For Eyes to See That Can
Author: Rowan
Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.
Rating: G
Note: As a reader, I prefer completed stories over works in progress. However, I'm now taking the risk of posting a WIP myself, justifying it because this is not really one continuing story but a series of short stand-alones grouped under one title. I hope to go through every major character who had some significant interaction with Frodo, but please forgive me in advance if I run out of ideas and just stop.
Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 1: Primula Baggins, April 1380

There is a fanciful old rumor about the Elves that says that at times they steal a mortal child and replace it with one of their own, who is then raised by the poor unsuspecting parents as theirs.

I do not believe this legend. I never had, even before my cousin Bilbo told me what Elves were really like -- and he should know, being the only hobbit living to have had extensive dealings with them. Even if they were given to such mischief, the deception would never work on a hobbit family, as our races are too different.

Yet sometimes when I look at my son, the silly story tickles at the back of my mind, and although I know good and well that Frodo is no elf, nonetheless I wonder what sort of cuckoo must have visited our nest that September night.

For he is not much like either Drogo or me, although there are elements here and there that we share if one looks hard enough, or from the right angle. I can see hints of his father around the nose, and myself in the eyes and hair. But my hair was never exactly that shade of inky brown, nor were my eyes ever quite that clear, sparkling blue, and his nose is much straighter and more chiseled than Drogo's ever dreamed of being.

Although the three branches of hobbitkind have become so mingled over the ages that one can barely tell them apart anymore, I think that, somehow or other, Frodo came out more or less pure Fallohide. It shows in his build -- which I can tell already will be tallish and slim -- as well as his fair appearance and the fact that he seems more interested in scholarship than in crafts. He learned his letters earlier than most, at his own insistence, not ours, and whenever we lose track of him, we invariably find him sooner or later curled up somewhere by himself with a book. Neither Drogo nor I ever have more to do with books than we must, so where Frodo could have gotten this habit is beyond me.

Still, for all that, he is unquestionably ours.

I had not intended to have only one child. I was the youngest of seven, myself, and I had always dreamed of presiding over a similarly large yet close-knit brood of my own. I'd warned Drogo of that when he proposed to me, and when it didn't faze him I knew he was the one. But over fifteen years of marriage, the dream stubbornly refused to become fact.

Seven times I had conceived. Only once had a child of ours lived long enough to be named: a girl, Mira (after my mother, but more in the Baggins style). We found her a week later, dead in her crib; the midwife said she had simply stopped breathing. Two others, a boy and another girl, were stillborn. The others never even quickened.

One might find it understandable, then, that during that early spring of 1368, when I realized I was carrying again, I felt no joy, only dread. I delayed telling Drogo until after I had begun to show.

We took no chances. The midwife confined me to bed through much of it. It was a difficult time. I was miserable, and I'm sure I made poor Drogo's life even more so. Even the fact that the child continued to grow and move within my swelling body was hardly a comfort, after the disappointments we had suffered. We didn't even talk about names.

I went into labor late on September 20th, and remained thus throughout the 21st. It was an hour before dawn on the 22nd when Frodo entered the world at last. I'm told that I nearly didn't pull through. The midwife warned both of us afterward, very emphatically, that I must not get pregnant again.

But this baby, at least, seemed strong and healthy, although it took us well nigh a month, and many reassurances that he showed no sign that he might not continue to thrive as he had been, before we began to relax, stop fearing the worst, and simply enjoy his presence. I used to spend hours, it seemed, just gazing raptly at his face as I held him, unable to believe that this wonder had come out of me.

Frodo will never know from me that his life almost cost me mine, although he must wonder at times why I don't seem quite as strong as the other children's mothers. I tire too quickly to chase him about for long, and I tend to let Drogo handle the physical aspects of play -- and discipline. For Frodo is a sweet child, but make no mistake, he can be a handful when he gets bored, which is usually whenever there is nothing in the immediate vicinity to challenge his intellect.

I dote on him, I admit it. Partly, I believe, it is because all the pent-up love that I would have shared out among his siblings has instead been poured solely onto him. Partly it is to offset Drogo's reserve -- don't mistake me, I know he loves Frodo every bit as much as I do, but he has never been particularly demonstrative, even with me. I am trying to get him to be a little more open, for Frodo is a sensitive lad and needs affection. I think, though, that Drogo is finally starting to thaw somewhat; I saw him ruffle Frodo's hair the other day, and I also saw how Frodo beamed, soaking up the gesture like a flower soaks up rain.

And perhaps it is also because of an uneasy feeling I have had since he was born, for no reason I can name, a feeling that Frodo's life will be a difficult one, and he will need every ounce of love he can find to strengthen him and see him through.

Like every mother, I wonder what my child will be like as an adult. I imagine him, in my mind's eye, grown tall and handsome, a hobbit to be reckoned with. I try to see him on his wedding day, and visiting us afterwards from time to time, bringing his wife and their children.

But sometimes after I have been conjuring these blissful images, a shiver runs through me, and I think to myself, It will never happen. I don't know why. I don't really have any fear of losing him, now. He's never had anything worse than a cold, or the normal bumps and bruises and occasional skinned knees of childhood. Yet it is enough to make me try to curb my foresight, uncertain as it is.

My dreams are another story. In them, he is grown. Once I saw him walking in an ethereal golden landscape of strange and beautiful trees, with wonder on his face as he gazed about him. Another time I saw him standing beside a rocky cliff, his hand clutching something at his chest while he glared sternly downward at something or someone I could not see. And in another one, I saw him standing on what looked like -- a boat? no, a ship -- holding up a bright light in one hand as he got smaller and smaller in the growing darkness.

I know that Frodo has had strange dreams himself. He told me one time, when he was eight, that he had heard the Sea. I asked him what it sounded like, and he made childish swooshing noises in reply.

"How do you know that's the Sea?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know how," he said simply. "I just know."

"Well, no hobbit has ever heard the Sea, or seen it either, and come back to tell of it, so I was just wondering."

"I did hear it!" he insisted, sounding a bit upset that I didn't take his word for it. So I hugged him, told him I believed him, and let him have an extra biscuit for tea as a peace offering.

Now he is eleven, and will be twelve this autumn. We are visiting Brandy Hall, my home smial, for the occasion of my nephew Milo Burrows' coming of age. It will be good for Frodo to be surrounded by people other than just his parents, I think. And there are plenty of adults about to keep an eye on him while Drogo and I seize the opportunity to slip out and be alone together.

We managed to do just that tonight, leaving Frodo in the charge of Sara and Esme, though our escape was not quite a clean one. He came running after us just as we were heading off at sunset with a bottle of Old Winyards.

"Mum! Da! Where are you going?" Frodo threw his arms tightly around me, as I exchanged an amused glance with Drogo. We had already told him we were going out after supper.

"We are taking a walk, sweetling," I said, stroking his hair. "Down to the river."

"Are you going on a boat?"

"Perhaps."

"Can I come?" Frodo's eyes were huge with hope.

Drogo spoke up with a smile. "Not this time, Frodo. I'm sorry. Now, none of that," he scolded mildly as the boy predictably let out a groan of disappointment. "You know how nice it is sometimes to be by yourself, don't you? Well, sometimes grownups like to be by themselves too."

"Please? I'll be quiet. I can be real quiet when I want." Frodo turned The Look on his father. Naturally he had discovered very early that he could sometimes get what he wanted just with a soulful gaze at some susceptible adult, and those eyes of his gave him a particular advantage of which he had to be at least somewhat aware.

However, I know Frodo's tricks, and I have a counter-weapon. I lowered myself so that our heads were on a level, pointedly imitating his wide-eyed expression until he giggled despite himself. I laughed too, and hugged him. "I know you can be quieter than the quietest baby mouse, sweetling," I said. "But we're leaving for home tomorrow, and what with all the rain there's been during our visit, this is going to be the only time your da and I can have a walk together on our own while we're here."

Frodo wasn't beaten yet. He made one last attempt. "But I like the river too. Sara and Mac took me boating one time. It was fun. I caught a fish."

"I remember."

"I'll tell you what, Frodo," Drogo said, squatting down on the other side of him despite the bad knee which has been acting up lately. "We'll come back to Brandy Hall in September, and we'll have your twelfth birthday party here. We can all three of us go out on a boat then. How does that sound?"

"All right," Frodo murmured, his eyes downcast just enough to let us know what an enormous concession he was making.

"There's a good lad." Drogo patted his head and straightened, his knee creaking, just as Esmeralda appeared in the doorway.

"There you are!"

"He was just seeing us off, Esme," I told her with a smile. "Be good for Cousin Esme while we're gone, Frodo. You mind her and Cousin Sara like you would me and your da. I'll come to fetch you after we get back."

"All right."

One last kiss from each of us, and Frodo finally let us go. I felt his eyes upon us as Drogo and I walked off, hand in hand. As we left the circle of soft lamplight shining from the door, Drogo began to whistle.

I would not trade my life for anything.

