"I saw him, I tell you! He must be hiding, the little sneak!"

The young hobbit shrank farther back into the hedge by the path down the Hill, hoping desperately to remain unseen. The raucous voices drew steadily closer.

"Hoy—Baggins! Where are you? I know you’re lurking about here somewhere!" The searchers now sounded dead even with his refuge. He held his breath.

"What d’you call him that for?" someone sneered. "He’s no Baggins…no proper Baggins, leastways. Hear that, you weasel? It takes more than moving to Hobbiton to make you a Hobbiton lad. You’ll never be one of us, no matter how long you live here!"

The hobbit shook with helpless rage, and that proved his undoing.

Alerted by the treacherous rustling of the bushes, the hunters pounced on their quarry with a triumphant shout, dragging him out of his hiding place and swiftly surrounding him. The cornered youth eyed his captors with dismay. He knew them all—sons of local farmers, in their mid-tweens like himself. There was Budo Grubb, the biggest, cocksure and quick-tempered; flanked by Wilimar Clayhanger, a toady who attached himself to Budo for protection and backed him up in everything; as well as Rollo and Rudy Burrows, who were not so bad on their own, but were easily swayed by the prevailing mood of their companions. Abruptly he bolted, trying to break free of the little circle, but Budo put out a foot and tripped him up. Though he did not fall he stumbled against Wilimar, who in turn shoved him into Rollo. Taunts and jeers rang in his ears.

"Leave off, or I’ll tell!" he threatened, his voice shrill with fear.

Budo was unimpressed. "Oh you will, eh?" he drawled. "Don’t you know what happens to tattle-tales?" He broke into a menacing chant:

Tell-tale-tit
Your tongue shall be slit
And all the dogs in town
Shall have a little bit!

They all stepped closer as Budo said this, and he roughly grabbed his victim by the collar.

"Let me go!" cried the youth, struggling wildly.

"As you wish," grinned Budo, suddenly releasing him. Off balance, he went sprawling in the dirt. The others laughed uproariously.

At that moment a clear, angry voice rose above the din, instantly stilling it. "Leave him alone!"

Startled, the hobbits whipped around to see a tall, dark-haired youth striding down the Hill toward them, brows knit in a thunderous scowl. "Oh, hullo Frodo," said Rudy Burrows nervously.

The one who had fallen curled up where he lay, eyes squeezed shut. Not Frodo! His spirits, which he had thought could sink no lower, now hit bottom. Not his detested younger cousin, but lately arrived from Buckland to ruin his family’s every fond hope and future prospect…

"Don’t hullo me, Rudy," snapped Frodo, taking in the scene at a glance. "What are you doing to my cousin?"

"Now Frodo, don’t get excited!" soothed Rollo. "We were just having a bit of fun, eh Lotho?"

The hobbit in question made no reply, but opened his eyes and shot him a venomous look.

"Are you all right, Lotho?" Frodo said kindly, helping him to his feet and adding in an undertone, "Never let them see you’re afraid of them."

What do you know about fear? thought Lotho bitterly, convinced that his bold, confident cousin had never felt a moment of fear in his life.

Straightening, Frodo surveyed the others with cool skepticism. "Fun, is it? You’ve a queer notion of fun, to my way of thinking," he remarked dryly. "Indeed, I’d say too much fun of that sort could be downright unhealthy!" He was now looking straight at Budo, a challenging gleam in his eye.

"Stay out of this, Frodo!" warned Budo. "I like you, but…this is none of your affair."

"We caught him slinking about the Hill," put in Wilimar with an air of affronted virtue, "trying to spy on you, I reckon!"

"That’s absurd!" scoffed Frodo. "What call would Lotho have to spy on me?"

"This little rat has no love for you," Budo insisted. "Why, just the other day I heard him saying—"

"Nevertheless, I tell you to leave him alone," repeated Frodo, cutting him off. "Whatever he may or may not have said, he’s my kin." He moved closer to Budo until the two were standing almost nose to nose. "Besides…I don’t like bullies."

He said this last very quietly, but something in his voice gave them all pause. With his slender build Frodo Baggins didn’t look like a formidable adversary, but his reputation as one of the best brawlers at Brandy Hall had preceded him, and it hadn’t taken more than one or two demonstrations before only the very reckless or very foolish would dare to cross him.

