A fifty-sixth fic by Iorhael

Summary: Frodo tried to win Saradoc’s heart.

The bright morning sun and the lingering glimmers of the stars from the night before seemed to have sent kisses to Frodo, their beaming lights illuminating the young lad’s fair features, lighting up his eyes. Frodo tiptoed out of his room down the hall before halting in front of a shut door. Wavering for half a second, Frodo reached out his minute hand and pushed the door open with his flattened palm. Frodo broke into a timid smile as the once bent-down head now lifted up. His smile remained despite the cold welcome from the eyes of the adult hobbit sitting behind the desk.

“Good morning, Uncle Saradoc.” The younger hobbit’s tentative voice could not hide his uneasiness.

~ * ~ * ~

In his dream last night, Frodo was doing almost the same thing: he awoke from his sleep and went to Uncle Saradoc’s study. Frodo wanted to show the poetry he had composed the day before. His Uncle might not like to read poems very much, but Frodo needed the older hobbit to feel proud of him. What Frodo thought he could do well was make rhymes, so that was what he did.

In Frodo’s dream last night, Uncle Saradoc granted him a wide smile when he opened the door. Uncle Saradoc took Frodo’s hand gently, leading him to sit on the couch. Then he inquired of Frodo what he had to offer, and Frodo replied with a small curve on one corner of his lips. Wordlessly, Frodo handed out a piece of crumpled parchment. Furrowing his brow a little, Saradoc took it and, after unraveling it, he began to read the lines of words inscribed on the paper.

In Frodo’s dream last night, Uncle Saradoc took his time in reading his verse, being submerged completely in the lyrical tones Frodo had managed to create. Then, Saradoc looked up, another smile coming to his lips accompanied with a sparkle in his eyes. Frodo felt as if the knots in his throat and chest were loosening, and the boy breathed out a great deal of air he did not realize he had been holding back.

In his dream, Frodo leapt with mirth, then rained kisses upon his Uncle’s cheeks, while clinging fast to Saradoc’s neck.

~ * ~ * ~

But this was not his dream so those things were not happening.

“Uncle?” whispered Frodo in hesitation.

“You heard me, Frodo,” Saradoc’s eyes were sharper than a dagger’s. “I’m awfully busy right now. I barely have time for breakfast, let alone reading gibberish you call a poem. You understand, surely, about that?”

Saradoc waited impatiently as Frodo seemed too dazed to nod his agreement. Waving his hand in dismissal, Saradoc was spared the sight of brimming tears in Frodo’s eyes, as the lad turned away as soon as they emerged and threatened to spill out. Outside the room Frodo looked down at the piece of paper upon which the poetry was scribbled, and crushed it in his small palm. He could not help feeling that his heart was crushed, too.

~ * ~ * ~

“What flower is that, Frodo?” A voice came from above him and Frodo had to tilt his head and squint a little to evade the brightness of the sun. The figure took the form of a silhouette and albeit the guard for his eyes against the sun, Frodo still could not make out whom it was that loomed over him. From the build, Frodo might have thought it was … his own father, but he dismissed the thought as soon as it came into his mind. Eventually he could recognize that it was his Uncle Saradoc.

“It’s marigold, and the one there is celandine.”

“They are beautiful,” nodded Saradoc. “You’ve done a great job at nurturing them.”

Frodo rose and shook the dirt off his hands. “Thank you, Uncle,” he beamed. “I’m glad you like them.”

Saradoc chuckled a little. “Like? I LOVE them! I love all kinds of flowers and I’m amazed you can grow them so very well.”

The chirpings of a bird came to their ears, and both of the hobbits’ attention was diverted.

“Must be some little bird looking for its mother,” commented Frodo.

~ * ~ * ~

Only, the statement never reached the other’s ears. Frodo’s voice seemed to fade into an unfathomable cavern. Or perhaps, it never came out.

Oddly, the chirpings stayed. Slowly Frodo opened his eyelids, (since when did they close?) and found out that he had just awakened from his slumber. He woke in his bedroom, and there was no sign that he had just worked in the garden.

Frodo had been dreaming again, and in his dream he met Uncle Saradoc. It had been awhile since he last dreamed about his late father and mother. He was quite grateful for that, in a way, because that would mean he finally could accept the Brandybucks as his parents.

Yet, would Saradoc see Frodo as his child?

Nothing Frodo did was right in Saradoc’s eyes.

This morning Frodo had awoken to the chirpings of the birds and for a moment his heart felt light at the memory of the flowers and his Uncle’s sweetness toward him. Yet the moment passed so quickly as soon as Frodo recalled the previous afternoon’s disappointment.

At that time Frodo was walking down the hall when he noticed the door to Saradoc’s study was ajar. He had always been curious about what it looked like inside and what was in the room. Frodo took a tentative step across the hall to get to the doorway, and a word came to his mind: barren. There was only a wooden desk and chair, a bookshelf, and a hat stand. Piles of papers and some pencils were on the table, and that was it. No tablecloth. No flowers in a vase. And suddenly a brilliant idea snapped into his mind. Or at least brilliant according to him now.

His Uncle Saradoc would have to like him after this as he was going to make his study a bit livelier.

Frodo slipped out of the study and went to the garden.

~ * ~ * ~

His knuckles turned whiter as his clutch around those lily stems got tighter. Frodo’s body trembled as he stood still before his fuming Uncle. His eyes were locked into the floor and he was struggling to keep his knees from buckling. Frodo was dying to cover his ears so he could avoid Saradoc’s soft-voiced but grave rebuke.

“Didn't you know, Frodo, that your aunt grew these flowers so she could savor them – there in the garden? But now that you’ve picked them, she can’t do that anymore.” Frodo could feel Saradoc's stern gaze, and he swallowed with difficulty.

“I – I’m sorry, Uncle. I meant – I meant to put them on your table.” Frodo’s voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. He was shaking even harder.

“And who told you I need flowers on my table? Ah, go to your room, Frodo. I have so much to do that I’ll deal with you later tonight. Go now.”

Frodo almost broke there and then. He squeezed the flower stems until the juice came out, dripping over Frodo’s fingers just like the way his tears squeezed out of his tightly closed eyes. He did not care if Saradoc was still with him or not – apparently not. He was unable to hold back a sob as he turned, half running, toward his room.

~ * ~ * ~

Frodo moved restlessly in his bed, judging in despair if he should get out of his room and have breakfast or not. Nothing seemed to go as he expected. Instead of liking him, Uncle Saradoc might even despise him right now.

Half of him wanted to just go back to sleep and dream. And dream. And dream. And dream. Because in his dreams, Uncle Saradoc always loved him and things always went right.

Frodo wanted to dream and never to wake up. Unless he was awakened to the birds chirping which would not fade away. Or to a golden sun which also would stay forever – with him.

~ * ~ fin ~ * ~