For Eyes to See That Can
Author: Rowan
Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.
Rating: G
Note: As a reader, I prefer completed stories over works in progress. However, I'm now taking the risk of posting a WIP myself, justifying it because this is not really one continuing story but a series of short stand-alones grouped under one title. I hope to go through every major character who had some significant interaction with Frodo, but please forgive me in advance if I run out of ideas and just stop.
Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 2: Bilbo Baggins, May 1389

"Is it true?" Frodo demanded, large blue eyes snapping sparks of suspicion and fury, fists clenching at his sides, as he confronted me in the largest parlor in Brandy Hall, where I sat with Master Rorimac discussing some final formalities.

I blinked. I had gotten to know my young cousin quite well in the nine years since the accident that had claimed his parents. But I had never seen him angry -- not at me, or at least, not openly. I supposed in a way it was a good sign, that Frodo felt he could allow negative emotion to show and not have to be on his best behavior all the time. Yet this was quite unexpected.

"Frodo," Rory rumbled warningly, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

Usually that tone was enough by itself to bring any fractious youngster to heel -- particularly Frodo, who was all too aware of his insecure status as a ward of the Hall, son of Rory's beloved sister or not. But this time Frodo didn't even seem to hear.

"Is it?" He advanced on me a step, and for a moment I was reminded of Gandalf in one of his tempers. I supposed I should thank my lucky stars that Frodo couldn't turn me into a toad.

Rory raised his voice. "Frodo, that's enough!" He reached up, grabbed the boy's shirtsleeve, and yanked him backward, away from me. Frodo looked startled; quite possibly he hadn't noticed there was anyone else in the room. "What do you mean, bursting in here and shouting at your cousin when he and I are in the middle of important business? You were raised better than that, not that anyone would know it, the way you behave sometimes!" He gave the sleeve a shake for emphasis. "Apologize, now."

Frodo was beet red by this time. He stared at the floor and mumbled something.

"Speak up." Rory shook him again.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said, a little louder.

"You ought to be. Now go to your room."

I spoke up. "Rory, a moment, please." Frodo had turned to go, but halted, his back stiff, as Rory looked at me. "We can finish our business later, if you don't mind. I'd like to know what's got the boy so upset."

After a long pause, Rory nodded. "Very well, Bilbo. You're the one wanting to take responsibility for him. I guess now's as good a time as any to find out exactly what you're getting into. Frankly, I wouldn't blame you one bit if you decided to back out after this little...display of his. I'll be in my study. Call me when you're done." He went out. Frodo stood watching him go, the tension never leaving his frame for a moment.

"Sit down, Frodo," I said quietly.

Slowly, he turned, walked over to the chair Rory had just vacated, and perched there, on the edge. He didn't meet my eyes.

"Now, what is this about?" If something had provoked Frodo into this outburst, it must be earth-shattering indeed, at least to him. He's not exactly given to such fits and storms, but tends more to keep everything inside.

Frodo swallowed, but spoke civilly. "I just wanted to know if it was true, what they were saying."

"Well, I can't tell you yes or no if I don't know what it was 'they' said, now can I? And who are 'they', by the way?"

"Cousin Marmadas and someone else. Ferdinand Took, I think. I don't know him well, so I wasn't sure. I heard them gossiping. They didn't know I was there."

"You were eavesdropping?"

"No!" Frodo glared at me for a moment before dropping his gaze, his eartips going pink again. "Well, I suppose I was, but I didn't mean to. I was there first, after all. I was playing seek-and-chase with Merry and Brandey, and I was hiding from them, in the cellar."

I nodded to signal that I accepted his story so far. I knew that Frodo usually divided his time between reading and helping the adults, which often consisted of minding the younger children. He was like an extra unofficial brother to some of them, Merry especially.

Frodo went on. "Marmadas and Ferdinand came in to taste some of the new ale Uncle Rory had delivered yesterday, and they were talking. About you, especially the fact that you were planning to adopt me."

"What did they say?"

Frodo straightened, his eyes half-closed, obviously summoning his rather formidable memory. He can often recall things he has seen and heard in great detail, for quite a long time after they occurred, particularly if they made an impression on him. It is a talent that will serve him well if he should decide to become a writer of history (which is partly why I am encouraging him to do just that). Yet it may also be a curse to him, I can't help thinking.

He proceeded to recite the conversation as if it were part of a story; he even used slightly different voices to indicate changes in speakers. "Marmadas said, 'It's the talk of Hobbiton. I was just there on business, and the whole place was fair abuzz with it. Bilbo Baggins getting himself a new heir, all sudden-like.'

"'Really?' asked Ferdinand. 'I thought he was the confirmedest bachelor there was. Where would he dig up an heir? Unless it's something coming back to bite him on the backside, and he's making the best of it, so to speak?'

"'No, no, nothing like that,' said Marmadas. 'As a matter of fact, it's a boy who lives here, a cousin of both of ours. Frodo Baggins.'

"'Who?'

"'Don't tell me you don't know him. The orphan?'

"'Oh, wait. Pale little thing, eyes like saucers, looks like he'd blow away in a stiff breeze?'

"'That's him. Primula's lad. Seems old Bilbo's had his eye on him for quite some time; there's been a lot of visiting back and forth. A while back, he went to the solicitors in Hobbiton and had them start drawing up the papers for adopting the boy, if you can believe it. He's here now, talking with Rory. I imagine they're signing 'em right this minute.'

"'Well, I'll be,' said Ferdinand. Then he laughed. 'I don't believe it. He's finally found him a loophole.'

"'What loophole?' asked Marmadas.

"'It's not happened in the Shire in a long time, at least not in any of the great families, but there's a way that the head of a family, if he's got no issue of his own, can pass over the one who'd be his heir by the traditional route. You know how Otho Sackville-Baggins was all set to inherit from Bilbo, him being the only son of Bilbo's dad's next-oldest brother, even though he and Bilbo are like oil and water? Well, it's not all that well known, but a family head, like Bilbo is, can get around that by adopting a male heir of the same name. I used to study the law; that's how I know.'

"'Ah,' said Marmadas. 'And here's our little Frodo, all wrapped up in a neat package, like a present just for Bilbo. No wonder Bilbo always makes such a fuss over the two of them having the same birthday.'

"'Amazing how things work out, isn't it?'

"'Ruddy convenient, is what it is. For both of 'em. You should have seen how Frodo perked up after Bilbo started paying attention to him. Can't say as I blame him, though. I would, too, if some rich relation decided I was worth using to score off his unfavoritest cousin.'"

Finally Frodo opened his eyes and looked steadily, accusingly, at me. "They laughed, and went on to other things, and then they left."

I kept calm, though inside I was seething. I'd been afraid of this. Oh, I was well aware of the raised eyebrows and the excited whispers that had run throughout the Shire, especially Hobbiton, since I started the proceedings. Most people who knew something of the law seemed to find my cleverness highly amusing. Of course, Otho and Lobelia were fit to be tied, and were fighting it, but most agreed that they didn't have a leg to stand on, and that I had a perfect right to adopt someone if I wanted.

But I had been hoping that the talk of this aspect of it wouldn't reach Frodo's ears, at least not until after he was well settled with me, and much more sure of things than he was now. As it was, he had spent far too many years as nobody's child, with scarred past and uncertain future, for this not to have shaken him to the core. Inwardly, I scolded myself for letting this happen, for not having had the courage to take him in long ago and spare him those lonely years.

He was waiting for a response, for some reassurance, so I said at last, "I'm sorry, my boy, that you had to hear that."

"So it is true? I'm a -- loophole?" Frodo's voice had gone very quiet, a sign that he was fighting tears.

I thought quickly. He deserved the truth, and besides, we had agreed long ago that there were never to be any secrets between us.

"No," I told him firmly. "I won't lie to you; I do admit that technically Marmadas and Ferdinand are correct. You see, not only are Otho and I 'oil and water', but I find the thought of him, his shrew of a wife, and that odious son of theirs living in my home repugnant. I've spent a lot of sleepless nights worrying about the ways they would use my money once they got their claws on it, and how they would treat my tenants and my employees. So of course I have long been looking for a way to prevent that from happening, short of tying myself to a wife, although I would have done that if need be."

"And I'm the way?" To his credit, Frodo was still managing to remain calm, much more so than he had been a little while ago, though his tone was rather bitter. "You looked around for an orphan with the name Baggins, and I happened to fit the bill?"

"Frodo!" I said sharply. "Don't presume to guess my motives, lad. When was it that I first began coming to Brandy Hall to visit you especially? When did the presents and the walks and the Elvish lessons begin? Hm?"

He had the grace to flush as he looked down and admitted, "Not very long after Mum and Da drowned. A year or two, maybe."

"And when was it that I told you that I wanted to adopt you?"

Frodo looked at me quizzically, plainly wondering what I was leading up to. "Last fall, just after our birthday, the evening before I left Bag End for home again. You said, 'You had better come and live here, Frodo my lad, and then we can celebrate our birthday-parties comfortably together.'"

I nodded, remembering the rare gift of a purely joyous smile, free of the shadows of grief, that had lit Frodo's face at those words. "That's right. Well, as it happens, it was only after I began making inquiries with my solicitor about what it would take to adopt you that he mentioned the inheritance 'loophole', and that I might kill two birds with one stone, so to speak, with this procedure."

He was silent, pondering whether or not he should believe me, no doubt.