For a long, tense moment it looked as if Budo might be one of the foolish ones. The two tweens circled each other warily, eyes locked. Finally Budo fell back and lowered his gaze, muttering belligerently but clearly giving way. The others sighed, whether in relief or disappointment Lotho wasn’t sure.

Frodo now made them all apologize.

"Sorry, Lotho," Budo mumbled. His companions reluctantly followed suit then stood there, shifting uneasily, unsure of what to do next.

Miserable and furious, Lotho stared at the ground. It had always been this way, no matter where he lived…

When his family moved to Hobbiton from the Southfarthing four years earlier he had thought things might improve, but it seemed that wherever he went, bullies were drawn to him like bees to nectar. Even now, he was still an outsider.

Lotho thought enviously of Frodo’s very different reception. He had only been at Bag End a few months, but his open, friendly manner and courteous respect toward his elders had already won over everyone in Hobbiton, from doting gammers to admiring youths to giggling lasses.

Everyone, that is, except the Sackville-Bagginses…

The day they learned that Frodo was coming to live with Mad Baggins as his adopted heir, thus dashing their own aspirations of family succession and inheritance, the dark mood had taken Lotho’s father and he had spent the evening drinking heavily at the Ivy Bush. He came home reeking of ale, and Lotho had cowered in his room while his parents argued and shouted. There was a crash like the sound of breaking crockery, then the door of the smial slammed shut. The following morning his mother had made him promise never to drink, saying, "It’s a nasty, wicked habit and brings naught but grief to those who fall under its accursed spell! Never forget that, Lotho dear, or you’ll break your mother’s heart!"

It was Lobelia who had set him to spying on the residents of Bag End…or keeping an eye on things, as she put it. It seemed she harbored some unreasoning hope that she might learn something she could use against them, either to contest the will or create a rift between the two…maybe even send that fortune-hunting upstart back to Buckland.

But when Lotho found nothing of note to report after weeks of surveillance, eventually his mother seemed to lose interest, or at any rate stopped questioning him about it. Yet Lotho had not stopped going…he found himself strangely fascinated by his orphaned cousin, and his relationship with old Bilbo. He watched the easy companionship and affection between them with wonder and resentment.

His own father generally paid him little heed, except when it was time to go over the accounts of the family’s land holdings and business transactions in the Southfarthing. Otho had assigned him this task at an early age, recognizing his son’s aptitude for the work.

"You’ve a good head for figures, Lotho, whatever else you may lack," he said more than once. "Use your talent well, lad, and it will bring you wealth and power—which, I daresay you’ll find, are far more valuable than love and respect…and longer lasting to boot."

Suddenly Lotho became aware that the awkward silence that had fallen over the group was broken; he glanced up in surprise to see Frodo making a low, sweeping bow to the others. "And now I must thank you all," he was saying, "for this extraordinary compliment to my family!"

They all looked baffled, including Lotho.

"It seems that it requires a whole crowd of you to take on just one Baggins," he explained, nodding toward his cousin.

"And it takes just one Baggins to spout the most absurd rubbish," growled Budo. But Frodo flashed him a disarming smile, and the corners of his mouth twitched reluctantly upwards.

"Very flattering indeed!" Frodo blithely continued. "And now that there’s two of us, I’m surprised that you’re not all running for your lives!" He gave Budo a playful jab in the shoulder.

"We’ll take our chances," said Budo, grinning broadly now, and poked him back.

His friends laughed, visibly relieved. Frodo had such a charming way about him that it was nearly impossible to stay angry with him for long. What would have been a taunt coming from anyone else, he somehow had managed to turn into a joke that the whole group was in on. Everyone except Lotho, who was having none of it. Frodo winked at him encouragingly, but Lotho stubbornly looked away. Two of us? he thought scornfully. You’re more Brandybuck than Baggins, you fraud!

The other lads crowded round Frodo, forgetting all about their former victim in their eagerness to ingratiate themselves with his defender. There was respect and deference in their voices, Lotho realized with disgust.

"We were looking for you in the first place, Frodo!" said Rudy. "Want to go mushroom hunting over in Farmer Cotton’s fields?"

