – and whistling a cheery tune. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice Frodo approaching until his master had sat down beside him and touched his shoulder.

“Busy already, are you Sam?” asked Frodo brightly, grinning as Sam jumped in surprise.

“Oh, Mr. Frodo,” Sam gasped. “You gave me a fright. Finished breakfast?”

“Yes, it was delicious, as always. Thank you, Sam.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

Sam began to go back to his planting, until he noticed that Frodo was still watching him. He looked up. “Is there somethin’ I can do for ya, sir?”

Frodo shook his head. “No, Sam. I was just wondering what I should do today. I don’t recall if I had any plans. Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, sir, you could go down to the post office and see if you have any letters.”

Frodo smiled and stood up, dusting the dirt off his breeches. “Ah, excellent. Thank you, Sam!”

Sam smiled affectionately as he watched Frodo head down the Hill. Every day, he was reminded of how blessed he truly was to have such a kind master; and every day, he tried his best to repay Mr. Frodo for his kindness. Mr. Frodo deserved it. 

Frodo strolled leisurely down the Hill, trying to keep his mind off melancholy thoughts by noticing every new flower, bird’s nest and rabbit hole along the road. Up ahead, he spotted the Gaffer coming towards him in a small old wagon, with his oldest son, Hamson, sitting next to him.

“Good day to ye, Mr. Frodo,” the Gaffer called as he neared, tipping his hat. Beside him, Hamson waved and called a greeting as well.

“And a good day to you both,” Frodo returned. “Up and about early, I see?”

“Always work ta be done,” the Gaffer replied with a fond grin at his young master. “It’s the early bird as catches the worm, they say.”

“I’ll remember that,” Frodo called with a laugh as the wagon passed. The Gaffer waved, and Frodo continued on to the post office.

It was well over a half-hour before Frodo returned, carrying just one letter in his hand. Sam had begun weeding one of the front flowerbeds, and Frodo sat down beside him. “Still hard at work, eh, Sam?” he asked with a smile.

“Got to get this weedin’ done, at least, afore I take a break,” Sam replied, focusing his attention on his work. “Who’s your letter from, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Of course I don’t mind. It’s from Buckland. Merry is inviting me on a camping trip he’s taking with a few of our cousins outside of Brandy Hall.”

Sam looked up from his work with a smile. “Are you goin’ to go, Mr. Frodo?” He hoped his master would, for as much as he would miss him, it would be good to know that he was having fun and forgetting his melancholy for a while.

Frodo had the same thoughts. “I think I will. Perhaps it’ll do me some good to go have fun with Merry again. I haven’t seen him in months.”

***

The next morning, Frodo left for Buckland after Second Breakfast, giving Sam the key to the house. “I wish you could come, Sam,” he said apologetically, standing at the garden gate, pack hoisted onto his shoulders. “But I know that you don’t enjoy water, and I’ll have to cross the Brandywine, you know.” He gave a small, involuntary shudder at the thought of the river that had claimed both his parents’ lives. But he covered it with a smile and pat of Sam’s shoulder. “Besides, I’ll need someone to look after Bag End for me.”

On the first afternoon, Frodo made good time, and by that evening, he’d passed the Three Farthing Stone. He enjoyed walking alone, and he felt the stress and tension that had been building up for weeks begin to melt away as fast as the miles.

That night, he camped on the outskirts of the Woody End. After eating dinner, he lay down on his sleeping roll, hands clasped behind his head, and watched the stars. He wondered where Bilbo was, and if he was all right. He did not know that far away in Rivendell, Bilbo was watching the same stars, and thinking about the beloved nephew he’d left behind.

Frodo shivered. The cold of winter had not released its icy grip on the Shire, and he pulled his cloak closer around him. A chill wind blew softly, and suddenly it occurred to him how very lonely it was to travel alone. To keep from giving into depressing thoughts, he softly began to sing the poem that Sam had made up, years before. The Elves of Rivendell had put it to music, and it had become a favorite of theirs, as well as Bilbo and Frodo’s.

“The stars of Varda shine up high,

Like silver rain drops in the sky.

The Queen of Stars, she put them there

Like jewels to glimmer upon her hair.

Ëarendil sails through the night,

The silmaril shimmering white.

The stars around him brightly glow

To give hope to earth below.”

He stopped as he heard several new voices suddenly join in.

“The light of the stars glimmers bright,

To give a wandering traveler light.

In the velvety black of night they lie,

Like silver rain drops in the sky.” 

Frodo sat up quickly and looked around just in time to catch a glimpse of three tall, glowing figures disappear into the trees. “Nai eleni siluvar antalyannar!”* he called in the High Elf tongue, having no doubt of who he’d seen. He was answered by soft laughter, fading slowly away into the whisper of the wind.

Frodo smiled, making a mental note to tell Sam that he’d heard his song sung by an Elf; the gardener would be ecsatic. He laid down again, feeling peaceful and contented. Before sleep took him, he heard a soft voice closeby.

“Nai aistalë Eldaron hilya le**, Elf-friend.”

Then, his eyes closed, and sleep overtook him.

TBC...

*"May the stars shine upon your faces!" - Quenya

**"May the blessing of the Elves go with you." - Quenya

(Translations found at http://www.elvish.org/gwaith)

2. Brandy Hall

“Frodo!”

The weary traveler turned just in time to see a blur of color rushing towards him. The next instant, he was nearly falling over with the force of Merry Brandybuck’s hug. “I thought you’d never get here!” the nineteen-year-old said excitedly. “We would’ve left yesterday, and left you to catch up, but Papa said that we had to have an adult with us.”

Frodo laughed and returned the hug. “Ah, so that’s why you asked me to come!”

Merry grinned and gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “Well, of course you know I wanted you to come visit,” he said, unwrapping his arms from around Frodo’s waist and folding them across his chest. “But yes, there was more than one reason.”

Frodo laughed again and aimed a playful kick at Merry, who avoided it quickly. Not feeling up to a chase, Frodo shook his head and yawned. “How far are we from Brandy Hall?”

Merry looked up at him curiously, his eyebrows raised. “You should know. It’s only just over that hill.”

Frodo frowned for a moment, then chuckled. “I must have fallen asleep on my feet,” he said. “I walked most of last night, you know.”

Merry shook his head, clicking his tongue reproachfully. “And you still took three days to get here! I would’ve expected better, cousin, with all your wanderings.” He studied his older cousin for a moment, as though making sure he had not changed since the last time they’d seen each other. Then, he shrugged slightly, and grinned. “Well, come along then, I’ll lead you to Brandy Hall. Pearl Took and some of her friends have been asking about you. They seem to find you quite charming!”

Merry’s grin broadened as Frodo’s face paled slightly, and with a laugh, grabbed his cousin’s hand and all but dragged him the remaining distance to Brandy Hall. There, Frodo realized that he had quite forgotten how crowded and noisy it was.

He was greeted heartily by most everyone, and given one of the many guestrooms, where he gratefully unpacked and flopped down on the bed. Merry accompanied him, chattering excitedly about anything and everything, while Frodo closed his eyes and listened, mumbling an “Mmm-hmm,” when it was needed.

At last, Merry tired of filling him in on all the news of Brandy Hall, and sat down beside him on the bed. “Frodo?” he said softly. “Are you asleep?”

Frodo turned his head toward him and opened his eyes halfway. “Almost,” he said tiredly, then paused, and his eyes opened a little further. “Why?”

Merry looked down at his hands, lying in his lap. “No reason,” he said innocently. “I was just wondering.”

Frodo was immediately wide awake and he stared hard at Merry, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Merry,” he said suspiciously, “I know you too well to believe that you were ‘just wondering.’ What are you really up t—” He was cut off as a small whirlwind with a curly mop of unruly sandy hair and mischievous green eyes suddenly jumped onto his stomach, sending all the air out of his lungs.

“Hullo, Cousin Frodo!” said Pippin Took cheerfully, grinning down at his gasping older cousin below him. “Did you miss me?”

“Up until just now, yes, I did,” Frodo grumbled good-naturedly, pushing Pippin off and sitting up. Both Pippin and Merry were grinning widely, each so like the other; Frodo should have known better than to think that Merry would be anywhere without his other half.

“Come now, Frodo,” said Pippin, “you know you just couldn’t wait to see me!”

Frodo looked his young cousin up and down. ‘He must’ve grown an inch since I last saw him,’ he thought in surprise. Pippin was already up to his chest – at the rate he was growing, he’d pass Frodo’s height before he was even in his tweens!

“Do you know what I miss?” asked Frodo, feigning thoughtfulness. “I miss…” He suddenly pounced on Pippin, pushing the astonished boy onto his back and beginning to tickle him mercilessly. “…I miss being able to do this to you!”

Pippin, though caught off his guard at first, quickly began defending himself; although the fact that he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe debilitated him a bit. He managed to wriggle away from Frodo’s hands and jump on his older cousin, sending Frodo sprawling on his back with Pippin straddling his stomach and tickling him.

Merry quietly sat and watched as the tables continued turning: one moment, Frodo was on top, and the next, he was buried beneath Pippin. The almost-tweenage lad did not lend aid to either side, and simply watched and waited, blinking thoughtfully.

At last, when the inevitable came, and the two playfully wrestling cousins rolled off the bed, continuing their game on the floor, Merry suddenly came alive. He leapt off the bed, giving a battle cry louder than his cousins’ startled yelps, and landed sprawling on top of them.

There was a pause for a moment as everyone tried to get their breath, but then Merry grinned at Pippin. “Get him!” The two young imps jumped upon their outnumbered older cousin, and Frodo was buried beneath their pitiless tickling.

All three were laughing to the point of tears, and their loud shouts could probably be heard all through Brandy Hall.

“Merry! He’s got my arm! He’s got my arm!”

“Here – ahh!”

“Ouch – get off my chest, Pippin, you troll! I can’t breathe!”

“Dreadfully sorry, Cousin Frodo! Here, does this help?”

“Pippin!”

“Hey, Pip, a little help?”

“Sorry, Merry. Aieeee!”

“Oi, that hurt. Ah, stop, ahh! Stop, I tell you! Stop!”

“You know, Pip, I think Frodo’s most ticklish spot is his stomach.”

“Oohhhh…”

“Ahhh! No, stop, please! Mercy, Pip, mercy!”

“Hmm! I do believe you’re right, Mer.”

“This isn’t fair! Stop, stop! Truce!”

“What was that, cousin? A truce, you say?”

“Mmmmph.”

“Pippin, I don’t think that Frodo can talk to us if you don’t get off his face.”

“Sorry. That better, Cousin Frodo?”

“Ouch.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. But what were you saying before?”

“A truce.”

“Hmm, what do you think, Pip?”

“I don’t know… he certainly seems serious.”

“You’re right. Very well, Cousin Frodo. A truce. Shake?”

Merry held out his hand and as Frodo took it, he helped his older cousin up.

“Heaven and earth,” Frodo muttered as he dusted himself off. “Remind me never to try that again.”

“Will do, Cousin!” said Pippin cheerfully, ducking the next instant to avoid a smack.

Suddenly a shrill voice rang down the hallway, so loud and piercing that the lads had to cover their ears. "Supper-time!"

Merry groaned, slowly removing his hands from his offended ears. “Oi, I think Zinnia’s voice can probably be heard all the way to Tuckborough.” Zinnia was the Brandy Hall Head Cook, as she called herself, and in complete and absolute power of the kitchen. Every maid (and several mischievous lads who shall remain unnamed) in the smial feared not only her sharp tongue, but also the hard wooden spoon that she carried in her apron pockets at all times. There were no slackers in the kitchen of Brandy Hall.

Pippin stood up and brushed some dust off his shirtsleeve. “You know, I thought I did hear her once, when I was hidin’ in the apple orchard after I lifted the blackberry pie that Pimpernel left cooling on the windowsill. I could just imagine that great, big wooden spoon about to whack me, and I could almost hear that awful, shrill voice of hers:” He adopted Zinnia’s voice, sounding frighteningly similar. “‘Peregrin Took, you put that pie back – now!’” He shuddered. “It scared me so much, I truly did put the pie back – after eating about half of it, of course,” he added with a grin, earning an appreciative clap on the back from Merry.

“I’ve taught you well, cousin,” he said as all three of them headed down the hall towards the dining room. “I’ve taught you well.”

***

After supper, Saradoc, Merry’s father and the new Master of Buckland ordered all the lads who were going on the camping trip to get their packs and wait outside. Frodo did so, and joined Merry and Pippin, along with their cousins, Berilac, Merimas, Kalimac, and Gorbadas Brandybuck, as well as Reginard, his brother Everard, and Isengar Took.

Saradoc himself was not going; Merry had pleaded that they be allowed to camp by themselves. He had felt uneasy, being prone (understandingly) to worrying about his son, but once he was assured that Frodo was going to come along, he had agreed. The lad – Saradoc had to keep reminding himself that Frodo was an adult now, and no longer a lad, truly – had a level head on his shoulders, despite being a Baggins.

Still, to reassure himself further that the lads would be perfectly safe, Saradoc managed to pull Frodo aside and have a quick word with him.

“Now, Frodo-lad,” he said, using the pet name he’d always called him by, “it’s not that I don’t trust you, you understand, but you will make sure to look after them, won’t you?”

Frodo smiled reassuringly. “Of course, Uncle,” he said. “They shan’t come to any harm. And at any rate, we won’t be far from Brandy Hall – within hearing range, I daresay. I hope we shan’t keep you up all night with our noise,” he added with a chuckle.

Saradoc smiled and patted Frodo’s shoulder. “Thank you, Frodo-lad,” he said sincerely. “You know how much I worry about Merry. The boy has a knack for getting into mischief.”

Frodo shifted the straps of his pack. “Merry’s got plenty of common-sense, though,” he pointed out respectfully. “He’ll make a fine Master of Buckland someday.” He spoke confidently, and sincerely – although Merry could be quite the troublemaker, he did have plenty of good hobbit-sense, and was growing to be very responsible.

“Thank you,” Saradoc repeated. “But now, you’d best be off, Frodo-lad. It looks as though they’re getting a bit impatient. Have a good time!”

When everything was ready to go and the farewells dealt with, all the lads looked expectantly at Frodo. “We appointed you our leader,” Merry explained with a grin. “Since you’ve wandered all over the Shire. And since you're an adult now and so very wise and mature."

Frodo returned the grin and cuffed Merry lightly on the shoulder. "And don't you forget it," he warned as he picked up his walking stick. "Right, everyone ready to go? Let's be off, then." 

They had decided beforehand to camp somewhere far enough away from Brandy Hall so that they would not be bothered and it would feel like an actual adventure, but not too close to the Old Forest, which everyone feared immensely. They picked a small, secluded meadow, surrounded by trees on three sides, and a little hill on the other, from the top of which one could see both Brandy Hall on the right, and the Old Forest on the left.

After dropping their packs, building up a campfire and roasting their dinner over it, everyone settled down comfortably to hear and tell scary stories – a campfire tradition very strictly kept. Although everyone agreed that Frodo certainly told the best and most frightening, they preferred stories about Hobbits, rather than Elves or Big People. Merry and Pippin (with Frodo’s help) had stored up a large horde of these stories, which they never had to be asked twice to tell. They were the master storytellers that night; Merry told the story, while Pippin acted it out every so often, creating sound effects to make it even scarier.

“…And so, the Bullroarer spurred his great horse forward to meet the Orc King, Golfimbul – ”

“How big was he?” Little Isengar, only ten years old, interrupted Merry’s exciting story.

Merry thought for a moment, then pointed to a large oak tree at the edge of the clearing. “As big as that tree, or maybe even bigger!” The younger lads gasped and leaned closer, and Frodo smiled to himself. It was always amusing to hear Merry and Pippin’s stories, which got bigger and more exaggerated every time they were told.

“As I was saying,” Merry continued, “old Golfimbul went running toward the Bullroarer, leading his enormous army of orcs behind him. They rode fast, faster than the ponies of the hobbits – but they didn’t ride ponies, nor horses.” He paused dramatically and leaned forward so that the flames made dancing shadows on his face. “They rode… wargs!”

“What are wargs?” Isengar asked curiously, ignoring the annoyed elbow in the ribs he received from Gorbadas Brandybuck.

Merry smiled patiently at the boy. “They’re wolves, Iss,” he explained.

Pippin nodded eagerly. “Great, big, white wolves, bigger than the biggest pony!” he added. “Their teeth are as sharp as swords and longer than my arms, and…” Merry elbowed him in the ribs to stop him, and clearing his throat went on with the story.

“So the orcs were riding on the great wargs, and the ponies of the hobbits were rearing and trying to run away in fright. Except for Bullroarer’s horse, of course, who had been in battles before and was very brave.

“Bullroarer wasn’t scared one bit. He drew his sword, and with a yell, he spurred his pony right on to meet the orcs. The hobbit-army drew their swords and charged too, but the Bullroarer headed straight for Golfimbul. He tried to stab him with his sword, but the orc’s hide was so thick, Bullroarer’s sword broke on it. He was left weaponless, and Golfimbul knew it.

“But just as the ugly orc was about to stab him, the brave Bullroarer stood up in the stirrups and broke off a thick branch from a nearby tree, which he used as a club. Golfimbul wasn’t frightened of the club, and just laughed and raised his sword. But then the Bullroarer suddenly brought his club down – ”

"Whack!" Pippin emphasized.

“—and knocked Golfimbul’s head clean off!”

All the lads gasped as though hearing the story for the first time (although it was a well-known tale handed down generations and told to every hobbit child), their eyes wide and round.

“And so, the battle was ended, and the hobbits won the day!” Merry ended with a smile. 

The boys clapped enthusiastically, and standing up, Merry and Pippin each gave a little bow, grinning proudly.

“Old Bullroarer was the bravest hobbit ever,” Isengar breathed when things had quieted down.

Merry was quick to disagree. “Oh no, he wasn’t. Bilbo Baggins was – he fought dragons, giant spiders, orcs and wargs!”

Some of the lads were skeptical, but little Isengar leaned forward with wide eyes. “Did he really? I haven’t heard about the giant spiders. Tell us! Tell us!” He was joined by the other lads, who even though they no more than half believed the stories they’d heard about ‘Mad Baggins,’ agreed that it made a good campfire story.

Merry held up his hands in defense and shook his head. “No, I don’t remember it all. Frodo should tell it!”

All eyes turned toward Frodo, who hesitated a moment, wondering if such a frightening story should be told to teenage lads on their first "real" camping trip. Deciding that it would be all right so long as he didn't go into too much detail about the giant spiders, he got settled more comfortably, and the other lads did the same. Merry and Pippin joined them on the other side of the fire, curling up snugly in their sleeping rolls.

“You all know that Bilbo traveled with the wizard, Gandalf, and the thirteen dwarves, through Mirkwood, right?” Frodo began. There was a general nodding of heads. “All right, then.” He launched into the story, starting with Bombur the dwarf falling into the enchanted stream and going to deep sleep, leaving Bilbo and the dwarves unsure of what to do.

When he had finished, there was a hush for a long while. Then, little Isengar broke it.

“You’re right, Merry,” he said in a quiet, awed voice. “Bilbo was the bravest hobbit ever!”

There was a quiet murmuring of agreement from the others, and Frodo smiled, grateful that they appreciated what his uncle had done, but wishing that Bilbo was there to tell the tale and receive the praise himself.

Everyone agreed that it was time for bed, and drowsily crawled into their sleeping rolls. Gorbadas and Berilac were the first to drift off, followed closely by Isengar and Everard. Frodo, Merry and Pippin could hear Reginard and Merimas still whispering.

Merry watched as Frodo went to sleep, and Pippin soon followed. But no matter how much he tossed and turned, he could not get comfortable. He groaned softly in frustration and rolled over on his side, facing away from Frodo and Pippin. For a while, he was comfortable, and began to go to sleep.

But after just a few minutes, he noticed the rock beneath his sleeping roll, and turned over again. The entire camp was still, and Merry scooted his sleeping roll closer to Frodo’s. He realized with surprise that Pippin was nestled in their older cousin’s sleeping roll, curling up tightly in Frodo’s arms.

Merry sat there for a moment, unsure of what to do. He was cold, and unable to sleep, but Pippin was already taking up that side of Frodo’s sleeping roll, and to move around to the other side would surely wake up the rest of the camp.

He sighed resignedly, and was about to get back into his old sleeping roll, when he heard Frodo whisper sleepily, “Merry?” He looked at his cousin, whose eyes were only partially open. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just having a bit of trouble sleeping,” Merry whispered back. “What’s wrong with Pippin?”

Frodo shifted the sleeping hobbitboy into a more comfortable position. “He was cold. Do you want to come join him?”

“There’s not enough room.”

Frodo moved, with Pippin, backwards a ways, so that he was at the edge of one side of his sleeping roll. “Now there is,” he offered, opening his arms.

Merry smiled and snuggled up into his cousin’s sleeping roll, Pippin in between them. “Thank you,” he whispered, feeling Frodo pull up the blankets more closely around them and curl an arm over both him and Pippin.

It was not long before Merry could hear Frodo’s soft, even breathing, and knew that his cousin had fallen asleep again. He sighed and closed his eyes, burying his face in Pippin’s soft curls. But suddenly, his young cousin rolled over to face him. His eyes were open and sleep-filled, but curious.

“Merry? What are you doing here?” he whispered.

Merry smiled at his young cousin. “The same thing you are,” he replied. “I was cold.”

Pippin glanced behind him at Frodo’s sleeping face and back at Merry with a smile. “Oh,” he said simply, and nestled back comfortably into Frodo and Merry’s arms.

“Merry?” he said softly, a moment later.

“Hmm?” Merry murmured, already half-asleep.

“I’m glad I’m camping with you.” Merry’s arm tightened around Pippin and he smiled.

“Me too, Pip.”

“And I’m glad that Cousin Frodo’s here.”

“Me too, Pip.”

Pippin started to say something more, but stopped as he realized that Merry had fallen asleep. He smiled and gently brushed his cousin’s golden curls out of his eyes, before settling back down in the blankets. Frodo shifted in his sleep, and Pippin felt his arms tighten around him and Merry.

“Good night,” he whispered to both his cousins, before closing his eyes and joining them in sleep.

TBC...

3. Rangers

The next morning, the hobbits were roused bright and early by a light rainstorm, much to their annoyance. As they were all up, Frodo decided that they should go explore the countryside around them.

“In the rain?” asked Gorbadas in dismay.

“It’s only a bit of drizzle,” said Frodo mildly, re-organizing his pack.

Gorbadas folded his arms with a pout. “But we’ll still get wet.”

Frodo sighed, and closed the flap of his pack. “Gorbadas, we’re already wet –” he began, but Pippin cut him off, walking past with his pack hoisted onto his shoulders.

“Do you have any better ideas?” he asked, with a slight hint of annoyance; like Merry, he was always quick to get upset if anyone questioned Frodo’s knowledge or decisions.

Gorbadas muttered something unintelligible and wandered off to ready his pack. Frodo gave Pippin a grateful smile, which Pippin brushed off with a shrug and a returning grin. Merry came over, pack ready and walking stick in hand.

“Where are we going, Frodo?” he asked brightly, undaunted by the weather. “I think we’ve explored just about every inch of the land around here – except the Old Forest of course.”

Frodo hoisted the pack onto his shoulders and picked up his walking stick. “Well, perhaps we have, but they haven’t.”

“We’re not going to get closer to the Old Forest, are we, Frodo?” asked Kalimac Brandybuck fearfully from across the camp.

“Don’t worry, Kali,” Frodo assured him as everyone began to come over to hear their plans for the day. “We shan’t get any closer to the Old Forest than we are now.” Everyone sighed in relief – except Isengar. He looked quite the little explorer: pack that was too big for him hoisted high on his shoulders, walking stick in his hand, cranberry cloak secured snugly around his shoulders.

“Well, I’m not afraid of the Old Forest,” he declared stoutly.

Gorbadas stared at him in astonishment. “You’re not?”

Isengar shook his head, causing his sandy curls to bounce. “’Course not. There are only trees there. How can a tree hurt me?”

Berilac came over, grey eyes wide. “But you’ve heard the stories, Iss. The trees there are evil. They can throw branches at you, or lift their roots to trip you.”

The stubborn little Took turned to face him, hands on his hips (looking very much like a smaller version of Pippin as he did so). “Have you ever been in the Old Forest, Beri?”

Merimas also joined the group. “Of course not, Iss,” he said incredulously. “Are you mad? Only a few from Buckland have ever been in there – and with good reason, too. You don’t want to know the stories I’ve heard,” he dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper, as though sharing a great secret. “They say a ghost lives there.”

Reginard Took arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And who are ‘they’?”

“My dad, for one,” Merimas answered defensively. “And my cousin, Oakred. He went into the Old Forest once, and never wanted to go in there again.”

“Bah!” Reginard’s brother, Everard shook his head in disgust. “Surely you don’t believe those old stories, Merimas? They’re just a bunch of nonsense.”

Merimas spun around, green eyes snapping. “And how would you know, Everard Took?” he demanded furiously. “I’d bet you’re too cowardly to go in there yourself.”

Everard’s eyes darkened and Reginard jumped forward, quick to defend his brother. Soon, a loud, furious argument was underway: Tooks against Brandybucks, each furiously defending their family honor.

Only Frodo, Merry, Pippin and Isengar stayed out of it. Merry and Pippin were eager to join in and defend their families, but as Frodo did not, they would not, either. Isengar simply watched them with an unreadable look in his storm-grey eyes. Frodo sighed and raised his eyes to the cloudy sky for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and forced his way into the middle of the arguing boys.

“Quiet, please, everyone!” he shouted over the din. “Stop arguing!”

No one paid the least attention. But Merry and Pippin, taking his example, hurried over and pulled Reginard and Kalimac apart before they tried to seriously hurt each other. Frodo, eyes closed in the effort not to lose his patience with the bickering children, tried again.

"Quiet, everyone!"

At last, he got their attention. The lads stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at him; and then quickly lowered their eyes and blushed with embarrassment. Isengar watched silently.

Frodo sighed with relief. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Then he opened his eyes and raised his voice so everyone could hear. “I hope that everyone in Brandy Hall didn’t hear all your noise – I would prefer to get through this camping trip without causing Uncle Saradoc to send a search party after us.”

That was as close to a reprimand as they ever got from Frodo, and all the lads knew it and heeded it. They nodded dutifully, and remained silent, not daring to look up. Merry and Pippin looked with satisfaction at their oldest cousin.

“All right then, if you are all quite ready,” continued Frodo after a brief pause, the tone in his voice telling the boys that he was no longer cross with them and that it was safe to look up. “Let’s go hiking, shall we?”

There was a cheer from all the boys, who were relieved that the reprimand was over and they were now free to enjoy the day. Even to Gorbadas, the prospect of exploring in the rain was now an inviting one.

As they tramped through the thick forest that surrounded their little glade, Merry started up a favorite Buckland song, called ‘My Home by the River,’ and everyone joined in.

‘O where do

fair green lands you find?

Along the banks

of Brandywine

O land of hills

and woods divine!

Along the banks

of Brandywine.

O Brandywine, fair Brandywine!

Lush are the woods of oak and pine

Flowers bloom and daisies grow

In wintertime, fields white with snow

Brandywine, O Brandywine!

Forests, the home of hart and hind

And countrysides of hill and knoll

That make the merry hobbits’ hole!

O, stars by night

And sun by day!

They light the

fairest land alway!

In Buckland home

I’ll always stay,

Not anything

Could drive me away!’

“Hey!” All the lads shouted, laughing, as was the customary ending to the song.

“Shall we have at it again?” Berilac asked eagerly.

“What about one from Tookland?” Reginard suggested. “‘In rolling hills, where I was born…’” 

Merimas cut him off. “No, no, not that one! What about, ‘Green Rain’?” That was a favorite song all over the Shire.

“No, I think it should be…”

Thankfully, their argument was stopped before it even started. “Hsh!” whispered Frodo suddenly, stopping in his tracks. Everyone immediately did the same, and Frodo, holding a hand up as a signal warning no one to follow him, cautiously crept forward through the undergrowth and peered through the leaves of a fern.

Speaking quietly with Pippin for a moment, Merry silently came up to Frodo’s side and touched his shoulder. “What is it, Frodo?” he asked softly.

Keeping a warning finger to his lips, Frodo soundlessly parted the leaves of the fern, pointing to what he was staring at. Merry dropped down beside him, taking care not to make a sound.

Peering slowly through the fern, Merry sucked in his breath sharply. A good distance away, in a small clearing surrounded by trees, there was a campsite. Three travelers sat or stood around the fire that burned in the center.  But these were no hobbit-travelers.

They were tall; twice the size of a full-grown hobbit, and their raven-black hair was straight, not curled. They wore travel-stained tunics, long trousers and cloaks, all of the same dark greyish-green color, and boots – boots! The long boots went halfway up their legs, and were spattered with mud.

The Mens’ faces, though weathered and shadowed by the trees, were fair and noble. Their eyes were grey and deep, like an Elf’s, and flickered in the light of the flames.

“Big People?” Merry hissed incredulously. “What are they doing here in the Shire?”

“Shh,” Frodo warned him. “They’ll hear you.”

“They’ve got bows,” Merry noticed, staring at the slender black weapons lying by the Mens’ sides. His eyes moved up to the quivers, full of long, slender arrows, strapped to their backs, and then down to their belts, where he could see the sheaths of long knives. “And knives. They look dangerous.”

Frodo nodded. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go before they see us.”

At that moment, as though hearing his last sentence, one of the Men, the youngest looking, with a youthful, eager face, looked directly at the fern where Frodo and Merry peered through. The hobbits froze.

“Hullo! what’s that?” said the young Man to his companions. “I think I see something over there, in that fern. What d’you suppose it is, Farin?”

The one called Farin, a middle-aged Man with an honest, straightforward face that seemed apt to smile, turned his head lazily in the direction of the fern. Frodo and Merry ducked and shut their eyes, hoping that the other hobbit lads would not make a sound.

“Probably a rabbit,” said Farin after staring into the bush. “We’ve seen enough of them, although – ” he looked ruefully at the empty spit that was posted over the fire. “ – we can’t seem to coax any to join us for supper.”

The third Man laughed. He seemed to be around the same age as Farin, but with a solemn, though not unpleasant face; as though he had many worries and cares burdening him. “That’s because all the rabbits in these woods probably ended up in your stomach last night.”

Farin smiled good-naturedly and laughed as well. “Aye, you might be right there. But… Elbereth! Leofwine, would you sit down, man? I told you, it was just a rabbit.”

The young Man named Leofwine frowned and reluctantly sat down again, still staring at the fern. He shook his head in frustration. “That’s what you say every time I see something, Farin,” he complained. “I thought a Ranger was always ready for anything.”

“They are!” Farin exclaimed indignantly, but Leofwine went on.

“Well, if all the Rangers thought every noise was a rabbit, there’d be no Rangers left! How can you say…”

“Enough, Leofwine,” the third Man interrupted sternly, though not harshly. “You have made your point. But do not judge Farin too hastily – he is wise and experienced, and has spent many years out in the Wilds. You could learn much from him.”

Leofwine bowed his head respectfully. “Yes, sir,” he said softly. “I am sorry. I spoke out of turn.” He looked at Farin. “Forgive me, sir, for judging you too harshly.”

Farin good-naturedly waved off the apology. “Ah, Estel,” he said to the third Man, “the boy does have a point, you know. Perhaps I’m losing my edge?”

The Man called Estel laughed, and young Leofwine’s face brightened somewhat. “The day Farin of the Dúnadain loses his edge is the day I become King.”

“Which may not be so far away as you think…” muttered Farin to himself.

As the Men went back to their conversation, Frodo and Merry felt it safe to cautiously back away and return to the others, who were waiting impatiently – but silently. “What was it?” Pippin hissed eagerly. “What did you see?”

Frodo glanced back nervously towards the clearing. “First, let’s get back to the campsite where we can speak freely. Move quickly, but try not to make a sound.”

The lads, though anxious to learn more, obeyed, accepting that Frodo knew what he was doing. They turned and began to head back to their campsite, but suddenly, someone stepped on a twig, which broke with a sickeningly loud snap.

Everyone froze. Each could hear his heart beating frantically. Pippin swallowed hard and glanced at Merry, who was biting his lip nervously. Frodo’s face paled and his eyes widened as they heard noises from the Men’s camp.

“There! That was no rabbit!” The voice of Leofwine rang through the forest, and to the lads’ horror, they saw the three Men’s heads and shoulders appear over the bushes, bows drawn and ready. 

“Run!” cried Frodo, still keeping his voice soft, in the hope that they might still escape without detection. The boys took to their heels instantly, and though they tried to be silent, they were in such a panic that they could not help stepping on dried leaves and sticks.

Shouts were heard from the Men, and a sudden twang was heard. Frodo gasped and shouted, “Duck!” forgetting all thoughts of speaking quietly. The lads instantly dropped down into the undergrowth, just in time to feel a rush of air over their heads and hear a dull thud as an arrow embedded itself in a nearby tree.

“Go!” Frodo hauled Pippin to his feet. “Keep going!” The hobbits’ senses were now straining to the utmost, and they managed to successfully avoid the few arrows that whistled past them. Frodo stayed in the back, making sure no one was left behind, and helping those who stumbled to scramble back up to their feet again. He glanced back to see the tall shapes of Men darting from shadow to shadow, but still a good distance behind them.

The shouts slowly began to fade, and Frodo heard, “Stop! They are only Halflings – don’t shoot!” before they disappeared entirely. He breathed a sigh of relief – or as much a sigh as he could manage in his current, breathless state.

The lads finally reached the clearing, and after glancing back to reassure themselves that they were not being followed, they collapsed, exhausted, in the grass. They lay there for several moments, trying to slow the frantic racing of their hearts and catch their breaths.

“What—who were they?” Pippin gasped after a few minutes.

“They were Men,” said Frodo with a cough. “Big People.”

There was an astonished murmur among the boys, and Reginard propped himself up on his elbows to stare incredulously at Frodo. “Big People?” he repeated. “What are Big People doing in the Shire?”

Frodo managed to sit up and lean against a tree trunk, closing his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “They called themselves Rangers.”

Merimas sucked in his breath sharply. “Rangers? I’ve heard of them! They’re –”

“Not another one of your stories,” Everard groaned. “I don’t want to know any more about them. I’m just glad they didn’t follow us.”

There were scattered murmurs of agreement around the campsite, and Frodo opened his eyes again, brushing the dirt, pine needles and leaves from his shirt. “Well,” he said, “I, for one, am done with hiking for the day. What about the rest of you?”

There was hearty agreement from everyone. Now that the initial exhaustion was beginning to lessen, they resumed their usual chatter. All were still shaken by their near escape, but hobbits have an amazing power of recovery, and by that evening, they were beginning to go back to their usual, cheerful selves.

“Frodo?” asked Merry as they ate supper that evening.

“Yes?”

“What does Estel mean? Isn’t that Elvish?”

Frodo was silent for a moment as he translated. “Very good, Merry. Yes, it’s Elvish. It means ‘hope.’”

“‘Hope.’ Strange name, when you think about it.”

“It doesn’t sound strange to me,” Pippin put in, through a mouthful of cornbread. “I’ve heard stranger ones. Like my cousin, Oleander – who’d want to be named after a poisonous plant?”

“You’re named after an apple, I might remind you.” Merry’s voice was teasing.

“That’s only my nickname. And besides, an apple is still better than something poisonous. Which reminds me… isn’t Lobelia a poisonous plant?”

“Actually, I think it’s a healing herb, but yes, I've heard that it can be poisonous, if given in large amounts,” Frodo replied with a grin.

“Ugh, and we all know what that’s like. Celandine is poisonous, too. Hmm, that clears up a lot of things…”

“Hey, what about a story?” Merimas interrupted.

“Not one of your ghost-stories,” Kalimac said, giving his cousin a playful elbow in the ribs. “What about something new? Surely someone knows a story we’ve never heard before.”

“You know what I think?” little Isengar spoke up, pausing to produce a chorus of  “What?” from the other boys. “I think -- oh my, look at all those mushrooms over there!”

Instantly, all heads whirled around to where Isengar pointed, while the small miscreant calmly took a few slices of blueberry pie from the others' plates, casually stuffing them into his mouth.

Gorbadas turned back around. “I don’t see any – Isengar Took, you little thief! Where’d you put my pie?” Isengar gave him a wide grin, showing the pie in his mouth. Gorbadas jumped to his feet, and Isengar gave a laughing squeal as he jumped up and ran away from his older cousin.

“Hey, my pie’s missing, too!” exclaimed Reginard suddenly.

“So is mine,” said Kalimac.

“And mine,” added Merimas.

"Isengar Took!" Almost everyone in the clearing was now chasing after the mischiefmaker, shouting all manner of threats, but not truly angry. Eventually, they managed to catch him, and pinned him down in the grass.

“Where’s our pie?” Merimas demanded.

Isengar swallowed and patted his belly. “In here,” he said with a grin.

“For the Thain!” Pippin shouted, springing up and coming over to join them as Isengar was almost buried beneath a pile of tickling older lads. Shouts of “For Tuckborough,” or “The Eastfarthing,” or other similar war cries filled the air. Merry and Frodo watched for a moment in amusement.

“You think we should go help him?” asked Merry calmly.

Frodo shook his head. “Let them have their fun – serves him right,” he said with a grin as he took the last bite of his own pie.

Merry nodded in agreement, also finishing the last of his pie. He laughed as Pippin disappeared beneath the pile of playfully wrestling hobbit lads, although his cries for help could still be heard.

“I think I might go join them,” Merry announced, standing up. “Someone’s likely to get hurt if an older, more mature hobbit doesn’t step in.”

Frodo arched an eyebrow. “And that hobbit is you?” he asked teasingly.

“Of course,” Merry replied, straightening himself up like a trained soldier, and without another word, marched into the loud pile of wrestling boys. Frodo watched as he stood there a moment, and then suddenly dove into the midst of it, shouting, “For Buckland!”

Frodo sat by the campfire and watched for a while, glad that everyone seemed to have recovered from their fright earlier. For his part, he was beginning to worry about Saradoc's reaction when he told him of their near-escape. His uncle had always been kind and understanding, but Frodo had promised to keep the boys safe. He hoped Saradoc would not think his trust had been misplaced. 

After a while, he stood up and walked over to where the boys were wrestling. Shouts and challenges rang through the air, sounding much like they had that afternoon when the boys had gotten into that quarrel – but they were playful this time.

Frodo watched them for a moment longer, and then with a shrug, he shouted, “The Westfarthing!” and joined in.

TBC...

Yes, I made up ‘My Home by the River,’ sadly, and I wrote the beginning of Reginard’s song of Tookland (which took a whole lot of effort…), but I didn’t even write the title of ‘Green Rain.’ It’s a poem by Mary Webb, and as usual, no copyright infringement was meant. :)

4. Iodaith

The lads did not feel up to another day on their own with Big People so near, and the next morning, they made their way back to Brandy Hall. Before even shedding his cloak, Frodo went to see Saradoc; he knew that the news of their narrow escape would reach the Master of Buckland’s ears soon enough, and he preferred that he be the one to tell him. Merry accompanied his cousin, ready to give support if Saradoc grew upset.

They found the Master of Buckland in his private study, and Merry went in first to notify him of their presence. Frodo waited outside the door, and heard Merry and Saradoc speaking to one another, though he could not make out the words. After a moment, Merry motioned for him to come in.

Frodo stepped inside the study, shutting the door behind him, and stood beside Merry in front of the desk where Saradoc sat, untidy stacks of papers spilling all over it.

“Welcome back, Frodo-lad,” asked the Master of Buckland cheerfully. “Merry tells me that you would like to discuss something that happened on your camping trip?”

“Yes sir,” Frodo answered quietly, bracing himself for the worst. Briefly, he told of their encounter with the Rangers, with Merry adding an occasional remark.

When he’d finished, Frodo watched Saradoc anxiously, wondering how he would react. Merry reached out and squeezed his hand reassuringly. The Master of Buckland was silent a long while, head bowed, staring down at the desk, brows furrowed in deep thought. His thick brown curls, streaked slightly with grey, fell over his eyes and hid them from Frodo and Merry’s view.

“So,” he said at last, slowly. His voice was low, which never boded well for whomever he spoke to, “you stumbled upon a Mens’ camp and they… shot at you.”

“Yes sir,” said Frodo softly, wincing. He remembered his childhood in Brandy Hall, and being frequently reproved by Saradoc (among others) for raiding Farmer Maggot’s crops and other mischief. He felt like a boy now, waiting anxiously for his uncle’s judgement.

Finally Saradoc spoke again, and the tone of his voice had changed. It was still somber, but Frodo thought he could almost sense his uncle… smiling? Saradoc's head was still lowered, so he could not tell.

“And everyone was all right?” asked Saradoc. “Were any of you were injured?”

“No sir.”

“Did you encounter the Men after that?”

“No sir.”

“Then heavens above, lad! what are you so distraught about?”

Saradoc raised his head at last, and Frodo saw that his uncle was smiling broadly at him. “Then you're... not angry?” he asked in surprise, inwardly rebuking himself for not being able to come up with anything better to say.

“My dear Frodo,” chuckled Saradoc. “Whyever should I be angry?”

“B-but,” Frodo stammered, blushing at the amusement he saw on his uncle’s face, “I promised you that I’d look after them –”

“And you did,” Saradoc said with a laugh, standing up and coming over to place a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “No one was injured, and you got away safely – that’s all that matters.” He winked at Merry, who was grinning, relieved that his father was not upset.

Saradoc put one hand on his son’s shoulder and kept the other on Frodo’s, and drew them both close, lowering his voice as though to share a great secret. “But if you two show up at the table looking the way you do, I don’t think you’ll find Zinnia so merciful.”

Frodo laughed with relief. “Thank you, Uncle,” he said sincerely.

Saradoc fondly ruffled his nephew’s curls, a gesture Frodo had always detested as a boy. He was rewarded by a playful glare as Frodo quickly patted his hair back into place. 

“Now be off with you two," Saradoc laughed, "and go wash up – it smells as though supper’s nearly done!”

Giving his father a parting wave, Merry grabbed Frodo’s arm and pulled his cousin out the door, where they collided with a young hobbit who’d been standing in the doorway. Disentangling himself from the small pile of hobbits, Merry glared at the intruder.

“Peregrin Took!” he scolded. “Were you eavesdropping?”

Pippin folded his arms across his chest and pursed his lips. “I just wanted to make sure Cousin Frodo didn’t get in trouble,” he defended himself. “I was going to go in there and help if he did.”

Frodo couldn’t help but smile, and he patted Pippin’s shoulder. “I appreciate your support, Pip,” he said truthfully. “But it wasn’t necessary. Uncle Saradoc was very understanding.”

A familiar voice rang shrilly up the hall. "Suppertime!"

“Lawks,” Frodo groaned, uncovering his ears. “I keep forgetting what an earsplitting voice Zinnia’s got.”

“Come on,” said Merry quickly, jumping to his feet. "She'll have our heads if we don’t wash up before we eat!”

Pippin grinned mischievously. “For your information, I’ve already washed,” he said with a smirk. “So I’ll be seeing you at the table.” He strolled leisurely down the hall, then paused and turned around again. “I’m starving – you’d better hurry,” he warned ominously, before continuing down the hall and disappearing around a corner.

Merry’s eyes widened in horror. “Come on!” he cried, pulling Frodo up by the arm. “Hurry, before Pippin eats everything!”

Frodo pulled his arm out of Merry’s grip and brushed the dust off his shirt. “You actually think that Pippin could finish an entire meal in Brandy Hall by himself?” he teased. But Merry had already vanished down the hall.

***

Frodo stayed at Brandy Hall for several days, but at last, he decided that he couldn’t take the noise and bustle any longer, and announced that he was leaving. “Of course Pippin and I are coming with you,” said Merry matter-of-factly when Frodo had given the news to him. "We haven't visited Bag End in months."

“I thought you might say that,” said Frodo with a smile. “And I’ve already asked Uncle Saradoc if you can come, Merry. He said that you can stay for as long as I allow – which may not be long,” he threatened teasingly. Merry gave him a playful cuff on the arm, and he turned to Pippin. “But Pip, I couldn’t find your father to ask him. He didn’t leave already, did he?” The Thain and his family had been staying in Brandy Hall for the past week, as Paladin had business to discuss with Saradoc.

“No,” said Pippin with a small frown. “Maybe he just went outside for a bit. I’ll go find him.” 

A few minutes later he returned, wearing a beaming smile. “He said it’s all right!” he whooped happily. “He said I can stay as long as you let me, Frodo!”

Merry grinned and clapped his cousin on the back. “Just think of all the fun we’ll have, Pip,” he said excitedly. “Especially now that Daisy’s moved to Hobbiton!”

“And Dickon can help us plan our next prank,” Pippin added. Dickon Broadbelt was Daisy’s younger brother, now nearly five years old. He was rather meek and quiet by nature, but he adored Merry, Frodo and Pippin, wishing to do everything they did. His older sister, Daisy, just turned eight years old, had been quite attached to Merry ever since she was two, and still referred to him as her ‘big brother.’ As for Merry himself, he did not object to a lass eleven years his junior tagging along at his heels and hanging onto his every word – in fact, having no siblings of his own, secretly he enjoyed it immensely.

So it was decided that Frodo would leave the next day, with Pippin and Merry accompanying him. They left early, much to the younger travelers’ dismay, and despite their frequent pauses for meals, they made good time. That evening, they reached a small, thick forest, and Frodo led them down a small dirt path through the middle of it. The sides of the little road were overgrown with ivy, which curled and climbed up the trees, covering the trailing beards of lichen which already hung from the branches. The road was shaded by the thick green roof of leaves, almost unpenetrated by sunlight, and a peaceful silence was over the entire wood, broken only by a soft bird’s song and the quiet gurgling of a small brook nearby.

They made camp beneath a large oak tree with spreading branches whose leaves formed a green canopy above them. They laid out their sleeping rolls in between its great, thick roots, and Frodo sent Merry and Pippin off to get firewood.

Merry and Pippin dutifully walked away, and Frodo refilled their water bottles in the stream. When he returned to the campsite, he caught sight of a figure coming down the path towards him. It was a Big Person, he realized with a shock and a bit of fear. But this was no Ranger. As the figure neared, he saw that it was a bent, old woman, her head bowed and her face shadowed by her hood, which was black like the rest of her trailing robes. She leaned heavily on a knarled walking stick, and made slow progress in approaching.

“Good day,” Frodo called, courtesy winning over fear. The woman looked up, and even from several yards away, Frodo could see the many lines in her ancient face, and the fiery brightness of her clear blue eyes, which were youthful and piercing.

“Would you like to sit and eat with my companions and I?” Frodo added, a little hesitantly. The woman did not answer, but hobbled closer, until she stood only little more than two feet away from Frodo, who, standing, was nearly as tall as she.

“A hobbit,” she said at last, in an aged, crackled voice. “A young hobbit, too. What are you about, here in the woods alone, fair one?” Evidently she had not heard Frodo’s earlier offer of a meal.

“I’m not alone,” Frodo said, giving her a smile. “My cousins, Merry and Pippin are with me. Would you like to eat with us?”

The old woman stared at him intently for a moment, her gaze so fierce and penetrating that he felt a little uneasy beneath it. “Very well,” she said at last. “But I am not hungry. I shall just sit here and talk with you. It is long indeed since I’ve spoken with a hobbit.”

Frodo helped her sit down on one of the thick roots of the oak tree, and then sat down himself on the ground and busied himself around the fire, making some soup for supper. “What’s your name, lad?” asked the woman suddenly, after a long while of silence.

“I’m sorry, I’d quite forgotten!” Frodo said, standing up again and bowing. “Frodo Baggins, at your service.” He paused. “Might I ask what your name is?”

“I am called Iodaith,” answered the woman.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Iodaith,” said Frodo respectfully, going back to his work around the campsite.

A smile brightened the woman’s face, and for a moment, Frodo caught a glimpse, as it seemed, of how she must have looked in youth: fair and beautiful, with soft rosy lips and long golden hair, skin white and smooth… But then it was gone, and before him was the old, wrinkled woman again, bent with age, whose thin grey hair fell in tangled wisps. “Just Iodaith,” she said quietly.

Frodo returned her smile. “Iodaith then, if you wish. What brings you here to the Shire, if I may ask, and where are you from?”

Iodaith still smiled. “I have no home,” she said. “Except the place where I was born, in the Hills of Evendium in the Lost Realm of Arnor, long ago.” Her smile seemed to fade for a moment, but then she brightened again. “I am simply passing through your land; it is fair and peaceful, and almost I wish that I could stay here.”

“What keeps you?” asked Frodo after a moment of silence.

“I… have other matters that I must see to ere I die,” Iodaith answered evasively. “But I will stay in this land for as long as I may. It is beautiful.”

Frodo nodded thoughtfully and they lapsed into silence once more. Just then, Merry and Pippin returned, both with arms full of firewood. “Look how much we found!” said Pippin proudly. “There was a lot over by the -- oh,” he ended softly, noticing for the first time the old woman sitting quietly by the fire.

“Merry, Pippin, this is Iodaith,” Frodo explained. “Iodaith, may I introduce you to my cousins, Meriadoc Brandybuck –” Merry bowed, recovering his manners. “—and Peregrin Took.” Pippin bowed as well, still staring wide-eyed.

“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” said Iodaith with a soft smile. “Pray, do not be alarmed. I shall not stay long; I am simply passing through this wood.”

Recovering from their initial shock, Merry and Pippin smiled, their natural hobbit-friendliness taking over. “Do you live near here?” asked Merry as he helped Frodo prepare their supper.

Iodaith shook her head. “No, I do not,” she replied. “But I used to live north of this land, in Arnor.”

They lapsed into silence for a while, and Iodaith simply stared into the flames of the campfire, as though in deep thought. At last, Frodo broke it, as he served Merry and Pippin their soup. “Are you sure you would not like to eat with us?” he offered. “There’s plenty to spare.”

Iodaith looked at the soup for a moment, and then smiled. “Very well,” she said. “I will have a bit, if it is no trouble. It does look delicious – what kind is it?”

“Mushroom soup,” said Frodo with a smile, handing her a bowl-full.

Merry licked his lips. “My favorite!” he said happily. “You do make the best mushroom soup, Frodo.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Pippin thoughtfully. “Mistress Smallburrow makes some good mushroom soup, too. Remember it at the – ow!” He suddenly received a sharp elbow in the ribs from Merry. “But yes, Frodo, yours is the best!” he added hastily.

Frodo smirked. “Why, I’m glad you like it, Pippin," he said sarcastically. "Would you like some more, Iodaith?”

Iodaith shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said. “I’m quite full. But it was delicious.”

Frodo’s expression in response to her compliment was a great deal different than it had been in response to Merry and Pippin’s. “Thank you!” he said with bright smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. It’s an old recipe I learned from my uncle.”

“He taught you well,” said Iodaith.

***

After supper, the travelers sat around the campfire, and Iodaith told them strange and wonderful tales that even Frodo had never heard before. They stayed up late, enthralled by them; but at last, Pippin crawled into his sleeping roll and fell asleep, leaving Frodo and Merry alone to listen. Some of Iodaith’s tales were frightening and full of dark deeds, while others were light-hearted and brought a smile to the lads’ faces. Some were strange and beautiful, sending shivers up their spines.

“…and the instant Ar-Pharazôn set his foot upon the shores of the Blessed Realm, the Valar laid down their Guardianship, calling upon the One, and the world was changed. Númenor was thrown down and swallowed in the Sea, and the Undying Lands were removed for ever from the circles of the world. So ended the glory of Númenor,” Iodaith finished, smiling as Merry yawned. “And so end my tales for tonight. If I keep you up much longer, you will both fall asleep where you sit.”

Frodo smiled, realizing that she was right. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “Will you join us for breakfast in the morning?”

Iodaith frowned in thought for a moment. “No, I do not think so,” she said at last. “I will leave at first light; there are many places I must go. But if you do not mind, I will stay here for the night, with the warmth of the fire. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Frodo’s face fell a little, but he did not try to persuade her to stay. “If you feel you must go,” he said, tucking the blankets warmly around Merry, “then I’m glad you at least stopped to have supper with us. And your stories were wonderful – I don’t know much about Númenor and its history.”

“Don’t you?” said Iodaith. “Well, then I am glad that I was able to teach you, a little.” She smiled as Frodo nestled down in his sleeping roll. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Frodo answered sleepily, closing his eyes.

Iodaith sat and watched as Frodo soon joined Merry and Pippin in sleep. She stayed there by the fire for several hours, and the moon was beginning to set in the west when she moved at last. She slowly moved over to the hobbits’ packs and opened them.

Noiselessly rummaging through them, she took out several apples and other fruits, as well as an empty water bottle, and stored them in a knapsack she had tied around her girdle, hidden in one of the many folds of her robes.

Then she searched the outer pockets of the packs, and found some silver coins. She put a few of them in the pocket that was also worn on her belt, and as she refastened the packs and turned to look at the sleeping hobbits, she whispered, “Forgive me, my friends. But I have need of these things. I hope to repay the favor someday.” As she turned away, a glimmer of gold suddenly caught her eye.

Frodo had been sleeping restlessly, and was now on top of his blankets. In the pocket of his waistcoat, there was something gold, just barely visible. Iodaith crept noiselessly over and slipped her hand inside the pocket, drawing out the object.

It was a plain gold ring, hanging on a fine silver chain; beautiful and perfectly formed. But at the sight, Iodaith stumbled back a step and averted her eyes, before hastily replacing the ring in Frodo’s pocket.

Frodo sighed and turned over in his sleep. Iodaith, breathing heavily, stepped closer again and kneeling, covered him warmly with the blankets. “I do not know where you came by that evil thing,” she whispered, gently stroking Frodo's face. “But I pray that it will not take power over you.” Looking fondly down at the sleeping hobbit, she stooped, and kissed him on the forehead.

“Nai khilye Eruman, nîn mellon, ar nailmet enomentielvo. Namárië,*” she said softly. Then, she stood, leaning heavily upon her walking stick, and slowly hobbled away into the darkness.

TBC...

* ‘May the blessing of Eru follow you, my friend, and may we meet again. Farewell.’ No, I did not translate that myself. I got it from a wonderful vignette posted on fanfiction.net by Galadriel Gryffindor, called "Amon Hen". I changed the words a bit (‘my friend’ instead of ‘Champion of Halflings’), so that translation might not be perfect.

5. Fool of a Took!

Frodo awoke the next morning to see a robin perched on a branch above him, singing merrily. He sat up and stretched, and listened to the robin’s song while he gathered up their bowls from the night before and washed them in the nearby stream. Merry and Pippin still slept, in a tangled pile of arms, legs and tree roots.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Frodo soundlessly crept over to them, taking one of the bowls which he had filled with water. Pulling back the blankets that covered the two peacefully sleeping young hobbits, he suddenly turned the bowl over, dumping all the cold water on Merry and Pippin’s curly heads. Their eyes flew open and they both gave loud yelps of surprise.

“Rise and shine!” Frodo chirped cheerfully, laughing as his cousins jumped up, their eyes wide.

“Frodo!” Merry exclaimed, brushing his dripping curls from his eyes. “Y-you…you…” He spluttered for several moments before lapsing into furious silence.

Pippin, though uncomfortable and annoyed at first, was already able to see the humor in the situation. “Well, I wouldn’t have thought that of you, Cousin Frodo,” he said, grinning. “Although Merry and I probably deserved it.”

“Probably?” repeated Frodo incredulously. “I only wonder why I haven’t done it sooner.”

Merry, still sulkily silent (and having to turn away quickly to hide the grin that tugged involuntarily at the corners of his mouth), went over to his pack and rummaged through it, looking for an apple – one of his favorite breakfasts when on a hike.

After digging around for several minutes without success, Merry turned around. “Frodo,” he said, eyebrows knitting together with worry. “I can’t find any of my apples.”

“Are you sure you didn’t eat them all?” Frodo teased, rummaging through his own pack in search of an apricot to go along with the seedcakes they were having as a quick breakfast. He paused, and looked at Merry with a frown. “You didn’t eat all the rest of the fruit, too, did you?”

Merry placed his hands firmly on his hips. “Of course not,” he snorted indignantly. “I had three apples when I closed my pack last night, and I didn’t touch your fruit.”

Frodo held his hands up in defense. “All right, all right,” he said. “There’s no need to get cross about it.” He turned to Pippin. “You wouldn’t happen to know where all our food went, would you, Pip?”

Pippin swallowed the large bite of seedcake in his mouth. “No,” he said with a grin. “But at least I know where this food is going.”

Frodo stood up and stared at the packs with a frown. “What could’ve happened to them?” he wondered aloud. "The packs weren't torn open, so it couldn't have been an animal."

Merry’s eyes narrowed. “Someone stole them!”

“But who would have stolen fruit?” Frodo asked logically. “Even Lotho wouldn’t steal fruit,” he added, seeing Merry open his mouth to speak. They both remembered the time, six years earlier, when Lotho Sackville-Baggins had stolen Merry’s beloved wooden robin while they were camping with Milo Burrows near Bywater. The robin had been safely recovered, and Merry had given it to Pippin, who stored it safely and lovingly on a shelf in his bedroom.

“Perhaps the thief has stolen something else, too,” Merry persisted, looking through the outer pockets of his pack. “Aha!” he exclaimed suddenly, pulling his hand out of one of the pockets and revealing the silver coins that lay gleaming on his palm. “You see, I told you we’ve been robbed. I had eleven coins here last night – and now I’ve only got six. They were stolen!”

Pippin came over and looked anxiously up at Frodo, waiting for his older cousin to voice his opinion. “How could anyone have stolen from us when Iodaith said she’d stay all night?” he asked at last. “Surely she would have woken us if someone were coming near.”

“Perhaps she left early?” Pippin suggested.

Merry whirled around to face them. “Don’t you see?” he exclaimed. “Iodaith must have been the thief!”

Frodo shook his head. “That’s ridiculous, Merry,” he said firmly. “Iodaith would not steal from us.”

“Then who did?” Merry demanded, his grey eyes snapping.

Frodo sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “And let’s just leave it at that. There’s no serious harm done – we’ve plenty of other food, and plenty more money. Now let’s start; we’re going to have to pick up our pace if we want to get to Bag End by tomorrow morning.”

Within fifteen minutes, the hobbits were back on the road again, eating their breakfast of water, seedcakes and some wild strawberries that they found growing on the sides of the path.

Late that afternoon, they stopped for supper just past the Three Farthing Stone, under a large, spreading old pine tree. Merry’s usual cheerfulness had returned, and he joked and bantered companionably with his cousins.

“What do you say I make some soup,” said Pippin suddenly during a small silence, making the other two jump.

“But we had soup last night!” Merry protested quickly.

“You haven’t had soup made by Peregrin Took!” said Pippin proudly. “I’ve still got some carrots in my pack, and do you still have those potatoes Sam packed you, Frodo?”

“Ye-es,” said Frodo slowly, exchanging an anxious glance with Merry. Pippin’s infamous cooking attempts left unpleasant memories, and both of them seriously doubted that he’d improved at all since his last unsuccessful endeavor.

“Wonderful!” Pippin cried, jumping to his feet. “I’m going to look around and see if I can find anything to add. I can make some special soup from one of my mum’s old recipes…” He trailed off as he wandered away, grinning to himself in anticipation. Frodo and Merry swallowed hard and began to eat their seedcakes and strawberries with new relish, hoping that if they filled themselves up now, they’d have a truthful excuse not to try Pippin’s latest attempt at cooking.

Pippin wandered aimlessly, making sure to stay within earshot of his older cousins. Much to his disappointment, he couldn’t find any radishes or parsnips for his soup – two of the things he actually remembered from his mother’s recipes.

After about ten minutes of unsuccessful searching, Pippin suddenly stumbled over a large, bushy green plant. Grumbling as he picked himself up off the ground, Pippin eyed the plant carefully. It was nearly as tall as he was himself, and on it grew large eggshaped green bulbs covered with sharp-looking spines. These had opened at the top, and curiously peering inside, he saw that they were full of dark brown seeds.

Pippin carefully reached in and picked up one of the seeds, turned it over in his fingers, and sniffed it. It looked like some sort of bean or seed that his mother used to put in her soups sometimes… the name of it escaped him at the moment. “Perfect!” he said aloud to himself. “A perfect addition to the soup!”

He happily began collecting the little seeds, until he had a large handful. He dropped a few as he hurried back to Frodo and Merry, but he didn’t even notice, so enthusiastic was he at the prospect of making soup for his cousins all by himself. Whenever Peregrin Took did anything, he put all his heart and soul into it – whether it be cooking, or playing a prank on his older sisters.

If Frodo and Merry looked less than enthusiastic about his return, Pippin didn’t notice. He placed the seeds in a little pile on a cloth and ran off to fill the cooking pot with water. When he returned, Frodo – resigned to his fate – helped him light a fire and build a spit over it to hang the pot.

“I’ve got some carrots, potatoes…” Pippin checked them off on his fingers. “…a few of those mushrooms – what were they called, Merry?”

“Thorny Mushrooms,” Merry answered, absently rubbing the faint white scar on his palm from his own encounter with wild Thorny Mushrooms, years before. He now made sure to buy them in the marketplace instead.

“Right,” Pippin continued. “And I think I might have a bit of parsley left, and those seeds I just found – I can’t recall their name.”

“Oh dear,” Merry whispered discreetly in Frodo’s ear. “This doesn’t bode well for us, cousin. He can’t remember the names of the things his putting in the soup!” Frodo nodded with a gulp, watching anxiously as Pippin began to peel and cut up the soup ingredients.

“Would you like some help with that, Pip?” Frodo offered hesitantly.

Pippin shook his head, sandy curls bouncing around his face, and focused on cutting a potato into smaller pieces. “I’m all right,” he answered, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Within a few anxious minutes, Pippin had finished his cutting and peeling procedure, and the water was boiling. He happily dropped the vegetables, along with the seeds, into the pot, and producing a wooden spoon from his pack (Frodo and Merry knew better than to ask why he’d brought it along), stirred the ingredients thoroughly for a few moments.

