Note: Frodo is twelve and it is about three days after the death of his parents.  Just a warning: this is NOT a happy story.  The title comes from a poem by Robert Frost.

~

He was glad when it rained.  Earlier, when he had quietly rejoiced at the gathering storm clouds, he had felt vaguely sorry when he heard the other children moaning about brilliant plans gone awry.  Now, though, he felt a savage pleasure at their discontent.  The part of himself that he wasn’t proud of whispered If I can’t be happy, then neither should they, which was one reason the rain was altogether wonderful.

Frodo waited the afternoon out, watching nature’s tears trail down the window and ignoring the falsely chirpy adults who thought he would break at the slightest glance.  As the sun hung low on the horizon and slipped away below the hills, the gathering gloom beckoned him.  He stood up and left the room and, as the adults still didn’t know quite what to do with him, no one followed to help him wash his hair in such a way that no suds got in his eyes, or to tuck him in and say that he was a Most Adventurous Hobbit for going to bed so bravely, or to sing him to sleep with the lullaby that he loved and the voice he loved more.

Frodo rushed out of the front door un-followed and into the storm, nurturing the fierce thought that all adults were dumb and stupid.

“Dumb and stupid!” he screamed into the wind, half hoping that the adults inside would hear.

He darted off across the gardens, over the fence and through the field without really knowing where he was headed and certainly not caring if his feet trampled the poppies that his mum loved so much or the bluebells that his da always picked for Frodo’s birthday because he said they matched his eyes. 

Frodo ran away; away from the pity and the whispers, away from the quite halls and empty rooms, away from the I’m so sorrys.  Soon, his breath burned in his lungs, but he kept running, fiercely triumphant in the fact that he still had control over something, even if the control was pain.  When he finally tripped and scraped his knees and hands on his journey to the ground, he rolled onto his back, watched the downpour fall onto his face and told himself that it was the rain that made his eyes sting and not his tears.  He wasn’t going to cry for stupid adults who didn’t have enough sense not to go on the Brandywine at night. 

With rage sloshing around within him, Frodo pushed himself to his knees, grabbed at the loose rocks scattered about and hurled them with all his might into the darkness.  He felt that those rocks were him; cast into the night and invisible.  He didn’t even making a sound when he landed. 

When the last rock disappeared without a trace, Frodo clenched his fists and screamed.  He had felt it building for days, but now it ripped itself from his chest and sunk its teeth into his vocal chords as he shrieked his protest at silent disappearances. 

Shrieked at We’re going on a night outing, Frodo and we’ll be back in the morning.

Screamed at nights that made no mention of tragedies. 

His scream rose in pitch and fervor until it scratched at the back of his throat and made light dance in front of his eyes.  He broke off, coughing and gasping for air.  When he returned to himself again, he found only the wild glory of the wind.

Then Frodo heard his name among the frantic rustling of the grass.  His heart gave one massive thump and lay still.  It sounded so familiar, so warm, so much like his mother’s laughter and his father’s singing that tears welled up in his eyes and spilled onto his cheeks.

“You left me!” he yelled hoarsely over the tears that now streamed down his face, “Why did you leave me?”  There was a flash of lighting that gave the field an eerie glow.  Frodo widened his eyes, trying to see though the rain, and stared eagerly into the brief moment of light, searching for any clues that the rustling was not just the wind through the grass.

Didn’t they hear him yelling?

Didn’t they see him, kneeling in the mud when he should be in bed?

Why didn’t they come for him?

Frodo knew the answer even as his mind asked it.  His parents did not come because they couldn’t and never would again. 

All at once, his strength flowed away from him as he stopped waiting, stopped hoping.  Frodo toppled over onto the ground and finally let himself cry as he tried to remember the touch of his parents.  As the rising sun peeked over the hills and the rain eased, his eyes slid closed and he fell asleep, one small hobbit lad, alone in the mud with only memories to hold him.