A wistful expression flitted across Frodo’s face, but he only shrugged. "That’s faunts’ play," he said with studied indifference. "I gave all that up long ago. Besides, the mushrooms here can’t compare to the ones they grow back ho—in the Marish. You haven’t tasted real mushrooms until you’ve had Farmer Maggot’s finest, fresh from the fields…"

They all looked impressed. "I hear he keeps some fearsome hounds," ventured Rollo.

Watching Frodo intently, Lotho was surprised to see him flinch slightly, but his next words were as confident as ever. "What—those mangy curs? They chased me all the way to the ferry once, but never did catch me!"

The youths cast about for some other way to placate Frodo. "How about a game of stickball, then?" offered Budo.

Frodo looked torn. "Well…I did tell Bilbo I’d study this afternoon…"

"Aw, come on, Frodo!" Wilimar coaxed. "You don’t really want to read those stuffy old books on a grand day like this, do you?"

Frodo hesitated a moment longer, then laughed...a joyful, contagious sound. "You’re right, I don’t! Come on, then!"

They all started off, but suddenly Frodo stopped. "Half a minute, lads," he called, and turned back to his cousin. "Coming with us, Lotho?" he asked, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"Frodo!" hissed Budo angrily, but Frodo ignored him and continued to gaze steadily at Lotho. "What do you say, Cousin?"

For an instant Lotho wavered. He looked around at the hostile expressions of the others, then back at his smiling, kind-hearted, self-assured cousin, Fortune’s fair-faced child…

And finally, for the first time since Frodo’s appearance, Lotho spoke.

"I don’t need your charity," he snarled, shaking off his hand. He glared defiantly at the rest. "I don’t need any of you!"

Frodo looked puzzled and slightly hurt for a moment, then shrugged. "As you wish," he said, and turned away, joining the others who had already started to move off down the Hill. Soon their talk and laughter faded away.

Lotho now stood alone on the path, blinking back tears of frustration and chagrin, fists clenched in impotent fury. He ran down the Hill, away from the direction the others had taken, wishing only to be alone. Past Bagshot Row, where one of the Gamgee brats was hanging on the gate, staring at him, past the millpond and across the bridge, along the Water and veering off the path into the tall bulrushes that would hide him from unfriendly eyes. Heedlessly he ran, scarce noticing the way before him. Then he stumbled and nearly fell, startled by a sudden wild squawking in his ear and a confused blur of wings rushing past his face. Something crunched wetly underfoot and looking down, he saw that he had blundered into a duck’s nest filled with eggs, carefully concealed in the rushes. Savagely he kicked at what remained of it, scattering its contents, as the mother flapped frantically overhead.

Only vaguely noting her cries, Lotho wandered more slowly toward the Water’s edge and threw himself down on the bank. At last he had found the silence and solitude he craved. Peering down at the placid surface of the stream, he felt the familiar wave of revulsion for the reflection gazing back at him: the lank, pale hair falling over close-set eyes, the pock-marked complexion, the scrawny neck rising above thin, sloping shoulders…

In his mind’s eye he pictured Frodo. Dusky curls framing finely sculpted features, smooth ivory skin that seemed almost to glow, eyes alight with intelligence and humor, effortless grace in every movement…

Raising his head once again, Lotho looked out over the idyllic scene before him. The slanting afternoon sun danced on the Water and bathed the verdant meadows and tidy cottages in a warm, golden light. A soft breeze stirred the stately avenue of trees that marched along the Bywater Road. This was his home—his land, but it held no beauty or joy for him. His gaze lingered briefly on the mill, then moved back across the Water and up the Hill to Bag End. He felt consumed with mingled desire and hatred for it, and for what it represented: everything he was not, and all that would never be his.

Lotho closed his eyes and pressed his face against the ground, shutting out the sight but unable to escape his thoughts. "Just you wait," he choked. "Someday I’ll show you, and all those other rotters too. I have ideas, big ideas…" Words failed him and his hands clutched at the grass, tearing it out in great clumps. When the fit passed, he lay there for a time, quiet and unmoving. At last he rolled over and whispered to the sky, "Someday I’ll show them—I’ll show them all!—that I’m better than Frodo Baggins."

~ End ~

Author’s note:

Thanks to Permilea for inspiring this story.