When he was satisfied that the vegetables were stirred in sufficiently, he leaned back against his pack beside his cousins. “This should be a good soup,” he said with a grin. “I’ve been practicing.”

Merry and Frodo nearly had to bite their tongues to keep from groaning, and both managed small, if shaky, smiles. “I can hardly wait,” Frodo forced himself to say in as cheerful a voice as he could muster. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”

Pippin was blissfully unaware of his cousins’ slightly pale faces and worried expressions as he happily watched his soup cook, stirring it occasionally.

Far too soon for Frodo and Merry, Pippin announced that the soup was done. Fortunately for Merry, he truly did have a stomachache from eating so many strawberries, and so was spared the suffering. Frodo, on the other hand, had no such excuse.

Pippin ladled the thick, greenish-yellow soup into a bowl, and then frowning, peered inside the cooking pot. “Hmm,” he said in disappointment. “It seems that I didn’t make as much as I thought. There’s only enough for one person.” He brightened, and patted Frodo’s hand. “But you can have it, cousin,” he said cheerfully. “You need it – you’re thin as a willow wand.”

Frodo managed a smile and deliberately ignored the slight snicker he heard from Merry. He ate the other items that their lunch composed of, and was able to put off the soup for a surprisingly long time. But after a while, Pippin noticed.

“Frodo,” he said with a frown. “Aren’t you going to try your soup? It doesn’t look like you’ve touched it.”

Frodo glanced nervously at Merry, whom he found was grinning at him. “Well, Pip,” he said with a sigh, “I was… I was saving the best for last.”

Pippin’s face brightened. “Oh, is that it?” he said brightly. “Well, it doesn’t look as though there’s anything left to stop you from trying it now.”

Frodo looked unhappily at the cloth where they had set out their lunch, now only holding crumbs. “No,” he said slowly. “It… does look that way, doesn’t it?” Merry turned a laugh into a cough and received a sharp elbow in the ribs from Frodo.

“Here goes,” said Frodo, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath. He was keenly aware of Pippin’s gaze as he slowly, reluctantly scooped up a spoonful of the thick soup and took a sip of it. He held it in his mouth for a moment, trying not to grimace at the taste, and then swallowed, taking a hasty gulp of water.

“How is it?” asked Pippin expectantly.

Frodo forced a smile and had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Well, it’s certainly…” He paused as he searched for the right word. “…interesting. I can’t say that I’ve ever tasted anything like it.”

“Good!” Pippin exclaimed happily, a wide grin lighting up his face. “I can make some more when we get to Bag End!” He suddenly stopped and looked hard at Frodo. “But we can’t keep going to Bag End until you finish this batch.”

Frodo sighed resignedly, knowing that it was useless to try to change Pippin’s mind. “Yes sir,” he muttered, taking another reluctant spoonful of the bitter-tasting soup. He made a mental note to make sure that Merry was the first to try Pippin’s next cooking attempt.

Several sickening spoonfuls later, Frodo declared (truthfully) that he was full. Pippin eyed him suspiciously, but after glancing from the half-empty soup bowl to the genuinely honest look in his cousin’s eyes, he allowed him to push the bowl aside. “I think I might try a bite of it myself,” he said thoughtfully. “It looks good.” Frodo raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, and he and Merry watched in silence as Pippin took a spoonful of the soup and swallowed it. Almost immediately, he scrunched up his nose in disgust and began coughing.

“I think I’ll just throw the rest of this in the bushes over there,” he croaked, taking a quick gulp of water to soothe his throat and rinse the terrible taste out of his mouth. Getting his coughing under control, he picked up the bowl and dumped its contents into a thick bramble bush. ‘That was bitter! How did Frodo manage to eat so much?’ he thought as he turned back to his cousins.

Frodo, looking up at the sinking sun with a frown, announced that they would stay there for the night. They laid out their sleeping rolls, and Frodo and Merry built up a campfire.

As he unpacked their thick, warm blankets, Frodo paused as he felt the dull throb that had been building behind his eyes the last few minutes suddenly became a sharp, insistent ache, and he noticed for the first time that his mouth felt terribly dry.

Unnoticed by Merry and Pippin, he turned to his water bottle, lying near the fire. Hardly had his fingertips touched it when suddenly it seemed like the earth lurched sideways, and he had to place both hands firmly on the ground to keep himself upright. His headache had quickly turned into a throbbing, agonizing pain right above his eyes, which he squeezed shut in an effort to stop the world’s spinning.

Dimly, he heard Merry calling his name; but his cousin’s voice seemed muffled and far away. He whimpered, keeping his eyes shut, wishing, praying that it would be over soon. He felt as though he was on a ship, pitching wildly in a stormy sea, and he seemed to be thrown back and forth across the deck, hitting each hard wooden side with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs each time. He could hear his heart racing, hammering so hard in his chest he thought that surely it would break his ribs.

Then suddenly, the earth was still. Frodo hesitantly opened his eyes, and it took a few moments for him to be able to focus on the faces bending over him. When they did, he was surprised to discover that he was lying on his back on a bedroll, and Merry and Pippin were staring at him, worry clearly written on their features.

“Frodo, Cousin Frodo,” Pippin was saying urgently, a hint of panic in his voice. “Are you all right?”

“What…” Frodo had to swallow a few times before he was able to speak. “What h-happened?” He was surprised at his own voice, barely above a whisper; it sounded weak and trembling, and he found that even such a simple question was exhausting.

“We heard you give a cry, and then you just… fell over,” Merry explained, his grey eyes filled with concern. “Pip and I carried you over here to your bedroll.” He paused, his gaze fearful. “What is wrong?”

Frodo put a trembling hand to his throbbing temples and closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, he again had to wait a few moments before he could clearly see Merry and Pippin. “I… don’t know,” he answered at last, his voice still quivering. “I just felt dreadfully dizzy… and my head feels as though Lobelia took a swing at me with her umbrella." He swallowed, reminded again of his dry mouth.

“Can I have some water, please?” he asked slowly, becoming annoyed with the effort it took simply to form words. Pippin nodded quickly and his face disappeared from Frodo’s vision for a moment.

Then he felt a water bottle being pressed gently to his lips, and the wonderfully cool liquid carefully poured into his mouth. Frustration at being tended to like a child was over-ruled by the blissful feeling of the water cooling his mouth and throat, and his thirst being relieved.

When Pippin set the water bottle again on the ground beside him, Frodo found that his headache had lessened, and the dreadful, burning dryness of his mouth was gone. He attempted to sit up, but immediately, two pairs of hands pushed him gently but firmly back down.

“Oh no, you don’t, cousin,” said Merry sternly. “You’re obviously ill, and you are not moving from this spot. Pip, go get a few blankets, please.” Pippin nodded and hurried to obey, while Merry made sure that Frodo did not succeed in getting up.

“I’m all right, really, Merry,” Frodo protested, still struggling against Merry’s hand. “It was just a headache, but it’s gone now. Please, let me up!”

Merry stared at him a moment, and then suddenly drew back his hands. “Very well,” he said. “Sit up then.”

Frodo sighed and tried to push himself upright. His entire body was trembling, and he found it difficult to get his hands firmly planted on the ground. When at last he did succeed in sitting up, dizziness instantly assailed him.

“All right,” he said faintly, shutting his eyes against the dreadful spinning and lurching of the earth. “I’d better lie back down.” His arms suddenly gave out, and he fell backwards, painfully hitting the bedroll.

Frodo kept his eyes closed, waiting for the dizziness to fade. But it did not.

After several agonizing minutes of waiting for the dizziness to pass, Frodo hesitantly opened his eyes, hoping that perhaps it would help, as keeping them shut did not. When his eyes focused, he saw that the pine tree above him was whirling around, lurching from side to side, looking as though it was on the verge of snapping in two and falling on top of him.

Frodo gave a cry of fear as the tree did at last break, and he watched in helpless terror as the thick trunk slowly fell forward, filling all his vision with brown and green. Just as he thought it would land on him, the tree suddenly disappeared, and suddenly it was whole again above him.

The tree continued to sway and lurch, bending horrifically to one side as though in terrible winds. Frodo could almost hear the wind howling… or were those wolves? He suddenly seemed to see a tall, grey creature bending over him, teeth bared and snarling. He cried out in terror as its terrible red eyes fell upon him, and its mouth opened to swallow him whole. He felt himself falling into black oblivion…and then everything was still, and his thought fled, leaving him in painless, blessed darkness.

Merry and Pippin watched in helpless horror as their cousin shook violently, head tossing from side to side, his cries of pain or terror making their eyes fill with tears of helplessness. Pippin hesitantly reached out and put his hand on Frodo’s sweat-covered forehead, wincing at the fiery hot temperature he felt there. Merry was forced to pin Frodo’s arms to his sides as their cousin thrashed and struggled deliriously.

Frodo’s eyes were wide and unseeing, staring upwards at nothing. His pupils were so dilated that only a thin circle of blue showed around them, and they watched in dismay as his face drained of color.

Suddenly, they saw Frodo’s eyes fall shut, and he went still in their arms. Merry let go of their cousin’s now limp arms and frantically pressed his fingers to the side of Frodo’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, racing and erratic, and Frodo’s breaths came in shallow gasps.

Pippin, trembling with fear, looked at Merry, his green eyes wide and questioning. “W-what happened?” he asked shakily. “Why is he so still?”

Merry quickly blinked back tears and put his arm comfortingly around Pippin’s shoulders. “I don’t know, Pip,” he said softly. “I think he’s fainted.” Pippin swallowed hard and leaned against Merry for support, feeling suddenly as though he would swoon, himself. “What are we going to do?” he whispered hesitantly.

“I… suppose all we can do is…” Merry paused for a moment to make sure he didn’t let the tears in his eyes spill down his face. He was determined to be brave, if only for Pippin’s sake. “…is to keep him warm, and wait until he wakes up.”

“Will Cousin Frodo be all right?” Pippin asked, gulping back his own tears as he looked down at the pale, still face of his older cousin. He had never seen Frodo like this before, and it frightened him to the core.

“I don’t know, Pip,” Merry answered honestly, stroking his younger cousin’s curls as much for his comfort as for Pippin’s. “I don’t know…”

TBC...

6. Unexpected Help

Iodaith slowly made her way through the forest. Back bent in weariness, leaning heavily upon her staff, the ancient woman stumbled onward beneath the rising full moon. A fox watched curiously as the woman passed, and from somewhere above her, an owl screeched.

Suddenly, Iodaith stopped, listening intently. A faint cry, almost inaudible, echoed eerily through the still forest. It was not a cry of fear or despair, but of pain, and it sent shivers up the old woman’s spine. Whoever had made that cry was in agony, and it tore her heart to hear it.

For she could guess who it was.

Without another moment’s delay, she turned and hurried northwest, in the direction of the cry, and at a speed that would have seemed impossible for a woman of her years. At first, she walked quickly, and then she was running, picking up her long black robes and running as swiftly as she could.

“Hold on, dear pheriannath,” she whispered as she ran. “Eru protect you.”

***

“Merry! Merry, wake up!”

The sound of Pippin’s urgent voice pulled Merry from the dreamless doze he’d fallen into unintentionally. He blinked several times to focus on the worried face of Pippin, bending over him. Pippin looked pale in the moonlight, and tears glistened on his cheeks.

Coming fully awake, Merry sat up. “What is it, Pip?” he asked in a whisper. Pippin did not have a chance to answer, however, for a sudden cry caused them both to turn quickly.

Frodo lay, covered in blankets beside the fire, tossing and turning deliriously, crying out as he fought the darkness surrounding him. He struggled to open his eyes, hearing the worried voices of his cousins around him. His head still throbbed painfully, and his throat was dry and raw feeling.

“Frodo? Frodo, can you hear me?” Pippin’s voice sounded muffled and far away, and Frodo tried desperately to answer. All he could manage was the slightest nod of his head, and even that brought a new wave of dizziness over him.

Frodo felt fingers pressing the side of his throat. “His pulse is too fast,” Merry’s voice sounded strained, as though he was holding back tears. “That’s what’s keeping his fever up.” Where did Merry learn so much about doctoring? Frodo wondered absently.

“Frodo, if you can hear me, nod your head again. Please.” Merry seemed to have gotten more control over himself and his voice was steady. Frodo concentrated all his strength and will on the simple command, and managed, with difficulty, to nod his head again.

“He’s awake!” Frodo felt Pippin’s small hands brushing back the damp curls from his forehead and moving down his face to rest on his feverish cheeks. “He’s so hot, Merry. It doesn’t seem as though that wet cloth is doing any good.” Cloth? What cloth? The hands went back up to stroke his sweat soaked forehead.

“Well, at any rate it helped a little.” Merry’s voice faded for a moment, as though he’d turned away. “Here, let’s try again.” There was a short silence. Try what again? Frodo wondered hazily, frustrated by the difficulty he was having in understanding his cousins’ conversation. 

Pippin’s hands were removed, and something was laid in their place on his forehead. A soft cloth. A wonderful, cooling, water-soaked cloth. Frodo sighed gratefully as the cloth was pressed over his forehead and face, bringing – even if temporary – relief from the fevered heat that burned through him.

“Did you here that, Merry? He sighed – it must feel good.”

“I should think so, with his temperature. Go and fetch my water bottle, will you, please? His is empty.”

“Half a minute.”

Frodo, his senses sharpening as his fever abated somewhat, felt Pippin get up and move away, while Merry continued to bathe his face and neck with the cloth. Frodo licked his dry lips as he concentrated on attempting to speak.

“Merry?” he managed at last, his voice sounding hoarse and unused to his own ears. He again felt frustrated at the energy it took simply to form words. The hands pressing the cool cloth to his forehead stopped, and Frodo heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Frodo?” Merry’s voice was soft, but Frodo could hear the eagerness in it. “Frodo, can you open your eyes? Try!” Frodo took a long while before even attempting to follow through with Merry’s request, recovering the strength he’d drained from struggling to wake fully.

Frodo concentrated all his strength on trying to open his eyes, but they felt leaden, and all he managed was a slight furrowing of his brows. He groaned slightly with frustration, and instantly regretted the action, for it caused the pain in his dry throat to double.

“Come on, Frodo, you can do it. Try, please!” Frodo felt Merry take his hand and press it hopefully, and he tried again to open his eyes. The pain in his head was increasing with every attempt, and he began to drift, unwillingly, back to the peaceful darkness.

Merry watched in hopeful suspense as Frodo’s brow furrowed slightly and his eyes fluttered. “Pippin, he’s opening his eyes!” he cried, trying to keep his voice low.

Pippin hurried over and dropped down beside Merry, taking Frodo’s other hand in both of his. “Come on, Frodo,” he pleaded. “Try! You can do it!”

Frodo’s eyes fluttered again, and this time opened just enough for them to see a glimmer of blue beneath the thick, dark lashes. But then Frodo gasped, and his eyes closed again. His hands, which had been clenched in the effort to open his eyes, went limp in Merry and Pippin’s hold.

“Frodo? Frodo!” Merry called hopefully, letting go of his cousin’s hand to feel his forehead. It was again burning hot to the touch, and Merry quickly replaced the wet cloth. “He must be unconscious again,” he mumbled, more to himself than Pippin. Then, turning to his younger cousin, he spoke louder. “Did you bring the water bottle? He must drink, no matter – Pippin, what’s wrong?” For he suddenly noticed how pale and quiet the boy was.

“I… I feel sick, Merry,” Pippin whispered, and Merry saw with alarm that he was trembling. “My stomach hurts and my throat hurts…” He trailed off and put a hand to his aching head.

Merry took both of Pippin’s small hands in his and leaned closer to his cousin. “Oh, Pip,” he said softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Pippin replied quietly. “Frodo is so ill, and you have to take care of him.”

Merry pulled Pippin into his lap and felt the younger boy’s forehead. It was slightly too hot, and beads of sweat were beginning to form, dampening Pippin’s golden curls.

“There isn’t much more I can do for Frodo right now,” Merry whispered. “And he’d never forgive me if I let you get ill, too.” He kissed the top of Pippin’s head. “Now, what did you say hurts?”

“My throat, and my stomach…” Pippin began, but suddenly his eyes widened and he stopped, swallowing hard. “Merry,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. “I think I’m going to be sick…”

Merry didn’t have time to respond, for Pippin scrambled out of his lap and dashed into the bushes on the outskirts of the camp. Merry jumped up and followed, and knelt beside his cousin as Pippin retched. When he’d finished, Merry used his own sleeve to wipe his cousin’s mouth, and scooping Pippin up in his arms, he carried him back to the campfire.

“Here, Pip, rinse out your mouth,” he said gently, offering his water bottle and a bowl. After helping Pippin with that, he let the whimpering boy curl up in his lap again. Merry stroked his curls comfortingly and whispered reassuring words, remembering with a smile the time, six years before, when Frodo had done the same to him after a nightmare, gently consoling him and letting him cry onto his shoulder.

Within a few minutes, Pippin had fallen asleep, nestled in Merry’s arms. Merry gently laid him down onto his sleeping roll and covered him with the remaining blankets, before turning to check on Frodo. His older cousin had not stirred, and was still pale and feverish.

“You need water, cousin,” Merry murmured, taking in Frodo’s cracked, colorless lips. He lifted Frodo’s head a bit and trickled a small amount of water into his mouth, having to gently stroke his cousin’s throat to help him swallow.

On the next mouthful of water, Merry found with relief that Frodo was able to swallow it, weakly, on his own. He continued to carefully pour in small mouthfuls, occasionally having to help his cousin swallow, until about half the bottle was drained. Then, he gently let Frodo’s head back down onto the pillow, noting that his face did not seem quite so pain-filled as before.

Merry sighed sadly, brushing back a dark ringlet back from Frodo’s face. He turned to look at Pippin, who was peacefully sleeping beside him. He seemed to have improved since ridding his stomach of whatever was making him ill.

“What am I going to do, Frodo?” he whispered, more to himself than his unconscious cousin. “I can’t take care of both of you alone.” The tears he’d been holding back for Pippin’s sake suddenly burst forth, and he buried his face in his arms as he sobbed. He wished despondently that Frodo was awake and could comfort him, or Pippin, to cheer him up… he wished someone was there to help him.

Suddenly, as if in answer to his unspoken plea, he heard swift footsteps approaching. He looked up, and his eyes widened as he saw an old woman hurrying towards him, her black robes swishing about her, hood shadowing her face. He sucked in his breath sharply as he recognized her.

“Iodaith!” he exclaimed, flushing with anger as he remembered his earlier suspicions of the old woman. He quickly wiped the remains of his tears away and jumped to his feet as Iodaith reached the campsite and stopped in front of him, doubled over and gasping heavily for breath.

“What are you doing here?” Merry asked suspiciously.

The old woman recovered her breath and straightened. “What is wrong with them?” she asked, her blue eyes looking over the two ill hobbits.

“I don’t know,” Merry answered, still distrustful. “Pippin had a stomachache and threw up a few minutes ago, and then fell asleep. Frodo has a fever, but there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with his stomach.”

Iodaith looked at him sharply. “What did they last eat?”

“A soup that Pippin made.” Merry handed her the cooking pot, which had not yet been cleaned, and she dipped her finger inside and rubbed it around the sides of the pot. Bringing it out, she sniffed it and muttered something that sounded like a curse under her breath.

Quickly handing the pot to Merry, who set it down on the ground, she wordlessly walked over to Frodo and dropped down beside him. Stretching out her long, aged fingers, she felt for a pulse at the side of his throat and frowned.

“He is too hot,” she said, not even glancing up at Merry as she pulled back the blankets. “Did you not feel his fever?” Without giving Merry a chance to reply, she gestured impatiently to Pippin. “Make sure he is cooled, if he is ill also, as you say.”

Speechless with surprise, Merry automatically obeyed, pulling the blankets off Pippin, who began to tremble in the chill air. “What do I do now?” he asked worriedly, looking at Iodaith for help, despite his mistrust of her.

“If you would wait a moment, young hobbit, I will tell you,” Iodaith grumbled, effectively quieting him. She unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt halfway and placed an outstretched hand on his chest, closing her eyes and mumbling something that Merry could not hear.

Frodo gasped and struggled against her, his head tossing from side to side. Merry hurried over to his cousin and knelt beside him, stroking his feverish cheek in an attempt to comfort him. “What are you doing?” he demanded angrily.

The old woman’s eyes opened, but she kept her hand on Frodo’s chest, as though holding him down. “What does it look like I’m doing?” she snapped, fiery blue eyes flickering. “I’m trying to heal him! Now be quiet and let me continue.”

Merry shut his mouth with an audible snap and watched silently as Iodaith shut her eyes and began to chant again. Frodo struggled at first, as it seemed as though she was holding him down, although she applied no pressure with her hand. Indeed, her hand was barely touching him.

Presently, Iodaith opened her eyes and looked at Merry. “Get me some water."

While Merry hastened to obey, she pulled from somewhere in the great folds of her robe a small flask, filled with a golden liquid that seemed to glow. When Merry returned with a water bottle, she took it from his hands and opened her flask.

A sweet fragrance filled the air, easing Merry’s tension and stopping Frodo’s struggles. Merry closed his eyes and it seemed that the scent of lilacs and lavender, reminding him of his mother, floated around him.

Iodaith smiled and some of the lines of worry and care on her face were smoothed away. “Help me lift him,” she instructed Merry, but not sharply this time. They lifted Frodo up into a sitting position, and his head rested on Merry’s shoulder.

Iodaith pressed the flask to Frodo’s lips and poured just one golden drop into his mouth. Frodo swallowed slowly. Iodaith studied him closely for a moment, then poured another drop into his mouth.

Almost at once, Merry felt something change. Frodo’s fever began to diminish, and a hint of color touched his pale cheeks. It almost seemed, as Iodaith laid a hand on his brow, that Frodo glowed, faintly, with a soft golden light. Iodaith also seemed to shine, and as Merry watched, awestruck, it seemed that the long years on the woman’s face were washed away, and he beheld a fair young maiden. Her brilliant blue eyes remained closed as she chanted something once again that Merry could not hear or understand.

It was almost as though the two were speaking wordlessly to one another, for both were completely still, and Merry began to fear that Frodo was not even breathing. It seemed then that his fever was returning, and the faint flush began to fade from his cheeks again. Merry’s eyes widened in fear as his cousin’s breaths became labored, choking gasps, and his skin grew even paler than before.

“Lay him down,” Iodaith commanded quickly, her voice sounding as young as she appeared, but full of authority. Merry instantly did as he was told, and gently laid Frodo back down onto the bedroll, keeping one of his cousin’s hands in his own. Frodo did not show any signs that he was aware of the movement, and remained limp and unresponsive as Iodaith bent over him.

Iodaith’s glow intensified as she continued to chant, her voice rising. She bent down and pressed her forehead to Frodo’s, placing a long, slender hand on his chest. He gasped, and Merry, holding his hand, could feel his heartbeat racing.

As Frodo suddenly choked, Iodaith tilted his head back and covering his mouth with hers, blew one long breath into his mouth. Merry felt his pulse stumbling. Iodaith pulled back and looked at Frodo’s pale face. “Elbereth Gilthoniel!” she cried, and Frodo’s breaths began to lengthen and even out. His soft, golden glow returned, as though flowing from her hands, and Merry felt his heartbeat slow to a normal pace.

Color returned to Frodo’s face and his fever vanished just as suddenly as it had come. His glow, as well as Iodaith’s, faded, and again she was an old, aged woman. Pressing her forehead again to Frodo’s for a moment, Iodaith sighed wearily and straightened.

“Well?” Merry questioned hesitantly.

“He is asleep,” Iodaith answered tiredly. “You have nothing more to fear for him – I feared at first that he would not be able to endure my healing, but he has proved stronger than I’d thought.” She smiled wanly. “Now let us see to Pippin.”

Merry, eyes still wide with astonishment at what he’d just witnessed, followed her over to the bedroll where Pippin lay sleeping. Iodaith closed her eyes and placed her hands on his small forehead, then after a moment, looked up with a smile. “He is fine,” she said, stroking Pippin’s golden curls. “He expelled the poison from his stomach in time.”

“What made them so ill?” Merry asked, looking with relief down at his sleeping younger cousin.

“They were poisoned,” Iodaith answered. “From thornapple seeds, I believe. Young Pippin must have put them in the soup by accident.”

Merry’s face paled. “But Frodo didn’t get sick to his stomach – why is that?”

Iodaith tucked a golden curl behind Pippin’s small, leaf-shaped ear. “Frodo reacted differently to the poison. It was still inside him, but the drink I gave him has destroyed it.”

“What kind of drink was that?” Merry asked curiously.

“It is an Elf-drink,” Iodaith replied. “It is called laurëmîr, which means ‘Golden Jewel.' It is very precious, and no more than a few drops are needed.” She suddenly stood up. “But I must go,” she said. “Frodo and Pippin will recover, and I am no longer needed.”

Merry jumped up and grabbed her hand as she began to walk away. “Wait!” he pleaded. She turned to look at him questioningly, and he blushed and looked down. “I just wanted to say thank you, for healing them… and I’m sorry for distrusting you.”

Iodaith smiled and bent down. “I understand why you did,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You were trying to protect your cousins – there is no need for you to apologize.” She stooped and kissed the top of his head. “Farewell.”

“Good-bye,” he said softly, picking up her large walking stick and handing it to her. “Will we see you again?”

Iodaith took a moment before answering. “Perhaps,” she said at last. “One day. Farewell.”

With that, she turned, and was quickly swallowed up in the night’s shadows. “Good-bye,” Merry whispered.

He stood there for a moment longer, staring after her, but then a noise behind him made him turn around. Both Pippin and Frodo were beginning to stir. The youngest opened his eyes first, and yawning, sat up.

“Merry?” he said, blinking.

Merry quickly came over and sat down beside him. “I’m here, Pip,” he said happily. “How are you feeling?”

Pippin rubbed the remaining sleep from his eyes and grinned. “Besides being hungry, I'm fine.” His smile faded. “But how is Frodo?”

Merry smiled and turned to look at their older cousin. “He’ll be fine now,” he said with a sigh of relief. Patting Pippin’s hand, he got up and went over to Frodo’s side.

Frodo’s eyes fluttered slowly open, and he propped himself up on his elbows. “Merry?” he said, a little hoarsely.

Merry’s face broke into a grin. “How are you feeling, Frodo?” he asked, taking his cousin’s hand and finding with relief that it was no longer burning with fever.

Frodo sighed. “Tired,” he said, laying back down. “And hungry.”

Merry laughed happily. “I’ll make you both some tea,” he announced, standing up. “It must be nearly midnight now – a bit late for supper, don’t you think?”

“It’s never too late for supper!” Pippin declared. They all laughed, and Merry silently thanked Eru for sending Iodaith to them as he listened to the wonderful sound of his cousins’ laughter.

TBC... 

7. Homecoming

"Merry, you don’t have to help me walk. I’m not made of glass."

Merry shook his head resolutely, keeping his hand firmly around Frodo’s arm, which he had draped over his shoulders. His older cousin, though he refused to admit it, was still weak from his near-fatal thornapple poisoning, and not able to wrench his arm free of Merry’s strong grip.

After trying unsuccessfully several times, Frodo sighed in exasperation and allowed himself to be assisted by Merry as they slowly made their way along the dirt road towards Hobbiton the next morning. The spring sun was covered by a thick layer of dark clouds, which, although keeping them from getting overheated, also threatened to rain on them.

‘Getting wet would almost be worse than getting too hot,’ Merry thought with concern, glancing at the still-pale faces of Frodo and Pippin beside him. He was especially worried about the youngest of their company, for Pippin had hardly spoken a word since last night, after he’d told them about Iodaith and their healing. Merry thought he could guess what was troubling his cousin, but Pippin had been unwilling to listen to any comfort or reassurance he tried to give.

"It’s almost lunchtime, isn’t it, Frodo?" asked Merry cheerfully, hoping to get his cousins’ minds off any dreary thoughts.

Frodo chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is," he said. "We can’t have you two keeling over with hunger before we reach Bag End, now can we?"

Pippin said nothing, but Merry laughed as they sat down. "We most certainly cannot," he said, forcing Frodo to stay still while he unpacked their food. "But I don’t know if we’ve enough food to satisfy Pippin – Tooks have monstrous appetites, you know, and he missed First Breakfast this morning!" He glanced hopefully at Pippin, and was rewarded by a wan smile.

"I don’t know that Tooks have larger appetites than Brandybucks," said Frodo thoughtfully, handing Pippin a small sandwich. "You can clear out all the pantries in Brandy Hall by yourself!" He shook his head. "I shudder to think what you and Pippin must do together there."

Merry swallowed a large bite of his sandwich. "Me and Pippin?" he repeated with feigned disbelief. "Master Took here is the one who managed to eat half of all the pantries in the Great Smials by himself! He’s the one always in charge of our pantry-raiding expeditions."

Pippin spoke up for the first time since the night before. "You’re one to talk, Master Brandybuck," he said coolly. "I believe that it was you who ran off with the entire turkey from Yuletide Feast last year."

Merry and Frodo stared in surprise at Pippin for a moment, before the oldest burst out laughing. "The entire turkey?" he exclaimed. "Merry, I wouldn’t expect that, even from you!"

Merry glared halfheartedly at Frodo. "If we’re bringing up old transgressions," he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "then who was the one who made off with half the mushrooms from Farmer Maggot’s crops and finished almost all of them before he was caught?"

He heard a slight laugh from Pippin and he grinned. Frodo, much to Merry’s dismay, did not seem perturbed, and his smile did not falter. "That was sheer skill," he said proudly. "Not many can escape so long without being caught – especially with such an armful."

Merry shook his head as they finished their sandwiches and replaced everything in their packs. "Then was it skill that got you caught the last time you visited Farmer Maggot?" he teased, grinning with satisfaction as he succeeded in causing Frodo to cringe at the memory.

"It was skill that got me the mushrooms he caught me with," said Frodo, standing up. "And it was skill to escape with less of a beating than he wished to give me."

They laughed, even Pippin, and continued along the road, Merry keeping a careful eye on both his cousins the entire way. They were just entering the outskirts of Hobbiton when it began to rain, and Merry noticed, as they pulled up the hoods of their cloaks, that Frodo’s face was paler than before.

"Let’s rest under that tree," he suggested, pointing to a large oak by the side of the road. "I’m hungry again."

Frodo only chuckled slightly and shook his head. "Not yet, Merry," he said, his voice a bit hoarse. "We’re almost to Bag End… another half-hour, and we’ll be there."

Merry firmly grabbed Frodo’s arm and stopped his cousin from continuing. "No, Frodo," he argued. "You’re still recovering from your illness, and I won’t have you catching a chill on top of it." He turned to the youngest hobbit, standing silent beside him. "That goes for you, too, Peregrin Took."

Frodo smiled faintly. "You sound just like Bilbo," he said, trying to hide his true exhaustion with a light jest.

Merry snorted. "Well, Uncle Bilbo had sense," he replied. "And I’d like to think that I do, too. Now both of you. Sit." He pulled them both by the arms and forced them down beneath the branches of the tree.

"Wait here until I get some blankets," he ordered, pulling Frodo’s pack from his cousin’s shoulders and proceeding to do the same to Pippin.

"Merry," Frodo protested. "We’re not staying here for more than a few minutes. We don’t need blankets."

"All right, then," Merry returned, rummaging through a pack. "Then at least put on a warmer coat. It’s getting cold out here with the rain!"

Frodo sighed, and reluctantly obeyed, then leaned his head back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. He heard Merry commanding Pippin to put a warmer coat on, as well, and heard him do so.

He had been so occupied with making sure that Merry didn’t fuss over him overmuch, and hiding the slight headache and dizziness that had remained even after awakening from the events of last night, that he hadn’t noticed until now Pippin’s strange silence. As he thought about it, he realized what must be troubling his young cousin.

Just as he was about to move, he felt Merry’s hand on his forehead, and sighed. "Merry," he said in frustration, opening his eyes, "I’m fine. I don’t have a fever, and I’m not getting a chill."

Merry sighed, as well, and removed his hand. "Frodo," he argued, "you were very ill last night and I don’t want to risk you getting ill again. I know you well enough to know that you won’t tell me if something’s wrong. So I have to watch you to make sure you don’t overtax yourself."

Frodo smiled. "Very well, Master Healer," he said, only partially joking. "You know best. But I still want to reach Bag End by supper-time, and I think we should get moving."

"Yes, I think we can move on now," Merry agreed slowly. "But don’t push yourself too hard."

"I won’t," Frodo promised as he stood up. Merry walked away to sort through their packs, mumbling something that Frodo could not catch, and he turned to Pippin, still sitting against the bole of the tree.

"Pip," he said softly, crouching down beside his younger cousin and putting a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. "We’re going to move on now…is there something troubling you?"

Pippin looked up at him silently, an unreadable expression in his olive-green eyes, which, to Frodo’s alarm, began to fill with tears. "…Ye-es," he answered after a moment, hesitantly. "I—"

His words were suddenly cut off as a shout rang through the still afternoon air. "Ponto Baggins! You bring that back this instant!"

All three travelers got to their feet and watched with surprise as a young lad, perhaps a year or two into his tweens, laughed and raced toward them, holding a black umbrella under his arm. "Can’t catch me!" he shouted teasingly, unaware of his audience.

Up over the hill of the road came his pursuer, and the onlookers’ surprise, they saw that it was a girl. She was around Frodo’s age, and what must have been a lovely sky-blue dress was splattered with mud and wet with rain. In her white-gloved hands (which had still managed to stay clean, albeit wet), she held several sheets of quickly dampening paper. Her thick auburn ringlets, tied up in what was previously an elegant bun, were soaked and dripping, and her pretty face was flushed with anger.

"Ponto Baggins," she repeated through clenched teeth. "Bring that back right now! My drawings will be ruined…" She trailed off as she caught sight of the observers beneath the tree, and her cheeks grew redder.

"Good afternoon," Frodo called, rescuing her from the awkward situation as she began to stammer. He, Merry and Pippin stepped out onto the road, and bowed politely. The girl dropped a graceful curtsy – despite her rather bedraggled appearance – and quickly recovered her manners.

"Afternoon," she returned, her face still red with embarrassment. "Please forgive my display… I’m sure I must look a fright…"

Frodo smiled. "I’m sure we don’t look any better." His friendly manner caused her nervousness to vanish, and she returned his smile.

Ponto came back to see what was taking his pursuer so long, and boldly walked up to the three new-comers. "Hullo," he said with a grin. "Who’re you?" He winced at a sudden kick in the shin from the girl, who looked up apologetically.

"Please forgive his lack of manners," she said quickly. "He’s been running a bit wild today. I am Lila Baggins, and my unruly brother here is Ponto."

"This is Merry Brandybuck, and Pippin Took," Frodo gestured to his cousins. "And I am Frodo Baggins, at your service." He bowed again, and Lila’s bright blue eyes widened with surprise.

"Frodo Baggins?" she repeated. "Aren’t you Bilbo’s nephew?"

Now that Frodo got a better look at her, he remembered seeing Lila at Bilbo’s Farewell Party, only briefly. He nodded with a smile. "Yes," he said. "But I’ve only seen you once before – you don’t live near here, do you?"

Lila shook her head. "No," she answered. "My family and I are moving here, from Bree."

Frodo’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Bree?" he exclaimed. "You’re coming quite a ways!" He suddenly remembered that they were all out in the cold rain, and Lila’s papers were becoming thoroughly sodden. Lila noticed, as well, and grabbing the umbrella from Ponto’s hands, she opened it and held it over their heads.

"What part of Hobbiton are you moving to?" Frodo inquired, naturally curious to know more about anyone from so far away.

Lila began to answer, but Ponto suddenly cleared his throat. "Lila," he interrupted. "Mama and papa are expecting us home – we don’t want to be late again."

Lila sighed. "No, of course not. Very well then, I’m afraid I’ll have to wait until our next meeting to tell you more." Frodo nodded, and smiling, shook the gloved hand she suddenly extended.

"I’m sorry," she said quickly, withdrawing her hand and blushing again. "I know it’s not ladylike to shake hands, but we do that in Bree, you know…"

Frodo laughed. "Quite all right," he assured her. "I’d be interested to learn more about Bree; I’ve never been there. I’m sure it’s very interesting."

Lila nodded and shifted the papers to her other arm. "It is," she said. "But if you’ll excuse me, I must be going. No, I don’t need to be escorted home," she added, seeing Frodo open his mouth to speak. "I’ll be fine. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye, Lila!" Frodo returned. "Safe trip home." Merry and Pippin, still in surprised silence, merely waved at the quickly departing figures. As they went back to the tree to gather their things, Frodo laughed.

"She was an interesting lass, wasn’t she? And all the way from Bree!"

Merry nodded, hoisting his pack onto his back. "Quite interesting – and her brother looked like fun," he chuckled mischievously. "But don’t you be thinking that just because a lass can go running around in the rain, you can, too. Keep the hood of your cloak pulled up!"

Frodo sighed, and the three continued on their way to Bag End. By the time they reached the familiar green door and opened it (having stopped to retrieve the key at the Gamgees’ home on their way), they were thoroughly soaked and exhausted.

"All right now," said Frodo, "it’s my turn to give orders. Both of you, choose one of the bedrooms and go get some dry clothes while I start some tea."

The two younger lads obeyed, but Merry called as he went down the hall, "Hurry up and get into some dry clothes, yourself, Frodo Baggins! The tea can wait!"

Frodo chuckled and built up a fire in the hearth, then filled the teakettle full of water and hung it over the flames. While the water warmed, he grabbed his pack and went down the hall to change into some dry clothes.

But as he reached his room, he found the door locked. He opened it, and to his surprise, found Merry and Pippin, just finishing pulling on their dry blouses. "What are you doing in my room?" he demanded, folding his arms.

"You told us to pick a room," Merry pointed out with a grin. "You didn’t specify which one."

Frodo couldn’t resist a smile. "Very well then," he consented. "But there’s not room enough for both of you in my bed." He took out a fresh set of clothes from his closet and pulled off his rain-soaked waistcoat and blouse.

"You can always bring in a guest bed," Pippin piped up. "You have plenty."

Frodo laughed as he stepped into a pair of dry trousers. "For one thing, Master Peregrin," he retorted, "I don’t think Doctor Meriadoc would allow me to go dragging heavy beds all through the house." Merry snorted indignantly at the thought. "And for another," Frodo continued, "as you said, there are plenty of guest beds, and guestrooms that are just as comfortable." He smiled teasingly. "But I suppose there is enough room in my bed if you must…" He added, trailing off as the high-pitched whistle from the teakettle announced that it was ready.

***

The next morning, Pippin was rather rudely awakened by being pushed off Frodo’s bed. Grumbling as he picked himself up off the floor, he eyed the pile of arms, legs, curly hair and blankets that were his older cousins. He saw with relief that Frodo’s face had returned to its usual, healthy color, and that all hints of his earlier illness had disappeared, as well.

A mischievous grin spread over his face, and Pippin felt almost guilty as he watched the peaceful face of his older cousin – all that could be seen of Merry were the wild golden curls sticking out between Frodo’s neck and shoulder, his face buried in the pillows. But he shrugged, and suddenly shouted, "Wake up, cousins! It's a beautiful morning!"

The lumps of blankets groaned and shifted, and Frodo opened one eye halfway. "What’s beautiful about it?" he grumbled, rolling over and burrowing his face into his pillow. Merry merely yawned and flopped on top of his older cousin.

Pippin surveyed the two quietly, watching as Frodo drifted back to sleep. He went silently around the room, preparing himself for the day, and then returned to the bed. He bent down close to Frodo’s ear, and brushed back the dark curls covering it. "Wake up, Frodo!" he whispered. "Wake up!"

Frodo groaned and with difficulty – as Merry still lay sprawled on top of him – he turned to face Pippin, opening his eyes halfway. "If I go make you breakfast, will you leave me alone and let me go back to sleep?"

Pippin grinned. "Maybe," he replied playfully.

Frodo sighed and after a good amount of wriggling, he managed to sit up. He promptly rolled Merry off the bed, smiling as he heard a loud, "Ow!" Merry picked himself up and glared at Frodo. "Good morning to you, too," he grumbled.

Frodo yawned and resumed his smile. "Breakfast time," he said. "Go get dressed."

While Merry and Pippin went to get clean clothes from their packs, Frodo climbed out of bed and groaned. "Ohh, I am never sleeping in the same bed with you two again!"

Pippin’s head appeared around the doorway of the closet where he and Merry changed. "You’re one to talk, Frodo," he teased. "Your elbows are sharp, and you were the one who pushed me off the bed." He laughed at his older cousin’s grimace as Frodo bent down to take a pair of breeches from his pack.

Merry’s head appeared beside Pippin’s. "Getting a bit old now, are you, Frodo? I can hear those joints creaking from over here!"

The next moment they both had to duck back inside the closet to avoid being hit in the face with a pillow.

***

After breakfast, Pippin’s earlier cheerfulness had disappeared, and he was again broodingly silent as memories assailed him. He silently withdrew to the windowseat in Frodo’s room, and stared contemplatively out the round window. Guilt for what had happened to Frodo the night before last plagued him mercilessly, and he could not escape the terrible fact that it was his fault that his gentle older cousin had nearly died.

Soft footsteps approaching startled him out of his reverie, and he turned to see the object of his thoughts coming in. "Pip?" Frodo asked hesitantly. "Do you mind if I sit here with you?" Pippin shrugged, and Frodo curled up on the opposite side of the windowseat.

There was silence for several minutes. "Where’s Merry?" asked Pippin at last.

"He saw Ponto outside and went to play with him," Frodo answered, and again there was a long silence before he spoke again. "Pippin," he said softly. "What is troubling you?"

Pippin kept his eyes fixed outside, at the now sun-dried garden, where Sam pulled weeds in the flowerbeds. "It’s my fault," he finally answered, in a whisper so soft that Frodo almost didn’t hear it.

"What’s your fault?" Although he could already guess, Frodo felt that it was better if Pippin shared all his feelings aloud.

"It’s my fault that you got sick," said Pippin after a long moment, his quiet voice thick with suppressed tears. "I was the one who made that soup and put the thornapple in it. It was my fault!" He pressed his hands to his eyes and furiously scrubbed his tears away.

"Pippin." Frodo laid a gentle hand on Pippin’s shoulder, but the distraught boy pulled away, still not meeting his gaze. "Pippin, will you listen to me?" he asked, his hands returning to his lap. His younger cousin sniffled and nodded.

"It was not your fault that I got sick," Frodo said firmly. "It was an honest mistake you made, one anyone could have made. Any one of us could have picked those seeds. It was not your fault."

Pippin hesitantly looked up to meet Frodo’s gaze, and to his surprise, found it gentle and forgiving. Unable to keep his tears back any longer, he threw himself into his cousin’s arms and sobbed, letting all the tension and guilt he’d been keeping to himself fade away.

Frodo comfortingly held Pippin and rocked him back and forth, letting the boy soak his shirt with his tears. He remembered the times when he’d done the same for Merry, and wondered briefly why he had been chosen to act as an older brother for his dear younger cousins – there were times when he didn’t feel up to the part.

When Pippin’s sobs had quieted to shuddering breaths, he sat up and quickly wiped his eyes, a bit embarrassed by his sudden outburst. "I’m sorry," he said softly.

"There’s nothing to be sorry for," Frodo replied gently. Pippin shook his head, and looked up, his soft green eyes so full of earnest beseeching that Frodo’s heart ached for him, and he wished he knew what would comfort his cousin.

As if reading Frodo’s thoughts, Pippin whispered, "I just want you to forgive me."

"But Pip –" Frodo began, but Pippin cut him off. "Please, Frodo. I need you to forgive me…not only for making you sick…but for not telling you how I felt sooner."

Frodo pulled Pippin into a gentle embrace. "Of course, Pippin," he said softly. "Of course I forgive you. Will you forgive me?"

Pippin pulled away and looked up in surprise. "Forgive you?" he repeated. "Whyever for?"

"For not noticing that you felt like this sooner, and not talking to you about it. I’m sorry."

Pippin wrapped his arms around his cousin just as lovingly and comfortingly as Frodo had before, and felt him return the gesture fiercely. They sat there, on the windowseat, for a long time, feeling as though a great gap had been closed between them.

At last, Pippin raised his head and laughed, wiping away the tears from his face. "Don’t we look like a sentimental pair of girls!" he exclaimed. "Crying like that."

Frodo laughed as Pippin stroked away the last tear sliding down his cheek. "What will Merry think of us?" he said as they got off the windowseat and walked to the kitchen.

"He would be appalled," Pippin replied promptly, reaching for an apple. "I can just see his face!"

They bantered playfully as they had a small snack, and when Merry came inside from playing with Ponto, he knew at once that all was well again. "I see you two’ve been busy," he laughed, folding his arms. "Are you going to save any of that sandwich for me, Mister Took?"

Pippin grinned as he swallowed his large mouthful of bread, lettuce, and sliced ham. "Here," he said, handing Merry the discarded crusts. Merry pretended to look annoyed, but ended up laughing instead.

"Frodo, do you have any real food?" he asked hopefully, turning to his older cousin.

Frodo laughed and swatted his hand away from where it was creeping towards his sandwich. "If you’ll be a good little hobbit and don’t touch my food, I’ll get you your own," he said, rising from the table.

"I’ll be very good," Merry promised, giving Frodo his most innocent look.

Pippin pretended to gag, and Frodo shook his head. "I’ll believe that when I see it," he muttered.

Just as he set the sandwich down in front of Merry, there was a loud knock at the door. Frodo went to open it, and on the doorstep stood a very out-of-breath and disheveled Sam Gamgee.

"Sam!" Frodo exclaimed. "What’s wrong? You like as though you’ve seen a ghost!"

"Just got—a message—from me brother," the gardener panted. "’e was—in town—deliverin’ somethin’ to the—the Burrowses," he caught his breath. "Mr. Milo said that little Mosco is very ill. They’ve sent for Dr. Bolger, but he’s gettin’ worse by the minute."

Frodo’s face paled. "Thank you, Sam," he said quickly. "I’ll go see them right away. Here, come inside." He opened the door and let the gardener in, and then raced into his room to grab his cloak. ‘It’s a good thing that the Burrowses moved to Hobbiton three years ago,’ he thought as he went back down the hall, ‘Or I’d never get there soon enough.’

He rushed into the kitchen, where Sam had just told the news to Merry and Pippin. "I’m going to see them," Frodo announced quickly. As Merry opened his mouth to speak, he held up his hand and continued. "Merry, Pippin, you stay here with Sam. I don’t know if it’s contagious yet, but I won’t take the chance."

Merry folded his arms. "No, Frodo!" he argued. "They’re our cousins, too!"

"Merry, I don’t have time to argue," said Frodo firmly. "But you two are staying here. Sam, please take care of them!"

"’Course, Mr. Frodo!" Sam promised. Frodo looked at all three of them for a moment, nodded, and with a reassuring smile, turned and darted out of Bag End and into the chill late-afternoon air.

TBC...

8. Ill Tidings

Dr. Bolger knocked on the round brown door of the Burrowses smial. Almost immediately, it was answered by a very distraught Milo. The doctor had seen many grieving parents before, but to see a dear friend looking so exhausted and hopeless made his heart ache. "Afternoon, Milo," he said as cheerfully as he could.

Milo’s dull grey eyes brightened at the sight of him, and his weary face broke into a hopeful smile. "Dr. Bolger!" he exclaimed, holding the door open further. "At last! Here, come in." He shut the door behind the doctor.

Without even waiting to remove his cloak or gloves, Dr. Bolger hurried down the hall, following the sound of a child crying, in little Mosco’s room. "What ails young Mosco?" he asked as he and Milo walked.

"He’s been coughing for two days now," Milo answered worriedly. "We called for Dr. Bracegirdle, and she said that it was croup and that he shouldn’t get any worse. She gave us some wild cherry bark and thyme to make a tea for the cough, but they haven’t been working since this afternoon, and his coughing is getting worse."

"Has he had any colds recently?" asked Dr. Bolger, stopping in the hallway.

"He had a bit of a cold a few days ago," Milo replied, stopping as well. "A slight fever and a runny nose, is all. But it went away, the day before he began coughing."

Dr. Bolger nodded solemnly, and then gave Milo a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Don’t worry, my friend," he said as they continued to Mosco’s room. "The lad will be fine."

Inside the small room, Peony, her beautiful chestnut curls in an untidy braid, was stroking the forehead of five-year-old Mosco with a cool, damp cloth. The little boy’s eyes were closed, but tears ran down his cheeks and he whimpered every so often. He quieted a little when Peony whispered to him, but his cries were growing louder as his breathing quickened. With each shallow, gasping breath, a harsh, grating sound could be heard, and Milo saw a brief look of concern flash in Dr. Bolger’s eyes.

Peony looked up, hearing Dr. Bolger, Milo just behind him, enter the room, and her soft brown eyes filled with tears of relief. "Dr. Bolger!" she cried, folding the cloth on Mosco’s forehead and getting up. "I was beginning to fear you’d never come."

Dr. Bolger smiled reassuringly. "I’m sorry I was delayed," he said as he knelt down by the small bedside. "I had an emergency message from Mistress Goodbody, at the other end of town, you know. She went into labor early, but I’ve left my sister, Lilac, with her." He tried to keep up a cheerful conversation as he examined little Mosco. The boy had only a slight fever, though it seemed to be rising, and putting his ear against his chest, Dr. Bolger could hear a rattle there that told of heavy congestion in his lungs.

Peony stepped back, giving the doctor room, and Milo pulled her close, feeling her trembling in his arms. Normally, Peony was strong and fearless, able to cope with almost anything, but seeing her small son barely able to draw breath was a new and terrifying experience.

"Mosco-lad," whispered Dr. Bolger, rubbing his thumb along the bridge of the small boy’s nose. Mosco whimpered and his eyes fluttered, but did not open. Dr. Bolger brushed back the sweat-soaked auburn curls from his forehead and laid his hand there, gauging the temperature.

At last, Mosco’s eyes slowly opened a little, showing a glimmer of silver-grey beneath the dark lashes. "Mosco," said Dr. Bolger again. "Wake up. It’s Dr. Bolger. I’ve come to make you better."

Mosco’s eyes opened little more than halfway, bereft of their usual merry sparkle. "Dr. Bolger?" he repeated, his voice hoarse. He suddenly squeezed his eyes tightly shut and sucked in a shallow breath. "Make it stop!" he pleaded. "Make it stop, please!"

In Milo’s arms, Peony stifled a sob and buried her face in her husband’s shirt. Dr. Bolger swallowed against the lump in his throat. To see children suffering was the only thing that he could not ever get accustomed to as a healer. "Tell me where it hurts, Mosco," he said urgently, holding the boy's arms as he began to toss and turn. "I can’t make you better if I don’t know what hurts."

Tears ran down Mosco’s face again, and he moaned. "Stop," he begged again. "Make it stop!"

"Where, lad?" Dr. Bolger repeated, louder this time. "Where does it hurt?"

Mosco’s small hands reached up and touched the right side of his chest. "Here," he gasped, trying to keep back the cries of pain that threatened to break loose. "I’m g-going to…cough again…hurts w-when I…c-cough."

Dr. Bolger’s brow furrowed with concern, but he tried not to let it show in his voice. "All right, lad," he murmured comfortingly, stroking Mosco’s small cheek. "You must let yourself cough – even if it hurts, it will help you get better faster. Trust me, Mosco."

Mosco whimpered, curling up on his side and wrapping both small arms around his chest. He resisted a moment longer, then surrendered and let the coughing fit run its course. Peony and Milo came over and comforted him along with Dr. Bolger as the violent coughs wracked his small body, and at last he fell back, exhausted, against his pillows.

Peony gathered him into her arms and rocked him gently as tears ran down his face, and Dr. Bolger motioned for Milo to follow him to the doorway. The sound of Mosco’s harsh, rapid breaths could still be heard, and caused both of them to cringe.

"First of all," Dr. Bolger began, keeping his voice low, "Peony must leave with little Moro. We can’t risk so young a baby getting sick." Milo started a little at the abrupt and startling statement, and glanced at his wife, still holding Mosco gently in her arms.

"I agree," he said after a moment, nodding slowly. "She can stay with the Broadbelts, just down the lane." He was grateful that their friends from Bywater had moved to a small farm in Hobbiton a few months after they had. "But it shan’t be easy to convince her."

Dr. Bolger followed Milo’s gaze. "I think that when she realizes that it would be much more dangerous for a baby Moro’s age to get croup, she will agree, as well."

"So it is croup that Mosco has?" Milo asked, tearing his eyes away from Peony and his son to look at the doctor.

Dr. Bolger nodded. "Yes," he said. "But it is fast becoming severe, I’m afraid. His breathing is worsening, and though his fever is low now, it may rise with his coughing. Which brings me to another problem," he sighed heavily. "I believe that little Mosco may have cracked a rib or two from his coughing, which is the cause of his severe pain. We will have to wrap his ribs with a warm poultice soaked in some herbs for the pain. That way, he shan’t hurt so much when he coughs – which is vital for his recovery."

Milo nodded again, chewing on his lower lip with worry, and Dr. Bolger patted him reassuringly on the back. "Don’t be too troubled, Milo," said the doctor with a comforting smile. "Croup is common and easy to treat – Mosco will be fine." With one last pat of his friend’s shoulder, Dr. Bolger went over to Peony, with Milo, to explain the situation to her.

A sudden knock at the front door startled them. "I’ll get it," said Milo quickly, and hastened down the hall. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw Frodo standing at the doorstep, his nose and cheeks red from the cold, as the sun had now set.

"Hullo Milo," said Frodo with as bright a smile as he could manage, seeing the weary look on his cousin’s face. "I heard that little Mosco was ill, and I came to see what I could do to help."

Milo couldn’t help but return the smile. "Bless you, Frodo," he said sincerely, feeling guilty for the relief that flooded over him. He did not wish to trouble his young cousin, but in truth, he would be grateful for the extra help and the comfort of someone well known for Mosco, and he told Frodo so as opened the door wider and let his younger cousin inside.

"What ails him?" asked Frodo as Milo hung up his cloak on a peg in the hall.

"A severe case of croup," Milo answered with a shaky sigh. "And the poor lad’s cracked a few ribs with his coughing." He saw Frodo wince in sympathy for the ailing child, and suddenly felt a cold wave of fear come over him. For the first time since hearing the news, he truly gave thought to the fact that dear little Mosco had a potentially life-threatening malady.

Seeing his older cousin suddenly pale and fall silent, Frodo instinctively threw his arms around Milo and gave him a reassuring hug. "Mosco will be fine," he said confidently. "Dr. Bolger will see to that."

Milo blinked back the tears that threatened to ruin his composure, and returned the embrace fiercely, silently blessing his young cousin again for the comfort that small gesture brought. Regaining control over himself, he pulled away and smiled gratefully.

"Right, then," he said. "Perhaps you can help me convince Peony that she and Moro have to go stay with the Broadbelts until little Mosco is well." He led Frodo down the hall and into the sick child’s room, where Mosco lay in a fitful sleep on Peony’s lap.

Peony had tears shining on her cheeks, and her eyes remained focused on her small son as she absently stroked his auburn curls. Dr. Bolger sat in a chair facing the fireplace, staring at the flames as though seeking an answer to some perplexing question there.

"Peony," Milo called softly, startling both his wife and the doctor out of their reveries.

Dr. Bolger’s eyes widened in surprise, catching sight of Frodo in the doorway. "Frodo!" he exclaimed, trying to keep his voice low so as not to wake Mosco. "What are you doing here, lad?"

"I’d like to help, if I can," said Frodo, looking at Dr. Bolger, eyebrows raised in question.

The doctor smiled and nodded. "Thank you, lad," he said sincerely. "We shall need all the help we can get."

***

Back in Bag End, Merry was furiously pacing the floor of the sitting room in Bag End. "Why should Frodo go tend to Mosco while we have to stay here?" he said heatedly. "The Burrowses are our cousins, too!"

Pippin nodded in agreement, chewing on an apple, and Sam threw up his hands and turned from the window where he’d been looking out. "Mr. Merry," he said in exasperation. "Please, sit down. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor." Merry stopped, stared at him a moment, then reluctantly sat down on the sofa beside Pippin.

"Thank you," Sam sighed. "Mr. Frodo knows what ’e’s doin’. I’m sure he’ll come back if Mosco’s contagious, an’ even if he isn’t, Mr. Frodo ’ll send word. But worritin’ won’t make him come back any faster."

Merry folded his arms irritably. "But why couldn’t Pip and I come with him? What if he can’t send word? What if he gets ill before he can come back? What if…?"

"Mr. Merry!" Sam cut him off. "Please! Mr. Frodo’s fine. He’ll be back right soon."

They waited in silence, broken only by Merry’s muttered grumbling and Pippin’s chewing of his apple, for nearly a half an hour. Finally, Merry jumped up again. "He’s been gone long enough!" he exclaimed. "Why don’t we go see what’s happening at the Burrowses?"

"Merry," Pippin cautioned, for once the more sensible one of the two. "Frodo told us to stay here. He’ll be back soon, and then we can ask to go along with him if Mosco’s not contagious."

"And anyhow," Sam added, "I have t’ be back home, and Mr. Frodo knows that. He’ll be back soon."

Merry sighed heavily and joined Sam by the window. "I just can't bear being left behind," he muttered. "Doesn’t he think that Pip and I are worried about Mosco, too?" He thought about the cheerful, bouncy little boy, with his father’s curiosity and easy-going personality, and his mother’s honest, open smile. He remembered especially the night, last summer, when he’d been visiting the Broadbelts’ farm with Frodo, and how they’d stayed up late catching fireflies with Daisy, Dickon and little Mosco. For the first time since hearing the news, Merry felt cold fear creep over him that he might not get the chance to see his young cousin healthy again, and he rested his forehead on the windowpane, closing his eyes.

A hand on his shoulder startled him and he looked up into the gentle brown eyes of Sam. "I know, Mr. Merry," said Sam softly. "I’m worried ’bout little Mosco, too."

Merry looked out the window. "It’s just awful, waiting here uselessly, helplessly…" he trailed off with a shrug, unable to explain how he felt.

Sam smiled and squeezed Merry’s shoulder reassuringly. "I know," he said again. "I don’t like it no more than you. But we just must wait, and trust that Mr. Frodo knows what he’s doin’."

After a moment, Merry nodded, and Sam patted his shoulder. "How ’bout somethin’ to eat, Mr. Merry?" he suggested, hoping to raise the younger lad’s spirits. "It’s nigh on supper-time now."

Pippin perked up at the mention of food and hopped off the sofa. "I’m hungry!" he announced eagerly. "I haven’t eaten since…" he thought for a moment. "…Since lunchtime!" He gasped and clapped a hand to his cheek. "We forgot to have Afternoon Tea! I’ll have to speak to Frodo about this. We can’t go without Afternoon Tea…" He continued to chatter happily as he and Sam headed into the kitchen.

Merry looked longingly at the front door, but knew better than to try to sneak out. He didn’t wish to get Sam into trouble. The smell of mushroom soup began to drift through the air, and involuntarily, a grin spread over his face. He realized that he was quite hungry, and mushroom soup was always one of his favorite dishes.

Putting aside his worry for a while, he went into the kitchen to have supper with the Sam and Pippin.

About forty minutes later, supper was finished and still Frodo had not returned. Sam, Merry and Pippin sat around the table, each thoughtfully silent, waiting for the door to open. Even Sam was beginning to worry, and Pippin was sharing Merry’s growing frustration.

At last, there came a quick, loud knock at the door. All three jumped up to answer it, and to their surprise, Peony stood on the doorstep, her loose braid disheveled and her face weary, but her brown eyes brightening as she saw them. In her arms was two-month-old Moro: a small bundle of sandy curls covering a small, peacefully sleeping face, wrapped snugly in a thick white blanket. A pack lay on the doorstep at her feet. "Hullo, lads," she said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster.

"Where’s Frodo?" Merry asked quickly, cutting her off before she could say more.

"Frodo’s staying with poor little Mosco and Milo, and Dr. Bolger," said Peony, her smile fading a little. "I’m forced to go stay with the Broadbelts, as Mosco is contagious, and we can’t risk little Moro getting ill." She blinked back tears and shifted the bundle in her arms to a more comfortable position. "Frodo asked me to stop by here and tell you that he probably won’t return home tonight, so Merry and Pippin, you two may come and stay at the Broadbelts with me, if you like. I’m sure Daisy and Dickon would be pleased to see you."

"Of course, Peony!" Pippin answered eagerly. "It’s better than staying here, worrying. Come on, Mer, our packs are in Frodo’s room!" Merry hesitated a moment, but then nodded in agreement and allowed Pippin to pull him by the arm down the hall.

"What’s little Mosco ill with, if you don’t mind me askin’?" asked Sam as they waited for the two lads.

"It’s a dreadful case of croup," said Peony with a sigh, "and a few cracked ribs, with all his coughing, my poor little darling. He’s had croup before, when he was just a baby, but nowhere near this seriously."

"Croup," Sam repeated. "Me youngest sister, Marigold, had a bad case o’ croup once. But she was right as rain a few days later," he added quickly, hoping to keep Peony cheerful. He suddenly realized, as a gust of cold wind blew inside, that the hobbit-lady was still standing on the doorstep. "Oh, bless me!" he exclaimed. "I plumb forgot my manners…here, Miss Peony, come inside. It’s cold as winter out there!"

Peony smiled, and Sam shut the door behind her as she entered and adjusted little Moro’s blankets. "Thank you, Sam," she said. "This has been quite a cold Spring." An ackward silence settled over the two as they stood there, listening to Merry and Pippin noisily packing in Frodo’s room.

At last, Sam broke it. "How long d’you think Mr. Frodo ’ll be there?" he asked hesitantly.