"And there is also this, Frodo. My solicitor made it clear that I didn't have to bring you to live with me if I didn't want to. The adoption could have been on paper only, though no less binding. If either you or I preferred that you remain in Brandy Hall, you would still be my heir, and still have all the same rights that you would have had if you had been my blood son; and neither Otho nor anybody else would be able to do a thing about it. You may ask any solicitor you wish to, if you don't trust my word. Just don't ask Ferdinand, as his understanding of the law seems to be woefully incomplete."

I could see a tear at last tracing its way down Frodo's cheek, before he unexpectedly left his chair to kneel before me, clasping my knees in a tight hug. "I'm sorry, Uncle Bilbo," he said thickly.

I stroked his dark hair, and patted his shoulders as they heaved with his sobs. "Dear lad, it's all right."

"But I was horrible to you! Can you forgive me? I'll understand if you don't -- if you don't want to adopt me any more."

"Don't be silly! I've gone to a lot of trouble to arrange it, after all. It would be a shame to let all that bother go to waste, all because of a bit of temper." I gently pushed him away a little to look into his eyes. "The question is, can you forgive me?"

Frodo stared at me, clearly thunderstruck. "What? For-forgive you? What for?"

"For not doing it sooner. For not taking you away from here when I first thought of it, which was right after the funeral, when everyone was deciding where you should go. I had a duty to you, Frodo, because I was head of the Baggins family, and you were a Baggins. But I let your mother's family talk me into leaving you with them. They told me I knew nothing of caring for a child -- which was true enough, I'll grant, though I could have learned -- and you should stay in Buckland, the only home you had ever known. And at the time, it made sense to me. Especially since neither of your father's siblings was, let's say, able to take you." (Dora, Drogo's sister, was an odd spinster who didn't care much for children; Dudo, his brother, had a daughter who had never gotten along with Frodo.)

Frodo took the handkerchief I gave him. "But it hasn't been that bad here, Uncle, truly it hasn't," he argued, though without much conviction. "I've got a roof over my head, a full belly and clothes on my back."

And plenty of reminders every day of how grateful you ought to be for that much, I thought. I had done a bit of digging, suffice it to say, and did not much like what I had found. Frodo had indeed been housed, fed, and clothed, and there were people here who cared for him -- like Rory and Esme, and Esme's little son Merry, who positively doted on Frodo and followed him about like a pup. But in a bustling place like Brandy Hall, full of families, and children who had parents, it was only too easy for one orphaned lad, particularly a quiet sort like Frodo, to be overlooked.

As a matter of fact, I knew he'd gotten himself into trouble several times through this lack of adequate supervision, most notably with Farmer Maggot -- a little matter of stolen mushrooms, it seemed. Frodo had apparently toed the line ever since then, but the basic problem remained. He needed a situation where he could receive the full attention and guidance of at least one adult, not somewhere where he was little more than a face in the crowd and a mouth to feed.

I still wasn't altogether sure that I was up to the task, but I was convinced now that I owed it to Frodo to at least try.

I refrained from pointing all this out to Frodo. The lad was already torn up enough, between seeing the truth of it and feeling obliged to defend the Hall nonetheless. Instead, I said gently, "I think it's about time for you to ask a little more from life than just a place to hang your hat, Frodo."

He sniffled, but managed a watery smile. "I don't have a hat."

"Then I'll get you one, for our next birthday." I ruffled his hair for emphasis, then slid my hand down to the back of his neck to pull him closer as I leaned forward to kiss his brow. "Unfortunately, my lad, people love to gossip, and it makes some of them feel better to find the bad in everything." I know that, for one thing, tongues have been wagging for years about Drogo and Primula and why they died. The most popular, and malicious, theory is the one involving an argument on the boat, ending in mutual murder. The fact that no one had ever heard so much as a cross word between them in life makes no difference.

As if losing them weren't enough, Frodo has had to listen to these horrible things about his parents ever since their deaths, until even he has started to wonder if there might be some truth in them. He doesn't need that. What he needs is a fresh start.

I had been about to add more, when suddenly I had another thought. Frodo saw the change in my expression. He peered at me and frowned. "What is it, Uncle?"

I gave him a wry smile. "I'm afraid it just now occurred to me that by moving in with me, you will most likely only be essentially trading one set of rumors for another. Are you certain you want your name attached to the company of old Mad Baggins? They'll say -- let's see...they'll say I didn't really adopt you from the Brandybucks, but bought you from the Elves." He chuckled. I went on. "They'll say there was some sort of blackmail involved. Or that you charmed me into adopting you so you could get my money. Or that it's all part of a plot between you and Gandalf to do away with me."

"I haven't even met Gandalf!" Frodo protested, but he was smiling, seeing the humor in it.

"Do you think they'll know that, or care?"

Frodo laid his head on my knee. "I don't care. Let them say whatever they want. We'll know the truth."

He couldn't see my proud smile as I stroked his hair lightly, but I'm sure he heard it in my voice. "That's right, my boy. We'll know."

***

Note: In LOTR, Tolkien often has one of his characters recite conversations in full when telling someone else what happened, so that's what I was thinking when I had Frodo do it.

For Eyes to See That Can
Author: Rowan
Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.
Rating: G
Note: As a reader, I prefer completed stories over works in progress. However, I'm now taking the risk of posting a WIP myself, justifying it because this is not really one continuing story but a series of short stand-alones grouped under one title. I hope to go through every major character who had some significant interaction with Frodo, but please forgive me in advance if I run out of ideas and just stop.
Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 3: Samwise Gamgee, August 1392

Folk can say what they like. And they do, oh yes. Seems every time the talk about Mr. Bilbo Baggins and his strange ways begins to die down a little, something else happens and it starts right back up again. Either he goes off wandering to meet some Elves in the woods, or he adopts his cousin, or he gets a visit from Mr. Gandalf or some dwarves, and they're off, meaning the folk who've got nothing better to do than talk.

Anyway, as I was saying, folk can say what they like, but far as I reckon, I'm the luckiest gardener's lad there ever was in the Shire, to have a master like Mr. Bilbo. One who says, "Good morning!" to me or my Gaffer just as hearty as you please, as if it don't matter to him none that we ain't gentry like he is. One who slips me sweets whenever the Gaffer takes me up to Bag End on business, bringing pies from my mum or needing to talk to him about what to plant next. One who says when I get a little older he'll teach me my letters, and I know he means it too. Mr. Bilbo don't ever say he'll do something and then not do it.

Mr. Bilbo's been living in Bag End for longer than I've been alive. Longer even than my Gaffer's been alive, and my Gaffer is getting to be an old hobbit. You'd never know to look at the two of them how much older Mr. Bilbo is than my Gaffer. He's a hundred and one, if you can believe it, Mr. Bilbo is, and he'll be a hundred and two next month. I wonder if, when I get old, Mr. Bilbo will still be there up on the Hill? I'd like to think he would.

Mr. Frodo, now, him I don't know so well. Leastways, I know now, since what happened yesterday, that even though I thought I knew him, I didn't really.

It ain't that he was unfriendly, in the beginning. He just always seemed to hold himself back somehow. He'd greet me and smile, but then he'd disappear and let Mr. Bilbo handle whatever business we had with him.

"I think he's just shy, Sam," my mum told me when I asked her about it, not long after Mr. Frodo moved into Bag End.

"A gentlehobbit bein' shy of a gardener lad?" I asked, thinking it were the strangest thing I'd ever heard.

"I know it sounds a mite funny, but some folk are that way, no matter who to. Mr. Frodo, he may be a gentlehobbit and Mr. Bilbo's heir and all, but he's also young and doesn't have a mum or dad, and he's gone from being surrounded by relations to having just Mr. Bilbo to look after him, in a place that has different ways than what he's used to. Why, you might be shy too, if you left everything you knew and moved to Buckland."

I thought about that for a good while, and it made sense even to a ten-year-old like me.

She patted my arm. "Don't you worry, Sam. Give him time, and just be there to help him, and once he sees you're willing to be his friend as much as you can be, he'll thaw out, I expect. Mind you, it's important that you get along with him, Sam. He's going to be your master one of these days, after all."

So I took her words to heart, and I started doing whatever I could think of to let Mr. Frodo know that he didn't need to be shy no more. The first time I smiled specially at him, on one of my trips up the Hill with the Gaffer, he looked a mite taken aback, but then he smiled back, bigger than I'd seen him do before. A real "pleased you noticed me" smile instead of a polite "how do you do, when can I leave" smile. I could even see a gap in his front teeth that I'd not noticed before, maybe because I'd never seen his teeth.

I did other things too. Like bringing him little presents such as pretty rocks I'd found, or one time a turtle shell that had lost its turtle. I also talked nice to him about how fine he was looking today in that new weskit, and how pretty the day was, and would he like to see my favorite fishing hole, the one where hardly no one else ever went because it was too far from the road?

And my mum was right. Mr. Frodo did start to thaw out. At first he didn't seem to quite know how to act, but he'd look at what I brought or come where I invited him, and say nice things back. I don't reckon I know exactly when it went from his being polite to his really seeming to enjoy my company, but it don't matter, I 'spect, because I started to enjoy his too. He was every bit as nice as Mr. Bilbo, really; he was just quieter about it, and took longer to decide about people.