Peony sighed. "I don’t know, Sam," she said. "Dr. Bolger says that Mosco should recover in less than a week – five days, at most." She looked sorrowful again for a moment, but pushing distressing thoughts aside for the present in an attempt to remain strong and positive, she smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. "Frodo’s such a dear, to come and help. And he’ll be a blessing there – I know poor Milo’s grateful to have him, and Mosco will feel better with someone else he knows and loves there. And I’m sure that Dr. Bolger appreciates the extra pair of hands…" She trailed off as Merry and Pippin returned, each with their warm cloaks on and packs hoisted over their shoulders.

"Ready," they chorused, although both Sam and Peony noticed that Merry was not quite as enthusiastic as Pippin.

"All right then," said Peony, as Sam opened the door and went out into the chill night air. "We’d best get a move on." She turned to Sam. "Frodo asked if you would be so kind as to lock the door and slip the key under the mat."

"’Course," Sam replied. "Good-bye, Miss Peony, an’ I hope little Mosco’s well soon. Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, have fun, and behave yourselves." He blushed a little, hoping that he was not being overbold.

"We will, Sam," Pippin promised, running back up the steps and suddenly giving the gardener a fierce hug. "G’bye." With a grin, he pulled away and went down again to wait at the front gate.

Merry also surprised Sam with a hug. "Tell us the instant you hear from Frodo," he said urgently. "And I’ll tell you if I hear anything, too."

"I will," Sam assured him with a smile.

Merry nodded, looking relieved, and picked up Peony’s pack from the doorstep. "Thank you, Sam. See you soon!" He went down to join Pippin and Peony at the gate. "Take care, Sam!" Peony called as they headed down the road. "Good-bye!"

Sam stood on the doorstep and waved until they were out of sight. Feeling a strange twinge of loneliness, he turned, and went back inside to turn off the lights before locking the door.

TBC...

9. A Turn for the Worse

Dr. Bolger looked up sharply as he heard Frodo cover a sneeze with his hand. "Frodo, lad," he said softly, not wishing to wake little Mosco. "Are you feeling all right?"

Frodo looked up from where he was preparing some tea with cowslip flowers to help Mosco’s coughing. "I’m fine," he assured the doctor with a smile. He saw clearly that Dr. Bolger did not believe him, and shook his head, returning to his work. "Honestly," he added. "I’m perfectly fine. I can’t be getting croup; I’m too old." He brought a cupful of the tea over and handed it to Dr. Bolger.

"Hmmm." Dr. Bolger doubtfully looked Frodo up and down, grey eyes bright beneath his dark brows. Frodo gave him a reassuring smile, and returned to where he had begun to prepare a linseed poultice to further ease Mosco’s injured ribs.

Dr. Bolger returned to examining his young patient. Mosco had not woken since Peony left, nearly two hours earlier, but his sleep had been troubled. He whimpered and often curled up in a feeble attempt to stop the coughing fits that plagued him, even in slumber.

Thoughtfully stroking the child’s sweat-soaked auburn curls, Dr. Bolger mentally ran over a list of things he could do for Mosco. He felt confident that the boy would recover completely, despite being at one of the most vulnerable ages for croup (as hobbits were smaller, the age range for croup was anywhere from a few months to about twelve years, although it was not unheard of for one so old as a tweenager to contract a mild case of the illness).

First thing to do would be a bath, Dr. Bolger decided, glancing at Mosco's night-shift which was damp with perspiration. A warm, soothing bath would not only comfort him, but ease the pain in his cracked ribs and help with the coughing, as well. With a few peppermint leaves added into the water, it should also bring down his fever, which, although still not terribly high, was adding to his distress.

A soft groan from his patient startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked down to see Mosco beginning to shift beneath the blankets. "Shh…it’s all right, lad," Dr. Bolger whispered. "You’re safe."

Mosco’s brow furrowed, and he gave a soft cry as he accidentally rolled on his cracked ribs. Beneath Dr. Bolger’s gentle hands, which stroked his hair comfortingly, he eventually lay still and drifted back to a fitful sleep.

Just as Mosco began to quiet, Milo entered the room, a cupful of the toast-water he’d been making in his hand. "How is he?" he asked quickly, coming over and setting the cup down on the nightstand.

"The cherry bark did not help his cough much," said Dr. Bolger, skillfully keeping the worry out of his voice. "I’ll give him a dose of cowslip – it’s stronger, and it will help to clear his lungs. Coughing up the fluids will be painful, but it must be done, if he is to get well." He patted Milo’s shoulder reassuringly. "Let’s get him into a bath. We can give him the tea and toast-water while he’s there, and it will be easier to keep him in a semi-upright position without hurting his ribs." He looked up. "Frodo, lad, are you done with that poultice yet?"

Frodo turned from his work and nodded. "Yes sir," he said, bringing it over. "Did you say you were going to get Mosco into a bath?"

Dr. Bolger nodded. "Aye," he said, setting the poultice beside the toast-water and cowslip tea on the nightstand. "Would you be so kind as to draw one for me? It should be warm – the moist air will help clear his lungs."

"Of course." Frodo returned the nod and quickly left the room.

Once the bath was drawn and ready, Milo carried little Mosco into the washroom, while Dr. Bolger sorted through his many bottles of herbs to find the correct one. As Milo began to lower Mosco into the warm water, the boy stiffened and clung to his father with all his might.

"Easy, lad," Milo soothed, stroking Mosco’s back. "’Tis just a bath…It will make you feel better." Frodo helped him pry Mosco’s surprisingly strong little fingers from around his neck, and together, they gently lowered him into the tub.

Mosco whimpered at first and held onto Milo and Frodo’s hands, one in each of his, so tightly that his knuckles turned white. But as the pleasant smell of peppermint mingled with lavender and other herbs drifted through the air, the boy relaxed, and with a sigh, sank comfortably into the water.

"Let’s see if we can wake him up so that he can take the tea," said Dr. Bolger as he came over and dropped a few dried herb leaves into the water, sending another sweet and comforting scent to mingle with the others.

As it happened, they did not need to wake Mosco at all. For hardly had the words left the doctor’s lips when the boy slowly opened his eyes. He blinked a few times to focus, and looked around at the faces surrounding him in obvious confusion.

"Hullo, Mosco-lad," said Milo gently, stroking his son’s cheek. "I’m glad to see you awake. Do you think you can drink some tea for us?"

Mosco turned his silver-grey eyes to his father with an unreadable expression on his small face. Then he gave the ghost of a smile, and nodded slightly. "My…ribs hurt," he whispered as he shifted a little in the water and grimaced as the pain went shooting up his side.

"I know, my boy, but the doctor will make you feel better soon. Just relax."

Mosco looked at his father for a moment more, an expression of mingled fear and contentment. He was still confused as to why his cousin Frodo was here, what he was doing in a bath, and where his mother was, but the offer to relax was tempting. The warm water felt good on his sore ribs, and the moist air coming up from it eased the tightness in his chest a little.

Eventually, Mosco sighed and closed his eyes again, resigning himself to the others’ care. He felt a hand, which he knew to be his father’s, stroking his cheek comfortingly, and he leaned into it. The gentle touch soothed him more than the bath, and he nearly drifted off to sleep again.

But he was brought back to the present when the doctor returned, and a cup of strange-smelling tea was placed at his lips. "Mosco-lad," said Dr. Bolger quietly, "do you think you could wake up to drink this for me?"

Mosco reluctantly opened his eyes, and obediently opened his mouth for the tea to be poured in. He felt hands, taking him gently under the arms and propping him up further, and easing him back to lean his head against the chest of whoever was behind him.

"What does it taste like, Mosco?" asked a soft voice from above him. He recognized it at once to be Frodo’s, and tilted his head up to look at his cousin. A smile was on Frodo’s face, and Mosco smiled wanly back. He had not seen his older cousin for months; although at the moment he was not in the mood for visiting. But he was grateful for the familiar presence, and lowered his head again, taking another sip of the tea.

"It tastes…" He held the liquid in his mouth for a moment. "It tastes like…cherries." He ended his sentence with a puzzled glance at the doctor.

Dr. Bolger smiled and gave him another sip. "I sweetened it a bit for you," he said. "Cowslip flowers by themselves do not taste appetizing in the least."

Mosco felt Frodo give a small laugh. "Why didn’t you sweeten my medicine all those years ago, after that Fire Snake bite?" he asked, his jest making Mosco feel a little better, as though it were just an ordinary visit from his cousin.

Dr. Bolger shrugged and wiped a bit of tea from Mosco’s chin. "There really isn’t any good way to sweeten trillus, or bruinis, I’m afraid. They’re better just used for poultices."

"And besides," Milo put in, stroking Mosco’s curls, "I should think you’re old enough to take medicine without it being sweetened for you. You are of-age now." He shot Frodo a playful glance, which was a little more than halfhearted.

Frodo raised his eyebrows with a look of innocence. "I was only a tween then," he protested. "And besides that, I seem to remember your tea being sweetened when you had a chill not three years ago!"

"That’s none of your business, young hobbit," mumbled Milo with a gruffness that even Mosco in his ill state could see through.

A sudden cough from Mosco interrupted their playful attempt to lighten the despondency that had fallen upon them. All eyes turned to the young boy in the tub, and he curled up tightly, pressing his knees to his chest in an attempt to ease the pain the wracking coughs brought.

Three pairs of hands comforted him, three voices murmuring soothing words that he could not catch, and at last, the fit passed, and Mosco slumped back against the tub with a breathless sob. With the coughing, fiery pain had erupted again in his chest, and his cracked ribs felt as though they were being broken apart with each gasping breath.

"Let’s dry him off and get him dressed – perhaps a bit of cool air will do better."

Mosco vaguely heard Dr. Bolger’s voice, and felt himself being lifted out of the water and wrapped in soft, warm towels. But he could not contain the cries of pain that burst out as his ribs were accidentally jarred. He heard a murmured apology, and felt whoever carrying him sit down, on a bed it seemed. He kept his eyes firmly shut as someone else dried his hair with another towel.

A finger gently rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then the rest of the hand rested on his cheek. He recognized it as belonging to his father – the long fingers, artistic and made for carving, slightly roughened with the hard work. His father softly hummed an old song that his mother had always sang to him at night, to help him fall asleep.

"…Mama?…" he whispered.

"Shh…Mama can’t be here right now…but papa’s here. I’m with you, Mosco dear."

Mosco whimpered and felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks. As it had before, a fog seemed to have settled over his mind, and he again felt confused and disoriented. He wanted his mother, he wanted the pain in his ribs to stop, he wanted his cough to go away…he wanted to sleep and forget his illness for a while.

The fingers drying his hair continued, and as Mosco began to concentrate on it, he found it quite comforting. He leaned back into it slightly, and the hands stopped for a moment. The towel was removed, and the fingers again returned to working through his damp curls. They gently massaged in small circles, easing his tension and working out the remaining water at the same time.

After several minutes, the hands stopped and pulled away, and then came to rest on both his cheeks. He recognized them now as Frodo’s: long and slender like his father’s, but different somehow. He felt a small callus, caused by much writing and holding a pen, on the side of Frodo’s middle finger. For some reason, the small little imperfection intrigued him, and he concentrated on it as the fingers rested on his cheeks.

"Is he asleep?" Frodo’s voice was soft. Mosco felt his father’s hand, which had slid down to rest on his chest, as though feeling his heartbeat, move slightly as Milo shook his head.

"I don’t think so. But it would be better for him if he would sleep – Dr. Bolger is about to bandage his ribs, and that will most likely be painful."

A pause, and one of Frodo’s fingers tapped slightly against Mosco’s cheek. "How can I help?"

There was a sigh from Milo. "I’ll be holding him, but I think Dr. Bolger will need help. He’s soaking the bandages in some sort of herb to help the pain."

"I’ll go speak with him." Mosco felt Frodo rise, and his hands began to pull away from his face. But the fingertips lingered a moment, as though he was reluctant to leave. They lightly stroked his cheek one last time, and then he heard Frodo’s soft retreating footsteps.

Milo’s hands moved up to stroke the auburn curls, and hugged Mosco close to him. The ill boy could feel his father’s breath hitch as Milo held back tears, and felt one hot drop fall upon his nose. He longed to reach up and comfort his father, but the very thought of moving was exhausting. With an effort, he managed to bring one hand up and grab his father’s, stroking his hair. He squeezed it as tightly as he was able, and his father squeezed it back.

Mosco felt himself being lulled into sleep again, feeling his father’s gentle fingers in his hair, whispered words of a lullaby. He forgot about the pain that the imminent bandaging of his ribs would surely bring, and the tightness in his throat that kept him from breathing properly. All he wanted was sleep, and he felt his wish coming true as he drifted back into peaceful slumber.

Mosco was abruptly awakened by a searing pain in his ribs, and it took him a moment to realize that a warm, damp bandage was being tightly bound around his ribs. His own cry of pain surprised and frightened him, and he opened his eyes to see the face of his father over him.

"Papa…" he gasped, as another strip was bound tightly around his chest. "Papa! Hurts…" He choked back another anguished cry and clenched his teeth.

He felt Frodo’s hand on his shoulder, and his cousin whispering, "Almost done, Mosco. Hold on, the doctor’s nearly finished."

Milo’s arms around him tightened reassuringly, but Mosco could not keep back the shrill yelp as another layer was added to the bindings around his ribs. Tears ran down his cheeks and his breath hitched as the last strip of bandage was wound around his chest and securely knotted. The gentle hand of the doctor gently patted his chest.

"I’m sorry to cause you pain, dear lad," he said softly. "But I had to bind your ribs. You can rest now, or finish the rest of your tea, if you like."

Mosco managed to mumble, "Rest," as he shut his eyes and tried to return to peaceful sleep. But suddenly he felt a cough building in his throat, and his eyes flew open. He desperately tried to keep it back, and broke out in a sweat with the effort. He heard voices above him, but he could not hear what they were saying. His only thought was to keep from coughing and causing himself more pain.

Dr. Bolger, Milo and Frodo watched helplessly as Mosco fought to keep back the coughs that threatened to burst from his throat. "Let it out, lad," Dr. Bolger soothed. "Let the coughing run its course – I know it hurts now, but it will make you better."

They watched Mosco’s body stiffen in one final struggle, and then his small shoulders were shaking with the violence of the coughing fit that seized him. Milo supported him as best he could, and the other two tried to give comfort as the boy’s body shuddered with the wracking coughs.

The fit continued for more than a minute, and Milo and Frodo were beginning to worry. Tears ran steadily down Mosco’s face as he struggled with the coughing fit that held him tightly in its grip. Dr. Bolger watched him closely, stroking the sweaty forehead and whispering words of comfort.

Suddenly, Mosco began to retch, coughing up the contents of his stomach as well as some of the fluid in his lungs before a basin could be fetched. Milo supported his head as the small boy heaved, and at long last, went limp, completely exhausted.

Mosco was too worn out to even scream, and let out the excruciating pain with small, breathless sobs. He could not even think, and could barely breathe. He had not thought anyone could be in so much pain, and wished again that he could sleep and escape it, if only for a little while.

He felt cold water being poured into his mouth, and a cool basin being placed beneath his chin. "Here, rinse out your mouth, Mosco-lad," Milo urged gently. Mosco spit out the water; the bitter taste of bile still lingered in his mouth, but he was too exhausted to rinse it again. There was a towel, wiping the corners of his mouth and chin, and he felt himself being laid back down on the soft bed.

"I think we should take him outside," Dr. Bolger was saying, though Mosco barely heard it. "The cool air will do him good – it will help his breathing greatly, and won’t take more than a few minutes."

"Very well," Milo agreed. "Poor lad. Couldn’t you give him something to help his throat? It must be paining him terribly."

"Yes, I’ll go get that while you get him dressed warmly. Its important that he doesn’t get too cold out there."

Mosco heard Dr. Bolger depart, and someone else get up from the floor and walk past Milo as he stood, leaving Mosco in the bed. "Thank you for cleaning that up, Frodo."

"No trouble," Frodo replied, evidently from somewhere at the other end of the room. "The poor lad must be feeling dreadful. But I’m sure it helped to clear his lungs a little, and the cold air will help some more."

Mosco heard his father doing something on the other side of the room and groaned slightly. He did feel better after having expelled some of the fluid in his lungs, but his throat was now burning and just as tight as before – perhaps even moreso. He remained limp as he was dressed more warmly, only whimpering a little when his sore ribs were moved.

Once he was snugly dressed, he felt himself being lifted again, and carried out into the chill night air.

***

"Found you, Mer!"

Merry smiled and looked up at the sound of Daisy’s triumphant voice. The eight-year-old leaned over the back of the sofa that he had hidden behind, a dimple-cheeked grin lighting up her bright little face.

"You found me," Merry groaned in feigned disappointment. "I just can’t hide from you, no matter how hard I try." Daisy giggled, and he stood up and walked around the sofa to sit down beside her.

Daisy flopped next to him and peered closely into his face. Her small hand, already delicate and slender, reached out and gently touched the slight frown between Merry’s eyebrows. "What’s wrong, Mer?" she asked, cocking her head slightly to the side and blinking at him curiously.

Merry smiled inwardly at the understanding the girl possessed, even so young. Her gentle green eyes were encouraging, and her fine dark eyebrows were raised in question. Her face, still charmingly round and red-cheeked, had changed since he’d first met her as a two-year-old. Already it showed a glimpse of the beauty she would have when she was older, and though she was still a child, she could move with an elegant grace at times, like a small duplicate of her mother.

But she was the same sweet ‘younger sister’ he’d known for the past five years, and that is how Merry saw her. He knew that he could always tell her anything, even if she did not understand it completely, and she would always bring him comfort.

"I’m just worried about my cousins," he admitted after a moment, looking down at his hands, fidgeting with the buttons of his waistcoat. "Poor little Mosco’s so sick, and I don’t know when Frodo will come home…" He trailed off with a sigh, and Daisy looked thoughtfully at him.

"You worry too much," she said softly, slipping her small hand into his. "Dr. Bolger is a good doctor. He’ll make Mosco all better soon." Seeing that her answer did not satisfy him, she pressed a small kiss on his cheek and slid off the couch, keeping his hand in her own. "Come on, Mer," she said, deciding to try to keep his mind off worrying for a while. "We still haven’t found Pip and Dickon yet."

Merry smiled and allowed the girl to pull him down the hall, grateful for her cheerful spirit to distract himself from the worries that pounced on him at every opportunity. As they walked, they suddenly caught sight of a familiar head of mahogany-brown curls disappearing around the corner.

"Dickon!" Daisy cried, letting go of Merry’s hand to pursue her brother. "We found you! Come back here!"

Merry stood in the hall, chuckling as he listened to the sounds of the chase. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a slight movement, and the next instant, Pippin’s head appeared around the doorway of the study, looking warily in his direction. Apparently thinking Merry had not seen him, Pippin attempted to make a dash for the doorway across the hall.

With carefully timed skill, Merry spun around and tackled his younger cousin before Pippin had taken three steps. "And where did you think you were going, Master Took?" he asked playfully as he held Pippin down and tickled him.

"No--nowhere!" Pippin panted in between laughs, trying to wriggle away from Merry’s nimble fingers.

"That’s right," Merry returned, keeping his young cousin firmly in place and continuing to tickle his ribs, the place he knew well as Pippin’s most sensitive spot. A sudden shout interrupted their tussle, and they looked up to see a determined-looking Daisy dragging her wriggling and protesting younger brother by the shirt collar towards them.

"Caught him," she said triumphantly, giving her brother a small shake before letting him drop to the floor.

"No one gets past Daisy, Queen of hide-and-seek!" said Merry with a laugh, allowing Pippin to pick himself up. "What shall we do now, O Queen?"

Daisy was silent a moment in thought, curling a dark strand of her hair around one finger. "I think we should –"

Pippin interrupted her. "Permission, O wise and generous Queen, to go eat something before I waste away where I stand?"

The others laughed, and Daisy, when she had recovered her composure, nodded regally. "Very well, Sir Pippin," she said. "Let’s all go get something to eat. My royal belly is empty!"

Everyone agreed, and they all made their way into the kitchen, where they found Peony, sitting at the table, rocking Moro in her arms. The baby looked as though he were about to begin to fuss; his round little face was beginning to turn red, and his small rosebud mouth was puckering.

"Did we wake him up?" asked Merry remorsefully, lowering his voice.

Peony looked up and smiled, shaking her head. "No," she said, blowing a stray chestnut curl from her eyes. "He’s been awake for quite a while now – but he’s starting to get fussy."

Dickon climbed up onto a chair beside Peony and peered over her shoulder at the small infant. "Is he hungry, Aunt Peony?" he asked curiously. Peony and Milo had become so close to their parents that the Broadbelt children had taken to calling them ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle,’ much to their delight.

"He just ate," said Peony as she reached up with her free hand and fondly ruffled the young boy’s curls. "It’s nearly time for another nap, though. Isn’t it, Moro-love?" She looked lovingly down at the small baby in her arms and stroked his rosy cheek. Moro gurgled and his sour expression softened a little.

"May I hold him, Aunt Peony?" Daisy asked, sitting down beside her. "I promise I’ll be very, very careful."

Peony smiled at the girl and carefully placed the infant in her gentle arms. Daisy made sure Moro was comfortable, and stroked the soft fair curls and kissed the small forehead. "See Moro?" she said softly. "There’s nothing to cry about."

Merry, Pippin and Dickon watched a bit uncomfortably, unsure of what to do. They did not enjoy being forced to wait for their food because of "girlish sentimentality," as Merry had put it once, but none of them wished to interrupt what was obviously a very tender moment.

In the end, it was little Moro himself who abruptly disrupted the scene. He wrinkled his small round nose, pursed his lips, and suddenly began to wail. Daisy jumped at the sudden change in his attitude, and Peony quickly took him back. "Don’t worry, Daisy-lass," she assured the girl over Moro’s squalls. "It wasn’t anything you did. He just needs a nap."

Daisy nodded, her green eyes still wide as she got up and joined the boys who were waiting in the doorway. They had expressions of mingled amusement and surprise, and as she walked with them to the pantry, Pippin snickered.

"Perhaps you’re not the mothering-type?" he suggested impishly as the sounds of Moro’s wails followed them out of the room.

"Peregrin Took!" Daisy shrieked, and pounced on him before he could react. Soon, the two of them were wrestling playfully on the floor of the pantry, while Merry and Dickon stepped back and watched.

"Should we join in?" asked Dickon, looking up at Merry with a rather mischievous glitter in his hazel eyes.

Merry ruffled his hair and chuckled as Pippin yelped, "Mercy! Mercy, I say! This isn’t fair…Merry!"

"No," he said thoughtfully, grinning at Pippin’s feeble protests. "Let’s just see how it turns out."

Dickon nodded and they leaned back against the wall to watch. The two wrestling children were just a blur of color; Merry and Dickon could catch brief glimpses of Pippin’s sandy hair, the bright blue ribbon tied in Daisy’s dark curls, or a swirl of her periwinkle colored dress.

Merry and Dickon were just beginning to wager on who would win the tussle, when suddenly Daisy began to cough. Pippin helped her sit up and supported her while the fit lasted, and the other two came and sat down beside her as well.

When she had regained breath, Merry placed a gentle hand on her back. "Daisy?" he said fearfully. "Are you all right?"

Daisy looked up at him and tears were shining in her eyes, now without their usual bright sparkle. "I…don’t feel good, Mer," she whispered, curling up against him and closing her eyes. "My throat hurts, and my chest feels tight when I try to breathe."

Merry felt cold fear wash over him, but he forced himself to stop trembling and regain his composure. "All right, Daisy," he said softly, stroking her curly hair. "I’m sure you’ll be fine. Pip, could you please fetch Mr. and Mrs. Broadbelt?"

Pippin swallowed hard and stood. His face, which had been rosy-cheeked from his earlier tussle, was now pale, and his eyes were wide with fear. "Merry?" he questioned in a whisper.

Merry looked up at him pleadingly. "Please, Pip. Get her parents."

Pippin nodded and hastened from the pantry. Dickon scooted closer to Merry and his sister, and hesitantly touched her shoulder. "Is she going to be all right, Mer?" he asked quietly, his voice trembling.

"I’m sure she will," Merry said, reaching out with his free arm and slipping it around Dickon’s shoulders. He hoped his voice did not shake; he wanted to keep the boy hopeful, although his own fear was growing. A harsh, rasping sound began to accompany every shallow, gasping breath that Daisy drew.

Merry bowed his head, resting his brow against Daisy’s dark ringlets. "Hold on, Daisy."

TBC...

10. Outbreak

A small group of concerned hobbits stood together in little Mosco’s room. They watched as the two ill children – Daisy and Mosco – slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Milo looked tired and anxious; Frodo, beside him, was slightly pale, and his blue eyes were troubled, but he squeezed Milo's hand reassuringly. Merry, leaning against his older cousin who had wrapped one arm comfortingly around his shoulders, was white as a sheet, his grey-blue eyes wide and filled with unshed tears, trembling a little. The Broadbelt couple looked as distraught as Peony and Milo had been the day before, holding and comforting each other.

Dr. Bolger, alone, was as composed and calm as he ever was, and surveyed the sleeping patients slowly. "This is indeed a difficulty," he said quietly, and with a sigh.

Ferdirand, Daisy’s father, gained as much control over himself as he could. "So Daisy has croup?" he asked hesitantly, his face pale.

Dr. Bolger nodded slowly. "I’m afraid so," he confirmed; "although I believe it is a slightly milder case. When was the last time she came in contact with Mosco?"

"A few days ago." Lila raised her tear-streaked face from her husband’s shoulder. "She and Dickon played with Mosco here for a few hours."

Dr. Bolger chewed on his bottom lip and glanced back at the sleeping children. "Then I believe that one of you should stay here, while the other goes back home to make certain Dickon does not become ill, as well." He smiled reassuringly. "Don’t worry; not everyone who comes in contact with croup comes down with it."

Lila and Ferdirand excused themselves to walk further down the hall and discuss their decision, while Merry stepped forward to speak with Dr. Bolger. "Pippin won’t get it, will he?" he asked fearfully. "Should he go back to Bag End?"

Dr. Bolger put a gentle hand on Merry’s shoulder. "Don’t worry, lad. I’m sure Pippin will be fine. I think he’ll be perfectly safe at the Broadbelts' – not to mention a help there."

Merry nodded and stepped back, allowing the doctor room to examine Daisy. The girl certainly did not look anywhere near as ill as poor Mosco in the bed beside her, but her face was pale and her breaths were still labored.

As Dr. Bolger finished his examination and stepped back from the bed, the Broadbelts returned. "We’ve decided that I shall stay here," said Lila shakily, leaning on her husband. She managed a small smile at the surprise that registered on the others’ faces. "The poor little dears need a mother’s touch, with all these menfolk about."

Dr. Bolger returned the smile and nodded. "Very well, then," he said. "If you’re sure. Then I would suggest that you leave soon, Ferdirand, to lower the risk of carrying the illness back with you." His tone was remorseful, and Daisy’s father patted his shoulder gratefully as he walked past him and knelt by his daughter’s bed to say goodbye.

"I’m staying here, too," Merry declared firmly. "I can’t bear to sit back helplessly and wait for them to get better."

Everyone turned to look at the determined young Brandybuck, whose arms were folded across his chest as he fixed Dr. Bolger with a look that plainly said that he would not be dissuaded. The doctor smiled. "Very well, Master Meriadoc," he conceded. "I can see that nothing any of us could say will change your mind."

Merry nodded with a smile, and shot a triumphant glance up at Frodo. "Well then," said Dr. Bolger more briskly. "If that’s decided, we’d best get to work. Merry, could you please assist Milo in making some more toast-water for Daisy? Frodo, please go see what you can do for Mosco – he seems to be growing more restless. Perhaps you should use that linseed poultice again." Everyone hurried off to their tasks, and Dr. Bolger went back over to Daisy’s bedside, allowing Ferdirand and Lila to say farewell to each other in the hall.

***

The first thing Daisy noticed as she slowly awoke was the nagging itch in her throat, and the terrible dryness of her mouth. She felt someone bathing her face with a cool cloth, and realized that she was leaning against the chest of someone sitting behind her on the mattress, her head resting on the person’s shoulder.

She moaned softly in annoyance as the itch in her throat grew steadily worse. There was a sharply intaken breath from whoever held her. "Daisy? Are you awake?" She recognized the voice immediately, but it was a moment before she could answer.

"Mer?"

Merry laughed softly and continued to dab her face with the cloth. "Right on the first guess," he said lightly, trying to keep her spirits up. Daisy slowly opened her eyes, and blinked a few times to focus on the face above her.

"…Thirsty…" She whispered, wincing at the pain in her throat the action caused. Merry quickly bent sideways, and then she felt the rim of a cup pressed to her lips.

"Here, Daisy," Merry said from above her. "It’s toast-water to help you feel better."

Daisy felt his arms pulling her upwards so that she was sitting up, and she obediently opened her mouth for the toast-water to be poured in. It had a rather bland taste, but certainly not unpleasant, and soothed her throat as it went down.

"Thank you, Mer," she murmured after draining nearly half the cup. Merry set it back down on the little nightstand by the bed and stroked her hair. "How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

Daisy was silent a moment as she considered the question. "Not too bad," she said slowly. "My throat hurts, but I feel a little better now. I think I’m going to cough soon, though, and that hurts." She swallowed against the increasing itch and shut her eyes again.

"Coughing will help you get better quicker," said Merry quietly. "And Dr. Bolger’s making some tea that will help your throat, too."

"Does it taste good, Mer?" Daisy asked hopefully, opening her eyes and leaning her head back to look at him.

Merry chuckled. "I don’t know," he said, "but I should think so – Dr. Bolger’s sweetening it with cherry."

Daisy licked her lips and closed her eyes once more. "Mmm," she whispered. "I like cherries. Do you like cherries, Mer?"

"Of course. I love cherries."

"When I’m all better, I’m going to ask mama to make a cherry pie."

"Mmm. You’re making me hungry just talking about it."

Daisy giggled slightly. "You’ll get the biggest piece," she promised; "And then Mama and Papa, and then Dickon, then Frodo, and then Pippin."

"What about you?"

"I’ll just take what’s left over," Daisy replied softly as she drifted back to sleep.

Merry smiled and kissed her forehead. "Get well soon, Daisy," he whispered.

Dr. Bolger came over with the wild cherry bark tea. "How is she?" he asked quietly.

Merry shifted Daisy into a more comfortable position. "She was awake just a moment ago," he said, "and she drank a little of the toast-water," he gestured to the cup on the nightstand. "She said that she felt like she needed to cough again, but it hurts her throat."

The doctor patted Merry’s arm and set the cup of tea beside the toast-water. "See if you can wake her up again," he said, "and get her to drink some tea, if she can. Once she’s got some of that in her, she’s going to have a bath to help her breathing."

Seeing Merry’s face redden, Dr. Bolger chuckled and patted his hand. "Don’t worry, dear boy!" he said, keeping his voice low. "Lila will be giving her the bath, although I shall help. You’ll be staying in here, helping Milo and Frodo with poor little Mosco."

Merry relaxed visibly and gave a sigh of relief, and Dr. Bolger chuckled again before straightening. "I’ll check back in a few minutes," he said; "but now, let me go see to Mosco." Patting Merry’s hand once more, he went over to the other ill child’s bed.

Just as Dr. Bolger began examining little Mosco, Frodo, who was at the other side of the room fetching a new nightshirt from the dresser, covered a sneeze with his hand. The doctor looked up sharply. "Frodo," he said, "don’t even try to tell me you’re all right. That’s the third time you’ve sneezed – that I’ve heard – and you’re still looking a bit pale. What’s ailing you?"

Frodo paused as he was returning to Mosco’s bedside, and hesitated a moment before answering. "I’m sure its nothing," he said lightly. "Just a cold – nothing to worry about." He proceeded to Mosco’s bed and folded the nightshirt on the table, stubbornly ignoring Dr. Bolger’s questioning eyes that were still locked on him.

"Frodo."

Dr. Bolger came over and put his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. "Even if it is ‘just a cold,’ I need to know."

Frodo sighed and looked up. He started to insist again that it was nothing serious, but the thought suddenly occurred to him that if it was a cold or some such malady, the two ill children might catch it. He did not wish to add to their already serious ailment. "I’ve just got a stuffy nose and a bit of a headache," he confessed with a sigh.

Dr. Bolger placed one hand under the dark, tousled curls and felt Frodo’s forehead. "And a slight fever," he said, dropping his hand. "Have you been ill at all in the past week?"

Frodo sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. "I did have a rather nasty encounter with thornapple seeds a few days ago," he said; "but besides that, no. And I haven’t been around anyone sick, either, until yesterday."

Dr. Bolger sat on the bed beside him, careful not to jar Mosco. He felt Frodo’s forehead again, closing his eyes for a moment. "Does your throat itch at all?" he asked, looking closely at Frodo’s face.

"A little bit."

The doctor sighed. "Frodo," he said, "I think you’ve got croup."

Frodo’s eyes widened. "But I can’t have croup!" he exclaimed softly. "I’m too old for it – you said so yourself!"

Dr. Bolger shrugged. "It is very rare, but not entirely unheard of for someone of your age to get a very mild case of the illness," he explained. "Just like a slight head cold – nothing serious. The oldest hobbit I know of to have come down with croup was thirty-four.

"And besides that," he continued, patting Frodo’s shoulder, "that Fire Snake bite all those years ago probably makes you more prone to this type of illness – although I doubt it will get any worse than it is now."

Frodo shook his head and looked down at his hands, lying in his lap. "Then do I need to leave?" he asked, gesturing towards Mosco, still asleep in the bed.

Dr. Bolger slipped an arm around Frodo’s shoulders. "No, lad," he said. "The worst thing that could happen would be that Merry would get a bit of the cold symptoms, too."

"You don’t think he’s in any danger of getting a serious case?" asked Frodo quickly, looking up.

The doctor shook his head. "I doubt it," he said, glancing back at the object of their discussion, now giving Daisy slow sips of the tea. "Generally, croup is mild and nothing more than a nuisance – and even when there is an outbreak, there are usually only one or two severe cases. I believe Merry will be perfectly fine."

"What about Pippin?" Frodo pressed worriedly.

Dr. Bolger smiled and ruffled his curls. "You worry far too much, lad," he teased lightly, hoping to ease Frodo’s anxiety. "I’m sure Pippin will be just fine, as well – perhaps a bit of a head cold, like you… but ’twill take more than a simple case of the sniffles to keep that boy down for long!"

Frodo chuckled a little, feeling greatly relieved, and stood up. As he returned to his earlier task of unbuttoning Mosco’s damp nightshirt, Dr. Bolger came to his side and helped him slip the garment over the sleeping boy’s head. "Tell me about your encounter with thornapple seeds," he said as they worked. "Surely you did not have a serious reaction?"

Frodo briefly told him about Pippin’s soup, trying his best to avoid sounding as though he was blaming his young cousin for the incident, and when he had finished, Dr. Bolger shook his head in bewilderment. "It was a miracle that that old woman was there," he said; "without aid, you would have died, like as not."

Swallowing hard, Frodo nodded, buttoning up Mosco’s new nightshirt. "I know. And poor Pip felt terribly guilty about it – he thought it was all his fault that I got sick in the first place."

Dr. Bolger said nothing for a moment, then patted Frodo’s shoulder and straightened. "Well, if you’re comfortable here, I’ll go check on Daisy," he said. "Try to wake Mosco up and give him some of that cowslip tea. I’ll be back in a few moments with something else," he added mysteriously, then without allowing Frodo to question the meaning of his words, he smiled and walked over to Merry and Daisy.

Frodo shrugged and shook his head, and continued with his task; managing to wake Mosco up a bit and lean him against his chest so that he could give him slow sips of the tea. Mosco was too groggy to speak, and simply leaned against him and obediently swallowed the tea as it was poured into his mouth.

Only when more than half the cup was drained did Frodo set the cup on the nightstand, lay down beneath the coverlet and make sure Mosco was in a comfortable position beside him. He was grateful for the rest; he had scarcely slept at all since his arrival, and it was now an enticing temptation.

Mosco made no noise, and Frodo surmised him to be asleep again. After struggling for several minutes, he eventually gave up, and surrendered himself to sleep as well.

In actual fact, Mosco was not asleep, but simply too tired and sore to move. As he felt Frodo’s breaths even out and the arms around him loosen, he slowly opened his eyes. At first, he could see nothing but the white of his older cousin’s shirt, but then he turned his head slightly and was able to look around the room.

Over Frodo’s side, he could see Merry and Daisy on a mattress at the other side of the room, sipping what appeared to be tea, and wondered when she’d arrived. He didn’t remember it. But he was too tired to dwell on it, and eventually relaxed again and resettled himself against Frodo.

It was comforting to have someone beside him, and he buried his face in his older cousin’s shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of ink, trees, and something else he could not place; something sweet and fresh, almost like new Spring meadow-grass. It was interesting, he realized, that he would learn so many things about those he knew well – things he’d never truly noticed before – when he was ill.

Mosco smiled a little to himself, licking his dry lips and finding that they still tasted faintly of cherry from the tea. He realized just then that the pain reliever he’d been given earlier was beginning to wear off, and his smile faded as his ribs began to ache.

He groaned softly in exasperation; he was tired of the pain in his ribs and he was tired of being ill. He wanted to be well again, able to run and play as he had been doing not three days before. Not for the first time, he wished his mother was there to comfort him – he had still not fully found out where she had gone.

His groan woke Frodo, who shifted Mosco so that he could see the boy’s face. Mosco hadn’t even realized he’d been crying, but tear streaks marked his damp cheeks, and he found his vision slightly blurry as he looked up at his older cousin.

"Mosco," Frodo whispered, gently wiping away another tear that slid down the child’s cheek. "What is it? Are you in pain again?"

Mosco nodded miserably, and sniffed back tears, finding that his throat was beginning to hurt. "Can I… have something to drink, please?" he asked quietly, as Frodo sat up, pulling him up to lean against him.

"Of course." Frodo reached carefully, trying not to jar Mosco too much, and retrieved the cup of tea from the nightstand. "Do your ribs hurt?"

Mosco nodded again, taking a sip of the tea. It soothed his throat as it went down, although it did not stop the itch in his chest from building. "I’m g-going to cough again," he said softly, inwardly groaning at his own weak and trembling voice, as he pushed away the cup. "I don’t want t-to…" Just before he felt the itch become unbearable and braced himself for what would inevitably follow, he thought he heard coughing coming for the other side of the room.

But he had no time to dwell on it; he felt Frodo pull him close, rubbing his back gently, as the unavoidable coughing fit began. Mosco could not even think while it lasted; he simply concentrated on getting it over and done with. He felt the now familiar fire race up his throat with every wracking cough, and the pain in his ribs was near-agony.

When at last the fit passed, he closed his eyes and sagged against Frodo, completely exhausted. He vaguely felt his cousin’s hands stroking his curls, and was able to make out some of the comforting words Frodo was murmuring.

"…It’s all right, now, Mosco…it’s over…rest now, I’ll…something to ease your ribs…"

Mosco let Frodo gently ease him back down into the bed, covering him with a quilt, and felt his older cousin press a quick kiss to his forehead, before rising and walking away. The ill child could hear his soft departing footsteps and wondered hazily where he was going. He felt very small, all alone in his bed.

Just as he was beginning to fall into warm, peaceful sleep, he heard a soft cry from the other side of the room. Curious for the moment, and eager to take his mind off his own pain, he opened his eyes, gingerly rolled over, and searched for the source of the noise.

At last, his eyes fell upon Daisy, also alone on her large mattress, and looking forlorn and distressed. Her long dark curls were messily strewn over the pillow, framing her face and adding to the pale appearance of her skin. Her eyes were tightly shut, but even from across the room, Mosco could see the tears sliding down her cheeks.

Somehow, the sight of someone sharing his own suffering gave him new strength, and without knowing exactly why, he slowly slipped out of bed, taking along his quilt, and made it across the room to sink down on the mattress beside Daisy.

The girl had been sobbing quietly, but upon feeling him sit down beside her, she gulped back her tears and looked up.

"Hullo," Mosco said softly, his voice hoarse from his recent coughing fit.

Daisy blinked at him for a moment, as though puzzled to find him there. "Hullo," she said finally, her own voice nearly as scratchy and painful-sounding as his. She slowly, and with difficulty, sat up, and continued to stare at him questioningly.

"Are you…feeling all right?" Mosco asked at last, a little awkwardly. He could think of nothing else to say – as his own pain was his ruling thought at the moment, it seemed to be the easiest topic to talk about.

Daisy hesitated a moment before answering. "Not really," she said honestly, rubbing her eyes as though ridding them of sleep. "I just had a dreadful bout of coughing a moment ago."

"Me too." Mosco felt strangely relieved, having someone who truly understood his pains to talk to. "When did you get here?" he asked after another pause.

"Last night," she answered, covering a small cough with her hand. "You were asleep." Mosco nodded, and they lapsed into silence again.

"Where is Merry?" Mosco asked, clearing his throat a little and then wincing at the pain that erupted in his raw throat.

"He went to get… something," said Daisy after thinking a minute. "I didn’t quite hear what it was. Something to help my coughing, I suppose." She sighed, and lay back down. "I hate being alone when I’m sick," she mumbled, barely audible.

Mosco nodded again. "So do I," he agreed. "I feel so small in bed all by myself…" He trailed off as an unexpected tickle in his throat caused him to cough slightly.

Daisy sat up again. "D’you want to lay here?" she asked slowly. "You can sleep on that end, and I’ll sleep on this end." A smile touched her pale lips. "I did that with Merry once, when Frodo was sick with that Fire Snake bite."

"Thank you," Mosco mumbled, returning the smile, and laying down on top of the coverlet at the opposite side of the bed and wrapping his quilt about him. "I heard about that. Frodo was very sick, wasn’t he…?" He trailed off groggily, and fell asleep before hearing Daisy’s murmured response.

"Yes…just like we are now…"

***

When Frodo, Merry, Dr. Bolger, and the other two adults returned several minutes later, they stopped short in the doorway, seeing both soundly sleeping children on the large mattress. Lila looked at Dr. Bolger with a small smile. "Now I’ll feel guilty for waking Daisy up to put her into a bath," she whispered.

Dr. Bolger returned the smile. "We can let them sleep for a while," he said. "They need all the rest they can get. That also gives the rest of us about ten minutes of rest, ourselves." He looked especially at Milo, who had dark circles beneath his eyes and was doing his best to keep them open. Mosco’s father had not slept more than a few minutes since Dr. Bolger’s arrival and the news of the severity of his son’s illness.

"I’ll just sit in a chair by the bed," said Milo, his voice hoarse from lack of sleep, "so that I’ll hear them if either wakes up."

Dr. Bolger smiled again and patted Milo’s shoulder. "Oh no, you don’t," he said. "You’re going to be to get some real rest. Mosco and Daisy will be fine; we’ll let you know the instant either of them wakes up."

Milo looked reluctant, but as Frodo, Merry and Lila joined Dr. Bolger in reassuring him, he sighed. "Very well," he said; "but don’t let me sleep too long. Give me a half-hour, not more."

"An hour," Dr. Bolger argued firmly. "Don’t worry, Milo. I give you my word that you’ll be notified as soon as they begin to stir."

Milo sighed again, and reluctantly made his way down the hall and into the Master Bedroom, leaving the door open just in case. As no further sound came from the room after he’d flopped onto the bed, the others surmised him to be asleep.

After checking on each of the patients quickly, Dr. Bolger and Lila both retired into the kitchen for some much-needed tea, while Frodo and Merry volunteered to stay with the ill children. They pulled up two cushioned chairs and sat by the mattress silently for a while, each in their own thoughts.

"You know," said Merry suddenly, causing Frodo to jump, "Daisy was playing with Pip just before she got sick." He looked up at his older cousin, concern clear in his face. "I’m worried about him."

Frodo looked at him a moment, then got to his feet, suddenly scooped Merry up, and grinning, sat back down in his own chair, the nearly-tweenage lad in his lap. Merry looked surprised for a moment, and then could not resist a smile as he settled comfortably against his older cousin. "Aren’t I a little old for this?" he asked, shifting a little to fit and swinging his long legs over the side of the chair.

"Never too old for comfort," Frodo replied with a returning smile, shaking his head and causing his curls to bounce. One of the dark ringlets brushed the top of Merry’s nose and he chuckled a little.

"Although I’m afraid I don’t have much comfort to give," Frodo continued, sobering. "I’m worried about Pip, too." He paused for a moment and looked down at Merry, whose smile had faded, replaced by the same look of apprehension he’d worn earlier. "But I spoke with Dr. Bolger about it," he said, "and he says that even when there is an outbreak of croup, generally only one or two come down with severe cases. Pippin should be fine."

Merry was silent, thinking over his cousin’s words. "At least put worrying aside until tonight," Frodo added with a smile, ruffling Merry’s honey-colored curls. 

"Very well," Merry agreed with a chuckle, slapping Frodo's hands away from his hair. "I’ll stop worrying – for now." He grinned, a bit of his usual mischievous self showing in his bright blue-grey eyes, and opened his mouth to say more, but just then, they heard footsteps behind them. They turned to see Dr. Bolger entering the room, a cup of steaming liquid in his hand.

"Hullo, lads," he said in a low, but cheerful voice. "Faring well?"

"They’re still asleep," Merry answered, quickly hopping off the chair, slightly embarrassed that the doctor had seen him in the rather undignified seat in Frodo’s lap. Dr. Bolger graciously did not mention it; although he chuckled slightly and there was a playful glimmer in his eyes. Frodo smirked as Merry blushed slightly, and he shot his older cousin a glare of halfhearted annoyance.

"Well then," said Dr. Bolger briskly, "Frodo, could you please come over here and sit on Mosco’s bed for me? Merry, you come as well."

Puzzled, the two young hobbits obeyed, and looked up at him questioningly. The doctor came over to the bed, standing before Frodo, still holding the cup of what they now recognized as some sort of tea in his hand.

"Now Frodo," he said, using a tone that, with its underlying hint of amusement, immediately put the young hobbit on his guard, "I’ve prepared some tea for you – elderberry with a bit of thyme mixed in. Will you drink it?"

Frodo raised his eyebrows. "Dr. Bolger," he began, "That’s not necce—" He was abruptly and unexpectedly cut off as Dr. Bolger suddenly thrust the cup to his lips and poured a rather large amount of tea into his mouth.

Astonished at this sudden turn of events, Frodo struggled to push the cup away from his mouth, but the doctor was anticipating his move. "Merry," he said calmly, visibly having difficulty stifling his laughter, "please restrain him for me while I make sure he drinks the rest of this."

Grinning rather maliciously, Merry did as he was told, ignoring the accusing glare he received from Frodo as he pinned his cousin’s arms firmly to his sides, wrapping his own arms tightly around Frodo’s chest to make doubly sure he did not escape.

Dr. Bolger, obviously taking great delight in Frodo’s predicament, allowed him to swallow one mouthful of the tea before pouring the next one in. Frodo had stopped struggling, accepting his fate, and resigned himself to glaring halfheartedly at both the doctor and his cousin.

Unable to speak or free himself from the two laughing conspirators who held him firmly in place on the bed, Frodo reluctantly swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the bitter, earthy-tasting liquid, occupying himself with thoughts of revenge.

At last, the final vile mouthful of the tea was swallowed, and Dr. Bolger removed the cup, placing it on the table. He was having difficulty in keeping his laughter low, and Merry had buried his face in Frodo’s shoulder to muffle his own mirth.

"Feeling better now, Frodo?" Dr. Bolger asked, laughing all the harder as Frodo gagged, trying to rid himself of the bitter taste the tea had left in his mouth.

"Why yes," Frodo replied sarcastically. "In fact, I’m feeling so much better that I think I could get up now!"

Merry raised his head, eyes wide, and the grin vanished from his face. "Dr. Bolger," he said quickly, "I don’t think it would be a good idea to let Frodo up yet."

"I think you’re right, lad," Dr. Bolger agreed, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "No sense in risking harm to ourselves, eh?"

"Couldn’t agree with you more," Merry grinned, tightening his arms as Frodo began to struggle in earnest.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck, if you don’t let me up right now, I’ll…" Frodo trailed off as he managed to free one arm and promptly wiped his mouth with the sleeve. "Ugh, I am never drinking any of your teas again!" He grumbled, looking at Dr. Bolger. "Couldn’t you have sweetened it at least?"

Dr. Bolger smiled at him. "As I said to you before, I think you’re old enough to take unsweetened medicine." he chuckled again. "It did not seem necessary to waste precious cherry juice or honey to sweeten a simple dose of tonic for a grown hobbit."

"Was it necessary to hold me down while you did it?" Frodo asked, wiping his mouth again. Dr. Bolger took pity on him and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on Mosco’s dresser.

"Would you have taken it willingly?" he asked in return, handing him the water. Frodo mumbled an answer, unintelligible, as he had a large gulp of water in his mouth. Dr. Bolger smiled proudly and folded his arms. "Well then, it was necessary. And quite fun," he added with a playful wink at Merry.

"I’d hate to think you knew about this evil plot earlier, Merry," said Frodo as he swallowed his mouthful of water. Merry grinned, keeping his firm grip around his cousin’s chest, still pinning Frodo’s other arm to his side.

"I might’ve known a little something," Merry said innocently, restraining the laughter that threatened to bubble out. "I’ve always wanted to do that to you…" he added in a mumble, which Frodo heard. Merry was given a playful cuff on the ear, and he loosened his grip and fell back onto the bed, laughing.

Just as Frodo turned to him, no doubt with vengeful intentions, there was a noise at the other side of the room, interrupting their much-needed respite from the melancholy that had settled over the house. All three heads shot up to see Daisy stirring on her mattress, whimpering a little.

Dr. Bolger quickly crossed the room, with the other two at his heels. They reached the mattress just as Daisy slowly opened her eyes halfway. The girl blinked several times, her brow furrowing slightly. "D-dr. B-bolger?" she gasped, clutching fistfuls of the bedsheets in her hands.

"I’m here, lass," the doctor whispered soothingly, stroking back the dark, tousled curls from where they plastered in tendrils on her cheeks and forehead. "What ails you?"

"M-my throat h-hurts," she whimpered, shutting her eyes. "…g-going to cough again…"

Dr. Bolger and Frodo positioned themselves to support her as the coughing fit began, but Merry left the room, muttering something about "telling Milo that she was awake." In truth, he could not bear to stand by, helplessly, listening to her anguished cries in-between the wracking coughs that shook her slight frame. To see her sweet face streaked with tears and twisted in pain was more than he could endure.

Finding Lila in the washroom readying a bath, he silently watched her working. She did not notice his presence until she reached up for a bottle of herbs. She jumped as she saw him standing in the doorway; and then her pretty face broke into a weary smile.

"Hullo, Merry-lad," she said, pouring the dried herbal powder into the warm water of the tub and mixing it with her hand. "Something you need?"

Merry shook his head. "No," he said, his voice choked with restrained tears. "But Daisy’s awake, and coughing dreadfully."

Lila’s face paled. "Oh dear," she murmured, quickly drying her hands on her apron. She hastened to the door, but stopped as she saw Merry’s unusual silence and distraught expression. Intuitively, she bent and pulled him into a comforting embrace, running her fingers through his golden curls as she would her son’s.

"Don’t worry, Merry," she said softly; "Daisy and Mosco will be just fine in no time – you’ll see." She allowed the lad to wet her dress with his silent tears, and waited patiently until he raised his tear-streaked face and smiled wanly at her.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I’m sor—"

Lila quickly cut him off. "Nonsense, lad," she said, "nothing to be sorry about. I’ve been worried too. But Dr. Bolger’s the best doctor in the Shire, and if he can’t heal them both, no one can."

Merry nodded and wiped the remnants of his tears away. "Thank you," he repeated. Lila ruffled his curls fondly. Ever since they’d first met – and especially while they’d tended to Frodo after his Fire Snake bite – she and Merry had gotten along well with one another. They each understood each other, and over the years, Merry had come to think of Lila as almost another Aunt.

"Think nothing of it," said Lila, giving him a last gentle smile, before hurrying down the hall and into Mosco’s room.

TBC...

*~* Denotes flashbacks

11. Tranquillity

Frodo quietly slipped out of the back door of Bag End. He settled himself in the comfortable chair on the patio, and lit his pipe. He had not inherited Bilbo’s talent for smoke-rings, and he didn’t particularly enjoy them either. He preferred to smoke his pipe in the same, almost austere way his father had used to do.

Drogo would often go out onto the front step of their small cozy home in Crickhollow for a bit of time by himself, taking his beautiful pipe carved of maple, with a mouthpiece of pearl (a gift from Bilbo). Sometimes, Frodo would slip out with his father, and simply sit down on the ground at his father’s feet, arms folded on Drogo’s knee, his chin resting on them.

The two would sit there silently, neither one feeling the inclination or need to speak. Father and son understood each other well, and both found solace in their times alone together on the front step.

Frodo sighed, turning his face to the cool evening breeze and letting it blow through his hair. The sun was sinking in the west, a huge fiery ball with streaks of flame lighting the sky around it; while in the east, a soft indigo color was already showing off the countless white stars, glimmering in its steadily deepening dusky curtain.

Frodo suddenly caught a distant, fleeting scent of cherries on the breeze, and he raised his eyes to the softly glittering stars above as a wave of memories washed over him. It had been a week since the last patient had recovered from the outbreak of croup, but the memory of those last days was as vivid in his mind as though it had happened yesterday.

*~*

Two days had passed since Merry, Daisy and Lila’s arrival at the Burrowses, and Mosco was finally beginning to recover. He was steadily eating solid foods once more, and able to go outside for brief walks in the fresh air, much to his enjoyment.

Daisy, also, was improving, although she was still bedridden – which had put her in a rather sour mood that day. Merry and Frodo sat by the mattress, trying to entertain her while Mosco took a walk outside with Milo and Dr. Bolger. Lila was getting some much-needed rest in the guestroom.

"Have you heard the story of how my Uncle Bilbo, the wizard, Gandalf and the dwarves were saved from wargs by eagles?" asked Frodo, after several ineffective attempts at distracting her. Daisy shook her head listlessly, staring out of the window. Frodo shot a glance at Merry, who, although he tried to hide it, was grieved at her languid, uninterested attitude.

Frodo gave Merry’s shoulder a reassuring pat and sat down on Daisy’s bed, crossing his legs as though he was about to tell a story around a campfire. Merry sat down beside him, hoping that this endeavor would be successful.

As Frodo began the story about Bilbo’s near-escape from the wargs, Daisy hardly listened, at first. She sat with her knees drawn up, chin resting on them and her arms wrapped loosely around her ankles, staring out of the window. But gradually, she was involuntarily drawn into the tale, and began to listen.

"‘Up the trees, quick!’ cried Gandalf; and they ran to the trees at the edge of the glade, hunting for those that had branches fairly low, or were slender enough to swarm up. They found them quick as ever they could, you can guess; and up they went as high as ever they could trust the branches."

"What about Bilbo?" Daisy interrupted, green eyes wide. She had quite forgotten that she was cross, and eagerly leaned forward to hear more.

Frodo smiled at her and his eyes sparkled, but he did not mention her change of attitude. He glanced at Merry, who was lying on his stomach, elbows propped on one of Frodo’s legs, chin cupped in his hands, listening as eagerly as if it was his first time hearing it.

"Bilbo could not get into any tree," Frodo continued, "and was scuttling about from trunk to trunk, like a rabbit that has lost its hole and has a dog after it." Daisy giggled, picturing the dignified old gentlehobbit she had met several times "scuttling." She stretched out on her stomach, as Merry had, and cupped her chin in one hand.

"‘You’ve left the burglar behind again!’ said Nori to Dori looking down."— Merry laughed; Frodo had learned from Bilbo how to imitate Nori’s voice quite well — "‘I can’t be always carrying burglars on my back,’ said Dori, ‘down tunnels and up trees! What do you think I am? A porter?’" All three of them laughed, and Daisy entirely forgot her sore throat and tight chest, and not being able to go outdoors. She had not heard many stories of Bilbo Baggins’ adventure, although Merry had told her several during their visits; and she wished that she’d been able to know the old gentlehobbit better before he had gone away.

Just as Frodo took a breath to continue, the front door was heard open, and hurrying feet and worried voices came swiftly down the hall. In burst Ferdirand Broadbelt, carrying a sneezing, whimpering Dickon in his arms. Right behind him came Dr. Bolger, and in his arms, pale and violently coughing, was Pippin.

*~*

Frodo sighed softly as he remembered how frightened Merry had looked. They’d glanced quickly at each other, each white-faced and wide-eyed, as Dr. Bolger had laid Pippin down in Mosco’s bed, and Dickon in Daisy’s. He’d never seen Merry so frantic before; his younger cousin had hardly been able to speak through those next three anxious days, and devoted himself unceasingly to tending to each and every need of both Daisy, and Pippin.

*~*

"Merry."

Merry jumped at the sudden hand on his shoulder and turned to see Frodo standing behind the chair he sat in by Pippin’s bedside. "Merry," his cousin continued, "Dr. Bolger says that Daisy and Dickon are going to return home today. They're already outside in the wagon."

"Oh." Merry sighed and slid out of the chair, stretching his stiff arms. He’d sat there for over two hours, just watching Pippin sleep and making sure that he was properly comfortable.

Merry rubbed his eyes and blinked the sleep from his head. Frodo noticed his weary appearance, and put both his hands on his younger cousin’s shoulders. "Merry," he said gently but firmly, "after you say farewell to Daisy and Dickon, I want you to go straight to bed. You can sleep in the guestroom, just down the hall, so that you shall be the first to hear if Pippin wakes up."

"Frodo, I’m not tired," Merry protested halfheartedly; "and Pippin might—"

Frodo shook his head and let out a half-groan, half-sigh of frustration. "Merry," he said exasperatedly, "you shan’t do Pippin any good by falling asleep where you sit. And I shan’t hear any argument from you about going to bed."

Merry eyed his cousin intently for a moment, as though trying to ascertain whether or not he was serious. Deciding that Frodo was indeed quite serious, he sighed and nodded. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "But don’t let me sleep too long. Please?"

Frodo smiled. "I promise I won’t give you more than an hour," he said with a nod. "Now come, let’s say farewell to Daisy and Dickon." Merry nodded sorrowfully, and with one last glance back at the pale and sleeping Pippin, he allowed Frodo to take him by the hand and bring him outside.

~*~

A noise from behind startled Frodo, and he turned to see Pippin quietly shut the door behind him and walk over. "Is this a private party, or may I join?" he asked with a grin. Frodo returned the smile and gestured to the chair beside him.

"I thought you and Merry were asleep," said Frodo as Pippin settled into the chair.

Pippin smiled again. "Merry is," he said; "but I can’t sleep, even though I am dead tired."

"You two played hard today." Frodo nodded, looking out at the purplish-red that still painted the sky where the sun had sunk beneath the horizon. Pippin looked curiously at him.

"What were you doing out here?" he asked, almost hesitantly.

Frodo blinked and turned to him with a smile. "Just thinking," he said, leaning back in his chair and shifting the pipe to the other side of his mouth. "I was remembering those last few days at the Broadbelts."

Pippin frowned slightly. "Come now, Frodo," he said, "no need to dwell on gloomy things. We’re all fine now; I’m fine, Mosco’s fine, Daisy’s fine, Dickon’s fine, Merry’s fine, and you’re fine. Did I leave anyone out?"

Frodo chuckled and reached over to ruffle Pippin’s sandy curls. "No," he said; "but I hope your parents are convinced tomorrow that you’re ‘fine.’"

Pippin made a face and sighed. "I wish I didn’t have to go home," he muttered, looking down. "I get homesick for Bag End when Merry’s not at home with me." Had he not been so earnestly melancholy, Frodo would have laughed at his statement; but instead, he echoed his cousin’s sigh.

"I know, Pip," he said. "I wish you didn’t have to go home, too. But just think: now that I’ve taught you and Merry that new trick to play on your sisters, you’ll be so busy terrorizing all of Tookland that you shan’t have time to be ‘homesick.’" Seeing that Pippin was not fully convinced, Frodo added, "And besides, Merry will be going home the day after tomorrow, too, and I’m sure he’ll visit you soon. Sooner than he visits me, I daresay." He pretended to pout, and Pippin laughed.

"Well perhaps if you weren’t so boring, cousin, Merry and I would visit more often!" he teased, grinning mischievously at his older cousin.

Frodo sniffed, changing his expression from mournful to one of wounded pride. "Cheeky rogue," he said, straight-faced. "A Baggins, boring? Hmph. Hold your tongue, imp, and show respect for your elders!"

Pippin laughed. "Beg pardon, Mister Elder, sir," he said in mock reverence. "How old does one have to be to be considered an ‘elder?’"

"That needn’t concern you for a long while, Master Took," Frodo replied loftily. "You’re too young to understand such complex and mature matters."

"Does it hurt?" Pippin asked thoughtfully, widening his eyes to further add to his innocent look.

Frodo raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Does what hurt?"

"Being old. I mean, it looks like it hurts when you hobble around like that…" Pippin trailed off as Frodo sprang at him and they went rolling in the grass in a most un-adult way.

"You know, Frodo," Pippin panted as Frodo held him down in the grass, "I just thought up three good reasons why I never want to get old." Frodo allowed him to sit up and dust himself off.

"And these are?"

"Number one, I couldn’t play pranks on my older sisters anymore," Pippin listed on his fingers; "and number two, I couldn’t raid the pantries with Merry anymore; and number three, I would miss out on the adventure you’re going to have someday."

Frodo paused in the process of plucking grass from his hair. "Who said I was going on an adventure?" he asked, wondering how his young cousin had been able to read the thoughts that occupied him often, although he had never told anyone but Bilbo his secret hope for an adventure.

Pippin shrugged. "I don’t know," he said, "but I’m sure you will, and I plan to be there with you!" He ended his sentence almost fiercely, and his green eyes seemed to be daring Frodo to disagree.

Frodo smiled and placing his hands on both of Pippin’s shoulders, he touched his forehead to his cousin’s. "You, my dear Peregrin, are a Took through and through!" he whispered laughingly. He sat back on his heels. "And as everyone knows, if a Took says that someone is going to have an adventure, then they certainly shall." He smiled again, but Pippin could detect a flicker of sincerity in his bright blue eyes.

"But surely there must be some reason you think I shall have an adventure, Pippin," he continued, raising his eyebrows. "I know you too well to be fooled by an ‘I don’t know.’"

Pippin hesitated a moment, staring at the grass and absently plucking little blades. "Well," he said slowly, as though thinking it out. "There’s Gandalf, of course — he’s always the one who starts hobbit-adventures, and he is a good friend of yours." He paused, and Frodo nodded for him to continue.

"And then there’s the R—" He caught himself just in time to avoid saying ‘Ring’, and quickly tried to recover, "The fact that you know Elvish — it’s not much use here in the Shire, but on an adventure, I’m sure it would be." He stopped.

"Anything else?" Frodo asked curiously. Pippin shook his head.

"Well, those are interesting ideas indeed, Pip," Frodo murmured thoughtfully, more to himself than Pippin. He was silent for a moment before turning to find Pippin looking curiously at him, head cocked, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Frodo smiled and stood up, giving Pippin his hand to help him to his feet. "We’d best be going inside now," he said briskly, pulling a blade of grass from Pippin’s hair. "I think there’s still a bit of strawberry tart in the kitchen, if you’d like any."

Pippin yawned and shook his head. "No thank you, Frodo," he said sleepily, as they entered Bag End and shut the door behind them; "I think I’ll just go to bed now."

Frodo smiled and placed a quick kiss on the top of Pippin’s head. "All right then," he said, "off to bed with you. I’ll be there soon. See you in the morning!"

Pippin mumbled a reply and slowly trudged down the hall into the guestroom that he and Merry shared (they had decided to sleep their last night together in a guestroom so that they could stay up late, talking and enjoying each other’s company, without disturbing Frodo). He heard Frodo go into the study, and knew that his older cousin would most likely be studying maps or reading, as he often did late at night.

Shutting the door behind him, Pippin lit the candle on the nightstand and walked over to the bed. "Merry," he whispered, shaking his soundly sleeping cousin. "Merry, wake up!"

Merry groaned and slowly opened his eyes. "There had better be a good reason for your waking me up," he grumbled; "I was having the most lovely dream…"

"Not now, Merry!" Pippin hissed urgently. "It’s about Frodo."

Merry’s eyes fully opened, and he sat up. "What about Frodo?" he asked quickly. "He hasn’t said anything about leaving already, has he?"

Pippin shook his head, curls bouncing. "No, no," he said, then paused. "Well, no, not really. But we were talking about adventures, and he was serious, Merry; I could tell." Merry leaned forward eagerly as Pippin gave a detailed account of the conversation he’d had with Frodo earlier, and when he had finished, Merry sat back and sighed.

"Well, that still doesn’t tell us much, Pip," he said. "I don’t think we’ll really have to watch and worry about him for a few more years yet. He’s not ready to leave — I think. I hope."

Pippin sat on the bed beside him, placing the candle back on the nightstand. "I hope you’re right, Merry." The two cousins became silent, each in their own thoughts. The ‘conspiracy’ they’d formed was still in its first stage, but already, the two young hobbits were quite serious about it. Ever since Bilbo’s Farewell Party, they’d been carefully watching Frodo, half-afraid he’d one day vanish like Bilbo had. Although Merry was still fairly confident that their older cousin would not leave yet — at least not without saying good-bye — they kept a diligent eye out.

Eventually, they lay down in the bed and began to talk about other things, but their minds still lingered on their first subject. They stayed up late, talking, and saw the light from the hallway go out. They heard soft footsteps approaching, and both closed their eyes and lay still as Frodo entered the room.

Frodo walked quietly over to the bed, a candle in his hand. He tucked the coverlet snugly around Merry and Pippin, brushed the tousled curls from their eyes, and kissed their foreheads each in turn. "Sleep well," he whispered, lingering a moment longer. Then, he blew out their candle on the nightstand, and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him.

Merry and Pippin lay still for a long while after Frodo had left, and heard all of Bag End become still and silent. "I wish I didn’t have to leave tomorrow," Pippin whispered at last. "I don’t want to let Frodo out of my sight for long."

"I’m sure he’ll be fine, Pip," Merry chuckled softly. "I’ll be here another day, and then there’s Sam to watch him while we’re gone." He smiled. "Wouldn’t Frodo be cross if he knew how much we always worry about him and look after him — a grown hobbit!"

Pippin chuckled as well. "He would be horrified," he agreed; "but I think he would secretly appreciate it, too."

Merry patted Pippin’s hand. "You are unusually observant tonight, Master Took."

Pippin snorted indignantly. "Unusually?" he repeated. "For your information, Master Brandybuck, I am always observant. How do you think I’m so good at raiding pantries?"

"Sheer luck," Merry responded coolly. Pippin sniffed haughtily, but did not reply. They fell silent again for a long while.

"You know, we didn’t really say good-night to Frodo," Pippin remarked at last.

Merry shifted next to him. "You’re right," he agreed. They both simultaneously threw back the covers and hopped out of bed.

Without even lighting a candle, they opened the door and headed silently down the hall. Opening the door of Frodo’s room, they tiptoed in as noiselessly as only hobbits can, and approached the bed.

Frodo was sound asleep, curled on his side under the blankets. Merry and Pippin quietly stood by the bedside, watching him for a few moments. Then, Merry reached up and pulled the slightly disheveled coverlets up, tucking them under Frodo’s chin. Their older cousin was so deeply asleep that he didn’t stir at all.

Merry stepped back, and Pippin looked up at him. "Merry," he whispered around a yawn. "Frodo’s bed looks awfully comfortable."

"But we have our own bed, Pip," Merry whispered back with a smile, stifling his own yawn.

Pippin blinked drowsily at him. "But the guestroom seems dreadfully far away now, Merry, and we’re not going to be doing any more talking, are we?"

"No, I don’t think so."

"Then I don’t think Frodo would object to us sleeping here," Pippin concluded, yawning again. Merry smiled, and they both walked around the other side of the bed and climbed up. As they settled in, Frodo stirred and turned over, facing them, still deeply asleep.

Merry sat up and leaning over Pippin, kissed Frodo on the forehead. "Sleep well, cousin," he whispered as he curled up snugly with Pippin. The youngest hobbit woke up a little more at Merry’s movement, and sat up. He turned and planted a kiss on Frodo’s cheek, and then settled back down contentedly in the warm blankets.

Both were beginning to drift to sleep when Pippin’s stomach suddenly growled, sounding loud in the peaceful stillness of the room. "Merry," he whispered. "I’m hungry."

****I know, this is probably much different—to say the least—than how most of you expected me to continue after the last chapter, but I simply could not take up any more story-time with that unanticipated "outbreak". I’m very sorry if I disappointed you, but I hope to make it up in future chapters. :) 

12. A Trip to the Northfarthing

Despite Pippin's anxiety about homesickness, the months passed quickly and uneventfully. Spring turned to early summer, and the month of Afterlithe (July in the Gregorian reckoning) proved to be the fairest one of that season. It was warm, but rarely too hot, and mostly bright and sunny.

The perfect time of year for a trip.

It was in the beginning of Afterlithe that Frodo first began to think about taking an excursion; but immediately, a question emerged: where to go? He and Bilbo had tramped through almost the entire Shire already, and Frodo was wishing to go someplace new.

Almost as quickly, the answer came: the Northfarthing. For some reason unknown to him, Frodo had never fully explored the northern part of the Shire, even with Bilbo. They had taken a few small trips, but never anything to fully satisfy Frodo's unhobbitlike curiosity.

So Frodo decided to take a trip to the Northfarthing. But it was not until the second week of Afterlithe that he truly began planning. He'd noticed that Sam had not gone on any of his recent hikes, though the faithful gardener had said nothing.

Frodo was in his study when these thoughts went through his mind, and putting down his quill pen, he got up and went to the window of his room, which had the best view of the garden. Looking out, he saw Sam working hard in the bed of "daffodowndillies", as the gardener called them, unaware that he was being watched.

Frodo got up onto the windowseat, and opened the round window. "Sam!" he called, grinning as the gardener jumped with surprise. Sam turned around, searching for the owner of the voice, and as his eyes at last fell on Frodo in the window, he smiled back.

"Hullo, Mr. Frodo!" he returned, dusting the soil from his hands. "Summat you need?"

"Of course not, you silly hobbit," Frodo laughed. "You always see to that. I was just wishing to talk to you about something, but I shan't disturb your work."

Sam stood, brushing the dirt off his breeches. "I was just about to take a wee rest," he said, "and even so, Mr. Frodo, you wouldn't be disturbin' my work; if you want to talk, the work can always wait."

Frodo smiled. "Thank you, Sam," he said sincerely. "Now come inside!"

When Sam had done so, still trying to dust the brown dirt off his breeches, Frodo poured him a cup of tea and they sat down at the kitchen table together.

"Well, Sam," Frodo said after a few minutes of silence as they drank their tea. "What do you say about taking a trip with me to the Northfarthing?"

Sam choked slightly on his tea and covered a cough with his hand. "I-I'd surely love to, Mr. Frodo!" he said eagerly. He blushed a little, feeling foolish for the ridiculous notion that had started in his head that he had not been able to go on Mr. Frodo's latest excursions because his master did not enjoy his company any longer.

"Splendid!" Frodo exclaimed, his eyes and face lighting up. "I'll be glad to have you along, Sam; it's been quite a while since we went out adventuring together, and I've missed it."

'Ninnyhammer, thinking Mr. Frodo didn't want you taking trips with him anymore,' Sam rebuked himself inwardly. "Perhaps we can visit me brother, Halfred, while we're there?" he asked out loud. "He lives west o' the Bindbale wood."

"Of course, Sam," Frodo agreed eagerly. "I'd like nothing better than to go hiking through the Bindbale."

They lapsed into companionable silence again, finishing their tea. At last, Sam stood up. "Well, Mr. Frodo," he said, "I ought to be goin' back to my work now, if you don't mind, sir."

"Very well, Sam," Frodo said, rising as well and patting Sam's shoulder good-naturedly. "What say we start out at dawn tomorrow--or will you need another day to be ready?"

"Well, Mr. Frodo, p'raps another day would be best."

"You're probably right," Frodo nodded. "Your Gaffer won't mind your taking a trip, will he, do you think?"

Sam grinned. "I'm sure he won't, Mr. Frodo," he said earnestly; "'specially if I won't be gone too long. How long were you plannin' on this trip takin', if you don't mind me asking?"

"I would say probably no longer than a week," Frodo answered after thinking it over for a moment; "if the weather permits. I'll be sure to convince the Gaffer that the garden will be just fine on its own for a week, and he needn't tire himself with tending to it--aside from watering, as he seems to enjoy that, and unless he feels he simply must," he added with a smile.

***

In actual fact, it was three days later that they started out at sunrise. It had taken a bit more convincing than Frodo had anticipated to prove to the Gaffer that the garden of Bag End would be alright while they were gone, and then Frodo had spent another day with Sam, looking over maps and planning their route. Frodo also decided to send a letter to Merry and Pippin, telling them of his trip with Sam, so that they would not worry if they came for a surprise visit (as they often did) and found no one at home.

When at last everything was ready, and the two travelers set out, it turned out to be a disappointingly dull journey to the south edge of the Bindbale Wood. They had decided to visit Halfred Gamgee and his family first, and Frodo reckoned, looking at the map they'd brought, that they had another half-day's journey ahead of them to reach the small town on the western side of the Bindbale known as Fairglade, where Sam's brother lived.

As they made camp in a small clearing, surrounded on two sides by the forest, on one side by a thick, long, mossy log that served as a seat while they ate their supper, and on the remaining side, it gave them an open view of the Shire. The green, grassy hills rolled endlessly before them, dotted with smials and a few houses, smoke rising from the chimneys; towards the east, there was farmland, and the two travelers could see the pastures dotted with sheep and horses. Just below them, down the small hill the wood began on, there was a large, open meadow, filled with white and yellow wildflowers that swayed in the cool breeze.

"I wish I had a paintbrush," Frodo remarked thoughtfully, as they watched the sun set over the west, "or a pencil, so that I could capture all this beauty and splendor, and hang it on a wall to look at on rainy days."

Sam looked sideways at his master. He could only see Frodo's profile, silhouetted against the golden glow of the sunset to the west; but he saw something almost wistful in the expressive blue eyes.

"Well, Mr. Frodo," he said with a sigh, looking out over the beautiful and beloved Shire, "I don't reckon you could truly get all this on a piece o' paper, if you follow me - meanin' no disrespect, sir," he added quickly, as Frodo turned to look at him quizzically. "But I think this is all too much for one paper to hold, all this." He gestured towards the rolling green lands before them, unable to find words to properly describe it.

Frodo stared at him a long moment, silently, and Sam began to fear he'd "over-stepped his bounds." But then, Frodo put a companionable arm around Sam's shoulders and drew him closer. "Sam Gamgee," he said, looking out again at the sunset, "I do believe you're turning into a genuine poet."

Although his words and tone were serious, Sam could sense his master smiling, and looked up. Frodo's expression was one of mingled amusement and affection as he looked at Sam and smiled. Sam shyly smiled back.

The next instant, the solemn moment vanished, as Frodo raised his head and stood up. "Time for bed, I think," he announced, holding out a hand to help Sam to his feet. "We should get plenty of rest if we want to start at first light again."

Sam nodded, stifling a yawn. "I'm about to fall asleep right here on my legs," he said as he stood for a moment longer watching the fading light of the sunset. "I wonder if a body could sleep standing up?"

Frodo laughed and patted Sam's shoulder as he walked over to his own sleeping roll. "Probably not unless you're a pony," he said, taking a drink from his water bottle. Sam chuckled sleepily and lay down in his sleeping roll.

"Have you ever ridden a pony, Mr. Frodo?" he asked suddenly.

"Of course. I had my own pony at Brandy Hall, and I probably rode her every day," Frodo replied, flopping down on his own sleeping roll. "Why do you ask?"

Sam closed his eyes and shrugged. "I dunno," he said, "but I don't know as I've ever seen you ride a pony before."

Frodo had closed his eyes, as well, and settled down into the blanket, and he nearly did not hear Sam's next comment: "And it seems as you'd be needin' a pony if you're to go adventurin' in far off lands."

Opening his eyes, Frodo propped himself up on his elbows and looked curiously at Sam. "Where did you come up with that notion?" he asked, wondering wryly if all of Hobbiton was discussing his secret wish for adventure.

"Oh, I dunno," Sam said again without opening his eyes, "but I just got this feelin' that you'll go off on an adventure like old Mr. Bilbo's.or maybe even better." He was too sleepy to worry about over-stepping his bounds, and his thoughts were beginning to get muddled as he drifted off to sleep. "And Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin..." He suddenly fell asleep before finishing his sentence, leaving Frodo to try and decipher his mysterious words.

Curiosity unsatisfied, Frodo frowned and lay back down disappointedly. But he was too exhausted to even attempt to work out Sam's unfinished sentence, and with a dissatisfied sigh, he fell asleep.

***

The next morning, Frodo and Sam got a bit of a late start; it was nearly eight-thirty, or so they guessed, by the time they finally hoisted their packs and continued on through the Bindbale. It was quite a beautiful forest, with many old elm and sycamore trees close together, completely enclosing them.

The creatures of Shire-woods, though still instinctively cautious, were not so flighty and wary as they were in woods near "Big People" habitations. Frodo and Sam passed a small open meadow where a doe and her fawn were grazing placidly; and squirrels darted along the path, sometimes directly in front of them or even weaving around their legs.

Stopping for lunch underneath a spreading elm tree, Frodo suddenly remembered Sam's unfinished sentence of last night.

"Sam," he said as they brought out a few sandwiches from their packs, "what was it you were saying last night? About Merry and Pippin?"

Sam stared at him in confusion for a moment. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo," he said, "but I don't remember sayin' nowt about Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin."

"You were talking about my having an adventure better than Bilbo's," Frodo reminded him.

Sam suddenly blushed as he remembered. "Oh, well..." he stammered, inwardly rebuking himself for nearly giving away the "conspiracy" the night before. "I was just sayin', Mr. Frodo...that Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin think you'll have an adventure, too.... And, and..." He trailed off with a shrug, and Frodo looked at him quizzically a moment before laughing.

"So you're all in this little conspiracy together, are you?" he said teasingly. "I should have guessed. Pippin was on about my future adventure the night before he left on his last visit, and of course Merry has been planning it for years."

Sam only managed a weak, nervous chuckle at his master's all too accurate jest, and looked down at his food to hide the mounting red color on his face. They both fell silent, but by the time they set off again, they were cheerfully singing one of Bilbo's old walking songs.

They were just about to start on a second round of "Upon the Hearth," when suddenly Sam stopped in his tracks, nearly causing Frodo to run into him. "Look, Mr. Frodo!" he said excitedly, pointing through the trees ahead. "There's chimney-smoke over yonder - maybe it's my brother's home!"

They quickened their pace and struggled through the underbrush--much thicker than it had appeared--to find themselves at the edge of the Bindbale Wood. Before them was a rolling green countryside, smudged with copses of trees. A small dirt road wound around the hills and through the groves, and the two travelers noticed ruefully that the path went into the Bindbale, as well; which would have saved them the scratches and trouble of the underbrush.

The smial nearest to them, quaintly placed on the side of the road and surrounded by a short, white picket fence, looked like a slightly smaller version of Sam's home at #3 Bagshot Row. The front gardens and window boxes of brightly colored flowers bloomed brilliantly, testimonies to the resident's skill.

Just to the right of the smial, the dirt road forked, and three signs had been placed on the top of a wooden post. They read:

BINDBALE WOOD - pointing to the west,

BOUNDS - pointing to the north,

and Balewood Road - pointing down along the road, towards the smial.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam exclaimed after reading the signs. "This is where me brother lives! #6 Balewood Road - the last hole before the Bindbale starts." His face was aglow with anticipation, and his brown eyes sparkled.

Frodo laughed. "Sam, I don't think I've seen you this excited since I told you about the Elf singing your song near the Three Farthing Stone!" His words were teasing, but his tone showed that he was nearly as excited, and pleased to see Sam so happy.

Sam continued to grin uncontrollably. "Well, me an' Halfred have always been real close," he said, "and I haven't seen him in months."

"Well, come then," Frodo said with a smile, adjusting the straps of his pack, which had begun to dig into his shoulders. "I haven't seen Hal since he married and moved up here, either."

They quickly crossed the road, opened the small white gate, and headed up the stone steps. As it was his brother's home, Sam knocked on the round, red door, his hand almost shaking with eagerness.

Presently, the door was opened, by a young hobbit woman, drying her hands on her apron. Her raven-black hair was tied back in a bun, and her pretty face had small smudges flour on it. Her hazel eyes lit up when she saw the two travelers. "Sam!" she cried, giving him an enthusiastic hug. "Hal and I were wonderin' when you'd come for a visit!"

"Hullo, Jessimine!" Sam returned, nearly as excitedly, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "You been takin' care of Hal for me?"

Jessimine laughed. "You know I have, Sam," she said. "I promised, didn't I? And besides, if I wasn't here to look out for him, who knows what the silly thing would do!" Both chuckled conspiratorially, and then Jessimine seemed to notice Frodo for the first time.

"Frodo!" she said happily, giving him a hug nearly as enthusiastic as Sam's. "What a pleasure to see you!" Jessimine had always been a good friend to both Frodo and Bilbo, although she was closer to the former; and the two had a playful, teasing relationship, much like Bell Gamgee, Sam's mother, had had with Bilbo. She was even closer to Sam, and nearly the only lass he felt completely at ease around.

"You don't think I'd let Sam go without me?" Frodo teased. "He's not allowed to have all the fun."

Jessimine laughed merrily, and opened the door wider. "Well, come in, you two!" she said. "You weren't plannin' to stand on the doorstep all day, were you?"

The two travelers stepped inside, their mouths watering at the enticing smell of fresh bread that filled the smial. "Now, you two just wait in the sittin' room while I pour some tea and call the children in--I was just puttin' lunch on the table. Baby Tansy just fell asleep, so you'll probably have to wait 'til supper-time to meet her."

Frodo and Sam obediently--and gratefully--sat down on the comfortable sofa in the sitting room, reveling in the soft, velvety cushions. Both unconsciously let out a simultaneous sigh, deciding that they could live right there on that wonderful, downy sofa for the rest of...

"Uncle Sam!"

A pair of high-pitched voices suddenly interrupted the peaceful scene with their excited squeal, bringing Frodo and Sam rudely back to reality. They sat up to see two small hobbit-children standing in the doorway.

The younger one was a lass, about three years old; with thick, russet-brown curls that came to the middle of her back, decorated with a pretty green ribbon. Her large eyes were a sparkling hazel color, accented by her soft green dress. She looked quite the small duplicate of her mother, with the clean white apron tied over the front of her dress, and a smudge of flour on the tip of her nose, evidence that she had been helping Jessimine in the kitchen.

Beside her was an older lad, just having passed his fifth summer. He had the same colored, but unruly mop of curls his sister had, and the same large round eyes. But his were a deep brown, and shining with excitement. His olive-green waistcoat, the same color as the girl's dress, and the matching chestnut breeches, were slightly wrinkled, telling of earlier boisterous play.

"Fennel! Hazel!" Sam exclaimed happily, holding out his arms. The two children squealed with delight and ran into his affectionate embrace. After a moment, he pulled away, surveying the two closely.

"Fennel-lass," he said with a smile, wiping off the flour on her nose, "you've been helpin' your mum in the kitchen, I see."

The girl giggled and kissed him on the cheek. "I was helpin' her make bread," she said excitedly. "I even got to knead the dough all by meself!"

"Did you now? What a big lass you're getting to be! How old are you now? Four?"

Fennel smiled widely. "I'm goin' to be four in three months, Uncle Sam," she said proudly.

Sam widened his eyes in feigned surprise, laughed, and kissed her on the forehead, before turning to the boy. "Well now, Hazel," he said, pretending to be stern, "what mischief have you been getting into today?"

Hazel grinned. "Oh, none today," he said mischievously, "but I did frighten Fennel with a frog yesterday." Sam laughed as Fennel made a face.

Frodo couldn't help but smile at the affectionate greeting between the children and Sam. His friend had always had a way with little ones--as most hobbits do--but he had never seen him quite so enthusiastic with them. 'He'll make a wonderful father someday,' he thought happily. He turned a laugh into a cough as Sam was called "Uncle" again--somehow, it seemed strange to hear.

Suddenly he became aware that the children had gone silent, and found them staring with wide-eyed curiosity at him. "Oh, Fennel, Hazel," said Sam with a grin, as though remembering Frodo for the first time since greeting his niece and nephew, "this is Mr. Frodo--I've told you about him."

"Hullo," said Frodo with a smile, wondering just what Sam had told the children about him.

Hazel was the first to greet this stranger. He climbed onto Frodo's lap and peered closely into his face. "You're Mr. Frodo?" he asked, as though surprised. "I dunno, Uncle Sam," he continued, turning to look at the other adult, "he don't look like an Elf to me!"

Sam blushed furiously and clapped a hand over the child's mouth, frantically stammering an apology, but Frodo began to laugh. "Is that what he told you?" he said, when he had breath enough. "I assure you, Hazel, I am no Elf. I am a hobbit, just like you!"

Hazel seemed satisfied, and within a few minutes, Fennel had joined in greeting Frodo. It was not long before the children had adopted him as "Uncle Frodo," much to his amusement. Sam eventually got over his embarrassment and joined in their conversations, and it seemed like only a few minutes had passed when Jessimine announced that luncheon was ready.

The small group trooped into the kitchen and seated themselves at the large, round table. Jessimine was busily setting the plates in their respective places at the table, and stubbornly refused any assistance.

"Halfred should be comin' in soon," she said as she finally sat down with the rest of them; "he went into town to get a new barrow--which reminds me. Hazel, did you remind Papa to put an extra blanket on poor old Gil's back before he hitched him up to the wagon?"

"Yes'm," Hazel replied, his mouth full.

"One of our ponies, Gil, has been gettin' sores on his back from the wagon-his old blanket's worn too thin," Jessimine explained to Frodo and Sam. "We got our other pony, Galad, a new blanket last month, but we haven't had a chance to get Gil one yet."

Frodo chuckled. "Gil and Galad. Very clever," he said, taking a sip of the sweet apple cider Jessimine had poured.

Jessimine smiled as she cut off the crusts from Hazel's sandwich. "The children named them," she said, "when we got them two years agone, after our old pony, Pete, died. They'd been listenin' to too many o' Sam's stories."

Frodo shot an amused glance at Sam, who grinned rather sheepishly. He opened his mouth to say something, but just then, the door opened, and Halfred Gamgee came striding down the hall.

Frodo's old friend and neighbor had hardly changed at all in the years since he'd seen him, although his good-natured face had a few lines on it. As Sam eagerly stood and hurried to embrace his brother, Frodo was struck suddenly by the differences between the two.

Halfred was taller, and his thick mop of curls were a mahogany-brown, like Bell's had been. He had broader shoulders than Sam, but a thinner build. He was dressed in a worn pair of blue breeches, chaff-colored shirt, and a dark brown waistcoat. There was a grey-blue woolen cap jauntily placed on his head.

The one physical characteristic the two shared were their eyes: the same deep, thoughtful brown, that could be sparkling with laughter one moment, and smoldering with anger or swimming with grief the next.

Despite their physical differences, the two brothers shared the same obliging, kindly hearts, and the months that had passed since they had last seen each other had not weakened their close bond.

After the ecstatic reunion with his brother, Halfred strode over to Frodo, who had stood when he entered, and enthusiastically shook his hand and clapped him on the back. "Been takin' care of Sam-lad, have you, Frodo?" he asked teasingly, wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders. He was the only Gamgee to have dropped the "Mister", and this had only happened after he'd moved to the Northfarthing, when he did not feel that Frodo was his "master" any longer.

"I'd say it's the other way around," Frodo grinned. "He's certainly gone far beyond 'gardener'!"

Halfred laughed heartily and patted his younger brother's shoulder. "Aye," he agreed, "he always has done more'n he needed." He paused for a moment, then giving Sam a last pat on the shoulder, he pulled away and went over to Jessimine. "Is there any luncheon for a poor, famished hobbit who's been in that busy, crowded town all day?"

Jessimine laughed. "Not unless that 'poor, famished hobbit' goes and washes up, there's not."

Halfred chuckled and kissed her on the cheek. "Mercy, lass," he exclaimed, "you'll starve me!" As Jessimine merely arched an eyebrow, he sighed in defeat. "Very well," he said, looking wistfully at the plates of food on the table. "I'll go wash up." With one last kiss on her cheek, he turned and reluctantly left to obey.

Just before he disappeared into the washroom, his voice rang down the hall. "But don't you go eatin' all the strawberry custard, Hazel-lad!" Hazel choked slightly on the large bite of the sweet, pink custard he had just stuffed into his mouth, and hastily put back the spoon back in the bowl.

Folding his hands innocently in his lap, and fidgeting under the eyes of everyone at the table, he ventured nervously: "Er...I'll go fetch the other batch of custard out then, shall I?"

TBC...

13. Tales by the Hearth

That evening found the Gamgees and their guests settled comfortably in the sitting room. Halfred and Jessimine sat together on the sofa, playing with ten-month-old Tansy who sat between them. The baby was round, red-cheeked and nearly always happy, it seemed. Her soft curls were the same raven-black as Jessimine's, making her round blue eyes all the more striking. The dimples in her cheeks showed as she giggled and tried to wiggle out of her father's gentle tickling.

Fennel sat near the hearth with her knees curled beneath her, playing quietly with her little ragdoll, Goldilocks. Despite its name, it had brown yarn for hair, which had been pulled back into one long thick braid, like Fennel's own, and Jessimine had stitched eyes of periwinkle blue. The doll's small, pink mouth was curved in a smile, and she had a bright dress of homespun cherry-colored plaid, with a tiny apron pinned to the front of it.

Frodo, Sam and Hazel were stretched out on the rug, deep in a game of checks. Sam was simply watching, having lost the game before this one, but that agreed with him quite well - he had more skill with chess or marbles than with checks.

"...And, king me!" Hazel said triumphantly, hopping his black "check" over Frodo's red one, and reaching the other side of the board.

Frodo gasped. "Not again!" he exclaimed, watching with dismay as Hazel proudly placed the red check he'd jumped over in his growing pile of them. "At this rate I don't have a chance of winning!"

Sam chuckled as Frodo sighed and cupped his chin in his hand while moving one of his checks. "Maybe checks isn't your game, Mr. Frodo," he suggested with a grin. "You should try chess. Even I can beat Hazel at chess."

Frodo gave Sam a mock glare, causing both his friend and little Hazel to laugh. "Oh no, you don't, Sam," he said; "I know you too well to fall for that little trick of yours. Not only can you beat Hazel, I'm sure, but everyone in Hobbiton! Remember, I was there at the Ivy Bush when you beat Ted Sandyman last spring!" He smiled as he jumped over one of Hazel's checks and added it to his own pile. "Ah, I'm catching up to you, Master Hazel."

Hazel snorted and moved his own check. "I have not begun to play!" he declared resolutely.

The game lasted for about fifteen minutes more, when at last the inevitable came.

"Ha HA!" Hazel whooped, hopping his check over the last remaining red one and dropping it triumphantly in his pile. "Hazel Gamgee wins again!"

Frodo groaned and buried his face in his hands, while Sam patted his shoulder with one hand, ruffling Hazel's hair with the other. As the champion proudly crowed his victory again, louder this time, Fennel turned to him with a frown.

"Hazel, please! Not so loud," she scolded. "You'll wake up Goldilocks."

Hazel subsided - slightly - and gave Frodo a malicious grin. "Care for another game?" he offered sweetly.

Frodo lightly hit him on the head with a couch pillow. "I know better," he said playfully. "From now on, I shall remember not to play against you in checks, or Sam in chess. What else is there to play?"

Hazel thought a moment. "Well, I've lost most of my marbles, and my tops are broken." He suddenly sat up. "I know!" He sprang to his feet and rushed over to the sofa, pausing to tickle little Tansy, sitting on her mama's lap.

"Mum," he said excitedly, "can I go out with Uncle Sam and Uncle Frodo and show them how I can sword-fight? Please?" He widened his round brown eyes and stuck out his lower lip hopefully.

Jessimine laughed. "But it's nearly dark out, dearest," she said, burying her fingers in his unruly curls. "You can't fence in the dark!"

"But we can fence in the barn, where the lantern is lit," Hazel pointed out quickly. "Oh, please say yes, mum!"

Jessimine glanced at Halfred with her fine black eyebrows raised, and he shrugged. "I suppose you may," Halfred said with a smile; "as long as 'Uncle' Frodo and Uncle Sam don't mind fencing so late."

Frodo and Sam stood and came over. "I'm for it," said Sam, looking at Frodo. "What about you, Mr. Frodo?"

"Of course," Frodo agreed, getting down on his knees to play with Tansy. "Perhaps there is one game that I can beat Hazel at."

Halfred laughed. "I'm not so sure about that," he said mischievously. "Our Hazel-lad's gettin' to be quite good at fencing."

Frodo smirked skeptically as he tried to gently pry Tansy's chubby fingers from the dark locks of his hair that she'd grabbed. Jessimine noticed and quickly helped, giving Tansy her rattle as the baby began to squall when her newest diversion was taken away.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," said Jessimine with a smile, bouncing the now giggling Tansy on her knees. "I should've warned you - she's just begun to find hair most interesting."

"Quite alright," Frodo assured her, rubbing the sore spot on his head. "She's got a strong grip for such a little thing!"

"Aye," said Halfred, gazing down at his youngest child with fatherly pride and affection. "She's goin' to be quite a strong lass when she gets a mite bigger - just like her mum, she is."

Jessimine laughed and lightly elbowed him in the ribs before pulling Tansy's fingers from her own hair. "More like her dad, she is," she asserted with a playful smile at Halfred. "Oh, but you'd best get on outside, Hazel dear, if you want to fence tonight." She glanced out the window and then caught Hazel's shoulder as he began to hurry towards the door. "And you aren't to be out any longer than an hour, all right?"

"Yes ma'am," he responded obediently.

Jessimine smiled and quickly kissed the top of his head before giving him a small push to the door. "Go on, then," she said, "and be easy on your poor old uncles!"

"I will!" Hazel called out laughingly as he shut the door. He excitedly led the way to the large, thatch-roofed wooden barn where a lantern swung in the cool wind as they opened the heavy door. Two ponies, along with a cow, her calf, and a large sow with several piglets, looked over the doors of their stalls and pens curiously as the three hobbits entered.

"This is May-Bell," Hazel said, petting the mother cow's soft nose, "and this is her baby, Rosalee. She was born just two months ago, but she's pretty big already." As if to prove his statement, Rosalee butted him in the stomach with her hard brown head and nearly made him fall backwards.

"Nice-lookin' calf," Sam commented, rubbing Rosalee's velvet ears. "But a bit feisty, isn't she?"

Hazel laughed and pushed May-Belle's large nose out of his face. "Aye," he nodded. "But she's Fennel's calf, and May-Belle's my mum's cow, so I don't have to worry about her much - unless I have to help milk." He made a face and they continued to the ponies' stalls.

"This is Gil," Hazel said, patting the darker grey pony's neck, "and that's Galad. An easy way to tell the difference between 'em is that Galad's got one blue eye, and she's a mare, o' course."

Frodo and Sam smiled and rubbed the ponies' noses and necks, while Gil and Galad eagerly searched their pockets for treats. Finding none, they snorted disdainfully and withdrew into their stalls to eat their own hay.

Hazel shrugged and went on to show his two "uncles" to the last pen, where the sow and her piglets stood by the gate, squealing for food. "No treats right now," Hazel laughed, wagging his finger at the large mother pig. "You've still got the rest of your supper to eat." He grinned and looked up at Frodo and Sam. "This is Mathom," he said, scratching the sow's rough back. "Dad named her that last winter when mum wouldn't let him make her into pork - he said that she wasn't good for nowt else, but mum insisted, so he let us keep her as a pet."

"Do the piglets have names yet?" Frodo asked, reaching into the pen and managing to touch one of the piglets' backs before it squealed and ran to the other side.

"Aye," said Hazel quickly. "There's Afteryule, Solmath, Rethe, Astron, Thrimidge, Forelithe, Afterlithe, Wedmath, Halimath, Winterfilth, Blotmath, an' Foreyule." He grinned at the expressions of surprise on Frodo and Sam's faces. "There were too many of 'em to try to give 'em decent names, mum said, so we just named 'em after the months."

All three reached into the pen again to touch the elusive piglets, and at last they each managed to catch one each. "Which one is this?" Frodo asked, holding a small black piglet with a white spot on its nose, in one hand.

"That's Astron," said Hazel, "and Uncle Sam, you've got Halimath there. I've got Rethe."

Just as he finished his sentence, Mathom began to squeal loudly, and the three hobbit's winced at the piercing, grating sound. "She's mad at us for takin' her babies," Hazel observed. "We'd best put 'em back."

They lowered the piglets back into the pen, and Frodo narrowly missed being bitten by one of them - fortunately, he pulled back his hand just in time.

Hazel led Frodo and Sam up the ladder to the haymow, where the fencing sticks were kept. Curled up on the bales of hay there was a large black and white cat, and he surveyed the two intruders coolly with his unblinking yellow eyes.

"That's Tibs," said Hazel as he pulled three long, slender, strong sticks out from in between two bales of hay. "He's supposed to catch the mice that keep eatin' our corn an' feed, but he's too lazy to even try to go after 'em. Dad says that he should be called Mathom, too."

Frodo and Sam chuckled and helped Hazel carry the fencing sticks down the ladder, where the boy handed his uncles one for each of them and took one for himself. "Sometimes my friend, Robin, comes over to fence with dad an' me," he explained, "so we keep an extra one for 'im."

After a few moments of deciding upon the rules, their fencing match began. Sam and Frodo found that Hazel was, indeed, a fine fencer, and were hard put to avoid his deft strokes. Having more practice in fencing (or at least pretending to battle with sticks), Frodo outlasted Sam, and after several intense minutes, he was able to lightly flick Hazel's stick from his hand.

"At last, I have bested you!" said Frodo triumphantly, lowering his own stick. "Shall we have at it again?"

Of course this challenge could not be passed, and so the fencing match continued. By the time their hour was up, all three were out of breath and exhausted, but very pleased with themselves. Each had won at least one match -Frodo had shown his skill and won two - and congratulated one another as they entered the house.

Jessimine held a finger to her lips as they came in, as baby Tansy lay soundly sleeping in her lap. Fennel was now in her long white nightgown, curled up on the sofa next to her father with Goldilocks in her arms.

"I'll go put little Tansy to bed," Jessimine whispered, carefully standing and scooping the child into her arms. "Half a moment."

"Go get ready for bed, now, Hazel," said Halfred as Jessimine left. "Then you can come back here and sit with us for a while."

Hazel nodded obediently and left, while Frodo and Sam seated themselves on the floor by the hearth. "Had fun?" Halfred asked, stroking Fennel's long brown curls.

"Aye, very much," Sam nodded with a smile. "Hazel is quite handy with a stick!"

Halfred laughed softly. "I told you," he agreed. "He is, isn't he? I hope he wasn't too hard on you two."

"Not at all," said Frodo, smiling. "I just hope we weren't too hard on him - he looked rather worn out when we finished."

"'Tis good for him," Halfred said; "he'll get a good night's sleep tonight, and an early start in the mornin'. I s'pose he introduced you to all the animals?"

"He did," Frodo replied, "although I don't think the piglets liked me very much; one of them tried to take a bite out of my hand."

"Sorry, Frodo," said Halfred, although his brown eyes twinkled playfully. "They'll do that - I've some nasty scars meself from the little scamps' teeth. Sharper than they look."

Frodo laughed along with Sam and Halfred as their host pointed out the various scars made by the piglets' teeth on his hands. Hazel soon came in, in his long, chaff-colored nightshirt, and he stretched himself out on the rug by the hearth.

"Sam-lad, would you mind comin' with me for a minute?" Halfred asked after a moment. "I'm goin' to town again tomorrow, and I wanted your advice on a few things."

"'Course, Hal," Sam answered, getting to his feet.

Halfred gently lifted the half-asleep Fennel from his lap and resettled her against the sofa pillows as he stood. He and Sam left the room, and the door could be heard opening and closing behind them.

"Can you tell me a story, Uncle Frodo?" asked Hazel suddenly, after a long while of silence. "Uncle Sam says you're awful good at tellin' stories."

Frodo blinked as he was startled from his thoughts. "A story? Well, which one would you like to hear?"

"Something new," Hazel responded eagerly; "something I haven't heard before - with lots of scary monsters and dragons and heroes."

Fennel sleepily raised her head from the sofa. "But not too scary," she begged. "I don't want bad dreams."

While Frodo considered what story to tell, Fennel slipped off the sofa and without a word, settled herself contentedly in his lap. Frodo was surprised, but he let her get comfortable while Hazel scooted closer, propping his elbows up on the rug and cupping his chin in his hands.

"All right," said Frodo at last, "have either of you heard of the giant spiders of Mirkwood?"

Hazel's eyes grew wide. "No," he said excitedly.

Fennel shivered and looked up worriedly. "They're not too scary, are they, Uncle Frodo?"

Frodo smiled. "No, not too scary," he assured her. "But I imagine Sam's told you a few of my Uncle Bilbo's adventures with thirteen dwarves and Gandalf."

"Oh, yes," Hazel answered with a wide grin, "and he said that Gandalf lives forever! Is he an elf?"

Frodo laughed and shook his head. "No, he's not an elf," he said. "He's - well, he's kind of hard to explain. He's something called a wizard, which is sort of like an elf, I suppose." Hazel and Fennel nodded, and Frodo paused a moment before beginning the story. He told about Bilbo's encounter with the spiders in Mirkwood, and how he had rescued the dwarves from the creatures - but he was careful not to make it too frightening for Fennel.

Frodo ended the story with the naming of Bilbo's sword, Sting, and found that Fennel had fallen asleep in his lap. Hazel was silent for a long moment, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed, in awe of the story about so brave a hobbit.

"Was... was that a true story?" he asked at last, hesitantly.

Frodo smiled and shifted Fennel into a more comfortable position in his lap. "It was," he said with a nod; "Bilbo told me himself, and I've seen some of the memoirs from his journey."

"Glory and trumpets!" Hazel exclaimed softly. "He must be the bravest hobbit ever!"

"I think so," Frodo agreed, pleased once again at the enthusiasm with which his uncle was praised. He caught Hazel stifle a yawn. "But I also think that you're getting sleepy. Isn't it time for bed?"

"Almost," said a voice by the door, and Frodo and Hazel looked up with surprise to see Jessimine, Halfred and Sam standing in the doorway, smiling. "Wonderful story, Frodo," Halfred commented with a chuckle.

"Gets better every time I hear it," Sam added.

"How long have you three spies been standing there?" Frodo demanded, flushing slightly.

Halfred shrugged and leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe. "Long enough," he said teasingly. "Jessi was already here when Sam an' I came."

Jessimine blushed a little. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo," she said, "but I couldn't help but listen. I'd never heard that story."

Frodo sighed, but said nothing more, and Hazel yawned again. Jessimine looked at him. "Time for bed, dearest," she said, coming over and gently taking Fennel from Frodo's lap. Halfred followed her and scooped Hazel up from the rug; the boy was too tired to protest, and merely settled comfortably in his father's strong arms.

"Well, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, coming over to sit beside his master, "it seems the little ones have taken a liking to you! You'll be forced to tell them stories constantly now - believe me, they won't let you alone."

Frodo chuckled. "That's all right with me," he said with a shrug. "You know I'm always glad to tell stories about Bilbo to those who will listen." He grew slightly melancholy and sighed, and Sam squeezed his shoulder understandingly.

"An' I'm always glad to listen to them," he said. "But Mr. Bilbo wouldn't want you to be tellin' them if they made you sad, you know."

Frodo looked up at him with a small smile. "Thank you, Sam," he said sincerely. "You always know how to cheer me up." Sam smiled back, and just then, Halfred and Jessimine returned.

"How about another story, Frodo?" asked Halfred as he settled down on the couch beside his wife. Frodo started to protest, but soon Jessimine and Sam had joined Halfred in pleading with him, so he sighed in defeat.

"Very well," he said, throwing up his hands. "I give up! But what story should I tell? I daresay Sam has told you nearly everything about Bilbo's adventures, as well as every Elf story he knows."

Halfred grinned at his younger brother. "Well, I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "He was goin' to tell us a story about some Elf-Lord, Elrond, it was, I think. But he never got the chance."

"It was about Lord Elrond and his wife," said Sam to Frodo with a slight blush. "You know, the story I was tellin' you all those years ago, when you were sick with that snakebite."

"I remember," Frodo said with a smile. "But why don't you tell it again?"

Sam argued, but as they had done against Frodo, Halfred and Jessimine joined in and eventually, they won Sam over. Shyly at first, and then becoming enthusiastic and animated as the story progressed, he told about Celebrían, Elrond's wife, and her wounding by orcs in the Misty Mountains.

When Sam had finished, Frodo was persuaded to tell another story, and it was close to midnight when they finally went to bed.

Frodo and Sam slept in the guestroom, where they had placed their packs that afternoon. It had been arranged that they would stay for three or four days - Jessimine would not hear of them leaving any sooner.

"Good night, Sam, Mr. Frodo," said Jessimine as she prepared to shut the door. "See you in the mornin'."

"Night, Jessi," Sam mumbled tiredly, burying his face in the soft pillows. Frodo was already sound asleep in the other bed. Jessimine watched the two with a fond smile for a moment, before blowing out the candle that hung on the wall, and quietly heading for her own bed.

TBC...

14. What Could Possibly Happen?

“Mr. Frodo! Mr. Frodo, where are you?”

Sam hurried past the parlor, and then stopped short and turned around as he spotted Frodo inside, on the rug, playing checks again with Hazel. His master looked up with a smile, setting down the piece of paper that he’d been scribbling on, as he came in. “Hullo, Sam,” he said cheerfully. “A bit early to be hurrying so, isn’t it? Something wrong?”

Sam grinned and shook his head, causing light brown curls to fall over his eyes. He impatiently blew them out of the way, and leaned against the doorframe. “No, no, sir,” he said, “nothin’s wrong. I just wanted to ask you summat—I should’ve known you’d be playin’ with Hazel again.”

Frodo chuckled and moved his check, black this time. “I shan’t let him best me so easily,” he said firmly. “I’m determined to keep playing until I beat him—surely it’s not possible for someone to win every time!”

Sam stifled a laugh as Hazel, grinning, hopped his red check over Frodo’s and dropped the older player’s into his pile. Frodo groaned and shook his head. “All right,” he said with a sigh, “I take it back. It is possible for someone to win every time.”

Hazel snickered and Frodo crunched his piece of paper into a ball, and threw it at his head. “Did you say you had something to ask me, Sam?” he asked, laughing as his paper-ball hit Hazel squarely on the nose.

“Well, Mr. Frodo,” Sam started, “Halfred needs to go to town again today, an’ he needs me to come with him. After that, me an’ him were goin’ to go drop off a few things at the east side o’ town, where they’re buildin’ a bridge over the Jolly Brook, and maybe help them a bit. But Jessimine has to go with Fennel to a friend’s home for a quilting bee, or some such.” Sam paused and then went on in a rush, “And, well, me an’ Halfred was wonderin’ if you wouldn’t mind stayin’ here with Jessimine and Fennel and Hazel, and little Tansy, while we were off at town, seein’ as how we’ll be gone all day, most like. They’ve got a pony-trap in the barn if you wouldn’t mind drivin’ the lasses to the quilting bee. Halfred and me ’ll collect them on our way home.”

Frodo smiled. “Of course I wouldn’t mind,” he said, sitting up. “Hazel wanted to show me the pond where Jolly Brook starts—no doubt so that he can best me at frog-catching. And I’ve been wanting to go on a drive or a walk to see the countryside around here, anyhow.”

Sam looked relieved. “Thank'ee, Mr. Frodo!” he said with a smile. “If you don’t mind, Halfred’s waitin’ outside, so I’d best be off. See you this evening!”

“Have a good time, Sam,” Frodo called after him.

Sam’s voice could be heard from down the hall, replying, “Same t' you, Mr. Frodo!”

Hazel suddenly tugged on Frodo’s sleeve to get his attention. “I believe I’ve just won,” he said with a mischievous grin. Frodo looked down at the check-board with dismay and groaned. Hazel burst out laughing.

***

Later that afternoon, Frodo (with the knowledgeable Hazel’s help) hitched up Galad—as Halfred had taken Gil—to the pony-trap and they drove down the dirt road, following Jessimine’s directions. She sat with Tansy on her lap; her wide-brimmed hat tied with a large blue ribbon beneath her chin shading her face from the bright summer sun. Fennel had a similar hat, while Tansy just had a small, periwinkle-colored bonnet.

Hazel sat beside Frodo, excitedly telling him about his many “adventures” (as he called them) he had with his friend, Robin Tunnelly. He considered himself quite well traveled—by hobbit standards—and took pride in his knowledge of locations such as Brandy Hall or the Great Smials in Tuckborough, which to him were as far as the east is from the west.

As they reached the north part of the town of Fairglade, the rolling hills gave way to flat, green moors. Here, there was no place to build a sensible hobbit-hole; the inhabitants of the north moors lived in two-story brick houses, for the most part.

“Fancy climbing upstairs to bed!” said Jessimine, shaking her head, as they passed one such residence. “That seems to me most inconvenient. Hobbits aren’t birds.”

“I don’t know,” said Frodo thoughtfully. He tipped up the brim of his round, flat-topped straw hat to wipe his brow—the sun was brightly shining and it was getting rather hot. “It isn’t as bad as it sounds; though personally I never like looking out of upstairs windows, it makes me a bit giddy. There are some houses that have three stages, bedrooms above bedrooms. I slept in one once—years ago, while I was in Frogmorton with Bilbo on a holiday; the wind kept me awake all night.”

“What a nuisance, if you want a handkerchief or something when you're downstairs, and find it's upstairs,” said Hazel, peering over the side of the pony-trap to get a better view of the nearest house.

“You could keep handkerchiefs downstairs, if you wanted to,” suggested Fennel primly, playing with Goldilocks.

“You could, but I don’t think anybody does.”

“That is not the houses’ fault,” said Frodo laughing; “it is just the silliness of the hobbits that live in them. The old tales tell that the Elves used to build tall towers; and only went up their long stairs when they wished to sing or look out of the windows at the sky, or even perhaps the sea. They kept everything downstairs, or in deep halls dug beneath the feet of the towers. I have always fancied that the idea of building came largely from the Elves, though we use it very differently.”

“If ever I live in a house, I shall keep everything I want downstairs,” Hazel stated decisively, “and only go up when I don’t want anything; or maybe I shall have cold supper upstairs in the dark on a starry night.”

“And have to carry plates and things downstairs, if you don’t fall all the way down,” laughed Jessimine.

“No!” argued Hazel. “I'll have wooden plates and bowls, and throw 'em out the window. There will be thick grass all round my house."

“But you would still have to carry your supper upstairs,” Frodo pointed out.

“Oh well then, perhaps I should not have supper upstairs,” said Hazel in exasperation. “It was only just an idea. I’d much rather live in a sensible smial, anyhow.”*

By the time this very hobbit-like conversation ended, they had reached their destination: a small, modest hole nestled in a round little hill. Frodo pulled up the pony-trap and handed the reins to Hazel while he helped Jessimine and Fennel out.

“Thank you for minding Hazel,” said Jessimine, turning around at the doorstep. “It really is a blessing.”

“No trouble,” Frodo replied with a smile.

Jessimine returned the gesture and settled Tansy on her hip. “Well, have a good time with him,” she said, “and be careful. He can be quite curious when he has a mind to be, and he seems to have a knack for getting into mischief.”

“Of course,” said Frodo with a chuckle. “He’ll be fine. I’ll see you this evening!”

Jessimine waved as he returned to the pony-trap and sat next to Hazel. With a returning wave, Frodo flicked the reins, and Galad set off at a brisk trot while Hazel called a final farewell to his mother.

***

“Well, Hazel, where to?” Frodo asked as they drove along the pleasant dirt road through the north moors. “We have the whole day ahead of us.”

Hazel thought for a moment. “What about a ride through the Bindbale? I know some good trails that are wide enough for the cart, and I can show you Bindbale Pond, where the Jolly Brook starts. It’s a grand place for catching frogs, and dad an' I have a little rowboat kept there, too!”

Frodo suppressed a shudder at the thought of boating. He had not participated in such pastimes since his parents’ deaths when he was twelve, and although he had eventually overcome his fear of water, he still avoided boating above all things.

Part of him chided himself for being so frightened of such an enjoyable activity—after all, it was not the boat’s fault that his parents had drowned—but the other part of him still wished to stay safely away from it.

Frodo sighed, and Hazel looked at him curiously, though he did not notice. He was torn in two: the more sensible Baggins part of him against the adventurous Tookish side.

Eventually, Frodo looked down at Hazel and smiled. The Tookish side had won. “Sounds like a fine plan,” he said. “I can show you the art of skipping stones while we’re at the pond—I happened to be a champion rock-skipper when I was a lad growing up in Brandy Hall, you know.”

Hazel snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it!” he teased, pushing the brim of Frodo’s hat down over his eyes. Frodo grinned and pushed the hat back up so that he could see. He flicked the reins and urged Galad into a canter, sending Hazel, who had not the time to get a good grip, falling back against the seat and nearly over it into the back of the cart.

Frodo laughed and looked down at Hazel. “I thought you enjoyed going fast?” he said playfully. Hazel growled, although he could not contain a grin and he had to admit that he did love the feel of the wind in his face.

They slowed to a brisk trot on the dirt path through the forest, and made a game of spotting the wildlife along the way.

“There’s another squirrel!” Hazel exclaimed happily, leaning over the side of the pony-trap so far that he nearly fell off. “One more point for me!”

Frodo frowned. “That’s not fair!” he protested. “All the squirrels are on your side! Ah, no, I take it back! There’s one more for me!”

After traveling, eastward, through the woods for about fifteen minutes, they came upon a wooden bridge, spanning the Jolly Brook, which flowed directly in front of them. “My dad and the other menfolk of town have been buildin’ this,” Hazel commented as they halted in front of it.

“Will it hold the cart’s weight?” Frodo asked doubtfully, remembering Sam’s earlier comment that morning about them still building it—although the bridge certainly looked sturdy enough.

“Should,” Hazel said, peering at the bridge. “Dad sometimes has to drive the wagon over it with supplies.”

“Well, if it can hold a wagon, it can hold us,” Frodo decided. “But I’m going to get down and lead Galad, just to be safe. Here, you take the reins, and don’t let her run wild with me.”

Hazel accepted the reins and nodded earnestly. “O' course not, Uncle Frodo,” he said. “I can hold her just fine.”

Frodo hopped off the seat and walked over to Galad’s head. “Hullo there, girl,” he said softly, patting the pony’s neck and loosely taking hold of her halter with one hand, looking up and nodding to Hazel. “Easy now…it’s all right, just a little bridge…” He continued to talk soothingly to her as the pony hesitatingly walked across the bridge. She snorted in alarm at the first loud, echoing thump that her hoof made as it made contact with the wood, but with Frodo and Hazel’s combined voices, she calmed and allowed herself to be led slowly across the bridge.

Once across, Frodo, with one last cheerful pat of Galad’s neck, climbed back up onto the seat, taking the reins back as Hazel handed them to him. The boy climbed into the back of the cart to get out some roadside food from the knapsack they’d brought, and sat there munching an apple and happily talking with Frodo for the remainder of the trip to Bindbale Pond.

The Pond was hardly big enough to be called so, although beautiful and home to many kinds of birds and other wildlife. A kingfisher called from where it perched on a partially submerged tree branch, and frogs chirped in the reeds.

“Here we are,” Hazel announced, standing up and spreading out his hands with a grin, “the beautiful Bindbale Puddle!” He and Frodo laughed, and he directed them to a glade beside the pond where there grew a large, shady tree—the perfect spot for a mid-day meal.

They set up their “camp” (as Hazel called it) beneath the tree, and unhitched Galad from the cart, tying her to a nearby sapling and letting her graze. Leaning comfortably against the tree trunk, the two hobbits ate a small lunch while watching the various kinds of wildlife.

“Do you come here often?” asked Frodo after a while, putting one hand comfortably behind his head and using the other to remove his hat and fan himself.

Hazel nodded, swallowing a large bite of his sandwich. “Dad an’ me come here ’most every day,” he said. “Sometimes we fish, or I play 'ere with Robin while he works with the menfolk on the bridge.”

After helping Frodo put away the remainders of their meal, Hazel went into the reeds to catch frogs, while Frodo watched, still too hot to feel like getting up. This was without a doubt the hottest and most humid day of the entire summer, and Frodo marveled that Hazel did not seem to even notice the heat as he carefully hunted frogs. The cicadas droned monotonously, in time with the slow croaking of frogs and lazy buzzing of bees. It was as though all of nature was hot and drowsy.

Within about a quarter of an hour, Hazel grew bored catching frogs and returned to the shade where Frodo still leaned against the tree, both hands behind his head, and his hat over his eyes. Hazel curiously walked over and lifted the brim of the hat, to find that Frodo was asleep.

A grin spread over Hazel’s face. “WAKE UP, UNCLE FRODO!” he shouted loudly, doubling up with laughter as Frodo’s eyes flew open and he jerked awake with a yelp.

Frodo rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, stretching his arms above his head. “Fell asleep, did I? You could have been a tad more gentle in waking me.” He playfully smacked Hazel with his hat. The boy was buried too deep in laughter to even speak.

“Well, now that I’m up, what do you want to do?” Frodo asked, standing up and brushing off his trousers.

Hazel regained control of himself and coughed. “We could go boating,” he suggested, “or you could show me how you can skip rocks.”

Frodo chuckled and looked out over the water. “Let’s go boating first,” he said after a long moment of thought, deciding that it would be better to get the worst over and done with. “Then I shall beat you at rock-skipping.”

Hazel snorted and led the way along the pond to where his small rowboat was covered with a leather tarp and placed beneath a mulberry bush near the bank. With Frodo’s help, he pulled it out and slid it towards the water. As they climbed in, he noticed Frodo’s slightly pale face, and chortled.

“Uncle Frodo, you needn’t look so frightened—it’s only a little water!” he teased, getting the oars in place and sitting beside the older hobbit.

Frodo looked at him with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sorry, Hazel,” he said. “Really, I love the water.” He took one of the oars with a slightly brighter smile, to prove his statement.

“Then don’t be such a worrier,” Hazel chided him gently. “Me an’ Robin an’ dad an’ the rest go in this boat all the time. It’s perfectly safe. Besides”—he and Frodo began to row—“what could possibly happen?”

 TBC...

* This conversation about houses is from ‘The Return of the Shadow,’ in the chapter ‘To Maggot’s Farm and Buckland:’ pages 92-93. I changed it a tad to fit the characters, but it was so adorable and hobbit-like that I just had to include it! ;-) Too bad it didn’t make it into the final version of FotR.

15. Calm Before the Storm

As it turned out, Frodo had to admit that the boating was not so dreadful as he’d feared. For one thing, the constant act of rowing gave something for his hands to do, instead of clutching to the sides of the boat for dear life; and also, Hazel kept up an almost constant stream of merry chatter. Frodo eagerly continued the conversation, trying to keep his mind occupied on anything but the soft splashing of the water from the oars and the thoughts that inevitably accompanied the sound.

At the moment, as they rowed to the opposite side of the pond to rest beneath an over-hanging willow tree, Hazel’s sunny attitude had faded, as he poured out his troubles with a town bully.

“…and I tried to get it back, but Averill just pushed me down and took it—then he walked away, laughing!” Hazel’s cheeks flushed with frustration as he told Frodo about the loss of a large bag of gumdrops, several weeks before, which his father had bought especially for him. Of course, Halfred, upon hearing the tale from his son, had immediately told Averill’s father about it. The bully was given a sound thrashing for the crime, and had also been forced to buy and deliver a bag-full of sweets for Hazel. But that did not lessen the distress of the lad, who, though by nature forgiving, was having difficulties making peace or defending himself from the larger bully.

Frodo shook his head in sympathy and patted Hazel’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Hazel,” he said sincerely. “I know how you feel—I’ve dealt with more than a few bullies myself.”

Hazel looked up in surprise. “You, Uncle Frodo?” he asked curiously.

Frodo chuckled and ruffled Hazel’s curls. “Of course,” he said with a smile. “The folk in Hobbiton think that I’m rather queer, just like they thought of dear old Bilbo.” He paused, and Hazel nodded in understanding. “Where I grew up, in Buckland, there were always a few who liked to tease me, but in Hobbiton, there are some who are worse than any in Buckland: Ted Sandyman, the miller’s son, is one, and unfortunately, my cousins, the Sackville-Bagginses are the others.” He made a face, and Hazel thought he could guess how the Hobbiton bullies treated him.

“What do you do about them, Uncle Frodo?” he asked, picking a sprig from a trailing willow branch and twirling it in his fingers.

“Well, fighting doesn’t usually help,” said Frodo with a wry grimace; “although sometimes it is unavoidable.” He smiled reassuringly as Hazel nodded with a cringe. “But something that works even better than exchanging blows is simply ignoring them, or treating them politely when you do meet. I know sometimes it seems impossible to do, but if you just ignore them and stand up for yourself, the bullies will see, eventually, that you’re no longer an easy target.”

Hazel looked out at the water as he mulled over Frodo’s words. “But what do I do if they say something really mean?” he asked, looking up. “Sometimes Averill and his friends say awful things about me, or my dad or my family. And I can’t let them see me cry, because then they tease me about that.”

Frodo nodded. He knew well how cruel bullies’ words could be. “Well, Hazel,” he said at last, with a sigh, turning to look back at his young charge, “if you need to cry, just get away from them, to somewhere by yourself or with your parents. It’s all right to cry.” He smiled slightly. “Bilbo once told me something that will make you feel better. He said, No matter how frightening or dark or terrible things appear, there’s always a silver lining.”

Hazel's brows furrowed. “What’s a silver lining?”

“A bright spot.” Frodo realized that while talking about the familiar and positive subject, he had almost forgotten that he was in a boat. He let his hand over the side and trailed his fingers in the water. “No matter what the situation, there’s always a bright spot.”

Both of them were silent for a few minutes, listening to the call of a water bird in the reeds nearby. Hazel mulled over his “Uncle’s” advice. He had sometimes heard his father speak of a “silver lining,” although he’d not known what it meant. He still did not fully understand, but he decided that it must be truthful if both his father and Frodo said so.

“Well, Hazel,” said Frodo abruptly, startling the boy from his musings, “what do you say we head back to shore and have a game of skipping stones?”

“’Course,” Hazel replied readily, grinning. “We’ll see if you can ‘make good your boast,’ as me dad says.”

Frodo chuckled and shook his head as he and Hazel rowed to shore. “We’ll see.” They stowed the boat under the mulberry bush and covered it with the tarp once more, and went around to the bank near the tree where they’d had their lunch.

They both bent down to select their stones, and Frodo showed Hazel how to find ones with the perfect shape and form. When the smooth, flat stones had been chosen, they stood up and wiped the mud from their fingers.

“Who’s to go first?” Hazel asked, turning his stone in his hand. Frodo smiled and ruffled his curls, leaving a bit of mud on the top of the boy’s head. Hazel pretended to be annoyed, and scowled at his “uncle,” but did not bother to brush the mud out of his hair.

“You first,” Frodo laughed, causing Hazel’s affected glare to change into an involuntary grin. “I want to see what I’m up against.”

Hazel chortled and then composed himself, getting into the correct “stone-skipping stance” (as he called it) with such solemnity that Frodo had to cover his mouth with one hand to keep from laughing. The boy ignored him, and after pausing for a moment, pulled his arm back and threw the stone expertly. It made three skips across the water before landing with a plunk and sinking to the bottom.

“Beat that,” said Hazel smugly, looking up at Frodo.