One day, he came out into the garden while I was just finishing a bit of weeding. He had a book under his arm. I thought he was going to say hello and move on by himself to do his reading. He did say hello, but instead of leaving he stood there watching me.

"Something I can do for you, Mr. Frodo?" I asked.

He cleared his throat. "No, I just wondered if you might like to hear me read some of this book. It's about Elves, and Bilbo says you like stories about them."

My heart leaped just like it always does when I hear the word "Elves", and I smiled. "I do indeed, Mr. Frodo. Just let me pull out these last few weeds, and I'll be with you shortly."

We went down to a field on Mr. Bilbo's lands, one that had a big spreading tree that gave plenty of shade, and we sat there, and Mr. Frodo read aloud. He had a pleasing kind of voice that sort of flowed over the words like water over rocks, and it never came out flat nor rushed like some people's do when they read; he put feeling into the words, making them come alive. I'd never had no one read to me better, not even Mr. Bilbo, and I said so.

"Thank you, Sam," he said, and he had that smile that lit up his face again.

After that, every so often, when I wasn't busy in the garden or Mr. Frodo was done with his studies and wasn't off tramping with his uncle, or the two of them didn't have company, we would go out to the tree and read. We always took food and made a picnic out of it. I made sure to carry the bulk of it, knowing my place and all, though Mr. Frodo always tried to take at least half, saying he might be the gentlehobbit, but he was older and could carry more. Then finally he cottoned on that that only made me more set on carrying most, if not all, no matter how heavy it was. It got to be a bit of a joke between us.

Oftentimes we'd go down to the market together too, and that was what we were doing yesterday when what happened happened.

The day before, I had done all the work in the garden. Truth to tell, there wasn't much to do, but it was the first time I had done it all by myself. The Gaffer let me do it to test me, and I did what Mr. Bilbo called an "exceptional" job. It was the first time I had gotten paid money, too. Mr. Bilbo himself had pressed two whole copper pieces into my hand -- a lot for one day, but he winked and said one of them was a "bonus" -- and Mr. Frodo had offered to help me look for something to buy while I was helping him do some of the regular shopping for Bag End.

We stopped at the tanner's booth where my eye was caught by a brown leather belt. It looked to be my size, and it wasn't too fancy nor too plain; it had a real metal buckle, too. I touched it, feeling how soft but strong it was. My own belt was getting worn, and it only had a wood buckle.

Mr. Frodo was looking at it too when the tanner spotted us, so the tanner spoke to him, maybe thinking I was just there to help my future master. "That's a good belt, Mr. Frodo, but a bit short for you, as you can see. I've got some finer-looking ones over here that you might find more suitable."

Mr. Frodo smiled at him. "I'd be happy to look at them another time, Mr. Willowby. Sam is the one doing the shopping, this visit. What do you think, Sam?"

Before I could answer, a voice interrupted.

"Well, lookee what we have here."

It was Pimple, Lotho Sackville-Baggins that is. Lotho (I don't honor him with a Mr., at least not in my head) is first cousin once removed to Mr. Bilbo, and third cousin to Mr. Frodo. Not that you'd know they were related at all, the way Lotho acts. I hate to say it of a gentlehobbit, but he's mean, no getting round it, and he hates Mr. Frodo most specially.

Lotho stepped nearer, a sneer making his face even less handsome. He's got pimples, which is why he's called Pimple, and no doubt that's some of why he hates Mr. Frodo. Not that Mr. Frodo is to blame for Lotho's pimples; I think it's that Mr. Frodo doesn't have them himself, and never did, and that makes Lotho jealous. Then of course, there's the biggest reason, which everyone knows: the fact that the Sackville-Bagginses were hanging their hopes on getting hold of Mr. Bilbo's wealth and home when he passes (if he ever does), but then Mr. Bilbo went and chose Mr. Frodo as his heir instead.

"If it isn't that Brandybuck who calls himself my cousin." Lotho said the name "Brandybuck" as if it tasted bad. He always calls Mr. Frodo that, even though Mr. Frodo is just as much a Baggins as he is.

Mr. Frodo's lips tightened for a moment into a flat line, but then he smoothed his expression. "Lotho," he said with a bare little nod.

Lotho folded his arms, the sneer never leaving his face. "What brings you down the Hill? Run out of musty old books and fanciful tales, and thought you might actually get out and see what the sun looked like?"

"As you can see," Mr. Frodo replied, glancing down at the bag he had slung over his shoulder, in such a way as to make Lotho's eyes follow his, "I'm out shopping. I do appreciate your being kind enough to take an interest, however. How is your dear mother? Did she send you out to add to her spoon collection?"

I didn't understand why Lotho's face should get even redder than it was already, or why he should look at Mr. Frodo as if he was picturing wringing his neck like a chicken's, when as far as I could tell Mr. Frodo was being polite enough, more so than Lotho ever was to him. (Though I was puzzled as to why Mr. Frodo had mentioned spoons.)

Mr. Willowby got my attention away from the two gentlehobbits just then. I could hear their voices going on talking while I dickered for the belt, Lotho's sounding waspish and Mr. Frodo's sounding mild as ever. I did my deal, and started to hand over one of my coppers.

Lotho saw, and puffed himself up. Thinking back on it, maybe he wasn't getting as much fun out of pestering Mr. Frodo as he'd hoped, and thought he'd try something else to make himself feel good. "Where did you ever get a whole copper, brat?" he barked.

I blinked, the coin still in my hand. "I -- I -- " But words failed me as I gaped at him, not sure what he was meaning.

"Stole it, didn't you?" A nasty smile was spreading across Lotho's face. "Never saw a Gamgee with better than brass, and you're too young to have earned it. Really, Frodo, whatever do you and Uncle Bilbo see in that family? I'd have shown them the gate years ago."

I glanced at Mr. Frodo, and saw a look on his face I'd never seen before. He was gazing evenly at Lotho, brow lowered and eyes narrowed so that I could only see slits of blue.

"Begging your pardon, sir," I said quickly, scared for no reason I could name. "But Mr. Bilbo gave me this copper himself, after I worked all day in the garden alone."

Lotho snorted. "A likely story. But I'll be generous. If you hand it over so I can return it to Uncle Bilbo myself, I'll not mention your name." He held out his hand. I just stared at it. He lost his patience and grabbed my wrist.

I didn't know Mr. Frodo could move so fast. Like lightning, he grabbed hold of Lotho's wrist, the one on the hand that held mine.

"That's ENOUGH!" he said, in a voice loud enough to make heads turn all over the square. People began gathering round, goggling at what was going on. Two gentlehobbits having a disagreement right out in front of everybody, and not caring who saw, weren't something that happened every day. "I don't know why you decided to try to stir up trouble today, Lotho, and frankly, I don't care. But if you value your face, I advise you to leave, now, or it will grow a few knuckles."

"You forget yourself, cousin," Lotho spat, but then he howled as Mr. Frodo's fingers began digging into a tender spot on his wrist. He let go of me, and Mr. Frodo let go of him, only to snatch hold of the front of Lotho's shirt and pull him close to glare into his eyes.

"You may talk to me however you want," Mr. Frodo said. Now his voice was so soft that only Lotho and I, and maybe Mr. Willowby, could hear it. "If it pleases you to call me a Brandybuck, go ahead. That name is not an insult, no matter how hard you try to make it one. As a matter of fact, I am proud of my mother's family, and where I came from. If you care to try any worse names, be my guest. Your opinion of me is no more to me than a duck quacking. But," and he shook Lotho, "Sam is the son of my uncle's most valued servant, and he is my friend. Lay so much as one finger on him again, and you will regret it."

Everyone, and by that I mean me as well, was gaping at Mr. Frodo as if he'd sprouted another head. But there was not a soul there who doubted him, I'd lay any money on that. No matter that two of Mr. Frodo would have added up to one Lotho. There's more to a fight than size, after all.

When Mr. Frodo finished his piece, he thrust Lotho away from him so that Lotho staggered and would have fallen except that the side of the tanner's booth stopped him. He straightened up and fussed with his shirt as if Mr. Frodo had gotten it dirty. I almost laughed at him trying to act the dandy now.

"Really," Lotho said. "The manners of those people from across the river are atrocious. I've half a mind -- "

"Obviously," Mr. Frodo cut in. It was a hot day, but his voice could have frozen a pond. He just stood there looking at Lotho until Lotho gave him one last sneer, stuck his nose in the air, and made off.

The crowd began to break up and go about their own business. I think some of them were a bit disappointed there hadn't been a fight, but there were those who smiled at Mr. Frodo or touched their foreheads with a new respectfulness as they left.

Mr. Frodo turned to me. His smile was back. "Well, Sam, have you got your new belt? We still have some more shops to visit, and Bilbo specially asked that I check to see if Mrs. Goldworthy has any of those new inks he ordered."

"Yes, sir," I said, finally letting out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding, as I fastened my new belt around me. I pointed to the sack he had over his shoulder. "I can carry that for you, Mr. Frodo, begging your pardon."

"You could, but it's only going to get heavier, you know."

"I don't mind, Mr. Frodo. I can carry a lot of weight, for all I'm only twelve."

"Oh, I believe you, Sam, but really, I'd feel quite useless if I let you carry all of that. What would people say if they saw us?"