The older hobbit had been watching carefully, and nodded his head. “Not bad,” he commented loftily. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that if you hope to draw level with me.”

“Huh!” Hazel raised his eyebrows and snorted doubtfully. “Well, let’s see your best skipping then.”

Frodo smiled condescendingly and lightly tossed his stone from his left hand into his right. With one quick throw, his stone was sent skimming across the water. It skipped five times before sinking, and Frodo turned expectantly to Hazel.

“That was fair,” the boy admitted grudgingly.

“Fair!” Frodo exclaimed indignantly. “That was skill and you know it!”

Hazel turned an unintentional laugh into a cough and shook his head. “We’ll just see who’s got skill,” he said as he selected another stone.

Their contest lasted for another half hour, and each time, their stones’ skips grew. At last, when Frodo’s stone had skipped twelve times, he sighed. “Hazel,” he said, “I think we had better call it a draw, and have done. I don’t know about you, but my arm feels as though it’s about to fall off, and I don’t think that either of us can get any higher than twelve skips!”

Hazel had to agree, though reluctantly, and they went back to the tree and leaned against it for a few minutes. “Can we take a hike?” Hazel suggested, breaking the silence. “’Course, me an’ Robin an’ Dad have explored the wood ’round the pond, but we haven’t hiked much that way.” He jerked his thumb behind them to the thick woods. “Dad was plannin’ on takin’ me on a trip there, but he hasn’t got the chance yet.”

“I’d love to take a hike,” Frodo agreed, looking at the woods where Hazel had pointed. “But won’t your dad be disappointed that you can’t explore it together?”

Hazel shrugged. “Nah,” he said. “He doesn’t truly like campin’ all that much, and he was goin’ to go because I wanted to, but instead of that, I’ll ask if he’ll take me up to Bounds. It’s a big town up near the border, and sometimes, my dad says—he goes there to trade, y'know—there’s even Big People!”

Frodo laughed and stood up. “Well, I think the wood is enough for you and I today, and we'll save the trip to Bounds for you and your dad,” he said, helping Hazel up. “But let’s check on Galad before we go, and bring our knapsack—just in case.”

Galad was still grazing placidly when they checked on her, tied to the sapling tree, and seemed a bit irritated at their disturbance. Giving her friendly pats on the neck, they left her alone and Hazel ran to the cart to fetch the knapsack.

Frodo and Hazel then had a brief argument about who would carry the knapsack—Hazel wanted to prove his worth, and Frodo wanted to carry it to leave the boy unburdened and unhindered in his exploration. In the end, Frodo won out, but with the promise that Hazel would get a chance to carry the knapsack on their way back.

As it turned out, Hazel was glad that he was not carrying the heavy pack, and ran eagerly ahead, calling out every few seconds for “Uncle” Frodo to come look at something he’d found. Frodo did so patiently, and eventually, Hazel quieted and slowed to walk beside him.

They hiked for nearly an hour, going steadily north, so that they were traveling length-wise through the Bindbale. At last, when the shadows began to grow and the sun’s light dimmed in the sky above them, Frodo decided that they had better return, if they wished to be home by suppertime, as they’d promised.

Hazel reluctantly agreed, and they turned around and headed back the way they’d come—fortunately, it was still light enough for them to make sure they were going the right way. In the light of late afternoon, the woods looked very different, Hazel thought, and he slowed his pace to gaze around him as though seeing it all for the first time.

A sudden shrill whinny from ahead startled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see that Frodo was a good distance ahead. “That sounded like Galad—come on, Hazel!” the older hobbit called over his shoulder. “She sounded frightened!”

Hazel’s pace quickened to a run, and he strove to catch up with Frodo, who was still far ahead. But suddenly, something caught his eye in a bush to his right, and his astonishment and delight caused him to forget Galad completely. He stopped, and got down on the floor of dried leaves to look more closely at four small creatures hiding beneath the bush.

Frodo did not realize that Hazel had stopped, and continued on, coming out of the forest and into the open, hurrying to the grove of saplings where Galad was tied. When he got there, he stopped short in horror. Galad was gone.

The leather reins that had tied the pony to a sapling had broken, and part of them hung from the branch, still knotted firmly. But that was the only trace of Galad; no prints showed in the thick grass that grew beneath the saplings.

Frodo stood there for a moment, wondering where to search first, and suddenly realized with a new shock of fear that Hazel was not beside him. Just as he was about to turn and head back into the wood in search of Hazel, something grabbed his shoulder.

With a startled gasp, he whirled around, and before him stood a tall, dark-haired Man, twice his height. Beside him, standing placidly, was Galad. The Man held in one large hand what remained of the reins, while with the other he still gripped Frodo’s shoulder.

“Is this your pony?” he asked before the astonished hobbit could speak. His voice was surprisingly pleasant and friendly. “I’m afraid I startled her coming out of the brush—I was hunting deer.” He nodded to the bow and quiver full of arrows strapped to his back.

“Er--yes,” Frodo answered after a moment while he allowed his heartbeat to slow from its rapid pounding. “Well, not mine, but my friend’s. Thank you for returning her.” He took the offered reins and patted Galad’s neck with relief.

The Man smiled and released Frodo’s shoulder. “No problem at all,” he assured the hobbit. “Faramond Rushlight, at your service.” He extended his hand and amiably shook the small one that took it.

“Frodo Baggins, at yours and your family’s,” Frodo returned correctly, smiling. The Man’s disarming friendliness and honesty had quenched his fear. “But forgive me, I must be going. My friend is still back in the wood somewhere, and I must find him before it gets dark—he’s only a boy, and I promised his father I’d have him back by suppertime.”

“Allow me to mend your reins so that you can be on your way to fulfill your promise as soon as you find him,” Faramond offered kindly. “I have small skill in such things—I’ve had my share of broken reins!”

Frodo smiled again and allowed him to take Galad. “Thank you very much,” he said once more. “You’re very kind. I wouldn’t want to delay you, though—”

The Man cut him off quickly. “No, no, not at all,” he insisted. “I was going to camp here for the night as it was.”

“Thank you,” Frodo repeated as he turned and ran back into the wood.

“No trouble whatsoever,” Faramond murmured with a smile, watching the hobbit disappear into the trees.

TBC...

16. Danger

Hazel stared in delighted curiosity at the four creatures, obviously very young, which crouched under the bush, staring at him with round, equally curious eyes. Two of them had soft, slightly wavy fur of brown mixed with black, while another was a brightly marked grey, black and white, and had pale blue eyes. The last was a deep chocolate, with a small crooked mark of chestnut on her chest, and one eye as blue as her brother’s. Their undersized ears would someday stand straight up, but for now, they were only partially upright, and the pointed ends flopped down, giving them a comical appearance.

Dogs were one of Hazel’s favorite animals, though he did not own one himself. His friend, Robin, had recently acquired a young pup, and together the two lads were going through the trying process of training her.

Now, Hazel was thrilled to have found the four puppies beneath the bush, and he immediately decided to bring them home. In his excitement, the thought did not even cross his mind that his parents would object. Who could refuse the sweet little faces of the young creatures? Certainly not his mother, and she had managed to coax his father into keeping Mathom and Tibs—surely she would adore the puppies.

“Come 'ere, little'uns,” he said softly. “I won’t hurt you. Come 'ere!”

He held out one hand enticingly, and the vividly marked blue-eyed one boldly stepped forward. Then he grew more timid, and tentatively reached out his nose and sniffed the offered hand. With a shrill bark of surprise, he jumped back, and his siblings whimpered in question.

“No, no.” Hazel laughed quietly. “I won’t 'urt you. I’m just a hobbit—I’m safe. Come on out.”

The blue-eyed one stared at him for a long moment, eyes unblinking, and then took a step forward again. The other puppies yipped in alarm as though calling him back, but the daring young creature ignored them and sniffed Hazel’s hand again. Cocking his head as if puzzled, the puppy, apparently needing further proof of the hobbit lad’s safety, then gave the hand a small nip.

Hazel gave a yelp of surprise and drew back his hand, causing the pup to hastily return to his siblings. The black one licked her brother’s head reassuringly, and then cocked her head at Hazel, blinking at him in an almost unnerving way with her queer round eyes.

“It’s alright, Raven,” he said, addressing her. His quick boyish mind had already supplied names for all four of the puppies. “I didn’t hurt Stormy. But he sure hurt me,” he added ruefully, looking at the small punctures on the side of his palm. He grinned and turned his eyes to the timid brown pups. “Tut, tut, Chestnut,” he chided the little male. “You should be tryin’ to protect Ginger-lass; look at ’er! She’s shakin’ like a leaf, poor thing.”

“Hazel!”

The new voice startled both the pups and the hobbit lad, and Hazel looked up quickly. It was still not quite sunset, but he could not see the owner of the voice, though he knew who it was.

“Hazel! Where are you?”

Hazel scrambled to his feet. “I’m over here, Uncle Frodo!” he shouted back. “Over here!”

There was a pause. Then: “All right, keep talking to me—I can’t see you, so I’ll have to follow your voice.” Hazel could hear the rustle of leaves from up ahead.

“I’m over by that blackberry bush we passed by the side of the path,” Hazel told his ‘uncle’. “I found some puppies! They’re under the bush—I tried to get 'em out, but they’re too scared.”

There was a muttered “Ouch!” and another rustle, and the next moment, Frodo emerged from the bushes along the path, sucking on a deep prick in his hand caused by thorns. Seeing Hazel, the injury was forgotten and he quickly dropped down on his knees to the boy’s height.

“Have you been here all this time?” Frodo asked, embracing Hazel with relief. “I couldn’t find you!”

Hazel’s eyes dropped as he realized what a fright he’d caused. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said sincerely, preparing himself for a reprimand. “I saw those puppies an' stopped to look at them, and kind of… forgot to follow you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cross…” He trailed off miserably.

As Frodo pulled away a little and moved his hands up to Hazel’s shoulders, the boy looked down guiltily, afraid of the disappointment he was sure he would see in Frodo’s eyes.

“I’m not cross with you, Hazel.” The voice was gentle, and with surprise, Hazel looked up. Frodo’s face was serious, but his blue eyes danced with hidden laughter. “Although you did give me quite a fright, when I couldn’t find you. But I’m not cross, just relieved.” His lips quirked as he still attempted to suppress a smile. It only worked a moment, before he surrendered and laughed. “You are certainly a Gamgee. Do you know, Hazel, you sounded flawlessly like Sam just now! When he was about your age, he accidentally broke one of Bilbo’s vases. I truly thought he was going to be ill—he was whiter than a sheet.” He laughed again, and Hazel’s face hesitantly broke into a grin. “But then Bilbo assured him that it was actually a present of my Aunt Dora’s, and he only kept it to please her; he’d been trying to figure out a way to get rid of the horrid thing for years!”

Hazel laughed, both with the humor of the story, and with sheer relief. “Uncle Sam never told me about that,” he said impishly. “Can you tell me more about him when he was little?”

Frodo smiled rather wickedly and patted the boy’s shoulder. “Of course, Hazel—but only a few stories, mind you. I do feel a bit sorry for poor Sam. Perhaps on the ride home?”

Hazel nodded eagerly; and then suddenly he remembered the puppies. “Come on, Uncle Frodo!” he cried excitedly. “Let me show you the puppies I found before we go.” He grabbed one of Frodo’s hands and began to lead him to the bush. Frodo chuckled a little at the boy’s enthusiasm, and gamely allowed himself to be pulled along.

The two hobbits knelt down in front of the bush and looked beneath it—but to Hazel’s extreme disappointment, the puppies were not there. “Perhaps next time I come up here for a visit, you can show me them,” offered Frodo.

Hazel looked up. “When will you be back?” he asked quickly. “Please say soon, Uncle Frodo! Please!”

Frodo laughed and got to his feet. “I’ll come as soon as your parents will let me,” he promised, brushing the dried leaves off his breeches. “I don’t know that they want such a bad influence around their son too often.”

Hazel giggled, knowing full well that his ‘uncle’ was teasing him. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll let you back,” he said, “but you may want to bring Uncle Sam to convince 'em.”

Laughing, the two began heading back toward the pond, and Frodo told Hazel about Faramond. The boy was practically bouncing with excitement at the thought of meeting a real Big Person, and even Frodo’s warning that Faramond might not still be there did not dampen his anticipation.

Suddenly a blood-chilling howl pierced the comfortable silence that had fallen between the two, and they stopped abruptly. Hazel looked up, brown eyes wide with fear, as he heard a sharp intake of breath from Frodo. His uncle had gone white, and Hazel saw him swallow hard.

Another howl raised the hair on the back of his neck, and suddenly the impulse to run was strong. As though guessing this, Frodo, without taking his eyes from the surrounding woods, reached out and grabbed Hazel’s hand, pressing it reassuringly. “Don’t run,” he said softly; “wolves will chase anything that moves.”

A third howl echoed through the forest, and this time it was answered by a series of short, shrill yips. Hazel’s mouth went dry. He looked up at Frodo. “Wolf puppies?” he whispered hesitantly. “Wolves in the Shire?”

Frodo glanced down at him. “A few sometimes visit the Northfarthing, coming down from the Ered Luin Mountains on the other side of the Gulf of Lhûn. Usually only a solitary one or a pair—there are no full packs, that I've heard of.”

Hazel shuddered; he’d heard stories of the fearsome Wargs of the north, and their invasion of the Shire long, long ago. Frodo tugged on his hand. “Come,” he said quietly. “Walk—and slowly. It’s not dark yet, and they don’t usually begin hunting ’til nightfall. There’s a good chance they’ll leave us alone.”

Hazel gulped and nodded, and slowly, moving quietly as only hobbits can, they began to walk up the path. Another howl, accompanied by more high-pitched barks, sounded behind them—closer this time. Hazel could not resist, and looked back. Was it his imagination, or were those shadows running behind that pine tree?

With another shiver, he turned back quickly, and felt a tremor go through the hand that held his. He looked up at Frodo. The older hobbit shut his eyes briefly and then looked around. They could now hear the sound of softly running feet behind them, and the howls grew louder.

Looking up at the path ahead, and then back to the woods on the side of the path, Frodo abruptly tightened his grip on Hazel’s hand and pulled him into the bushes on the right side. “We won’t be able to make it back to camp with them here,” he told the bewildered and frightened boy. “You’ll have to climb a tree and wait there while I try to lead them away. Hopefully, I’ll make it back to the cart, and maybe Faramond is still there. He’ll be able to help.”

Dazed, Hazel nodded, but when they reached a sturdy old oak tree with a thick branch low enough for Frodo to lift Hazel up, the boy suddenly realized what he’d just agreed to. “No, Uncle Frodo!” he cried just as Frodo was about to pick him up. “You have to climb up with me—I can’t leave you down there for the wolves to get you.”

Frodo managed a small smile. “If I were to get up in the tree with you, the wolves would simply sit at the base of it and wait—all night, if they had to—for one of us to fall out. And then we’d have no chance of getting away. No. This is the only possible hope for us to get away from them. Now, up you get, and promise me that you’ll stay here. Promise?”

Obedience was a natural part of Hazel’s character, and he sadly allowed himself to be lifted up, and grabbing onto the branch, he swung himself onto it. Frodo pulled off the knapsack from his shoulders and handed it up to Hazel, who slung it over his own. With Frodo’s urging, he climbed up several more branches until he was high enough to be safe from the wolves. Then he looked down.

“I do promise, Uncle Frodo, but please,” he pleaded one last time, “come up 'ere with me! We can call for help—maybe that Faramond fellow will hear us. Please!”

Frodo looked up at him with sorrow in his eyes, but he smiled reassuringly. Before he could reply, there was a piercing howl, accompanied by excited barking.

“Stay there, Hazel!” Frodo called as he turned to run. “Wait there ’til I come back!”

Hazel watched with tears welling up in his eyes as Frodo disappeared through the bushes and back onto the path. The next moment, a large grey shape, with rough, thick fur and bright yellow eyes appeared, heading in the same direction. After it trailed four puppies: two brown, one black, and the other a wild grey streaked one.

Hazel curled up tighter against the tree as the mother stopped at the base and sniffed. Looking up with a growl, she turned and gave a short bark to her puppies, and obediently they lay down beneath a bush as she bounded away after Frodo.

With a sigh, Hazel leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes, feeling the puppies’ curious gaze on him. “Be safe, uncle Frodo,” he whispered.

Frodo ducked under a low-hanging tree branch, which caused him to stumble slightly. Regaining his balance, he increased his speed as a howl not far behind him sent a shudder up his spine. He forced himself not to look back, and turned abruptly off the path again and into the thick tangle of thorn-bushes that he had encountered earlier. Without hesitation, he threw himself forward into the middle of them, and ignoring the scatches he received, he scrambled out and turned around a bush and back onto the path, hoping that his twist had momentarily slowed the wolf.

There was a moment of respite, it seemed; for Frodo could hear the heavy paws behind him pause. But then there was a loud growl, and the wolf quickly—far too quickly—reappeared behind him on the path.

For the first time since the chase began, Frodo could see his pursuer clearly; she was large: nearly, if not fully his own height, with rough, shaggy grey fur and quick yellow eyes that seemed to shine in the darkening shadows. Her great, long mouth was open as she panted slightly, revealing sharp white teeth.

The wolf lowered her head into the leaves as though searching for the scent, and then looking up, her eyes flashed in the dim light, and another growl issued from her throat as she leapt forward to continue her chase.

Frodo had not paused for more than a second when the wolf had become visible, but though he had been a fair way ahead of her, it seemed as though she was taking whole yards in one bound, and it would not be long before she caught up to him.

Again Frodo swerved off the path. Forcing himself to struggle through more thorn bushes, he went further away from the path before circling back. This trick seemed to delay the wolf a bit more than the last time, and he was given the opportunity to make up for some of the ground she covered so quickly.

But again she was swift behind him, and Frodo looked up, praying that the end of the trees was not too far away. To his dismay, it was still many yards in front of him—it seemed as though the path had lengthened.

‘If I can make it to that birch tree,’ Frodo told himself, jumping over a log and striving to increase his pace, ‘then perhaps Faramond will hear me if I call for help.’ Having set a goal, which was the birch tree, about ten yards from the open, he forced his tiring legs to go still faster.

The wolf was still close behind; he could feel her hot breath at his back. She seemed tireless, as though she could go on the entire night at that pace. But as Frodo again dodged off the path and then back onto it, he feared that he would not reach the birch tree before she caught up to him, for each time he slowed or stumbled, her pace seemed to increase.

All at once, the sound of the wolf’s swift, clawed paws behind him faded and then disappeared entirely, and he could no longer hear her panting breaths. He glanced back, and almost stopped entirely.

There was nothing on the path behind him.

Frodo, without stopping, listened intently, but even his sharp ears could hear nothing. He had read a good deal about wolves, and of course Bilbo had often told him of the fierce Wargs that had participated in the Battle of Five Armies on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, and knew that they were very cunning creatures. He guessed that this must be some trick to confuse their prey: to act as though giving up the chase, and then suddenly attacking unexpectedly.

With this thought in mind, Frodo turned his eyes forward again and did not slow or pause. The knowledge that the wolf was somewhere nearby, unseen and unheard, and that she could spring at any moment, made him tremble, but it also gave new strength to his weary legs.

The birch tree was nearer now. The feet seemed to pass by as slow as inches, and the shadows were growing darker. Soon it would be dusk, and in such a thick forest, it would be nearly impossible to see anything.

Frodo’s breaths quickened as he heard a slight rustle close beside him, but allowed himself only a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of grey. He forced his eyes back onto the birch tree, just a few yards away now. Looking past it, he saw that the end of the forest was not as far away as it had seemed, and he wondered whether or not he should try to make for it.

A loud snarl cut off his thought, and Frodo looked sideways to see a huge grey shape leap out of the undergrowth at his left. There was not even time enough for him to cry out as the next second, the wolf’s weight slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He felt claws slice across his cheek as he landed on his back, and looked up with a gasp as the wolf planted her enormous paws on both his shoulders, pinning him.

The wolf’s long mouth was open, revealing her sharp teeth each probably longer than the length of Frodo’s hand. Her narrow yellow eyes glowed eerily in the gathering dark, and a wild growl rumbled menacingly in her throat.

As she planted herself more firmly on her quarry, nearly crushing him beneath her, Frodo searched desperately for something to defend himself with. All he could find was a long, sharp stick, and despite the heavy paws still pinning his shoulders painfully to the ground, he managed to bring the weapon up in to block her jaws as they came down. The teeth, instead of reaching his throat or face, seized the stick. It was a fairly thick one, but the wolf effortlessly snapped it in two with one bite.

But the branch was not entirely without its service: as she bit it, the brittle wood split and a long splinter was driven up into the roof of her mouth. With a yelp, the wolf cringed at the sudden, sharp pain. Her attempts to remove the splinter by shaking her head and pawing at her mouth provided enough distraction for Frodo to struggle out from under her.

Frodo had hardly scrambled to his feet when the wolf managed to dislodge the splinter, and he quickly turned to face her as she stared at him, eyes narrowed, panting heavily. Frodo could see blood dripping from the roof of her mouth onto her tongue.

There was nothing else strong enough to defend himself with, and Frodo glanced behind him to see that the birch tree was no more than two yards away. He looked back at the wolf; she had not moved, but was watching him warily. If given even just a second’s hesitation on her part, he thought that he might be able to reach the tree and climb up.

As though sensing his thoughts, the wolf leapt forward, just as Frodo desperately decided to try for the birch tree. He could hear her panting behind him, could even feel the breath on the back of his legs. At any second, he expected to be pounced upon…yet to his astonishment, he stayed ahead of her by mere inches all the way to the tree.

Frodo had already clambered up onto the lowest branch of the tree, and was reaching for the next one when the wolf reached the base. Glancing down at her, he saw her readying herself for a spring, and quickly tried to get onto the higher branch.

As the wolf leapt up, and Frodo felt himself being dragged off the tree branch by his cloak, he looked ahead to see the glow of a fire from outside the wood spring up. The next second, he felt the wolf’s teeth untangle from his cloak, and as they instead seized his right calf and pulled him down, a scream of pain was torn from his throat.

“Faramond!”

TBC...

See, Esamen, there's the cliff-hanger to torment you! ;)

17. "Quite a Pickle We’ve Landed Ourselves Into…"

"Faramond!"

The Man looked up in alarm, nearly dropping the two conies he carried over his shoulder. He recognized that voice, and his hand flew to the hilt of the sword he carried hidden beneath his long, leather overcoat as he heard a ferocious snarl and the sounds of struggling not far ahead of him.

Without pausing to find a place to hang his conies, he rushed forward through the thick undergrowth. His hunting had taken him the far northern side of the Bindbale, and he had decided to return to his camp early with only the two rabbits to show for his work in case the hobbit, Frodo, and his young charge happened to fall in the path of this apparently lone wolf.

‘And it was well that I did so,’ he thought as he neared the sounds of fighting ahead of him. Suddenly there was a cry of pain, and then the blood-curdling howl of an enraged and injured wolf. After that, the furious snarling and rustling in the dry leaves muffled any further sounds.

Grey eyes wide with apprehension, Faramond increased his pace, muttering a curse under his breath as he encountered a cruelly thick thornbush that tried its hardest to prevent him from continuing. It tore and snagged his clothes but at last that obstacle was overcome. He still could not see the fierce scuffle taking place, but it sounded as though he would reach it just past the next line of trees and bushes.

Faramond had registered this without pausing, and determinedly he tore through the stubborn brush ahead of him. Hardly had he resumed his quicker pace when he heard a particularly loud snarl, another, more anguished cry of pain, and then a sickening crack as something connected with what sounded like the hard trunk of a tree.

Faramond sucked in his breath sharply and lengthened his strides to the best of his ability. Fortunately, he had not far to go before he reached the small open space, surrounded by trees and bushes on all sides. He reached it just in time to see the large wolf staggering to its feet, blood matting its thick grey coat in several places and sides heaving as it panted heavily.

On the ground not far away lay Frodo, unconscious, it appeared. Blood soaked the chaff-colored material of his shirt, covering his entire chest, but it was darkest at his lower left side, and Faramond could see blood still welling out from what was obviously a deep wound. There were scratches from one of the wolf’s claws across one pale cheek, and Frodo’s right calf was also covered with blood. A small knife, bearing the signs of battle, lay just a few inches beside his hand.

Faramond took in the sight in a split-second, and then he dropped the conies on the ground and unsheathed Belegmír, his sword. The wolf looked up at him and her lips curled back in a snarl. But something in her eyes told him that she was no vicious Warg of the north, hunting for the pleasure of it; she was desperate. One glance at her gaunt stomach told him also that she had very young puppies somewhere nearby.

Faramond sheathed his sword again. He could not kill a mother wolf, still nursing her puppies, even in self-defense. Although it did not seem that he had much choice… Aha! Faramond silently praised Eru for all the years of training he had undergone to become a Ranger: resourcefulness was one of the first, and most essential things to learn.

Bending quickly, he untied one of the conies from the string he’d joined them with, and then stepping out from the bushes, he drew back his arm and sent the sizable rabbit sailing low threw the air as far into the woods as he could throw it.

The wolf had been watching him, unblinking, waiting for him to make a move, and she had caught the scent of coney-blood the instant he’d dropped them. As he threw one into the surrounding forest, she waited for the thump as it hit the ground, and then with one last backward glance at Frodo and the Man, sped off after it and disappeared into the brush.

Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Faramond rushed to the opposite side of the clearing and quickly knelt at Frodo’s side. He laid one hand on the hobbit’s chest while putting his ear to Frodo’s mouth—and to his relief, he found a steady heartbeat and faint breathing.

That much confirmed, Faramond began to assess Frodo’s injuries. With surprising gentleness, the Man lightly ran his fingers through the blood-matted curls as he checked for hidden injuries. He paused as he found a slight swelling at the back of the head and gingerly touched it. There seemed to be a small cut there—Frodo must have been thrown against the tree behind him—but other than that it did not appear to be anything more serious than a tender bruise and abominable headache when Frodo awoke.

As though sensing his last thought, Frodo groaned softly and his eyes fluttered, and at last opened halfway, struggling to focus on the large face of Faramond bending over him. Fearing that the halfling would not remember him and be alarmed, the Man gently cupped one side of the small face in his hand and stroked Frodo’s forehead with his thumb as a sign of goodwill.

"It is all right, little one," he whispered comfortingly. "I am Faramond—I won’t hurt you. I will get you back to my camp and give you a few herbs for the pain as soon as I have finished looking over your injuries."

Frodo stared at the Man a moment, blinking rapidly to keep him in focus. Then he licked his cracked lips and attempted to speak, but it took several tries before he could utter anything but a sharp gasp of pain. "Hazel," he finally choked out. "Where is Hazel?"

It was obviously painful to speak and Faramond wished that he had water with him to moisten the hobbit’s parched lips. More than that, he wished he had healing powers like Lord Elrond of Rivendell so that he could send Frodo back into a deep, painless sleep. But as he had neither, he could only hope to comfort the halfling and finish assessing his wounds so that he could get back to camp as quickly as possible.

"Shhh. Do not try to speak." Still with utmost gentleness, Faramond laid two callused fingers on Frodo’s small lips to quiet him, and carefully closed the unfocussed blue eyes with his other hand. The hobbit made no resistance, but he was not ready to rest just yet. "You must…find Hazel," he gasped slowly, through clenched teeth. "He is…still out there…alone…"

Obviously exhausted from the effort of speaking, Frodo fell silent, panting. Faramond nodded and brushed a sweat-soaked dark ringlet from the hobbit’s forehead. "Do not fear. I will find him," he promised sincerely, watching with relief as Frodo began to slip back into unconsciousness. "Once I get you back to camp, I will call for my companion and he will find your friend. I promise."

Frodo held onto consciousness only long enough to give a small, weary but relieved nod, and then his head lolled into Faramond’s hand that still cupped his face. The Man gave a soft sigh, grateful that the halfling would not be awake to feel the pain that would come soon enough.

After making sure that Frodo was completely unaware, Faramond resumed his task of assessing the hobbit’s injuries. Careful not to jar him, he removed the hand that supported Frodo’s head and lightly touched the claw-marks on Frodo’s cheek. They were not deep—the wolf must have just barely nicked him—but they had been enough to draw a small amount of blood and would have to be cleaned. Like the many scratches that covered the hobbit’s arms and legs—obviously Frodo had gone through the same cruel thornbushes Faramond had struggled through—they would be easily treated, quick to heal.

But for the other two, Faramond was not so sure. He unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt—a task that took longer than he wished, for it was difficult to handle such small buttons—and lifted it up to reveal a deep wound in the halfling’s lower left side, below his ribcage and just above his hip. Gently running his fingers over it, Faramond could see where the wolf’s fangs had sunk in—she had caught that entire section of his waist in her mouth. Fortunately, there were no vital organs there, but Faramond was deeply worried about the depth of the wound, and the amount of blood that still flowed from it.

With a sigh of remorse, Faramond tore off part of his own shirtsleeve and used it as a bandage, wrapping it tightly about the hobbit’s slim waist to staunch the bleeding. It was quickly dark with blood, and Faramond pulled Frodo’s shirt back down and pressed it against the wound, as well. He held it there for a moment, watching blood soak it, and then with another repentant sigh, he drew back his hands. He would have to wait until he got back to his campsite to properly bind the wound, and he still had another grave one to examine. Every second that passed, Frodo lost more blood, and in one so small, Faramond could take no risks.

"I am sorry for this, little one," the Man whispered as he moved down to check the last injury. "I should have been here to protect you." Gently, Faramond touched the puncture marks from the wolf’s teeth on Frodo’s right calf. It seemed that the wolf had dragged or pulled him, though not far. To Faramond’s relief, the wound was not as severe as it had appeared at first, but part of the muscle had been torn; Frodo would be limping for a few months, at least.

Faramond sat back on his heels and looked the pale halfling over. All through the last part of his examination, Frodo had done nothing more than to flinch slightly at his touch and give a soft groan; but now he already appeared to be coming back to awareness again.

Faramond cringed at the thought of the agony Frodo would be in when he awoke completely, and he hoped that he’d be able to get the hobbit back to camp before he was fully conscious—he had a few pain-dulling herbs in his pack. They would not alleviate all the pain, but they would ease it.

Picking up the small knife that lay on the ground beside Frodo, Faramond wiped the blood off it and put it in his belt, to return to the hobbit later. Then with careful gentleness, he lifted Frodo into his arms and got to his feet. He decided to leave the other coney behind for the wolf family, and made his way through the brush in the direction that he believed the path was. He was proved correct within a few minutes, and he broke through the last thick bush and came upon the narrow trail. Allowing himself a small smile of relief, Faramond increased his pace, still taking care not to jostle Frodo, and continued on toward the edge of the forest.

Hazel huddled closer against the rough bark of the tree, wrapping his arms around his ankles and pressing his forehead against his knees as he fought to hold back tears. He remembered that Frodo had told him that it was all right to cry, but he felt that if he gave into his tears now, it would give the despair that he had been keeping at bay the chance to overwhelm him. He stubbornly told himself that he would not lose hope for his uncle Frodo, that everything would work out in the end.

With a half groan, half sobbing gasp, Hazel pressed his forehead harder against his knees, which he drew tighter to his chest. He concentrated on listening only to his own heavy, erratic breathing, unwilling to accept the heavy, eerie silence that had settled over the forest. How long had it been since he’d heard Frodo cry out for the Man, Faramond? His uncle’s voice had been faint and far away, and Hazel had heard nothing since.

‘What if that Faramond fellow didn’t hear? What if the wolf caught up to him? What if he’s…’ Hastily, Hazel cut off that trail of thought. He couldn’t allow himself to even consider that possibility. Faramond must have heard, the wolf couldn’t have caught up with him, Uncle Frodo was fine.

"Fine." Hazel repeated the word softly aloud as if to help convince himself of its truth. With a shaky sigh, he relaxed slightly and closed his eyes, listening to the puppies below the tree moving about.

Suddenly Hazel’s eyes flew open and he quickly raised his head as a long, loud howl tore through the stillness. Wiping the remnants of tears from his face, he looked down at the four wolf puppies crouched partially hidden in the bush below his tree. Stormy and Raven had moved to one side of the bush and were sitting very straight and stiff, noses toward the path, large, comical ears fully up and alert. Still hiding beneath the bush, meek little Chestnut and Ginger were in similar positions.

Another howl, followed by a bark, was answered by all four puppies with shrill yips. Hazel looked in what he guessed was the direction of the path, and saw the huge, grey shape of the mother wolf limping through the brush towards them. She appeared to be dragging something, something heavy…

Hazel swallowed hard, shutting his eyes against the sudden nausea and dizziness that suddenly washed over him. Without allowing himself to think about the situation, he slowly dragged his eyes open and trembling, he looked back down at the wolf.

As the mother neared, he saw that it was only a very large rabbit she pulled along. Hazel could have sobbed with sheer relief. Hope was rekindled in his indomitable hobbit heart, for if the wolf had brought back a coney, it must mean that she hadn’t caught Frodo.

He watched as the wolf dragged her burden over to the bush where her puppies waited, but when she began to eat her meal (the puppies were still too young to eat much more than a few bites of the meat), he turned away, covering his ears to drown out the sounds of her noisy feasting. Hobbits were gentle creatures by nature and Hazel was no exception.

Suddenly the sickening noises stopped, and Hazel was aware that absolute silence had fallen. Curious, he uncovered his ears and looked down. The wolves had frozen, and the mother’s ears were up and alert, nose pointed towards the path, yellow eyes narrowed—a larger duplicate of the puppies’ earlier position. Something had startled her, but Hazel could not hear or see anything through the darkening trees.

With a low growl and a bark to her puppies, the wolf stood, grabbing the partially eaten coney in her mouth, and began to trot back further into the Bindbale. Her litter followed, having to run as their short legs could not keep up with her brisk pace.

Hazel watched, trying to discover the reason behind their sudden departure, as one by one the wolves disappeared into the shadows. Pausing a moment, Raven turned and looked back up at the tree where Hazel crouched. Her odd-colored eyes met his and she cocked her head as if asking him to come along; the hobbit lad couldn’t resist a smile as he shook his head. With a small yip that substituted for a shrug of her shoulders, Raven turned and followed her family, quickly disappearing from Hazel’s sight.

Just as suddenly as they had appeared, the wolves were gone, and Hazel was left alone. He had no question of what he should do next—though normally he would keep a promise at all costs, he could wait no longer for Frodo’s return and felt justified in breaking his word this once. Worry for his uncle made any thoughts of staying where he was seem cowardly, for he could not bear to think that Frodo might be injured somewhere in the dense, shadowed forest, alone without Hazel to aid him.

What help a hobbitlad just past his fifth summer could give to Frodo, especially if there was still danger about, Hazel did not know. ‘But,’ he reasoned as he tossed down the knapsack into a bush and then proceeded to carefully climb down, ‘I do know a bit o’ healin’, if it comes to that, and I can fence pretty well, o’ course…’

It seemed like a very long way down and a very long time before Hazel was back on solid ground. "Bein’ up in trees! ’Tain’t right for a hobbit," he muttered, dusting himself off and pulling the knapsack out of the bush. Strapping it up on his shoulders, he sighed and turned in the general direction of the path.

"I’m comin’, Uncle Frodo."

Gavin tossed more sticks into the small fire, muttering a curse as a spark flew up and burned the tip of his finger. He sucked on it as he sat back on his heels, his other hand stretched out to catch the warmth of the flames.

The burn was quickly forgotten as he looked proudly at the carcass of a full-grown buck that he’d managed to bring down with his bow. Faramond would be pleased, and perhaps be convinced at last that Gavin was just as good a hunter and tracker as the Ranger.

Feeling satisfied already with that thought, Gavin went over to the deer, lying beside the fire, and resumed his earlier process of preparing the carcass for supper. He tossed his shoulder-length black hair impatiently from his eyes as he worked, letting his thoughts wander. He remembered his first meeting with Faramond, when the Ranger had stayed with him in his small house in Bree for several days, and how he’d been teased when he declared that he wished to accompany Faramond and become a Ranger, as well.

"But you are still a boy," Faramond had teased him, not cruelly, although his voice seemed derisive now as it rang through Gavin’s mind. "You are not old enough to become a Ranger!"

"I am twenty-five next month!" Gavin had protested heatedly, earning only condescending laughter. To Gavin’s extreme irritation, Faramond had continued by saying that he had "woman’s hands" and was too inexperienced to follow him into the wild. In the end, however, Gavin being the better and more passionate arguer, he had won out, and triumphantly he had accompanied Faramond when the Ranger left, headed for the Shire.

Gavin knew that Faramond’s teasing was good-natured, but it still chafed him. He still wondered why they should travel through the thick, overgrown forests outside of Bree just to wait at the borders of the Shire, guarding it from some mysterious danger. And then having to go around the Shire instead of right through it to get up here to the North Farthing simply because of a rumor that Corsairs were docked in the Gulf of Lhûn seemed even more ridiculous.

Gavin had to admit, however, that the land was beautiful and though he had seen only a few of the inhabitants from afar, his curiosity was piqued and he grudgingly admitted to himself that he would like to know more about the Shire-folk. They seemed slightly different from Bree hobbits; gentler, closer to nature and even more peaceful. But to know more about them would mean that he would have to ask Faramond, and he did not think his pride would allow him to do that.

Sighing, Gavin finished his work on the deer and skewered the chunks of meat he’d cut with a long, sharpened stick. Placing his makeshift spit over the fire, he sat back on his heels and warmed his hands, savoring the delicious smell that soon drifted into the air.

A sudden rustle from the forest startled him from his thoughts and he whirled around to see Faramond emerging, carrying something in his arms. "Where are the conies you promised to catch?" Gavin demanded, thinking smugly that Faramond would be humbled to find that he, the inexperienced youth, was the only one to have brought any food for their supper, and a full-grown deer, no less.

"You were late in hearing my approach," Faramond remarked, ignoring Gavin’s question. His voice seemed strained and worried, despite his teasing words, and Gavin chose to overlook the criticism.

"What have you got there?" he asked instead, looking curiously at the thing in Faramond’s arms as the Ranger came closer.

Again, Faramond ignored his question. "Get my bedroll out, quickly, and bring the extra blankets," he ordered. Something in his tone made Gavin wordlessly obey. "Oh, and my pack, as well!" Gavin quickly retrieved the items, and at Faramond’s command, laid out the bedroll close to the fire.

Faramond gently laid his burden down on the bedroll, and Gavin saw with surprise that it was a hobbit. But he had no time to study the creature, for Faramond ordered him to hang their small pot on the spit and boil some water. While he obeyed, Gavin kept his eyes curiously on the hobbit, and he was able to see that the small halfling’s shirt and right leg were covered with blood. ‘How did one of the gentle hobbit-folk get himself so gravely injured?’ Gavin wondered. Perhaps the Shire hobbits were not so peaceful as they seemed.

Gavin gingerly moved the roasting venison and placed the pot full of water on the spit, and then sat down next to Faramond to further examine the hobbit. Faramond did not even notice his presence, as he was digging into his pack and bringing out various instruments and herbs. Gavin cocked his head to look more closely at the halfling, who appeared to be young, perhaps eighteen years in the reckoning of Men. The hobbit’s pale face was starkly contrasted with the dark, blood-matted ringlets that fell over the small forehead and the thick eyelashes that rested on high cheekbones. ‘And Faramond teased me about being fine-faced,’ Gavin thought scornfully, shaking his head. ‘This hobbit is pretty enough to be a lass! And his hands are more woman-like than mine will ever be.’ He looked at the small, slender white hands lying at the halfling’s sides and snorted a little.

Faramond looked up. "What do you find amusing?" he asked, sharply. "This valiant hobbit you seem to hold in disdain single-handedly fought a wolf easily his own size and greatly exceeding his strength. He has been gravely injured and I will need your assistance to tend to him—will you help me, Gavin?" When the young man hesitated for a moment, Faramond added, "This is why we are sent to protect the Shire. These halflings are brave and spirited, but too small to defend themselves against the larger enemies that would easily overpower and destroy this land if they were not held at bay."

Gavin’s eyes went from the hobbit’s face to Faramond’s. "What is his name?" he asked, by way of answer.

Faramond smiled slightly, gaze still intent on Gavin. "Frodo," he said, mixing water from his canteen with several herbs in a small cup.

"What must I do?" Gavin asked before he could say more, doing his best to sound convincingly grudging although in truth he felt an odd sense of compassion for the injured hobbit.

Faramond did not comment on his tone. "He said that his companion, a boy - named Hazel, I believe - is still in the forest. I need you to go find him and bring him safe, and quickly."

Gavin was silent for a moment, thinking it over and wondering if it would wound his pride to accept the task without complaint. Deciding that it would not, he merely sighed and made a torch out of a thick burning branch from the campfire. "Do not let the meat burn," he muttered warningly as he strode past Faramond and the injured hobbit.

The Ranger smiled at him. "No danger of that, my friend," he replied though Gavin did not turn around. "Well done on that catch!"

If Gavin heard, his only response was a slight straightening of his shoulders as he disappeared into the darkening forest.

TBC...

18. Courage

Hazel ran with hobbit silence, not daring to call for Frodo lest the wolf hear and return. The forest was now completely dark, and he could only dimly make out the path before him. But he kept his eyes fixed on the golden light of a campfire that could faintly be seen, outside the wood. There he placed his hopes—he told himself stubbornly that Faramond must have lit it. 

Despite the reassurance of the campfire, Hazel felt dread weighing heavily on his heart. He had only been running for perhaps five minutes, but it felt like an eternity, as dark thoughts began to rush through his mind in spite of his desperate efforts to hold them back.

‘That mama wolf came back with a rabbit,’ he reminded himself firmly. ‘That must mean that Uncle Frodo is all right.’ A debate began in his mind, as his indomitable and hopeful heart argued frantically against the dark and frightening thoughts and images that found their way into his mind.

Hazel had gradually been slowing from a run to a trot, and then to a brisk walk as this interior debate began. After a few more minutes of hurrying down the path, he at last stopped and leaned against a tree—a birch tree, judging by the feel of its bark—to catch his breath and sort his thoughts. The pack on his back was also getting heavy, and digging into his shoulders.

Hazel leaned his head back against the smooth bark, unconsciously running his fingers over it as if to find some comfort in the peaceful, gentle tree. Gradually, his breaths lengthened, his heart slowed to a pace only slightly quicker than normal, and his confusion of thoughts slowed so that he could think clearly.

“All right. I can’t be jumping to conclusions with naught to prove my fears as true,” he told himself aloud, keeping his voice low for fear of the wolf. “Let me see. If that Mr. Faramond did hear Uncle Frodo, then he’d come and save him, wouldn’t he? Uncle Frodo said he was a nice Man—surely he wouldn’t just leave Uncle Frodo alone to get hurt? No. He wouldn’t—that’d be plain cruel, and surely naught but a warg or a goblin could be that mean! So if he did hear and if he did save Uncle Frodo, then wouldn’t he send someone lookin’ for me?” Hazel paused and cocked his head, thinking it over. “Yes, ’course he would. Uncle Frodo wouldn’t forget about me—unless he’s hurt! Oh, dear. Then what would he do? I wouldn’t want Mr. Faramond leavin’ ’im if he were hurt to look for me—”

Hazel abruptly ended that thought with a sudden, sharp gasp. As his fingers had been involuntarily digging into the smooth bark of the birch tree with the increasing dread of his predicament, they had come across something warm and sticky.

Swallowing hard, Hazel raised his suddenly trembling hand up in front of his eyes. Even in the dim light, he could make out the dark substance smeared across his fingers, and rubbing them hesitantly together, there could be no doubt of what it was: blood, partially dry.

Hazel took a deep breath and forced his unwilling limbs to move as he turned and knelt down at the base of the tree, facing its trunk. With one shaking hand, he felt along the bark, and found, below the smeared blood, deep scratches in the smooth trunk, obviously made by claws. At the base of the trunk, his searching fingers found something else, soft and ragged. Hazel held it up: it was a scrap of material. In the dark, he could not tell what color it was, but he did not need to see; he already knew, beyond question, who it belonged to.

Two emotions welled up in Hazel’s heart. One was a mix of sorrow, loneliness, and sheer terror, and the other was a strange sensation of courage. Everything suddenly seemed clear to him, and his silently asked question was answered both as he’d feared, and as he’d hoped: Frodo was injured, and Faramond, hopefully, surely, had rescued him and taken him, most likely, back to the cart outside the wood. Therefore, all he could do was return to the cart, and pray that Frodo and Faramond were there.

Hesitating for only a moment, Hazel closed his eyes and ran the scrap of his dear uncle’s cloak down the side of his face, taking comfort in the soft, homespun material and letting a tear fall upon it. Then he stuffed the cloth into the pocket of his breeches, stood up, and with renewed speed, began to run down the path again, towards that golden glow outside the wood that was still the object of his hopes.

Hazel had hardly gone three steps when a tall being, holding a flaming torch, appeared out of the trees to his left (the hobbit-lad, being so focused as he was with reaching the campfire ahead, had not noticed the second golden light approaching). With two huge strides, it stepped directly in front of him, giving a small laugh when Hazel ran into it and staggered back with great force.

“You are Hazel, I presume?” The being’s voice was surprisingly pleasant sounding; though it had a slight edge to it, as though the speaker was annoyed.

“Y-yes, sir,” stammered Hazel, overcome at the sight of something so tall. He had to step back to look at the face of what he now identified as a Big Person; the torch threw flickering shadows over it, but he could see enough to tell that the Man was handsome, in a rather unkempt, roguish sort of way, and fairly young. Hazel caught a glimpse of his eyes, which were a strange brown-grey, unlike any he had seen before. But they were shadowed again as he shifted the torch in his hand, and all that could then be seen of them was a bright gleam in the dark.

Frightened at the Man’s rough appearance, Hazel almost involuntarily reached into his pocket and felt the scrap of Frodo’s cloak. Somehow, it gave him confidence, and he managed to keep his voice from shaking as he spoke again. “And who are you, sir? Are you Mr. Faramond?”

The Man gave another chuckle. “Mr. Faramond? Never heard him called that before,” he said with something that might have been a sneer. “No, I’m not Faramond. I’m his companion, Gavin, and he sent me to look for you.”

Hazel breathed a sigh of relief that ended in a small gasp of worry. “But he wouldn’t know who I am,” he said to the Man, “unless my Uncle Frodo told him. Is he there?”

Gavin nodded, looking a bit uncomfortable at being the one to answer what seemed to be a difficult question for him. “Yes, he is, and I might as well tell you now that he is injured—”

Hazel cut him off in a rush. “Is he hurt bad?” he asked quickly, both dreading and needing the answer before anything else was said.

Gavin hesitated for a moment. “I cannot say,” he answered slowly. “I am no healer, but there is certainly a great amount of blood and at least one of his wounds appears grave.”

Hazel felt the blood leave his face and he swayed a little. Seeing this, the Man’s face softened and filled with regret, and he knelt down. “But do not fear, Hazel,” he said reassuringly, putting one enormous hand on the hobbit-lad’s small shoulder. “Faramond is a good healer—I have experienced his skill myself, and he is taking care of Frodo as we speak.” He paused and smiled, a little awkwardly. “Come. You can ride pig-a-back on me and we’ll get back to camp quicker.”

Hazel quickly drew his sleeve over his eyes to hide his tears, and smiled slightly back at the Man. “Thank you,” he murmured, feeling suddenly very tired. Gavin turned, still crouched on the ground, and helped Hazel clamber onto his back. Then, once the boy’s tiny arms were firmly clasped around his neck, and one of his own arms supported him while the other held aloft the flaming torch, he strode off quickly down the path.

It was rather odd, Gavin thought to himself, shifting Hazel into a more comfortable position on his back, that he should soften so quickly at the sight of a distressed hobbit boy. Some of his friends in Bree might have mocked him for melting like butter before someone he’d known less than a full minute, child though he be. But he knew that Faramond would be pleased, and somehow, almost unconsciously, he decided that Faramond’s opinion of his actions meant more than did his friends’ in Bree.

And besides that, Gavin knew why he had softened the way he did.

“Do you know something, Hazel,” he spoke up in an attempt to avert the boy’s thoughts from his injured companion, “I have a brother who looked just like you when he was a little lad.”

There was silence for a moment, and then he heard Hazel’s voice, small and timid, beside his ear: “What was his name?”

Gavin smiled, pleased that his attempt at cheering Hazel seemed to be working. “His name was Kestrel, but I liked to call him Kess. He was rather strange looking for a Bree-boy, with his hair all chestnut curls like yours; but then our mum looked just like that, too. And little Kess was different in more than just looks—he always was rather timid and quiet, and his favorite thing in all the world to do was to go a-walking in the Chetwood on a rainy day.” Gavin felt Hazel begin to grow more heavy on his back as the boy, obviously exhausted from his fear and worry, fell into a light drowse.

Deciding that his voice would probably lull the child into a deeper sleep, Gavin continued with his story. “When he was small, I would go with Kestrel on his walking trips, and we would camp in the Chetwood for a day or so. And Kess would always wander around the campsite, finding interesting leaves or pebbles or the like, and sometimes he’d even stray outside the campsite without me realizing it, and a few minutes later he’d return with some little coney or even a baby fox that he’d saved from a trap. There’s a man in Bree, called Bill Ferny—ugh, is he a cruel one!—who used to love hunting in the Chetwood, though he doesn’t do it anymore. But he used to set traps out there all the time, which was why Kess always made sure to visit the forest as often as he could. You see, even though I hunt now, I do it for food, but Ferny hunted for the sheer fun of it, and that was why little Kestrel couldn’t stand him.”

Gavin sighed. Hazel was now deeply asleep, his tousled curls resting against the Man’s black hair, and his small hands still tightly holding onto Gavin’s tunic.

Thinking of the younger brother who had gone to Dale some years before to study medicine brought to Gavin a mixture of sadness, for he missed Kestrel terribly, and also happiness at being in the company of another who seemed very much like his brother. He would have to tell Kestrel of this meeting in his next letter.

Gavin’s thoughts of his brother were forced aside as he at last came out of the forest and into the open. The campfire glowed brightly not far ahead, and he could see Faramond’s form, bending over his injured ward, silhouetted in black against the golden fire behind him.

Faramond looked up at Gavin’s arrival and smiled somewhat wanly at the sleeping hobbit-child on his back. “You found him.” It was not a question, and Faramond sounded immensely relieved.

“Yes.” Gavin nodded, pulling out his sleeping roll with one hand and stretching it out on the other side of the campfire. He gently slid Hazel off his back and pulling the heavy pack from the boy’s shoulders, he laid him down on it, covering him up warmly with a spare blanket. Hazel did not stir, but some of the worry in his face faded away.

Gavin smiled down at him, fondly stroking back a brown ringlet from Hazel’s face, and then came over to kneel by Faramond’s side. “How is Frodo? The child worried himself to sleep over him,” he said in a low voice, looking down at the object of his question. Frodo did not look much different, save that his face had a bit more color to it, though it was still pale, and his hands did not clench with pain at every breath.

“I have not yet done anything more,” Faramond whispered, arranging several instruments and a roll of bandages by Frodo’s side, “for I had to first give him the pain-dulling herbs. I would not cause him any further suffering. It took several minutes for them to fully take effect, and I have only now finished cleaning my things. You were not gone long.”

He did not give Gavin a chance to respond to that statement. “Look in the pack that little Hazel carried and see if you can find a spare shirt for Frodo, please,” he ordered without looking up. “This one is ruined, and I will need to tear it to make more bandages—I fear my supply may not be enough.”

As Gavin wordlessly went to rummage through the small pack, Faramond unclasped Frodo’s braces and began unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped midway where the makeshift bandages were wrapped over the shirt, and slowly, gently he unwound them, and then placed the blood-soaked cloths to the side. He finished unbuttoning the shirt and carefully removed it, placing it beside the bloodied bandages. Now he had clear access to the wound and could see it better. Blood still welled from it, albeit very slowly now, and looking at it closely, he could see that it was not quite so deep as he’d feared—but certainly deep enough to be grave.

After folding two spare blankets and sliding them carefully under Frodo’s midsection, raising the wound slightly, Faramond took a cloth that he had put in a small bowl of water and gently bathed the area around the wound, taking care not to touch it directly. Both cloth and water were soon stained red. He finished cleaning the surrounding area and put the cloth back in the bowl. He was then left to move on to the more difficult part: cleaning the wound itself, and worse, stitching the sides of it together. That was a process rarely practiced among Men, for it was dangerous and could be worse than the wound itself if not done properly; but the Elves had taught Estel how to perform the procedure safely, and he in turn had instructed several of the Rangers. Would that Estel were here, thought Faramond with a sigh, forcing aside feelings of inadequacy for the delicate task. He could not perform the task if he was filled with the fear of failing. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out his waterskin and after dumping the bloody water on the grass outside the campsite, he refilled it.

Gavin returned to his side, empty-handed. “There were no extra shirts in the pack,” he said apologetically. “Naught but food and a few other things. Nothing to use for bandages.”

Faramond groaned inwardly but nodded his head. “Then we shall have to make do with what we have,” he said with a sigh. He looked down at Frodo and cringed as he readied himself for the process that would be very painful for the hobbit, even with the painkiller. But the wound must be cleaned, and it was too deep to let it knit back together on its own.

Another thought suddenly occurred to him: under such great pain, Frodo would certainly, understandably, cry out. Not only would that bring the danger of the wolf returning, but it would also wake Hazel, and he did not wish the boy to witness his friend’s suffering.

“Gavin,” he said, looking up at the Man beside him, “I must clean and stitch the wound in his side, and it will be very painful for him. I need you to help me.”

Gavin’s ruddy face paled and he swallowed hard. “What am I to do?” he asked hoarsely; the thought of the agony that Faramond’s actions would bring to Frodo made his stomach turn.

Faramond smiled at him, grateful for his willingness. “I fear that he will cry out, and I do not wish to bring back the wolves, nor wake young Hazel.” He nodded towards the sleeping hobbit child across the campfire. “I need you to cover his mouth—gag him if you must, for he will most likely struggle, as well, and you may need both hands to hold him down. Can you do that?”

Gavin’s face was still pale, but he nodded and taking a deep breath, went to fetch something to use for a gag. Faramond smiled again, understanding his young companion’s pallor—his own face was several shades whiter than normal, he was certain.

Gavin returned a moment later, holding a strip of cloth he’d found in Faramond’s pack. He did not look quite so ill now, though his hands shook a bit as he sat down behind Frodo’s head.

At a nod from Faramond, he took the strip of cloth and tied it, with unaccustomed gentleness, over the small mouth, making sure that though not too tight, the knot would hold. Frodo did not stir, except that his brow furrowed for a moment as though confused or worried.

His mouth now completely dry, Gavin bent over the young hobbit and placed his hands on the small shoulders. Then, at another nod from Faramond, he pressed down, holding Frodo in place while being careful not to apply too much pressure. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not being sick as Faramond began his ministrations.

It seemed like an eternity to Gavin before Faramond finished, and Frodo’s muffled cries of pain had faded into occasional soft moans. Sighing shakily with relief, he sat up, letting go of Frodo’s shoulders and discovering that his hands had made red marks on the pale skin. As he ruefully rubbed these, Faramond bent over and after removing the gag, he gently wiped away the tears that still spilled from Frodo’s tightly shut eyes.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Faramond sat back on his heels and ran his fingertips lightly over his handiwork. After cleaning and stitching the wound in Frodo’s side, he’d examined the gash in his leg and decided that it would not need the same treatment, so after cleaning it out, as well, he had simply bandaged it and left it alone to heal of its own accord.

He found that his work had been done well, despite his doubts of his own skill; and looking up, his face parted into a weary grin. “I believe that’s more than enough for tonight,” he said in a light jest, clapping a trembling hand to Gavin’s shoulder, which he also found was shaking. “Get some sleep, my friend—you look positively green!”

Gavin smiled wanly. “I hope never to relive a night like this!” he said fervently, shaking his head and running his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Healers have earned a new respect in my eyes.” He rubbed his tired eyes and stood up, stiffly. “Are you sure you will not need me?” he asked, though he felt exhaustion descending on him like a cloud.

“Of course,” said Faramond sympathetically. “You won’t be of much help to me if you fall asleep where you sit.”

Gavin nodded and staggered off to his bedroll, only to find that it was occupied by a sleeping hobbit-lad. He wanted to groan; he’d completely forgotten about Hazel. Sighing, he picked the boy up, careful not to wake him, and then sank onto the bedroll, settling Hazel comfortably against him. The hobbit child did not stir, save that he buried his face with a sigh of contentment in Gavin’s chest. A bit startled for a moment, the Man smiled and nestled under the blanket, closing his eyes and letting sleep take him.

Faramond watched as his companion fell asleep, the little hobbit pressed warmly against him. He chuckled softly to himself, not in the least surprised at the sudden change in Gavin’s attitude caused by that hobbit-child; he had experienced the same, years before, when he had gotten to know his first Shire-hobbit.

Feeling drained himself, he gave a small yawn and looked down at Frodo, now covered warmly with two layers of blankets. The hobbit seemed to be deeply and peacefully asleep now, and though he was still pale, he looked altogether more healthy than before, even if only a bit. Faramond bent over and brushed back the dark curls to feel the small forehead; there was no fever, but the Man feared that one might develop, and he would have to keep a close watch on his young charge through the night, for fear of complications.

“I am sorry, Frodo,” Faramond murmured, his face filling with regret. He absently stroked the hobbit’s thick curls as remorse for his injuries invaded his mind. “I am here to protect the Shire… but I have not as yet done a very good job, have I?” He chuckled a little, grimly. “What would Estel say, I wonder.”

“I’m sure no one could be displeased with your efforts,” spoke up a faint voice.

Faramond started, and looked down at Frodo, his hand freezing in mid-motion. He found the hobbit watching him with half-open, slightly unfocussed blue eyes. “Frodo!” he breathed, regaining his composure. “How do you feel?”

Frodo smiled wanly. “Better than before,” he said, his voice hardly above a cracked whisper. “Whatever herbs you’ve given me, they seem to work well, although I feel weak as a kitten and a bit dizzy.” With apparent difficulty, he forced his eyes open wider and looked around as best he could without moving his head. Worry came into his voice and he looked back up at Faramond. “Where is Hazel?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you find him?”

Faramond smiled and gently raised Frodo into a sitting position, supporting his dark, curly head in the crook of his arm, and pointed to the sleeping hobbit child, nestled in the arms of Gavin. “Hazel is quite fine,” he assured Frodo. “My companion, Gavin, found him without trouble, and brought him back. He fell asleep worrying about you.”

That concern taken care of, Frodo sighed with relief and closed his eyes as vertigo suddenly assailed him. Feeling his small patient tense, Faramond carefully laid him back down on the bedroll. “I believe the dizziness is your fault, actually, Frodo,” the Man teased gently, grinning as the hobbit’s eyes opened in surprise. “You are not supposed to be awake at all yet, in fact. You must be giving those herbs quite a battle. I shall have to remember to give you a stronger dose next time—I had not counted on you fighting against them!”

Frodo managed to breathe a faint laugh. “I could not sleep without knowing what had happened to Hazel,” he said, his eyes falling shut again involuntarily. “Although now that I know, I see no reason to continue fighting your herbs.” He voice faded into a murmur as he began to surrender to sleep. “But don’t let Hazel worry about me too…much…”

Faramond watched as Frodo fell asleep again, and after a moment, he resumed stroking the hobbit’s dark ringlets, his heart now considerably lighter. He smiled to himself, wondering, as he often did, at the remarkable race of Hobbits. They seemed child-like, both in their size and their innocent simplicity, and yet they could be surprisingly observant and wise, too. Though he had known Frodo only since that afternoon, he could tell, already, that the charming young hobbit, while possessing the candor and sweet nature of his race, was slightly different than most. He didn’t know what it was that made him think this; perhaps it was that Frodo was uncharacteristically slender and fair-faced—but Faramond felt that it was something more than that.

But his musings were brought to a halt when Faramond’s heavy eyes closed of their own accord and he dropped into a light drowse.

Hazel awoke slowly, unwilling to leave the pleasant, but unremembered dream that he had been wandering in for—how long had it been? He reluctantly opened his eyes and looked around. It was dark, except for the bright, crackling fire across from him, which made him blink several times before his eyes grew adjusted to its golden light. Then he raised his head, and found with surprise and confusion that he was wrapped in someone’s warm but alarmingly large arms. He looked down and saw a Man, lying asleep beside him. Full memory came flooding back to him as he recognized Gavin, and with a gasp, he wriggled carefully out of the Man’s arms and got to his feet.

Hazel’s eyes quickly scanned the campsite and came to rest on a small, pale form, covered with blankets, on the other side of the fire. Sucking in his breath sharply, the boy ran across the campsite and fell to his knees by Frodo’s side, completely unaware of the Man sitting asleep beside his uncle; he had eyes only for Frodo. Tears blurred his vision as he saw the scratches across his uncle’s pale cheek, and observed how still he was. For a moment cold fear seized him that Frodo was dead, but then he saw the slow rising and falling of his uncle’s chest, and nearly fainted with relief.

“Uncle Frodo,” Hazel whispered, gently tapping his uninjured cheek. “Wake up, Uncle Frodo! Wake up! It’s me, Hazel. Wake up!”

There was no response. This brought a new wave of despair flooding over him, and suddenly unable to hold back his tears any longer, Hazel threw himself across his uncle, wrapping his arms tightly around him and burying his face in Frodo’s soft curls as sobs overcame him. He loosened his grip slightly as he felt Frodo flinch and give a low whimper of pain, but once he let the tears start to flow, he could not stop them, and the sobs were so deep that he was unaware of anything but his own heaving chest, and his uncle’s cold, limp form in his arms.

“I’m s-sorry, Uncle F-Frodo!” he cried. “It’s all my fault that you got hurt. I-I’m s-s-sorry!”

Gradually, as the sobs subsided somewhat, he became aware that a hand was weakly stroking his hair, and another, larger one was rubbing his back comfortingly. As he raised his head, gulping back his tears, the latter one was removed, though he didn’t notice; his tear-swollen eyes were fixed on Frodo’s pale, weary face and he was conscious of nothing else.