I thought about that a bit. "They'd say, 'There goes Mr. Frodo Baggins and his Sam.'"

He laughed. But I meant it. I'd never thought to have a gentlehobbit call me friend, but it had happened today. And that same gentlehobbit had stuck up for me and not for himself. I might be just twelve, but even I know how rare that is. Then again, Mr. Frodo is a rare soul.

I smiled, and reached out for the strap of the sack. He sighed big, meaning he didn't mean it, and gave it to me, then ruffled my hair.

"Shall we?"

"Yes, Mr. Frodo." And I followed him.

***

Note: I admit to being inspired by a scene in Anne McCaffrey's Dragonsinger, with a couple of lines from Dragonquest (same author) thrown in for good measure.

Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.

Rating: G

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 4: Gandalf the Grey, December 1392

It was near the end of the year, on the day that the hobbits would have reckoned as December 26, 1392. There was no snow on this raw grey evening, only leaden skies and many a gust of icy wind, as I trudged up the stone path to the round green door of Bag End. As was my custom, I knocked with the end of my staff, and waited, my breath swirling in puffs of steam before me.

I have come to know the hobbits of the Shire very well over the centuries, though they have no idea who I truly am. To them, I am simply Gandalf, the mysterious wandering conjuror who pops in and out of their land purely at whim. If I have other business, they neither know nor wish to know.

Yet they hold an odd fascination for me. Though their lives now are so peaceful that they do not even remember having had it any other way, I have been among them during harder times, and have seen their paradoxical strength. They are at once innocent yet possessed of their own kind of earthy wisdom; comfort-loving yet astonishingly tough; humble yet heroic at need. (Their pipeweed is admittedly another attraction.)

Bilbo Baggins is at once an example and an exception. When I first met him, during his childhood, I heard his melody, his part in the Great Music, and knew it would be a significant one. He has proved me right. I was most impressed by the way he acquitted himself as part of the successful venture of Thorin Oakenshield to win back the Dwarven kingdom of Erebor. If not for Bilbo, Durin's Folk would have no king, Dale would still be abandoned, and Smaug would still be ensconced in the Lonely Mountain -- a weapon that the Enemy would most assuredly have wielded against the north in the war I felt certain was coming within the next few decades.

Bilbo and I have remained friends, though at the time of this visit, it was now over twenty-five years since we had spoken. I had been neglecting him rather shamefully, especially given the fact that although, as I note, Bilbo had done remarkably well in his travels and returned a much wiser and better (and richer) hobbit, still there was something that bothered me about just what else he had come home with. I was not certain what I hoped to find now: that he was the same, or that he had changed.

The door finally opened, yet it was not Bilbo who stood there. It was a young, dark-haired hobbit, who blinked at me in astonishment.

"Gandalf?" he gasped, his jaw practically hitting the floor.

I had to take a moment to master myself. I was as startled as the lad, although for different reasons. I hid it by favoring him with my most imperious gaze, sweeping up and down his diminutive form. "The same," I said at last. "Is Mr. Bilbo Baggins at home?"

Closing his mouth and swallowing hard, the lad shook his head. "He is at the Gamgees'. Um...but please, come in. You must be very cold."

"Thank you, my lad," I replied. With as much dignity as I could, despite the fact that I had to remove my hat and stoop, I entered Bag End.

The place was no different from when I had seen it last. The only thing unfamiliar to me was the lad. He looked to be in the midst of the changes leading to adulthood, which would put him in his early to mid-twenties, if I recalled such things correctly as his people reckoned them. He seemed a bit dazed still, but took my hat and staff when I offered them to him, and set them nearby.

"Er, would you like anything? There's plenty of food left over from supper."

"Anything you have will be most appreciated," I said. "But first, might I inquire as to whose kindness I am enjoying?"

The lad flushed. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Frodo Baggins, at your service." He bowed slightly.

I smiled. "Then I am pleased to meet you, Frodo. It seems that I, at any rate, am known to you. Bilbo has told you stories, no doubt?"

"Yes, sir, he has," Frodo replied with a jerky nod. I followed him to the kitchen, and carefully lowered myself to sit at the hobbit-sized table. I had forgotten how uncomfortable it was, yet I ignored the awkward angle of my legs and watched Frodo as he scurried about fetching plates, mugs, and silver. I noted with amusement that he set out two places, though surely he had already supped. It is the height of rudeness by hobbit standards not to join a guest in a meal, but in truth I suspect this is because they never miss a chance to eat, given the least pretext.

Something occurred to me. "Pardon me for asking, but might you be Bilbo's son?" Bilbo had been a confirmed bachelor for as long as I had known him, but enough time had passed since our last meeting that it was entirely possible for him to have changed his mind, married, and raised a child to the age Frodo now appeared to be.

For some reason, Frodo seemed to hesitate, but then he shook his head briskly as he reached up to a high (for him) shelf. "No, sir. I, well, I suppose you could say I'm a nephew of his, of sorts."

I know how hobbits love to explain their family relationships, so I decided to put him at ease -- I could see his hands trembling with excitement from where I sat -- by asking for elucidation. "Of sorts?"

"Yes. Actually, my father was Bilbo's second cousin, and my mother was his first, so Bilbo is my first and second cousin once removed either way. But it's simpler to call each other 'uncle' and 'nephew', so that's what we usually do." Frodo dished out what proved to be a hearty beef and mushroom stew from the pot on the stove. It smelled delicious. "Would you prefer wine or ale?"

"Ale, thank you."

The stew was filling, just what I had needed, accompanied by bread, butter, cheese, and a generous slice of blueberry pie. Frodo served himself as well, though I noticed that he didn't actually eat much of his; whether because he wasn't hungry (a hobbit not hungry?) or because my presence made him nervous was difficult to tell. Several times I caught him surreptitiously watching me, as if he couldn't quite believe I was there in the flesh. His manners were impeccable, however: he must have been bursting with questions, but he refrained from pestering me while I was eating.

I studied him as well. He did not bear much family resemblance to Bilbo; in fact, I had never seen a hobbit who looked quite like Frodo. Where most hobbits his age were already rounding out, their faces broad and cheerful rather than beautiful, Frodo was comparatively slender and fair, his appearance attesting to a strong dose of Fallohide blood. His hands were delicately boned and refined in shape, though the nails were chewed almost to the quick. But unquestionably his most striking feature was his eyes. Not that blue eyes are terribly unusual among hobbits -- they run in some of the larger families such as the Hornblowers and the Brandybucks. Yet somehow, on Frodo, they looked positively exotic.

"When do you expect Bilbo home?" I asked at length, when my second bowl was finished.

"Oh, very soon now. Shall I clear that away, or do you want more?"

"No, I am quite satisfied. Thank you. That was the best meal I have had in weeks," I said sincerely.

Frodo's eyes became even wider, if that was possible. "But surely not!" he blurted, then flushed again as if realizing he was being impertinent. "I mean, well, Bilbo told me you travel all over Middle-earth. You must meet all sorts of people and get to have much grander things than this."

I smiled. "I do travel a lot, yes, and I also meet many people. However, most of my time is spent on the road where there are no towns, and no food available except what I take with me, or manage to forage. Believe me, after a month of nothing but waybread, jerky, and the last berries of the year, a bowl of Shire stew seems finer than an Elven feast."

For some reason, that seemed to break the ice. Frodo leaned forward, his earlier awe of me seemingly forgotten. "I imagine a wizard would be able to turn anything into any kind of food he wanted. But no, I suppose not," and his face fell slightly, "or else you would have done it during Bilbo's adventure with the Dwarves. I'd think he would mention that."

Only among hobbits, and sometimes Man-children, have I been on the receiving end of such frank curiosity about the more pragmatic aspects of wizardry. "No, you are right, my power is not of that sort," I agreed.

"What sort is it?" he asked promptly, eyes alight with eagerness.

I chuckled. "You are related to Bilbo, no doubt about it!"

I was still shaking my head in amusement -- and wondering how to answer his question in a way he could understand -- when the sounds of Bilbo's arrival drifted in from the foyer. A door opening, a rush of wind, the latch closing, the click of a walking stick, and a voice. "Frodo, I'm back! Have you left me any of that stew -- oh, my stars! Gandalf!" No doubt he had spied my hat and staff where Frodo had put them. There was the rapid patter of running feet, and Bilbo appeared.

"Gandalf!" he cried joyfully as his little arms embraced me tightly. "How delightful to see you again! It has been such a long time! You haven't brought any Dwarves this time, have you?"

"No, I am quite alone," I reassured him with a laugh, remembering that bizarre night when thirteen Dwarves had shown up on poor Bilbo's doorstep, a little over fifty years ago.

"Well, that is a relief, I must admit, not that I wouldn't be delighted to see Balin or any of the others again, as long as it was only one or two at a time! I do have a growing lad to feed now, after all." Bilbo chuckled and indicated Frodo, who ducked his head with a slightly embarrassed smile.

I raised an eyebrow. Frodo hadn't mentioned that he lived here; I had assumed he was visiting. "So you do," I remarked mildly, as if I'd known all along (I do have a reputation to keep up). "It seems as if things have changed for you, Bilbo. Some things, at any rate," I added, observing now -- with a chill I was hard pressed to conceal -- that indeed he seemed barely older than the last time we had met, though he would now be just over one hundred years old.

If my expression had changed at all, Bilbo did not seem to notice. "Well, I had been rather looking forward to introducing the two of you, but it looks as if you are already becoming acquainted. I trust Frodo has been a good host and has not been badgering you for stories, as he does me?"

As Frodo rolled his eyes behind Bilbo's back, I smiled. "No, we have been getting along quite admirably. I am rested, warm, and full of stew, after a long, cold, and weary day. And I think that that deserves a story, as a reward. What would you like to hear, Frodo?"

Without hesitation, as if he had already been pondering that question (which could partially explain his courteous silence while I ate), Frodo said, "Well, Bilbo has told me many things about you and the journey you took together, but he's never told me the story of how you met."

Before I could say anything, Bilbo jumped in. "That's because it's a terribly boring story," he said, a little too quickly. "You don't want to hear that one, I'm sure it'll put you straight to sleep, and you don't want to miss any of Gandalf's visit while he's here, do you?"

"I can cope with being bored, Uncle. I've sat through some of your birthday speeches."

I suppressed my laughter by busying myself hunting for my pipe. This was a quick one.

"The cheek," Bilbo grumbled. "Buckland will never be the same, and how Hobbiton will survive, I've no idea. Well, we'll let Gandalf decide, shall we?" Without waiting for Frodo's response, he turned to me. "Which shall it be? Our first meeting, or how you tricked the trolls? Yes, that's a good one. Dashedly clever, that was." He set the pipeweed jar beside my hand and sat, looking at me expectantly, obviously hoping to appeal to my sense of mercy, or, barring that, vanity.

I made a show of deliberately packing my pipe with just the right amount of leaf, and lighting it. Finally, I spoke. "It was old Gerontius Took's hundred-and-eleventh birthday party, and Bilbo here was just a snip of a lad..."

I continued, blithely ignoring Bilbo's groans of embarrassment as I related our first meeting. I had been sitting under a tree, the morning of the party, resting from the journey and enjoying the view into the Green Hill Country from the Great Smials, when a branch above me snapped, and suddenly I had a lap full of hobbit.

"...As a matter of fact, it was the memory of that meeting that caused me, years later, to think of Bilbo when Thorin needed a burglar for his expedition. For even though the branch had broken and ruined his attempt to get a look at me without me seeing him, still the fact that he had gotten so near in the first place spoke much for the stealth of hobbits."

"Or for the inattentiveness of wizards," Bilbo muttered. Whether or not he had meant me to hear was debatable, but I chose to let it pass.

Frodo was smiling. It was hard to tell which had delighted him more, the story or Bilbo's discomfiture at my telling it. Bilbo saw his expression and scowled at him. "If you don't wipe that smirk off your face, lad, I might decide to tell a few stories myself. Now off to bed with you."

"I'm not tired," protested Frodo, from behind his fist.

"Then you can read rather than sleep, if you prefer, but I haven't seen Gandalf since before you were born, and I'd like a talk with him without being interrupted for stories every ten minutes."

"I will be here at least a few days," I assured Frodo. "And something tells me I had probably ought to personally keep more of a eye on the Shire than I have been recently, so you will have plenty of chances."

Reluctantly Frodo rose, conceding defeat, and came over to kiss his uncle's cheek. "Good night, Uncle. Good night, Gandalf."

"Good night, Frodo," I said. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

He smiled, and for a moment it seemed almost as if there was a light shining, not on him, but through him. I blinked, startled, then looked more closely, but it was gone, and Frodo was leaving the room.

I turned to Bilbo, who was smiling after him. Probably his grumbling had all been a show to amuse his nephew, for there was genuine fondness and contentment in his eyes.

"I had never thought to see you as a parent, my friend," I commented. "It suits you."

Bilbo sighed happily. "It does, doesn't it?" He looked at me. "What did he tell you of the circumstances?"

"Nothing, only that you and he were -- how did he put it? -- first and second cousins."

"Once removed either way." Bilbo completed the phrase automatically; hobbits are sticklers for accuracy when it comes to their family trees. "I adopted him and made him my heir, three years ago."

"What of his parents, if I may ask?"

"They drowned in a boating accident when he was twelve." Bilbo sighed again, heavily this time. "His mother was a Brandybuck; it was her family who raised him afterwards, in Brandy Hall. They treated him kindly enough, I suppose, for the most part, but it was not the right sort of place for him. Too busy, too crowded, too easy to get lost in all that bustle. Finally, I convinced myself to do something about it, and give him a real home. And here we are."

"He seems to be thriving in your care, from the little I have seen so far," I commented.

"He is doing much better," Bilbo agreed. "Unfortunately, he had no one to truly unburden himself to for the better part of nine years, so he's learned all too well to hide and to keep everything bottled up. There are times when he gets into a certain mood and it's like pulling teeth to get more than two words out of him. Yet at other times he can charm the birds out of the trees. He's extremely bright, loves to read and walk, has quite the knack for languages, and -- I'm not sure how to put it, but he just has a way about him. You'll see once you get to know him. His younger cousins all adore him, and Sam, my gardener's lad, thinks the sun rises and sets with him. I don't know how I managed to deserve such luck, Gandalf, but I think I've got the best hobbit in the Shire here, under my roof."

I was glad beyond words that Bilbo had at last found someone to care for and to love, but as always, my mind was sifting through the ramifications. For some reason, I had the feeling that Bilbo's choice of heir might have a significance beyond his life and Frodo's, if what I suspected and dreaded turned out to be true. "I am happy for you, Bilbo," I said at last, gravely and carefully. "So, how much do you plan to leave to him when the time comes?" I deliberately did not say "when you die".

Bilbo looked at me as if he couldn't fathom why I needed to ask. "Why, everything, of course. Bag End, my remaining fortune, the family headship, all of it."

"And the things you brought home from your journey?"

"Well, yes, except perhaps for some small oddments."

I pulled a couple more times on my pipe, and let out the smoke. "And your ring?"

Bilbo puffed out an annoyed breath. "Yes, perhaps that too. Why do you want to know?"

"Peace, my friend," I soothed. "I am merely curious. Does he know that you have it?"

"Of course. I've told him everything. We have no secrets."

I nodded, and let the matter drop. The ring had been a rather delicate subject between us in the past, and I had no wish to end the evening by arguing with Bilbo. For now I had to content myself.

We went on to other topics; I caught him up on news of the outside world, or at least as much as I thought would be of interest to him, and he told me what had been happening in his own life -- much of it, of course, involving Frodo.

Eventually we both went to bed, I in a special room that Bilbo had made up years ago to accommodate me or any other taller visitors he might have. Yet, weary as I was, I could not sleep. Restless, I got up and prowled through the hole, quietly opening doors, until I saw a bed with a dark head barely peeking out from a mound of blankets. As I stood there, Frodo turned over in his sleep, and I could see his young face.

Though I have many limitations placed on me, limitations which I accepted when I undertook my charge, I do still have some means of perceiving things that are beyond mortal understanding. It is also given to me that I shall know -- not directly, but like a humming in my bones -- when I have met someone who may play an important role in my task.

I had had that feeling when Bilbo dropped into my lap, all those years ago, and now, I had it again, even more strongly. I opened myself to the Great Music, seeking to hear what it might tell me of Frodo Baggins.

A moment or an eternity later, I came back with a start and a gasp. Such a melody this one had! Bright with hope, heavy with sorrow. Unfinished, yes; its completion would be built on his choices. But a deeper or a more complex and bittersweet song, I had not heard even in the presence of the eldest Elves; at least, judging from the notes that I heard, and they were just the beginning.

How was this possible? What could it mean? This was a hobbit, after all. A creature of quiet sunshine and tilled meadows, meant for peace and laughter. Was this why I had felt drawn to make the acquaintance of this gentle folk -- because it was from among them that one would come who could change the fate of Arda?

It could be no simple coincidence that this youngster was Bilbo's kinsman and heir, or that we should meet, on the night I had chosen to pay my first visit to the Shire in more than a quarter of a century.

I must find out more about Bilbo's ring. But how?

Without making a sound, I closed the door and left the hobbit to his dreams. I, however, did not sleep at all that night.

Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.

Rating: G

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 5: Aragorn son of Arathorn, October 1418

How? How is he still alive at all, much less able to sit upright on the pony?

For none have ever taken a wound from a Morgul blade and lived. I have not told the other hobbits this. They are burdened enough with exhaustion, and with fear for their friend and kinsman. Yet Frodo still breathes. He has not become a wraith. There is hope, slim as it is.

I slow my pace to fall back to where he rides. He has said nothing for some hours now, but seems alert enough, if rather pale. Sometimes he seems to squint as he looks slowly about him; at other times his gaze is blank and dull. He gives no other sign of his suffering, though it must be great.

Perhaps one might say that I simply do not know my own skill as a healer. But I know better. All I have been able to do for Frodo has been to keep him as warm as possible and try to hurry toward Rivendell and safety while at the same time taking care that his wounded shoulder is not aggravated further.

It must be him, then. That is the only possible explanation. Whether because he is a hobbit, or because he is Frodo, I do not know; but in the end it makes no difference.