“Uncle Frodo!” he gasped, unable to say any more for the moment.

“Hazel,” Frodo whispered in a voice that was faint and hoarse, “are you all right? I was so worried about you—”

Hazel cut him off with a breathy laugh. “You were worried, Uncle Frodo!” he exclaimed. Anything else he might have said was smothered in a new onslaught of sobs and he buried his face again in Frodo’s now tear-soaked dark curls. These tears were now tears of relief, which increased when he felt weak arms wrapping around him, and the gentle hand still stroking his hair.

When his sobs had at long last diminished to occasional hiccoughs, Hazel felt completely drained, though he no longer had any inclination to go to sleep again. He raised his head, scrubbing his red, swollen eyes with one sleeve. Frodo smiled slightly at him. “Feeling better?”

Hazel, still a bit too overwhelmed to speak, instead seized the slender hand that stroked his hair and kissed it, and then held it against his cheek. “Oh, Uncle Frodo,” he breathed at last, “I’m much better now that you’re awake.”

“I’m not really supposed to be,” said Frodo softly, smiling up at someone Hazel could not see, nor did he bother to turn around and look. His mind was fixed on Frodo.

“Are you badly hurt?” he asked hesitantly, gently touching the scratches on his uncle’s cheek.

“Not badly,” Frodo answered, his voice lowering to a whisper as he began to slide back into sleep. “Don’t worry yourself, Hazel. I’ll be well in no time…” He trailed off as his eyes involuntarily fluttered closed and he fell asleep once more.

Hazel’s heart stopped for a moment when Frodo’s hand went still against his cheek. “Uncle Frodo?” he called, panic-stricken for a moment. “Uncle Frodo! Wake up!”

A large hand was laid on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Hazel,” said a kind voice softly. “He’s just asleep.” The boy looked up and found a Man, older than Gavin, smiling comfortingly at him. “When will he wake up?” Hazel sniffled a little, feeling tears well up in his eyes again.

Faramond sighed, not wishing to frighten the boy further; if Frodo would stop fighting the herbal sedative, he should sleep well into the morrow. “Tomorrow, Hazel,” he said gently. “But do not fear—the sleep will make him better. And you’ll see, Hazel,” he patted the small shoulder reassuringly, taking a deep breath, “he’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

TBC...

Sorry I didn't get this up yesterday like I promised - I hadn't realized that I'd be out most of the day. I don't foresee any such outings happening today, so hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapter up by this evening. :) 

Yet again, this chapter took me longer than I'd anticipated to post. My apologies, Esamen! I won't even try to guess when the next update will be, so I won't disappoint. ;) Not too long, I can promise that. Only seven more chapters and we're up-to-date!

19. Worry

Halfred and Sam stood on the back doorstep of the Gamgee smial, frowning in concern as they watched the sun begin to set behind the rolling hills and forests.

"They’ve been gone too long," muttered Sam to himself. He glanced at Halfred and raised his voice. "We’ve waited plenty long enough, Hal. We should go look for ’em. What if they’re hurt? Or lost? Or—"

"Calm down, Sam-lad," said Halfred gently, placing a comforting arm around his brother’s shoulders. "I agree, they’ve been gone far too long, an’ we certainly shall go look for ’em. Come on, then, we’d best start before it gets too dark 'ta see anything."

His arm still draped around Sam’s shoulders, Halfred turned and led him back into the house. A very concerned Jessimine came hurrying towards them from down the hall, where she had just put Fennel and baby Tansy to bed.

"Are they not back yet?" she asked anxiously. "Where could they be?"

Halfred used his free arm to pull Jessimine close and give her a reassuring kiss on the cheek. "Don’t worry, love," he said, as cheerfully as he could manage. "Most likely Hazel-lad just got carried away in showin’ off stone-skippin’ and frog-catchin’ for his ‘Uncle’ Frodo, an’ we all know that Frodo’s much too indulgent to tell him to stop." Jessimine sighed, not entirely believing him. "We’re off to look for the two knaves now," he added. "They’ve got the cart, so no reason to bring our wagon; we’ll ride old Gil. We shouldn’t be gone long—"

Jessimine looked up incredulously. "What!" she exclaimed. "Me, stay ’ere while you two go searchin’ for my lad? No! I won’t ’ave it, an’ that’s flat."

Both Halfred and Sam had to smile at the determination in the hobbit-lady’s flashing hazel eyes. "Of course ye’d want to come, me dear," her husband said gently. "I know that. But what of the little ones? They can’t be out at night. An’ you need to be here, just in case… summat has happened." As Jessimine looked up in near panic at his last words, Halfred quickly added, "Of course there’s naught to worry about, but it’s better to be prepared fer the worst."

Jessimine eyed him shrewdly for a moment, trying to judge the honesty of his words. Then she sighed again. "Very well, Hal," she said resignedly. "I’ll stay ’ere an’ brew some tea for the rogues—I’m sure they’ll be right famished by the time they get back." Feeling hopeful again now that she had something to do, she smiled at them and pushed them back to the door. "Off with you two, then, an’ hurry! Be careful, both o’ you."

"Let us fetch our cloaks, an’ we’ll be off," said Halfred with a smile. "Frodo an’ Hazel have a knapsack with food and a bit o' gear in it, so we shouldn’t need much else."

Once they had raced back down the hall, pulled their cloaks from the pegs along the wall and returned, Jessimine quickly kissed them both on the cheek and shooed them out of the door. "Bring them back safe," she whispered worriedly, her hands clasped tightly. Then, closing her eyes a moment, she turned and hurried into the kitchen to prepare the tea.

***

"We’ll search the Bindbale first," Halfred called over his shoulder to his younger brother, who sat behind him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist for balance, as they rode double astride Gil the pony. "There’s a pond up towards the nor’-east side that Hazel likes to play at wi’ some o’ his friends. He’d be sure to take Frodo there."

Sam just nodded miserably, and rested his head against the back of his brother’s shoulder. Not only was he deeply worried for his nephew and master, he was also trying to hide a growing fear; he was quite fond of ponies, but he was not particularly comfortable riding them, and the fact that night was falling added to his unhappiness. To be sure, he would ride bareback through a raging storm without a second thought if he knew that anyone he loved so dearly as Hazel and Frodo were in danger, but not knowing where they were now or what had happened to them just added to his fear.

"How far ’way is it?" he asked, raising his head.

"Not far, Sam-lad, never fear," Halfred returned, still maintaining his cheerful manner. "’bout twenty minutes, I’d say, to get to the wood itself—then another ten or so to get to the Pond."

Sam groaned in dismay. "Half an hour!" he exclaimed frustratedly.

Halfred turned to grin at him over his shoulder. "Aye, half an hour—if ye’re goin’ along at a leisurely trot, that is." He leaned forward and patted the pony’s neck. "But ol’ Gil can go faster ’an that, can’t you, lad? Hold on, Sam!" Giving his younger brother hardly a second to obey, he kicked his heels into Gil’s sides and set the pony off at a swift canter.

Sam was glad that his arms were wrapped tightly around Halfred’s sturdy waist—else he’d surely have lost his balance as Gil raced down the dirt road. Once he was reasonably certain he was not, in fact, going to fall off, he sat up a bit straighter and looked around. The scenery was all a green and brown blur, and the whipping wind stung his eyes; but he could just make out ahead, over the rolling hills, the thin road that they followed, to where it disappeared into the Bindbale.

Feeling somehow relieved by the ability to see their path, Sam relaxed again, and lowered his head to bury his face contentedly in Halfred’s shirt. His older brother’s strong, indomitable presence had always comforted him in the past, and it did so now. It reminded him of his father—when the Gaffer was with him, Sam had always felt that somehow, nothing could truly go wrong. And now, with Halfred leading him, he felt at ease, confident that they would find Frodo and Hazel, safe and sound.

***

"How are you enjoying your meal, Master Hazel?"

"Well, I can’t say as I’ve ever had deer meat before, Mr. Faramond." Hazel swallowed a rather large mouthful. "And I 'ave to admit that I don’t think I’d want to try it again," he said honestly. "But it tastes very good, sir, and it’s a far sight better than nothing."

Faramond smiled, replacing the hot stones from the campfire he had used to keep the meat warm around the remaining hunks. His plan for raising Hazel’s spirits was working well. "That is certainly true," he agreed, finishing his own portion of deer meat. "And venison does take a bit of getting used to—but I must say that I would greatly prefer to watch a deer than to eat one. They are beautiful creatures."

Hazel nodded, his chewing faltering a bit as he imagined the graceful, gentle deer that were such a favorite among Shire-folk. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling a bit sick. "Erm, I-I think I’m all finished now," he said weakly. "I’m full."

Faramond smiled understandingly and took the wooden bowl and nearly-finished piece of venison, placing them beside the warm stones. They lapsed into silence, broken only by the sounds of the fire crackling and Gavin snoring softly on the other side of the campsite. From the woods an owl hooted, and crickets began to chirp somewhere nearby. It was now almost completely dark, and stars were appearing above them; only a faint reddish glow still lingered in the west.

Hazel shivered a little, wrapping his brown woolen cloak closer about him. "I wonder if my da will come lookin’ for us here," he wondered. He had not meant to say it aloud, but seeing Faramond looking at him, he decided he might as well continue. "He knows I like to play ’ere a lot with me friends, but I don’t know if this is where he’d look first."

"How far away is your home?" asked Faramond.

"I don’t know all my numbers yet, so I couldn’t tell you in miles," said Hazel with a small grin, producing a chuckle from Faramond. "But I would guess it’s about a half-hour from ’ere." A sudden thought occurred to him and his smile disappeared, replaced by worry. "That wolf family won’t go huntin’ that far, will they?" he asked anxiously, shuddering at the thought. "They wouldn’t stray that far from the woods, would they?"

Faramond frowned. "I shall not let them," he said, patting Hazel’s small shoulder. "Do not fear. As soon I see that you and Frodo are safe, I shall call together all the men of my company who are nearby, and we will drive the wolf and her young back to the North where they belong. This I promise: that wolf will do no further harm while I may help it."

His last words brought both their minds back to Frodo, and Hazel worriedly glanced back over his shoulder, where he could see the pale, unconscious form of his ‘uncle.’ He had not stirred for nearly twenty minutes now, Hazel guessed with concern; though at least he did not seem to be in pain.

Faramond had followed the child’s gaze and sighed deeply, then turned to look down at Hazel. "Do not fear," he assured the lad, smiling slightly. "Frodo is deeply asleep, and in very little or no pain. He should awaken on the morrow, strengthened by this rest." He did not add that if Frodo developed a fever or some other complication, he would likely be awake much sooner; and in a fair amount of pain, as well. He widened his smile, trying his best to keep Hazel hopeful.

Hazel echoed the Man’s earlier sigh and tore his eyes from Frodo. He could think of nothing to say, so he merely nodded glumly and stared into the flames of the campfire.

Faramond studied the lad for a moment, chewing his lower lip, and then brightened suddenly. "Hazel-lad," he said, putting a hand on the hobbit child’s tiny shoulder. Hazel looked up, brown eyes curious at the change in his manner. "I am going to prepare a compress for the cuts on Frodo’s face, and I think I may need your help."

The Man watched in satisfaction as Hazel’s eyes lit up and he jumped to his feet. "Oh, yes, sir!" he cried, remembering just in time to lower his voice somewhat. "I’d dearly love to ’elp care for Uncle Frodo. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it just as fast as I can!"

Faramond nearly laughed aloud at the boy’s enthusiasm, but he kept it to a chuckle as he ruffled Hazel’s russet-brown curls. "Your help is very much appreciated," he said. "Now, come with me to my pack and I shall show you what to do."

It was scarcely ten minutes later, once they had found the right items in one of the packs and Faramond had carefully given directions, when Hazel proudly held up the compress for the Man’s inspection. Faramond could not help but smile as he did so, and then handed it back to the hobbit-lad. "Well done," he praised, "you followed my directions well." Hazel blushed with pleasure. "Now, here, let me help you arrange it. It will cool his face and stop any irritation that the cuts may develop—not to mention feeling quite pleasant, even if he is asleep."

Hazel nodded, smiling at the thought of being able to give Frodo whatever comfort he could. It never occurred to him to doubt Faramond when the Man had said that his uncle was in very little pain, but he was sure that even deeply asleep, Frodo would be able to feel the soft, cool compress and appreciate what further comfort it brought.

Faramond watched, smiling but inwardly grave, as Hazel gently dabbed at the scratches on Frodo’s cheek with the compress, and then moved up to stroke his forehead, down to his uninjured cheek and then his neck; and then starting the process over again. He was glad that Hazel was occupied, keeping his mind off worries for a little while, at least, but he knew that Frodo was not half through yet, and wondered how he would keep Hazel calm if his "uncle" took a turn for the worst. Gavin would be a great help, as he had obviously grown fond of Hazel already and seemed willing to help the hobbit-child in any way he could.

Faramond touched Frodo’s right hand that lay atop the layered blankets, and finding it somewhat cold, he picked it up between his much larger ones and began chafing it gently. "Don’t let his face get too chilled, Hazel," he cautioned. "Just use the compress every so often."

Once he was satisfied that some warmth had been rubbed back into one of Frodo’s hands, at least, he watched Hazel a moment more, and then moved away and added a few more sticks to the fire.

Faramond sat beside the fire for what seemed a long while, staring into the flickering flames and going over what would need to be done if Frodo worsened, or the wolf returned, or it stormed. He ran each situation through his mind, thinking through his responses carefully, as he had been taught. He knew that planning ahead was sometimes essential to survival in the Wilds, and though the Shire would seem like the last place to meet with unexpected trouble, he had seen for himself that one must always be prepared.

Suddenly he felt a small hand on his arm and started, looking down to find Hazel beside him. "I reckon I’ve finished with the compress," the hobbitlad said softly. "I’ve left it over 'is forehead, just like I’ve seen me mum do when I’m sick." He was proud of his medical knowledge and hoped Faramond would be pleased.

The Man smiled at him and ruffled his hair. "Well done," he praised, nodding. "I could not have done better myself. Now why don’t you go over to Gavin’s pack and get out his waterskin so we can both have a drink."

Hazel nodded obediently and with a smile, hurried over to the pack. Meanwhile, Faramond quietly went back over to Frodo and settled down at the hobbit’s side, watching him with a physician’s careful eye. With one grave wound to his left side, and another to his right leg, Frodo would have been hard put to find a comfortable position, had he been aware. But as the herbs Faramond had given him had been a fairly large dosage compared to what the Ranger would normally give a hobbit (which he guessed was about half that of a Man’s dose), he was completely unconscious, and had not moved from the position on his back as Faramond had laid him.

Faramond frowned in thought, pressing two fingers to Frodo’s throat and feeling his pulse, finding with relief that it was slow and steady. He listened to the hobbit’s breathing, which was also deep and normal, except for the slightest occasional hitch to it, as though taking too deep a breath caused a bit of pain. The Ranger sat back on his heels; with the wound to his side, breathing would indeed be painful, and evidently even the herbs could not relieve all of the discomfort.

Just then, Hazel returned, and after sitting down, cross-legged across from Faramond, he respectfully handed the waterskin to the Man first. Faramond smiled, and handed it back. "You drink first, Hazel," he said. "You are no doubt thirstier than I."

Hazel bobbed his head with a grateful smile, and took a rather large gulp—though it was a bit difficult to fit his small mouth around the comparatively large rim of the waterskin’s opening, and some of it ended up spilling down his chin instead. Faramond reduced what would have been a hearty laugh to a small one, and Hazel, after a moment of embarrassment, could not help but join him.

"Sorry," he said as he handed the waterskin to the Man. "I’ve never drunk from anythin’ that big before!"

Faramond swallowed a mouthful of water and grinned reassuringly at the lad. "Do not fret over manners when you are in company such as Gavin and I," he said, mostly teasing. "I’m afraid we are not the best of examples in etiquette—one tends to grow rather rough after living in the Wilds for a few years."

Hazel took another, more careful gulp of water from the offered waterskin, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "My mum says to be polite to everyone I meet," he protested, "whether they’re nice to me or not. But I think you an’ Mister Gavin have very good manners—better than some hobbits I know!" He made a face, and Faramond laughed.

"I see you follow your mother’s teachings well," he said with a smile. "And I thank you for your courtesy—we Rangers are not often met with kindness on our travels."

Hazel looked at him thoughtfully, but did not say anything, and a silence fell over them. After a few minutes, Hazel broke it with a sigh, as he sat back on his heels and looked at Frodo’s white face. Faramond glanced at him, and then reached over and touched Frodo’s uninjured cheek. It was warm, almost too much so, and Faramond moved down to touch the hobbit’s hand, which felt cold.

"Hazel," he said, causing the boy to jump as he was pulled from his reverie, "help me rub some warmth back into Frodo’s hands."

Hazel, pleased to again be doing something, hastily but carefully took his uncle’s pale right hand between his two small brown ones and began rubbing it vigorously. He tried his best to imitate his mother when he had seen her doing the same to his father one day after Halfred had returned from being outside in a snowstorm.

Faramond, on the other side of Frodo, did the same, careful that his comparatively enormous fingers were not too rough on the small, slender hand as he chafed warmth back into it. They did this in silence for several minutes before Faramond, satisfied, gently laid Frodo’s hand back down, covering it beneath the blankets.

Hazel kept his uncle’s now warm hand in both his own, drawing comfort from keeping contact. He stared down at Frodo’s still face, bathed in a flickering orange glow from the campfire and shadowed all around with the thick, dark curls; and he noticed something that had not occurred to him before.

"Mr. Faramond, sir," he said softly, looking up. "Uncle Frodo’s got blood in his hair." He paused and winced at the thought. "Shouldn’t we wash it out? I shouldn’t think he’d like to wake up and find it there, sir, if you follow me."

Faramond smiled. "I do, Hazel," he said, nodding, "and you are quite right. But we’ve nothing large enough for a full bath, and the stitches should not get wet yet besides, so it might be a bit of a challenge. I shall need a basin and a small bowl, if you would be so helpful as to get them—they are in Gavin’s pack, over there."

Hazel, pressing Frodo’s hand with both of his before tucking it beneath the blankets, jumped up and scurried to obey.

***

The Bindbale Wood seemed endless to Sam. All the trees looked alike in the dim light of the small lantern that Halfred had wisely thought to grab from the barn before they left. Neither of them had spoken in a long while; the thick, murky forest seemed to have a disheartening effect on their mood.

Just as Sam was trying for the third time to count the different types of trees they passed (anything to keep his mind off worrying), he suddenly felt Halfred stiffen and sit up straight on Gil’s back. "I see a campfire!" he said excitedly, hope rekindling in his heart. He held the lantern high and pointed in the direction of the flickering orange glow visible through the trees ahead. "It must be Frodo and Hazel-lad!"

Sam also felt renewed hope, although he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to make Frodo and Hazel decide to camp outside the entire night (a thought that he considerately kept to himself). He strained his eyes for any other movement near the distant campfire, but there was nothing besides a startled owl flying through the trees overhead.

It seemed abrupt to Sam when the trees ended in front of them, displaying a large open area with a small pond to the left, the rising half-moon reflected on its surface. It was from across the pond that the campfire was located, and looking in that direction, Sam noticed three things at once: one, a small, hobbit-sized pony was tied to a tree near the fire, apparently sleeping; two, the dim figure silhouetted in black against the flames was far too big to be a hobbit, though it was bending over something; and three, the smaller figure beside it was the size of a very young hobbit-lad, also bending over something.

Sam’s heart soared at the sight of the small shadow, and he realized just how much he loved his dear little nephew. And where Hazel was, Frodo was sure to be close by. Halfred felt the same thing, for his voice was quivering with joy as he said, "We found them, Sam-lad! We found them!" Neither of them, as Gil was urged into a quick trot, gave more than a fleeting thought to the larger shape, both solely focused on the recovery of their lost loved ones.

Hazel looked up in surprise as he heard the sounds of hooves, only one set it sounded like, coming toward him. He stood up to see the visitors better and his heart skipped a beat. Then, forgetting to be quiet, he gave an inarticulate shout and raced past Faramond, who had paused in drying Frodo’s newly washed hair.

"Hazel-lad!" Halfred cried ecstatically, barely pausing to halt Gil and hand the lantern to Sam before jumping off the pony’s back and running, open-armed, to his son. Hazel threw himself into his father’s arms, both of them half crying and half laughing in sheer joy and relief. "Oh, you rogue," whispered Halfred hoarsely, kissing his son’s thick curls, "you must stop worrying me so! You’re giving me grey hair!"

Hazel laughed, a little shakily, and raised his head, looking up at his father’s nutbrown hair, free of the slightest hint of grey. He sniffled, and tightened his arms around his father. "I didn’t mean to, Da," he said, his voice quivering. "I—"

"I know, Hazel-lad," Halfred smiled at him, fondly ruffling his hair. "I know. I was only teasing you."

While father and son reunited, ever-practical Sam had hastily led Gil to the tree where Galad was tied, and quickly knotted his leadrope around a thick branch. Then he hurried back to Hazel and Halfred, for the moment completely unaware of anything but joy at seeing his nephew again.

After quick hugs and teary laughter, Sam suddenly realized with a shock of cold fear that his Mr. Frodo was nowhere to be seen. He also realized, at the same moment, that there was a Man, a very tall Man at that, sitting silently beside the campfire, watching them all with a smile.

"Where’s Mr. Frodo?" he asked breathlessly, turning to Hazel. "Isn’t he here?"

Hazel’s smile instantly vanished, replaced by worry and fear. "He’s here, Uncle Sam," he said softly, glancing at the Man as he spoke. "But he got hurt, an’ Mr. Faramond here is takin’ care of him. There was a wolf—"

But Sam wasn’t listening any longer. He’d only heard the words he got hurt, and could think of nothing else. He jumped to his feet and looking at the Man, his brown eyes wide with panic, he silently asked the question. Where is he? The Man looked at him compassionately, and gestured to the blanket covered form lying on a bedroll beside him.

Feeling numb with terror, Sam rushed past the Man and knelt next to him, closing his eyes for a half-second before looking down at his friend and master. He nearly choked when he saw how pale Frodo was, and how still he lay beneath the blankets. His eyes, rapidly filling with tears, took in the scratches across one cheek, and the beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead.

Sam gently laid one trembling hand against Frodo’s cheek, swallowing a sob of relief at the warmth he found there. Broken out of his numbed daze, he became aware that the other three were suddenly beside him.

Hazel looked worriedly up into Sam’s face. "Mr. Faramond says he’ll be all right, Uncle," he said, trying to be comforting. "He gave Uncle Frodo some medicine so that he doesn’t feel any of his hurts, and he’s just sleepin’. He woke up for me earlier…" He trailed off, seeing that Sam was probably not listening.

As it happened, Sam was listening, and Hazel’s words did reassure him, if only a little. He reached under the blankets that covered Frodo and searched for his hand, but as he found it and clasped it, his fingers brushed against something else. Bandages, wrapped around Frodo’s middle.

Again, fear seized him, and in a panic Sam turned to look up at Faramond. "What’re the bandages for?" he asked hesitantly, having to clear his throat to get his voice to work. He absently brought Frodo’s hand out from beneath the blankets and began stroking it gently, more for his own reassurance than his master’s.

Faramond hesitated a moment before answering, unsure of how to tell Sam of Frodo’s injuries without panicking him. "He was bitten," he said at last, "by a wolf. It is not as severe as it could have been, and I have cleaned and stitched it. I have confidence that Frodo will be fine, though I must tell you," he placed one hand on the hobbit’s small shoulder as Sam paled several shades and looked sick, "that he was also bitten in the leg. That injury has also been bandaged, and I do not think it will cause any further problems, except that Frodo will most likely be limping for a few months."

Sam made a choked sound, nodding and then bowing his head, and Faramond sighed in remorse at the hobbit’s pain. "I have studied under one of the greatest healers in all of Middle-Earth," he said quietly, and Sam looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "And Frodo is strong; I have full confidence that he will come through this easily. Trust me."

Sam stared at him for a long moment, thinking over the Man’s words, and then nodded with a slight, weak smile. "Thank you, sir," he murmured, turning his attention back to his master. He gently stroked back the damp ringlets of dark hair that fell over Frodo’s forehead, deciding not to ask why his hair was wet just then. That could wait.

Suddenly Sam turned to look at Hazel hopefully. "Didn’t you say that Mr. Frodo woke up for you earlier?" he asked, wanting more than anything else to see his master’s brilliant, Elvish-blue eyes open and hear his beloved voice chiding him for worrying so. If only he would wake up!

"Yes, sir," Hazel replied with a nod, eager to help his Uncle feel better. "He wasn’t awake very long, but he did talk to me a bit."

That was enough for Sam. If only Frodo would wake up long enough to say even one word, he could be assured that his master was all right. He tightened his hold on Frodo’s hand and reached out with his own free one to stroke his pale cheek. "Mr. Frodo," he whispered urgently. "Mr. Frodo, wake up! It’s your Sam calling…Wake up!"

A long moment passed, and there was no response from the still face. Sam tried again, desperately, and Faramond again touched his shoulder. "I have given him herbs to send him into a deep sleep," he tried to explain. "He should not awaken ’til morning—"

He stopped midsentence as Frodo suddenly gave a soft groan, moving his head a little as he tried to get comfortable. Sam gripped Frodo’s hand a bit tighter in his eagerness and leaned close to his master’s face. "That’s it, Mr. Frodo, wake up!" he urged softly. "Wake up!"

Frodo moved his head again and his thick lashes fluttered, struggling to open. But he had used up much of his strength fighting the herbs the first two times, and he could not manage to come back to full awareness. But he dimly heard Sam’s voice above him, and felt the comforting, well-known hands stroking his cheek and grasping his own hand tightly. He tried his hardest to wake up, if only to assure Sam that he was all right, and at last succeeded in giving Sam’s hand a weak squeeze.

He could not have known the joy that small gesture brought. Sam returned it, more hopeful than ever of getting a response from his master. "Just a bit more, Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Just a bit more, an’ then you can go back to sleep."

Sam watched with bated breath as Frodo’s colorless lips parted, and he spoke. "…all right, Sam. ’m all right…" That was all. His voice was scarcely above a whisper, weak and quivering with weariness, but to Sam it was the most wonderful thing he had ever heard. Tears sliding down his cheeks, he brought Frodo’s hand to his lips and kissed it, watching as his master slipped back into deep unconsciousness and went still again.

"Thank you, Mr. Frodo," he murmured gratefully. "Thank you."

TBC...

20. The Worst Expected

Gavin awoke slowly, from a vivid dream of shimmering Elves and strange, exotic music. Even as he opened his eyes partially, it seemed that he could still see the Elves, glimmering with a silver light, dancing and singing in a tongue he did not understand. The vision faded reluctantly, tendrils of it still remaining before his eyes even as he propped himself up on his elbows and shook his head to rid it of sleep.

He looked up at the sky, pitch-black and glittering with countless stars, and wondered why Faramond had not woken him earlier. He gave a soft, indignant snort, feeling slighted that he had not been awoken, as they had agreed that he would take first watch that night.

Suddenly full memory of that evening came back to him and he looked down for Hazel. At the same time, he realized that there were soft, murmuring voices coming from the other side of camp. He recognized Faramond’s, but the other two he did not know.

Gavin pushed off the blanket and got to his feet, crossing the campsite without the others’ notice. He saw now that the owners of the two strange voices were hobbits, and by the way one of them, (the older one, he guessed), held Hazel in his lap, absently stroking his hair, assured Gavin that he must be the child’s father.

Only when he seated himself beside Faramond was Gavin noticed. Then the hobbits blinked, looking surprised, and the older Ranger placed a hand on Gavin’s shoulder and smiled at him tiredly.

"This is Gavin," he introduced the youth to the two hobbits. "He is my... er... apprentice, being trained as a Ranger." The hobbits both nodded, absently, and Hazel smiled shyly at him. Turning to Gavin, Faramond explained, "This is Halfred Gamgee, Hazel’s father, and his brother, Samwise." He gestured to the younger hobbit, holding one of Frodo’s hands gently in his own, who gave Gavin a fleeting glance and then returned his attention to the injured hobbit.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Gavin politely, as he would have said in Bree—though this was the first occasion where manners had been necessary since leaving with Faramond. "Or at least it would be, under different circumstances perhaps," he added tactfully—and truthfully.

Halfred smiled wearily at him, and his honest, kind face warmed Gavin’s heart immediately. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly. "And thank you for findin’ my son—I don’t think I can ever repay you."

Gavin returned the smile, touched by the hobbit’s gratitude. "There is no debt between us," he said sincerely. "It is I who had the pleasure of meeting your son. He is truly a brave lad."

"Thank you," Halfred repeated with a wider smile, his arms tightening around Hazel, who blushed with pleasure.

"Beggin’ your pardon, sirs," said Samwise suddenly, looking up at Faramond, "but what about my master? I’ll not have Mr. Frodo spendin’ the night out ’ere, hurt as he is, an’ that’s flat."

Under more pleasant circumstances, Gavin would have laughed at the obviously stubborn, rather bold young hobbit; but now, he only felt sorrow that these gentle creatures should experience such pain and grief. Suddenly he understood the purpose of guarding the Shire so carefully, and made a silent resolution to do so with all of his heart.

"No indeed, Samwise," Faramond assured him, gently. "I agree, Frodo should not stay outside. I believe the best thing to do is to bring him in the cart back to your home, Master Halfred, while he still sleeps. With your permission, I would like to accompany you and tend to Frodo until I am sure he is out of danger."

Gavin looked with surprise at Faramond, and glanced down at Hazel, whose brown eyes had also widened with a look of shock, then, despite the circumstances, delight that a Man would be staying in his small home.

"O’ course, Mr. Faramond," Halfred replied without hesitation. "O’ course, if you want to tend to Mr. Frodo, I’ll not disagree." He glanced at Sam, who looked up at the Ranger, giving a brief nod of permission before returning his gaze to his master. "But I don’t think you’ll be very comfortable in a hobbit-hole; we’ve naught for Big People, beggin’ your pardon."

"I would not ask you to trouble yourself," said Faramond, shaking his head. "Gavin and I will most likely stay only until tomorrow night, and what sleep we may take will be outside. We are used to sleeping under the stars."

"Then if that’s settled," Sam said, raising his head, "let’s hurry and get back home, an’ get Mr. Frodo safe an’ comfortable."

Gavin couldn’t contain a small smile this time. It was obvious that Samwise was extremely protective of his master, and it pleased the Ranger to see such love from a servant, thinking that the love of the master must be just as great, to inspire such devotion.

"Of course, Samwise." Faramond nodded, his lips twitching as he held back a smile of his own. "The cart is over there by the tree where the ponies are tied—Hazel, is the cart empty?"

"Yes sir," the boy answered, eager to be helpful, "’cept for a bit o’ rope."

"Good." Faramond got to his feet, and the others, save Samwise, followed his example. "Gavin," he directed, "please take your bedroll and all spare blankets to the cart, and spread them out on top of one another, so that Frodo will not be jostled on the journey. And then place your pack beside it, to help." Gavin hurried off to obey, without resentment or rebellion at following Faramond’s commands.

Within a few minutes, the cart was sufficiently padded and protected, the campfire doused, the herbs and medical tools put away, and the still-warm venison placed into the cart along with their campfire stones, safely stowed in the thick coil of rope so that they would not slide.

Then Gavin hitched up Galad, and Halfred, with Hazel sitting before him, mounted Gil. Faramond carefully lifted Frodo, along with the blankets, and held him while Sam hurriedly pulled the bedroll he’d been laying on over to the cart, where Gavin placed it on top of the first one. Then Faramond gently laid Frodo back down on the layered bedrolls and blankets, and made sure he was again covered warmly. Sam climbed into the back of the cart and dutifully seated himself beside his master, making sure that he was not jostled.

With the cart going slowly and carefully along the narrow dirt road, it was over half an hour before they cleared the Bindbale. Halfred and Hazel rode a little ahead, the latter continuously glancing back from under his father’s arm.

Sam sat dutifully beside Frodo, stroking his face with the compress Hazel had made, and whispering reassurances, though he knew his master could not hear him. Though Faramond guided the cart with skill and caution, trying his best not to hit any ruts in the crude road, occasionally the cart would be rocked slightly when he hit a bump he had not seen. When that happened, Sam would brace himself, holding on to Frodo’s hand and making sure nothing slid around in the back of the cart—including his master. The first few bumps they hit, Frodo did not stir at all, but as they neared the edge of the Bindbale, he began to moan softly every time he was jostled, moving his head and trying to get comfortable.

Sam faithfully soothed his master as best he could, though to his dismay and concern, tears of pain began to slide down Frodo’s cheeks, and he grew more and more restless. It was just as they reached the open countryside that Sam, removing the compress for a moment to rest the back of his hand against Frodo’s forehead, discovered that his temperature had begun to rise, far too quickly for Sam's liking.

"Mr. Faramond!" he cried. "Mr. Frodo’s gettin’ a fever, right fast!"

Faramond muttered something that might have been a curse, and handing the reins to Gavin, he climbed over the small driver’s seat and into the back of the cart, sitting down next to Sam and feeling Frodo’s forehead with his large hand.

"So he is," he murmured, almost to himself.

"Should we stop?" Sam asked anxiously, trying to read the Ranger’s expression.

Faramond considered a moment. Then he raised his head and looked at Halfred, who had halted, hearing their raised voices. "How long do you estimate it will take us to get to your home, Halfred?"

"Probably another ten minutes, at our pace," Halfred called back. "It’s all easy roads, though, from ’ere."

Faramond chewed his lower lip in thought and looked back down at Frodo and Sam. "We will not stop yet, Samwise," he decided. "Not unless your master’s fever gets much higher. It will be safer for him inside their home."

Sam eyed him closely for a moment, considering his words, and then nodded. "Very well, sir," he said, looking down at Frodo. "If that’s what you think is best, I’ll not argue."

Faramond patted Sam on the shoulder and then climbed back into the driver’s seat; a rather cramped position for both him and Gavin, for their knees were drawn up almost to their chins. He glanced back to see Sam wetting the compress with one of the waterskins and returning to the task of cooling his master’s face and neck.

The Ranger turned to Gavin, who was looking at him questioningly, concern in his eyes. "Frodo is developing a fever," said Faramond quietly. "Slowly, but steadily. This is just as I feared! Those herbs may send him into unconsciousness, but they cannot stop a fever."

"Should we continue?" Gavin asked worriedly.

"With all speed," Faramond replied grimly, flicking the reins and sending Galad into a trot.

Sam heard the Rangers’ quiet exchange and though he could not catch the words, their apprehensive tone made him uneasy. He felt Frodo’s forehead again: the fever continued to rise. It was already high enough to worry Sam greatly, and he again wetted the compress and wiped away the tears and beads of sweat from his master’s face.

"Poor Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured as they hit a rut, causing the cart to bounce and Frodo to give a low whimper of pain. "It’s all right, me dear. Your Sam’s ’ere. Just you lie quiet ’til we get back to Hal’s house, that’s it…"

Frodo quieted, and though his tears had stopped, his face was still taut with pain. Sam sighed, amazed and saddened by how quickly the pleasurable trip to the Northfarthing with his master had ended in disaster. He thought of the wolf that had injured Frodo so gravely, and gripped his master’s hand tightly. The image conjured up in his mind by his slightly wild imagination was of a fearsome Warg, like the ones from old Mr. Bilbo’s tales. He shuddered at the thought; but in the midst of all his worry and sorrow, he could not help but feel a great amount of awed admiration for his master’s courage in facing such a creature.

‘But that’s how he is,’ he thought fondly, squeezing his master’s hot hand. ‘Never stops to think of himself.’

A surge of love and respect for his master welled up suddenly in Sam’s heart, and he kissed Frodo’s hand. "Thank you, Mr. Frodo," he whispered, "for savin’ little Hazel. An’ for bein’ the way you are. The world would be a dark place without you." He paused, drawing in his breath a little at the thought. "I promise, Mr. Frodo, I’ll take care of you and help you get well. I promise."

Feeling slightly better, Sam dutifully resumed his task of bathing Frodo’s face and throat, putting aside the compress and using a clean cloth. His master’s temperature stubbornly continued to rise, yet despite the heat of his fever, Frodo was beginning to tremble as if he was cold, even beneath his layers of blankets.

Sam, chewing on his lower lip in concern, raised his head and looked about. From the dim light of the two lanterns carried by Gavin and Halfred, he could only barely see the road ahead. But he guessed, from the widening and evening out of it, and the gradual transition they had made from hills to flatter land, that they were within a few miles of Halfred’s home.

"Hold on, Mr. Frodo," he whispered, heartened a little from this observation. "We’re almost there."

Jessimine stood outside the back door, her shawl wrapped closely about her shoulders, holding aloft a brightly glowing lantern. She had made ready the guest bedroom where Frodo and Sam slept (leaving the tea there along with a basin of warm water and some clean cloths, as a precaution), checked that the two little girls were soundly asleep, and then come outside to wait.

It seemed like hours since Halfred and Sam had left, though it had only been perhaps a little over one, and in that amount of time she had been able to think over what she hoped was every possible explanation for what had happened to her son and friend. Though it frightened her dreadfully, she had gotten out most of her medicinal herbs just in case something had indeed gone wrong. ‘It’s a good thing,’ she thought, ‘that my mum’s so good a healer—and that she taught me a few things. If Mr. Frodo or Hazel have had a mishap.’

Jessimine quickly pushed the thought aside, taking a deep breath, and decided to go back inside for a moment to make sure the little ones were still sleeping. She took one last look at what she could see of the road, and then turned and went inside.

Hardly had she shut the door behind her and placed the lantern on the table when baby Tansy began to cry. Jessimine breathed a small sigh and hurried down the hall to the bedroom she and Halfred shared, where the ten-month-old still slept in a wooden crib beside the bed.

"It’s all right, me dear," she soothed softly, gathering the wailing infant into her arms and rocking her gently, stroking her fingers through the soft black curls. "Mumma’s here. Hush now, love, everything’s all right."

Within moments, comforted by her soft words, Tansy calmed, though she did not go back to sleep. She lay in her mother’s arms, her head resting against Jessimine’s shoulder and her small thumb thrust into her mouth. Her blue eyes were wide and bright in the darkness, and she looked about her as though curious or puzzled.

"Would you like to come outside with me and wait for your Da, Tansy dear?" Jessimine asked gently, still rocking the child comfortingly. "Come with me, then, and we shall wait outside for Da and Uncle Sam."

"Da," Tansy repeated softly, looking around. "Da-Da! Da?"

Finding no "Da" anywhere near, she looked at her mother questioningly. "Da’s comin’, love," Jessimine assured the baby, wrapping her shawl around Tansy as she walked down the hall and retrieved the lantern. "We’ll go watch for ’im outside."

Tansy had no objections and lay placidly balanced on her mother’s hip, sucking vigorously on her thumb. Jessimine held the infant in one arm while holding up the lantern in the other, straining her eyes in the darkness for any sign of the returning hobbits.

Hardly had she raised the lantern when she heard hoofbeats and the rumble of a cart along the road—though she could not see them yet, she recognized the sound of the cart and the quick, light steps of the ponies, and bit back a cry of relief and joy. So they had found Frodo and Hazel after all!

Tightening her arm around Tansy, she rushed across the grass to wait by the barn door, knowing that that would be where they would stop. As she hung the lantern on a hook on the wall of the barn, she heard an inarticulate shout of joy. Before she had time to make an equally jubilant and relieved reply, she saw the grey pony, ahead of the cart, trotting towards her. It was brought to a halt briefly as a small dim shape carefully slid off its back, and then the pony continued toward her at a walk.

But Jessimine’s eyes were for the little shadow alone. "Mumma!" Hazel cried rapturously, racing to throw himself into his mother’s arms. "Mumma!"

Jessimine, Tansy still balanced on her hip, knelt to take her son into her free arm, clutching him tightly to her and finding that tears of relief were sliding down her cheeks and wetting his brown hair. "Oh, Hazel my lad," she whispered, kissing his curls over and over. "You frightened me so! What happened? No, wait, don’t tell me yet. Let me talk to your father first." She kissed him one last time and then stood, her free arm around Hazel’s shoulders, waiting for Halfred to reach her. She could now see the dim shape of the cart making its careful way over the grass towards her.

Halfred halted Gil in front of his wife and hastily tied the pony’s reins to the split-log fence that surrounded Jessimine’s garden of ‘simples’ (as she called her collection of herbs) beside the barn. "We found ’em, Jessi-love," he said softly, kissing her. "An’ as you can see, Hazel’s fine as ever. But Frodo…" He sighed, and ran his fingers wearily through his hair. "Well, Frodo’s been hurt summat awful, Jessi, I’ll say it plain. As I hear it, he saved our Hazel-lad from a wolf, an’ nearly got torn to pieces doin’ it. He and Hazel met two Men—Big People—who are healers; Mr. Faramond and Mr. Gavin. They’re goin’ to stay with us an’ help Frodo as best they can until they think he’s safe."

All of this came out in a nervous rush, and left Jessimine staring at him with wide eyes and hands pressed over her mouth, slowly absorbing the story. But before she had time to react, the cart came rolling up to stop just beside Gil, and a very tall (or so it seemed to the slightly bemused hobbit-lady) Man stepped out of the cart’s seat. Another Man, slightly shorter and younger-looking, also got down, and after giving her quick nods of respect, they both hurried to the back of the cart.

A moment later, the taller one returned, carrying Frodo in his arms. Jessimine sucked in her breath at the sight of her friend—his face was nearly white, in sharp contrast to his sweat-dampened dark curls, and though he trembled beneath the layers of blankets that covered him, she could see by the red spots developing on his ashen cheeks that he was suffering from a high fever.

"Good lady," said the older Man in a kind voice, "my name is Faramond. I am trained as a healer. With me is my apprentice, Gavin. I fear we must impose on your hospitality and stay here until I deem Frodo to be out of danger."

Jessimine blinked and forced herself out of her bewilderment and into action. "Of course, sirs," she said, automatically bobbing a quick curtsy. "You are welcome to whatever you need to care for Mr. Frodo. Come, I’ll show you where you can lay ’im down."

She led the way back inside, Sam hurrying up to walk beside her, carrying Faramond’s large pack of medical equipment. He continually glanced back at the Men, making sure they weren’t jostling his Mr. Frodo too much, but he could not find fault with Faramond’s care.

Jessimine quickly opened the door to the guest bedroom and rushed over to the bed to pull back the coverlet and blankets. She stepped back as Faramond bent low to get through the small round doorway and entered the room, still stooped because of the height of the ceiling. He went over to the bed and gently laid Frodo down, removing the rougher woolen blankets to cover him with the bed’s soft ones. Frodo seemed more comfortable now, but his fever still burned, making him restless as he sought respite from the heat.

Sam hurried to his master’s side and finding the basin of water on the bedside table, immediately began cooling Frodo’s face with one of the cloths. Halfred came to stand by Jessimine, wrapping an arm about her. "What can we do, sir?" he asked softly.

Faramond looked at them. "Nothing, at present, I fear," he said. "Except, Mrs. Gamgee, would you be so kind as to brew some tea? Gavin will show you the correct herbs for fever, if you wi—"

"No, thank you, sir," Jessimine interrupted as brightly as she could be. "That shan’t be necessary. My mum’s one of the best healers in the Northfarthing, and she taught me a few things. I’ll get that tea brewin’ right away, sir."

With one last glance at Frodo, Jessimine hastened out of the room, Tansy still bouncing on her hip. Faramond watched her go with an admiring smile. "A clever lass," he remarked, looking at Halfred, who grinned and nodded proudly. "I see that Frodo will be in good hands when we leave."

"Aye, that he will," assured Halfred with another nod. He looked at Frodo, worry reflected clearly in his brown eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, paused, and then looked around the room. "Where’s Hazel-lad?" he asked nervously. Then, without waiting for an answer, he said, "I’ll go find him. Just half a moment, an’ I’ll be back to help."

Faramond nodded and Halfred hurried out the door. He glanced down the hall, and finding no trace of his son, he headed towards the sitting room and kitchen, wondering where in the Shire Hazel would be, if not hovering closeby his ‘Uncle’ Frodo.

Halfred almost rushed past the sitting room door, but stopped abruptly as he caught site of two figures out of the corner of his eye. He found Gavin sitting on the floor with Hazel curled up against his side. The two were speaking softly together, and Hazel seemed distraught, no doubt fearful for Frodo, while Gavin was gently consoling him, with one large arm around the boy’s shoulders and stroking his curls.

To Halfred, the scene reminded him of himself, his older brother, Hamson, and little Sam, before they had all gone their own ways, when they would sit together in the Gamgees’ small den, huddled close to the warm hearth. Sometimes, they would talk about their day, and troubles that they had, asking advice of the elder brothers and giving it, as well; but sometimes, they didn’t say anything, each thinking their own thoughts but comforted by the solidity of their brothers around them, supporting them without words. Often, Hamfast would join them, adding to the boys his wise, strong presence and making them all feel safe and protected. Though he was outwardly gruff, the Gaffer enjoyed spending these private moments with his sons, showing the gentler, fatherly side that was rarely seen by anyone else.

Remembering those nights with fondness, Halfred decided not to intrude, grateful that Hazel had someone to comfort him and keep his mind off worrying. It was better that the boy be occupied while they tended to Frodo through the worst of it.

Just as he turned to go back to the guestroom, he saw Jessimine coming from the kitchen, expertly carrying a tray that held a steaming teapot and several wide-rimmed cups. She had returned Tansy to her crib, where the baby could be heard crying, frustrated at being left out of all the excitement.

"What’re you lookin’ at, Hal?" asked Jessimine softly, coming to stand beside him in the doorway of the sitting room. Seeing Gavin and Hazel together answered her question and she looked up at Halfred with a smile. "Better for ’im, that."

Halfred nodded. "Aye. I’d rather not ’ave him be there while Mr. Faramond’s tendin’ to Frodo. Not a place fit for young boys; I don’t want him to worry more’n he is right now."

The two began walking softly back down the hall. "He seems to like that lad’s company—Gavin, was his name?" said Jessimine. "That’s good. I’m glad he’s got a friend to take his mind off worryin’, like you said; even if he is a great deal older and a Big Person."

They entered the guestroom and found Faramond waiting for them. Jessimine set the tray of tea carefully down on the bedside table. "I’ve made a brew for ’is fever," she said. "Ginger, meadowsweet and a bit o’ sage."

Faramond nodded his approval, again smiling at the hobbit-lady. "Well done," he praised. "I see you are well-learned in herb-lore." He glanced at Frodo and his smile faded. "Now, if I may, Mistress Jessimine, I must use your kitchen and make a bit of an infusion, myself, of a few herbs I’ve collected from the Wilds, which I have found have many uses for the healing of wounds and preventing of infections."

"O’ course, sir," said Jessimine, again bobbing a quick curtsy as she blushed with pleasure at his praise. "Use whatever you wish. I’m afraid there aren’t any more teapots, but there’s a kettle hanging over the hearth that you can use. Once Mr. Frodo’s better, I’d dearly love to learn more ’bout these foreign herbs you use," she added with a smile.

"It would be my honor to teach you as much as I can about their properties," Faramond agreed, pleased to find someone who shared his interest in healing. "If there is enough left over, I will leave you some, as well, for your use."

"You’re very kind, sir," said Jessimine eagerly. "I’d like nothing better."

Faramond bowed, smiling at her as he left the room. And instantly, anxiety fell upon them again and Jessimine’s smile vanished. She looked over at the bed where Sam, only looking up occasionally throughout their exchange, continued to faithfully sponge his master’s hot face, tirelessly trying to bring down Frodo’s fever.

Jessimine went softly over to the bed and kissed the top of Sam’s curly head comfortingly. "Let me see him," she whispered, and obediently, though not without some reluctance, Sam moved back, folding the damp cloth over Frodo’s forehead. Jessimine stepped closer and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, taking Frodo’s hand that lay at his side atop the coverlet. She felt it carefully, gauging the temperature, and then removed the cloth across his forehead and leaned forward over Frodo as if to kiss him.

"What’re you doin’?" asked Halfred in confusion.

"I’m trying to see how high his fever is," Jessimine replied matter-of-factly, pausing to look up at her husband.

"But why not just use your hand?"

"Because the hands may be warm or cold," answered Jessimine promptly. "Nothing can feel a temperature as well as a mother’s lips. And I’ve been through many a fever with Hazel and Tansy, I’ll have you know. This is the way my mum taught me, and I’ve seen it proved to be the best way."

Halfred shrugged, knowing better than to argue with his wife in matters of healing. Jessimine pressed her lips to Frodo’s forehead, closing her eyes as she measured his temperature. She remained like that for a moment, and then straightened herself up, replacing the cloth.

"You’ve done a good job bringin’ his temperature down, Sam-lad," she said approvingly. "It’s still a sight too high for my liking, but I’d say all that’s needed to help that is the tea and Mr. Faramond’s infusion, an’ maybe a cool spongebath, as well." Seeing the tips of Sam’s ears turn red, she chuckled. "I’ll leave that task to you menfolk," she assured him, smiling. "That is, if Mr. Faramond approves. He knows far more about healing than me."

Halfred shook his head admiringly at his wife. "I don’t know what my old Gaffer’d say if he saw you bein’ so forward like that with Mr. Frodo," he said, half teasing.

Jessimine tossed her black hair back from her shoulders. "He’d say I was takin’ care of Mr. Frodo the best way I knew how," she retorted primly, sliding cautiously off the bed. "Your Gaffer is no fool, Hal—he knows when to trust a mother’s skill."

Halfred grinned fondly at her, stepping forward to put an arm around her small shoulders as Sam resumed his seat by Frodo’s bedside. "I guess I’ll have to follow his example, then," he said, "an’ trust a mother’s skill."

***

Sometime around midnight, Sam was awakened out of a light doze by movement and a soft cry beside him. He jerked his head up in surprise, wincing at the ache in his neck from sleeping in the hard wooden chair by Frodo’s bedside, with his head drooping down to his chest.

Another slight whimper brought his attention to Frodo, and he hurried to light a candle so he could see what was the matter. That done, he brought the candle over and placed it on the bedside table, and leaned forward to take Frodo’s hand.

"Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Your Sam’s here, don’t fret. What’s the matter?"

To his surprise and joy, Frodo’s eyes fluttered open, overly bright with fever but aware. He stared in confusion at the ceiling a moment before slowly turning his head to look at Sam, wincing at the movement. "S…Sam?" he murmured, barely audibly.

Sam started to place the back of his hand to Frodo’s forehead, but then remembering Jessimine’s advice, hesitantly he leaned forward and pressed his lips there instead, feeling awkward. But he found with relief that the cool sponging down they’d given him earlier had lowered the fever a good deal. "I’m here, Mr. Frodo," he assured his master, squeezing the pale hand. "Can I get you anythin’? Are you thirsty?"

Frodo nodded, too weak and dazed to speak, and Sam picked up a cup of what was left of the fever brew. It was cold now, but he knew Frodo wouldn’t care. "Here, Mr. Frodo," he said softly, "it’s some tea to bring your fever down. Let me help lift you up so’s you can drink it."

Sam carefully climbed up into the bed and maneuvered himself behind Frodo, lifting his master’s upper body with the utmost gentleness. "Here now, Mr. Frodo dear," he murmured comfortingly, as Frodo gave a low groan of pain at the movement. "There, just lie still while I help you drink. Slowly, now." He pressed the rim of the cup to Frodo’s lips and slowly poured a small bit of the tea into Frodo’s mouth. He waited as his master swallowed slowly, and then poured in some more.

After a few minutes, Frodo turned his head away and would drink no more, and Sam was satisfied that he had had enough for now. He set the cup back down on the bedside table but stayed where he was, propped up on many pillows with Frodo settled against him, dark curls resting beneath his chin.

"How’re you feelin’, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked quietly, unsure if his master was even awake.

"Numb still," Frodo whispered after a moment, shifting a little. "But my side is beginning to ache, and I’ve a dreadful headache." He sighed, going still again in Sam’s arms, too weary to add more.

"Well then, Mr. Frodo," Sam said as cheerfully as he could, "would you like me to give you a bit o’ medicine for your hurts?"

"Not yet, Sam," came the soft reply, Frodo’s voice trembling and barely above a whisper. "It’s not that bad yet. I’d like to stay awake for a while longer, if I can."

Sam smiled. "O’ course, Mr. Frodo," he answered, brushing back the tousled curls from his master’s forehead, "whatever you feel like. It’s nice to have you awake!"

"I’m glad you’re here, Sam," Frodo murmured back, and Sam thought he could sense him smiling a little. "I’m still not sure where I am or what’s happened."

"You’re back at Halfred’s house," Sam told him. "But I’ll tell you the rest when you’re a little better. It’s a long story, an’ no mistake."

"What time is it?"

"Near midnight, I’d guess. Mr. Faramond and Mr. Gavin went outside for a bit o’ rest. Everyone else is asleep, I think. We’ve all been dreadfully worried ’bout you, sir, an’ that’s a fact."

"I’ll try not to wake them, then. I’m sorry that they have gone to all this trouble." He sighed softly, flinching as the movement sent a sharp stab of pain into his side. "I always seem to find trouble on these trips, and always away from home so that I must burden my friends with worry and extra toil."

"Oh no, Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried softly, squeezing his master’s hand. "No one ever feels that you’re a burden at all! You can’t ’elp it if you get hurt out while we’re a-walkin’ far from home, and I daresay it can ’appen to anyone easily enough. Don’t you remember that time I twisted my ankle when we went on a trip to the Three Farthing Stone? You had to carry me all the way back home!"

Frodo smiled slightly at the memory. "And then I kept you at Bag End while Dr. Bolger tended to you," he said softly.

"My mum and dad were beside themselves when you insisted I stay there for the night!" Sam agreed, shaking his head at the memory, all the while smiling at the kindness of his master. "But you were so stubborn, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir, an’ there was naught they could do to change your mind."

"That was when Bilbo was in Frogmorton on business, wasn’t it?" Frodo’s voice, though still quiet and weak, showed his pleasure at remembering the incident and keeping his mind off the growing pain all over his body for a moment, at least. "Something about the Will, he said, and wouldn’t let me come."

"Aye, sir," Sam said, nodding. "An’ if I recall correctly, sir, you weren’t none too pleased at bein’ left behind." He heard what might have been a soft, breathy laugh from Frodo and his heart soared. "You were downright cross, beggin’ your pardon. Only time I’ve ever seen you cross, I think." He smiled at his own slight exaggeration, almost forgetting that his master was wounded and feverish as he recounted these memories.

"Oh, I’m sure I’ve been cross a great deal more than that," Frodo assured him with a wider smile, closing his eyes. "But I was especially upset that Bilbo had left… without me." He finished in a barely audible whisper, his smiled vanishing as he thought of that last time his much-loved uncle had gone off, again leaving Frodo behind.

"Now, Mr. Frodo," Sam said soothingly, his own enjoyment disappearing with his master’s sadness, "that doesn’t bear thinkin’ of. Mr. Bilbo wouldn’t want you to pine after him—an’ you may yet see him again, even, someday."

"Do you think so, Sam?" Frodo asked softly, feeling weary again as his pain continued to increase.

"O’ course, Mr. Frodo," Sam assured him, though privately he could not think that old Mr. Bilbo would ever be seen by any hobbit again. He did not believe the Hobbiton story that the queer old hobbit had gone off into the blue and died somewhere; but he did not believe that Mr. Bilbo was coming back, either. "Who knows? Maybe he’s at Rivendell with the Elves, an’ maybe you’ll go there someday. Surely you’ll see ’im again eventually, Mr. Frodo."

They were silent a moment, thinking of the greatly missed Bilbo, and then Sam shifted. "I’ll go get you a nice, cool cloth for your face, Mr. Frodo," he said, hoping he sounded cheery enough to cover up his worry at the heat he could feel coming from his master’s body. "Your fever’s up a bit."

"All right, Sam," Frodo murmured, barely coherently, allowing Sam to carefully wriggle out from behind him. But suddenly his eyes flew open as Sam began to gently ease him back down into the pillows, and he gave a half smothered cry of pain before biting his lips, hard, to keep back more.

"What’s the matter, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked, frightened by his master’s sudden turn.

Frodo clutched the blankets tightly and shut his eyes, unable to answer for a moment. "Quick, Sam," he finally forced through clenched teeth, "get me something to bite down on!"

Sam, feeling sick himself, quickly reached over to grab a dry cloth from the bedside table. Swallowing hard, he put it to his master’s lips, then slid the cloth into Frodo’s mouth as he opened it. He made sure it was far enough in before drawing back his hand.

Frodo bit down so hard on the cloth in his mouth that he felt his teeth would surely meet through the thick material. He collapsed back on the pillow, still clutching fistfuls of sheets as he writhed in anguish, the pain from his side suddenly almost unbearable.

Sam, speechless with fright by the sudden intensity of his master’s pain, could only helplessly sit beside him and try to comfort him. Tears running down his own face as he saw Frodo’s, he took one of his master’s hands in his, and Frodo gripped it almost painfully tight. Sam could think of no way to comfort him, only to sit beside him and wait until the fit had passed. But his heart flew into his throat and he nearly cried out, himself, when Frodo turned his face into the pillows to muffle a scream.

Terrified now, Sam held on to Frodo’s hand with the same strength his master did, stroking Frodo’s sweat-dampened curls and trying to console him as best he could, praying that it would be over soon.

Fortunately, it was. Just as suddenly as it had come, the fit passed, and Frodo went limp, completely spent. Sam felt his heart stop a moment as Frodo’s death-grip on his hand relaxed suddenly, and he saw his master’s eyes fell shut.

"Mr. Frodo?" he whispered tremblingly, carefully pulling out the cloth from his master’s mouth and setting it aside. He could see the marks in the material from Frodo’s teeth, and shuddered to think how much pain Frodo had been in to have been forced to bite down so hard.

Frodo moved his head slightly, his eyes sliding halfway open, with difficulty. They were unfocussed with fever and tear-filled, but they slowly turned towards Sam and struggled to see him clearly.

Sam gently stroked Frodo’s sweat-soaked cheek, finding that it was hot as ever. "I’ll go fetch Mr. Faramond," he whispered. "He’ll be able to give you somethin’ for your hurts."

Frodo stared at him hazily for a moment, then gave a faint nod and allowed his eyes to close again, too exhausted to keep them open any longer. Sam leaned forward and tenderly kissed his master’s damp forehead, brushing away the tears that slid down Frodo’s cheeks. "Just half a moment, Mr. Frodo," he promised, squeezing his master’s hand one last time before sliding carefully off the bed.

Sam hurried quietly to the door, pausing to glance once more at Frodo before shutting it softly behind him.

It was dark in the hall, for Sam in his haste and worry had forgotten to bring the candle, but he felt his way along the wall and went as quickly as he could without waking anyone. He found his way to the back door and quietly went outside; then took off at as fast a run as he could manage to find Faramond and Gavin, who were sleeping in the hayloft of the barn.

Sam dragged open the heavy doors and raced up the ladder to the loft, frightening away Tibs the cat, who meowed irritably at him before disappearing into the darkness. It was not difficult to see the large shapes of the Men, even without any light. Sam hurried to Faramond’s side and shook him by the shoulder.

"Mr. Faramond," he whispered loudly. "Wake up! Mr. Frodo needs you!"

Faramond had wakened and sat up before Sam had even finished saying "Wake up." He shook the hay out of his hair and looked down at the frantic hobbit. "What has happened?" he asked quickly.

"Mr. Frodo woke up and talked with me for a while," Sam told him, "an’ then his fever started goin’ up again. But when I started to lay ’im down to get a cloth for his face, he all of a sudden had a dreadful spell—I think ’is side was hurtin’ mostly. He made me put a cloth in his mouth to bite down on, not wantin’ to wake anyone up, you understand, an' he had to bite it so hard his teeth nearly went through it! It only lasted a few minutes, I think, but now he’s only barely awake and too spent to even keep his eyes open. Can’t you do something to ease him?"

"Patience, Sam," Faramond said calmly, putting a hand on the hobbit’s small shoulder. "I have plenty of herbs to help with the pain—but I must see Frodo first before I decide what is to be done." He sighed deeply, standing up and brushing the hay out of his clothes. "Just as I expected but hoped to prevent," he whispered to himself. "This is a grievous turn, indeed."

TBC...

~*~ denotes a dream

21. Wolf Bite

Faramond bit back a self-directed curse as he examined Frodo, mindful of Jessimine’s presence beside him. He undid the buttons of the small nightshirt (a borrowed one of Halfred’s), which went nearly all the way from wide collar to the hem, and pulled the fabric aside to look at the gravest wound. He had to bite his tongue to keep back another curse when he saw that several of the stitches had come loose and blood was just beginning to slowly well up from the bite again. He snatched a clean cloth from the bedside table and pressed it to the wound, eliciting a slight yelp of pain from Frodo.

The Ranger mumbled an apology and bent lower, looking more closely at the stitches. He carefully ran his fingertips along them, exploring the area around Frodo’s wound, which felt much hotter than the rest of him. Faramond’s frown of concern deepened as he got down on his knees by the bedside and bent so close to Frodo’s abdomen that his eyelashes brushed against it, causing the injured hobbit to flinch slightly. The Ranger absently placed his left hand on Frodo’s damp forehead, stroking back the thick curls in a soothing gesture, as he continued to search around the wound with his right.

Suddenly Faramond sprang to his feet, a look of alarm suddenly in his face. He glanced back down at Frodo, who, completely spent by his earlier "fit," had not moved scarcely at all throughout the Ranger’s examination. "Wolf bite," muttered Faramond under his breath, his grey eyes darkening as he laid his right hand lightly over the wound, causing Frodo’s whole body to quiver. The exhausted, tormented hobbit, his eyes wide open but unfocussed, stared up at the ceiling with fear showing clearly in their cerulean blue depths. His lips, white and cracked, trembled with the effort to bear his pain in silence.