My mind turns back to Gandalf, and the day, some five months ago, when my wizardly friend had come down to the hidden Ranger outpost at Sarn Ford, to give me the news of how his business in the Shire had gone. We had arranged this meeting just before he had left me in Mirkwood; now that we had finally gathered all the facts there were to find, from Gollum and from Denethor's archives, he had taken on himself the task of visiting the Shire, confirming the identity of the ring we were certain now was none other than the One itself, and informing its current possessor of the choices before him. Will he or nil he, Frodo was now the crucial piece in the game; everything depended on what he did or did not do.

Although I knew much about him already -- Bilbo had often spoken fondly to me of his heir -- I wished to hear Gandalf's perspective on this Frodo Baggins, on whether he would be an asset to us or a hindrance.

"He is a hobbit," Gandalf replied, with a distinct crinkle of amusement about his eyes.

"So I have heard," I said patiently. Being well familiar with Gandalf's sometimes whimsical moods, I waited for him to go on, which he did after lighting his pipe and taking a long, contemplative pull.

"You have guarded the Shire's borders for many years, Aragorn. But have you ever actually met a hobbit, aside from Bilbo, that is?"

I shook my head.

Gandalf sighed, letting out a wreath of smoke. "Bilbo is a rather exceptional example of his race. So, too, is Frodo, in many ways. As one might expect of someone whom Bilbo chose as his heir. Yet still, he is a hobbit, and hobbits are, without a doubt, the most obscure and insular folk in Middle-earth. They are not stupid, but they are innocent and can be quite maddeningly naive at times." He puffed silently for a moment. "The fact that of all the people in all Middle-earth, the Enemy's Ring has managed to end up in the possession of a hobbit, and that that hobbit is Frodo, fills me both with great fear and great hope. Fear, for what awaits him -- after all, I have known him since his youth, and he is quite dear to me. Hope, for that very innocence of his is his greatest weapon, and therefore ours as well."

I was silent, pondering.

He glanced at me and smiled, a trifle grimly. "You have aided me greatly, Aragorn, and already far beyond any thanks I can give. I hope that you shall not need to take more of a hand in this than you already have. But my heart forbodes that you will. And so, if and when you should meet Frodo yourself, the only thing I can tell you is to prepare to be surprised."

And surprised I had been, from the moment I first saw Frodo, arriving at the Road from the downs with three companions rather than one. They were in the company of the strange being known to some as Bombadil. Another wonder: Bombadil rarely ventures now even to the borders of the region he considers home.

I followed the hobbits to the Prancing Pony, and there, Frodo inadvertently showed himself in a rather disastrously foolish light. My heart nearly stopped when he vanished in front of half the population of Bree. I think now that perhaps it wasn't Frodo's fault at all -- the Ring is treacherous, and takes advantage of any circumstance it can manipulate its way into. But I must admit that at the moment that it happened, my primary thought was that the fate of Middle-earth was in the hands of an idiot. I was hard put not to laugh at his attempts afterward to be cautious concerning me and my offer to join him: too little, too late.

Closer acquaintance over these twelve days of flight has taught me better. Frodo may have his moments of foolishness, but he is no fool. However, his is the mind of a scholar, not a warrior or adventurer. Any knowledge he has of the world beyond the bounds of the Shire, he has learned only through books and stories. Certainly he has never been hunted before. That is why I am needed.

We halt for the night at a suitable, if bleak, campsite consisting of a ring of stunted trees concealed behind a crop of boulders. I do a quick sweep of the area, and see no sign of prints from hoofs or boots. It is as safe here as anywhere else we could reach before sunset.

Returning to the hobbits, I lift Frodo down from the pony's back, settle him against a tree, and as gently as possible begin to unfasten the clothing on his upper body so that I can check his wound. Frodo makes no sound as I carefully remove his lifeless left arm from its sleeve. It is like an icicle. The wound is a small white scar on the shoulder, from which the cold seems to radiate like a pulse. There seems to be no change in his condition.

As I button up his clothing again, we watch the other hobbits going about their tasks of setting up camp and preparing food.

"They have become remarkably efficient," I comment. "One would think they had been doing this all their lives."

I am surprised to hear a soft snort from Frodo. "That is because they have," he says. At my look, he smiles faintly. "Merry and Pippin have been tramping over the Shire with me practically ever since they were each old enough to toddle after me. Sam not so often -- he is not a gentlehobbit of leisure, as we are -- or were," his lips twist wryly, " -- but enough. Despite what you may think, Strider, we do have some knowledge of how to survive outside without an inn in sight. We have simply never had to do so with Black Riders chasing us, that is all."

I smile. "My apologies, Master Baggins."

He inclines his head graciously. It is a gesture that should have seemed laughably incongruous coming from such a childlike figure, but on Frodo that air of nobility seems to sit naturally, as much a part of him as his blue eyes and dark hair. I am reminded that he is in fact at more or less the same stage in life -- on the scale of a hobbit's lifespan -- as I am, although one would never think so to look at him. He seems fresh-faced and in the bloom of youth, perhaps only a little older than Pippin (who, I am informed, is the youngest of the four hobbits, having five years yet before he "comes of age").

It is the Ring, I think, and wonder if Frodo knows this. I am inclined to believe he does.

"Strider?"

"Yes, Frodo?"

Frodo gazes up at me, calmly and steadily. "Has anyone ever lived after being stabbed by one of the Black Riders' knives?" he asks.

I look at him in astonishment. And dismay, for the unexpected directness of his question has forced me into a dilemma. To lie to him would be to insult him and dishonor myself. To tell the truth might create a self-fulfilling prophecy -- many times as a healer, I have seen that patients who believe they are going to die almost invariably do so.

"You have," I say at last.

Blue eyes search mine, the brows drawn together, weighing whether I am simply evading the question, and how much.

"And you will," I continue, mustering every ounce of persuasive earnestness I possess and pouring it into my voice, willing him to trust me, to take heart from it and from my words, and to think no more of these dark thoughts. They can do him no good. "You must not give up hope, Frodo. I know things look desperate, and I know you are frightened. But every step brings us closer to Rivendell, and there, Elrond will heal you. You must believe in that, and in yourself."

At that moment Sam brings Frodo his meal, and sits nearby to eat his own, keeping close in case his master should need him. The amount of food is meager compared to what hobbits normally prefer (Bilbo has explained much to me about his people), but there are no complaints, and little talk at all, in fact. I suppose this is a sign of how tired they all are.

Afterwards, however, Merry brings Frodo's bedroll and blanket, and together he and Sam unroll them and assist Frodo in lying down, as near the fire as possible. I sit, wrap myself in my cloak, and prepare to keep watch.

"I heard what you said to Frodo, Strider," Merry says casually as he climbs into his own bedroll. "You were right, but there's something you left out. Of course, that's understandable since you don't know the Shire, but do you want to know what it was?"

I lift an eyebrow as I fill my pipe. "Pray, enlighten me, Master Brandybuck."

"Well, the three of us -- Frodo, Pip, and I, that is -- are each representatives of the three most important families in the Shire: the Bagginses, the Tooks, and the Brandybucks. And each of these families are deservedly renowned for different things. The Bagginses, for example, are stuffy sticks in the mud -- "

"I still have one good arm, Meriadoc," Frodo interrupts dryly, from the other side of Pippin.

Merry goes on cheerfully. "The Tooks are madcap adventurers," (Pippin snorts but says nothing), "and the Brandybucks are exceedingly clever as well as handsome."

"I can hold him down while you pound him, Frodo," Pippin offers.

"But," Merry continues, "they all have one thing in common. They are all stubborn. Now, Pippin here only has Took blood, out of the three, so he's only a little stubborn." Pippin scowls, as if trying to decide whether to be insulted or not. "I'm a Brandybuck, but my mother was a Took, so I will admit to being twice as stubborn as Pip."

"Is there a point coming sometime tonight?" Frodo asks.

Merry grins at him. "And Frodo? He's the only one of us who's got all three in him. So you can just imagine how horribly pigheaded he is. That's what will keep him going until we reach Rivendell, Black Riders or no. He'll do it just to spite them."

This draws a chuckle from Pippin; even Sam seems to be hiding a smile. Frodo rolls his eyes, though his mouth is twitching.

"I see," is all I can think of to say.

After a long pause, just when I think they have all fallen asleep, I hear Frodo's voice. "Wasn't your great-grandmother a Baggins?"

There is only quiet, even breathing in reply.

I sit and watch over them, thinking to myself that if stubbornness is what is required to win through on this dark journey, then there is hope indeed. Stubbornness, and love. For love is the one thing the Enemy can neither fathom nor master, and it is what these hobbits have in abundance -- Frodo in particular. He undertook this journey for love of his land and kin. He inspires love in all who come to know him. And this includes me.

If by life or death I can save you, I will..

Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.

Rating: G

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 6: Boromir son of Denethor, February 1419

He is wandering alone.

Why is all the Company so trusting of this place? Legolas I can understand. And the younger Halflings. They have never been out of their own land before, and to them Elves seem not dangerous, but wondrous. Sam in particular -- sturdy, pragmatic Sam -- surprisingly seems the most enchanted by them, and by the disturbing eldritch loveliness of this strange place.

But Gimli? A Dwarf among Elves? Has he forgotten how he was treated when we first arrived? Yet now even he seems at ease, and does not even take his axe when he goes with Legolas to -- wherever they go. (And since when were those two ever friends? Has the world gone mad?)

And Aragorn? I have come to honor his wisdom over this journey, as we have fought and traveled together. I had begun to believe that his claim to the throne of Gondor may indeed be worthy of my support. But now, he seems almost as alien to me as the inhabitants of this wood. He is the only Man I have ever met who does not seem to harbor, if not fear, then a healthy wariness of the Elves and their haunts. I wonder what he is thinking. He is our leader since Gandalf fell; he should be making the rest of us stay together, or at the very least keeping track of the Ring-bearer.

Ah, the Ring-bearer. There he walks now, slowly, hands burrowed into the pockets of his brown coat, gazing about him as if he is merely admiring the golden beauty of the smooth-boled trees and the dancing sunlight. Every so often, he stoops to gently touch and examine one of the tiny yellow star-shaped flowers that dot the grass. Or he pauses to stare up at what can be seen of the sky through the gaps in the trees, the light caressing his upturned face. One would never guess the power that he carries just above his heart.

That he dares to be alone is a wonder. I have seen how evil is drawn to this one as a lodestone draws iron. He should look like one who is hunted, yet he does not. He seems tranquil, thoughtful, with no other purpose for his wandering but to seek peace, a respite from cares that must seem overwhelming to so small a person.

It seems that I alone of the Company remember the purpose of my presence on this journey. For even supposing that all the Elves are true -- which I do not suppose for a moment -- what of Orcs? They invaded the wood the very first night we arrived. What of the unknown creature that has eluded all capture?

And so I follow. Mayhap I do not match Aragorn in the skills of stalking and of reading the marks of the land, but I can trail a Halfling.

Frodo hesitates mid-step, his head coming up to stare off to his right, as if he has heard something. Startled, I follow his gaze, to a stand of shrubs. Nothing seems to be happening there, but perhaps he has caught a rustle, as of leaves disturbed by a breeze or some creature. I watch it for a few moments, tensing, judging the distance and loosening my sword, in preparation to defend the Ring-bearer if something should leap out from the covering foliage to attack him.

Long moments pass. I glance back toward Frodo, and start. He is gone.

I am gazing wildly about, wondering how on earth he was able to leave my sight, when I hear his voice, beside me.

"Hullo, Boromir."

I cannot help it; my limbs jerk in surprise, and I whirl about. The Ring-bearer is standing there, not two feet away, his handsome little face tilted upwards to watch me with a not-quite-perfectly-straight expression, eyebrows arched and arms folded. I had not heard so much as a leaf stirring at his approach.

I force myself to relax, my breath gusting in relief and chagrin. "Frodo. I was -- "

"Following me?" he supplies, and now he does smile. He seems more amused than angry.

I have to smile as well, ruefully. "How long were you aware of me?"

He shrugs. "Oh, a little while."

"I thought I was silent."

"You were, for the most part. But -- no offense -- your size puts you at a slight disadvantage, as does all that gear of war that you carry. And those." He nods down toward my boots. "Also, hobbits have quick ears."

"Very quick," I admit. "I have stalked and killed many beasts in the mountains and forests near my home. I was not aware that Halflings -- hobbits -- had hearing as excellent as that of a deer or fox."

"We don't, not usually. It's just -- " Frodo falters, suddenly looking troubled. His gaze darts away. "You might think it queer, or hard to believe, but -- well, since my shoulder was wounded, I hear better, and I see better in the dark than I did before."

"Ah," I say. "I had not heard that the blades of the Nazgûl had such an effect."

"I do not know. Perhaps they don't. Perhaps it is -- " He stops, and clutches his arms to his body as if he has felt a chill, though the air here is unnaturally warm for winter.

It is not hard to guess where his thought has gone. "The Ring?" I venture softly, and realize suddenly that I would like a sight of it again. I had seen it only at the council, and then only briefly. Yet the memory of that small, perfect circle of gleaming gold, flickering in this Halfling's hand, has burned itself like a brand onto my mind's eye.

After a moment, Frodo nods shortly, but says nothing.

"But surely it is good to have one's senses sharpened? Why does it seem to disturb you so?"

Frodo begins to walk again, slowly. I do so as well, shortening my pace to match his. He does not look at me as he speaks. "I'm not sure. I think perhaps because it seems wrong to draw any sort of benefit from something so evil. Because it makes me wonder what else it has done to me, or may do. Because, well, it means that a small part of me isn't quite -- isn't quite a normal hobbit any more. And being normal -- being able to go home and live as I did before -- that is all I want, Boromir. To be not the Ring-bearer, not a hero or adventurer, but simply Frodo Baggins." Suddenly he gives a small, mirthless chuckle. "And I don't know why I am saying all this. It is probably much more of an answer than perhaps you wanted. Forgive me."

I am surprised, and unaccountably gratified, at his confiding in me so. For we have not grown particularly close over the course of our quest. It has always been Aragorn, or Gandalf, or his fellow Halflings, that Frodo turned to for comfort or conversation; in fact, until now he has seemed reserved towards me, even slightly wary, for reasons I cannot fathom, and perhaps neither can he.

Frodo has always been something of a mystery to me. The other Halflings are as open as children. The moment they feel something, it shows on their faces; the moment they think something, it is out of their mouths. But with Frodo, though emotions come and go on his countenance as they do on the others', always I have sensed more beneath, things he keeps carefully hidden even from his kin and his servant. Was he always like that, or has the responsibility of the Ring changed him?

"Nay, Frodo, there is naught to forgive," I say at last, gently. "What use is a friend, if not to unburden oneself to? And I would indeed be your friend, if you will but let me."

He turns a little as he walks, to peer upwards at me. "Is that why you followed me?"

I shrug. "Partly, perhaps. Mostly, my thought was to protect you."

"I appreciate your concern, but why? The borders here are well guarded, so Aragorn says."

"Yes, but still it goes against a soldier's grain to trust entirely to other soldiers unknown to him, be they Elves or no. You may remember the skulking creature that was reported, and was never caught."

Frodo sighs, looking back down at the ground before him. "I haven't forgotten that." A pause, as he seems to decide how much more to tell me. "I am rather unusually solitary, for a hobbit, as you may have noticed. Don't get me wrong -- I am grateful beyond words for the companionship I have had on the road -- but I lived alone for many years, and have gotten used to it. It is a hard habit to break. When the chance came to escape for a little while, I took it."

"I understand your wish to be alone, Frodo, but it is not wise. We have come too far, and your quest is too important, for you to risk yourself without need."

"I suppose."

He looks so resigned, so forlorn and vulnerable, that I must quell an urge to kneel down and embrace him, as I used to do to my younger brother when he needed comforting as a child. Though they are similar in many ways, Frodo is not Faramir. I have no wish to risk this fragile new accord between us with an ill-considered gesture. I must go carefully if I am to gain his trust.

Unsure what to say, I am silent as we walk on. I lift my head to gaze about at the wood, thinking that Faramir would most likely find it a fascinating place. Though he bears the same caution towards the Elves as do all in Minas Tirith, still he has always sought out tales of them and their deeds. The thought strikes me that Frodo would most likely enjoy meeting Faramir. If only his road would lead through Minas Tirith...

I glance back down at Frodo. His hand has come up toward his chest as he walks, and he is clutching a handful of his shirt in his small fist, staring unseeingly ahead of him, as if he is not aware of what he is doing. My heart leaps into my throat when I realize that he is holding the Ring.

So close, I think. What is it like, to hold it? To wear it? Frodo has done both, I know. I long to ask, yet I dare not. My steps slow. My mouth has gone dry. I cannot seem to look away.

And Frodo seems to take notice of the change in my mood. He halts, his eyes looking up, up, and meeting mine. For a long moment we stare at each other.

With a convulsive jerk, Frodo lets go of his shirt. I see him swallow and go pale.

"I -- I think I'll go back to the pavilion," he says, a tremor in his voice betraying his effort to remain calm.

"Are you well, Frodo?" I ask with concern. "Would you like -- "

"I'll be fine. Thank you, Boromir."

He turns, and walks quickly back the way we came, disappearing into the trees. I long to follow, yet will myself to stay where I am. Something tells me that he would not welcome my company at this moment.

The wood is beautiful, there is no denying that, but all I can see is Frodo's eyes in that last instant before he turned away. For they concealed nothing then. Fear, misery, shame, and a bravery that takes my breath -- all of it, shining naked before me like an unsheathed blade.

What justice is there in this world, if such a being must bear this burden? And for what? For a doomed quest that will succeed only in destroying a pure and innocent soul? What were Gandalf -- Valar rest him -- and Elrond thinking?

No, I think, unaware that I have clenched my fist, until I feel the ache of it in my sinews. It does not have to be this way.

Soon, we must leave this land. After we are away from these bewitching trees, we will have to choose our path. Knowing Aragorn, he will leave the decision to the Ring-bearer. And once we approach the point where there is no turning back -- when we face the River, and he can at last see the darkening of the sky in the east, surely Frodo will realize the folly, the futility, of going there. I will speak to him then.

Slowly, I start walking again, back to the others. All is not yet lost.