"Mr. Faramond, sir?" said Jessimine softly, hesitantly laying a hand on the Man’s large arm.

Faramond jumped slightly; he’d forgotten that she was there, along with Halfred and faithful, frightened Samwise. "I… must speak to you, dear lady, and your husband," he said tentatively, "privately, I beg." He met Jessimine’s hazel eyes and flicked his own briefly to Sam. She understood.

"O’ course, sir," she said worriedly, looking at Halfred. "O’ course we can talk alone."

"This way, sir," said Halfred quickly, leading the way out the door. "Half a moment, please, Sam-lad," he added with a look at Sam, who nodded, his eyes locked suspiciously on Faramond as he resumed his place by Frodo’s bedside.

Halfred led them into the sitting room, far enough down the hall to be heard by no one. He and Jessimine sat together in the small sofa while Faramond, obviously distressed, paced in front of them. There was silence for a long while, broken only by the ticking of a wall-clock and Faramond’s boots padding softly back and forth.

"Won’t you sit down?" offered Halfred at last, unable to bear the silence any longer. "You're making me dizzy, pacin' like that."

Faramond stopped, smiled weakly and instead knelt in front of them, eye-level. He hesitated a moment, unsure of how to begin, but then closed his eyes briefly and drew a deep, calming breath. "Very well," he said, his voice quiet. "There are two things I must tell you, and I fear they are both grim tidings, but I shall begin with the lesser of them. I have found that a few of the stitches in Frodo’s side came loose in his earlier… bad spell, and I shall have to re-stitch them. I am quite sure, however, that once they are again securely in place, they shall give us no further trouble."

Faramond stopped, scanning Halfred and Jessimine’s faces to see their reactions. They looked worried, but not overly panicked or frightened. Obviously they trusted him entirely, and his heart ached with the fervent hope that their trust was not misplaced.

The Ranger drew another breath and continued. "The stitches do not concern me greatly," he said, still speaking quietly. "But now I come to the worst of my news. For I must tell you that Frodo has taken a grievous turn for the worst."

At this, Halfred and Jessimine held one another’s hands tightly and their faces blanched. Jessimine pulled her blue woolen shawl closer about her shoulders and pressed closer to her husband.

"It seems that an infection, from the bite," continued Faramond grimly, "has found its way inside his body, despite my thorough cleaning of the wound."

"So quickly?" Jessimine interrupted in frightened surprise. "How can an infection develop so quickly?"

Faramond looked at her, grief in his eyes. "This is a rare type," he said. "One not even the Elves have a name for. It is simply called ‘Wolf Bite,’ and aptly so." He ran a hand through his dark hair, finding that he was trembling. He spoke his next words with dread, hating to bring the two hobbits before him such bleak information. "At present, there is no cure, and no way to slow the infection from spreading—it can only be allowed to run its course."

Jessimine made a choked sound, one hand over her mouth as Halfred pulled her closer. Faramond leaned forward and touched their small shoulders hesitatingly. "I do not mean that there is no hope for Frodo. It is true, the infection is malevolent, and he will experience pain with it. But Wolf Bite is swift; it will be gone by tomorrow evening. If Frodo can battle it, he will begin a normal and unhindered recovery."

"If he can battle it, you say," Jessimine pointed out perceptively, her face white.

Faramond almost grimaced at her shrewdness. He licked his lips as he considered his reply, and it was a few moments before he spoke again, slowly, choosing his words with care. "Yes, I do say if. I trust that you both wish me to be straightforward with you, so I will not give you any false hopes. Wolf Bite is indeed sometimes a fatal infection—it is quite powerful, as I said." He paused for a moment to gage their reactions; both were still very pale, their eyes wide, but they were accepting his grim confession stoically. "However," he continued, "I do believe Frodo will pull through this—I have learned over the years that hobbits are never to be judged too hastily in matters of resilience. And once he has successfully resisted it, Wolf Bite will give him no further trouble."

He fell silent, waiting for the other two to speak. Jessimine and Halfred were staring at the floor, digesting this information quietly. Suddenly Faramond spoke again, his voice soft.

"Of course we must keep the knowledge of Wolf Bite’s potency from the children"—both hobbits looked up and nodded quickly—"but shall we conceal this from Samwise?"

Again, there was silence. Halfred chewed his lower lip as he thought about the question, then glanced at Jessimine and an unspoken agreement passed between them. "I think, sir," he said slowly, "that we should tell Sam at least about the infection itself. But I’m not sure that it would be best if he knew how… dangerous it can be, if you follow me. If I know Sam-lad, he’d worry himself sick if he knew—either that, or he’d just refuse to believe it. Either way," he sighed, "he wouldn’t be much help to Frodo."

Jessimine nodded her agreement, as did Faramond after a moment. "I agree," he said, rising. "I think that would be best."

It seemed to Sam, dutifully in his chair by Frodo’s bedside, that Faramond, Jessimine and Halfred were gone a long time. He wondered what they were talking so privately about, and felt a small spark of irritation that Faramond had not spoken to him, first, as it obviously concerned his master.

"But no," he muttered, speaking aloud in an effort to break the eerie stillness of the room, "even if he’d asked me, I wouldn’t be leavin’ Mr. Frodo."

Sam looked down with a sigh at his master; Frodo had not stirred at all, and seemed scarcely to even breathe. The shallow rising and falling of his chest was the only evidence of respiration at all.

Removing the cool, damp cloth he’d folded on his master’s hot forehead, Sam placed it back in the basin of water and left it there. There seemed little point to continuing to bathe Frodo’s face with it, as it did not make much difference save to cause him to shiver. Sam tucked the thick quilts closely around his master, making sure he was as warm as possible but at the same time wondering if he should do so, considering Frodo’s fever.

After thinking it over for a moment, Sam decided to keep Frodo warm until Jessimine returned, and see if she said otherwise. In the meantime, seeing that after a few minutes Frodo was still trembling, Sam, on impulse, carefully climbed up into the bed, sliding in beside his master so that he lay between him and the wall. He gently pulled Frodo’s injured body closer to him, trying to warm him as best he could by wrapping his arms around him and tucking the blankets closely about them both. Frodo moaned softly at the movement, but after a moment he settled and relaxed in Sam’s arms, closing his eyes.

"There now, Mr. Frodo," whispered Sam soothingly, "that feels better, doesn’t it? Your Sam’ll keep you warm ’til Jessi comes. That’s it, Mr. Frodo, nothin’ to worry about. I’m here… try to rest a bit, now… There you are, my dear." Thoughts of ‘overstepping his bounds’ far from his mind at the moment, Sam kissed his master on the forehead and smiled, resting his chin on Frodo’s soft curls, as he felt the shivers begin to lessen, and finally disappear altogether. Frodo’s breaths evened out, and he gave a small sigh of relief.

Silence again fell over the room, though it did not seem so eerie now. "That’s right, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered. "’Tis best that you’re asleep now. I reckon Mr. Faramond will be back soon enough and be pokin’ and proddin’ you awake again, but whatever rest you can get is a blessing."

Sam fell silent again, absently stroking Frodo’s dark curls. He was startled when suddenly his master’s voice broke the stillness, barely above a whisper. "Sam?"

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed softly, surprised that Frodo was still awake. "I’m here, master. What is it?"

Frodo’s voice dropped to barely coherent mumblings. "Sam, where is Hazel? He…isn’t safe…the wolf…it came back…" He trailed off, and Sam felt his heart sink. So the fever had gotten worse.

"Don’t you fret, Mr. Frodo," he said comfortingly. "Little Hazel’s fine, he’s sound asleep in his own room. That wolf won’t bother neither of you any more. It’s the fever, Mr. Frodo, troublin’ you. Rest now, my dear."

But Frodo was growing restless again, and struggled to untangle himself from Sam’s arms. Sam held him as gently as he could, trying to keep him from hurting himself. Frodo’s fever-bright eyes were wide open again, though they were unseeing, and it looked to Sam like their Elven-blue color was threaded with silver in the dim glow of the candle.

"Sam!" Frodo tried to cry, though his voice was still soft and weak. "Sam? Where is Hazel?"

Sam was growing more alarmed by the second as Frodo began to struggle in earnest, his whole body quivering again. "Hush, now, Mr. Frodo," he tried to console him. "There’s naught to worry about. Your Sam’s here, an’ I don’t plan on leavin’ any time soon. An’ Hazel’s safe as can be. It’s all right, Mr. Frodo…"

Tears now coursed down Frodo’s face and he resisted Sam’s strong arms as long as he could before what was left of his strength failed him and he went limp again. Sam gently pulled him close, hugging him to his chest.

Frodo was silent for a while, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded clearer. "Sam?"

"I’m here, Mr. Frodo."

"Sam…where is Bilbo?"

Sam’s heart clenched painfully at the words, and he swallowed hard. He could not think of a reply, and his silence made Frodo uneasy again. "Bilbo?" he called softly, his voice beginning to fill with panic. "Bilbo! Sam, where is he?"

"Shhh, Frodo," Sam whispered, finding his tongue once again and forgetting to use the ‘Mister’ in his worry. "Bilbo’s not here right now. But your Sam is takin’ care of you. I’m right here."

Frodo collapsed again in Sam’s arms, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. "Bilbo…" he whispered raggedly, burying his face in Sam’s shirt and soaking it with his tears.

Sam, tears flowing freely down his own face at Frodo’s anguish, held him close and murmured senseless words of comfort until his master fell asleep at last, worn out by his struggle and tears.

A few minutes later, Sam heard footsteps coming up the hall, and he quickly dried his tears on his sleeve. Kissing Frodo on the forehead again, he gently uncurled himself from around his master and settled Frodo back beneath the covers again. Then he slid carefully off the bed and returned to his chair, just as the door opened and Faramond, Jessimine and Halfred returned.

"Shhh," Sam warned as they entered, a finger to his lips. "He’s sleepin’."

The other three nodded, and were silent as they shut the door behind them. Jessimine pulled her soft blue shawl closer about her shoulders, shivering as if she were cold. Halfred gave her a brief, one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek before coming to stand beside Sam. The younger hobbit looked at his brother and sister-in-law shrewdly, noting that they looked pale and shaken.

‘Whatever Mr. Faramond told ’em, it wasn’t good news, that’s certain,’ he thought anxiously.

"He woke up a bit ago," Sam told Faramond softly, as the Man checked Frodo’s pulse and breathing. "But he was out o’ his head with the fever. He kept askin’ for Hazel an’ Mr. Bilbo."

Jessimine made a soft sound of pity and sorrow, and came over to stand beside Halfred and Sam as they watched Faramond’s silent examination. "The poor dear," murmured the hobbit-lady sadly. "Poor, sweet Mr. Frodo."

Faramond turned to look at them, meeting Halfred and Jessimine’s eyes for a moment before turning to Sam and kneeling before him so that he was eye-level. "Samwise," he said quietly, "I have unpleasant news about your master, so I will say it swiftly. He has an infection that is called ‘Wolf Bite.’ There is nothing I can do to stop it or slow it down; we must let it run its course. It will be gone by tomorrow evening, but I must tell you honestly that it is very painful—Frodo experienced the first bout of it earlier, and I fear that it has not yet reached its peak."

Sam blanched; the news was even worse than he’d expected. He drew a breath to reply, but Faramond interrupted. "I guess that we will have a few more hours before the infection begins to pain him again," he said, "and I must use that time to replace several of the stitches in his side, which came out earlier."

Sam swallowed and nodded his assent, and Faramond smiled slightly, patting his shoulder before turning back to the bed and checking on Frodo once more. His equipment had been laid out earlier on the bedside table, and Sam saw the thin needle’s sharp point glinting in the candlelight.

"I need your help, Samwise," Faramond whispered, motioning for Sam to come closer. When he had done so, his face white, the Ranger touched his small shoulder gently. "Please sit behind Frodo and support him, if you will."

Sam nodded, swallowing again and carefully climbing onto the bed. He slid behind his master, gently cradling Frodo’s head in his lap. Frodo did not stir, and Sam let out a soft breath of relief.

Faramond chewed his lower lip in thought, watching Frodo for a moment. Then he looked at Sam. "I cannot give Frodo anything to dull the pain," he said slowly, "for his body still needs to recover from the last large dose I gave him. Though I will be quick, the stitching will be painful… would you permit me to tie something around his mouth to muffle his cries?"

Sam’s eyes widened, but he set his jaw resolutely. "No sir," he said quietly. "I’ll just use my hand."

Faramond smiled, and nodded. "Very well, Master Samwise," he agreed. "I have no doubt that your presence will help to ease his pain."

Sam could not watch as Faramond threaded the needle, and he instead fixed his eyes on Frodo’s pale face. It was more Elf-like than ever in the soft, flickering glow of the candle, almost as if part of the light was coming from inside Frodo himself. Sam knew better than to dismiss such a notion, as he thought about the old tale of a Took taking a fairy for a wife. He wondered what a fairy was truly like—for not many of the stories told by Mr. Frodo and once not too long ago, by Mr. Bilbo, mentioned them. He felt sure that he knew what one looked like, gazing down at his master’s fair face. He decided that, when all was well again, he would ask Mr. Frodo about fairies—for surely there was nothing about old lore that he did not know, or could not find in one of Bilbo’s many books.

His attempt at distracting himself was interrupted when Faramond touched his arm and whispered, "I am going to begin now."

Sam looked up, bit his lip, and nodded. He turned his eyes back to his master’s face, and reluctantly he brought one hand up and pressed it gently but firmly over Frodo’s mouth. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out, himself, when the needle went in and Frodo stiffened beneath his fingers.

Fennel awoke with a start and a small shriek of fear. She had been dreaming, something about a wolf and a dark, endless forest. Her hazel eyes wide, she tried to calm herself as she realized that she was safe in her own bed, and the wolf and forest had been nothing more than a nightmare. She reminded herself that she was a big girl, and old and sensible enough not to be afraid of nightmares.

But all the same, she preferred to be brave with her mother there.

Fennel slipped out of bed, her too-big nightgown falling over her feet. She picked it up with one hand so that she didn’t trip, and softly padded toward the door, wincing at the cold wood on her bare feet. She opened the round door and headed down the hall toward her parents’ room, but then stopped as she saw a light glowing from under the door of the guestroom.

Curious, Fennel forgot her want of comfort and made for the guestroom. She heard soft voices inside, and wondered what her Uncle Sam and Frodo could be doing so late. Pressing her ear to the door for a moment, she heard a muffled scream, and her eyes widened. She opened the door soundlessly, and stepped inside the room, unnoticed.

Fennel froze as her round eyes took in the scene before her. Her mother and father were huddled close by the bedside, and an enormous Big Person was bending over her Uncle Frodo, who lay in the bed. Uncle Sam was behind him, tears running down his face as he kept one hand over Frodo’s mouth to muffle his cries of pain, and the other over Frodo’s eyes. Looking at the Man, Fennel’s mouth dropped open as she saw that he was sewing up Uncle Frodo’s side!

Terrified, Fennel burst into tears. Faramond, Jessimine, Halfred and Sam turned horrified eyes on her, and Jessimine gasped. Halfred quickly ran over to his nearly hysterical daughter and gathered her into his arms. The others watched in frozen disbelief as he shut the door behind him and Fennel’s wails faded as he carried her into his own room.

Her hand over her heart, Jessimine looked at Faramond, who had paused in his work when the child had begun to cry. The Man’s eyes were as wide as her own as he looked at the hobbit-lady for a moment before swallowing and returning to his work.

Frodo, now wide awake, had tried to stifle the screams of pain rising in his throat when Fennel had made herself known, and he did his best to continue bearing his pain in silence while Faramond finished up the stitching. Sam’s free hand had been placed over his eyes as soon as he’d awoken, and though he wished to see what Faramond was doing, he did not have the energy to fight against Sam. He took as deep a breath as he could, trying to calm himself and keep his mind off the pain. But he could not help but give a small cry when he felt a particularly sharp tug on the stitches. Then to his relief, the next moment, Sam’s hands over his eyes and mouth were removed, and Faramond was smiling kindly at him.

"I am finished, Frodo," he said softly, placing one large hand on Frodo’s cheek and stroking it gently with his fingertips. "You bore it well."

Frodo managed a weak smile and raised his eyes to meet Sam’s. Sam still looked ghastly white, and his face was streaked with tears, but he returned his master’s smile, shakily. "You should try to sleep again, Frodo," advised Faramond. "You need to keep up your strength."

"But Fennel?" whispered Frodo worriedly. "I’m sorry I woke her."

"Nonsense, Mr. Frodo," put in Jessimine, stepping closer and taking his hand. "You couldn’t help it—Heaven knows the noise I’d be making under such pain." She smiled at him. "She’ll likely go back to sleep soon enough, anyhow, and in the mornin’ she’ll think it was all just a nightmare."

Frodo did not look convinced, but he did not protest further. He sighed slightly, wincing at the pain in his side, and gave a small nod. Jessimine laughed softly and kissed his hand. "For savin’ our Hazel, you can be sure we’ll do our very best to help you get well," she said sincerely. "’Tis the least we can do." Without giving him a chance to reply, she looked at Faramond. "I’ll go check on Fennel-lass now."

Faramond nodded, smiling, and with a last squeeze of Frodo’s hand, Jessimine left the room quietly. "Now, Frodo," said Faramond, still smiling, "I fear I must order you to get what rest you can while I go prepare a compress. Samwise, will you see that he obeys?"

"Yes sir," responded Sam automatically, still shaken.

Frodo was too tired to argue, although he did succeed in giving Faramond what was almost an exasperated look, and then obediently he closed his eyes. Faramond placed one hand on his small forehead, closing his own eyes and bowing his head for a moment. Then he smiled, looked up at Sam, and left.

Sam did not move from his position with his master’s head in his lap, and Frodo had no objections; he was as comfortable as the circumstances allowed, and it was not long before he was able to sleep again.

~*~

Frodo woke with a start and a small cry to the loud crack of thunder. It seemed to shake the ground; he could hear the shutters rattling against the round windowpanes above his bed. Lightning flickered, illuminating his small room with a sudden, vivid flash. Of all the rooms in Bag End, he’d chosen this one for his own that morning when he’d come here to live, for good, with his dear Uncle Bilbo. It had always been his favorite room, for it faced the gardens outside and offered a perfect view of the sunset in the evenings.

Now, Frodo could see the shadow of flowers in the box on the outside windowsill, shaking and bending in the wind. It howled outside like a wolf, sending shivers up Frodo’s spine. Though he was a tweenager, and really too old for it, he thought, he was still frightened of thunderstorms. Ever since he was a child, the rolling thunder and bright lightning had always frightened him, and his mother would have come into his room and carried him back into his parents’ room, letting him sleep in their large, comfortable bed. There, curled warmly between them, comforted by their presence and their loving arms around him, he would forget the storm raging outside, and sleep without fear.

Tears sprang to Frodo’s eyes and slid down his cheeks. His parents were gone, now, and not here to comfort him. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his nightshirt and bit his lip. He had Bilbo now, of course, but what would his uncle think of him if he woke him up in the middle of the night, like a child, frightened by a simple storm? He could not do that. He would have to take care of himself.

Another sharp crack of thunder brought a small, involuntary yelp from Frodo, and despite his resolution to take care of himself he wished Bilbo would come and comfort him. He pulled the blankets up to his chin, trying to stop his trembling. He shut his eyes tightly, covering his ears with his hands to try to drown out the sound of the storm outside.

Another lightning flash lit up his room, and all Frodo could see was bright yellow for a moment behind his closed eyelids. Thunder rolled overhead, almost deafening him. He set his teeth and forced himself to remain where he was, and not go running into Bilbo’s room like a child.

‘It’s only a storm…’ he repeated to himself. ‘It’s only a storm…it will pass…’

Frodo’s eyes flew open and he barely kept back a cry of alarm as he felt a gentle hand on his cheek and heard a kind voice say, "Frodo, my lad, are you awake?"

Bilbo! Frodo could hardly believe that his uncle was there, kneeling by his bedside, stroking his cheek with the backs of his fingers. Seeing him staring, wide-eyed, Bilbo smiled. "I see that you are. Bothered by the storm?"

The question was not asked condescendingly, and Frodo decided to answer honestly. "Yes, uncle," he whispered, sure that Bilbo would think him childish.

Bilbo smiled again, a bit nervously. "I am, too," he confessed, giving a small chuckle at Frodo’s look of astonishment. "To tell you the truth, Frodo-lad, storms have always frightened me. One of the drawbacks of being a bachelor, I suppose, is that I have always felt rather lonesome when the storms come." He paused, looking at Frodo thoughtfully for a moment. "I don’t suppose you would mind a bit of company, Frodo?"

Blinking, Frodo smiled and shook his head. Bilbo grinned at him gratefully. "Then what do you say we head back into my room? I daresay my bed is more comfortable for two."

Frodo’s smile widened. "I’d like that very much, uncle," he said, a bit shyly. He hesitated a moment, then added, "I wouldn’t have thought you would be afraid of storms, uncle, after your adventure with Gandalf and the dwarves."

Bilbo laughed. "If you want to know, the storms were the most frightening part of the whole journey for me," he admitted. Frodo giggled, thinking of all the terrifying creatures Bilbo had met—trolls, giant spiders, goblins and Wargs!—which made a thunderstorm seem trivial in comparison. Bilbo pinched Frodo’s cheek teasingly. "But that little secret is to go no further, do you hear?" he said, feigning severity.

Frodo giggled again and nodded. He opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden crack of thunder silenced him, and both he and Bilbo involuntarily jumped, their eyes wide. Bilbo managed a small smile. "Well, let’s get into my bed now, Frodo-lad, before this storm gets any worse."

Bilbo stood up, and Frodo pushed back the covers and slid out of bed. He was grateful when Bilbo took his hand, and led the way down the hall. They had no need of a candle, for the flashes of lightning illuminated their way. Bilbo’s room was about halfway down the hall, its windows facing west like Frodo’s.

Keeping close, Bilbo and Frodo entered the large, comfortable room, and made their way to the bed. Bilbo let go of Frodo’s hand to pull back the thick blankets, and then he picked the lad up and settled him in the bed. He climbed up beside him and they nestled down warmly together, tucking the blankets snugly around themselves.

Frodo sighed, his shivers of fear and the fear itself all but gone. Bilbo wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, and Frodo curled up tightly against his uncle, delighting in the feeling of being loved and taken care of again.

They were both silent for a long while, relaxed now and drawing comfort from being together. At last, Frodo shifted a bit to look up at Bilbo. "Uncle?" he said softly.

Bilbo stirred. "Hmm?"

Frodo hesitated a moment, wondering how to put his gratitude into words. "I…I’m very happy to come and live with you, uncle," he began timidly. "And I won’t ever do anything to make you sorry that you adopted me, I promise…" He trailed off as Bilbo shifted and moved backwards a bit to hold him at arm’s length.

"Frodo," said the old hobbit, his face illuminated by a flash of lightning, "nothing you could ever do will make me sorry that I adopted you. Ever. I love you, and I want you to be happy. That is why I adopted you, so that I could take care of you." He stopped, looking deeply into Frodo’s eyes, his own shining. "You are more important to me than anyone in Middle-Earth, Frodo, I want you to know that. And I will never stop loving you."

Frodo felt happier than he had ever felt before, even more than when Bilbo had announced his plan of adoption, and even more than their shared birthday party when it had become official. Smiling gratefully through his tears, he could do nothing more than gaze adoringly at his uncle, hoping that Bilbo understood. He did.

"Oh, Frodo," he whispered, pulling him close again and kissing his curls, "I am the one who is grateful to you, for coming to live with a grouchy old bachelor who spends all his time with his nose in a book."

Frodo raised his head, tears shining on his cheeks. "You’re not grouchy, uncle," he said with a smile.

Bilbo laughed and gave one of Frodo’s dark ringlets a teasing tug. "You haven’t lived with me long enough yet to have experienced my temper," he said, grinning. "I can be fierce enough to make an orc pause for thought, when I’ve a mind. Even Gandalf’s afraid of my temper."

Frodo giggled, imagining the powerful but friendly wizard being afraid of anything. He’d met Gandalf only a few times, but he remembered the wizard to be very kind—and very impressive, if one did not know him well.

Bilbo sighed, and Frodo looked up at him, curious at his sudden change of manner. His uncle was looking at him fondly. "Who knows, Frodo-lad," he said softly, "perhaps you can soften this old hobbit a bit."

Frodo smiled at him without saying anything, and just like that, they ended the conversation, and settled back under the blankets, Frodo again nestled closely against Bilbo with his uncle’s arms tightly around him.

The storm was far away now, and only distant rumbles could be heard. Crickets began to chirp outside the window, and somewhere nearby, a nightingale sang sweetly. Frodo, resting in his uncle’s loving arms, felt a peace and security he had not felt since he was twelve. He smiled, his face buried in Bilbo’s nightshirt, listening to the comforting rhythm of his uncle’s heartbeat. Just before he fell asleep, he felt fingers stroking back his thick curls from his forehead, and then the light pressure of another gentle kiss, and Bilbo whispering, "Good night, my dear Frodo."

TBC...

I know, I know, that dream was full of really gratuitous fluff—well, the whole chapter was, actually. But… but I’ve been missing my Frodo-Bilbo scenes, and I needed a break from all the angst! :-P  

22. Fire and Ice

"Fever… rising… soon… another…"

Frodo was pulled out of the painless oblivion in which he had been drifting by the sound of voices murmuring above him. He struggled to clear his strangely hazy mind and remember what had happened the last few hours, feeling a vague fear at the difficulty he had in organizing his thoughts. But he realized that sunlight was streaming onto his face, warming it pleasantly, and slowly he deduced that several hours had past since the last time he had been awake—though what had happened then was a blur of pain and fever. All he could remember was waking up to find himself resting in Sam’s gentle arms, his head cradled in Sam’s lap. After that, all was one long feverish nightmare, filled with searing pain and terror.

Frodo shuddered slightly, not wishing to dwell on those memories. He dragged his mind back to before his last awakening, and sought to discover how much he remembered of the night before. He was annoyed to find his normally quick mind so slow and muddled.

But at last another memory was stirred up, of the peaceful moments before he had fallen asleep—the last time? Or was it before? There had been a storm, hadn’t there, and Bilbo had come into his room and comforted him. But what was Sam doing there?

Frodo struggled to piece together his thoughts and come up with an answer, but all he could produce for his efforts were vague images of a wolf, and a Man, and little Hazel running through a dark forest…

Frodo was on the verge of fully remembering the events of the past night, but a sudden, sharp pain in his side interrupted his thoughts. Abruptly the sun seemed far too hot on his face, and beads of sweat began to form at his temples. He tried to lie as still as possible, hoping that the pain would go away, but instead it grew worse.

Everything began to drift into a confused blur; at the back of Frodo’s mind was the vague realization that his fever was rapidly rising and that he was becoming delirious, but that was soon forgotten as a thick fog seemed to envelop his mind, shrouding his thoughts. The only clear thought that still survived was of Bilbo’s gentle face, and he clung to it desperately, as the fever rose and the rest of his mind became a distorted haze.

A slight shifting from the previously motionless form in the small bed interrupted the soft conversation between Faramond and Gavin. They turned quickly to see Frodo moving restlessly, a feverish flush growing on his ashen cheeks. The two Men noiselessly knelt down at his bedside, and Faramond cupped Frodo’s small face in both hands, frowning at the rising temperature he felt.

"It is starting again," said Gavin—quietly, so as not to wake the exhausted Sam who slept in a chair by the bed. It was not a question.

"Yes." Faramond sighed deeply, running a hand worriedly through his black hair. "And, like as not, worse than the last bout." He glanced out the round window through which the afternoon sun streamed brightly through, illuminating the small room with a soft yellow glow.

"Close the curtains, please, Gavin," said Faramond wearily, turning back to Frodo and gently stroking back the now sweat-dampened curls from the small forehead. "The sun will only cause him more discomfort."

Gavin wordlessly obeyed, and soon the white window-curtains shut out most of the sun’s brightness, allowing only a dim, harmless light through.

"How many more bouts of this can Frodo bear?" asked Gavin softly, returning to kneel beside Faramond. "He has already had three that I have witnessed—soon to be five, counting all—and each worse than the last—" He was going to say more, but a gesture from Faramond silenced him.

The older Ranger bent closer over Frodo, looking intently at the small, thin face. "He said something," he whispered in explanation. "Or tried to. I am sure of it." Hardly had he spoken when Frodo’s cracked lips did indeed move, soundlessly forming a single word.

A slight look of weary irritation grew on Frodo’s face as he swallowed and tried again to form the word. This time, he almost succeeded—a whisper that was no more than an exhaled breath. But it was coherent enough for Faramond to understand it, and the Ranger's face filled with pity.

"Bilbo…"

"What did he say?" asked Gavin, leaning closer to hear.

Faramond glanced at the young Ranger. "He is trying to call for Bilbo, his kinsman, who, from what I understand, adopted him after his parents’ death." He lowered his head, biting his lip with worry and frustration. "I had hoped the fever, at least, would abate by now." He sighed. "Gavin, please go refill the basin of water and fetch a fresh cloth from the dresser over there."

Gavin quietly rose to do as he was asked, and Faramond sat on the edge of the small bed, careful not to disturb either hobbit. His hands still cupped Frodo’s face, which was now drenched with sweat and burning hot to the touch.

Faramond stroked the droplets from Frodo’s eyes, and then bent closer to examine the injury in the hobbit’s side again. The nightshirt was unbuttoned, so he had only to pull back the coverlet and the fabric of the shirt to see the wound clearly. Running his fingers lightly over the stitches, he found without surprise that the area was even hotter than the rest of Frodo’s body, and had a slightly red, irritated look. It was to be expected, he knew, and nothing to be overly concerned about. At least the stitches showed no sign of coming loose again. He sighed once more and covered the wound back up with the nightshirt, but left the coverlet back; Frodo needed to remain as cool as possible, with his fever rising.

Frodo was stirring more and more beneath Faramond’s hands as they examined the injury and then returned to his face, soothingly brushing the sweat-soaked ringlets back from where they had plastered themselves to his flushed cheeks and forehead. Abruptly, Frodo cried out softly, trying to turn over on his side and double up, and then stopping instantly as the movement sent searing pain through his body. Faramond could see him shuddering weakly with each wave of agony.

"Oh, Bilbo," Frodo groaned hoarsely, finally able to speak, "not again."

Faramond sighed, wishing fervently that there was something he could do to ease Frodo’s pain and bring down his fever. But he knew that there was not; for now, all he could do was to watch and wait, and comfort Frodo as much as possible.

"Frodo," he whispered, bending closer so that his lips almost brushed against the leaf-shaped ear, "it is I, Faramond. Bilbo is not here right now, but I am—right here beside you, and so is Samwise. You need not fear; this will not last long, and then we can give you something to drink and you can rest once more."

Frodo evidently heard what he said, or at least part of it, for he swallowed and gave a small, slow nod. The next moment he turned his face into the pillow, his whole weary body stiffening as he fought to bear his pain in silence. As the pain steadily worsened, he doubled up as best he could despite the agony it caused him, still keeping his face buried in the pillow to smother the cries that he could no longer keep back.

Faramond could do little but whisper reassurances, though he doubted Frodo could hear him now, and try to comfort him while the fit lasted. The previous two had not lasted more than a few minutes, and though each was worse than the one before, the duration of the bout remained nearly the same.

Gavin stood nearby, having silently placed the cloth and basin on the bedside table. He was unsure of what to do now, and it seemed that Faramond sensed it; for the older Ranger turned briefly to look at him and give a little shake of his head, conveying with his expression that there was nothing to be done.

Sam started awake as Frodo’s half-smothered cries of pain grew louder, and after blinking confusedly a few times, he sprang up and rushed to Frodo’s side. Without a word, he instinctively climbed up into the bed, and sitting himself against Frodo’s back, he bent over his master and took one of his hands in his own. Frodo gripped his hand so tightly it was painful, and Sam, softly murmuring words of comfort, soothingly stroked his master’s sweat-soaked face and hair. It was obvious that Frodo sensed a familiar presence, for he relaxed slightly, but he was in too much pain to recognize exactly who it was.

It was nearly two hours later, mid-afternoon, when Frodo began to show signs of waking after the last bout of fever. Faramond had stumbled off for a much-needed rest with the promise of returning later with a pain-relieving tonic for Frodo; he had thought it best to wait until he was sure that Frodo’s system had recovered from the large dosage he had been given the night before. Gavin had decided to stay and keep watch over Frodo along with Sam, adding that he would go to fetch Faramond if Frodo worsened.

Frodo had just begun to stir when the door opened quietly, and a small hobbit-lad entered, shutting the door soundlessly behind him.

"Hazel!" Gavin exclaimed softly. "I thought you were resting."

"Hazel-lad," Sam added, "you should be in bed. You had such a time of it yesterday…" He trailed off, knowing that it was useless arguing - the expression of white determination on Hazel's face was all too familiar.

Hazel crossed the room to stand next to Gavin. "I’m not tired anymore, Uncle," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I couldn’t stay in bed one minute more without knowing how Uncle Frodo was fairin’."

Sam sighed. "He’s just startin’ to wake up," he said. "But if he doesn’t do it soon I reckon I’ll have to wake him up myself. He needs to drink somethin’, with that fever of his."

Hazel walked over to the bed and climbed up to sit on the other side of Frodo. He looked closely at Frodo’s face, noticing that though it was deathly pale, his cheeks were still flushed. What that meant he wasn’t sure, but on feeling his uncle’s face with one small hand, he recognized the signs of a fever—a high one, at that. He frowned and touched the scratches on Frodo’s cheek, finding that they were healing quickly. That was one piece of good news, at least.

Gavin stepped closer to the bed and touched Hazel’s arm. "Come, Hazel," he said softly. "Come sit with me over here. There is nothing we can do until he wakes up."

Hazel sighed and reluctantly allowed Gavin to pick him up and place him in his lap as the Man settled against the wall close to the bed. Though he would not admit it, the boy was still dreadfully shaken and frightened over Frodo’s state, and he took comfort in the Man’s sturdy presence.

Frodo was slow in waking, and he seemed almost completely exhausted; he opened his eyes for a moment, but then with a wince he shut them again to go back to sleep. Within a moment, his breathing had deepened, evening out again.

Sam bent down closer to his master, taking both of Frodo’s hands in his and rubbing them lightly. "No you don’t, Mr. Frodo," he said softly. "You can’t go back to sleep yet—you’ve got to drink something first. Wake up, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo frowned as Sam’s voice called him back to wakefulness, and turned his face into the pillow. Despite his worry, Sam couldn’t help but chuckle a bit as he remembered that his master was more obstinate than all of the Gamgees put together, when he had a mind to be. "Now, now, Mr. Frodo," he chided, "you must wake up. I know you’re tired, but just drink a bit an’ then you can go back to sleep. Please, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo gave a heavy sigh and reluctantly forced himself awake. He started to turn over on his side but a sharp, stabbing pain there stopped him. He groaned softly in as much frustration as pain and abandoned the attempt, resigning himself to his current position on his back.

Seeing that the movement had caused Frodo pain, Sam was instantly all gentle concern. "Don’t try to move, Mr. Frodo," he warned needlessly. "Just lie still for a moment. There. Are you all right now, Mr. Frodo?"

"Sam." Frodo’s lips were dry and cracked, and it obviously hurt to speak, but Sam heard the reassurance that was put into that one word—as well as the hint of irritation at being forced to wake up—and he could not suppress a relieved grin. He let go of one of Frodo’s hands to reach over to the bedside table and dip a cloth into the small basin of water, and then he ran it gently over his master’s lips.

"Don’t tire yourself too much, sir," said Sam softly, cutting off Frodo’s attempt at thanking him. "I’ve got a cup of some nice, cold water for you here, if you like." He watched his master’s face hopefully. To his relief, the thick lashes begin to flutter and then Frodo’s bright eyes opened, halfway at first; but after closing briefly, they opened again, fully. Suddenly it seemed to Sam that it had been a long, long time since he’d last seen them.

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo whispered, smiling gratefully. "I’m dreadfully thirsty."

Sam’s own grin broadened; his master’s smile, however wan, seemed to brighten the room immediately. "I expect you would be, Mr. Frodo, what with your fever," he said cheerfully, placing the cloth back into the basin and reaching for the cup filled with water.

Hazel suddenly climbed up carefully but quickly onto the bed; Sam had completely forgotten anyone else’s presence in the room. "May I help you drink, Uncle Frodo?" the boy asked hopefully. He turned to Sam without waiting for a reply, seeing that it was he who would answer. "Oh, please say yes, Uncle Sam! I want to help!"

Sam glanced at Frodo, who was smiling again, and ruffled Hazel’s brown curls. "O’ course, Hazel-lad," he said. "I’ll sit behind him and you hold the cup. Don’t give him too much at a time now, mind," he added unnecessarily, as he carefully slid behind Frodo, lifting his master’s shoulders gently and supporting him against his chest.

"I’ll be careful, Uncle Sam," Hazel promised seriously, taking the cup. He hesitated a moment, abashed at the notion of tending to his adult "uncle" like a child. Frodo saw his expression and managed a weak laugh.

"Don’t look so timid, Hazel," he teased. His voice was hoarse and quiet, but cheerful nonetheless. "I’m the one who has to eat and drink this way, remember. But there isn’t anything I can do about it at the moment," he added fatalistically, with a sigh; "I can hardly lift my arms at all, let alone hold a cup without spilling. It’s certainly a nuisance, but nothing for you to feel so awkward about."

Hazel grinned at him, his confidence restored, but his relief faded when he saw Frodo close his eyes, exhausted from the simple act of reassuring him. The boy pursed his lips and glanced up at Sam, who nodded for him to continue.

Carefully, Hazel touched the rim of the cup to Frodo’s lips, and when they parted obediently he poured a small amount of water into his mouth, slowly so that his uncle did not choke. His discomfort was forgotten as he helped Frodo take cautious sips of the water until Frodo turned his face away, unable to drink any more. Hazel showed Sam the half-empty cup and his uncle nodded his approval.

"No more for the moment, Hazel," Frodo murmured wearily, opening his eyes again. "Thank you. You were getting quite good at that." He grinned weakly.

Hazel giggled slightly while Sam carefully maneuvered out from behind Frodo, gently settling his master back against the pillows. "How’re you feelin’, Mr. Frodo?" he asked, taking Frodo’s hand. He frowned, puzzled, upon feeling its temperature. "You seem a bit cool, though it don’t make sense with that fever o’ yours."

Frodo sighed tiredly and forced a wan smile. "I am a bit cold, actually, Sam—I haven’t felt warm since last night; other than that, though, not so bad as before, I think. The water helped a good deal. But I still feel horribly worn out, even with all the sleep I’ve had. It’s beginning to become frustrating now," he added ruefully. "I’d like to stay awake for more than ten minutes at a time!"

Sam smiled sympathetically and patted his master’s hand. "Well, you still have a fair bit of recoverin’ to do, Mr. Frodo," he said, "and you’ll never get better if you don’t sleep." Frodo sighed, not cheered, and Sam chuckled. "But half a minute, master," he added. "I’ll make a bit o’ tea for you to drink later, if you’ve a mind. It’ll warm you up right proper. And maybe it’ll help keep you awake longer, too."

"Thank you, Sam," murmured Frodo with a more genuine smile, closing his eyes. "That might do the trick. I hope something will keep me awake—I already feel like falling asleep again!"

"I’ll take care of Uncle Frodo," Hazel promised sincerely. Frodo opened one eye and his smile broadened in amusement and Sam chuckled a bit.

"I’ve no doubt you will, Hazel-lad," agreed Sam, sliding carefully off the bed. "I won’t be more’n a few minutes. Try to get some more rest, Mr. Frodo, so you’ll be able to finish the tea when you wake up," he added with a glance at his master. "The more sleep you get, the faster you’ll recover!"

Another martyred sigh from Frodo was the response to this cheerful reminder, and grinning, Sam quietly shut the door behind him.

Hazel scooted closer to Frodo and took his hand in both his small ones. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Gavin, unnoticed by everyone until now, appeared at the bedside. Frodo opened his eyes to blink in surprise at the unfamiliar Man.

"You must be Faramond’s companion," he said, smiling with pleasure that he was able to remember and think clearly again. "I’m sorry, I don’t think I learned your name."

"Gavin Rushlight, at your service," Gavin introduced himself politely, nodding—as he was already bent over because of the low ceilings and did not have room to bow.

"Rushlight?" Frodo’s eyes brightened with curiosity and he woke up a bit more. "That is Faramond's surname as well, is it not? You are kinsmen, then?"

Gavin blinked, as though puzzled by the question, and then smiled suddenly. "No, not kinsmen. Faramond stayed with my family earlier this year and when we left together he took on the name Rushlight so that we might pass as brothers and thus receive fewer questions. Rangers are a rather secret group," he explained for Hazel's benefit. "That is, many people know of us, but very little about us, and we try to keep it so."

"Why is that?" Hazel asked curiously.

Gavin obligingly went into several more minutes of explanation, and once Hazel was satisfied there was a brief pause. Then Frodo remembered something.

"Rushlight is a northern name, is it not?" he asked. At Gavin's nod, he added, "You must be from Bree, then?"

"I am indeed," replied Gavin with a smile. "But I did not know that you were familiar with my home. Have you been there?"

"No, unfortunately. But my uncle, Bilbo, visited Bree several times and I learned a great deal about it from him. I do hope to see it someday—it sounds like a very interesting place."

Interesting was probably a very apt word, Gavin thought wryly, remembering the crowded, dirty streets, the noise, the tall houses packed closely together along the cobblestone roads. But there were good, beautiful, fascinating things in Bree, as well. "It certainly is," he said aloud. "There are festivals, traveling minstrels, mapmakers, the town square with all its shops and wares, and several book-sellers—do you enjoy reading?"  

Frodo nearly sat up straight, his eyes widening in excitement at the mention of books. "Very much!" he said, the dull pain in his side stopping him from getting too enthusiastic. "For as long as I can remember I’ve loved to read. Books are…" he paused, and after considering for a moment, decided that there was no way to put into words what books meant to him. "Do you like to read?" he asked instead.

Gavin could not help but smile at the suppressed eagerness he saw in Frodo’s blue eyes, but he shook his head. "I regret that I have never been able to find much time for reading—although when I do, I greatly enjoy books, as well. Not many in Bree appreciate such pastimes, nor can many read at all, but my parents always encouraged my brother and I to read."

Frodo smiled again, but closed his eyes for a moment as weariness began to set in again. "I can relate," he said, dragging his eyes back open. "Not many hobbits have the interest—or ability—to read, I’m afraid. It’s a pity though…" He sighed, and then turned to look at Hazel, sitting silent beside him. "What about you, Hazel-lad?" he asked. "You’re nearly old enough to be learning your letters."

Hazel blinked. "Well, Uncle," he said slowly, "my da doesn’t… doesn’t quite know his letters."

"Oh, yes, I remember. But I’m sure that Sam would enjoy teaching you, or if your parents could ever spare you for a visit to Bag End, I should like nothing better, myself."

Hazel’s eyes lit up at the thought of being able to enjoy books as his uncle and Gavin talked about, and wondered briefly why not many hobbits could read, since books seemed to be such wonderful things.

Gavin spoke up. "I shall most likely be leaving tomorrow," he said, "but until I do, I would be pleased to teach you what I can."

Hazel all but clapped his hands in excitement. "Oh, yes!" he cried. "I’d surely love it, Mr. Gavin! When can we start?"

"As soon as Faramond and Sam return, I think," said Gavin with a smile, pleased to have thought up so enjoyable a distraction for Hazel. "And we shall have to ask your father’s permission, of course."

"He’ll say yes," Hazel said confidently. "I know he will."

A silence came over the room as each fell into their own thoughts. Then, Gavin broke it. "I think, Frodo, since you are awake, I shall fetch Faramond," he said. "He has a pain reliever for you."

Frodo winced at the thought of drinking more of Faramond’s pain-relieving but also sleep-inducing herbs, but it would be a relief to have the horrible agony lessened, however little, during the next bout. He shivered involuntarily at the thought.

"That’s probably a good idea," he said tiredly, letting his eyes fall shut; "I feel about to go to sleep right now."

Gavin smiled sympathetically. "Then I shall hurry. Hazel," he added, "you must keep Frodo awake until Faramond returns. Can you do that?"

"Yes sir," Hazel replied cheerfully.

Gavin smiled again and walked to the door. Just as his hand touched the knob, however, it turned, and the door was pushed open—nearly hitting Gavin in the face. Faramond entered, holding a small cup of dark, earthy-smelling liquid.

"Oh, did I hit you, Gavin?" he said, shutting the door behind him. "Forgive me, I did not see you."

"Er, that's all right," Gavin replied, blinking in surprise. "I was just going out to fetch you."

"Were you? Has Frodo worsened?"

"No, I have not," Frodo answered, opening his eyes. "But I’m about to fall asleep again, and Gavin decided that it was easiest to give me whatever dreadful brew you’ve been concocting while I am awake."

Faramond laughed, walking over to the bedside and sitting carefully on the edge of it. "Well, you seem to be feeling better," he said, laying one hand on Frodo’s small forehead and feeling the temperature. He frowned suddenly. "Frodo, your fever is still present, but"—he slid his hand down to touch Frodo’s cheek, and then his neck and chest—"the rest of you feels chilled. Are you cold?"

Frodo nodded after a moment’s hesitation. "Actually, I can’t remember feeling warm except during and after those… spells." He paused, puzzled. "But I do feel colder than before, yes."

Faramond frowned. "So soon?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. He shook his head and raised his voice. "I will see what I can do to keep you warm. But first," he held up the cup, "I have brought you this. It will ease your pain."

Frodo made a face, but did not protest. Faramond was surprised and concerned at the lack of resistance, and paused for a moment. "It will also send you to sleep," he added, looking for a spark of Frodo’s usual obstinacy. "And I fear I cannot sweeten it for you."

"I know," Frodo sighed resignedly, "which is why I would like to get it over with. I’m not going to argue with you, if that’s what you’re waiting for. I’d rather be asleep and numb than awake and… otherwise." He swallowed and looked with another grimace at the cup in Faramond’s hand. "But are you sure you can’t sweeten it a little?"

Faramond laughed, relieved to find that Frodo was not going to be completely passive. "I am sorry, Frodo," he said, shaking his head. "But I fear I cannot. I will be quick, though, and Sam is coming shortly with some tea for you." He turned to Gavin. "Will you help me, please? Prop him up for me." He laughed at the look of irritation on Frodo’s face at being unable to sit up by his own strength, but the hobbit did not protest further.

Gavin felt awkward and unsure as he sat on the edge of the bed and carefully lifted Frodo’s shoulders up, settling him against his chest. He looked up at Faramond for a sign of approval and was rewarded with a smile and a nod.

Once Frodo had finished the tonic, one slow, bitter mouthful at a time, Faramond settled him back against the pillows and felt his forehead. "Your fever is rising again," he said with a sigh. "It seems that this tonic came none to soon." He gave a small smile of reassurance as he felt Frodo give a slight shiver. "Do not fear, Frodo. If this next bout will just wait a bit, the pain reliever will take effect."

Frodo nodded, but his face paled. Faramond pressed his hand briefly and then got to his feet. "I will go speak to Jessimine," he said, "and send Samwise in with the tea."

Suddenly Hazel, who had withdrawn unnoticed when Faramond entered, came forward and tugged on Faramond’s sleeve. "What about me, sir?" he asked. "What can I do?"

Faramond smiled and bent down to the child’s height. "I will need you to keep Frodo as warm as you can and make sure he doesn’t fall asleep until he has had some of Sam’s tea." He put his hand on Hazel’s small shoulder and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And try to keep his spirits up. Talk to him, or tell him a story. He might feel a little frightened. Can you do that for me?"

Hazel nodded gravely. "Yes sir," he said earnestly, glancing worriedly at his uncle. "I won’t let him get frightened—he was talkin’ with Mr. Gavin earlier, about Bree, an’ maybe Mr. Gavin will keep tellin’ us about it."

Faramond smiled and gave Hazel’s shoulder a light pat. "Good lad," he said, raising his voice to a normal tone. "That will be perfect." He turned his smile on Frodo, who returned it, though wanly. "I shan’t be more than ten minutes."

He received obedient nods from everyone, and with a returning nod, he turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"Mr. Gavin," said Hazel cheerfully, as soon as Faramond was gone, "will you keep tellin’ us ’bout Bree?"

Gavin glanced briefly from Hazel to Frodo and understood. "Very well," he agreed, sitting himself down on the floor against the wall facing Frodo’s bed. Hazel clambered up on the bed and sat beside his uncle to make sure he did not fall asleep. But there seemed no immediate danger of that—Frodo opened his eyes and his face brightened eagerly.

Gavin smiled at his enthusiastic audience and settled against the wall, his long legs stretched out comfortably. "Shall I tell you about the Midyear’s Festival that takes place in the Town Square?"

Hazel clapped his hands. "Oh, yes, please!" he exclaimed excitedly. "It must be very much grander than our festivals here in the Shire."

Gavin grinned at him. "Bigger and grander, perhaps," he said, "but I doubt if they are more enjoyable. The Midyear’s Festival is the only one of the year in Bree. I should like to attend a Shire-festival someday."

"The biggest festival here is at Yuletide," said Hazel. "Michel Delving has the biggest, but Hobbiton has the best, my da an' mum an' my Uncle Sam say. There are booths full of toys and candies to buy, and dancing, and a pie-eatin’ contest! Me Uncle Hamson was in the pie-eatin’ contest one year, and he got to six pies before he finally dropped out!"

"From what I know of hobbit-appetites, that does not surprise me," Gavin laughed. "There is also a pie-eating contest in the Bree Midyear’s Festival, and it is usually a hobbit who wins. There are also games and races with prizes to win, booths full of toys, trinkets and fresh-baked treats for sale, and a Maypole*."

"What’s a Maypole?" Hazel asked curiously. "I don’t think we have one of those here."

"Not in Bindbale, maybe," Frodo spoke up, "but in Hobbiton we do. It’s a wooden pole with long ribbons of all different colors attached to the top. Everyone dances around it while holding onto a ribbon, and braid all the strands together around the pole. It’s great fun—I shall have to bring you along to the Midyear’s Festival next year."

Gavin nodded. "It has always been one of my favorite parts of the Festival," he agreed. "But my very favorite part are the minstrels who come and sing on a wooden platform in the center of the Square, where all can see." He sighed, visualizing the minstrels, gaily dressed in bright tunics and feathered caps, strumming their lutes, harps or lyres and singing in clear, melodious voices. "They sing tales from Gondor and sometimes even out of the South, or merry hobbit-songs from the Shire. Once there was even a minstrel all the way from Dol Amroth, he said, and sang us a song in Elvish."

Frodo’s eyes widened and despite his growing fatigue and chill, tried to sit up, unsuccessfully. Abandoning the attempt, he settled for asking Hazel to prop up the mound of pillows so that he could lean against them. "Thank you, Hazel. I did not know that many traveled from Dol Amroth into the Western lands," said Frodo. "That must have been extraordinary! I should have liked to see and hear him."

Gavin smiled, his eyes sparkling with excitement at the memory. "It was indeed wondrous," he said. "There were some who distrusted him for his skill in the Elven tongue and his strange appearance—" Frodo snorted at the foolishness of some people—"for he was very fair, with long dark hair and grey eyes, and his clothes were strange." He glanced at Frodo for a moment, and then continued. "He carried a harp that he said was very ancient. He told me that it was of Elf-make and came from a place called Beleriand."

"Beleriand!" Frodo exclaimed in astonishment. He stopped abruptly and winced at the pain that erupted in his side, relaxing again against the pillows. "More and more extraordinary! Oh, I wish I had seen this minstrel for myself. What was his name?"

"He said that it was Endymoin," said Gavin, pronouncing the strange word carefully. "Besides his Elvish song, he also sang tales that no one had heard of before—tales of Númenor, especially. And he traveled with an old woman," he added upon sudden recollection, "who told us more Númenorian tales at the Inn one night. She was very learned, perhaps even moreso than the minstrel himself."

"Did you learn her name?" Frodo asked breathlessly, thinking of another old woman who was learned in Númenorian lore.

"I did, but it was as strange as Endymoin. Ioreth, or Iodaith…yes! Iodaith. That was it."

"Iodaith," Frodo repeated in amazement. And yet somehow he was not surprised; the woman he had met months before near the Three Farthing Stone had struck him as being a wanderer and incredibly learned—perhaps she was even one of the Wise. It was not surprising to hear of her traveling with one from Dol Amroth.

"Do you know of her?" Gavin asked in surprise.

"I met her once," Frodo said, coming out of his thoughts. "Early this Spring. She is a remarkable person."

Gavin nodded. "She is," he agreed. "She was held in awe by everyone in Bree—including those who scorned Endymoin—and we were all saddened when she left with the minstrel the next day."

"Did she say where they were going?"

"She said only that they would part company soon and she would continue West while Endymoin traveled back East to pass through Gondor and return to Dol Amroth."

Frodo shook his head in admiration for the wise, strong old woman who had saved his life and recounted tales that even he, with all his knowledge learned from Bilbo, had never heard of. As he had then, he wondered briefly if Iodaith wasn’t half-Elf. Descended from the ancient Númenorians, certainly. Suddenly he thought of Gandalf, his twinkling blue eyes and gruff, no-nonsense exterior, his wisdom and kindness, and he realized that Iodaith was very like the dear old Maia.

"Are you all right, Uncle Frodo?"

Hazel’s voice brought Frodo out of his thoughts and he realized that he had been silent for some time. He smiled. "I’m fine, Hazel," he assured the boy. "I was just thinking about—" He abruptly broke off with a gasp, his face going white, as he felt a sudden chill stab into his side.

Hazel immediately bent closer over his uncle and worriedly took his hand. "What’s the matter, Uncle?" he cried. "What is it?"

Frodo closed his eyes a moment, recovering his breath. "It’s… nothing, Hazel," he gasped. "Just a shiver. I’m all right now."

Hazel put on the same expression Sam always wore when he knew that Frodo was not admitting the whole truth about his condition. "No you’re not, Uncle," he said firmly. "You’re feelin’ badly again, I can see that plain enough. Should I go fetch Mr. Faramond?"

"No, no," Frodo said hurriedly, not wanting to trouble Faramond any more than was necessary. "There’s no need. I’m—" He gulped as another cold shock of pain shot through his side. He felt beads of sweat start on his forehead despite his growing chill, and shivered involuntarily as he realized that the bout was coming too soon—Faramond’s pain reliever would not have time to work.

"All right, perhaps you’d better," he consented, trying to sound light-hearted. He forced a small smile.

Before Hazel could even slide off the bed, however, the door opened and Sam came in, carrying a cup of warm tea. "I’m sorry to have taken so long, Mr. Frodo," he apologized cheerfully, setting the cup on the bedside table. "Jessimine wanted to talk with me an’—lawks! What’s wrong, master?" He suddenly noticed Frodo’s strained expression and white face, and glancing up he saw that Hazel’s face, too, was pale and worried. He climbed up on the bed beside Frodo and took his master’s hand. "Dear me!" he exclaimed, sucking in his breath sharply at the chill he felt. "You’re cold as ice!"

"A surprise of the infection’s making, I suppose," Frodo managed to joke through chattering teeth. "Not one of its more pleasant ones, either."

"I’ll go fetch Mr. Faramond," Hazel said, hopping off the bed.

"Good lad, Hazel," Sam agreed without taking his eyes from his master. "And you might want to bring your mum, too."

Hazel nodded and dashed out of the room. Sam laid the back of his free hand to Frodo’s forehead and frowned. "How can you be so cold when you’ve got such a fever?" he wondered, taking his master’s other hand in his. "It’s like that Fire Snake poison…" He trailed off, shaking his head as if to dispel those unpleasant memories. "Don’t worry, Mr. Frodo. Mr. Faramond will know what to do."

"I’m sure he will," Frodo murmured, closing his eyes as he felt the chill spreading through his body even as the fever rose. He felt suddenly exhausted.

Sam watched his master for a moment, biting his lip worriedly. Then he reached over to the bedside table and picked up the cup of tea. "Here, Mr. Frodo," he said, "drink some o’ this tea. It’ll warm you up."

Without waiting for a reply, Sam moved closer and sliding one hand behind Frodo’s head, gently lifted it and lightly touched the rim of the cup to his lips. He froze for a moment, struck dumb by his own boldness towards his master, but his own commonsense reminded him that Frodo needed to drink the tea, for his own good.

Frodo dragged his eyes open, blinking rapidly against the exhaustion that blurred his vision, and looked suspiciously at the contents of the cup. The tea was still quite warm, and smelled wonderful; homey, somehow, reminding him of Bag End. The thought was comforting, and without protest, he closed his eyes once more and obediently opened his mouth.

Sam was again struck dumb with surprise, but then he smiled, relieved that his master was not going to fight him. He pressed the rim of the cup to Frodo’s parted lips and tipped it, carefully, so that he could take a cautious sip.

Frodo held the tea in his mouth for a moment, tasting it, and recognized it suddenly as a blend of ginger, peppermint and chamomile, sweetened with a touch of honey. He swallowed slowly, enjoying the warmth it brought, as he remembered that Bilbo had used to make the same tea for him whenever he had come down with a chill or a fever. He was able to smile slightly at the memory, and boyishly licked his lips to get as much of the honey off them as he could, his smile broadening as he thought of how Bilbo would chuckle whenever he did that. For once, thinking of Bilbo did not cause the usual ache in his heart, and Frodo was able to rest peacefully in the comfort of his memories.

"There you are, sir," said Sam softly, pleased at the reaction and watching with satisfaction as Frodo continued to take more slow sips, "that’s right. Drink all you can, master; it’s sure to put some warmth back into you an’ make you feel better."

It was a pleasant surprise for Sam when Frodo was able to finish nearly half of the tea, and he did not urge his master to drink more. He set the cup down on the table and laid Frodo back down against the pillows. Frodo smiled again, licking his lips once more to get the very last of the honey off them. "Thank you, Sam," he whispered. With the soothing warmth of the tea inside he felt more ready to sleep than ever, but his weariness was not so sharply edged as it had been before. Now he felt safe, mercifully numb, and tired.

Gavin, hesitating for a moment, stepped forward to the bedside and laid his large hand on Frodo’s forehead. "Frodo," he said urgently. "You must stay awake."

Frodo forced open his eyes in surprise at the unfamiliar touch. His sense of peace began to vanish at the reminder, and it seemed like some of the warmth he’d gained from the tea was already diminishing. "Gavin," he said softly, not expecting an answer or even really wanting one, "what is wrong with me now?" He immediately regretted the remark—‘I may feel dreadful,’ he decided, but I’m not going to complain about it. They worry enough as it is.’ With that resolution, he pressed his lips firmly together and prepared himself for the torment he knew was to come, hoping that if he anticipated it, he would find it easier to bear it in silence.

Gavin’s strange brown-grey eyes were filled with genuine concern. "I do not know," he said honestly. "But I think that it might be an effect of Wolf Bite, as you guessed." He removed his hand abruptly, as though suddenly realizing that it was still resting on Frodo’s forehead, and straightened. "Whatever the cause is, Faramond will know," he said confidently.

Sam sighed as Frodo lost his struggle to keep his eyes open and he saw his master set his jaw against a wave of pain. "I hope you’re right, sir."

~*~

A sword, double-edged and bitterly cold, seemed to have been thrust into his side. Deeper and deeper, with each wave of pain, twisting cruelly and sending fire coursing through his body, until the torture was too great to bear and he drifted in dark oblivion for a while.

But far too soon the pain brought him back to consciousness, or what he thought was consciousness; at least he was awake enough to realize that the icy sword was still buried in his side, so deeply that only its hilt showed. Frodo wanted to reach down and pull it out, but the slightest movement seemed to cause the sword to bite deeper, spreading its chill through his body.

Frodo opened his eyes to find that the entire room had suddenly became bare and empty, and everything seemed to be colored red and black, like flames and shadows. And after a moment some of the flames and shadows took on a shape; a great, black, horned creature with fiery-red eyes and fire flickering beneath the shadow that covered it like a cloak. All at once the sword was held by one of the creature’s strong, clawed hands, which began pushing it deeper into Frodo’s side once again, twisting it slowly, agonizingly, and laughing horribly all the while. White-hot flames from the creature’s hands shot down the blade and into Frodo’s side, clashing with the deep chill and struggling without success to overpower it.

Frodo closed his eyes and set his teeth, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened and his fingernails drew blood from his palms. Sweat poured down his face, but he shivered violently as the ice of the sword and the fire of the creature battled against the other to win possession of him. The creature laughed at his pain, but it stopped driving in the sword. Frodo did not look up, but pressed his eyes more tightly shut, readying himself to bear more torment, which he knew would be coming.

And more torment was not more than a few seconds in coming. The creature, silent now, wrapped both clawed hands around the hilt of the sword and pulled. Ripped it all the way out, twisting it horribly as it did so.

Never in all his life had Frodo felt such burning, piercing agony, and he screamed. He could not help himself. White spots swam before his tightly shut eyes, and he felt as though the bed he was lying on had begun to spin and lurch, though he hardly noticed the dizziness it caused. The pain coursing through him overwhelmed his senses so that he only felt, thought, and breathed the horrible, relentless torment. He did not feel the tears mingling with the sweat pouring down his face, did not feel the blood begin to trickle from his lips as his teeth bit into them.

Eventually, the fire-creature and the sword disappeared, and at last, mercifully, the pain became endurable, and Frodo was allowed to fall gratefully into unconsciousness again.

~*~

Though Faramond and Sam were silent and grim-faced, Frodo’s scream—filled with such unimaginable, indescribable agony—had brought tears to both of their eyes, and they still coursed down Sam’s cheeks. But neither looked at the other until Frodo’s deathgrip on Sam’s hand loosened, and his tense body began to relax. His breathing, which before had come in quick, wounded gasps, deepened and evened out. He uncurled himself carefully and turned his cheek against the pillow, breathing a soft, ragged sigh as he fell into an exhausted sleep once more.

Jessimine stood in a corner of the room by the bed, her face hidden in her hands and her shoulders shaking. When silence fell over the room, she dropped her hands and used her apron to wipe the tears from her face, stoically composing herself. Beside her, Gavin let out the breath he had not known he was holding, reflecting briefly that he was intensely glad that Jessimine had sent Hazel out earlier. "Is it over?" he asked hesitantly, approaching the bed.

Faramond sighed and, reaching over to the bedside table to dip the washcloth into the water of the basin, he began to stroke Frodo’s hot face with it, gently wiping away the blood from his broken lips. "Yes, Gavin, I believe it is over." He handed the washcloth to Sam, who continued to cool his master’s face with the utmost tenderness. "I believe that it was the last of them."

Faramond’s words, spoken cautiously, hung heavily over the room for a moment as hope slowly began to build in everyone’s hearts. Jessimine’s face brightened with a smile of joy, her eyes still filled with tears. "The infection has run its course?"

Faramond was wary of giving false hope. "I am not entirely sure," he warned, "but I believe that that will prove to be the last bout. The fever rose dangerously high—higher than I have ever seen it—during the worst of it, and it is nearly gone now." He felt Frodo’s sweat-drenched forehead to be sure. "But it is not quite the last of the Wolf Bite itself. The chill he has been feeling will now deepen and linger for the night, I think, but once it has gone, that will be the very last."

Everyone was silent, considering his pronouncement with mingled hope and caution. Faramond glanced down at Frodo, whose pain was quickly subsiding, causing him only an occasional wince when he drew too deep a breath. The Ranger thought that the torment he had just been through—shown in his half-smothered scream—must have been the greatest that any mortal could bear. He felt confident that that had been the peak of Wolf Bite’s malice, and things could only improve now.

Sam glanced at him only briefly, his face pale and tear-streaked, before turning back to his master. "How did he bear all that?" he murmured, half to himself as he gently wiped away the sweat beaded on Frodo’s now cool brow. "He’s been so brave, tryin’ to stay quiet even when he’s in so much pain."

Faramond gently laid his hand on Sam’s small shoulder. "You are right, Sam," he said softly. "I did not tell you for fear of upsetting you, but Wolf Bite is often fatal. Not many are strong enough to battle it. Frodo has astonished me with his strength and endurance, and I am very hopeful that his recovery will be swift. Although," he added in a slight attempt at a jest, "I think you will have your work cut out for you to keep him abed and resting."

Sam managed a soft chuckle. "Aye," he said, drawing his sleeve quickly across his eyes and then continuing to gently stroke Frodo’s face with the cloth, "stubborn as a mule, he is, when he’s of a mind to be." He sighed, looking down at his master’s face, still fairy-like despite its deathly pallor. "But you come to love him for that."

Faramond gave Sam’s shoulder a light pat. "I already have," he said with a smile. "Frodo is deserving of great respect. Not many Men would have faced a wolf their own size so courageously. Nor would many have survived such an infection." He straightened and dropped his hand. "Gavin," he said, turning to his companion, "I think that Hazel would enjoy your company out in the parlor. He’s liable to pace a hole in the floor worrying about his ‘uncle’ Frodo if he does not hear of him soon." His expression warned him not to give false hope to the boy, and Gavin nodded.

"I will go to him right away," he said, smiling. "I promised to teach him some of his letters, too. That might be a welcome distraction for him." He looked at Jessimine for permission.

The hobbit-lady clasped her hands. "Oh, you dear!" she exclaimed. "That would be wonderful. I’ve wanted him to learn his letters, but neither his father nor I know them ourselves. And it’s just the thing to keep his mind off worrying."

Gavin’s smile widened, and nodding hastily, he hurried out of the room, his cheeks pink with pleasure beneath his sun-darkened skin as he repeated in a whisper to himself, "Dear!"

TBC...

Sorry for the delay with this chapter... life's been hectic lately and I'm only just getting back into my old routine. So hopefully the next chapter will not take as long! :)

Oh, and I should give a shout out to Kenobi from fanfiction.net, who gave me the idea for the name Endymoin from her own story, "Fields of Rain." It’s a wonderfully written, suspenseful, Frodo-filled ;-) AU and if you haven’t read it yet, you really must!

* I’m not sure if the folk of Middle-Earth would actually use the word "Maypole," since they do not have a month called May (and I believe the term Maypole itself comes from its use in celebrating May Day in England—must look that up one of these days—please correct me if I’m wrong), but quite honestly I couldn’t come up with another word for it. Maybe a Thrimidge-pole? That seems a bit long, though—oh, well…

23. Relief and Recovery

"All right, Hazel-lad. Here’s the first one—what do you think this looks like?"

Hazel cocked his head to one side as he peered curiously at the odd mark Gavin had just made with a quill pen on a sheet of paper. "Mhm. It looks, maybe, like a…" He hesitated for a moment, wrinkling his small round nose in thought, then suddenly brightened. "…like one o’ those—those lean-to ladders, like my da has." He looked at the mark again. "Only it’s broken—only one rung."

Gavin grinned. "Very good! A broken lean-to ladder—that will help you remember what the letter H looks like."

Hazel leaned closer to the paper to examine the suddenly identified shape curiously. "What’re we writin’, sir?" he asked. "I thought the first letter was A."

Gavin’s grin widened and his brown-grey eyes twinkled mischievously. "You’ll see," he said mysteriously, refusing to satisfy Hazel’s curiosity further. "But if it makes you feel better, we’re learning A next." He bent over the sitting-room table and made another black mark beside the first one. "Now… what does it look like to you?"

Hazel looked closely at the mark, thinking for a moment. "Like another ladder, Gavin!" he exclaimed—the young Ranger had insisted on him dropping the Mr. "Only it’s a different kind… a sort of step-ladder, like the one Mr. Bowles, next door, uses sometimes to help da fix the barn roof."

"All right, another ladder," Gavin chuckled. "That’s how you can remember A." He dipped the quill into the small inkpot. "All right, now for the next one. What does this letter look like, Hazel?"

Hazel stared in puzzlement at the strange, zigzag mark on the paper, chewing his lip as he examined it. He leaned forward, his elbows propped on the table, and looked at it from every angle, unconsciously sticking his tongue out as he concentrated. At last he sighed and looked up at Gavin with a hopeless shrug. "I don’t rightly know, sir," he said, shaking his head. "I can’t think of anythin’ that looks like." He frowned unhappily.

Gavin gave him a pat on the shoulder. "I would have been surprised if you had," he said. "I can’t think of anything it looks like either, but maybe that will help you remember the letter Z—the one letter we can’t work out!"

They laughed, and proceeded with the last two letters, E and L. When Gavin pronounced them finished, Hazel stared at the word for a long while. "What did we write, sir?" he asked eagerly. "What word did we write?"

Gavin smiled at his enthusiasm. "We wrote your name, Hazel!"

Hazel’s brown eyes grew round and his mouth fell open. "My name, sir?" he gasped rapturously. "That’s my name? Oh, thank you!" On impulse he suddenly startled Gavin with a hug, nearly knocking the Man off-balance.

"All right, all right," Gavin laughed, fondly pushing Hazel away. "Don’t you want to get back to work? We have to concentrate if we’re going to write your last name now…"

Jessimine and Faramond were together near the doorway of Frodo’s room, quietly discussing his condition and treatments for it, while Sam dutifully tucked extra blankets around his master, making sure he would be as warm as possible. Frodo was deeply asleep, and did not stir, and Sam stood by his bedside for a moment, watching him with an affectionate smile, still not quite able to believe that his master would be able to begin convalescence at last. After a moment of contemplation, he sat on the edge of the bed and studied Frodo’s face. Color was coming back into it, although it was still dreadfully pale; though naturally fine-featured it now seemed far too thin, and there were bruised rings beneath the thick dark lashes.

‘But,’ he reminded himself firmly, ‘the fever is broken, and after we get through these chills, he can start recoverin’! An’ if I know him, I’ll have my work cut out for me, keepin’ him a-bed.’ He let out a deep, relieved sigh, smiling with the pleasant thought of caring for an awake, recovering—and likely very stubborn master in the days to come.

Sam glanced at Jessimine and Faramond, but they were speaking too quietly for him to hear. He stood, and started towards them, but paused. He turned back to the bed, bent down and with his left hand he gently touched Frodo’s forehead. His skin was cool, only a little too much so, and Sam felt reassured once more. He pressed a quick kiss to his master’s forehead before joining Jessimine and Faramond.

Just as he reached them, the door opened and Halfred, occupied much of the day caring for the children, came in, looking weary. "Tansy’s asleep," he told Jessimine, shutting the door behind him, "an’ so is Fennel. An’ Hazel’s wi’ Gavin in the sittin’ room." He looked across the room with concern. "How is he?"

"He is sleeping now," said Faramond softly. "The fever has broken, and he is only troubled by chills now."

"Chills?"

"Another effect of the Wolf Bite," Faramond explained. "But a welcome one -- for it means that the infection is nearly through -- and a quick one, as well. I believe that by morning he will be able to begin recovery."

Halfred sighed with relief, glancing at Sam as he did so. "Sam-lad!" he exclaimed. "You look done in! Go get some rest." Sam started to protest but was interrupted with a yawn that he tried desperately to stifle. "Now, Sam," Halfred continued firmly, well acquainted with his brother’s stubbornness, "Frodo is sleepin’ now, an’ Jessi an’ Mr. Faramond an’ I can look after him."

"But he might wake…" Sam attempted weakly.

"Aye, he might, but you won’t do him much good if you’re asleep on your feet now, will you? Off with you, an’ I promise I’ll come in an’ wake you in a few hours."

"One hour," Sam argued.

"Three."

"One," Sam contended stubbornly.

Halfred sighed. "Two hours, and I’ll not take any less than that."

Sam considered it a moment, then nodded, swallowing another yawn. "Promise, now," he said firmly, and Halfred nodded dutifully. "But what if he wakes up while I’m asleep?"

Halfred exchanged an exasperated glance with Jessimine, who rolled her eyes. "Sam Gamgee!" she exclaimed, planting her hands on her hips. "If Mr. Frodo wakes up while you’re asleep, don’t think I’m goin’ to go an’ rouse you for that—I think you can trust us to take care of him until you get back. But you need some rest, and I’m quite sure that Mr. Frodo would say the same. Now go on—I’ll hear no argument."

Sam hesitated a moment longer, knowing full well that Jessimine was right, and with one last long look at his master, he sighed and obeyed, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Jessimine sighed, shaking her head. "That lad!" she muttered. "He can be a perfect mule sometimes."

Faramond chuckled. "You seem to know how to deal with him, though," he observed.

"Well, I’ve had plenty o' practice—his brother ain't much better!" Halfred attempted to look innocent as Jessimine shot him a meaningful glare. "Gamgees are dreadfully stubborn creatures altogether."

"Then perhaps Frodo has a bit of Gamgee blood in him," Faramond remarked, glancing at his patient. "For he seems to be just as stubborn as Sam, if not even more so."

Halfred grinned. "I reckon it’s the Brandybuck in ’im," he said; "they’re known for bein’ stubborn, even more'n Gamgees. So are the Tooks, come to think of it, not to mention the Bagginses—Master Bilbo was one o’ the only hobbits in the Shire who could beat my da for stubbornness. And Frodo’s got all of those in ’im."

As if through unspoken agreement the three made their way over to the bedside and the conversation turned from easy banter to more serious medical treatments.

"D’you think our two water-bottles will be enough to keep ’im warm overnight?" asked Jessimine after feeling Frodo’s forehead. "Even with all these blankets he feels awful cold."

Faramond was chewing his lip as he considered. "They should be enough, I think," he said slowly. "And if not, I’m sure we can find something else to help warm him."

"When I was little girl, only a tweenager, there was a bad snowstorm," Jessimine said thoughtfully, "and me older brother got caught outside in it for hours. By the time he got home he was soaked to the bone and chilled so bad he went into shock. We got ’im covered up wi’ blankets, did everythin’ we were supposed to, but he was still cold. Then my mum said that the best thing for ’im would be to have a warm body layin’ beside ’im, so I did that, an’ poor Jem got warmed up eventually. Mightn’t that work for Mr. Frodo?"

"Your mother is very wise," said Faramond quietly, a slow smile of admiration growing on his face. "And she has taught you well!"

"Hazel could come an’ lay beside ’im," Halfred suggested. "He’d do anythin’ to help his ‘Uncle’ Frodo."

Faramond nodded, pleased that they had come up with a solution. "Very good, Halfred," he said with satisfaction. "That will be perfect. Hazel needn’t come in yet; not until tonight, I think—he won’t object to sleeping in here?"

"O’ course not, sir," Halfred replied with a grin. "He’ll prob’ly feel better in here, anyway, knowin’ that Frodo is safe."

Faramond smiled. "Yes," he agreed. "Hazel has a great heart, and courage to match." He gave Halfred’s shoulder a light pat and changed the subject. "Now, I don’t expect Frodo to wake up soon—after so high a fever he will need all the sleep he can get to recover from it—and I do not think all three of us will need to keep watch. You both," he said, turning to look at them in turn, first into the earnest brown eyes then into the blue, "should go and enjoy dinner with your children. I shall be fine for a few hours."

"Are you sure, sir?" Halfred asked doubtfully. "You’ve been ’ere all day, an’ last night besides."

Faramond shook his head. "Rangers learn early on to go for great lengths of time without sleep—and I have snatched a few hours of rest when I could. I am well."

"If you’re sure," Halfred consented. "I’ll come in an’ take over in a few hours, then, while you an’ Jessi an’ Sam-lad get some rest."

Awareness returned slowly and reluctantly. At first, Frodo was only aware that although he did not feel the sharp thrusts of pain and fever-induced confusion, there was a dull ache in several places, and a sensation of warmth surrounding him yet not penetrating the chill that seemed to have settled into every inch of his body. This, he shortly realized, was uncomfortable, but the pillow and the pile of blankets were soft, even if their warmth was somewhat distant. He drifted contentedly for awhile without conscious thought, just the good feeling that he was safe and relatively comfortable, if still cold.

For a long minute he did not even try to think or remember—that would take too much effort, and he felt exhausted. But when he tried to roll over on his side and felt the sharp stab of pain the movement brought, memory came back unwillingly. It was somewhat distorted, but remembering his fever this did not alarm him—overmuch—and he felt rather grateful that many spots were so hazy. They had been especially unpleasant moments.

‘Hazel. The woods. The wolf. Faramond. Sam. Fever. Wolf Bite.’

Frodo sighed. Now that his memory was back and working thought restored, he would not be able to get back to sleep. He did not feel quite as badly as before, but after considering a moment he decided that he was certainly not up to getting out of bed any time soon. The realization was not cheering.

Gradually, other sensations began to return, and he realized that a soft droning had been going on since he had awoken, although his mind had not registered the sound at the time. Turning his attention to it, he realized that it was a tune, quietly and slowly repeated. Then he realized that it was, in fact, a tune he was quite familiar with… and right on the tail of that thought came the awareness that he was also quite familiar with the voice that was humming it.

‘Halfred?’

Frodo was not sure if he had spoken the name aloud, but the humming stopped, and he heard Halfred moving quickly over to the bedside and sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. "Frodo?" His voice sounded strangely strained—worried? Frodo could not tell. "Frodo, are you awake?"

Frodo tried to answer but as he parted his cracked lips to do so, Halfred’s voice interrupted him. "No, no, don’t speak yet. You need to save your strength."

That sounded perfectly agreeable to Frodo—for the present, at least. He nodded slightly and relaxed again. For a moment Halfred’s callused but gentle hand rested on his forehead. It felt wonderfully warm, and he turned his face into it a little. Halfred seemed to understand, and kept his hand there, stroking Frodo’s forehead lightly and bringing warmth to the surface, at least, of his chilled skin.

After a moment, Halfred removed his hand to slip it under the blankets and touch the hot water bottles that had been pressed against Frodo’s sides. They were still warm. He brought his hand back out and placed it again on Frodo’s forehead, frowning when he found that his skin was still icy cold.

Still, he was relieved and optimistic now that Frodo was awake and soon to be on the mend, and he said in a cheerful but still quiet voice, "Well, Frodo, I’ve a bit o’ broth from Jessi’s chicken soup ’ere once you’re feelin’ up to it, and some tea, too. Nice an’ warm."

Halfred watched in satisfaction as his words had the desired effect and Frodo began making more of an effort to fully wake up. After a moment of tentatively moving his arms and legs, which were bound tight with blankets, wincing as he discovered sore spots, Frodo was finally able to wriggle his arms free of the mound of blankets. That much accomplished, he lay still for a moment, frowning at the fatigue caused by such minor motions. Halfred could not help but smile as he saw the characteristic look of stoic determination spread across Frodo’s face.

Driven by the prospect of warm, soothing broth and tea—for Halfred’s words had made him realize that he was, in fact, extremely hungry—Frodo thrust his weariness aside and planned out the processes he would have to go through to sit upright. First, he would open his eyes, much as he disliked the idea. Then, he would see if he could loosen the confining layers of blankets. After that, he would have to ask Halfred to help him pile the pillows—of which there were several—behind him so that he could be propped up against them.

Frodo clenched and unclenched his hands a few times, wondering if they would be strong enough to hold the mug and spoon—his arms were already trembling from the struggle to free themselves from the blankets. Yes, yes they would, he decided firmly. Now that he was awake, aware, and hopefully recovering—the irritating chills notwithstanding—he would not need to depend so much on everyone else.

Thus determined, he slowly forced his heavy eyes open, blinking carefully a few times to bring the room into focus. There was no fever-induced blurriness or spinning now, he found with relief and a sense of triumph. Now for the next step—trying to loosen the layers of blankets.

"You know," Frodo gasped between his teeth as he struggled to peel back one blanket after another, "I really don’t think it was necessary to use quite so many blankets." He paused, panting, and glared wearily at Halfred, who was smiling broadly and obviously more than willing to let him wrestle with the blankets on his own. "Given my present condition," he went on slowly but doggedly, his increasing weariness battling with his stubborn determination, "I do not think that there is any reason to fear that I will leap out of bed and hurt myself."

Halfred laughed, partially admiring and partially concerned at Frodo’s obstinate battle with the blankets. He finally relented and helped him pull back the last few blankets as far as his waist. As he did so, he saw that Frodo’s nightshirt was plastered to his chest with the sweat from his exertions, but when Halfred placed a concerned hand on his shoulder, he found that the skin underneath was icy cold and trembling slightly.

"Are you sure there’s no reason for us to fear that you’ll hurt yourself, tryin’ too hard?" he asked pointedly, covering Frodo’s chest again with two of the blankets.

Frodo, whose eyes had been closed briefly as he had tried to catch his breath, opened them and found that even the effort of giving Halfred an irritated look was tiring. He sighed. "Point taken." He closed his eyes again, putting one hand up to his forehead and massaging the developing ache there with his fingers. "But besides these chills—"

"And besides your bein’ weak as a kitten," Halfred interjected, calmly pouring some tea into a mug.

Frodo shot Halfred a brief glare from beneath his hand but ignored his interruption. "I feel fine. Well, recovering, at least," he amended hastily. He opened his eyes again, dropping his hand. "I do not wish to be tended to any more than I must. If all I can do at the moment is sit up and feed myself, then I’m going to try and do it."

Halfred leaned back in his chair, studying Frodo. He noted that his friend was still chalk-white, with dark circles under his eyes and his dark hair sticking to his brow with sweat from his efforts. But his pale lips were set in a firm, stubborn line, and there was a spark in his blue eyes that Halfred knew well, but had not seen so clearly since his injury. He sighed. "Well, then. I can see well enough that I can say naught to change your mind. But you’ll let me help you?"

Frodo was trying to quell his headache again, and he paused midmotion to give Halfred a grateful smile. "Please!" he said with relief, nodding and then wincing at the ache the motion caused. "I do not think that I shall be able to do anything entirely on my own. Yet," he added firmly.

Halfred got up from his chair and sat on the edge of the bed. "If it were only a matter o’ determination, Frodo, you’d ’ave been out o’ bed an’ healthy as a horse long ago."

Frodo sighed. "A shame that it’s not—although if that were the case, Hazel would have had me up in that tree with him and I wouldn’t even be in this condition." There was a brief silence, until Frodo shook himself out of useless regrets. "But since I am in this condition, I’m afraid that will-power alone will not help me very greatly, so I shall have to rely on your strength and what remains of my own."

With Halfred lightly gripping one of his arms as leverage, Frodo slowly and with difficulty pulled himself upright. At first, however, the change of position made him dizzy, and he fell back against the pillows. He waited for the vertigo to pass and then, setting his teeth, he hauled himself upright again, carefully. This time the spinning was mild enough that after closing his eyes for a moment it went away.

Frodo was dismayed at his own weakness as he found that he was perspiring and breathing hard by the time he got himself into a sitting position, where even after the dizziness his arms trembled and he swayed. Halfred quickly propped up the group of pillows behind him, and with timing that Jessimine would have been proud of, caught Frodo just as his arms gave out and set him comfortably against the pillows.

"Thank you, Halfred," Frodo gasped, wearily leaning his head back. "That was… harder than I expected." He slowly caught his breath. "I shudder to think of the difficulties when I’m able to get out of bed at last." He managed a tired, crooked grin. "You may have to drag me about the house by my arms for a few days, until I’m able to walk!"

Halfred grinned back, remaining, in typical Gamgee-fashion, cheerful despite Frodo’s very true point that it would be a long and wearisome convalescence. "No," he replied, "I’ll probably just carry you over my shoulder ’til then—you’re too thin altogether to be gettin’ such fevers, Frodo. You probably weigh no more'n a feather, now."

Frodo grimaced. "You sound like my Aunt Dora—always badgering Bilbo to fatten me up." He chuckled wryly. "And it wasn’t just Aunt Dora, either; nearly every one of my female relatives was in on it. And even your mother joined them!"

"They never succeeded, though," Halfred remarked with a raise of his eyebrows. He was well acquainted with over-affectionate and extremely zealous aunts.

"No," Frodo agreed with another grin. "I think that was probably one of the reasons I took to walking with Bilbo—just to spite them." He chuckled as he thought of it. Then abruptly, he pulled himself back to the present. "But I think I will make an exception this once—I am famished, and if Jessimine’s soup can fatten me up a little, I’ll be grateful for it!"

By late that evening, the chills had deepened and effectively kept Frodo from trying to do anything drastic—which, by then, included moving too much or too quickly, or trying to sit up. But Frodo was feeling too miserable to even contemplate anything further than keeping as still as possible and trying to get warm. The broth and tea Halfred had helped him swallow a few hours earlier had done much to revive him, but nothing seemed to be able to penetrate the deep, hard chill that had set in.

Silence had fallen over the small room some time ago, both of them quiet in their own thoughts. Halfred was studying Frodo, who was all but buried beneath the blankets; only his face could be seen. But even so Halfred could see him shivering uncontrollably, could hear his teeth chattering, and frowned in concern. He knew he could not help, Faramond had told him so, but it agonized Halfred’s kind heart to stand by and watch another—especially so dear a friend—suffering.

At last, Halfred stirred and glanced at the small wall clock hanging across from the bed. Nearly nine o’clock. ‘Time to call Hazel in,’ he decided. Jessimine was asleep, as was Sam—despite all his protests, his body was wiser than his head and had proved that he was truly exhausted. But Halfred expected him to be waking soon, and coming in to fret once more. Well, once Hazel was here, and Halfred had seen him and Frodo comfortable, there would be no need for Sam to come in and keep watch. Sam would be hard to convince of that, but Halfred was determined to do so, somehow.

He cleared his throat to break the silence and winced as Frodo jumped involuntarily. "Sorry, Frodo," he apologized, as the other’s eyes turned and met his—and even his eyes looked cold, an icy, pale blue. "But I was thinkin’ that it might be ’bout time I called Hazel in. ’E’s probably still in the parlor with Master Gavin, worrittin’ about you. You don’t mind?"

Frodo gave a tired smile, and his voice was hoarse with weariness. "Not at all, Hal. And you’re sure Hazel doesn’t mind either?"

Halfred grinned reassuringly. "O’ course not, Uncle Frodo!" he said cheerfully. "’E’ll be pleased to be helpin’. Is there anythin’ I can get you before I get ’im?"

Frodo shook his head slightly. "No, thank you, Halfred. You’ve done more than enough already. I’ll be fine."

"Sure you don’t want another bit o’ tea?" Halfred persisted.

Frodo sighed. "All right," he relented. "Yes, a little tea would be nice. Thank you."

Halfred grinned triumphantly and quickly poured the tea into the mug, before sitting on the edge of the bed and gently raising Frodo’s head brought the mug to his lips. Frodo took a grateful gulp of it, stubbornly bringing both his own hands up to hold the cup himself. Halfred made no comment and continued to support him as he took another few mouthfuls before handing it back.

"Jessi makes excellent tea," Frodo remarked wearily as Halfred set down the cup and eased his head back down into the pillows. "You must tell her that. Perhaps she can send me some when I go back home, to Bag End." He managed to curve his trembling lips into a smile.

Halfred smiled back and adjusted the blankets. "I’m sure she’ll be delighted to ’ear you say so, Frodo," he said. "But as for sendin’ it to you, I should warn you that she’s a mite miserly with her tea recipes, and she may take some convincin’." He winked conspiratorially as Frodo chuckled. "I’ll put in a good word for you, though."

Frodo smiled and closed his eyes. "I’d be grateful if you did," he said drowsily.

Halfred watched him struggling to stay awake and placed a kind hand on his shoulder. "I’ll be right back, Frodo. Don’t worry if you’re asleep when ’e gets here. ’E’ll understand."

He stood up and quietly left the room, going into the parlor where Hazel had been—save for a brief stop to eat supper—all afternoon with Gavin. He paused in the doorway, however, when he saw that Hazel was asleep, curled up comfortably in Gavin’s lap. Raising his eyes to look at the young Man, Halfred saw that he, too, was sound asleep, on the floor leaning against the wall with his arms loosely but protectively wrapped around the small hobbit child resting against him.

Unwilling to disturb them, Halfred hesitated a moment, then silently crossed the room and bent over the two. "Hazel," he whispered, lightly shaking the boy’s shoulder. "Hazel-lad, wake up."

Hazel’s brown eyes opened and he blinked sleepily at his father for a few seconds before snapping wide awake. Then realizing that Gavin’s arms were around him and that the Man was asleep, he suppressed his first impulse to jump to his feet. "Is it time, da?" he whispered instead.

Halfred nodded. "Aye, lad. Let’s just see if we can get you out of ’ere without wakin’ Master Gavin." He studied the Man’s face for a moment, and thought that, relaxed in sleep, he looked very young indeed, and he felt a sudden surge of compassion welling up in his heart at the sight. After carefully maneuvering Hazel out of the Gavin’s arms, Halfred took a blanket, thick and hand-knitted by Jessimine, and gently draped it across him, stretching it as far as he could to cover his shoulders and chest. Then he brushed back a few stray locks of dark hair from Gavin’s eyes, before stepping back for fear of waking him.

Satisfied, Halfred gave a brief smile before taking Hazel’s hand in his and leading him back into Frodo’s room. When they got there, he could see in the flickering candlelight that Frodo had fallen asleep, still shivering beneath the blankets. He looked down at Hazel. "Try not to wake ’im," he whispered. "But if it happens, see if he’d like some more tea to help warm him up."

Hazel, his eyes fixed on Frodo’s sleeping face, nodded vaguely, only half-listening. He had hardly seen Frodo at all that afternoon, and he was studying him closely. The candlelight glinted on his dark, tousled chestnut curls, and he saw that for once they were not plastered to his brow with sweat. His face still looked white and drawn, and he could see him trembling from across the room, but there was a definite change, and one for the better. A hint of color to his cheeks, the slight smile flickering briefly on his lips -- neither of these had been there before.

Halfred led him over to the bed and carefully helped him get settled without waking Frodo. Once he had tucked the blankets snugly around them both, he stood back and nodded in satisfaction. "I reckon ye’ll get hot, though, Hazel-lad," he said after a moment. "If that ’appens, you can pull back the corner of the blankets a bit on your side and cool off, ’s long as you mind not to let Frodo get cold."

Hazel wriggled deeper into the nest of blankets. "I reckon I won’t need to, da," he said stoutly. "As long as I can keep Uncle Frodo warm, I won’t mind anything."

Halfred smiled at him, bent and kissed his forehead. "Ye’re a good lad, Hazel," he whispered. "An’ a brave one. I’m proud of you." He leaned over his son and laid his hand against Frodo’s cheek, frowning at the icy feel of his skin but assured that it would soon be mended. "Good night, both of you."

"Good night, da," Hazel whispered as Halfred blew out the candle and walked softly to the door, shutting it without a sound behind him.

Hazel lay still for a moment, thinking over his father’s words. I’m proud of you. His da had never been overly demonstrative about his emotions, although he could put warmth and love into simple words like no other Hazel knew. It made him feel bigger, and more confident somehow to realize that his father had seen something in him to make him open up and speak plainly of his feelings.

With a firm resolution to live up to that trust placed in him, Hazel burrowed himself closer against Frodo’s side, wrapping one arm across his chest and trying to pour every bit of warmth from his own body into his uncle’s. It made him want to shiver feeling the chill of Frodo’s skin, and he wondered how in the world anyone could be so cold when he was already sweating beneath the smothering pile of thick wool blankets.

"Don’t worry, uncle," he whispered firmly, brushing back a dark lock of hair from Frodo’s eyes. "You’ll get better soon, I’ll make sure o’ that."

It was several hours later when Hazel, after dozing on and off, felt Frodo begin to stir beside him. He felt warmer, if only a little, and at least his teeth were no longer chattering.

Hazel propped himself up on one elbow, one of Frodo’s hands in both of his own—warm from being held between them these last few hours. "Uncle?" he whispered hopefully. "Are you awake?"

Frodo rolled over slightly on his side, and in the darkness Hazel heard his sharp intake of breath as he put too much pressure on his injury. Then, "Hazel?" His voice was quiet, and hoarse with weariness, but to Hazel it was the most wonderful sound in the world.

"Yes, it’s me, uncle," he said, smiling broadly. "I’m here. Are you warmer?"

"Much." Frodo’s eyes adjusted to the darkness and he was able to dimly make out Hazel’s small, stocky form beside him. "Thank you, Hazel."

"D’you want something, Uncle Frodo? Tea?"

Frodo smiled; he sounded just like his father, or Sam. "No, thank you. I’m fine. Really," he added, sensing Hazel’s distrust. "Now that I’m a bit warmer, I feel much better."

Hazel relaxed and gave a huge, relieved sigh. "I’m glad, uncle. Gavin taught me my letters this afternoon—well, most of them, anyway—an’ he helped me write somethin’ for you."

"Wonderful, Hazel! I can’t wait to see it. I’m sure Gavin is an excellent teacher."

Hazel rested his head on Frodo’s shoulder with a smile. "He is," he agreed sincerely. "I’ll be sorry to see him an’ Mr. Faramond leave tomorrow. D’you think we’ll see them again?"

"I’m sure we will, Hazel," Frodo replied cheerfully. "Rangers have a habit of dropping in when you least expect them, and when they are most needed, from what Bilbo used to tell me. He was rescued by a Ranger, once, on his way to visit Lord Elrond in Rivendell."

"Truly?" Hazel gasped. "What happened?"

"He was ambushed by a couple of goblins," Frodo said with a smile. "But I’m afraid I am too tired to tell you the story tonight. I promise that you shall hear it in the morning, though, first thing—if they will let me, that is."

Hazel giggled. "Mum says that Sam likes worrittin’ over you. She says it makes ’im feel like he’s got a real purpose, somethin’ that only he can do just right." He yawned hugely. "Or somethin’ like that, anyrate. Not sure I understand it m'self."

Frodo was quiet for a long moment, thinking over Hazel’s words. "I think I do," he whispered, more to himself than the boy beside him. Then he blinked, and shook his head. "Well, we shall have to hold off puzzling over the things your mother says until morning, I think, Hazel. Time for sleep."

Hazel rolled over on his side and nestled himself closer to Frodo. "Good night, uncle," he whispered drowsily. A moment later, confident that Frodo was almost on the road to recovery at last, he was sound asleep.

Frodo gently maneuvered Hazel’s head into a more comfortable position against his shoulder and wrapped one arm carefully around the boy, ignoring the small stab of pain the action brought. "Good night, Hazel," he murmured, kissing him lightly on the forehead. Then he closed his eyes and immediately joined him in sleep.

TBC...

Yes, I know, nothing really happened through the last half, but the "sweet, fluffy" stuff is my genre and I couldn’t resist. 0:) Originally, I was going to have Faramond and Gavin leave in the last half of this chapter, but then I decided that it needed more room, so I had to have something to fill up the empty space! ;)

24. Farewells

When Frodo awoke the next morning he realized three things almost at once. First he discovered with relief that he felt much, much better; the chills of yesterday were only slight now, and some warmth was finally beginning to penetrate. His next realization was that Hazel was still beside him: a small, warm little body pressed tightly against his side, one arm draped comfortably over his middle. The thought made him smile; Hazel was a Gamgee, through and through—as faithful as Sam. A moment later he became aware that there was a large hand resting on his forehead, the long fingers gently stroking back his tousled curls.

"'Morning, Faramond," Frodo greeted him cheerfully, recognizing the now-familiar touch. He yawned and opened his eyes to see the Man’s face break into a smile. "Heavens, it feels as though I’ve slept for days! What is the time?"

"Half-past eight," said Faramond, his heart lightening immediately upon seeing Frodo in such good spirits at last. "Nearly time for breakfast—First Breakfast, that is," he corrected himself. He was rewarded with a bright smile from Frodo. "How are you feeling?"

Frodo considered. "The chills have mostly gone now, and I’ve only a few aches here and there," he said after a moment. "Much better."

Faramond studied him closely for a moment. Color was finally returning to Frodo’s face, and his eyes were bright and shining, without any of the dark circles and marks of pain around them that had been there before. "I am pleased to hear it!" he said heartily. "You are recovering faster than I’d hoped. Hobbits are extraordinarily resilient creatures, it seems."

Frodo smiled again, closing his eyes. He hadn’t felt so comfortable in days. Hazel shifted beside him, mumbling something in his sleep and burrowing his head closer into Frodo’s side. In doing so he unintentionally pressed against the healing wound there and the sharp stab of pain this caused brought a surprised gasp from Frodo, and he opened his eyes again.

Faramond leaned forward with concern, his hand still resting on the hobbit’s forehead. "What is it, Frodo? Are you in pain?"

Frodo waited for his breathing to return to normal before answering. "A little," he admitted. "I’m a bit sore, that’s all." He saw the disbelieving frown on Faramond’s face and sighed. "Honestly, I’m fine now. No need to worry so!"

Faramond echoed Frodo’s sigh. "Very well, Frodo. But I think I shall give you one more dose of that pain-relieving tonic before I leave, all the same. And Jessimine will be supplied with more if you need them."

Frodo looked up quickly. "Leave?" he repeated. "Oh yes, I had forgotten. I expect you must be getting back to your Rangering." He tried to smile. "I’m sorry to have kept you for so long."

Faramond shook his head and gently stroked Frodo’s brow. "No, Frodo," he said, smiling at him fondly. "I would have wished that our meeting had been a happier one, but it gladdens my heart to see you recovering now. I am honored to have met you." To Frodo’s astonishment, the Ranger inclined his head in a small, graceful bow, suddenly appearing inexplicably tall and regal in his humble, travel-worn clothes.

"The honor is mine!" Frodo gasped, recovering from his amazement. "I hope we will meet again."

Faramond withdrew his hand and stood up. "I think we shall." He paused for a moment and glanced out the open door. "Now that you are recovering, I am no longer needed here at present, however. Gavin and I will take our leave after breakfast. In the meantime I will go and make ready, and leave you in Sam’s care." He smiled again and before Frodo could speak, he had slipped silently out of the door, leaving it open to admit Sam carrying a tray laden with a delicious-looking breakfast.

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo!" said Sam brightly, pleased to be back in his proper place caring for his master. He set the tray down on the bedside table and pulled up his chair, unable to keep from taking one of Frodo’s hands in both of his and reassuring himself that he was really recovering. "How’re you feelin’?"

Frodo smiled at him. "Hullo, Sam! I’m glad to see that Halfred and Jessi convinced you to take some rest at last—you deserved it, after all those hours you no doubt spent worrying and caring for me." Sam blushed and ducked his head. "I’m feeling much improved, too. I think I shall be walking about the house by this evening!"

Sam’s eyes widened and he released Frodo’s hand to ready the breakfast tray, assured now that his master was truly getting better. "I don’t know about that, Mr. Frodo," he said doubtfully. He examined the contents of the tray. "Although with Jessi’s cooking, you just might. Look what she’s made!" It was indeed a delicious-looking and rather large breakfast she had prepared: warm oatmeal with cinnamon and sugar, a small bowl full of fresh strawberries, a few sausages, and a cup of fresh milk.

Frodo’s eyes lit up as he realized that he was extremely hungry. "It looks splendid, Sam!" He paused. "But I think it’s rather too much for one hobbit to eat—you must share it with me."

Sam turned redder as despite himself, his stomach chose that moment to loudly announce its emptiness. "I couldn’t, Mr. Frodo!" he protested nonetheless. "I already ’ad a bite to eat earlier an’—"

"Nonsense, Sam, I heard your stomach growl just now," Frodo retorted firmly. "At least have a few bites. I can’t finish it all myself, and I should hate to waste Jessimine’s wonderful cooking."

Sighing, Sam gave in, and despite his protests, ended up enjoying the shared meal immensely. He was also relieved to find that Frodo’s appetite had returned and his master was in high spirits; their first breakfast together since Frodo’s wounding was a cheerful one.

The tray was nearly picked clean when the small blanket-covered form nestled against Frodo’s side began to stir. Frodo, propped up now against the pillows, smiled and gently jostled Hazel. The boy groaned and pulled the covers up over his head, and there he lay for several moments without moving. Frodo exchanged an amused look with Sam before lifting the blankets and bending down close to Hazel’s ear. "Wake up, sleepyhead!" he whispered, nudging him a little. "Wake up, or you’ll miss the last of the breakfast Sam and I are sharing. We’ve left some strawberries for you. Come, wake up!"

Whether it was Frodo’s prodding or the mention of food, Hazel was wide awake in an instant. He threw off the blankets and sat up with a yawn, blinking in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. "Good morning!" Frodo greeted him.

"Mornin’, slugabed," Sam teased with a smile. "I thought you’d sleep right through First Breakfast!"

Hazel grinned at him, a large strawberry already in his mouth. Hardly pausing to chew, he swallowed it and reached for another, then paused and suddenly turned to Frodo seriously. He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes wide. "Uncle Frodo?" he breathed at last. Tears sprang to his eyes. "You’re… you’re better!" He launched himself at Frodo, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist for a moment before hearing his uncle’s gasp of pain and loosening his grip. "I’m so very, very glad," he murmured earnestly, his voice muffled as he buried his face against Frodo’s uninjured side.

Frodo smiled and returned Hazel’s embrace. "I’m glad, too, Hazel," he said softly. Then a lighter tone came into his voice as he added playfully, "I don’t think I could have endured another night with you tossing and turning so!"

Hazel raised his head and grinned, dashing the relieved tears from his eyes; he knew as well as Frodo did that he, in typical Gamgee-fashion, slept like a log through the night and scarcely moved at all. "You thought you had it bad, Uncle!" he exclaimed, joining in the game. "I was the one who had to try an’ get comfortable with your sharp elbows!" He unwrapped one arm from Frodo’s waist to rub his own ribs with a feigned grimace of pain.

Frodo laughed. "Imp." He looked at Sam accusingly. "Haven’t you taught your nephew any respect for his elders?"

Sam chuckled, inwardly stifling the impulse to sing for joy at the sight and sound of his master’s recovery and high spirits. "Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but he’s your nephew, too," he said innocently. "And he don’t seem to listen to me as much as he listens t’you, anyhow."

Frodo pretended to scowl. "Well, I can’t be expected to teach him everything! What about Halfred? He’s Hazel’s father, and the oldest one here. He should be teaching his son some manners. I shall have to speak to him about this—where is he?"

Sam looked up as he noticed for the first time the eavesdropper standing outside the open door. "I believe he’s standin’ in the doorway, laughin’ at us," he observed wryly. As Halfred came into the room, grinning broadly, Sam added, "But I don’t think he’s very useful as far as teachin’ Hazel good manners, Mr. Frodo. He’s too much of a rogue himself!"

Halfred could not keep back his laughter any longer. "Ah, Sam-lad," he said when he had breath enough, "but where would you be without me? I may be a rogue, but at least I’m an entertaining one!" He pulled an empty chair next to Sam’s and draped an arm companionably across his younger brother’s shoulders.

Frodo nodded. "That’s true," he conceded, grinning. "Very entertaining."

"And anyhow, my Hazel seems to ’ave abandoned me for you!" Halfred continued mournfully. "I ’aven’t seen him t’all this morn an’ he won’t even say ‘Hello, da!’" He stuck out his lower lip in a feigned pout.

"Hello, da!" chirped Hazel, grinning as he remembered the strawberries on the tray. He made a great show of first moving closer to Frodo and then focusing all his attention on stuffing as many of the strawberries as he could into his mouth at once and ignoring his father.

Halfred sighed heavily. "Don’t worry, Hal," said Frodo reassuringly, "I’m sure he’ll be happy to come and visit you every so often once he’s settled at Bag End with me."

Sam couldn’t help but laugh, and Halfred snorted. "Sam-lad, it’s this Baggins fellow who’s teaching Hazel all that cheek towards his elders," he said. "I think he’s a bad influence—cracked, he is!"

"And proud of it!" Frodo retorted promptly. "At least I’ve taught Hazel the finer arts of rock-skipping—as I recall, you are the only hobbit in the Four Farthings of the Shire who couldn’t hit a rock wall at five paces!"

"That’s true, Hal," Sam agreed, nodding gravely. "I’ve seen you try an’ miss, meself. More like four paces away, though, you was that time."

Halfred sighed again, loudly. "My boy is never goin’ to get a proper education in manners with either of you around!" he lamented. "Our only hope lies in his mother now."

"Well, at least she can teach him how to cook," Frodo remarked cheerfully. "Neither of us could do that—except you, of course, Sam," he added hastily. Then he grinned. "But I don’t recall you ever making raspberry tarts like the ones I smell cooking right now!"

Hazel perked up. "Tarts?" he said eagerly, popping the last strawberry into his mouth. "Mum must like you a whole lot, Uncle—she never makes tarts!"

Halfred sighed and shook his head. "This Master Frodo o’ yours better get well soon, Sam," he said disgustedly. "He’s takin’ over my whole house! First my Hazel-lad, now even my own Jessimine’s smitten. I’ll be keepin’ Fennel and Tansy away until he’s gone."

Sam grinned. "That mightn't be so easy, Hal," he laughed, gesturing to the doorway where little Fennel stood, her doll Goldilocks clutched in one small hand and her eyes fixed happily on Frodo.

Halfred moaned theatrically as he rose, scooped his daughter up and carried her to the bed, where he set her down. "Say good morn’ to Uncle Frodo, Fennel-lass," he said. "But be quick, now. Your mum’ll have my head if I don’t get you an’ your brother into the kitchen so she can clean you both up a bit—Hazel-lad, I can see those snarls in your hair from here." Hazel groaned in dismay.

Fennel leaned down and kissed Frodo on the cheek. "Good morn’, Uncle Frodo!" she said joyfully. "Are you better now?"

Frodo smiled at her. "Much better, now that you’ve come to visit," he said brightly. "I’ll be out of bed and walking about before you know it."

Fennel grinned, fully convinced of this, and did not protest when her father lifted her up again. She gave a squeal of surprised delight when he lifted her up onto one of his shoulders and stooping, grabbed Hazel and set him on the other. "Lawks, how big you’re getting, Fenny-girl!" he exclaimed, staggering dramatically. "And you’ll soon burst your buttons, Master Hazel, if you insist on growing so fast." Both children nearly fell off their perches with giggles. "Now, say goodbye to your uncles. You’ll see them later."

The children, still laughing and cheerful, called out goodbye to Frodo and Sam, who were laughing themselves. Halfred directed a sly, playful wink at the two ‘uncles,’ which neither failed to notice, and then he left the room, having completely regained the position of favorite in the eyes of his children.

"I reckon he’ll keep the little ’uns’ minds off the goodbyes this afternoon just fine," observed Sam after a moment. "Without our help, what’s more!"

"Blast," said Frodo mournfully. "I’m not the favorite anymore. They’ll want no more story-telling from me, I’m sure."

Sam patted his master’s hand and busied himself with arranging the empty plates and saucers on the tray. "’Tisn’t so bad, Mr. Frodo," he said optimistically. "At least Jessi still remembers you—Hazel’s right, I can’t ever recall her makin’ tarts for no one else."

Frodo allowed a small half-smile to turn up the corners of his mouth. "Yes, that’s something, at least," he agreed. "I hope those tarts will be done soon—they smell delicious." He paused, the smile frozen for a moment, then said abruptly, "I’m going to get dressed, Sam, and surprise Jessimine when she brings the tarts." His blue eyes were suddenly bright and determined.

Sam stared. "What, get dressed today, sir!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Why, you can scarcely sit up on your own, much less do all the movin’ an’ bendin’ it takes to get dressed." He shook his head, setting the tray on the bedside table, and watching with dismay as Frodo’s dark brows drew down a little and his mouth set stubbornly.

"Sam, I’ve been bedridden for nearly three days—"

"Hurt an’ feverish an’ fightin’ that infection!" Sam interjected.

"—and I am recovered enough to dress myself," Frodo went on, ignoring the interruption. "With a little help, perhaps. Either way, I want to be standing on my own by the time Faramond and Gavin leave."

Sam’s eyes grew wide. "Why, sir!" he cried. "Just yesterday you were scarce through the last bout of Wolf Bite, an’ shiverin’ with those chills!" He shook his head again, vehemently, and then his expression softened and he added anxiously, "You can’t push yourself too hard, Mr. Frodo. You’ll have a relapse an’ be worse than you started out."

Frodo sighed. "Sam, I cannot bear to be helpless another day. All I do is lie here in bed, idle, while you are all working so hard for me." Impulsively he reached out and clasped Sam’s hand. "I must do something, and if the only thing I can do is lighten your spirits by getting well quickly, then that’s what I’ll do."

Sam looked at him closely; after their long friendship reaching back into his childhood, he’d thought he knew Frodo completely. Yet somehow his master had surprised him yet again—his determination to dress and stand up unaided was not simply to prove to himself that he could do so; it was to bring cheer to Sam and the others to ease their sadness at the Rangers’ parting. Sam felt warmth welling up in his heart—did his master ever think of himself first? He doubted it.

"Very well, Mr. Frodo," he said at last, looking down at the slender white fingers entwined with his own sturdy brown ones and then up to Frodo’s face. "If that’s what you want, I’ll help you all I can."

Frodo’s expression lightened with relief. "Thank you, Sam," he breathed, and his eyes held a gratitude beyond those simple words that assured Sam that he had done right.

Sam squeezed his hand in response, and then stood up. "Well, if you’re to get dressed before Jessi comes in with those tarts of hers, we’d best get started!"

Jessimine hummed to herself as she set the tray of fresh raspberry tarts out to cool. As Hazel had remarked, she did not often make such treats and she hoped that they would help to brighten the mood of the household, which she knew would be gloomy after Faramond and Gavin left.

She paused for a moment at the thought. Peeking through the round kitchen window above the sink she could see the Men readying for their departure outside. That lad, Gavin, seemed to be purposely taking as long as possible to pack, and Jessimine could not help but smile. How fond they had all become of each other! She would miss both of them very much indeed.

Shaking gloomy thoughts away with a toss of her head, Jessimine returned to her work. She took out a small, neatly stitched knapsack (already filled with a small loaf of bread) and after wrapping a large handful of the tarts in a clean cloth, she put these into the sack and pulled the drawstring closed. Examining it carefully for a moment, she nodded, satisfied, and set it aside.

There were now about ten tarts left, and of these she took two more and set them on a plate for Frodo and Sam. Wiping her hands on her apron, she picked up the plate and went down the hall toward the guest room, pausing for a moment to peek inside.

Jessimine’s hazel eyes grew wide at what she saw—Frodo, sitting up in bed, atop the blankets, fully clothed and buttoning up his shirt! Sam was fussing around him, one hand partially stretched out to support him, although for the moment Frodo did not seem to need it.

Jessimine planted her free hand on her hip as an angry flush rose on her face—what could Frodo be thinking of, dressing himself only the day after the last bout of Wolf Bite! And why in all the Shire had Sam let him?

Stepping unnoticed into the room, Jessimine set the tray down on a chest of drawers before clearing her throat to announce her presence. Both lads jumped at the sound and this upset Frodo’s balance; his arms gave out and Sam just barely caught him before he hit the pillows. Once Frodo was propped up against them, both of them turned reluctantly to look at the indignant hobbit-lady.

"Frodo Baggins, what do you think you’re doing?" Jessimine fumed after a moment of silently staring them down. "You’re going to undo all the work Faramond did for you if you push yourself too hard!" She rounded on the other hobbit, who was staring fixedly at the rug. "And you, Samwise Gamgee, how could you let him do that? Why didn’t you talk some sense into him!"

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Frodo summoned up his courage and ventured, "Look, Jessi—"

"You’d best have a good excuse!" she warned sharply. She wasn’t angry at all anymore, really, but it was amusing to watch both of them fidget like guilty schoolboys and she wondered if silver-tongued Mr. Frodo would be able to come up with a convincing justification.

"All right, all right," Frodo tried again, exchanging a grimace with Sam. "Jessi, I am simply tired of laying uselessly in bed. I wanted to sit up on my own and get dressed, at least, and as you can see I was able to do so and I do not feel a relapse coming." For a moment he met Jessimine’s glare with a stubborn one of his own. "And it’s not Sam’s fault—he tried to talk me out of it, but I… well, I sort of bullied him into letting me."

Jessimine nearly snorted at the thought of Frodo bullying anyone into anything—especially Sam! But she held her composure and kept up her façade of displeasure. "Sam had no right to let himself be bullied," she retorted firmly.

Sam was looking extremely uncomfortable by now, his face beet red as he examined the threads of the floor-rug with interest. But at last he raised his head and, with a gulp, met Jessimine’s unforgiving stare. "I weren’t bullied," he said at last, with an effort. How was it that Jessimine managed to render him utterly immobile and almost mute with just that look of hers? "Mr. Frodo asked me to, and I said yes."

Frodo shot a look of protest at Sam, and started to open his mouth, but suddenly Jessimine could not keep up her act any longer and doubled over with laughter. Frodo and Sam’s eyes widened and they looked at each other before staring incredulously at the hobbit-lady who a moment before had all but paralyzed them with her fury, and was now shaking with mirth.

When she had breath enough, Jessimine managed to gasp, "Oh, lads, you should see your faces! You look like twelve-year-olds caught stealing cookies from the jar!"

The two hobbits continued to stare at her with disbelief, but slowly, with another exchanged glance, the corners of their mouths began to lift slightly, and they allowed themselves small, embarrassed grins.

At last, Jessimine straightened herself up and caught her breath. "Not that I’m excusing either of you," she said sternly, picking up the plate, and watching with satisfaction as their eyes immediately lit on its contents. "But I can only say, Mr. Frodo, that I couldn’t be happier to see you recoverin’ so well!" She paused, then added severely, "But if either of you ever attempt something like that again without tellin’ me, I won’t be so forgiving."

Relenting, Jessimine brought over the plate and handed them each a tart. Setting the plate down on the empty tray that sat on the bedside table, she bent over Frodo and pressed her lips to his forehead, feeling the temperature. She felt him jump and give a little yelp of surprise at the unexpected contact. Straightening, she could not help but smile impishly as she saw his cheeks turn red again and his eyes widen. "Aye, you’re recoverin’!" she said approvingly. "Not a bit o’ fever. ’Long as you don’t go pushin’ yourself too far, you should be on your feet in no time at all!"

"Er, speaking of—" Frodo began, recovering himself slightly.

Jessimine’s groan interrupted him. "Oh, Frodo!" she exclaimed in dismay. "You’re not!"

At last, Frodo was able to smile a bit mischievously. "Well…"

"No, you can’t."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can’t."

"Yes, I can."

"Frodo Baggins, you cannot—Sam, help me talk some sense into him!"

"Jessi! I tell you, I am perfectly capable… Sam, help me!"

"Er… I—I really think you oughtn’t to, Mr. Frodo…"

"Aha!"

Faramond entered the guest room just in time to see Frodo - fully dressed save for his usual waistcoat and sitting up on the bed, roll his eyes - give a reproachful cry of "Sam!", and fall back against the pillows with a dejected thump. Jessimine was standing nearby, her arms crossed and a triumphant smile on her face.

Sam, red-faced and staring intently at the rug once more, seemed to be trying to shrink into the wall by the bedside.

All three turned at Faramond’s entrance, since he hadn’t made any effort to be silent. Fighting very hard against the smile of amusement that threatened to turn up the corners of his mouth, he said in as level a voice as he could muster, "Have I interrupted something here?"

Jessimine was the first to recover herself. "Why, no, Faramond, sir," she answered primly, with a sharp glance at Frodo. "We had just resolved a little—"

"—a little… ahh… debate," Frodo interjected, sitting up again. "But it is most certainly not resolved!" he added vehemently, crossing his arms.

"—a little discussion," Jessimine finished firmly. "And it is resolved."

"It appeared to be rather more of an argument to me," Faramond remarked mildly. "What was it about?"

"This dreadfully, ridiculously, foolishly stubborn hobbit here is trying to push himself too far," explained Jessimine, gesturing towards Frodo. "Look how much he’s done already—he’ll kill himself if he don’t…"

"I’m more likely to die of uselessness if I stay in bed much longer," Frodo retorted. "If boredom doesn’t finish me off first."

Jessimine rolled her eyes expressively, and Faramond had to fight doubly hard to keep from chuckling. "What is it you are trying to do, Frodo?" he asked reasonably.

"All I wish to do," said Frodo, "is to stand up on my own two feet when you and Gavin leave. I know that my right leg is still healing and won’t be able to bear my weight, but if I had a support it could." He sighed in frustration. "I am not trying to do anything drastic—I won’t try to walk, I only want to stand. Even for a moment. Is that so unreasonable?"

Jessimine blew out her breath in exasperation but did not say anything.

Faramond considered for a minute, studying Frodo closely. His face was still pale, but his cheeks were rosy—although perhaps at the moment that was from annoyance more than anything else—and the only sign of fatigue was the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. He seemed to be recovering more quickly than even Faramond had supposed.

"I do not have any objections to allowing you to make the attempt," he said at last. "So long as you do not over-exert yourself. You are not tired?"

"No," said Frodo quickly, lighting up with pleasure. "And I have eaten breakfast, if that was your next question."

Faramond finally allowed himself to smile as Jessimine groaned in disbelief. "Very well, then, I give you permission to try, at least. Do not try too hard, and if you tire, rest a while before trying again. Do not be disheartened if you cannot do it today—you have a long road to full recovery yet to travel."

Frodo nodded obediently, his delighted smile unwavering, and Faramond’s heart was warmed to have been able to give him such joy. He nodded to Jessimine, who stood silently fuming, and said, "I will leave you in Sam’s care now. Gavin and I are still readying our packs. I only came in seeking you, Mistress Jessimine." He smiled with satisfaction when some of her fury faded and she turned to him in surprise. "I wondered if perhaps you would like me to leave a few herbs for your use?"

Argument forgotten, Jessimine clasped her hands excitedly. "Oh, yes!" she exclaimed. "I’d clean forgot. Here, come into the kitchen with me—that’s where I keep all my herbs."

Jessimine eagerly led the way to the door, pausing briefly to shake her head disapprovingly at Frodo, who merely grinned at her. Then with a toss of her curls she led an amused Faramond out of the room and down the hall into the kitchen.

Only when she was gone did Sam allow himself to breathe again. "You were right lucky, Mr. Frodo," he said. "I didn’t think Faramond would say yes."

"Neither did I," Frodo admitted. Then he paused, and turned to Sam, his blue eyes narrowing. "But little help from you! How could you side with Jessimine?"

Sam’s face turned red. "I—I were only…" He stammered incoherently for a moment before he realized that Frodo was smiling at him in amusement. "Er… I’ll just clean off this tray, sir," he said hurriedly, "and then I can help you try to stand up—you’ll be needin’ a support, after all, like you said…"

At last, the goodbyes could no longer be delayed. The Gamgees—all save Sam, of course, who would not leave his master’s side—went outside to say farewell and see the Rangers off.

While Faramond finished up sorting and packing away the herbs that Jessimine had given to him, Gavin went into the guest room to make his farewell to Frodo and Sam privately, putting off the hardest one as long as possible.

But he found that taking leave of these two was nearly as difficult. When he entered the room, he found with astonishment Frodo, dressed and standing, if a little unsteadily, using Sam’s arm for support.

Frodo, by now beginning to feel the results of his exertion, and a heavy heart at the farewells besides, nevertheless managed a smile for Gavin that nearly undid the Man then and there. "I’ve been trying all morning to do this," he said simply. He paused as he noticed that Gavin seemed to be holding something behind his back. "What have you got there?"

Gavin was painfully aware that his face was flushed with discomfiture, but he licked his lips and forced a smile in return. "A gift for you, Frodo," he said, a little hesitantly, unsure of how it would be received. "Although with Sam by your side, you scarcely seem to need it…"

Frodo’s eyes widened with surprise when Gavin revealed his gift: a finely crafted walking-stick, smoothly sanded and complete with a leather handgrip for comfort.

"I began it some days ago, out of a sturdy little ash tree Faramond and I used for firewood one night," Gavin explained, trying to interpret Frodo’s expression. "I finished it and cut it down to hobbit-size while we stayed here." He studied Frodo’s face anxiously. "I fear I did not have time to—"

Suddenly Frodo swayed and almost fell. Sam, with a startled cry, tightened the grip on his arm and slipped his other one around his master’s waist, keeping him upright long enough for Gavin to cross the remaining distance between them and catch Frodo just as his knees buckled completely. He held him for a moment in a gentle embrace. "Frodo, you must be weary," he murmured between Sam’s similar admonishments. "Here, sit down on the bed. You should not be over-taxing yourself…"

Frodo sat on the edge of the bed with his head bowed and eyes closed for a moment, regaining his breath and waiting for the sudden bout of dizziness to go away. When the room had finally stopped tilting, he looked up to meet the equally-concerned gazes of Sam and Gavin, and managed an apologetic smile.

"I’m sorry," he said, "I got a bit dizzy. I’m all right now."

"Are you sure, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam doubtfully.

"Yes, yes, I’m sure, Sam," Frodo maintained firmly. "I’m fine. Perhaps a bit more tired than I thought…" His eyes fell on Gavin’s walking-stick, lying on the floor where the Man had dropped it. "Oh, Gavin! Your gift!"

Sam hurried over to pick it up and set it carefully against the wall, while Gavin asked hesitantly, "Is it to your liking? I am no carpenter, so it is rough and a little crooked, but—"

"No!" Frodo breathed, smiling more brightly than Gavin had ever seen him. "No, it’s wonderful! Just what I needed. I don’t know how to thank you!"

Finally Gavin smiled in return, relieved at having his gift received so enthusiastically. "I have learned much while traveling with Faramond," he said. "But I think I have learned more here in the Shire than anywhere else in our journeyings. It is I who am grateful to you."

Gavin thought Frodo’s eyes were shining just a bit more brightly than usual, and noticed that his own eyes felt suspiciously moist as Frodo smiled and said, "I am sure that when next we meet you’ll be an expert Ranger, yourself, with your own apprentices to teach."

Gavin couldn’t help but laugh a little at the idea. "I’m not so sure of that," he said, returning the smile. "But I am sure that we shall meet again. And hopefully in happier times."

Frodo nodded, and Gavin was certain now that he was not the only one with tears in his eyes. A glance at Sam confirmed it, as, blinking a little too rapidly, he turned to the stocky hobbit.

"Well, Samwise," he began, unsure of himself again, "I—"

He was stopped midsentence as Sam suddenly threw his arms around the Man as well as he could and hugged him. "Thank you, sir," he said in a heartfelt whisper against Gavin’s tunic. "Thank you for helpin’ my master, an’ carin’ for Hazel. You won’t never know how much they both mean to me."

Gavin returned Sam’s embrace gently and lowered his face momentarily into the sandy curls to hide the tears that refused to be held back any longer. "I think I have an idea," he murmured. They pulled apart, but Gavin kept his hands on Sam’s shoulders. "I shall always count Hazel, and all of you, among my dearest friends," he said quietly. "It was truly an honor for me to have met you all. I have learned much."

Sam smiled a little shakily at him, running his sleeve across his eyes as Gavin released his shoulders and stood up. "I should be leaving," said the young Man reluctantly. "Faramond will wish to say goodbye to you both, and I have yet to take my leave of the others."

"Goodbye, sir," said Sam with genuine sadness. "Be safe."

"Farewell, Gavin," Frodo said. "And thank you. I’ll never forget you."

"Nor I," added Sam.

"Nor I you," replied Gavin sincerely, bowing low and then slipping out quickly, before his tears overcame him again. He leaned against the wall outside the room to compose himself for a moment. He had meant every word he said to them. He sighed, hearing Hazel’s piping voice from outside. He would never forget any of them.

Gavin straightened. Hazel was waiting outside for him, and he could no longer avoid the final goodbye. No, not the final goodbye, Gavin corrected himself with a small smile. And not goodbye, but farewell. They would meet again, he was sure of it.

Squaring his shoulders, Gavin went outside.

TBC...

Ack! I had every intention of making the goodbyes SHORT and sweet—and in the first half of the chapter!—and then moving on… But nooo, those darn Rangers refused to be got rid of. Gavin simply demanded a tearful, lengthy farewell to Frodo and Sam, but neither of us could bear one with Hazel. That would be too tearful and lengthy, knowing me. :-P